“Hey!” Millett called. “Be sure to update the chain of custody!”
“Of course,” Larkin returned.
“And you’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” Doyle called back.
Larkin reached the second floor first, detouring at his desk to drop off Mia Ramos’s paperwork and grab two pairs of latex gloves from a drawer, as well as the VHS tape he’d set beside his keyboard before they’d left to speak with the girl’s family. He led the way across the bullpen, down the hall, and into the Fuck It. Larkin flipped on the light—the television was still hooked up and a computer chair had been rolled close for a front-row view, its adjustable armrests removed and set aside on the floor. Larkin figured they’d been in the way when Doyle had been sketching.
Doyle propped his portfolio bag against the nearest box before accepting the gloves Larkin held out to him and tugging them on. He yanked open the seal on the evidence bag and gently removed the fabric. “I’d say the two cases are officially connected.”
“We can’t leap to an assumption just because—” Larkin stopped when Doyle shot him a mildly exasperated expression. He reversed course. “While the odds of these women being unrelated is not zero, it’s a statistical likelihood I’m no longer entertaining.” Larkin snapped his gloves on, removed the VHS tape from its own bag, and popped it into the VCR. He let the footage play out before pausing on the final scene of the woman removing the veil from her face in an overtly sexual manner.
Doyle stepped up beside Larkin, the remains of torn fabric draped across his open hands. He was staring at the television screen as he said, “This woman has to be the same woman you found in the wall yesterday.”
“Possibly.”
“You said something this morning—about Niederman.” Doyle met Larkin’s gaze. “That his death was orchestrated.”
“Niederman’s connection with the sender made it too problematic for him to be caught alive, arrested, and probed for details that might have ultimately identified my pen pal. But even with Niederman dead, the sender was successful in providing the necessary clues to not only find victims we didn’t know to exist, but to point out their killer as well.”
Doyle nodded. “But the initial events weren’t happenstance. The sender had to take careful pains to assure Niederman was murdered, found, andyoureported to the scene so that this…gamecould begin. Like yesterday. This woman was forgotten inside a wall for the better part of our lifetimes, but then out of the blue, the owner gets it in his head to do some demo work? Why were you sent to the scene?”
“What do you mean.”
Doyle nodded toward the open door. “There’s nine other people in your squad. Why you, specifically?”
“Ray O’Halloran phoned Connor,” Larkin answered. “Homicide didn’t want to touch it—they have enough fresh bodies, as they not-so-tactfully put it. And Connor tends to give me the more unusual cases.”
“Even though you have dozens of open investigations?”
“We all do,” Larkin corrected. “Honestly, there’s nothing suspicious about the assignments. Baker has the uncanny ability of being allocated those that send her out-of-state. Porter prefers the gang violence. Miyamoto takes a lot of the rape-homicides.”
“Okay, let’s say you’re right about the delegation of caseloads,” Doyle began. “And that even if Ulmer had been the responding officer, the fact that you received this VHS tape the same day would have very likely been all the incentive Connor would need to make you lead detective.”
“I concur.”
“The events of this case were still orchestrated, just like Niederman’s. The sender has known about that body in the wall since, at minimum, last month, when they sent the Broadway ticket stubs in the second letter. And then dropping off the package onlyafterthat mummy became an official investigation yesterday afternoon. How does one person know about so many unsolved cold cases? And not just who or where a victim is, but they clearly know who the perpetrator is, otherwise they wouldn’t have the ability to taunt you in the way they’re doing.”
Larkin was thoughtful for a moment, then said, in an almost thinking-out-loud tone, “Maybe it’s not knowledge the sender has gleaned of their own accord.”
“How do you mean?”
“Most human beings desire recognition. For example, when utilized in the business world, recognition of an employee’s work can boost their engagement with the company, lower the turnover rate, and can attract a higher echelon of staff. But what happens when we have an egotistical criminal who desires recognition.” Larkin raised an eyebrow, but when Doyle shook his head once, he answered, “They brag. Whether they goad the police like BTK or the Zodiac Killer, or share the details of their crimes with fellow inmates once in prison, the broadcasting of their actions elevates their status. Not only within their own mind and sect of society, but with the public as a whole. And the more devious, the more cunning, the more dangerous the crime, the more the need for someone to know of and acknowledge their skills becomes all-consuming. The sender of these letters and packages is certainly displaying similar behavior—this obsession with being seen as smart, smarter than me—but the likelihood of one person having such intimate knowledge of so many uncaught killers… it’s simply impossible. And I don’t use that word lightly.”
“So our sender personally knew Niederman.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“But not whoever has murdered these women,” Doyle said. “Or potentially,woman, if they turn out to be one and the same.”
“Correct.”
“And he learned aboutthisparticular event through… criminal gossip?”
“It’s not unreasonable. Inmates testify against each other all the time for reduced sentences, so bragging and storytelling are most certainly happening behind bars. And if the sender is in the right sort of environment to somehow be part of these conversations… it’s an incredible opportunity to obtain blackmail material or to essentially buy and sell dangerous information.”
Doyle said, lowering his voice, “The sender isn’t a convicted criminal, though.”
