Larkin swallowed, took a deep breath, then regretted it as the stink of the apartment left an aftertaste in his mouth. “Certainly seems to be the case.” He put on a pair of mental blinders, forced himself to not study the studio as a whole but in sections, and then one particular area of filth within that to analyze. Because if he raised his head, saw the walls closing in, and automatically began cataloguing every single object in the home of a disturbed man—not because of the junk, but the violence perpetrated—Larkin was going to snap.
He moved to a stack of yellowed newspapers beside an ancient and blocky RCA television that probably weighed half as much as him. Larkin picked up the paper on top, pages so old, the corners crumbled like dust. He checked the headlines of the next paper, then the next. “David Berkowitz.”
“What about him?” Doyle asked before the sound of a cupboard opening followed.
“These newspapers. They’re from the ’70s. It’s the entire timeline of the manhunt for Son of Sam. Ricky has the papers with the police composite sketch of Berkowitz too.”
“Thanks for the nightmare fuel.”
Larkin moved to a smaller pile, the papers looking a touch more recent, if the coloring and curling of the edges was anything to judge by. “Joel Rifkin.”
Doyle opened the fridge, made a sound of disgust, then slammed the door shut. “Rifkin… the guy who murdered sex workers in the ’80s and ’90s?”
“Yes.” After some more digging through headlines, Larkin sighed and said, “LISK.”
“They haven’t caught LISK yet,” Doyle answered. Larkin was able to follow his movement through the studio by the shift in his voice and crunch underfoot.
“Is Ricky a goddamn serial killer?” Bosman asked from the doorway.
“No,” Larkin said without looking up. “Ricky is a groupie. It’s more common in women. Have you heard of Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome, Bosman.”
“Like the robbers?”
“Yes, like the robbers,” Larkin replied with a touch of irritation. “It’s the act of being aroused by a partner who commits violent crimes. Bonnie died alongside Clyde in a shootout with the police because she wouldn’t leave his side. It’s slang for hybristophilia, which is a psychological condition caused by a number of factors still being studied today. The common thread is that of an individual who is infatuated with a killer. They follow the killer’s story in the paper or attend court hearings, write fan letters, love letters, meet them in prison, some even marry the killer.”
“You want me to ask Ricky if he thinks he and LISK are in a committed relationship?” Bosman asked dryly.
Larkin finally raised his head and stared at Bosman in the doorway until he averted his gaze elsewhere. “My concern is that, in rare instances, those who exhibit groupie tendencies will start a relationship with the perpetrator in order to learn intimate details of the committed acts. It’s a way to vicariously experience the crime without having to spill the blood themselves.” Then Larkin pushed the coffee table aside, got down on his knees, and looked under the couch.
“I’ve yet to see a single connection between all this,” Bosman said, and he was probably gesturing at the room, “and your cold case.”
Doyle blew out a breath that had a hint of attitude, but said in his smooth politeness, “Larkin is suggesting that Ricky might have attacked Jessica today based on some firsthand knowledge he could have gleaned from a relationship with Andrew’s killer. Ricky might have been reenacting past murders—might have viewed Jessica as a match to previous victims. We’re not suggesting that Ricky killed Andrew twenty years—”
“Twenty-two,” Larkin corrected, his voice muffled. He’d squirmed halfway under the couch and was using his phone’s flashlight to study the underside of the furniture.
“Larkin, what the hell are you doing?” Doyle asked.
“You think,” Bosman interjected, “Ricky knows Andrew’s killer? Has a relationship with him?”
“Ricky sure has proven he’s open to being besties with a serial killer,” Doyle answered.
“But what’re you going to do, trawl every unsolved murder involving women with a box dye job?”
“Thank God we’ve got a Cold Case detective, hmm?” Doyle had tapped the sole of Larkin’s wingtip with the toe of his own in emphasis. “Larkin, I swear to God, I need a shower watching you wriggle around on this floor.”
“Just a moment,” Larkin answered.
“It sounds like a hell of a stretch,” Bosman said. The wood groaned as he shifted his weight in the doorway.
“We have evidence that suggests Andrew knew his killer,” Doyle said. “I think the truth lies a lot closer to home than suspected.”
“I don’t buy it.”
Larkin reached his hands out from the couch, pushed himself clear, then took Doyle’s outstretched hand and was yanked to his feet like he weighed nothing. Larkin brushed the front of his suit coat while saying, “Whether Andrew was intentionally selected or his death was collateral, Doyle is correct—this case has a great deal more happening under the surface, and this building, Andrew’s relationship with Jessica, withRicky, are all vital clues.”
“Per the FBI,” Bosman said, like a man who’d once skimmed an article and was since desperate to show off that knowledge, “these days, most serial killers don’t have a relationship with their victims.”
“That’s correct,” Larkin answered. Then he held up a few Polaroids that were bent and weathered, directing his attention to Doyle. “But Andrew Gorman’s death mask says otherwise.”
