Tungsten orange from the streetlamps filtered through the partially drawn blinds at Connor’s back. The glint of light picked out the copper in his hair. The halo glow did nothing to compliment the flush on his face.
“Larkin,” Doyle tried, his voice steady. He was seated in the second chair beside the one Larkin had shot out of. He reached a hand out, saying, “Sit down.”
“What it is,” Connor corrected, his voice overpowering Larkin’s in a way that suggested he’d spoken from his diaphragm his entire career, “is a slam dunk. One cold case ends up closing four—”
“We don’t even know who those women are. Their names were obviously—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Grim,” Connor snapped. “You arrested Gorman’s murderer in less than forty-eight hours and it won’t even need to go to court. The DA’s gonna throw you a ticker-tape parade.”
“No,” Larkin said, shaking his head. “No, no,no. Ricky didn’t do this.”
“He says he did,” Connor countered. “Video surveillance of that interview has him answering you point-blank. We can pin those women on him—”
Larkin interrupted a second time. “Duping delight is a unique expression of contempt and excitement. It’s a literal high the person gets when they think their lie has been believed. The energy they get from the experience can’t be contained, so it leaks out in tiny flashes of emotion.”
“I’m not letting that shitbag go because he gave you a goddamn crooked smile.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Larkin agreed. “He shot Jessica Lopez. But none of those women in the Polaroids were shot, and neither was Andrew.”
“He had photographs of the victims,” Connor argued. “Photographsyoufound.”
“They’re trophies,” Larkin said. “But not in the way you think. Ricky has hybristophilia. He’s obsessed with, perhaps even sexually aroused by, the individual who committed these crimes. And I think Ricky has successfully established a relationship with this person. Those photographs were given to him, like a gift. He was living in a dumpster, but he made sure those photographs were safe and secure in a place he could be sure to find them. They meant something to him.”
“Meant something because he fucking took them, Grim.”
Larkin was almost shouting. “He didn’t know how those women were killed. He was guessing.Fishing.”
Doyle stood, took a quick sidestep to block Connor, who was seated at his desk, and, looking down at Larkin, said calmly, “Please sit.”
Larkin scrubbed his face while letting out awhooshof air.
Doyle hovered his hand just below Larkin’s elbow, directing him without actually touching him into the chair he’d abandoned. Once Doyle had returned to his own seat, he picked up Larkin’s train of thought without delay. “The photographs of the three unknown victims don’t show any evidence of a gunshot. Thereisa great deal of post-mortem bruising around the neck, however, which would have been the same for Andrew. Plus, Ricky’s clearly a hoarder.”
“Clearly,” Connor echoed. His face was still tight with agitation.
“But specifically of newspapers and magazines,” Doyle continued. “Hoarders view their items not as junk, but as a prized collection. And two of those masks were made of papier-mâché.”
“What’s your point?” Connor asked.
“I think it would have been… extremely difficult, if not impossible, for Ricky to destroy something he loved—newspapers—to make those. The thing about hybristophilia is that they get to live vicariously through the killer, right, Larkin?”
Larkin was well aware that Doyle knew the answer. Even if he hadn’t known the psychology prior to their conversation while at Ricky’s apartment, Doyle certainly hadn’t forgotten Larkin’s explanation over the course of a few hours. But it was clear, now that the tension in the room was dissipating, that Doyle was asking a question as a means of returning control to Larkin. He was, after all, the senior detective on the case and the one whose disgruntled lieutenant sat before them.
On a quiet exhale, Larkin said, “The intimacy of the relationship between Ricky and this unknown perpetrator allows him to experience the violence he craves but cannot see to fruition himself. As for the papier-mâché, I do believe these were early attempts at constructing a death mask. Ricky might not be aware that those attempts have since escalated to cast iron. He sees those paper ones and can’t replicate them because he can’t bear to part with anything in his collection. And anyway, he doesn’t need to, because he has those gifted Polaroids to look at.”
“Why shoot Jessica Lopez, then?” Connor asked. “If he can’t handle the violence?”
“I should have saidbrutality,” Larkin corrected. “Depravity. I do believe Ricky has the capacity to be violent—in fact, we saw that today. But it’s violence from a distance. He shot her. He wasn’t up close and personal with a blunt object, like what transpired with Andrew.”
Connor leaned back, the chair creaking as he adjusted his weight. He rolled a fountain pen back and forth across the desktop, never breaking eye contact with Larkin. He was anything but happy when he asked, “You say those three women and Andrew Gorman are all connected to the same perp?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Those names Ricky gave you, of the women,” Connor continued. “They’re all stage names—you’re aware of that, right?”
“More likely street names,” Larkin corrected.
“My point is,” Connor growled, “I understand the mask connection—I see it—but why go after three, if not more, who knows, sex workers, then take out a gay college boy? Maybe Ricky did help in the killings, since one hardly matches the majority.”
