Larkin signaled for him to go.
“I’ll be on the fourth floor if you need anything.”Marcus left the open doorway, answering the call with a loud, “You’re outside?I’ll be right there.”
Hackett moved farther into the living room and said, while motioning like he was pulling the bed down, “Imagine bringing a guy over here—‘One sec while I get my bed out.’”
Larkin cracked a smile before turning, walking across the kitchen, and flipping on the bathroom light.He took a look in the medicine cabinet, finding only a tube of toothpaste and brush, floss, deodorant, cologne, an all-in-one lotion—which was mildly horrifying—a razor, nail clippers, and a half-empty box of condoms.No sample or travel-size products that people so often accumulated over time, no medications—prescription or otherwise—or any sort of skincare.Larkin pulled back the curtain on the bathtub, but all that was inside was another all-in-one bottle—this of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash—and a loofah.
He turned the light off, returned to the kitchen, and opened the nearest cupboard.One dinner plate, one bread-and-butter plate, one bowl, one cup.He tried the next cupboard and found a single coffee mug, a pour-over, and a nutribullet with a smoothie cup.Larkin pulled open the drawer beside the empty sink.One knife, spoon, and fork.One wooden spoon, a paring knife, and a set of measuring spoons.In the bottom cabinet, he found more of the same: one pan, one pot, a bag of rice, a box of crackers, a can of beans, and a jug of protein powder.The refrigerator held only a gallon of almond milk, one container of strawberries, another of blueberries, and a prechopped bag of kale.He found two gluten-free burritos in the freezer.
“Must have been laundry day,” Hackett said suddenly.
Larkin closed the door on the freezer.“Why do you say that.”
“Guy’s got nothing to wear,” Hackett replied.He was standing in front of the open closet.“A pair of jeans, and… two, three… five polo shirts.Oh, and one white T-shirt.”
Larkin moved to join Hackett.He studied the bare bones collection before saying suddenly, “He’s a minimalist.A rather extreme one, in fact.They use what are referred to as a capsule wardrobe.The idea is to own as little as possible while still maintaining a high degree of attire variability.He died wearing khakis and a blue polo, so that’s two pairs of pants and seven shirts total, which is fourteen different outfits.If you add one sweater and one accessory, then you’ve got even more options.For some, the idea is to reduce decision paralysis, but the choice of becoming an extreme minimalist can range from trauma to financial to laziness to simply notwantingbeyond the most basic of necessities.”
“Yeah, well, if I paid thirty-five hundred a month for a shoebox six stories up, it’d be a financial choice for me too.”Hackett moved toward the armchair and picked up a slim silver MacBook from its cushion.
Larkin tugged his trousers at the knees before crouching down.He pushed aside the empty bin for dirty laundry and found a padded diploma cover propped against the wall.Inside was a bachelor’s degree in journalism from the University of Missouri and two photographs.One was of a young Joe Sinclair in his graduation cap and gown, flanked on either side by an older couple—mother and father perhaps, although they could have been his grandparents—and the other was a candid, interior shot of a hoarder’s house.Chaos was stacked nearly to the ceiling, copious piles of trash among the belongings, no discernable path—Larkin could practically smell the room in that picture and he shuddered.
“His laptop is password-protected,” Hackett stated.
Larkin stood.
“We can have the lab guys crack it open and see if he’s got anything on it to suggest an enemy or—hey, why do you think Joe, specifically, chose the life of self-flagellation?”
“Control,” Larkin answered.
“How do you mean?”
Larkin didn’t prescribe to the concept of minimalism from an anticonsumerism point of view, but he did understand it from a trauma perspective—the inherent relief in keeping one’s personal space visually quiet.He didn’t like unnecessary possessions because it was alwaysone more thingfor his brain to memorize, catalogue, pack into his exhausted long-term memory, and on days where he was so fucking sick and tired of thinking, he’d find himself in a screaming match with his ex-husband over a pine cone that been left on the kitchen counter—the last bit of visual information that’d sent him completely over the edge—only to find out one of Noah’s students had given it to him as a gift, and Larkin didn’t know that, hadn’t intentionally tossed something of sentimental value, but Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a pine cone, Noah, and I can’t—I can’t—
Larkin winced, jerked his head, and took a breath.He turned to Hackett, who was watching him curiously, and said in his careful monotone, “I think minimalism this severe might be a trauma response, most likely originating from a time when Joe felt he had little or no control in his life.Typically, cleaning, decluttering, or organizing one’s living conditions provides a sense of accomplishment, but for some, their surroundings are almost a physical manifestation of the anxiety or fear they have inside, so removing possessions is, quite literally, akin to tossing out unwanted emotions.”Larkin offered the hoarder photograph.
Hackett took it, his face twisting into one of horror.“Holy shit.”
“Mental illness in the children of hoarders can manifest in many ways, but one of note is the tendency to purge belongings at an excessive rate.Even a reasonable quantity of possessions can trigger the same stress, anxiety, embarrassment, and fear they grew up with while surrounded by their parent’s hoard.Without proper therapy, these individuals can and do become minimalists, not for its aesthetics, but for control of their environment.Having thingsjust sogives them that sense of order they didn’t have as a child.Unfortunately, it’s a Band-Aid for a bigger problem, which is how reasonable minimalism reaches this sort of an extreme.”
Hackett’s brows were knitted together.“Why would he keep this picture, though?”
“It’s a fear tactic.Something he used as a reminder to keep himself in check.”
“Where was it?”
“Tucked inside his unframed diploma.”Larkin considered his own words for a moment.
“What?”Hackett asked into the sudden silence.
“How do we use psychology of place on one such as this.”
Hackett snorted and shrugged.
“I told you where I found that photo.”
“Inside his diploma.”
“Hisunframeddiploma,” Larkin corrected.“That, in and of itself, is not strange.But in an apartment with no personal touches, no mementos, where he’s one duffel bag away from being able to up and leave, the only intimate belonging was found on the floor, behind the laundry bin, which was used to store a photograph that brings him stress and shame.There’s a second photo in the diploma, Joe at his graduation with who I suspect are his later-in-life parents.”Larkin rested his hands on his hips and finished, “His education was clearly something he was proud of.He’s so far resisted divesting himself of that diploma and picture of himself all smiles in his cap and gown, but at the same time, he’s treating it as a source of humiliation.”
