Larkin considered this, then asked, “Could that be used against the perpetrator.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mr. Hutton’s book—could it be checked out from a library.”

Doyle frowned a little and said, “I suppose it could be, but Portraits in Plaster is from 1890-something. As far as I know, it’s public domain now. It wouldn’t be research easily traced back to any one person.”

“But you’ve read it,” Larkin clarified.

“I went to art school.”

“So did Roger Hunt—designing, literally forging, jewelry. He’d have learned how to use a rounding hammer…. But Natasha was murdered in ’92. Roger, according to Jessica, would have graduated in ’97 with her and Andrew. He would have been a teenager when the killings began, and while that’s certainly not unheard of, most serial killers don’t become active until their twenties. And if I’m correct that Ricky was an accomplice—not the killer—and supplied a safe house of sorts, how did they know each other.”

“Roger might be a native,” Doyle supplied. “Grew up in the city versus moving here for college.”

“Maybe.”

“Right, maybe,” Doyle said suddenly. “Because… what if he pursued Andrew out of sheer convenience? Andrew lived in the same building where Roger and Ricky were busy making masks of dead women in a bathtub. Something goes wrong, Andrew sees Roger in a compromising situation, and now he’s gotta go. Plus, Roger never came forward with Jessica. Never helped her with the missing person report. That, in and of itself, is strange.”

“People are strange,” Larkin supplied. “It’s not necessarily suspicious behavior.”

“I think it is.”

“It’s a lot of postulation and little evidence.”

“Then let’s get to Brooklyn and speak with Mr. Too-Busy-for-a-Murder-Investigation.” Doyle pointed and asked, “What’d you find that’s not covered in maggots?”

Larkin glanced at the bag and held it up. “She fought her attacker. Blood might be hers, might be his—it’s clearly never been tested. She tore at what he was wearing. Fabric with blue and orange threads.” He watched a minute shift in Doyle’s expression: raised eyebrows, widened eyes—interest. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… blue and orange. That’s—”

“Gaudy.”

“Says the man who coordinates a pink pocket square with gold wingtips.”

“They complement.”

“Exactly. Blue and orange are complementary on a color wheel. But men’s clothing isn’t exactly known for such bold palettes, even in the ’90s.”

“Are you suggesting the perpetrator was a woman,” Larkin asked.

“No, no. It’s curious, is all.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN