by Blake Pierce
If Riley remembered correctly, Bill’s sons were nine and eleven now.
“Yeah, she’s being fair about it,” Bill said. “But having them visit me in my crummy apartment just isn’t the same. Neither is taking them on outings—movies, museums, whatever. Everything seems forced, unnatural. It doesn’t feel like being a dad anymore. And it’s all so temporary. I really don’t know what’s supposed to happen next. I don’t know … what to do.”
Bill lowered his head miserably. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.
Riley felt an urge to put her arms around him.
But if she did, what would it lead to?
Instead, she simply said, “I’m sorry.”
Bill nodded and regained his composure.
“Anyway, we’ve got a case to solve,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”
Riley and Bill both took out notebooks to jot down ideas as they talked.
“Have you got any theories?” Bill asked. “The kids seem to think it’s some kind of conspiracy.”
Riley smiled. By “the kids,” she knew that Bill meant Lucy Vargas and Craig Huang. She, too, felt a certain parental affection for the younger agents. They were turning out well, due in no small part to guidance from Riley and Bill.
“Well, that would be an interesting change,” she said. “We haven’t dealt with any murderous conspiracies for a while. But …”
She paused.
“But what?” Bill asked.
“It seems to me a conspiracy would be more thorough. For example, as far as we know, none of the victims left a suicide note. I’d think that conspirators would be sure to plant phony notes. I think it’s possible that we’re in more familiar waters. Rich or poor, powerful or weak, we might be dealing with a garden-variety psychopath. So what can we put together in the way of a profile?”
Bill scratched his chin thoughtfully.
He said, “Most serial killers are male. That poisoner we caught on our last case was an outlier. And most serial murders have a sexual component. We’ve got five victims—but only four are female.”
Riley instantly understood what Bill was driving at.
“Maybe that means the killer’s bisexual,” she said.
Bill nodded.
“Either that, or confused about his sexuality,” he said.
Riley thought about it for a moment.
Then she said, “Or we could be dealing with another outlier—a woman. Think about it. The victims all seem to have been of small build. Most, maybe all, of them were sedated before they were killed. That might indicate a killer who’s not strong enough to overpower victims.”
Bill added, “Once the victims were drugged, she could drag them up a ladder.”
Riley remembered the Penningtons’ garage—the only crime scene she’d been able to check out so far.
“It looked to me like Lois Pennington was hanged from a roof beam. There might have been similar beams in the Webbers’ stable, and maybe in the Byars locker room. A killer without a lot of strength—male or female—could haul the victims up with a rope.”
Bill was jotting down their thoughts.
“We need more information about the crime scenes.”
Riley agreed. “I’ll send a note to Flores to get the full police reports.”
Bill stopped writing and fell quiet.
“There’s one thing that really worries me,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“The only murders we know of were these particular Byars College students. How do we know there haven’t been many more—at other colleges, or anywhere else?”
“It’s true that we don’t have a consistent pattern in terms of timing,” she said. “That could just mean that this killer is erratic. Or that he’s driven by specific circumstances.”
“But it also could mean we still don’t know about all the deaths,” Bill added.
Riley’s mind boggled at the thought.
How were they going to determine how many recent suicides in the DC area were actually murders? There were hundreds in any given year.
“First things first,” she finally said. “We’ve got an interview coming up.”
“What do we know about Kirk Farrell’s family?” Bill asked.
Riley pulled up the information Flores had given her on their computer, and she and Bill spent the rest of the flight poring over it.
*
When they landed in Atlanta and got off the plane, Riley realized that she was too warmly dressed for the weather. It was balmy and warm outside, and Riley’s jacket was too thick and heavy. She usually checked the weather before traveling. But this trip had taken her by surprise.
She and Bill were greeted on the tarmac by Agents Joanne Honig and Nick Ritter of the Atlanta FBI field office. The two agents escorted Riley and Bill to the car they could use during their visit.
Riley asked as they walked, “When can we interview the Farrell family?”
“You can drive there right now,” Ritter said.
“I called just a little while ago,” Honig added. “The boy’s father is expecting you as soon as you can get there.”
Riley and Bill looked at each other with surprise. They hadn’t expected it to be so easy to set up an appointment.
“How did he sound when you talked to him?” Riley asked Honig.
“He sounded delighted,” Honig said. “He says he’s looking forward to—how did he put it?—having a ‘pleasant little chat’ with you both.”
Riley was truly taken aback.
A pleasant little chat?
What could that possibly mean?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Riley knew that they were going to interview a rich family, but even so the sight of the Farrell mansion took her breath away. Bill, driving the borrowed FBI car, had followed GPS directions into a wealthy suburb north of Atlanta.
She asked him, “Are you sure this is the right place? It doesn’t look like a home at all.”
“Apparently this is it,” Bill replied.
It was a palatial building with tile roofs and flawlessly manicured hedges, positioned on spacious grounds. It looked like it might serve as some kind of European museum.
From the information Flores had given her, Riley knew that the patriarch, Andrew Farrell, was the head and founder of Farrell Fund Management. Riley didn’t really understand the nature of the business, except that it had something to do with high finance, possibly hedge funds.
Bill parked the car in the circular drive and they got out. As soon as they approached the front entrance, a tall, lean butler greeted them.
“Agents Paige and Jeffreys, I presume,” he said in an obsequious tone. “Mr. Farrell is eager to meet you. Come with me.”
The butler led them through decorative doors and rows of columns into a vast interior that made the Webbers’ mansion look like a modest bungalow. They arrived in a massive room with marble floors and a broad staircase with curved, fancy banisters. Two people were standing at the bottom of the stairway.
One was a very young, elegantly dressed young woman. She had the face and figure of a model, although she was much too thin to be in good health. Riley was sure she was anorexic. She was also sure that she was much too young to be the mother of the murder victim. She stared at Riley and Bill with large, vacant eyes.
The other was a tall man standing squarely at the base of the stairs. He had chiseled, aristocratic features and carried himself with style. Riley might have considered him good looking, except that there was something slightly reptilian about his eyes and his thin, twisted smile.
His arms were crossed, and he didn’t move as Riley and Bill walked toward him.
The butler announced the guests, bowed, and disappeared into the house.
Andrew Farrell said nothing for a moment, only smiled. He stared at Riley and Bill intensely.
He’s nothing if not vain, Riley thought.
She had the feeling that Farrell wanted her and Bill to take some time to appreciate hi
s considerable presence. Indeed, Riley observed him with fascination. She was most interested in the body language of the man and the woman—she clinging limply to the banister for support, he standing with his feet apart in a forceful pose.
It was obvious to Riley that the woman must be Farrell’s wife. But the relationship was clearly one of dominance versus servility. Riley sensed that the woman scarcely ever did anything except at Farrell’s bidding.
Farrell spoke in a dark, silky baritone.
“I was wondering how long it would take the law to show up,” he said. “It’s been, after all, some three months now. And they sent the big guns! The FBI! I’m flattered.”
He looked at his wife and nodded—a wordless command to leave.
For a moment, the woman locked eyes with Riley.
Riley felt an icy chill.
She’d seen that look before.
But when and where?
Then she remembered.
It was back when she’d been working a case that involved murdered prostitutes. She’d seen that look in the eyes of a young hooker named Chrissy. It was a look of sheer terror that Chrissy felt toward her pimp/husband, who had been standing right next to her at the time.
It was a silent cry for help.
Riley managed to suppress a shudder.
This woman was no prostitute—not in the ordinary sense.
But her terror was identical to Chrissy’s.
And the abuse she must be suffering was just as real.
The woman bowed her head and slunk silently away down a hallway, without ever having said a word to Riley and Bill.
“My wife, Morgan,” Farrell said smugly when she was out of earshot. “A rather famous model when I married her—perhaps you’ve seen her on magazine covers. I married her last year—shortly before it happened. She was Kirk’s stepmother for less than a month. And yes, she’s very young.”
Then he added with a chuckle, “A stepmother should never be older than her husband’s oldest children. I’ve made sure of that with all my wives.”
Then he gestured up the stairs.
“But what are we waiting for? You’ve come to hear my confession of murder. And I’m more than happy to oblige. Come with me.”
Farrell turned and walked up the stairs.
Riley and Bill exchanged stunned looks and followed him.
He escorted them through a pair of double doors into a huge room with paneled walls and chandeliers. There was a desk at one end. Riley realized that this enormous space was Farrell’s office.
An office with chandeliers, she thought.
She’d never imagined such a thing. The effect was astonishingly garish and unpleasant.
There were only two chairs in the room—a leather-upholstered swivel chair behind the desk, and a straight-backed antique chair in front of the desk.
Indicating the antique, he said to Riley, “Please, have a seat.”
Riley sat down uneasily, leaving Bill standing.
She was starting to understand at least part of the man’s game. He wanted his law enforcement guests to feel as awkward and uncomfortable as possible. He probably had no reason or rationale for doing so—it was all just sport to him.
And he was definitely succeeding.
Farrell sat down behind the desk, clasped his fingers together, and swiveled slightly back and forth, glancing from Riley to Bill and back again.
The desk was covered with dozens of standing framed pictures. Many showed Farrell himself posing with famous, rich, powerful people, including US presidents. Arranged to the left were five portraits. For a moment, Riley thought they were all of the same woman. But then she realized that they were different, even though they shared the same basic, interchangeable fashion-model glamour.
They also shared the same hollow, cheerless expressions—just like Morgan.
His wives, Riley realized with a shiver.
He had them all on display right here.
Seeming to notice Riley’s reaction, Farrell chuckled.
“Some folks call me ‘Bluebeard,’” he said. “You know, after the folktale of the nobleman who murdered his wives and kept their bodies in a secret room. Well, divorce is generally more my style. And I keep pictures instead of bodies.”
He pointed to the last picture to the right—an especially melancholy face.
“Of course, death sometimes does intervene. You probably know that Mimi here—Kirk’s mother—committed suicide last year. An overdose of barbiturates.”
Although Riley didn’t say so, she and Bill had read about the woman’s suicide in the information they’d just reviewed.
Farrell picked up the picture and looked at the face mock-wistfully.
“I didn’t see it coming,” he said. “No foul play on my part, I assure you. She simply wasn’t a serious person. It’s odd how flighty, trivial, silly people are always the ones who kill themselves. At least that’s been my experience.”
Then he pointed to three portraits on the right, all of young men who shared a marked and rather disagreeable resemblance to Farrell.
“And these are my sons, all by different wives. Hugh, the oldest, is president of our company. Sheldon, the next oldest, is deputy chairman. The youngest is Wayne, our chief compliance officer.”
“Where’s Kirk?” Riley asked.
Farrell’s expression darkened.
“I’m afraid he never quite belonged here,” he said.
He held Riley’s gaze for a moment.
Then he said to both Riley and Bill, “I suppose I ought to ask for my lawyers to be present. But I’m not in the mood.”
After a pause, he added, “Now tell me the exact nature of your business. I think I have a pretty good idea, but humor me.”
Bill said, “The BAU is investigating five alleged suicides—your son’s included.”
Riley added, “All were students at Byars College—and all of them have died during the current school year.”
For the first time, Farrell seemed to be genuinely surprised.
“Five suicides?” he asked.
“Alleged suicides,” Riley said.
Farrell threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, I didn’t see this coming!” he said. “Well, I’m sure you’ve got no proof—for four of them, anyway. Give me the dates, and I’m sure I can give you airtight alibis.”
Riley had no idea what to think. She and Bill hadn’t even considered Farrell suspect at all until now. Now he seemed to be offering himself up as one.
Then he said, “But Kirk’s death—well, I’ll own up to that.”
Riley struggled to understand where all this was going.
“The official report said that he shot himself,” Riley said.
“And so he did,” Farrell said.
“Right here at home,” Riley added.
“Indeed.”
Riley felt a strange tingle of anticipation.
“Where in the house, exactly?” she asked.
Farrell’s reptilian smile broadened.
“Why, right where you’re sitting, Agent Paige. And I was sitting right where I’m sitting right now. Imagine that!”
Riley felt chills all over.
He’d staged this scene so perfectly—placing her in exactly the spot where he could cause her the most discomfort.
And of course, it was because she was a woman.
It was his way of asserting his dominance over her.
And at the moment, he had the upper hand.
Riley couldn’t help but look at the floor. An extremely valuable-looking Persian carpet was spread out beneath her chair over the elaborate parquet floor. Of course, Riley didn’t see a drop of blood. But she had no doubt that Farrell had told the truth. Kirk’s brains had surely been spattered all over another equally priceless carpet. Farrell had then tossed it away as if it were a cheap throw rug and put this one in its place.
“Poor Kirk,” Farrell said with a note of feigned sadness. “He never quite caught on to what
it meant to belong to the Farrell dynasty. I sent him to the same schools as my other sons—including Byars College. But his education didn’t quite take. I don’t know why.”
Farrell swiveled slightly again and looked up at the ceiling.
“And he took his mother’s death rather hard, I’m afraid. Blamed me for it, although I have no idea why. Didn’t like my remarrying so soon afterwards, as if that were any of his business. And he wasn’t applying himself in school. Said he wanted to be a musician, had some sort of silly group that he practiced with. He wasn’t serious about it, of course. Never took lessons. He wasn’t serious about anything—just like his mother.”
Farrell locked eyes with Riley again.
“One day he came in here with a gun. Told me he wanted to leave school, devote himself full time to his music, and if I didn’t give him my blessings, he’d blow his brains out.”
Farrell paused for a moment.
“I told him to go right ahead,” he said.
He paused again.
“And he did just that.”
He smiled silently for a moment.
“So there it is. My full confession. No, I didn’t pull the trigger, which was probably what you expected me to say. But I did trigger something in that little brain of his. He wouldn’t have done it without my say-so. Of course, people in my life seldom do anything without my say-so.”
He chuckled a little.
“Are you going to read me my rights now? Probably not. You haven’t got me even for some lesser degree of manslaughter. The law’s odd like that—leaky as a sieve. What’s the legal difference between murder and suicide? Something to do with dying on your own terms, I suppose—of your own free will. An odd thing, free will. Many people have it. Most people don’t. I do. My son did not.”
He sat gloating silently, waiting for some reaction.
Riley felt physically ill.
She had no doubt at all that every word Farrell had said was true.
Ironically, she also knew something else.
Kirk Farrell’s suicide was completely unconnected with the other Byars deaths.
And his father had nothing at all to do with those deaths.
She took some comfort in knowing that she was about to hurt this man—not deeply or lastingly, but in the only way he could really be hurt.
