“Archie incorporates those details for himself, not his buyers,” Doyle replied. He brought the film strip down, turned, and clipped it to a hanging rack to dry. “Where he learned the specifics of a relatively obscure and misunderstood moment within the history of Western photography could prove a vital clue in discovering his true identity.”

Larkin put a hand to his own chest. “Tell me where I would learn about this.”

“A misleading article written by a content creator at Buzzfeed?”

“Going right for the jugular, I see.”

“Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

“Hardly. You give off a sort of wallflower-meets-slacker vibe to strangers, which leads to incorrect assumptions being made regarding both your intelligence and professional qualifications. But since I’ve known you, you meet that speculation head-on with quiet but fierce jabs. My presence is irrelevant.”

“A wallflower meets slacker?” Doyle repeated. “What am I, two-fifths of The Breakfast Club?”

Larkin’s mouth twitched, but he kept his expression a careful neutral and replied, “I rest my case.”

Doyle rolled his eyes.

Larkin asked, “Where would I learn about postmortem photography practices before the advent of digital media empires.”

Doyle was thoughtful, taking a moment to clean the counter of his developing process. “Societies, libraries, college courses, museums or historic homes….”

Larkin shook his head absently. “That’s still too many possibilities for narrowing down the most likely avenue of investigation. Pinning Archie’s identity is what’s going to lead to catching Marco’s killer. It’ll solve the current John Doe in the IKEA bag as well. I’m certain of that.” Larkin pushed his suit coat back and set his hands on his hips. “The problem is, I have too much information that means nothing, in the grand scheme of two unknown identities.”

“What would happen if the DB in the bag was identified first?” Doyle countered. “Would your thought process work in reverse?”

“In theory, I suppose it would.”

Doyle opened the door to the darkroom and motioned for Larkin to follow. “Come on. You still haven’t seen my composite sketch for Dicky.”

Larkin stepped into the quiet hall—tired overheads and recirculated air still the same as before, although it was too early in the morning for the smell of last night’s reheated dinner serving as today’s lunch to waft out from the breakroom. Larkin followed Doyle back to his office, where Doyle untied his apron, tossed it onto the worktable, and then sat at his drafting desk. He pulled back the cover on the sketch pad, flipped a few pages, and stopped at the composite sketch Megan had assisted with.