“What sort of irrational hiding place would she pick?”
“That’s the crux of the issue with intentional placement,” Larkin replied.He shoved aside hanging clothes, pressed his hands against the wall, and began knocking here and there.“When we choose a location that isn’t logical to the item—such as hiding money in a sack of flour versus a wallet—we lose the ability to associate one with the other.”Satisfied there were no false walls, Larkin pivoted on his heel and crouched before the nightstand.“It’s also why we are twenty-five to thirty percent more likely to misplace an intentionally placed item—there was no conscious attempt to first encode the memory and create an association between object and location.”
Yanking open the drawer, Larkin found several bottles of lotion, lube, and three Fleshlights, including one that was neon green with anatomy that he was pretty sure wassupposedto look alien.Larkin listened as Doyle opened one of the wicker drawers and began to dig through what was likely socks and underwear before saying, “The worst part of searching a suspect’s home is the constant reminder that monsters are human.”Larkin shut the drawer on Earl’s masturbation paraphernalia and got to his feet.“With the same needs as the rest of us.”
“Physiological, maybe,” Doyle agreed, his back still to Larkin.“Food, sleep, sex… but the rest of it?”He closed the top drawer and moved onto the second.“Killers warp and twist the intricacies of what makes humanity so complex and beautiful.The way that you and I yearn for safety and love and esteem—to be protected, to feel as if we belong, to have a sense of self-worth—a serial killer turns those evolved concepts upside down.”Doyle closed the drawer and turned to face Larkin.“It’s just primitive anger, thrill-seeking, and sexual gratification.There’s no respect for life, no realistic perception of reality, certainly no exploration of the human condition.”
“Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.”
“Monsters are human, but they have no humanity.”
“In a remarkable scholar, one not infrequently finds a mediocre man; and often, even in a mediocre artist, one finds a very remarkable man,” Larkin quoted before adding, “Not that I am, in any way, implying your art is mediocre.Only that artists—you—are remarkable.”
Doyle scratched the tip of his nose bashfully, leaving behind a smudge of fingerprint dust.“Nietzsche?”
“I am rather predictable,” Larkin agreed, stepping close enough to wipe Doyle’s nose clean.“But Nietzschedidpropose that the pursuit of aesthetic beauty justified the depressions and joys of living, and Maslow puts creativity in the top tier of his pyramid.”
“Speaking of art,” Doyle began.
Larkin raised both brows.
“Have you noticed these walls?”
“Are you being rhetorical.”
“I mean, there’s nothing on them,” Doyle explained.“Nothing.Not a single family photo, no artwork, movie poster, magazine clipping… just the last rites crucifix in the other room, which is actually a weird place to put it.”
“What do you mean.”
“In Catholicism, it’s hung over the bed,” Doyle explained.“Grandma had one.It’s got a hidden compartment for—” He stopped abruptly.
Larkin immediately walked out of the bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “Matilde Wagner was pharisaic.”He came to a stop in front of the love seat and studied the crucifix.As Doyle joined him, he asked, “What’s the purpose of the compartment.”
“Nothing nefarious.You store candles and holy water inside—tools of the trade when performing last rites for the dying.”
Larkin reached forward, gently lifted the crucifix from its nail, and then turned it around a few times.
“Here, let me show you.”Doyle took the crucifix in both hands and easily popped the front free, revealing an empty slot inside.“Well, that’s anticlimactic,” he murmured.
But Larkin immediately grabbed the back cushions on the love seat and tossed them to the floor.
“What’re you doing?”
“Have you ever lost a nail in the cushions while trying to hang a picture frame over the couch.”
“Actually, yes.”
Larkin felt along the bottom cushions on either side before something dull poked him.Pinched between thumb and index finger, Larkin carefully retrieved a dangly earring.It was made of black stone—the top portion unadorned but for a single seed pearl and the bottom featuring glass housing to protect delicately braided strands of human hair.
Standing straight and turning to Doyle, he said, “Wagner had no intentions of returning home after silencing Earl—before he had a chance to spill everything to O’Halloran.But she also had the sender to contend with.She had no opportunity to plan, to be methodical.In a rush, she took with her what mattered, what was important.Adrenaline pumping, hands shaking, she came over here, grabbed the crucifix, and removed the contents, accidentally dropping one piece in her haste.”Larkin set the earring into Doyle’s open hand.“Wagner didn’t worship Jesus.She worshipped Death.”
Doyle pulled out the chrome and red cushioned chair across from Larkin at the retro diner table for two.He took a seat while saying, “Sorry.When’s the last time you saw a cash-only restaurant?”
“I could have paid,” Larkin murmured, not looking up from studying the earring inside a plastic evidence bag.
“Nah, I got it.”
“Did you find an ATM.”
