“He developed these before going on the hunt again,” Larkin theorized. “He stood here on Sunday, May 10, and developed two rolls of film—twenty-seven photos each of two more dead and posed children—then he hung the rolls to dry, shut the door, and walked to Second Avenue to catch the F in the evening hours. He got off at Fifty-Seventh Street. He’s hunting for Reynold’s fourteen-year-old redhead. Something goes wrong. He’s found dead nine days later, with evidence of an unknown person of interest requesting my presence on the case.” Larkin lowered his phone and turned to stare at Doyle. “Archie Bunker, aka Alfred Niederman, has been supplementing his income since the ’80s by selling pornographic and necrophilic images to a closeknit community of sexual predators. He murdered these children.” Larkin furrowed his brow and asked, “So who murdered Alfred Niederman?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There was a parking ticket under the windshield wiper of the Audi.

Larkin grabbed it before sliding behind the wheel. He crumpled the orange notification and tossed it into the backseat.

Doyle glanced over his shoulder from the passenger seat before saying, “I think you have to pay that.”

Larkin turned the ignition, but didn’t move to take the car out of Park. He stared out the front, saying, “The one viable suspect we had in Marco’s murder, the only person who could potentially provide the truth of the matter, has been dead himself this entire investigation.”

“Maybe.”

“That wasn’t a statement open to further discussion. Alfred Niederman killed Marco Garcia. Marco worked with at-risk youth. He walked them to the Fifty-Seventh Street station every night. Marco somehow came into possession of Johnny Doe’s death portrait a week before his murder, which means he knew something of what was going on. Marco was aware of and suspicious of someone or something the night of May 19, 1997, or he wouldn’t have gone down to the platform. Niederman was hunting. Niederman killed Marco for catching him in the act.”

“It’s extremely plausible,” Doyle answered, slow and even. “But without evidence or sworn testimony—”

“Marco’s been dead for twenty-three fucking years,” Larkin snapped. He turned the ignition off and looked at Doyle. “What am I supposed to tell his mother. ‘I know you were desperate for some kind of closure, some sort of reprieve, but there will be no justice, no peace, no silence. I let you down. I told you I wouldn’t, but I did. And now, if you’ll excuse me, the department wants to pin another goddamn medal on my uniform.’”

“You’re not going to say any of that,” Doyle replied. “Because you’re not done working this case. We still have multiple avenues of investigation to explore.”

Larkin shook his head.