Larkin checked his watch, returned Garcia’s records to their accordion file, adjusted the neat stack on his desk, then stood and gathered his suit coat from the back of the chair in one fluid motion. He pulled his arms through the sleeves, collected his library book, and walked to the staircase, but then Connor shouted, “Grim!”—the open door of his office providing a perfect view of who came and went in the bullpen.

Larkin looked over his shoulder.

“Where you going?” he called.

“OCME.”

“For John Doe?”

“Yes.”

Connor nodded after a beat, then added, “Doyle’s all yours, by the way.”

“Great,” Larkin heard himself say, but his tone was so tempered, he wasn’t certain if he intended for it to come across positively or sarcastically. His gut wasn’t so sure either.

Porter shuffled his feet across the floor as he lazily spun in his chair to look at Larkin. “That kid’s gonna be shadowing you now?”

“I’m fairly certain Detective Doyle is older than me,” Larkin corrected before he started down the steps.

“Age is a state of mind.”

“How very zen of you, Porter,” Larkin called back.

“He can draw you some funny cartoons while you do the actual detective work!”

“Goodbye.”

The forty blocks downtown to the Office of Chief Medical Examiner would have been an easy straight shot at any time but the start of rush hour on a Monday. It took exactly thirty-two minutes, with Larkin flashing his badge to the front desk at 4:34. He inquired after Dr. Baxter’s whereabouts—the basement, Larkin had presumed—but was instead directed to take the elevator to the second floor. Except when Larkin reached the office door with the nameplate L. Baxter, Medical Examiner, it was locked and no light showed at the floor.

“Dr. Baxter isn’t here.”