Date: August 8–9, 2005
Location: Seattle
On August 8, 2005, Seattle basked in a warm 75°F, a gentle breeze carrying the briny scent of Puget Sound into Downtown. Glass skyscrapers gleamed under the sunlight, while historic buildings stood as silent keepers, blending into the rhythm of daily life. The Seattle Public Library on 4th Avenue remained an architectural marvel, its glass walls and geometric design by Rem Koolhaas drawing researchers and tourists. But caution was necessary—the Seattle Police Department reported 250 pickpocketing incidents in the area that year, keeping visitors on guard.
James Crowe sat in the 5th-floor reading room of the library, surrounded by a meticulous spread of documents, arranged like chess pieces before a decisive move. The 38-year-old private detective’s workspace was a study in organized chaos: a notebook filled with scribbled notes, a red marker for highlighting, and an empty coffee cup, its rim smudged with fingerprints. A pack of cookies sat nearby, down to its last few, a crumpled wrapper evidence of the hours he’d spent. The reading room hummed softly—20-year-old students in jeans flipped through textbooks, a 60-year-old researcher in a tweed jacket pored over newspapers, and a 25-year-old woman in headphones bobbed to music, occasionally glancing at Crowe with curiosity.
Sarah Wilson, the 45-year-old librarian, approached with a box labeled “Paris, 1900s,” her dark hair in a neat ponytail, her thin-framed glasses askew. “Mr. Crowe, this is your ninth day in a row,” she said, her voice soft but concerned. “Do you ever sleep? And you’ve left crumbs again.”
Crowe looked up, pale but energized, grinning as he brushed the crumbs aside. “Sorry, Sarah, I got carried away. Cookies are my secret ingredient for cracking mysteries. I’ll sleep when I’ve solved the case.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re hopeless. But if you need more coffee, I can grab some.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Crowe said with a wink.
Sarah shook her head and walked away, leaving Crowe to dive into the records. He untied the box and examined Paris police reports from the 1900s. After his meeting with Eliza, Crowe understood the Family’s genetic planning—selecting gifted children for marriages. Now, he wanted to uncover how they raised these children to become perfect operatives. A 1905 document detailed the “Brotherhood of Starlight” in Paris, describing an estate on the city’s outskirts, home to a “temporary family” raising five adopted children, aged 6 to 14. Neighbors thought them aristocrats, but 50-year-old gardener Jacques Leblanc, who worked there, noticed oddities: the children were never unsupervised, and though they left with backpacks as if for school, they went to a neighboring estate, taught by 40-year-old Henri Dupont, described as “cold and overly intelligent.” The 1905 investigators dismissed Jacques’ testimony, but Crowe saw evidence of the Family’s “school.”
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Using his “360 Method,” Crowe reconstructed the scene in 1905 Paris. He pictured the estate—a gray-stone building surrounded by a garden of roses and oaks, the air fragrant with cut grass. In the garden, five children played: 6-year-old Marie with pigtails, 8-year-old Pierre with freckles, 10-year-old Sophie with blue eyes, 12-year-old Jean with a serious expression, and 14-year-old Louis with an athletic build. Watching them was 35-year-old Claire, the “mother,” her gaze stern. Each day, the children went to the neighboring estate, where Henri Dupont awaited in a “classroom”—a spacious room with wooden desks, a chalkboard, and bookshelves.
Crowe focused on overlooked details: Henri, a “mind specialist,” used “special methods” to teach “creativity,” “analytics,” “social adaptation,” “linguistic influence,” and “survival.” The Brotherhood also instilled a “religion” of the “Starlight,” a mystical force guiding the family to greatness, ensuring loyalty by making the children feel “chosen.” This belief system kept them committed, even through rebellious teenage years. Crowe realized the Family’s methods were designed to craft versatile operatives, tailored to their plans.
“Well, looks like I just found their ‘school,’” Crowe muttered with a self-deprecating smirk, sipping his now-cold coffee. “They’re not just criminals—they’re pedagogical geniuses.”
Kyle, the 30-year-old with dreadlocks, entered the reading room, holding a book on Paris history. “Still here, detective?” he asked warmly. “You look like you’ve dug up something intriguing.”
“Let’s just say I figured out how this organization raises its children,” Crowe replied with a faint smile. “Want to hear about their ‘school’?”
Kyle sat across from him, eyes lighting up. “Absolutely—that sounds like a movie plot.”
Crowe gave a concise rundown, showing Kyle the report and notes. Kyle shook his head in awe. “That’s incredible. But if they’re that good at training kids, doesn’t that mean some of them could be among us?”
“That’s exactly what I want to find out,” Crowe replied, his tone grave. “But first, I need to understand their methods. I’ll start with their approach to creativity—it seems like the key to their success.”
In 2005, Seattle thrived: the Bumbershoot Festival loomed, and Modest Mouse gained popularity with Good News for People Who Love Bad News. But for Crowe, those were background notes—more mysteries awaited.
