“It was,” Larkin insisted. He took a deep breath, and another chuckle escaped as he said, “I don’t remember the last time I laughed like this. It feels good.”

“You have a nice laugh.”

As Larkin wiped his face, he caught a curious look flicker across Doyle’s face. There was no universal microexpression for shame. That reaction existed within the family of sadness, but by its very nature was a look humans instinctually sought to avoid broadcasting at all costs. Because to reveal shame meant receiving a reaction of disgust from others.

And yet there it was.

For just a second, laid bare.

Then Doyle smiled that light-up-a-room-before-you-even-walk-in smile, stood, and pulled Larkin to his feet. “Let’s talk to Ricky.”

It was 4:22 p.m. when Larkin opened the door to the interview room. It was nondescript: white walls, battered table, office chairs that’d clearly been rotated around the precinct until winding up here for the last leg of their lives. A public-school clock was on the wall, metal cage covering the face so no desperate suspect thought to utilize the minute hand as an impromptu weapon. And other than Ricky, his arms crossed on the tabletop with his head down, that was it.

Larkin took a seat across from the super.

Doyle shut the door and sat against the wall, notepad and pen ready.

Larkin was silent. He’d counted to thirty-three before Ricky raised his head and met his gaze.

“You ain’t a cop,” Ricky said, his voice almost too loud after the silence.

Larkin removed his wallet and displayed his badge. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Cases. I told you that.”

“You’re too pretty.”

Larkin tucked his badge away.

“Like those store dummies,” Ricky clarified.

“Mannequins,” Larkin corrected.

“Perfect but plastic.”

Larkin leaned back, propped his ankle on his knee, and folded his hands in his lap. He waited. But Ricky never changed position. Never shifted subconsciously to mirror Larkin, to build a bridge between them. Interesting. Larkin raised the evidence bag from his lap, holding it just out of Ricky’s reach. “Tell me about these women.”

Ricky stared at the Polaroids. He shrugged and met Larkin’s eyes. Dark, dead eyes, like old fish on a bed of ice, met reaper gray in a standoff. A childish grin creased the wrinkles of Ricky’s face, and he whispered, “You can see their boobs.”

“Why were they chosen.”

Ricky finally straightened his posture, his hands still on the tabletop. There was dirt under his nails. “I like those store dummies with faces and big boobs. Zallie’s Pleasure Box has one in the window. It’s my favorite.”

Larkin put the evidence bag back in his lap so Ricky couldn’t gawk at the victims. “When were these women killed.”

“Oh, a long time ago.”

“When,” Larkin asked again.

“It was a long time ago,” Ricky insisted, but now agitated.

“How.”