A few seconds later, the door to 102 opened. A man stepped out. He was the victim on the floor near the door. He kissed Danielle, then turned his attention to Michael Farren. They exchanged a few words. Farren turned away from the man and unbuttoned his coat. The man put a hand on Farren’s shoulder. The scene seemed to freeze for a long moment, then Farren pivoted and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, pushing him back into the apartment.
Then, with lightning speed, Farren drew a silenced weapon and fired two shots into the apartment.
They gathered in the lobby as CSU geared up for another long day. They watched the activity in silence, as they had many times before. Finally Bontrager spoke.
‘I’ve never taken the life of another person,’ he said. ‘It is something I have been trained to do, and will do, if necessary, to save my life or the life of a citizen of this city. But beyond this, I have never wished death upon anyone, no matter how evil their acts. Not once.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Until today. Today I wished death upon the people who did this terrible thing, and at some point I am going to stand before God and explain myself.’
Jessica and Byrne said nothing.
Bontrager pointed at the crime scene. ‘I have to get back in there. I’ll keep you posted. Be safe.’
‘You too, Josh,’ Jessica said, but he had already turned on his heels and was walking down the hallway.
Jessica and Byrne stood on the sidewalk in front of the building. Jessica could not get the video out of her mind. She looked at the steps, the door, the lobby, the hallway. Rare was the instance when she had arrived at the scene of a clearly premeditated murder so soon after.
‘How do we stop them?’ Jessica asked.
Byrne took a moment. ‘If the Sator Square is their pathology for these killings, they are going to stop themselves, if we don’t find them first. Then it becomes a matter of hunting them down.’
His phone rang. He looked at it. ‘I don’t recognize this number.’ He hesitated a few moments as it rang again. He decided to answer. He put it on speakerphone.
‘This is Byrne.’
‘Detective Byrne, this is Joe Sadik.’
‘Yes, Mr Sadik. What can I do for you?’
‘The two men. The two men that were on the surveillance video. The one you made the print out of.’
‘What about them?’
‘I just got back from the bank. Those men are in the U-Cash-It right now.’
35
Dennis LoConti sat on a chair in the middle of the office. His hands were taped behind him.
Billy watched from the doorway.
Yellow shirt. Blue jeans. Sleeve and neck tattoos.
A man stood behind LoConti.
Sean.
Sean took another hit of the meth. His eyes were red glass.
‘Let me see if I can make this a little clearer for you,’ he said. ‘You are going to open the safe. You are going to take out everything in there. You are going to give it to us.’
‘I paid you for this month, man.’
Sean put the M&P to the man’s head. ‘Are you really this fucking stupid? Are you really going to argue with me?’
LoConti said nothing.
‘Here’s how it works. I’m going to untie you. You’re going to stand up, walk over to that safe and open it. If you take too long, or make a move I don’t like, I will empty this mag into your lowlife, white-trash, skank-tat fucking head. Do you understand?’
LoConti nodded.
Sean took out his razor, cut the man loose. LoConti stood up on shaky legs, crossed the room slowly, knelt down. He reached out to the electronic keypad.
‘Wait,’ Sean said. ‘Billy.’
Billy crossed the room, stood just behind Dennis LoConti. He leveled his weapon, pointing it at the man’s head.
‘You don’t have a gun in there, do you, Denny boy?’ Sean asked. He hit his vial, shook it off.
‘No,’ LoConti said.
‘There’s no gun.’‘There better not be. Let’s go. Open it.’
Due to his trembling hands, it took Dennis LoConti a few attempts to open the safe. On the second blown attempt, Sean began to pace. Finally the tumblers fell and LoConti gently turned the handle.
‘Stop,’ Sean said.
LoConti did.
‘Get up–slowly–and get back over here.’
LoConti obeyed. Sean tossed Billy the duct tape. Billy again secured LoConti to the chair. Sean grabbed his duffel bag, opened the safe fully, peered inside.
‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘Look, Billy.’
Billy looked. Inside the safe was what appeared to be fifteen thousand in cash, all banded hundreds. There were also some clear plastic bags containing gold watches, bracelets, necklaces. Sean made short work of shoveling it all into the duffel bag. Before he zipped it, he saw something else in the safe.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Denny, Denny, Denny.’
Sean reached into the safe, extracted a revolver. It looked to be a .38 Police Special. He put his M&P in his waistband, got up, crossed the room. He tapped LoConti’s lips.
‘Wrap him,’ he said.
Billy wrapped the duct tape around the man’s head, gagging him.
Sean knelt in front of LoConti. ‘You lied to me, Denny. That’s the lowest thing a man can do. You lied to me, and it hurts my feelings.’
He stood. He pointed at the camera staring down at them.
‘Is the camera on?’
Dennis LoConti nodded.
‘Recording?’
Another nod.
‘Good.’ Sean walked up to the camera, stared into it for a few moments.
‘This is what happens to liars,’ he said.
He walked back to where Dennis LoConti was seated, put the gun to the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The force of the point-blank explosion sent LoConti onto his side on the floor. Blood and fragments of his skull streaked the garish yellow walls.
‘What about now, asshole? What about now? Got some fucking smartass response now?’
Sean emptied the revolver into LoConti’s chest, then tossed the gun aside.
‘Billy.’
Billy looked at the man.
Sean.
Sean reached into Billy’s coat, took out his picture, put it in Billy’s hand. ‘I told you to keep the fucking picture out. Keep it in your hand.’
Billy stared at the photo. There was not much left of Sean.
‘You have to say you know who I am.’
‘Sean,’ Billy said.
‘Go around back, get the van, drive around to the front. I’m going to light this place up.’
‘Okay.’
Sean ran to the front of the store, leapt over the counter, just as sirens rose in the distance. It sounded as if every police car in the city was on the way. And they were getting closer.
Billy looked at the photograph in his hand, and the man at the front of the store.
Sean.
‘We have to split up, Billy.’
Billy remained silent.
‘You know where to meet me, right?’
The sirens drew nearer.
‘You know where to meet me, right? We have to split up.’
‘I know,’ Billy said. ‘By the Trolley Works. I know.’
Sean looked at his watch. ‘Midnight.’
‘Okay.’
Billy watched the man run out the back door, down the alley, and vault the fence at the end. He looked at the photograph.
Sean.
Midnight.
Billy parked near the old warehouse at the end of Reed Street, far from the nearest street lamp, just fifty or so feet from the entrance to the Philadelphia Trolley Works. Every so often a police car drove by.
Billy watched for Sean. It was past midnight, and Sean had not shown. Something was wrong.
He stepped into the darkened doorway of the warehouse, pulled the Makarov from his holster, held it at his side. He listened for footfalls, the rapid panting of a K-9 dog coming up the street, but heard neit
her. He had once been attacked by a German Shepherd with silver eyes when he’d boosted a pair of candlesticks from a house in Torresdale. That had been when he was nine or so, before his dream, and he remembered every detail, every creak of a stairway tread, even the way the dog smelled.
He looked around the building. There were two policemen by the white van, lights flashing. Billy slipped the suppressor from his jeans pocket, threaded it onto the barrel. He chanced another glance as a second patrol car arrived.
He looked to his right, at the block of row houses on Earp Street. He knew that there was an alley behind them, an alley that emptied onto South 36th Street. Beyond that, a block or so away, at Wharton, he would be able to catch a SEPTA bus.
Billy closed his eyes, tried to organize his thoughts. He’d spent much time around this area when he was small, following the tracks. He once spray-painted his name on this warehouse. He wondered if it was still there. Maybe if he saw it, it would take him back.
He opened his eyes, peered down the length of the building. Somehow, Emily was standing on the corner, just beneath the street light. She wore a powder-blue dress and a thin strand of pearls. When she turned to look at him, Billy raised a hand to wave. He saw then that the right side of her head was missing.
It wasn’t Emily. It was the girl from The Jade Kettle. The dead girl.
It was shadows.
Billy took a deep breath, arranged the weight of his bag on his shoulder. Before he could take a step, he saw a shadow pool on his left. The man was less than five feet away. Billy had not heard him approach. His footfalls were masked by the sound of a siren.
‘Police!’ the man yelled.
Billy spun, his weapon out and leveled. He squeezed off a single round.
The bullet entered the police officer’s right eye and exited the back of his skull in a violent gout of scarlet blood. The policeman slumped onto his right side, rolled onto his back. Billy put the barrel of the weapon over the man’s heart and once again pulled the trigger. The force of the blast caused the man’s body to lift slightly from the ground.
Billy stepped back, looked at the man, saw the ravel of red thread over the pocket, now soaked in blood. He holstered his weapon as a police car turned the corner, just twenty yards away. He looked inside his coat, at the photograph.
The man on the ground wasn’t a policeman.
It was Sean Farren. His brother.
Sean was not saying that he was police. He was trying to warn him.
Billy watched as Sean’s spirit began to rise. He saw their mother, Deena Farren, so thin in her hospital bed, purple bruises on her arms, her skin the color of bones. He saw his brother standing in front of their father, taking the beating that put the scar over his eye. He saw the broken teacup on the floor. He saw his brother standing over him that Christmas Eve on Carpenter Street. He saw himself being born into darkness.
Billy removed Sean’s picture from his coat. In it he could suddenly see everything. Every feature on Sean’s face. He placed the photograph on his brother’s body. Then he reached into Sean’s pocket, removed the straight razor. It would be up to him to draw the final line now.
ROTAS.
Billy knew the way.
Billy ran.
36
The scene at U-Cash-It had been a bloodbath. Dennis LoConti was found in the office, bound to a chair, the walls painted with his blood. At first it appeared he had been shot once in the head and twice in the chest. A review of the surveillance recording showed that Sean Farren had emptied the .38 Police Special, which was found on the floor near the office door, into the man’s chest.
Joe Sadik, who had been watching from across the street from the moment he made the call, had seen a white Econoline van speed away from the scene. He wrote down the license plate.
Within five minutes of the shooting at the end of Reed Street, a perimeter was established. A boat from the marine unit was scrambled. The ID unit had an officer on scene to fingerprint the victim.
When Byrne arrived with John Shepherd and Josh Bontrager, there were twenty sector cars on scene, more than forty patrol officers on foot.
Byrne pulled up to the warehouse. The three detectives exited the car. Byrne spread a map on the hood of the car.
There were dozens of row houses on the three nearest blocks.
Byrne took the block on Reed Street. While two patrol officers covered the front of the houses, he slowly made his way down the alley behind them. One by one he stepped close to the back doors, the windows, listening. Only four of the houses had lights on.
He knew that the patrol officers would be knocking on the front doors, ringing the bells.
When Byrne got to the third house from the end of the block–a house with no lights on–he looked at the door jamb.
The back door was slightly ajar.
He stood on the top step, listened. The house was silent. He turned down the volume on his two-way radio, tapped lightly on the door jamb. No response. He tapped again. No lights, no response.
His weapon at his side, he bumped the door with his shoulder, rolled into the kitchen. The only illumination was from the small light on the range hood.
The kitchen was empty. Byrne took a deep breath, moved down the short hallway toward the living room. There was a door in the hallway, probably leading to a pantry or powder room. He tried the knob. Locked.
When he got to the end of the hallway, he paused. The lights from the sector cars on Reed Street washed the living room walls with red and blue light.
In the flashing light he saw the layout of the living room, saw his pathway to the stairs leading to the second floor. As he turned the corner into the dining room, he felt something against his foot. Something heavy.
The woman was face down on the dining room carpet. Byrne knelt down, put two fingers to her neck. She had a pulse. He shone his Maglite on the back of her head, saw the blood.
Before he could get his two-way radio in hand, he saw the shadow to his left.
He turned. Michael Farren stood behind him. In one arm he held a three-month-old child. A little girl in a red one-piece. In his right hand he held the Makarov. Attached to it was a suppressor.
‘Put your weapon on the floor,’ Farren said.
Byrne complied.
‘Hands out.’
Byrne put his hands out to his sides.
‘Who are you?’ Farren asked.
Byrne slowly rose to his feet. ‘My name is Byrne. I’m a detective with the Philadelphia Police.’
Farren pointed at Byrne’s weapon. He held the baby closer to his chest. He stepped behind Byrne, out of eyeshot.
‘Very slowly, take the magazine out.’ Byrne did as instructed. ‘Now jack the round out of the chamber.’ Again Byrne followed directions.
‘Empty your pockets.’
Byrne did. He imagined that the killer wanted to know whether he had a second gun, or an extra magazine. He had neither.
‘Lift your pant legs. One at a time.’
Byrne complied.
Michael Farren stepped back in front of Byrne, indicated with the barrel of the Makarov for Byrne to cross the room, sit on the chair by the fireplace. When he did, Farren picked up the magazine, removed all the cartridges, put them in his pocket, along with the single cartridge removed from the firing chamber.
The two-way radio chattered. Byrne cast a glance to the passageway into the kitchen. He knew that the back door was still open. He waited for one of the rookie patrol officers to stumble into the house, weapon drawn. He waited for disaster.
‘I want you to get on the radio,’ Farren said. ‘I want you to tell them that you’ve cleared this house and that you’re going to keep searching the other houses.’
Byrne didn’t move. He was waiting for permission. Farren touched the barrel of the suppressor to the baby’s head.
‘I saw the address on my way in,’ Farren added. ‘I know where we are. Do it now.’
Byrne slowly reached for the two-way, got on c
hannel.
‘I’m in 3702,’ he said. ‘The third house from the corner. It’s clear. Moving on.’
‘Fine,’ Farren said. ‘Now turn the volume down, but not off. Put it on the floor.’
Byrne did. He kept his hands out to his sides.
‘The block is pretty tightly cordoned off,’ he said.
Farren nodded, but said nothing. He shifted the baby’s weight.
As the headlights of a sector car washed across the walls, Byrne got a better look at Michael Farren. In the grainy photograph taken from the surveillance footage from Sadik Food King, as well as the most recent mug shot, he’d seen a suspect–male, white, mid-thirties, brown hair, blue eyes, medium build, scar on his right cheek.
But in this moment, in this place, he saw the ten-year-old boy running out into the middle of the street.
Byrne remembered the night as if it were yesterday. He remembered the snow. He remembered the song, ‘The Little Drummer Boy’, coming from the tinny speakers in the bodega. He remembered Danny Farren standing on the corner with his two ten-year-old sons. He remembered the car coming around the corner, the sickening sound of the impact, the snow falling on bright red blood.
‘It’s time for me to go,’ Farren said. He held the baby closer. ‘You better hope your fellow officers aren’t too trigger-happy.’
‘No one’s going to do anything, Michael.’
‘Michael is dead, detective. Your kind killed him on Christmas Eve 1988. There’s only me now.’
‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘What do I call you?’
Farren looked at him as if this might be common knowledge. ‘Billy.’
Billy the Wolf, Byrne thought.
He nodded. ‘Billy, then.’
A siren screamed to life a half-block away, began to fade. Farren tensed, drew himself closer to the passageway into the kitchen.
‘Why all this, Billy?’ Byrne asked. ‘Why these people?’
Farren stared into the darkness for a few moments.
‘Grandfather, Uncle Patrick, Sean. They were all cursed. As am I.’
He lowered his weapon, kept it at his side.
‘And now my father. There is only one way.’
The Sator Square, Byrne thought.
Five words, five lines.
Shutter Man Page 26