Larkin studied Doyle’s dark eyes and said, “That’s true.” He returned his attention to the screen, downloaded an attachment from L. Baxter, MD, and clicked Print. “Marco went to PS 51. Fourth period, World Literature with Mr. Reynold.”
“How do you know that?” Doyle called as Larkin walked toward the printer along the wall in between Connor’s office and an interview room.
Larkin answered, while collecting the paperwork spitting out at lightning speed, “Marco properly labeled his reports.”
“All right. We’ve got Camila Garcia and Mr. Reynold, so far. Is Dad still in the picture?”
“Dead since 1985,” Larkin said upon returning to his desk.
“And what about that youth center?” Doyle continued as he made notations on his pad. “When did it close?”
“Shortly after 2007, I believe. It was a nonprofit that Camila said didn’t survive the recession. A subpoena to the Secretary of State’s office ought to get us the records we need.”
“One of the officers of the nonprofit might remember Marco,” Doyle suggested. “Or could at least refer us to other mentors and instructors he worked with.”
“And it would be wise to ask the officers if they recognize either Jannie or Johnny as kids once enrolled in their program,” Larkin concluded before raising the still-warm papers. “I’m going to read the autopsy report for John Doe. No, don’t worry, you can sit there.” Larkin moved around the computer chair and unbuttoned his suit coat with one hand while dropping into the molded plastic chair.
“Mind if I take point on Mr. Reynold, then?” Doyle asked.
“9-1 to dial out,” Larkin answered. He crossed his legs and settled into the account.
John Doe had been found wearing a pair of Dickies black slacks, white undershirt, and white athletic socks. He wore no shoes, but the balls and heels of his socks showed no signs that he’d been walking on unclean surfaces. No jewelry, wallet, or identification was found on his person, only the aforementioned business card for St. Jude’s Mission and the photograph addressed to Larkin.
John Doe was white, between fifty and sixty years of age, five foot ten inches, and 180 pounds at the time of autopsy. It was noted that he had physical wear and tear in his lumbar region and both rotator cuffs, indicative of years of manual labor and not a high intensity sport. Varicose veins in his lower legs suggested a job in which he was on his feet for most of, if not all day. Based on how blood had settled postmortem, Dr. Baxter’s professional opinion was that the body had not been moved from one scene to another, and that John Doe had likely been killed in or near the utility room and immediately put into the bag. The cause, however, was more interesting.
Asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.
Not only did the good doctor confirm that John Doe’s hyoid bone had been broken, but due to how the body had been contorted and stuffed into the IKEA tote bag, his shoulder had partially protected the side of his neck from insect activity. Dr. Baxter had discovered a large pattern in the skin measuring two inches in height. The design had repetitive rounded shapes with points that had left small punctures in the flesh. It was a curious outline Larkin hadn’t seen before.
“John Doe was strangled,” Larkin said, not looking up. “Dr. Baxter confirms that the pattern and dimensions are unlike typical weapons, for example, scarves, rope, wire, chain, or a strip of leather.” Larkin studied the second page before adding, “His left shoulder was also dislocated postmortem. Could have been caused by forcing him into the bag…. He was found only wearing slacks, an undershirt, and socks.”
“Sounds like he was undressed,” Doyle answered as he was busily typing and clicking at the computer. “The perp yanks John Doe’s arm back to pull a shirt sleeve off and pops the shoulder.”
“I agree,” Larkin said. “His clothing likely had some sort of company brand or logo that’d have otherwise made him more easily identifiable. It also appears that due to the state of decomposition, Dr. Baxter was unable to collect fingerprints and so had to utilize thanatopractical processing. That’s interesting.”
Doyle sighed before saying, “I know I’m going to regret asking what thanato-whatever processing is.”
“Thanatopractical. It’s a process which involves extracting fluids from the body’s tissues, allowing the volume to return to antemortem tenseness. It yields a seventy-five percent accuracy rate with fingerprints applicable for AFIS entry.”
“Gross.”
“He sent the prints in to be run. Results are pending.” Larkin set the report aside, stood, and leaned over the keyboard as Doyle scooted back to make space. He minimized the Google results Doyle had been searching, checked his inbox again, and this time, downloaded and printed a report from Detective Millett.
Doyle, meanwhile, had punched in a number on the desk phone, and receiver to ear, said, “First one to get a lead drives.”
“Are you making a bet during a homicide investigation.”
“It’s only driving.”
“No one drives the Audi but me.”
“I’ve driven it,” Doyle corrected.
“Extenuating circumstances,” Larkin said in a clipped tone.
“Afraid you’ll lose?”
“I’m not going to lose—”
