A smile tugged the corner of Larkin’s mouth as he got to his feet.
“All right,” Doyle concluded.“I’ll be there shortly.”
Larkin said, as Doyle lowered the phone, “This is not what was promised to me.”
“I know.But it sounds like SVU’s just tapped Forensic Artists for a minor emergency—”
“And both Loving and Bailey are either unavailable or underqualified for the particulars of said emergency,” Larkin concluded.He rested his hands on his hips before adding, “I can’t even be irritated without sounding like a jerk, because survivors always come before cold cases, and SVU has requested the most competent artist for the job.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Not without empirical evidence.”
Doyle’s gaze flicked over Larkin’s shoulder toward the open door before he offered a placating smile.“Hopefully it won’t take too much time.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Larkin corrected.“Don’t rush good work for my sake.”
“I’ll call you.”
Larkin nodded.He pulled Doyle down by his tie and kissed his mouth.“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Larkin watched Doyle disappear around the corner.His smoky voice bid farewell to the few other detectives working that Saturday, and then he was gone.Alone, Larkin blew out a breath, looked around, then dragged a molded plastic chair out from under a stack of boxes.He pushed it up against the metal shelving, stood on the seat, and resumed searching where Doyle had left off.
Some of the boxes were easy examinations, holding no more than two or three bulging folders several inches thick, while others were packed tight with dozens of files containing nothing more than the bare bones of an investigation that’d gone nowhere.Larkin made sure to go through the latter with particular care, as he was all but certain the original Jane Doe homicide would hardly contain enough to fill a greeting card, otherwise Barbara would have, at the very least, been linked to the missing person report filed under Esther’s name only a few days later in October of 1982.
It was a dusty and monotonous process, and the quiet was interrupted by thebeep,beep,beepof the copier across the hall as someone struggled in vain to make a two-sided copy, desk phones in the bullpen ringing until voicemail picked up, and eventually, Ulmer’s snide “You ready to include me on this case for real, or what?”
Hand poised to pluck a red-tagged folder, Larkin turned to see Ulmer leaning in the open doorway.Mildly, he said, “Hello, Ulmer.No, I’m not.”
“I don’t get you.”
“That’s fine.”
“Three times you’ve asked me to dig up missing persons reports, and three times I’ve delivered.You don’t have to like me—I can’t fucking stand you—but it’s time to put me on this case in an official capacity.”
Larkin ignored the demand.He removed the file in question before fitting the lid on the box and shoving it back against the wall.
“I wrote that complaint, you know,” Ulmer continued.“I guess it’s up to you whether I file it or not.”
Larkin tapped his fingers against the box—one, two, three times—before he got off the chair.He moved toward the doorway, taking a stand before Ulmer.“Do you know the term, ressentiment.”
Ulmer’s brows narrowed.He didn’t answer either way, and instead crossed his arms defensively.
“Ressentiment, as Nietzsche used it, is a philosophical concept in which one assigns their own inferiority, their own grudge, their own hostility, onto an external scapegoat.The ego seeks to create an enemy—a cause that can be blamed—for one’s station as a plebian.Slave morality is reactive of the master morality.It’s an inversion of values—bad is now good, good is now evil.
“We all have slave morality within us.Nietzsche’s exploration of the genealogy of morals within Western society demonstrates this.But our labor of today should not be in returning to the high-minded aristocratic morality of the past, but in reaching beyond the binary, beyond good and evil, to transcend into tomorrow.My achievements, for the sake of this argument, may be viewed as values of strength—a value which is arguablygood.But because you are unwilling to seek self-actualization, to accept reality as it actually exists, you twist my strength into something prideful, sinful,evil.
“And you, Ulmer, with that cunning projection of false humility, are utilizing yourresentmentby filing a complaint and claiming I keep you from elevating your station when this can be easily accomplished by putting in the necessary time and work.You poison us all with base and slavish thinking.You can’t stand me because I represent everything you want but cannot have—not because I’m holding you back, but because it’s more comfortable to be perceived as a victim.”
Ulmer’s complexion darkened.His nostrils flared like a bull seeing red.
Larkin waited, but when Ulmer continued to say nothing, he concluded, “You go ahead and file that report.”
“You’re an arrogant, conceited, entitled, pompous little prick—”
“Man despairs for reason, Ulmer.And whether you will against the most central conditions of life, or choose to instead embrace that which makes us most human—pain and happiness and beauty and death—that is entirely up to you.But before the slave morality’s life-denying rationale slides you further down that dangerous ascetic precipice, of which only nihilism awaits, I suggest visiting the breakroom.There’re donuts.”
