“It was in John Doe’s pocket,” Millett said before adding, “look at the back.”
Larkin turned the bag around. Written across the back of the photograph in a shaky and slanted hand wasDeliver me to Detective Larkin!
Larkin looked up.
O’Halloran gave him a mocking salute, said, “Mazel tov, motherfucker,” and walked out of the utility room.
“You know,” Millett stated after O’Halloran had departed, “there’s a forensic document examiner at the lab in Queens—”
“Blue ballpoint pen,” Larkin interrupted, studying the message again. “Cheap, disposable, probably Bic, which is the world’s most popular pen brand, selling an average of fifty-seven units a second. So, untraceable. The handwriting itself is disguised, below the individual’s baseline skill level.” He studied the evidence for one, two, three more seconds, before concluding, “Right-handed, but they switched as a means of concealment.” Larkin raised his head.
Millett’s expression around the respirator was pinched. “How do you know that?”
“Ambidextrous by nurture, not nature,” Larkin answered, pointing to himself. “Although I still favor my left for shooting and writing. Without practice, penmanship in the nondominant hand has a distinct tremor and slant, as the individual lacks the fine control and muscle memory found in the dominant hand. And because ninety percent of American citizens are right-handed, it is highly likely the individual is masking their identity by simply switching to the left hand.”
“How did I not see that?” Millett murmured with a distinct, cynical tone.
“My observation skills and recall are considered to be quite exceptional.”
“And so modest too.”
“I have neither the time nor inclination to take fragile egos under consideration while doing my job, Detective,” Larkin answered. He held up the evidence bag and asked, voice lacking that natural upward inflection found in English, “May I keep this.”
“By all means,” Millett concluded with an absent wave of his hand.
“You sound like your blood sugar is dipping,” Baxter said to Larkin. “Prolonged exposure to heat can do that.”
“The brain utilizes one half of the body’s glucose, and with a drop in fuel levels, individuals have been known to exhibit an array of negative behavior, leading to the growing body of scientific research behind the termhangry. Thank you, Doctor. If you’ll be so kind as to update me on the state of the victim.”
Baxter didn’t sound nearly as perturbed as Millett had been when he replied, “Victim is male. Middle age, at least.” He pointed to the IKEA bag and added, “But I won’t be able to get you anything more exact until I get this soup back to the OCME.”
“Cause of death,” Larkin asked.
“I can’t say until after a thorough autopsy. All I know is an MTA track worker found him about two hours ago. O’Halloran probably has interview notes for you.”
“How long has the victim been deceased.”
“Are you asking or telling me?” Baxter countered.
“I’m asking.”
“Oh. Eight—nine days—maximum.” Baxter squatted beside the bag and indicated several clusters of wriggling maggots. “These are blowfly larvae, which show up on the scene of a dead body within minutes to lay their eggs. These larvae are third instar—you can even see a few pupae in the folds of the shirt,” he continued, raising a bit of fabric to show Larkin. “They’d emerge as adult flies in about… six days, assuming the body was kept at this level of heat and humidity for the rest of the week.”
“Putting time of death between Sunday, May 10—”
—thunder like the howls of a banshee on the prowl, wails of warning, a reminder that everyone must die, and Larkin was no exception. He was a psychopomp of flesh and blood, and some nights, when the rain fell and thunder crashed, and Patrick was brutally murdered over and over and over again, Larkin was so tired that he’d curl up in the tub with too many Xanax and bide his time until the day he’d be nothing more than a DD5 lost in the stacks of another Cold Case detective.
No progress to report.
But the apartment door had banged against the exposed brick wall, soles of wet shoes squeaked against the wood floor, a bag dropped with a loudthud, and a voice usually whiskey-smooth had been replaced with visceral panic as he’d called,“Evie?”—
Larkin closed his eyes, took a breath through his nose, instantly regretted it, and forced himself to swallow the bile licking at the back of his throat. Looking at Baxter again, he reiterated, “Time of death is between Sunday, May 10, and Monday, May 11.”
“I concur. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Larkin lied. He looked down at the IKEA bag—at the remains of a lost soul the city had chewed up and spit out—and asked, “Was there anything else on the body.”
“Just a business card,” Baxter answered. “Neil?”
