Shutter Man

by Richard Montanari

  The Stone was secured, and detectives from South, along with officers from CSU, were combing the place for anything that would lead them to Sean and Michael Farren. Consider ing the vast quantity of junk, and the thousands of photographs, it would be a slow process.

  Byrne was on call for the next twenty-four hours, but that was only on paper. He would probably be back at the Roundhouse in a few hours. He had to be at the center of all this.

  As they suspected, it was indeed human blood on the floor and walls. A 9 mm slug had been pulled from the wooden lath near the bottom of the stairs. No body had been found, but a pattern in the dust on the floor leading to the back door suggested a body might have been rolled into a blanket or rug and dragged outside. Crime-scene techs found what they believed to be trace blood evidence on the threshold of the back door.

  Try as he might, Byrne could not fully get a grasp on all the photographs and notes affixed to the walls in the basement room. They had to go back many, many years. He was certain they would find evidence of myriad crimes in that room, but that did not help the problem at hand, and that was the fact that there were psychotic killers on the loose.

  Jimmy Doyle had put in a call to Danny Farren’s attorney in the hope that Farren might talk to the police and shed some much-needed light. As expected, he refused.

  An arrest warrant had been issued for both Sean and Michael Farren.

  It was with these puzzles and questions in mind that Byrne rounded the corner onto his street and parked his car. He was so occupied with the cases that he almost didn’t see the shadow.

  There, in the doorway to his building, was a petite woman.

  She was dressed in white.

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  Colleen Siobhan Byrne sat at the dining room table, spinning a teacup. Deaf since birth, she had recently graduated with honors from Gallaudet University, the nation’s pre-eminent college for the deaf and hard of hearing. It had slipped Byrne’s mind that she was heading up to attend her great-aunt Dottie’s birthday party.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ Byrne signed.

  Colleen smiled. ‘For scaring you back there.’

  ‘Scared? Me? Do you know how many deaf girls I’ve arrested and thrown in jail?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Not a one,’ Byrne said. ‘But I wasn’t scared. I was just happy and surprised to see you.’

  ‘Okay,’ she signed, letting him off the hook.

  Byrne glanced at his daughter’s hand. Specifically at the ring on her third finger, left hand. She was engaged to be married. He had met the young man, had also fallen under his spell. He was a good man. Still, Byrne couldn’t believe it. Colleen was just a toddler only a few months ago.

  His daughter knocked on the table, got his attention. Byrne looked up.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ she signed.

  Byrne shook his head, offered a weak smile. Colleen wasn’t buying it, not even half a loaf. She tapped a fingernail on the table between them. Meaning: dish.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he signed. ‘The job, maybe.’

  ‘It’s always been your job. Why now?’

  Another shrug. ‘I define myself by what I do for a living.’

  ‘Everybody does,’ Colleen signed. ‘This woman is a doctor, this man a landscaper or an architect. We are what we do.’

  ‘If I were to stop being a cop, what would I be?’

  ‘Lots of things.’

  Byrne sipped his beer, put down the bottle. ‘For instance?’

  ‘For one, you’re a great dad.’

  Byrne smiled. ‘Well, you’ve just had the one. I’m not sure you’re qualified on that.’

  ‘One is plenty,’ she said. ‘And on top of that, you’re a great son.’

  Byrne wasn’t expecting that. He felt his emotions rise. ‘I don’t know about that one.’

  ‘You are. Grandad couldn’t be any prouder of you. You don’t see it, but I do.’

  ‘You see it?’

  Colleen nodded. ‘I watch him when he watches you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His daughter gave it some thought. ‘Whenever you’re doing anything–telling a story, working around the house, pitching in to help somebody–he watches you, and he gets this look, like he wants to burst with pride and admiration.’

  Byrne had had no idea. Paddy Byrne was just Paddy Byrne. Retired dockworker, union man, drinker of lager, the most diehard of Eagles fans. They’d had a few heart-to-hearts over the years–granted, more lately than before–but like a lot of Irishmen, Paddy Byrne kept most of it inside. Byrne knew his father loved him. He hoped his father knew the same.

  ‘You were there for him when Grandma died,’ Colleen signed. ‘Every day.’

  ‘It’s what you’re supposed to do.’

  ‘It is, but a lot of people don’t do it. He told me that he didn’t know what would have happened if you weren’t there.’

  ‘He told you that?’ Byrne asked. ‘When?’

  ‘In a letter.’

  Byrne felt punched. ‘He writes you letters?’

  Colleen rolled her eyes. She tapped her father’s hand. Byrne was always amazed how his daughter’s smile, her touch, could change his day completely. He was blessed.

  ‘So why today?’ she asked.

  Byrne just shrugged. ‘Big case.’

  ‘Bad?’

  He didn’t have to think too hard about this one. He nodded.

  ‘Sorry,’ Colleen signed.

  ‘I’d love to say it’s just another day at Black Rock, but I can’t.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  He did. ‘Maybe later. Let’s eat first.’

  ‘Great. What are you making?’

  Byrne laughed. His daughter could do that, even on the worst of days. ‘Reservations?’

  Colleen smiled, kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll find something here. It’s amazing what you can throw together in a college dorm. I once made a casserole of cottage cheese and Vienna sausages.’

  ‘Make that,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m going to hit the shower.’

  Byrne felt a hundred percent better. He slipped into casual slacks and a pullover. When he stepped into the living room, he saw Colleen looking at two photographs that had been on top of his briefcase. He berated himself for leaving them out. He hoped they weren’t too graphic.

  On the other hand, Colleen was no longer a child. She knew what he did.

  Before he could step across to the kitchen, she held up both photographs, a puzzled look on her face. They were of the two linen handkerchiefs.

  She put down the pictures, signed:

  ‘Are these from the case?’

  Byrne nodded. Held up two fingers. ‘Two cases.’

  She looked at them again, wrinkled her nose.

  Byrne got her attention. He knew what she was thinking. ‘Yes,’ he signed. ‘Those words are written in blood.’

  Colleen stared at the photographs a little longer. She seemed transfixed. Then: ‘Are these the only two?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are these the only two handkerchiefs you have?’

  ‘Yes,’ he signed. ‘They are the only two. Why would you ask that?’

  She pointed at the photos. ‘Because you have these two words. Tenet and Opera.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re part of the Square.’

  Byrne was lost. He told his daughter so.

  ‘These are two of the words in the Sator Square. Haven’t you ever heard of it?’

  Byrne shook his head. He had intended to plug the words into an internet search tonight. It was the main reason he’d left the photographs out.

  ‘What is it called again?’ he asked.

  ‘The Sator Square.’ She finger-spelled Sator.

  ‘And what is it all about?’

  Colleen thought for a moment. She held up a finger, meaning: hang on.

  She reached into her bag, took out her phone, started texting someone with blinding spe
ed. She put the phone down, turned back to Byrne.

  ‘Do you remember Sister Kathleen?’

  Byrne didn’t. Instead of blatantly lying to his daughter, he just shrugged.

  ‘You don’t,’ she signed.

  ‘I have my own nun nightmares,’ he said. ‘Who was she again?’

  ‘She was my math teacher for four years. Geometry, algebra and calculus. We’re still in touch.’

  ‘You took calculus?’

  Coleen thrust both hands out, palms up. She continued.

  ‘Anyway, she’s a big fan of stuff like this. It’s where I first heard about it. We did a whole class on it. It’s not exactly math, but Sister Kathleen is like that. I was always in the smart-kid class, so we could afford to go off on tangents.’

  Colleen’s phone vibrated on the counter. She picked it up, glanced at the screen, smiled. She slipped the phone into her purse, signed:

  ‘I just texted her about this, and she said she’d be happy to talk about it.’

  Byrne felt his pulse quicken. He had no idea if what his daughter was talking about had anything to do with the cases, but it was a direction.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘When do you think she’ll have time?’

  Colleen grabbed her coat from the chair, slipped it on. ‘Right now. I told her we’d be straight over.’ She opened the door. ‘We’ll eat on the way. Even I can’t make anything out of Jim Beam and stale oyster crackers.’

  Gardenia Hall was a convent home and health-care center in Malvern, Pennsylvania. With light traffic, it took them less than an hour to get there.

  When Sister Kathleen opened the door, Byrne was taken aback. The woman had to be in her mid-seventies but stood with a younger woman’s poise. Without a word, neither spoken aloud or signed, she took Colleen in her arms. Byrne could see it was an emotional moment for both women. He stepped away.

  When they broke their embrace, Colleen gestured to the nun.

  ‘This is Sister Kathleen.’

  They shook hands. Byrne was not surprised to find the woman’s grip firmer than his own. He tried to remember if he’d ever actually shaken hands with a nun before. He couldn’t imagine when or where it might have been. Genuflecting or running from them, yes. Shaking hands, not so much.

  ‘Call me Kathleen if you like,’ she said.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Byrne replied. ‘I just don’t think I can.’

  She nodded in mock concern. ‘Catholic education?’

  ‘Still in progress.’

  ‘For all of us,’ she said. She stepped to the side, gestured toward the hallway at the other side of the foyer. ‘Welcome to Gardenia Hall.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  Sister Kathleen’s room was austere only in its size and furnishings. One wall, where there was a small desk and laptop computer, also held a poster of Albert Einstein, a whiteboard with what looked to be a complicated math problem on it, as well as a corkboard. Just about every square inch of corkboard was dedicated to pieces of paper with numbers and diagrams on.

  While Sister Kathleen and Colleen caught up in sign language that was so amazingly fast he couldn’t hope to keep up, Byrne looked at some of the certificates and photographs on the wall. Sister Kathleen was a graduate of Villanova University, and had received her advanced degree from Georgetown.

  She saw him looking at her boards and smiled. ‘You may think it’s all random–that there is no order or balance to all this–and you would be absolutely right. I have no idea what, if anything, links these theories. One day, though. One day.’

  She picked up a black marker pen.

  ‘So. The Sator Square, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Byrne said.

  She turned to the whiteboard, erased what was on it, and began to write. A minute later she stood to the side. She’d written:

  ‘The Sator Square,’ she said.

  For Byrne, two words leapt off the chalkboard. His words. TENET and OPERA. A moment later, he saw the puzzle.

  Sister Kathleen pointed at the board. ‘As you can see—’

  ‘It reads top to bottom, bottom to top, left to right and right to left,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Byrne let his eyes again roam the square, marveling at the symmetry. But as much as he appreciated it, he was at a loss as to why two of the words would show up, written in blood, at two brutal crime scenes.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, firstly it is a four-times palindrome, and as a palindrome it has a lot of baggage, especially religious baggage.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Some people believe that because a palindrome can be read backwards and forwards, it is immune to tampering by the devil.’

  Byrne looked at her, trying to gauge if the woman was about to go off-planet with this.

  Sister Kathleen smiled, held up her hands. ‘That’s one interpretation. But only one.’ She tapped the board. ‘As far as I know, the first known appearance of this is about 79 AD in Pompeii, buried in the ash of Vesuvius.

  ‘Since then it has shown up in many places. Manchester, England; Dura-Europos in Syria; the Duomo di Siena in Italy. As to its meaning, or even its translation, there are about as many theories as there are sightings.’

  ‘For instance?’ Byrne said. ‘If you don’t mind.

  ’‘Not at all.’

  As she spoke, she signed everything.

  ‘The early instances were actually Rotas Squares, not Sator Squares. The words themselves, if taken to be Latin, can be loosely translated, with only the word Arepo appearing nowhere in the language. Some believe Arepo was a proper name. The sentence–again, loosely, and by no means literally–reads: “The farmer, Arepo, uses his plough for work.” Or something like that. Believe it or not, I was a C student in Latin.’

  Byrne waited for more. There was no more. He looked at his daughter, who smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Granted, not an earth-shattering sentence,’ Sister Kathleen said. ‘It probably wasn’t even proper Latin, but that’s just one idea. Others consider it an amulet of sorts. The Latin words Pater Noster—’

  ‘Meaning “Our Father”,’ Byrne said, translating.

  Sister Kathleen smiled. ‘Catholic.’

  ‘I’ve done my share of penance.’

  She pointed out the letters in the square. ‘Pater Noster is contained in the square as an anagram, along with two instances of alpha and omega–A and O.

  ‘There are many who believe early Christians used it as a secret symbol to let other Christians know of their presence. There are even more who believe that the invocation of the square can lift jinxes and curses.’

  ‘Curses?’ Byrne asked, recalling his conversation with Jessica about the last weeks of Frankie Sheehan’s life.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘The Prayer of the Virgin in Bartos claims that these are the names of the five nails used to crucify Christ.

  ‘On balance, the Sator Square is seen by many, in both religious and secular quarters, as a mystical symbol, an emblem used to ward off evil.’

  Byrne wasn’t sure any of this had anything to do with his cases. It was only two words. Could it be coincidence? Had the Rousseaus known Edwin Channing? Had these handkerchiefs belonged to them, not the Farren brothers?

  He made a note to call South Detectives to see if any sign of the Sator Square had been found at the tavern on Montrose.

  ‘What about now?’ he asked. ‘Why would it show up here?’

  Sister Kathleen sat down at her desk, steepled her fingers. ‘I’m afraid that is a bit out of my wheelhouse,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the context, and that’s as it should be.’

  She leaned forward, continued.

  ‘I’ve known Colleen a long time, and I know what you do for a living, detective. It would not be a surprise if these words have come up as part of an investigation.’

  ‘They have,’ Byrne said.

  Sister Kathleen thought for a moment. ‘In many ways our chose
n lives are similar. We try to make sense of an upside-down world, to confront and attempt to vanquish evil where we find it, to bring comfort to the grieving.’

  Byrne had given this much thought over the years, still hung on to the vestiges of his Catholic upbringing. He could not find any disagreement with what this woman was saying.

  ‘Quite often people will attach meaning to things when there is no meaning in other areas of their lives. They cling to alcohol or drugs or promiscuity.’

  Sister Kathleen stood, glanced at her walls, the ongoing mathematical problems. She looked back at Byrne and Colleen.

  ‘Einstein once said that pure mathematics is the poetry of logical ideas,’ she said. ‘If there is a logic to this, and I suspect there is, I know you will find it.’

  As they were leaving, Byrne looked at the picture hanging on the wall next to the door.

  ‘Where was this taken?’ he asked.

  She looked at the photo, ran a finger along the bottom of the frame.

  ‘This is in Ghana.’

  Byrne studied the smiling children. Twelve in number. All of them looked to be seven or eight years old.

  ‘Four of these children are no longer with us,’ Sister Kathleen said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The rest have graduated college.’ She touched the smiling girl in the front row. ‘Abeeku is now a pediatrician, with five children of her own.’

  Byrne didn’t know what to say. He could now see why Coll een held this woman in such high regard. He took out a card, handed it to Sister Kathleen. ‘If you think of anything else, please call.’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘And thanks again for your time. I trust you’ll keep this confidential.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  Out in the parking lot, Colleen stopped him, signed: ‘I trust you’ll keep this confidential?’

  Byrne didn’t even bother signing. ‘I know, I know. Jesus, am I stupid.’

  Colleen hauled off and punched him in the shoulder for that one. He knew it was coming, tried to brace himself. It still hurt.

  With Colleen fast asleep on the living room couch, Byrne sat at the dining room table. In front of him was his laptop, a half-bottle of Bushmills and the box. It was how he had come to think of it. The box. He had returned Desmond Farren’s bus pass and dark glasses, and they now sat next to the .38, as they had for the past forty years.