There was also the matter of John Doe. What was his relationship to Marco and the photographs? Had he known Marco when the teen was alive? Had he been involved in the picture-taking process? Or was he nothing more than an unfortunate bystander, stuffed into a cheap bag like dirty laundry, meant to be a means in which to garner Larkin’s attention?

No. That didn’t make sense.

Because the first detective on the scene had been O’Halloran. And O’Halloran was with Homicide. If someone had wanted Larkin to come into custody of the photo, they could have just as easily had it anonymously delivered to the precinct through the US postal service. John Doe had a more immediate and relevant connection, although Larkin wasn’t yet in a position to say what that was, specifically.

And then there’d been the April Fools’ letter….

Had the perpetrator of these long-ago murders been the one to reach out on April 1?

They’d goaded Larkin with the promise of a “better memento.” They’d seemed to prey on a sect of society entirely forgettable to the public—at-risk youth—just like Harry Regmore had done with his exotic dancers. But if that was the case, why, after comfortably living in the shadows and delighting in the deaths of God only knew how many children, had the perp decided to take such a profound chance and step into the light?

It certainly had nothing to do with guilt or remorse for those murders committed.

This person was an artist.

They were proud of their work.

Perhaps they wanted somebody worthy to sit up and take notice.

Then along came Everett Larkin.

The perp saw their first real challenge in nearly thirty-five years.

And they were excited.

“There’s the possibility you’ve gained the attention of someone unstable,” Doyle said, his voice pulling Larkin free from the mess of webs anchored by half-formed truths.

Larkin scrubbed his face with one hand. “What do you mean.”

“You were in the news after we apprehended Harry Regmore,” Doyle answered. “All anyone had to do was google your name and they’d pull up a lot of successes and little failures.”

“Perhaps,” Larkin answered absently, because he knew that the perp had been aware of him and his powers of deduction before mainstream media had latched onto the Death Mask Murders. And he was now certain of two possibilities: that this suspect was either watching Regmore’s movements throughout the ’90s (perchance they were aware of each other, although there was no evidence the relationship went both ways), or that this death portrait photographer was most definitely someone on the inside.

But Larkin still hadn’t told Doyle about the letter, and now he wasn’t sure how.

Larkin continued, “I’d been investigating Marco’s murder a month before Andrew Gorman was discovered.”

Doyle asked thoughtfully, “So we should do a double-check on who you’ve already interviewed regarding Marco?”