“Terrific,” Larkin muttered, taking the bolt cutters from Dan. “Any of note.”
“Lots of mom-and-pop and drugstores, but he’s been mostly relegated to offices the last decade.”
“Mom-and-pop, as well as drugstores, could explain his early access to photo minilabs.” Larkin got the blades around the shackle of the lock and pressed down hard. It took another attempt and a few seconds more than Larkin would have liked in front of an audience, but the case-hardened steel finally snapped in two. He handed Doyle the cutters.
“Aren’t you butch,” Doyle said quietly.
Larkin worked the broken lock free and opened the door. The room was barely big enough for the toilet that it housed—let alone a person in need of it. Larkin flicked the light switch. Nothing. He held up his cell, the flashlight app illuminating the DIY darkroom Niederman had constructed around the toilet: walls painted black, shelving installed overhead, a sort of impromptu table that, once standing inside the room, could be extended from the wall, jugs of chemical developers shoved behind the toilet, and a hanging rack with strips of dried negatives, now curled, still tacked and waiting for his return. The silver case of Niederman’s MacBook gleamed from a shelf as Larkin passed the light over it.
“And this might explain the lack of lab-printed data on the backs of some of the more recent photos,” Larkin muttered. He stepped into the cramped space and asked, “How long should film be hung for.”
“No more than a day,” Doyle answered. “It definitely shouldn’t be stored like this—you get those permanent curls in the film.”
Larkin gently lifted one of the negatives, held it against the white of his latex glove, and shined light on it. He didn’t even need details for the murky image to make sense. The geometry of the photograph was enough. “Dead children.”
Doyle swore under his breath.
“He developed these before going on the hunt again,” Larkin theorized. “He stood here on Sunday, May 10, and developed two rolls of film—twenty-seven photos each of two more dead and posed children—then he hung the rolls to dry, shut the door, and walked to Second Avenue to catch the F in the evening hours. He got off at Fifty-Seventh Street. He’s hunting for Reynold’s fourteen-year-old redhead. Something goes wrong. He’s found dead nine days later, with evidence of an unknown person of interest requesting my presence on the case.” Larkin lowered his phone and turned to stare at Doyle. “Archie Bunker, aka Alfred Niederman, has been supplementing his income since the ’80s by selling pornographic and necrophilic images to a closeknit community of sexual predators. He murdered these children.” Larkin furrowed his brow and asked, “So who murdered Alfred Niederman?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was aparking ticket under the windshield wiper of the Audi.
Larkin grabbed it before sliding behind the wheel. He crumpled the orange notification and tossed it into the backseat.
Doyle glanced over his shoulder from the passenger seat before saying, “I think you have to pay that.”
Larkin turned the ignition, but didn’t move to take the car out of Park. He stared out the front, saying, “The one viable suspect we had in Marco’s murder, the only person who could potentially provide the truth of the matter, has been dead himself this entire investigation.”
“Maybe.”
“That wasn’t a statement open to further discussion. Alfred Niederman killed Marco Garcia. Marco worked with at-risk youth. He walked them to the Fifty-Seventh Street station every night. Marco somehow came into possession of Johnny Doe’s death portrait a week before his murder, which means he knew something of what was going on. Marco was aware of and suspicious of someone or something the night of May 19, 1997, or he wouldn’t have gone down to the platform. Niederman was hunting. Niederman killed Marco for catching him in the act.”
“It’s extremely plausible,” Doyle answered, slow and even. “But without evidence or sworn testimony—”
“Marco’s been dead for twenty-three fucking years,” Larkin snapped. He turned the ignition off and looked at Doyle. “What am I supposed to tell his mother. ‘I know you were desperate for some kind of closure, some sort of reprieve, but there will be no justice, no peace, no silence. I let you down. I told you I wouldn’t, but I did. And now, if you’ll excuse me, the department wants to pin another goddamn medal on my uniform.’”
“You’re not going to say any of that,” Doyle replied. “Because you’re not done working this case. We still have multiple avenues of investigation to explore.”
Larkin shook his head.
“Yes, we do,” Doyle insisted. “CSU’s taken Niederman’s computer into evidence and they’re going to pore through it. Don’t forget that he had a business card for St. Jude’s Mission in his pocket and Reynold claimed Dicky was a frequent guest of the church’s meal program. We’ve also got the MTA staff who—what? What’s wrong?”
Larkin had his head on the steering wheel. “I need a Xanax.”
“You had one a few hours ago.”
Larkin gripped the wheel.
Doyle put a hand between Larkin’s shoulder blades and gently rubbed up and down. “I know you’re upset. I am too. I’m trying really, really hard to not be happy this guy’s dead.”
“It’s not that. Not only that,” Larkin whispered. “I want to be high so badly, I feel like all my seams are unraveling and I’m splitting in two and I’m going to fucking die. What the fuck is the point in taking antianxiety medication if all it does is give me crippling anxiety when I’m not high as a goddamn kite.” Larkin sniffed and wiped his face. “I can’t think, I can’tfunction, without medication. But it’s—like—” He took a strangled breath, forehead still pressed to the steering wheel. “I have to pick between feeling too much or feeling nothing at all and I hate it.”
Doyle’s hand moved to Larkin’s shoulder and forced him to sit back. “Take a deep breath. Another one. Evie, I can’t and won’t ever know what living with your level of HSAM is like. Honestly, I can barely fathom it. But the fact that you’re trying to find ways to make it work says an awful lot about your unwillingness to give up. Xanax is the wrong course of treatment for you. Okay? It’s that simple. And coming down from an addiction is really hard. That much Idoknow.” He curled his hand around Larkin’s nape and gave a gentle squeeze. “But I’m going to help you, and we’re going to get you on the right meds so you stop feeling like this.”
“Like what.”
Doyle considered for a moment and then suggested, “Hollow.”
