Doyle returned to scrolling on his phone.
Seven years. That was how long Larkin and Noah had known each other. And it had been good in the beginning. Like waking from a restless sleep and getting an overdose injection of serotonin and dopamine. The effect had been immediate and intense, and Larkin should have known to slow down, to be careful, because he was damaged goods and most people weren’t in the market for those bruised apples at the bottom of the produce display. But the love had felt so good. And Noah had said he understood. He’d listened, sympathized with Larkin when no one else had.
Until he hadn’t.
Larkin had warned Noah that he couldn’t change. It wasn’t a matter of enough therapy or a cocktail of medications—his brain had completely rewired itself after August 2, 2002, and who he was now… this was it. Larkin knew the way he spoke was frustrating, sometimes rude, and he did his best to maintain a moderated and subdued presence, albeit he still came off as intense when in public, but Noah had promised him he didn’t have to hide his…quirksat home.
He’dpromised.
But now Noah was always angry, always offended, always lashing out, and Larkin was shrinking, collapsing back into that exhaustive blackness he’d been in the decade following the incident, hinging his ability to drag himself out of bed on doses of anxiety pills and sleeping aids and—Noah hadn’t known. Didn’t realize. Didn’t care.
Larkin thought of the Xanax downstairs in the Audi. He could excuse himself for a minute. Hell, if he ran, he could retrieve a dose and be back in forty-five—forty seconds. Just one. He’d still be focused enough to interrogate Ricky.
Doyle tugged lightly on the hair tie around Larkin’s wrist. He hadn’t looked up from his phone as he motioned Larkin to join him against the wall.
Just one, Larkin thought again, but he took a few steps and reluctantly stood beside Doyle. He scrubbed his face hard with both hands, and when he let out a breath, it was shaky.
Doyle had been clutching an evidence bag between his arm and torso. He removed it, studied the back side of the three photographs they’d taken from the hiding spot under Ricky’s couch, looked at his phone once more, then said, “If I’m understanding this correctly, one of the papier-mâché masks was taken on film manufactured in September of 1991. The second, as well as the plaster mask, were both manufactured in March of 1992.”
“That doesn’t mean the photograph was taken then.”
“Only that the film was manufactured and for sale,” Doyle confirmed.
Larkin took the evidence bag and studied the photographs with the professional detachment that made his job possible. “How long does Polaroid film last.”
“Hmm… it’s best to use most films within twelve months.”
“Well before Andrew’s murder, then,” Larkin murmured. He drew the pad of his thumb back and forth across one of the papier-mâché photos.
“What’re you thinking?”
Larkin said, “Children love penguins. Every year, Noah has a penguin week in class. They take a field trip to Central Park Zoo, watch some kid-friendly documentary, he reads themAnd Tango Makes Three, and they make papier-mâché penguins. The week before, I’m usually up all night helping him fill a trash bag with strips of newspaper. You have to prepare certain steps, of course—otherwise six- and seven-year-olds will never finish the project. But it’s a fairly simple craft.”
Doyle had pocketed his phone, crossed one arm over his middle, and seemingly unaware of it, was chewing on his thumbnail.
Larkin suppressed a smile at the return of Doyle’s fidgeting. “Plaster of Paris is beyond first graders.”
“It’s a bit more nuanced,” Doyle agreed. He met Larkin’s eyes. “The killer was experimenting with their signature?”
“It reads to me as a clear progression in artistic knowledge.”
Doyle hastily removed the notepad from his suit coat. He flipped to a blank page, turned it sideways, then drew a line across the length of the paper. “Papier-mâché in ’91. Again in ’92, followed by plaster of Paris. And then there’s Andrew with cast iron in ’98.”
“Clear escalation in both the perpetrator’s desire to commit murder, and the skill surrounding his ritual with the body.”
Doyle scribbled notes underneath the basic timeline. “Our questions would be: why does Ricky have these photographs, which are clearly souvenirs. Because you don’t think—”
“Ricky is the Bonnie to the unknown perpetrator’s Clyde,” Larkin said with finality.
“Who is Clyde, then?”
Larkin finally smiled. “Arguably our most important question.”
“Are there more than three victims?”
“Yes,” Larkin agreed.
“Why three women and then a man?”
