“When I’m asked to resume active duty fifteen hours earlier than what is explicitly noted by my surgeon on the physician’s release form and called to the scene of a homicide, I don’t expect the presence of a Crime Scene detective to bring particularly favorable conditions,” Larkin answered in his usual modulated tone.
The second man, who had been crouched on his haunches beside the IKEA bag during the verbal ping-pong, rose. He was shorter than Millett, but other than his height and the general impression of a slim build, any defining characteristics were hidden by the bodysuit and mask. “Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad,” the man echoed, his voice not particularly deep, but smooth, laid-back—a sense of well-placed confidence without an overt suggestion of egotism. “If I’d known you’d be here, I’d have worn my fancy respirator.” He looked down at Millett, who was labeling the container of maggots suspended in a clear solution, and asked, “Did I tell you about the time he called my office, picked a fight with Joyce, then asked me on a date in return for making him a skull casting?”
At that comment, Millett raised his head.
“Dr. Baxter,” Larkin said, addressing the medical examiner who, prior to this moment, he’d only had the briefest of encounters with over the phone. “Pleasure to meet you in person. That’s not what happened.”
“That’s what I remember.”
“No. Your mortuary technician wasn’t versed in the methodology of facial reconstruction, nor the authority and responsibilities of the OCME, which specifically notes in its mission statement: investigating all deaths of persons in New York City, which includes in any unusual or suspicious manner. My victim was found buried in a crate in Madison Square Park, and while I don’t like assigning labels to the crimes I investigate, the death of Andrew Gorman qualified as both unusual and suspicious. In conclusion, I did not ‘pick a fight’ with that woman. I merely reminded her of her civic duties.”
“And was the offer of a date part ofyourcivic duties?” Baxter countered rather coyly.
“There was no offer of a date,” Larkin corrected. “Merely a poorly worded compliment I’ve regretted since that day.”
Millett rose, and while pointing his pen at the good doctor, said, “He’s messing with you, Larkin.”
“I’m not messing with him. I’mflirtingwith him, thank you.”
“Dipshits—” O’Halloran tried.
Millett raised a gloved hand and began counting points on his fingers, addressing Baxter. “One, no flirting in the general vicinity of dead bodies.”
“Have you forgotten what I do for a living?”
“Two, if you’re wearing a respirator, it’s too much PPE for flirting.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Three, and I feel like I remind you of this one weekly, don’t flirt with married men.”
“Oh, he’s not married,” Baxter said, looking toward Larkin.
Larkin frowned from behind his own mask and slid both hands into his trouser pockets.
“See?” Baxter looked up at Millett and snapped his fingers, the latex cracking loudly. “Keep up, Neil—you work in evidence collection.”
A moment passed before Millett looked at Larkin, said, “Dr. Baxter is single, if you’re looking,” then bent down and busied himself with his kit.
“Shut the fuck up,” O’Halloran barked. “Holy Mary, Mother of Christ, what’re the odds of me ending up in a room with you homos?”
“One in eleven,” Larkin said in a monotone, although he’d been studying the IKEA bag as he spoke. Turning his reaper-gray eyes back on O’Halloran, Larkin’s stare bore into the Homicide detective as he continued. “The population of New York City is just over eight million, of which nine percent openly identify as LGBT. Therefore, you have a one-in-eleven chance of being in a room with us. Of course, ratios do vary the more we break down the acronym, but that’s not really the point here, seeing as your comment was meant to imply something negative about the competent and professional company you’re currently in the presence of. I suggest therapy as a means of addressing your homophobia, as a team of Australian scientists recently conducted a study on the correlation between prejudice against same-sex couples and low cognitive ability. The results did indeed indicate a distinct parallel, with emphasis on this pattern being even more pronounced for verbal ability measures, which is a very scientific way of saying you sound like an idiot and an asshole when you speak.”
For a singular second, the subway was silent. There was no screech of trains rolling through the station, no echo of voices from outside the utility room, not even the shift of the PPE bodysuits whispering on the stale air.
And then Baxter let out a long sigh, asking in a dreamy voice, “Are you available, Larkin? Like, emotionally?”
“No.”
“Such a shame.” Baxter met Millett’swhat gives?hand gesture and laughed, “What?”
O’Halloran, whose usual ruddy complexion was well on its way to turning the color of pinot noir, pointed a finger at Larkin. “Listen to me, you sonofa—”
“I have thirty-seven open cases, O’Halloran. I don’t intend on adding this one to my stack until it falls within the purview of my job description—namely, when detectives have exhausted all investigative leads.”
O’Halloran squared his shoulders and barked, “Show Grim the goddamn photo.”
Larkin’s gaze cut toward Millett, and he watched the CSU detective begrudgingly acknowledge the demand by retrieving a clear plastic bag, standing, and holding it out. Larkin accepted it and studied the contents: a 4x6 photograph, like something cheaply and hastily developed at any drugstore photo lab across America throughout the ’80s and ’90s. The snapshot was vertical, of what appeared to be a teenage girl slouched—asleep, drunk, or stoned, it was difficult to say—on one of the infamous oak benches scattered throughout the platforms of the subway system. The white tile wall behind her offered no suggestion as to her location, other than one of the underground stations, and any other details to be gleaned wouldn’t be possible in the photo’s current state, as it was heavily smeared and discolored with human fluids.
