“Well, when you take a picture, you essentially steal a second of the sitter’s life—freezing it for all time. And when they’re gone, that image still remains. It is, for all intents and purposes, a memento of someone’s death.”

“That is a startlingly simplistic view on the subject matter.”

“Isn’t most philosophy rather simplistic, once you break it down?” Doyle countered.

Larkin took a small step to the right as he studied the next few negative frames. “Nothing is more corruptible than an artist,” he quoted under his breath. “They’re in service to the ascetic ideal—a conflict which wills itself to be conflicting. It is a will against the very life that has created him—the artist finds satisfaction in pain and ugliness.”

“Nietzsche,” Doyle answered.

Larkin glanced up, happy that he was not surprised. “Yes.”

“Meanwhile, we keep looking at these ‘aversions to life’ because why?” Doyle emphasized by lightly shaking the film strip in his hands.

“We’ve become anesthetized to grotesque imagery.”

“So we keep upping the ante?”

Larkin considered, then nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

Doyle raised a thick eyebrow and asked with a sort of wry expression, “Then you consider a mourning portrait to be the artist’s ultimate act against man? Or could it be paradoxical in that an artist finds satisfaction in the misfortune inherent in such photos because of the sense of peace they bring?”

Larkin frowned and lowered the magnifying glass. “Huh.”

Doyle smiled.

Larkin checked his watch and said, “You’re not to be trusted with philosophical conversations at 7:24 a.m.”

Looking rather pleased, Doyle thrust his chin toward the film strip and asked, “What do you see?”

“Much of what we expected, per Ms. Flouride’s testimony. We know, of course, the original artist—pseudonym, Archie Bunker—did not take these, and that Mr. Reynold has attempted to replicate the subject matter that arouses him by cutting corners. Namely, he did not commit murder. So while she’s not dead in these pictures, he does have her posed oddly.” Larkin shifted again to study the images farther along the strip. “Sitting on the floor with her legs splayed out and leaning back against the wall. There’s a… broken doll quality to her positioning.”

“Look dead,” Doyle said without a flicker of the amusement he’d shown a moment before. “Hell of a stage direction.”

“What Mr. Reynold did not replicate were any of the poses or tokens seen in the seven other portraits we’ve obtained. No clasped hands, no shoes, no flowers or leaves. Archie has very particular knowledge of postmortem photography and utilizes it in such a way that it’s… natural.”

“Overlooked in replication?” Doyle suggested.

“Yes. It’s so subtle that I don’t believe Mr. Reynold was aware of it as an element in the previous photographs he purchased.” Larkin lowered the magnifying glass and stared at Doyle. “What does that tell us.”