It was 9:04 p.m.by the time Larkin and Doyle entered Precinct 19.
Larkin had been awake for nearly thirty-eight hours—since 6:30 a.m.the day before, when his alarm had gone off and Doyle, fresh from the shower and combing fingers through damp hair, stepped into the bedroom saying, “Good morning, sunshine.”And after being in the car for the last thirty-four minutes, his body coming down fully from everything that had transpired in Brooklyn, gravity pushed at him.Larkin’s derbies scuffed the stairs as he approached the nearly empty second-floor bullpen.He stopped before his desk, stared at the blinking light on his phone, the stack of ancient manila folders someone had dropped off in regard to any one of his dozens of open investigations, the pile of call receipts recorded by the officer at the front desk throughout the day, and it was a stark reminder that murder was a full-time job with no end in sight.
Adam Worthwasn’this only case.
Larkin tossed his ring of keys onto the desk, put one hand on his hip, and rubbed the grit from his eyes with the other.
The creak of Porter’s chair preceded his “Grim?”
Larkin turned.
Porter was reclined as far back as the chair would allow, with his desk phone to one ear.The cord was a stretched and tangled mess.He put a hand over the mouthpiece and murmured, “Are you wearing someone else’s pants?”
“Yes.”
Porter took the answer at face value, shuffled his feet, and turned the chair toward the landing as Doyle reached the top step.Porter fist-bumped him while saying into the phone at the same time, “Cut me some slack, man.Rossi’s been six feet under since ’79.”
Doyle continued across the bullpen.He stopped outside one of the two unused rooms beside Connor’s office—light still on, door closed, deep voice resonating from within—then flipped on the bank of overheads.Larkin followed, passing Baker’s desk before pausing and backtracking two steps.
He picked up a Lisa Frank pencil from amid the clutter.It’d gone missing from his pen cup a week ago.He spun it around, the holographic unicorn print highlighting fresh chew marks in the soft cedar.Larkin sighed and tossed it back onto Baker’s desk.He entered the interview room and took in Doyle, already seated and digging a sketch pad out from the portfolio bag propped against the leg of the interview table.
Larkin quietly closed the door, leaned back against the wall to the left, and crossed his arms.Doyle had again brought up the necessity of a composite sketch on their drive back to the city, to which Larkin had said nothing, hoping his stoic silence was enough of a deterrent.
It had not been.
Doyle sharpened a few different pencils, testing the tips with the pad of his thumb.“Composite sketching can sometimes drum up strong emotion,” he said.“Whatever you’re feeling, just know that it’s valid.”
“I don’t want to do this, Ira.”
Doyle stopped.
Larkin felt a little like he were high—the exhaustion in his bones creating a sickening out-of-body sensation that was all too similar to one-too-many pills in his gut—and the return to that hazy no man’s land, despite being sober, lowered his defenses, loosened his tongue.“I had to do this in the hospital, and I couldn’t remember and I couldn’t speak and I don’t—” Larkin stopped.He pushed off the wall and moved to stand opposite Doyle at the table.More resolutely, he said, “I don’t want to feel like a victim again.”
Doyle met Larkin’s eye, his stare unyielding but never unkind.“Composite sketching, for me, isn’t about producing results.I know that sounds counterintuitive, but it’s always ever been about giving an individual the chance to be heard.I want you to feel empowered, not demoralized.”
Larkin let out a ragged breath.He straightened the chair before him, drummed his fingers against the tabletop in a quick succession of irritated movements, honestly considered playing his senior detective card and demanding they call it a night because he didn’t—couldn’t—be on this side of the law again.He couldn’t bear reliving the questions, the interrogation, the despair, the injustice of still not knowing, eighteen years later, who had brutally murdered the love of his boyhood and who had stolen from him his entire sense of self.
“I think you can do this,” Doyle began.
Man’s will yearned for purpose.
“I would at least like to try.”
And what if that purpose was to love?
“But I’ll understand if you can’t.”
Larkin slowly pulled the chair out and took a seat.“I love you very much,” he whispered.
Doyle whispered back, “I love you too, sunshine.”He resumed sharpening pencils before opening the sketch pad to a blank page.“First we’ll work on general proportions.”Doyle’s patient demeanor never gave hint to the hundreds of times he’d given this same exact speech.“I’m going to provide you with a few six-packs—”
“I remember what he looks like.”
Doyle let a few seconds settle between them before clarifying, “The six-packs are for me to reference.”He dug through his bag a second time.“Race?”
“White.”
“Age range?”
