Doyle didn’t question him, shifting in his seat to retrieve the discreet, daily container from his pocket and dropping one pill into Larkin’s palm.
Larkin dry-swallowed the Xanax and then got out of the car. He stepped between bumpers, swiped his keys from Doyle’s hand, and led the way across the street toward the five-story high school with a façade reminiscent of medieval castles, like its architect had had an identity crisis during the design phase. Larkin pulled open the bright red front door and was promptly stopped by a uniformed school safety agent.
“Can I help you, sir?” the woman asked, standing from her desk and moving to intercept Larkin’s path. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, slick bun.
Larkin reached for his wallet and displayed his shield. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.” He glanced over his shoulder as Doyle entered. “My partner, Ira Doyle. We have an appointment with Principal Widalski.”
The safety agent looked at Doyle, waited until he’d flashed his own badge, then returned to the desk and made a call. “Yes, I have two detectives at the front who’re here to meet with Principal Widalski? Okay, thank you.” She hung up, grabbed a clipboard, and slid it sideways along the countertop above the desk. “She’s on her way. Please sign in here.”
Larkin scribbled his name, passed Doyle the pen, and couldn’t help but notice how chaotic his penmanship looked in contrast to Doyle’s—his signature practically artwork.
“Are either of you gentlemen armed?”
Larkin looked up from the form. “Yes.” He drew back the right side of his suit coat to reveal the holstered SIG.
The agent nodded. “Keep the safeties on and firearms holstered for the entirety of your appointment.”
“Is that really a necessary warning,” Larkin asked.
She let out an unprofessional snort and said, “Sir, I’ve been workin’ here a long time. You aren’t the first cops to come through those doors. Some of ’em think they got something to prove, if you get my meaning.”
“We do,” Doyle confirmed. “In fact, I think we work with those guys.”
She cracked a smile.
“There’s a study that was recently published concerning the Male Warrior Hypothesis,” Larkin interjected. “It breaks down the correlation between testosterone and intergroup competition among men and how that particular form of aggression, in fact, promotes a certain type of cooperation against outsiders. It also demonstrates that body musculature plays a critical factor in the amount of aggression presented. For example, two groups with similar abilities will present a higher level of formidability, such as rival sports teams who are on par with each other will present a higher likelihood of violence while on the field. It’s an interesting study when viewed against the complexity of today’s society as a possible explanation for why men still behave like children at their places of employment.”
“In case you wanted a more scientific explanation,” Doyle added when the safety agent stared at Larkin like he’d grown a second head.
“Thank you” was all she said.
“Detective Doyle, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” a woman said, approaching quickly on heels, theirclick-clackreverberating loudly on the high-traffic tiles. She was a robust, middle-aged black woman in a sharp pantsuit, bright purple top, matching colored glasses, with box braids pulled into a beautiful high bun, and a lanyard around her neck with school ID and keys. “I’m Nichole Widalski, principal of PS 51.”
Doyle moved around Larkin, close enough that Larkin got a breath of neroli and sandalwood and cardamon. He shook hands with Widalski and made the necessary, polite small talk, before turning to Larkin as a means of inviting him into the conversation.
Larkin offered Widalski a hand. “Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad. Thank you for taking time to speak with us, ma’am. Regarding Mr. Reynold,” he prompted.
Widalski appeared to not be bothered by Larkin’s bluntness as she motioned them to follow, taking the lead as they turned down a long, empty hall lined with red lockers on the left and closed classroom doors on the right, the fluorescent lights gleaming off the tile floor. They must have been relatively close to the cafeteria, because Larkin could smell remnants of the day’s menu—chicken nuggets and what he thought might have been boiled cauliflower. It mingled with rubber erasers, bleach, and the permanent cloud of young adult odor and store-brand body sprays that were all chemical aggression and no subtleness.
“As I said to Detective Doyle on the phone,” Widalski began, “Mr. Reynold is an institution here at PS 51. He’s been teaching English since 1995. Well before my time. I’m not sure if he’ll remember Marco Garcia—by law we only maintain student records for twenty years—and of course he’s had thousands of students in that time.”
“Of course,” Doyle echoed with the perfect amount of sympathy.
Widalski looked over her shoulder at them both and added, “I went ahead and told him you’d be stopping by, just so he’d have a chance to jog his memory.”
They took a flight of stairs at the end of the hall to the second floor.
At the landing, Widalski lingered long enough to ask, “This boy was murdered in the ’90s?”
“1997,” Larkin answered. “By the time a homicide reaches my desk, all avenues of investigation have been exhausted.”
“And you’re expected to solve what other cops couldn’t?” Widalski questioned.
“I’m very good,” Larkin clarified.
Widalski’s dubious expression shifted to Doyle. “You said you’re with Forensics, though, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, the Forensic Artists Unit,” Doyle said.
