Page 22 of Subway Slayings
“Last month,” Doyle began, “you were involved in tracking down a serial killer who created replica nineteenth-century death masks with his victims’ likeness.”
“We both were,” Larkin corrected.
Doyle ignored that interjection as he continued. “Now there’s evidence in an all-new case, addressedspecificallyto you, that appears to be recreations of nineteenth-century postmortem photography.”
Larkin didn’t reply.
“Is there something going on you haven’t told me?”
“Why would you ask that.”
“Because this is really weird, Evie,” Doyle said, shaking the evidence bags for emphasis.
“I agree.”
Doyle frowned, his brows knitted together. “Has anyone checked on Harry Regmore recently?”
“He’s not involved.”
“Inmates always find a way to get messages to the outside, even those in a maximum security prison. We should ask about any correspondence, any phone calls—”
“These are two completely different psychologies at work.”
“Sure, but whoever is on the outside, they’re naturally going to add their own spin—”
“No,” Larkin snapped.
Doyle fell silent.
Quieter, Larkin said, “The fact is, Marco Garcia was killed during Regmore’s golden years, when he was hyperfocused on women on the fringes of society and creating ‘art’ that is unlike the methodology of photography.Thisperpetrator stalks a different environment and victim type entirely, with the only similarities being time period of activity and its general relation to outdated Western mourning practices. And even if this was not the case, if this was some kind of attempt at having Regmore’s art continue from behind bars, he would seek a submissive personality—someone he could control, treat like an apprentice—to ensurehisvision is what survived. What we’re dealing with is another master. For lack of better description.”
Doyle’s voice was subdued as he asked, “You’re confident Marco’s case is tied to yesterday’s John Doe?”
Larkin pointed at the evidence bags and asked, “In your professional opinion, are these the works of the same person.”
Doyle reluctantly turned his gaze downward and studied the two photos side-by-side in his hold. He said, on a gentle exhale of breath, “Both appear to exclusively utilize the ambient light of the subway. Harsh highlights and saturated shadows. The compositions are distinctly that of portraits—full face and what would essentially be direct eye contact, if the subjects were alive, that is.”
“Is that typical of mourning photography,” Larkin asked.
“So little could be controlled by photographers at the time, what with bulky equipment and a time-consuming process, but one element they strived to use artistically was the composition of the deceased. The images were meant to be sympathetic, after all. But I’ve seen a few, mostly of young children propped in chairs, that are comparable to this raw… almost aggressive emotion felt in the framing.” Doyle looked up before finishing, “I’d consider the style in both of these photographs to be exceptional enough that it could be one artist’s signature.”
Larkin’s thoughts immediately spiraled outward, like from the hub of a spider’s web. He could confirm both photographs were developed prior to Marco’s death, could even confirm Marco’s tenuous connection to yesterday’s DB through the existence of the pictures themselves, but what Larkinwasn’tyet confident in was themotivefor Marco’s death. The photographs were relevant, of that he was absolutely certain, but to what degree? Had Marco stumbled across someone’s dark, vile secret and so had to be killed to keep the truth from coming out? Or had Marco somehow been more intimately involved in the creation of these photos? Because as much as Larkin didn’t want to even consider it, the truth was, Marco had worked with children and taught them a number of different artistic disciplines—including photography. But that sat in Larkin’s gut like bad takeout.
There was also the matter of John Doe. What was his relationship to Marco and the photographs? Had he known Marco when the teen was alive? Had he been involved in the picture-taking process? Or was he nothing more than an unfortunate bystander, stuffed into a cheap bag like dirty laundry, meant to be a means in which to garner Larkin’s attention?
No. That didn’t make sense.
Because the first detective on the scene had been O’Halloran. And O’Halloran was with Homicide. If someone had wanted Larkin to come into custody of the photo, they could have just as easily had it anonymously delivered to the precinct through the US postal service. John Doe had a more immediate and relevant connection, although Larkin wasn’t yet in a position to say what that was, specifically.
And then there’d been the April Fools’ letter….
Had the perpetrator of these long-ago murders been the one to reach out on April 1?
They’d goaded Larkin with the promise of a “better memento.” They’d seemed to prey on a sect of society entirely forgettable to the public—at-risk youth—just like Harry Regmore had done with his exotic dancers. But if that was the case, why, after comfortably living in the shadows and delighting in the deaths of God only knew how many children, had the perp decided to take such a profound chance and step into the light?
It certainly had nothing to do with guilt or remorse for those murders committed.
This person was an artist.
