Page 62 of Subway Slayings
Doyle opened the door to the darkroom and motioned for Larkin to follow. “Come on. You still haven’t seen my composite sketch for Dicky.”
Larkin stepped into the quiet hall—tired overheads and recirculated air still the same as before, although it was too early in the morning for the smell of last night’s reheated dinner serving as today’s lunch to waft out from the breakroom. Larkin followed Doyle back to his office, where Doyle untied his apron, tossed it onto the worktable, and then sat at his drafting desk. He pulled back the cover on the sketch pad, flipped a few pages, and stopped at the composite sketch Megan had assisted with.
The man she’d called Creepy Dicky appeared to be in his fifties, but looked exceptionally rough around the edges, like life had not been kind. He was white, with a large, sort of bulbous nose and gaunt face, a pinched expression around his eyes, with skin tags near his right eye, under his right ear, and down along the side of his neck. His hair was unkempt and sparse along the front, and Doyle had drawn his mouth partially open to reveal a missing incisor.
“I scanned and emailed you a copy last night, before I came home,” Doyle said, glancing up at Larkin.
“Thank you,” Larkin murmured, still staring at the drawing. “On the surface, he appears to match John Doe’s characteristics.”
“Did the ME mention John Doe having any drugs in his system? Megan was pretty insistent he was a habitual user, and Reynold claimed he was a heroin addict, right?”
“ME would have to run a test on hair follicles,” Larkin answered. “He was found long after the window in which heroin would be detectable in urine or blood. But I’ll call the OCME.” He took out his phone, opened his calendar, and created a new list of to-dos for the case. “I’ll check on the fingerprint status too. We only have a partial name and alias, but that’s better than nothing. If he’s got a long history of homelessness and drug use, someone on the force knows him.”
“Someone at the MTA might too,” Doyle pointed out. “Especially if he lives in the tunnels like the alleged kids at Fifty-Seventh.”
Larkin nodded, still typing. “We’ll be sure to ask Ms. Crowley and Mr. Armstrong at our appointment later today.”
Doyle slid his index finger underneath the hair tie on Larkin’s left wrist, not giving it a tug, but instead rubbing the pulse point.
Larkin glanced up from his phone screen.
A knock sounded from the partially opened door.
Doyle pulled his hand free and looked around Larkin. “Morning, Craig,” he said as Senior Artist Bailey poked his head in.
Bailey hadn’t changed from the last time Larkin had seen him in March. He was still thin, sporting that Tom Selleck mustache, wearing trousers that fit him like they’d been bought off the discount rack, and a tie more suitable for a school teacher than a detective—but Larkin decided, because Bailey was Doyle’s immediate supervisor, he wouldn’t say anything about the silliness of the Rubik’s Cube pattern.
“Doyle, I’m so glad you’re in. Larkin, it’s been a minute!”
“Fifty-two days.”
“I’m glad one of us is watching the calendar for more than just retirement,” Bailey said.
“I have a minimum of twelve more years before retirement is even a consideration,” Larkin answered. “Besides, to view my career as a means to a cushy end would be counterproductive and an insult to taxpayers.”
Bailey didn’t seem perturbed as he said, “Once you’ve hit thirty-three years on the force, you come find my grave and tell me you don’t know the exact day you’ll be retiring.”
Larkin frowned, narrowed his eyes, and looked over his shoulder at Doyle.
Doyle nodded and answered Larkin’s confused expression. “He’s joking. Did you need something, Craig?”
“SVU’s got a vic down at Presbyterian. Female student at Pace University left her campus residence to go on a jog a little over an hour ago, was grabbed from behind, dragged into that construction zone—you know the high rise I’m talking about?—and raped. Guy ran, but she says she got a good look at him. I know you’re working with Cold Cases right now, but Loving called out sick and I’ve got a meeting with the brass upstairs.”
Larkin turned to Doyle a second time. “I have plenty of phone calls to make.”
“Are you sure?”
“An assault takes precedence.”
Doyle stood from the desk, towering over Larkin in a single, fluid motion. “It should only be a few hours. I can meet up with you after I finish.”
Larkin nodded.
Bailey gave a thumbs-up. “Thanks, Doyle.” He stepped out of the threshold, leaving the door open.
Larkin started for the door too, but then Doyle called, “See you later, Butch.”
Turning, Larkin watched Doyle shove supplies into his portfolio bag before offering a playful grin. And hesitantly, because nicknames, even in jest, always felt so odd to say, Larkin replied, “See you later, Sundance.”
