And Doyle must have heard the inflection in Larkin’s voice, because he looked up. “The boy is holding one of his shoes in his lap.”

Larkin set the half-eaten donut in the box, closed the lid, then pushed against the floor with his heels, directing the wheeled chair to bump up against Doyle’s so he could study the evidence too. “Yes. A dirty sneaker. Counterfeit Nikes, by the looks of it.”

“It’s not the shoe itself that’s important.”

“I don’t understand.”

Doyle lowered the bag. His face was stoic as he asked, “How much do you know about postmortem photography?”

Larkin blinked. “The nineteenth-century mourning phenomenon?”

Doyle nodded.

“Photographs were taken of family who’d passed away. It fell out of favor after the turn of the century.”

“By the 1920s,” Doyle confirmed. “As death was removed from the home in favor of mortuaries, society’s attitude toward mortality began taking a dramatic shift, until it’s become what it is today.”

“Taboo,” Larkin answered.

“Taboo,” Doyle echoed in agreement. “But in the mid to late 1800s, whether the photograph was of a loved one on their deathbed, someone who’d already passed, or an image of those in mourning, it was meant to be a token of remembrance. For some families, it was the only visual of who’d they’d lost.”

Larkin said, “A memento mori.”

“Come with me.”

Larkin got to his feet and followed Doyle across the bullpen, down the hall, and into the former-office-turned-junk-room—where everything broken or obsolete was left to die—fondly referred to by the squad as the Fuck It. Larkin shut the door behind himself, leaned back against it, and watched as Doyle turned, one hand still holding the bags, the other resting on his hip.

“Last month,” Doyle began, “you were involved in tracking down a serial killer who created replica nineteenth-century death masks with his victims’ likeness.”

“We both were,” Larkin corrected.

Doyle ignored that interjection as he continued. “Now there’s evidence in an all-new case, addressed specifically to you, that appears to be recreations of nineteenth-century postmortem photography.”

Larkin didn’t reply.

“Is there something going on you haven’t told me?”

“Why would you ask that.”

“Because this is really weird, Evie,” Doyle said, shaking the evidence bags for emphasis.

“I agree.”

Doyle frowned, his brows knitted together. “Has anyone checked on Harry Regmore recently?”

“He’s not involved.”

“Inmates always find a way to get messages to the outside, even those in a maximum security prison. We should ask about any correspondence, any phone calls—”

“These are two completely different psychologies at work.”

“Sure, but whoever is on the outside, they’re naturally going to add their own spin—”

“No,” Larkin snapped.

Doyle fell silent.