Shutter Man, page 17
Máire never saw him alive again.
Later that day, at the Fourth of July festival in the park, the devil put his hands in both pockets.
At just after ten o’clock, fair little Catriona Daugherty was found strangled in the park that bordered South Taney Street.
The rumors flew fast and hot. Máire heard, and not from just one source, that people in the Pocket suspected her Desmond of the terrible sin. They said that he had put his eyes on Catriona years ago and that he had taken a length of rope that night and choked the life out of her.
The police came to The Stone, talked to Máire and Danny and Patrick. Desmond did not come home. Except for a short time in hospital, it was the first time he had not slept in his own bed.
For the next four days, Máire and her boys combed the streets from Washington to Lombard, from the avenue to the river, knocking on doors, looking in garages and alleys and basements, hoping for the best, knowing the worst.
On the morning of July 9, there was a knock at the back door. Máire opened the door to a young policeman, who told her that a man had been found, shot to death, beneath the South Street bridge. He asked that Máire come down to the morgue to see if the dead man was her Desmond.
It was.
For the second time in two years, Máire found herself at the river’s edge, a bar of soap in one hand, a basket of clothes next to her. She stayed till dawn, and finally got the blood from Desmond’s white suit.
1978
On the night Deena gave birth to two beautiful boys, the moon shone brightly over South Philadelphia. She named them Sean and Michael. They were light, but they were healthy.
When Máire held them both for the first time, she felt the feelings surge within her. Although Sean was beautiful, she knew the first time she saw Michael that he had the gift.
That night she stole back into the nursery, sat between them. It was Michael’s small hand she held as she recited the poem.
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake …
Christmas Eve 1988
By the time Patrick Farren was murdered – gunned down in his prime by the police – the Pocket had changed. Gone were the drinking clubs and potluck dinners. Now it was about a drug called crack cocaine. The Stone had been robbed twice in the past two years. Only once did Danny and Patrick find the men who did it and put them under the sod.
At 8 p.m., the bar was only half full, with many of the regulars drinking at home with their families. Danny and his sons were off to the mall for last-minute shopping. Patrick was cozied up with one of his girls in the corner, a pretty girl Máire had seen in the bar a number of times.
A few minutes later, the two of them left.
The call came at just after midnight. Máire knew before her hand touched the receiver.
Patrick was dead, murdered at the hands of the police.
Two of her boys gone now. Poor Desmond in 1976, and now Patrick.
But the devil was not done with the Farrens on this night. In an attempt to save his Uncle Patrick, young Michael was struck by a car. The boy hit his head on the frozen pavement.
As Christmas Day dawned, Michael Farren lay in a coma, just like his grandfather so many years ago in County Louth.
He would not wake for nearly two years.
Each night Máire would read to the boy and play music. Like his grandfather in Dundalk, Michael did not respond. Many a night found Máire watching the boy’s eyes, his face, his hands, hoping for a reaction.
All the doctors and books said it was likely that Michael was aware of his surroundings, that he could hear what people said, and that it was a good thing to play music for him. While Máire’s taste in music was traditional, she felt that her grandson would not respond to ballads and laments and reels.
Patrick had been the lover boy, and had all the tools of the gigolo’s craft. Dozens and dozens of LPs. Night after night Máire would put them on, hoping for a reaction from Michael. All the British and Irish bands from Patrick’s era as a young man – Cream, the Groundhogs, Thin Lizzy, Chicken Shack, Taste, Roxy Music.
One evening, while flipping through them, she saw something that made her heart flutter. A strange-looking album that had depicted on its cover a mouth-puller, a carved stone icon used in medieval Ireland to ward off intruders and evil spirits. Máire’s own grandmother had had one on the front door of the house when she was growing up in Dundalk.
When Máire turned it over, she saw that the band was called The Stark.
She put the album on, and just a few seconds in, she could see that Michael was responding to it. It was the first time in nearly eighteen months. As the song played, she saw his eyes move beneath his eyelids, his fingers lift and fall to the rhythm, a color returning to his face.
The song was called ‘Billy the Wolf’.
1996
By the time Michael and Sean had bested eighteen, they were known throughout the Pocket, and much of south Philadelphia, as the founding members of the River Boys. Their father Daniel – Máire’s last remaining son – presented a patriarchal face and presence, and no decision was made without him.
It was a long road back physically for Michael, who was weak and atrophied from his coma, but Máire had never seen anyone work harder. Many a dawn found him behind The Stone, a makeshift set of barbells at his feet. He set up a small boxing ring in the cellar and took on any and all comers, regardless of their weight. Many times he was overmatched and took a beating, but he never quit.
He spent his days getting physically stronger, and his nights reading. Máire had never seen so many books as she saw in his room in the basement.
But while he overcame his physical problems, the face blindness that Michael had begun to exhibit not long after coming out of his long fever dream, the inability to recognize even members of his own family, stayed with him.
Máire did what she could to help. Placing notes on everything, making a schedule for Michael to keep, pinning pictures of everyone in his room. Still, as often as he knew who she was, he did not know her from Eve. As the boys’ criminal enterprise grew, it became more and more of a problem.
In those years, Michael stuck close to Sean. Whenever someone crossed or cursed the Farren name, Sean and Michael brought the man to the cellar beneath The Stone, and there he learned his manners.
One man, a butcher by trade, had failed to make a payment for two months. He was carved with his own stag-handle knife.
As the millennium approached, Máire Farren had one son left, and two grandsons, one of them damaged. The Stone had fallen on hard times, and the Pocket was well on its way to gentrification, with talk of the Naval Home being turned into condominiums.
Máire knew that all of it was down to the curse.
Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.
If Máire had inherited anything from her grandmother, it was patience. She would wait to find the right moment, and when that moment came, the curse would be lifted.
As she sat at the end of the bar, folding the last of five linen handkerchiefs, the ones with blue lace around the edges, she knew it would be Michael who would lift the curse.
No, she amended, it would be Billy the Wolf.
23
Philadelphia, 2015
When Byrne picked Jessica up at home, it felt like no time at all had passed.
The best part, for Jessica, was that she was able to dress down for a change.
ADAs frequently visited crime scenes, but rarely when the scenes were fresh. The possibility of witnessing evidence being collected left too much room for defense counsel to claim that it had been tainted by prosecutorial zeal and was thereby inadmissible.
This was different. This crime scene was now two months old. The forensics had long been collected, collated, analyzed and recorded. The crime-scene tape was down.
Still, even though the scene was cold, the charge was hot.
The bomb unit of the Philadelphia Police Department was headquartered in a new facility on State Road. Also in the complex was the police academy, as well as the K-9 unit.
Jessica and Byrne had visited the exterior of the crime scene building once, taking a few photos of the space, which was still boarded up. Today they would get inside.
On the way to the location, Jessica reviewed the reports generated by the South Detective Division, the unit that had investigated the original case. She knew that no detective ever wanted a case taken away from them – when you had your boots on the ground first, you wanted to cross the finish line, including testifying in court and seeing the suspect convicted, all based on your due diligence.
Still, the moment Jacinta Collins died, and the ME ruled it was a homicide, the two South Division detectives who were running the case knew there would soon be a knock on the door. Jessica felt for them – she’d worked on a number of cases with Byrne where the FBI stepped in when federal laws were found to have been violated.
Today they would meet with an officer from the PPD bomb squad and get a walk-through.
Byrne parked the car on Webster Street. Before he could get out, Jessica reached into her bag, took out an envelope. She handed it to Byrne.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘Open it.’
Byrne gave it a moment. If Jessica knew anything about her partner, she knew he didn’t like surprises. He slowly lifted the flap of the envelope, took out the contents.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. It was a 4x6 print of a photograph of Sophie Balzano.
‘She took a selfie,’ Jessica said. ‘She wants you to have it.’
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Byrne said. ‘I can’t believe how much she’s grown. I just saw her two months ago. How does this happen?’
‘Tell me about it.’
Sophie had changed her outfit ten times before deciding on her best navy-blue cashmere sweater and her silver crucifix pendant. Because of her braces she didn’t smile, but she decided after printing off the picture that this made her look even more mature. It did.
‘I love it, Jess,’ Byrne said. ‘Thanks. Tell Sophie thanks. I’ll cherish this.’
‘Ahem.’
Byrne looked over. ‘What?’
‘She wants a picture of you.’
He reddened a little. ‘Oh. Okay. Sure. Remind me in the next day or two. I’ll take one.’
Jessica held up her iPhone. ‘No time like the present,’ she said. ‘A famous detective friend of mine used to say that to me all the time.’
‘What?’ Byrne asked. ‘Now?’
‘Fix your hair.’
The commander of the PPD bomb squad was Zachary Brooks. After twelve years as a patrolman on the street, where he worked the 14th District, a slot opened up in SWAT, the Special Weapons and Tactical Unit. At thirty-six, much older than anyone else in the highly physical unit, Zach Brooks took the job and became one of its top officers. Four years later, he moved over to the bomb squad.
The bomb squad often worked with the homicide unit on fire-related deaths.
They met outside the crime-scene location. Zach was about thirty minutes late.
‘Zach, this is Jessica Balzano. She’s with the DA’s office now, but she was my partner in Homicide for ten years.’
‘I’ve heard the name,’ Zach said with a smile. ‘A pleasure.’
‘Here too,’ Jessica said.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Had a job.’
‘Was that the call to the Federal Building?’ Jessica asked. She’d seen something about it on the early-morning news.
Zach nodded. ‘A package was left on top of one of the cars in the underground parking level. We went in to assist the BATFE. Did an RSP.’
An RSP was a remove safe procedure. Depending on the device, the threat level, it could be as simple as an X-ray to determine whether the package was benign, or one that required the use of a blast containment receptacle.
‘What was it?’ Byrne asked.
‘Believe it or not, it was a spice rack. Someone in the US Attorney’s office brought it in to give to a co-worker at a bridal shower, and left it on top of her car.’
‘Are you sure that was garlic powder in there?’ Byrne asked.
Zach laughed. ‘Situation volatile but contained, detective.’
‘Glad you could make it down,’ Byrne added. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘Any time.’
Most of the questions they were about to ask had already been asked by the detectives from South. Now that the charge was going to be murder, they needed to be asked again.
Zach held up a set of keys. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
He took a laptop out of his shoulder bag, opened it, put it on the roof of Byrne’s car. He pointed to the boarded-up window facing Stillman Street.
‘According to the surveillance video shot by the pole cam on the corner, the suspect walked east on Webster Street at approximately 9.21 p.m.’
Zach played the surveillance video. On the screen, made a glowing green by the low light level, they could see a man walking toward the crime scene building. It would not stand alone as evidence in court, but it was a man they knew to be Danny Farren. When he was arrested two days later, the clothing he wore on the video – a gray leather jacket and dark flannel slacks – was taken as evidence.
On the recording, Danny Farren disappeared from view at the left side of the frame.
For the next five minutes the only movement on the video was the occasional car moving up or down the street.
At the 9.26 mark, Farren re-entered the frame, walking away from the building.
At 9.28, the camera shook violently, just as a blinding flash filled the frame. Glass was blown into the street, and what appeared to be a cloud of gypsum rained down. Smoke billowed.
When the smoke began to clear, the street and sidewalk could be seen to be covered in small shards of glass. A few minutes later, a handful of residents began to gather on the opposite side of the street. Nearly all had their cell phone cameras out.
At the 9.46 mark, a PFD ladder truck arrived on scene.
‘Can we see that again?’ Jessica asked.
‘Sure.’
Zach tapped a few keys. The video restarted.
Jessica looked closely as Danny Farren entered the frame. The image was grainy, but he seemed to be holding something in his left hand. It appeared to be a rolled-up newspaper. Perhaps a magazine.
‘Can we stop it right there?’ Jessica asked.
Zach did.
Jessica tapped the screen. Specifically, Danny Farren’s left hand.
‘Is that consistent with the size and shape of the device used here?’ she asked. It looked as if Farren had his hand wrapped around the object, as opposed to carrying it like a bag.
‘I’ve watched this a few times during the investigation by South detectives, and afterwards, in anticipation of testifying at trial,’ Zach said. ‘Obviously it’s not the clearest picture, but I would have to say it is consistent.’
‘Can we move forward to where he walks back in frame?’
‘Sure.’ Zach moved the scrubber bar a bit to the right. When Farren entered the frame on the left, seconds before the explosion, he tapped a key to make the recording enter slow motion. With this type of surveillance footage, there was no smooth slow motion. Instead it was a series of still shots. With Farren dead center in the frame, Zach hit pause.
Jessica looked closely. It was impossible to tell if Farren still had the object in his left hand, as it was shielded by his body. It did not appear that he swung his arms much, so his left hand did not enter the frame.
‘Can anyone see if he still has something in his hand?’
Both Byrne and Zach admitted that it was impossible to tell.
Jessica knew that as an investigating police officer, it would have been enough to bring Farren in, and probably charge him. In a court of law, it would be a tough sell. It was a dilemma she was facing more and more as an ADA.
Zach let the video play. Once again, the force of the blast made Jessica wince. She’d been around firearms her whole life, had gone to a range with her father since she was ten, and had a healthy respect for weapons, but no fear.
Explosive ordnance was another matter.
When the smoke cleared, she realized that it was not only glass that was glistening on the sidewalk. According to the report, and the weather report for that night, there had been a slight drizzle on and off.
‘Let’s say that is a rolled-up newspaper or magazine in his hand,’ she said. ‘Was the device used the kind that needed to be kept dry?’
‘With the type of fuse that was used, the drier the better.’
‘And would a newspaper or magazine be enough to keep it shielded from the rain?’
‘Definitely.’
Jessica took the information in. She was beginning to formulate a case. She made a mental note to talk to the detectives who’d arrested Farren, and see if there was an inventory of items found in his car.
If there was a magazine or newspaper in there, dated the day of the bombing or before, they would process it for trace evidence to connect it to the bomb.
‘Can you walk us through the scene?’ Byrne asked.
‘Let’s do it.’
Zach closed the laptop, returned it to his shoulder bag. He took out a ring of keys, found the one he was looking for, slipped it into the padlock of the temporary door on the front of the store.
He unlocked the door, propped it open.
The first thing Jessica noticed was the smell of burned wood and plastic. Beneath it all was the smell of sulfur.
Zach crossed the room to a battery-powered halogen lamp, flicked it on. The room was instantly aglow with a bright white light.
