Doyle’s smile could have bankrupted even the most moral of men. “You used to only spray your wrists,” he clarified.

“Fair enough.” Larkin navigated to his inbox, which was clean and orderly, because despite the medical leave, he had refused to return to work with hundreds of unread messages that would only bog him down, and so had diligently tapped out one-handed responses to each new email every morning, but only after Doyle left for his precinct, lest Larkin be called out for working while off the clock.

Doyle turned in the chair and said, “We need to get creative with our approach. What about that Hamlet essay? It’s likely to have been a final project, because a week later would have been June and—Marco would have been a senior, right?”

“Correct.”

“So he’d have had class finals, potentially some AP tests, even Regents, if he hadn’t finished fulfilling those requirements. It’d be worth running to ground any of his former teachers and asking if they recall suspicious or concerning behavior during that time. Maybe Marco was being bullied. Maybe he had a bad breakup. I know neither of those circumstances would explain the photos or IKEA-John, but we have to start somewhere.”

Larkin briefly looked away from the screen. Doyle was staring at him expectantly. “Camila insisted Marco was well-liked and well-behaved. She said he had one or two girlfriends in high school, but nothing serious enough that she could recall a name.”

“Sometimes parental figures are the last to know there’s a problem,” Doyle replied.

—“A divorce? Everett, you’re being absolutely ridiculous! Noah is perfect for you.”—

Larkin studied Doyle’s dark eyes and said, “That’s true.” He returned his attention to the screen, downloaded an attachment from L. Baxter, MD, and clicked Print. “Marco went to PS 51. Fourth period, World Literature with Mr. Reynold.”

“How do you know that?” Doyle called as Larkin walked toward the printer along the wall in between Connor’s office and an interview room.

Larkin answered, while collecting the paperwork spitting out at lightning speed, “Marco properly labeled his reports.”

“All right. We’ve got Camila Garcia and Mr. Reynold, so far. Is Dad still in the picture?”

“Dead since 1985,” Larkin said upon returning to his desk.

“And what about that youth center?” Doyle continued as he made notations on his pad. “When did it close?”

“Shortly after 2007, I believe. It was a nonprofit that Camila said didn’t survive the recession. A subpoena to the Secretary of State’s office ought to get us the records we need.”

“One of the officers of the nonprofit might remember Marco,” Doyle suggested. “Or could at least refer us to other mentors and instructors he worked with.”