Dan Chen returned approximately four minutes later, slightly out of breath but wielding bolt cutters, just as Doyle wrapped up a conversation with Martha Russell, Niederman’s manager at Shine & Sparkle.

“She’s emailing me his full employment history and his calendar for the last thirty days,” Doyle explained, pocketing the phone. “Apparently he’s worked for them the better part of twenty years and a lot of businesses have come and gone in that time.”

“Terrific,” Larkin muttered, taking the bolt cutters from Dan. “Any of note.”

“Lots of mom-and-pop and drugstores, but he’s been mostly relegated to offices the last decade.”

“Mom-and-pop, as well as drugstores, could explain his early access to photo minilabs.” Larkin got the blades around the shackle of the lock and pressed down hard. It took another attempt and a few seconds more than Larkin would have liked in front of an audience, but the case-hardened steel finally snapped in two. He handed Doyle the cutters.

“Aren’t you butch,” Doyle said quietly.

Larkin worked the broken lock free and opened the door. The room was barely big enough for the toilet that it housed—let alone a person in need of it. Larkin flicked the light switch. Nothing. He held up his cell, the flashlight app illuminating the DIY darkroom Niederman had constructed around the toilet: walls painted black, shelving installed overhead, a sort of impromptu table that, once standing inside the room, could be extended from the wall, jugs of chemical developers shoved behind the toilet, and a hanging rack with strips of dried negatives, now curled, still tacked and waiting for his return. The silver case of Niederman’s MacBook gleamed from a shelf as Larkin passed the light over it.

“And this might explain the lack of lab-printed data on the backs of some of the more recent photos,” Larkin muttered. He stepped into the cramped space and asked, “How long should film be hung for.”

“No more than a day,” Doyle answered. “It definitely shouldn’t be stored like this—you get those permanent curls in the film.”

Larkin gently lifted one of the negatives, held it against the white of his latex glove, and shined light on it. He didn’t even need details for the murky image to make sense. The geometry of the photograph was enough. “Dead children.”

Doyle swore under his breath.