“No. He couldn’t be. He’s someone who requires the ability to move about freely—to orchestrate the start of each new case, as you’ve said. But he’s someone who, nonetheless, has access to these dialogues.”
“This only reinforces your belief that it’s someone with a law enforcement background,” Doyle said. “Maybe not a cop, per se, maybe a security guard or a corrections officer. Any one of those professions would have regular interactions with the sort of underground you’re talking about.”
Larkin tapped his chin absently with the tip of a gloved finger. “That means there will surely be more cases like Niederman’s, like this one. But my concern is: What will the sender do if he runs out of uncaught murderers to incriminate. Will he commit murder himself, in an attempt to obtain a godlike status in his own eyes?” Larkin glanced at Doyle. “How many different mourning traditions were there in nineteenth century Western culture.”
Doyle exhaled a quiet laugh and looked down at the veil still in his hands. “Quite a few, depending on how you want to differentiate them. When I said that mourning etiquette was a societal obsession, I wasn’t joking. At one point, it’d encompassed nearly every facet of daily life. It’d become so detrimental tohaving a life, in fact, that only the wealthy and privileged could afford to abide by the strictest of rules. And that, in and of itself, was done so as a means of keeping the burgeoning middle class and the poor in their place.”
“So there’s no reasonable way to predict how many times the sender might do this.”
“By way of inclusion of unique mourning traditions? No, I don’t think that’d be possible.” Doyle added, “It is odd, though, how each of these cases seem to have some small element of mourning history. Because that’s not the sender—that’s the original murderer.”
Larkin nodded, tapping his chin again in an offbeat pattern. He pointed at the veil with his other hand. “Why would a burlesque dancer wear an antique piece of clothing. It feels rather… defiling, when taking into consideration its original use.”
“I have no idea,” Doyle answered truthfully. “Grainy footage aside, the fabrics seem to match. You get an idea of its dimensions as she pulls it off, and it’s about the same length as this one, althoughthisis missing a good chunk,” Doyle noted as he’d begun to carefully refold the remaining bit of veil. “Like someone tore it in half….” He looked up. “Did Millett say something about strangulation?”
“Hmm.” Larkin finally lowered his hand. “We found it wrapped around the victim’s neck.”
“This couldn’t have killed her,” Doyle replied, returning the veil to its evidence bag.
“Why.”
“Even in the ’80s, this would have been at least a hundred years old. There’s so few examples of intact crape attire today because it doesn’t stand the test of time very well. This would have torn in two before it could have done any real damage to a grown woman.”
Larkin turned to the television and stared at the paused and muddled image of the Joan Jett look-alike. She’d been born into this world—a tiny and useless thing—with no expectations, no opinions, no dreams, only the instincts and impulses of the Id, and a nebulous construct of what would eventually be self-preservation. She’d realized one day, a thought so simple yet considered profound—like the baby bird that’d fallen out of its nest, dead on the playground and infested with ants—she, too, was mortal. And thetick-tock,tick-tock,tick-tockshe heard at night, echoing from under the bed where every self-respecting monster lurked, was the sound of Death. And he’d tell her:It’s nothing personal. I come for you all. Except she’d think, like everyone always did: Not me. I’ll have lived a lifetime. Smiles and escapades and memories preserved in celluloid.
But celluloid’s life was fraught with damage, deterioration, and inevitable rot.
Just like hers would be.
Larkin ejected the tape. He slid it back into its cardboard sleeve and then into the evidence bag. He yanked his gloves off before saying, “We’ll have to avoid further speculation until the ME calls with her autopsy results.” His stomach growled loudly in the quiet room, and Larkin froze.
Doyle managed not to laugh as he said, “That sounded like a walrus trying to mate.”
Larkin shot him a glare.
“Let’s get some lunch.”
“It can wait.”
“Out-in-the-field rule two,” Doyle said in a singsong voice, already walking toward the door.
Larkin said under his breath, “If being hangry can be avoided—avoid it,” then followed his partner.
Seven blocks north of the precinct was a luncheonette harkening back to New York City’s counterculture of the 1930s. Jack’s Diner had been in business for eighty-three years, weathering the Great Depression, second World War, fights for civil rights and gay liberation, a fiscal crisis that’d nearly bankrupted the city, and all while slinging cheap corned beef, matzoh ball soup, and fountain soda at its seafoam-green Formica countertop. Jack’s interior was a little tired, a little grubby, and a little out of place among the upscale eateries of Lenox Hill, but it was an institution with longtime residents, and whether it was 9:00 a.m. or 9:00 p.m., the aged barstools were always occupied by patrons quietly sipping diner coffee, reading newspapers or battered paperbacks, and sopping up runny egg yolks with a slice of whole wheat toast.
The best part about Jack’s, in Larkin’s opinion, was their extremely limited menu. Keeping to the tradition of a true luncheonette, Jack’s offered the same half a dozen lunch options every afternoon, and if they didn’t appeal to hungry passersby, they moved on, leaving the diner low-key and unobtrusive despite the busy time of day. And that was still true when he and Doyle entered. A passing waitress, hands full with plates and dirty silverware, inclined her head toward the line of empty booths along the wall of windows looking out on tree-lined Seventy-Fourth between Third and Lexington.
Larkin unbuttoned his suit coat before taking a seat in a booth at the midpoint. It was the same seafoam green as the countertop. He watched Doyle slide in across from him, reach for a placard with the diner’s QR code, and accidentally knock over the saltshaker. He quickly righted it, slid the granules across the tabletop and into his other hand, then tossed it over his left shoulder. He reached for the placard a second time and scanned the code with his phone to access the menu.
“What was that,” Larkin asked.
Doyle glanced up. “Hmm?”
“Why did you throw the salt.”
He chuckled. “Spilling salt is supposed to be bad luck.”
“And throwing it is… good.”
