In the brief silence, filled only by the scratch of Millett’s pen and the radio of the officer just outside the front door, Larkin took in the bedroom again, now that he wasn’t standing in the midst of a hostage situation. The mattress was still on the floor. The sheets were still mismatched. No headboard. No rugs. The nightstand held a thrift store lamp with a big, out-of-date lampshade and a single framed photo. There was a painted particleboard dresser in off-white to the left, with what appeared to be on its top, from afar, scratch-off tickets and a flashlight caddy with three AAA batteries still secured inside. Beside those was a black plastic box with no obvious door, handle, or lock so as to suggest its purpose.
“Where’s the flashlight,” Larkin asked.
Millett stood and looked in the direction Larkin was staring. “I haven’t gotten to that side of—yeah sure, just come right in.”
Larkin opened the top drawer of the dresser, carefully lifted several pairs of cheap tube socks, then found the small handheld flashlight. He unscrewed the back and dropped the contents into his hand.
“What is it?” Doyle asked, still standing in the doorway, like a man who knew how to follow simple requests.
“Heroin.” Larkin set the small, plastic-wrapped capsules on the dresser alongside the flashlight.
“I’ve never seen a cop so disappointed in finding illegal drugs in a suspect’s home,” Millett said before returning to his investigation of the closet.
“So Reynold told the truth about intending to pay Dicky with drugs. That doesn’t help me.” Larkin pushed his suit coat back, set his hands on his hips, and stared at the framed photo across the room. “The CDC developed a ten-item scale in which to measure Adverse Childhood Experiences, and a recent study concluded that male sexual offenders are three times more likely to have been sexually abused as children, twice as likely to have experienced physical abuse, and up to thirteen times more likely to have endured verbal abuse, when compared to the nonoffending male population. It was reported that in guilty offenders who claimed multiple victims who were one, strangers, and two, of a prepubescent age, they had ACE scores that mirrored those CDC statistics.”
Millett was pushing clothes hangers along the rod as he said, mostly to himself, “I like to relax with a beer and campy horror films, myself, but I guess reading public health surveys is one way to induce sleep.”
“Commentary is not necessary,” Larkin remarked.
Doyle said, “I think a lot of people could claim to have had traumatic childhoods, though.”
“The CDC’s survey of seventeen thousand adults concluded that two-thirds have experienced at least one form of abuse or neglect while under the age of eighteen,” Larkin said to Doyle.
“Exactly. But not all those eleven thousand adults turned into sexual predators. Experienced childhood trauma isn’t anyone’s fault, but the decision to enact abuse into adulthood is a clear and conscious decision they made.Thathas no excuse.”
Larkin turned sideways, studying Doyle. “I agree. I’m only attempting to explain the uncomfortable positioning seen in the Reynold family photo.”
Doyle raised his eyebrows and leaned to one side, as if to view the framed portrait from where he stood.
Larkin walked across the room, collected the picture from the bedside table, and returned to his partner. He held it out: a snapshot from childhood—now discolored—a maternal figure standing at the base of a stoop, her arms crossed, a severe and hostile expression on her face. Beside her was a young Gary Reynold. He was clearly meant to be included in this family-of-two picture, but stood just far enough to the right that the distance between mother and son felt… awkward. Gary’s brow was furrowed as he stared at the camera, one arm crossed over his front to hold the other, a fist clenched at his side.
“You think his mother abused him?” Doyle asked, looking up from the photo.
Larkin turned the frame around, undid the clasp, removed the cheap backing, and his stomach lurched like the floor had suddenly dropped out from under him. He sighed audibly, held up three portraits—all young, dead, redheaded girls posed provocatively on subway benches, two with crowns of what this time seemed to be geranium leaves—and said, “I think Gary’s mommy issues are the least of his problems now.”
Doyle’s jaw worked, but he said nothing as he carefully collected the frame and photos from Larkin, handling them as if they were fragile, breakable—the only remains left of children who’d been deceived and degraded, but who deserved to have their likeness treated with love and protection.
“Seven unknowns,” Larkin said, trying to modulate his voice to reflect the gentleness of Doyle’s touch. “And still Marco to account for.”
“You might want to make that eight unknowns,” Millett broke in.
Both Larkin and Doyle turned toward him as he displayed in both hands a clear plastic bag tightly packed with gray granules.
“Are those cremated remains?” Doyle asked.
Millett nodded. “Seems to be.”
Larkin tilted his head thoughtfully, then turned on his heel and studied the dresser a second time. He grabbed the plastic box on top, spun it, and revealed an identification tag stamped across the front.
LOUISE REYNOLD
03/22/1948 – 10/03/2012
Larkin picked up the box. It felt empty, but then something inside slid from one corner and thumped against the plastic. He held the box under one arm, wriggled the top free, and reached inside. He pulled out a disposable, Fujifilm camera, remaining photo count: zero.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After the walkthroughof Gary Reynold’s apartment, Larkin returned to Precinct 19 to drop off his growing collection of death portraits, while Doyle picked up his own car and drove to 1PP. He’d not only needed to scan the composite sketch he’d worked on with Megan and submit it into evidence for Larkin’s file, but Doyle had wanted to speak with Senior Artist Bailey about utilizing the unit’s darkroom the next morning. Developing the photos on the Fujifilm disposable camera themselves would be a far quicker turnaround than sending it off to the lab to get around to in a few weeks, if not months, and Larkin wasn’t surprised to learn that Doyle possessed the know-how in which to get the job done.
