CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The atmosphere ofPrecinct 19 was typical of a weekday morning. Some beat cop had brewed a full pot of Maxwell House instead of Folgers, which Larkin could detect not only by the slight variance in the scent that lingered over the second-floor bullpen, but also because he’d reached the landing just as Jim Porter had finished shouting, “How can you mix the two up? It has a jingle, man! The best part of wakin’ up isFolgersin your goddamn cup!”
“I don’t believe that’s word-for-word accurate,” Larkin said as he took off his suit coat and draped it over the back of his chair.
Porter had growled at him in response.
Lieutenant Connor’s door was closed—indicative of an in-progress meeting or subject-sensitive phone call, as he otherwise kept it open to keep an eye and ear on all the proceedings of his squad. Aiko Miyamoto sat at her desk across the bullpen, spinning back and forth in her chair while tossing a stress ball in the air and catching it as she spoke on the phone. Byron Ulmer was in the midst of ushering a middle-aged white woman into one of the interview rooms. She had short hair, upturned in the back and spiky from excessive hairspray no doubt, and she carried a massive purple purse on one shoulder that she kept adjusting. Her perfume was so persistent that Larkin could still smell it in her wake—cheap roses and baby powder.
Larkin began working: an email to the medical examiner, followed by a phone call with one of the former officers of the defunct New York Youth Empowerment Center, who claimed to not remember a part-time student mentor from twenty-three years ago, and my gosh, the boy wasmurdered? She had absolutely no recollection of this, and of course her thoughts and prayers were with the boy’s family. Yes, of course, she’d be happy to give Larkin the telephone numbers of the other officers, although she doubted any of them would remember a Marco Garcia either, since their job did not often cross paths with those actually workinginsidethe YEC. No, of course, they hadn’t kept records about the students who attended the YEC—it would have been a breach of the trust they were building with street kids. Andof courseshe wanted to assist the police in their investigation of these terrible tragedies, but for legal purposes, would absolutely require a warrant before dredging up employment records of former mentors.
“I have one more question,” Larkin said.
“Yes, of course.”
Larkin swore he could feel a new headache beginning to throb behind his left eye. “Can you recall—officer, mentor, anyone working under contract—who might have used the nickname Archie.”
“I can’t say I do.”
“A second question, then. Anyone who was fired for misconduct.”
“Oh mygosh, no.”
Tapping his pen against the desktop in annoyance, Larkin said, “All right. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course, Detective.”
Larkin hung up. “Of course,” he mimicked under his breath. He immediately wrote up a request for a search warrant, highlighting in particular that he sought the names and last known phone numbers and addresses of Youth Empowerment Center mentors who’d been employed during the same time period as Marco Garcia. Larkin had a growing niggling of doubt that this avenue, once approved by a judge—because Larkin was rarely denied search warrants—would yield anything of interest. It would make sense that Archie worked as a mentor—he’d have had unlimited access to at-risk children—but by having such a position, it also put him at the forefront of suspicion, and Archie had survived a long time without detection. He’d have been on the periphery. Someone who was always there but never seen.
That notion made the April Fools’ letter all the more unsettling to Larkin.
Archie had been so prolific in his killings, but so careful as to avoid detection for a minimum of thirty-five years—a full ten years before Marco was ever tragically involved.
Why?
Why, after so long, had the subterfuge no longer satisfied him?
Why poke and prod at Larkin, specifically, when there were any number of decent detectives who could have taken a stab at this mystery?
Why endanger himself so boldly, so blatantly, knowing if he were caught, the only thing that would save him from certain death was the state’s abolishment of the death penalty?
The more child victims Larkin uncovered, the more the scope of Archie’s enterprise was revealed, the less he believed this was merely about a psychopath hungry for attention after over a quarter of a decade.
Something about this case wasn’tquite right.
Lieutenant Connor opened his door, and the squeak of hinges in need of lubrication snapped Larkin out of his concentration.
The cell sitting beside his computer mouse buzzed with an incoming text.
Larkin glanced at the screen.
Ira Doyle.
He opened the message. It was a gif of Lionel Richie, phone to his ear, with the caption:Is it me you’re looking for?Underneath read:Please consider checking on Noah today. I’ll be there within the hour. xx
That request immediately dredged up the night before—Noah shouting, Doyle trying to pacify, Larkin shutting himself in the bathroom, ZzzQuil burning, coughing, gagging, sobbing—
“Grim.”
