“Your profile of place has changed completely, hasn’t it,” Larkin interrupted.
Hackett reluctantly nodded.
“You’re never wrong to say you don’t yet have enough information in which to build a profile.Is CSU in the house yet.”
Sounding a touch disillusioned, Hackett said, “I think so, yeah.”
Larkin sidestepped the Homicide detective and exited the bedroom.The footfalls of both Hackett and Doyle followed him through the home, and while the former’s voice was too low to make out his words, Larkin picked up Doyle responding, “—already knows the answer.Admitting you don’t know something will go a lot further toward impressing him than trying to bullshit him.”
Larkin squeezed past two uniformed officers in the vestibule and started down the basement stairs.The stench of decomposition—a constant perfume that’d permeated the entire upstairs—grew in such intensity that by the time Larkin reached the landing, he could only theorize it’d been the adrenaline of entering the home with his pistol drawn that’d allowed him to investigate the basement at all.He already wore gloves and booties, but helped himself to an N95 mask from the boxes of PPE set to the side of the open studio door.
Larkin stepped inside while adjusting the nose piece.
Millett turned from staring down at the body in the camping chair and said, voice muffled by his own mask, “You could have warned me this was a full-body situation.”He motioned to the white jumpsuit he was now wearing.
Larkin ignored the complaint and gave the body a wide berth as he walked toward the opposite end of the room.He crouched before the discarded shelving, Pepsi cases, and salad dressing to study grooves in the flooring—grooves made by dragging a hundred-and-seventy-pound fridge across a soft surface like linoleum.
“Did you know that over 140 million Americans prefer ranch on their salads?”Millett asked.
“According to who.”
“NHCS.”
“Interesting.”
“I can’t stand the smell.”Millett continued, “Not since college.I woke up in the middle of the night to my roommate watching anime on his laptop and eating a bowl of canned peaches and ranch.A whole bowl.Like it was milk and cereal.I wonder what happened to that guy….”
“Holy shit.Lookit all those maggots!”
Larkin stood and turned around.
Hackett had bum-rushed the scene and was opposite Millett, taking in all the grisly details.His expression was hidden behind the mask, but his eyes were wide with surprise and disgust and utter fascination.Doyle, on the other hand, stood several steps behind Hackett, his posture stiff and arms crossed.
To Millett, Larkin said, “This is Detective Val Hackett with Brooklyn Homicide.”
“Neil Millett, CSU.”
“Yeah, hi, why’re there so many?”Hackett asked, pointing.
“Ideal conditions,” Millett answered.“It’s warm, it’s humid, and they’ve got a full-grown adult body to munch on.”
“Why’re they, like, clustered in groups?”Hackett asked next.
“A mass of maggots this big can generate heat at least forty degrees above the ambient temperature.Any higher than one twenty and they’ll die.And since it’s got to be at least ninety in this house already, they break away from the core—into these smaller groups here and here—to try and cool down.”
“Wow.”
Millett made a sound, something between a laugh and a snort.“How long have you been with Homicide?”
“Six months.But I haven’t seen anything like this.It’s mostly shootings out here.”
Millett said, “The presence of pupa, both hatched casings and those still in development, tells me we’re over halfway into our second lifecycle of blowflies.That’s… oh, about three weeks, at least.I’d put time of death somewhere around June 8 to June 19.”
Larkin answered as he approached the body, “That would correspond with the stack of uncollected mail and the watermelon peperomia upstairs.”
“Peperomia?”Millett echoed.
“Yes.It’s in no way as scientifically sound as the lifecycle of the blowfly, but a watermelon peperomia should be watered once it begins to exhibit signs of droopiness—every one to two weeks.The plant upstairs has completely collapsed and discolored.”
