Larkin watched Ulmer sit down at his desk with his coffee, meet Larkin’s stare from across the room, and then begin typing on his computer.
Larkin quietly shut the drawer and put his hands on the desktop.
“Grim!” Connor shouted through his open door.
“What.”
“December 27, 2006.”
“Wednesday,” Larkin answered automatically.
“Thank you,” Connor called back.
“Larkin.”
“What.” Larkin looked up.
Doyle had a hand over the speaker of the phone. “The ME has an ID for John Doe.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
John Doe’s identityhadn’t been that of Creepy Dicky.
Dr. Baxter had been insistent on the matter. “I understand that this composite sketch matches the general description I provided, Detective, but do you know how many white males between the ages of fifty and sixty live in Manhattan?”
“The 2016 census estimates that specific demographic to be a population of a little over 170,000.”
“Cool,” Baxter remarked, in a tone that suggested he felt Larkin’s answer held no particular merit to the conversation. “But of those 170,000 old white guys, this isn’t the one you’re hoping for. For starters, he’s not missing an incisor. And secondly, even with the level of decomp we were dealing with, there’d be evidence of a habitual user. I’m telling you—this guy wasn’t homeless, he wasn’t an addict, and he took decent care of himself.”
“My mood has been steadily going downhill this morning,” Larkin warned.
“Yeah? Well, I’m about to turn that frown upside down. Your vic is Alfred Niederman of 189 Elizabeth Street. His prints came back—he did some time in ’84 for abusing a corpse in a funeral home.”
Larkin had glanced up at Doyle at that point, asking warily into the phone, “What exactly did he do to the corpse.”
“He was caught undressing and posing the body.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You’re welcome,” Baxter had answered in a singsong voice before hanging up.
And that was how Larkin and Doyle found themselves on the corner of Elizabeth and Grand at exactly 11:40 a.m. Larkin slapped his permit on the dash. He’d made a clear “no parking zone” a parking spot, as the streets of Chinatown were much smaller and more heavily congested than what was north of Fourteenth Street, and he wasn’t in the business of circling the neighborhood until a spot opened up.
“The only online presence for an Alfred Niederman that I can find is an obit for a ninety-four-year-old in Colorado,” Doyle began, shutting the passenger door and following Larkin to the sidewalk, all while still scrolling on his phone. “There’s also an HVAC repair company owned and operated by anAlfonsoNiederman in Jersey City, and a single Facebook profile under that name, but no photos or family details. He began studying photography at Parsons School of Design in 1983 and is a fan ofDiners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. No posting history.”
“Photography,” Larkin echoed, hands in his pockets as he skirted an overflowing trash can on the corner. Someone had piled household garbage beside it: a CD/cassette boombox missing one detachable speaker, the brush nozzle attachment to a handheld vacuum, and a window AC unit with a note taped to it:I’m fucked, don’t take me home.“I do not make assumptions, nor jump to conclusions that are unfounded, but what the hell.”
“And you know what else,” Doyle began, “Niederman working even a brief stint at a funeral parlor could have been enough to obtain some of the education shown in the postmortem photographs. A good mortician knows their mourning history.”
“So he went from posing bodies for wakes to posing bodies for pornography. Fantastic.”
“Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three time’s a pattern,” Doyle answered.
Larkin glanced up. “It’s funny. Sometimes I think you read my mind.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? I’ll bet it’s full of daydreams not suitable for all ages. Me, naked, with a pocket square on my crotch—for propriety’s sake—lying on a bed of DD5 forms with a sultry, come-hither expression.”
Larkin stopped walking.
