Doyle hummed in agreement. “Exactly. So no later than six hours after death, but it’s far more likely the photographing took place within the first hour, not only to avoid rigor in the face, but time would have been of the essence.” He looked up and pointed his pen at Larkin. “It would be impossible to say when IKEA-John came into possession of Janie’s photo, prior to obtaining an ID on him and understanding where he fits in this story, but can we estimate when Marco may have come into custody of Johnny’s?”

“Marco was writing a report on Hamlet,” Larkin answered. “The play was checked out from his high school library with a due date of May 23, 1997. This date is before my time, of course, so no party trick.”

Doyle leaned to one side, removed his cell from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, then said, “Friday.”

Larkin nodded and continued. “High school libraries typically have a two-week checkout period. So that would mean the earliest date was… twenty-three… sixteen… May 9. Marco could have had the photograph in his safekeeping for longer, of course, but it’s far more likely he grabbed the first thing he had on-hand in order to hide it. The report was half-finished and probably due the same week.”

Doyle quickly jotted down a few bullet points before asking, “And Marco was killed Monday the 19th, right?”

“Correct. He had a part-time job as a mentor and teaching assistant at the now-defunct New York Youth Empowerment Center. It was an after-school program for—”

“At-risk kids?” Doyle asked, but he was nodding knowingly. “Yeah. I spent more than a few summer vacations enrolled in those programs.”

Larkin cocked his head to one side. “Really?”

Doyle leaned back in the computer chair, now rolling the pen between his thumb and index finger. “I was a bit of a hellraiser.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Daddy’s mellowed out in his old age.”

“I never called you ‘Daddy.’”

Doyle’s laugh was low, rumbling in his chest like a cat’s purr. “So you’re saying that Marco was killed after work?”

“Yes,” Larkin said with a curt nod. “Part of his duties included walking students to the subway and paying their fare, since the center closed at eight o’clock and this was after-hours for the student passes.”

“The Q doesn’t go to Inwood,” Doyle pointed out.

“No. Marco rode the A home.”

“So why….” Doyle trailed off when Larkin held his hands out, his palms up. “That’s the mystery. Got it. And we know for certain he didn’t fall onto the tracks, right?”