‘A motion detector,’ Byrne said. ‘Did he say why he needed it?’
Emily shook her head. ‘No. I made a little joke about it at the time. It seems so long ago now.’
‘Did he say where he was going when you parted company that day?’
‘No.’
Byrne could see that he was losing her. She was clearly on the verge of crying.
‘It can’t possibly be true,’ she said. ‘What they’re saying Michael has done. All those people. It has to be a mistake.’
Byrne didn’t know what to say. He had been to the crime scenes, had seen what the Farren brothers had wrought. He knew very well how people presented different faces to the world, but he was having a difficult time reconciling the horrors of what he had seen with the gentle soul being described to him by this young woman.
‘We just need to talk to him,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might be right now?’
‘I would tell you if I knew, Detective Byrne. For Michael’s sake. He never told me where he lived.’ She gestured to the main room of the library, to the location in general. ‘This is the only world I shared with him.’
It was a long shot, but Byrne decided to go for it. He took out his cell phone.
‘I need to ask you a favor.’
Emily looked surprised. ‘Of course.’
‘Would you be willing to help us bring Michael in?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.’
Byrne considered what he was asking. ‘I’d like us to go over to the side of the room where the magazines are. Would that be all right?’
‘Okay,’ Emily said. ‘May I ask why?’
Byrne stood, took her hand in his and said, ‘The light is better.’
Twenty minutes later, Byrne walked to the electronics store about which Emily had spoken, an old-school emporium called Circuit World. He showed Michael Farren’s picture to the two clerks. Neither recognized him.
The owner went through receipts for items purchased around the day and time Byrne specified. There was a record of the purchase of a motion detector at the right time, but no credit card transaction and therefore no billing address.
As Byrne had expected, Michael Farren had paid cash.
Byrne stood in front of the huge whiteboard, the crime-scene photographs of the victims arrayed at the top. Robert Kilgore, the Rousseau family, Edwin Channing.
There was a wire, a direct line that connected all of them. Were these retribution killings? Had these people had dealings with Danny Farren or his sons?
It didn’t seem likely, but if Byrne had learned anything in his time on the job, it was that there were very few coincidences, and nothing was beyond the pale.
Before he could call his contacts at South, checking on the status of Sean and Michael’s known associates, his phone rang. It was Jessica.
‘What’s up?’
‘Turns out Michael Farren was in a coma for almost two years after that accident in 1988. Did you know about this?’
‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘I never followed up.’
‘Well, when he came out of it, he had numerous physical problems, but also another problem. A neurological disorder.’
‘What was it?’
‘I found the doctor who treated him. He’s expecting us.’
Dr Bruce Sheldon was in his late-fifties. He was now in private practice, but had worked for the county mental health system for fifteen years after graduation from Penn State.
They met at his small, comfortable office on Chestnut Street, near Fifth.
As they settled in, Jessica scanned the walls. Sheldon was board-certified in psychiatry, child psychiatry and psychosomatic medicine.
They got the small talk out of the way in short order.
Byrne produced a photograph of Michael Farren. He’d blown up the mug shot and cropped it to look more like a portrait. The effect was less than convincing, particularly to a psychiatrist who had dealt with criminals for thirty years.
‘It’s our understanding that you treated Michael Farren.’
‘Yes,’ said Sheldon. ‘He was remanded to juvenile detention at the time. He spent a little over a year there.’
‘What was he in for?’
‘He was convicted of an assault against a county employee.’
‘Did it involve a weapon?’
‘No,’ Sheldon said. ‘But the assault was severe enough to send the victim to the hospital.’
‘How did Farren come to be on your radar?’ Byrne asked.
‘He was considered to be uncooperative. Didn’t accept authority. Of course, that’s not exactly a rarity in the juvenile detention system. It’s one of the reasons they enter the system in the first place.’
‘Were there any violent incidents when he was inside?’ Byrne asked.
Sheldon glanced at the file in front of him. ‘Minor scuffles with other boys. Nothing too violent. After a while the others found out about his family and gave him a wider berth.’
‘They knew his father was Danny Farren?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘A lot of these kids–most of them, in my experience–are acting out. Not really bad kids, but acting out to get attention. Someone like Michael Farren was seen as a legacy kid, a third-generation criminal.’
‘You said uncooperative. How so?’
‘Well for one thing, he insisted he was not Michael Farren. He said his name was Billy.’
‘He called himself Billy?’
‘Yes,’ Sheldon said. ‘Billy the Wolf. It’s from a song by—’
‘The Stark,’ Byrne said.
‘You’ve heard of it?’
Byrne just nodded.
‘Another of his behaviors included seeing the same corrections officers and facility personnel every day but claiming he didn’t know who they were. At first it was thought that this was part of the con. You’d be amazed at some of the things these kids come up with.’
‘Can you tell us what your initial findings were?’
‘Because Michael had suffered a severe head trauma, and indeed was in a coma for a long time, it was somewhat difficult to diagnose his condition. I think we went through three months straight of tests. In the end, among other findings, we discovered that he suffered from a somewhat rare neurological disorder called prosopagnosia.’
‘What is that?’
‘It is a cognitive disorder of face perception, sometimes called face blindness, where the ability to recognize faces is impaired. Other traits of visual processing–for instance, object discrimination and intellectual functioning, such as decision-making–often remain intact. Sometimes these functions are enhanced. People with prosopagnosia can be quite brilliant. Oliver Sacks, for one.’
‘The doctor?’
‘Yes,’ said Sheldon. ‘The term wasn’t even coined until 1944 or so. Men with post-traumatic stress disorder and severe head trauma were returning from the war and not being able to recognize their own wives and families.’
‘How does this manifest in the real world?’ Byrne asked.
‘Well, if you suffer from this syndrome, even in its mildest form, you could meet someone, spend a good deal of time with them, then a day later not know them from Adam.’
‘So is it possible that you might use clothing as a recognition strategy?’
‘Absolutely. The color, texture and style of clothing can be a very powerful tool. Prosopagnosics sometimes use a fractional strategy that involves clues such as clothing, body shape and hair color.’
The changing of clothes, Jessica thought. This was why Farren was making them put on other clothes. He needed the clothing as a marker.
‘Might the person use a photograph as a reference point?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Sheldon. ‘Would you like to see some of the tests we use as diagnostic tools?’
Jessica looked at Byrne, back. ‘Sure.’
Sheldon got up, crossed the room to a table against the wall. On it was a 27
-inch iMac. He hit a few keys. The screen defaulted to a screen saver depicting Robert Indiana’s LOVE sculpture. He turned back to his guests.
‘This is a pure test of facial recognition,’ he said. ‘Shall we begin?’
‘Okay,’ Jessica said.
Dr Sheldon tapped a key. On the new screen were six ovals: three across, two down. In each oval was a different face. Just a face, from cheek to cheek, hairline to the bottom of the chin. No hair, no ears, nothing below the chin. Four of the faces were white; two were black.
Sheldon then handed Jessica and Byrne each a blank piece of paper with six empty ovals.
‘Without consulting each other, I want you to fill in the name of each of the people on the screen, if you recognize them. If you don’t, just leave it blank.’
To Jessica–and she was certain Byrne–this didn’t seem too difficult. She wrote down six names; Byrne followed suit.
Dr Sheldon tapped a key. The faces disappeared. The screen went blank.
‘How did we do?’ he asked.
Both Jessica and Byrne handed in their sheets. Jessica saw that they had identical responses: Carroll O’Connor, Andy Reid, James Earl Jones, Ringo Starr, Sidney Poitier, Jackie Gleason.
‘You both get an A,’ Sheldon said. ‘Now I’m going to show you six more faces. I want you to tell me if you recognize any of them.’ He handed them blank sheets. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ Jessica and Byrne said in unison.
He tapped a key.
What seemed to be another simple test was anything but, Jessica found. The faces were all upside down.
‘You probably want to tilt your head to the side, but don’t,’ Sheldon said.
He was right. It was Jessica’s first instinct. And it was maddening. She couldn’t identify any of the faces.
‘I don’t know any of these people,’ she said.
Sheldon looked at Byrne. ‘Detective?’
‘I think I know one,’ Byrne said. He wrote on his sheet.
‘Ready to see who these strangers are?’
Sheldon tapped a key. A moment later, all six pictures flipped, right side up. It was astonishing. Jessica recognized them all. B. B. King. Goldie Hawn. Richard Gere. Harry Dean Stanton. Anthony Hopkins. Donna Summer.
Byrne turned his paper over. He’d written B. B. King.
‘Awesome,’ Jessica said.
‘I’m a blues fan,’ Byrne said. ‘What can I say?’
‘Not as easy as you might think, right?’ Sheldon asked.
‘I would have bet against this,’ Byrne said. ‘I would have bet I could recognize them all.’
‘Most people would. All the parts are there–eyes, nose, mouth, eyebrows, chin–but there is no whole. No connection. We’ve run tests where the subject’s child or parent were in the mix, the right-side-up mix, and there was no recognition whatsoever.’
‘And you’re saying that this is what the world looks like to Michael Farren?’
Sheldon took a moment. ‘You know how sometimes you see footage on TV and people will be pixelated out?’
‘Sure.’
‘Some people with prosopagnosia describe it that way. They’ll fixate on a feature–hairstyle, perhaps–and use that as a marker.’
‘What about context?’ Byrne asked.
‘Very important.’
‘So if someone with this disorder is in a place with which they are very familiar, it might aid them in recognizing people they expect to be there.’
‘Absolutely,’ Sheldon said. ‘Place, time of day, even smells can be used as markers.’
‘This affects recognition of family members?’
‘Yes. Mothers, fathers, sisters brothers,’ he said. ‘I’ve read case histories of women who left their children at playgrounds because they could not recognize them.’
‘How pronounced is Michael’s Farren’s condition?’
‘I haven’t seen him in twenty years, but because there is no cure for this, no drug therapy, I’d say it’s as pronounced as anyone suffering from the syndrome.’
‘Is this something that can get progressively worse?’
‘Yes, it can.’
Sheldon turned off the computer.
‘I don’t get many visits from the homicide division and the DA’s office,’ he said. ‘I know you’re bound by confidentiality, so I won’t ask. But obviously this is something serious.’
‘It is,’ Byrne said.
Sheldon turned away for a moment, looked out the window, at the people passing by his office. He turned back. ‘I’ve seen thousands of patients in my thirty years of practice. Some had very minor issues, some had conditions that required a lifetime of in-patient therapy. I’d like to think I remember them all. I remember Michael Farren. I hoped that he would learn to cope with his condition, but I was not optimistic.’ He crossed his hands in his lap. ‘If ever I get the opportunity to see him again, I will start over.’
They stood on the sidewalk, leaned against the car. The heat was rising. Byrne loosened his tie.
While they were waiting, two more patients entered Sheldon’s office. Life goes on, Jessica thought.
‘Face blindness,’ she said.
‘I have to admit, I’d never heard of it.’
‘It’s why the victims were dressed the way they were dressed.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Farren has to have them dressed in a certain way before he knows he has the right person.’
Byrne just nodded.
‘But where does he know them from?’
There was still no direct link between the Rousseau family, Edwin Channing and Robert Kilgore. The only connection seemed to be their violent deaths, and a cryptic message painted in blood on a fine linen handkerchief.
34
Josh Bontrager stood in the small lobby of an eight-suite apartment building in Germantown. He was as pale as Jessica had ever seen him. She’d never known him blanch at a crime scene.
Around him walked a flurry of crime-scene technicians.
Byrne and Jessica had gotten the call after leaving Dr Sheldon’s office.
There had been a double murder.
In the center of the small living room sat the victim. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape. There was a single entry wound to the center of her chest. The rug beneath her, as well as the white leather loveseat behind her, was splattered with blood.
The woman was barefoot. It appeared she was wearing a knee-length red skirt and a dark blue Robert Morris University sweatshirt.
There was little doubt that Michael Farren had made her put on the sweatshirt, confirming that she was the intended victim.
Her name was Danielle Spencer. Like Edwin Channing, Robert Kilgore and Laura Rousseau, the Farrens had peeled away her face.
After the investigator for the medical examiner made his pronouncement, and finished taking pictures, the crime-scene officers began processing the scene.
Jessica and Byrne stayed out of the way, standing on the other side of the dining room table, a silent understanding passing between them. They had both dealt with serial murder, with multiple murder, but they now knew that this rampage was as bad as anything they had ever experienced, and that predicting where the Farrens would strike next would become a priority for every law enforcement officer in the county.
As Josh Bontrager stepped in to begin his investigation, Jessica looked at the victim on the floor by the door. He wore the grey uniform of an armored car security service. The revolver on his hip was still strapped in, and looked to have not been drawn. The two holes in his forehead, in a very tight pattern, explained why he did not get the chance.
The crime-scene officer taking photographs moved closer to the dead man. Jessica returned to the dining room, saw the hand kerchief on the table, unfurled on a large piece of glossy white paper.
AREPO.
Josh Bontrager stepped into the dining room.
‘Where was it?’ Jessica ask
ed.
‘She has one of those AeroGardens.’
‘Not sure what that is,’ Jessica said.
Bontrager led them to the kitchen. On the counter was an indoor garden, a plastic receptacle with white lights over a hydroponic base. It was thick with basil, parsley, cherry tomatoes, peppers.
Bontrager took out a pencil, lifted one of the large basil leaves. ‘It was tied right there.’
‘Same twine?’ Byrne asked.
‘Looks like it.’
Byrne gestured to the papers strewn around the living room. He pointed to a folder titled ‘Legal’.
‘Did you find the victim’s birth certificate?’
‘No birth certificate,’ Bontrager said. ‘Everything but.’
Bontrager’s phone rang. He answered, stepped away, spoke for a few moments.
‘Can you send it to me?’ he asked. He then gave his email address, said: ‘Thanks very much.’
He turned back to Jessica and Byrne. ‘That was the security firm that handles this building. There’s a camera in the lobby, as well as the parking lot and the rear delivery door. There’s also one in the elevator. The cameras feed to a cloud.’
‘Do they have something?’ Byrne asked.
‘I’m going to say they do. The guy I just spoke to made a clip of the lobby camera from earlier today. He sounded pretty shaken up.’
Bontrager’s phone beeped. He looked at it.
‘We have it.’
They stood in the back hallway, near the delivery entrance. Bontrager propped his phone on the table used by the delivery services. He launched the file from the security company.
The recording was a high-angle shot of the front hallway. A few seconds in, a woman walked down the hallway, stopped in front of apartment 102. It was the victim, Danielle Spencer. Jessica felt a chill run up her spine. This woman had been alive just a few hours ago.
The woman dug around in her purse, extracted her keys. After a few moments she looked up, towards the lobby. A figure approached her, a man with hair to his shoulders, wearing a leather jacket.
The man was Michael Farren. It was the same coat he’d been wearing in the other surveillance video, taken from the Sadik Food King.
Farren and Danielle appeared to talk briefly.
Shutter Man Page 25
