Ricky furrowed his brow. He studied his hands, picked at a hangnail. “They were… shot…?” He said it without looking up, but more like he asked, as if looking for clarification.

Larkin narrowed his eyes. “Where were their bodies left.”

“Lots of places.” Ricky started picking at another finger.

Larkin slammed his fist on the tabletop and Ricky jumped in his seat. “Where, Ricky.”

“L-let me see those pictures.”

“No.”

Ricky flashed a look of panic. He licked his lips. “But I need to see the pictures to know!”

Larkin considered, met Doyle’s look briefly, then raised the bag.

Ricky sat up from his seat and leaned over the table. He pointed a thick, grimy finger at the photographs and muttered, “Simone, Baby, Nadia. Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Simone, Baby—”

Larkin lowered the bag a second time when Ricky’s preoccupation suggested sexual excitement. “Where were Simone, Baby, and Nadia’s bodies left.”

Ricky slowly returned to his seat. He smiled again. His face contorted into something devilish as he said in that weird, singsong voice, “Now I remember… Tompkins Square Park.”

Larkin shot Doyle a second look. His partner met his gaze and nodded once in understanding. A few years after the riots in 1988, Tompkins Square Park had closed and undergone restoration in an attempt to curb the same levels of crime, drug use, and mass gatherings of the homeless as seen at Madison.

“Have you ever worked for the Parks and Recreation Department,” Larkin asked.

Ricky shook his head in a wishy-washy way. “I’m the super.”

“For how long.”

Ricky shrugged. “I’m not very good at reading time.”

Larkin reached across the small room to hand the evidence bag over to Doyle. He watched Ricky follow the photographs like a hawk and lick his lips again. “Tell me about Andrew Gorman. He lived in 2C.”

“He lived with Ms. Lopez.”

Super since at least 1997.

Doyle was writing as he cut into the conversation. “You’re pretty good with names, Ricky.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But not dates?”

“Numbers confuse me,” he said in a long, drawn-out breath.

Doyle looked up from the notepad. “I get that,” he said with the perfect amount of understanding and sympathy. “Did you like Andrew?”

Ricky shook his head.

“Why not?”

“He was mean.” Ricky shot Larkin a dirty look. “Like him. All plastic pretty. One time I found a dummy, but she had no head and a dog had shit down her neck.”

“Don’t be rude, Ricky,” Doyle said in a placating tone.

“I want my pictures back.”

Doyle shook his head. “Tell us about Andrew.”

“He was mean.”

“Mean?”

“No talking to Ms. Lopez, is what he said. He yelled at me that I’d be in trouble. So much trouble, Ricky! So much trouble! So when I had to fix her sink one time, I didn’t even say nothing.”

“Even after Andrew disappeared?” Doyle asked.