“I’m sure the FBI has software that could give you an upgraded image,” said Kyle apologetically. “I’ve pushed this program about as far as I can without producing a picture that’s essentially fictional.”

“What you’ve given me is a lot better than what I started with. Let’s take a look at the street scene.”

Kyle closed a few windows, opened a new one, and hit a play icon. Starting with a subject much closer to the camera, filling a larger portion of the frame to begin with, the enlargement in this instance was clearer and more detailed. The likely killer of Mary Spalter, Carl Spalter, Gus Gurikos, and Lex Bincher came walking along Axton Avenue and entered the apartment building. Gurney wished the little man had left more of his face uncovered. But, of course, the obscuration had been intentional.

Apparently Kyle was thinking along the same lines. “Didn’t give us much for a Wanted poster, did he?”

“Not much for a Wanted poster and not much for a facial recognition program either.”

“Because his eyes are hidden by the huge sunglasses?”

“Right. The shape of the eyes, position of the pupils, corners of the eyes. The scarf hides the jawline and the tip of the chin. The headband hides the ears and the position of the hairline. There’s nothing left for the measurement algorithms to work with.”

“Still, if I saw it again, I think I could recognize that face—just by the mouth.”

Gurney nodded. “The mouth, and what I can see of the nose.”

“Yeah, that too. He looks like a fucking little bird—excuse my language.”

They sat back in their chairs and gazed at the screen. At the half-hidden face of one of the world’s strangest killers. Petros Panikos. Peter Pan. The Magician.

And, of course, there was Donny Angel’s final description of him: “very fucking crazy.”

Chapter 45

Out of Harm’s Way

“So what do you think?” Kyle, a questioning look on his face, was holding a mug of hot black coffee in both hands, elbows propped on the breakfast table.

“What do I think about the videos?” Gurney sat on the other side of the round pine table, holding his own mug in a similar way, appreciating the warmth on his palms. The temperature had dropped nearly twenty degrees overnight, from the low seventies to the low fifties, not an unusual thing in the northwestern Catskills, where autumn often arrived in August. The sky was overcast, hiding the sun, which normally would be visible above the eastern ridge at that time—a quarter past seven.

“Do you think they’ll help you achieve … what you want to achieve?”