Larkin winced. The first time he’d held a pen after August 2, 2002—his mother tried to convince him he was right-handed, but he knew, instinctually, she was lying—he couldn’t remember how to write his name. He knew how to spell, hadn’t forgotten the alphabet, but when his physical therapist helped him put pen to paper and asked he write his own name… nothing. It had been the first of many brain-to-body disconnects that’d forced Larkin to relearn a skill, and every time it’d been utterlyterrifying.
“It’s neither,” Larkin said before clearing his throat. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, to slow his accelerating heart rate. “The writer has switched to their nondominant hand, is all—as a means of concealing handwriting that might otherwise be identifiable.” Meeting Connor’s forbidding expression, he said, “The perp—one makes the assumption for it to be this Archie Bunker character—has already established they know of me, have an interest in me.” Larkin pointed to the death portrait and read aloud, “Deliver me to Detective Larkin.”
Connor snatched the fax. He folded it in half, considering, before saying very quietly, “Just because they used a police acronym doesn’t mean they’re in uniform.”
“This is true.” Larkin added, keeping his voice low, “but the April Fools’ letter had insider information—theo’s were created with the Department of Parks and Recreation logo. The media hadn’t been privy to that detail.”
Connor looked down at Larkin.
“This person is also responsible for the killings of these youth in the photographs I keep dredging up. Archie is either someone who knew Harry Regmore during his reign, or someone with access to insider information.”
Connor’s gaze shifted to the message on the back of the postmortem photograph. “He’s taunting you.”
“Challenging, I would say.”
Connor’s Irish complexion had grown flushed. “Killers like this goad law enforcement in order to feel something.”
“Malignant narcissism,” Larkin replied. “It provides a sense of superiority, of purpose.”
“Yeah. And these taunts have a long history of turning into threats,” Connor warned. “Against police officers, or against the public. How many photographs have you found so far?”
“Seven. But without a full confession from the perpetrator, it’s impossible to say how many children have been killed between ’85 and now. We have no bodies, no names. The database at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children isn’t helpful when the circumstances surrounding the disappearances were children running away of their own volition. And since he kills to essentiallyfill requests, victimology is problematic at best.” Larkin continued, “Sir, when taking into account the Psychopathy Checklist, the array of possible serial murder motives, and the parasitic relation serial killers have with the media, this perpetrator is all over the map. For thirty-five years, this man known as Archie has been undoubtably using charm, manipulation, and intimidation tactics to satisfy his selfish desires. His interpersonal traits would suggest a grandiose sense of self-worth, and the way that Gary Reynold described him, Archie isthego-to man of this sexually deviant community. That would correlate with the lifestyle trait too, of attention-seeking—being the man all these scumbags look up to—”
“Attention-seeking is exactly my point,” Connor interrupted. He held up the folded fax. “He’s escalating.”
“No, no, no. He’s survived and thrived for thirty-five years. His affective traits would suggest no remorse, no guilt, but specifically, failure to accept responsibility. He wouldn’t just….” Larkin struggled a moment to make sense of his thoughts, to put them in the right order. “By challenging me, he’s admitting to murder. A lot of murder. Why would he do that. It’s a red flag in the personality makeup of this man.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” Connor countered.
“I don’t know. There’s something missing.I’vemissed something.”
“You’re a Cold Case detective,” Connor said. “Not a behavioral analysist.”
“But we can’t ignorewhoArchie is,” Larkin said, his voice rising, catching the interest of other detectives.
Larkin’s desk phone began to ring.
“Your focus is the Garcia boy,” Connor said. “And to find out what the fuck is going on with the DB from the subway. Don’t get lost in all the FBI mumbo jumbo, Grim.”
“The Psychopathy Checklist was an assessment tool designed by Dr. Hare, not the FBI.”
Connor frowned. “Don’t try to get the last word with me. I’m going to make some calls about this fax and run down the sender.” He pointed to the still-ringing phone. “You answer your damn phone.”
Larkin clenched his jaw, waited until Connor started for his office, then blindly grabbed the receiver. “What,” he snapped.
“Uh… It’s Millett with CSU. Is this a bad time?”
“Every time is a bad time,” Larkin muttered.
“Aren’t you chipper in the morning.”
“What do you want.”
“I think it’s more what you want,” Millett replied. “I got the test results back on Gary Reynold’s belts that were taken into evidence. No joy. Only DNA found belonged to Gary Reynold. I went the extra step for you too, and asked the ME to compare them to the wound track on your DB in the IKEA bag—also not a match.”
“So Gary Reynold didn’t kill out of some sort of panicked, self-preservation.”
“If he did, he tossed the evidence,” Millett said. “Which is your problem, not mine.”
