Larkin’s gaze cut toward Millett, and he watched the CSU detective begrudgingly acknowledge the demand by retrieving a clear plastic bag, standing, and holding it out. Larkin accepted it and studied the contents: a 4x6 photograph, like something cheaply and hastily developed at any drugstore photo lab across America throughout the ’80s and ’90s. The snapshot was vertical, of what appeared to be a teenage girl slouched—asleep, drunk, or stoned, it was difficult to say—on one of the infamous oak benches scattered throughout the platforms of the subway system. The white tile wall behind her offered no suggestion as to her location, other than one of the underground stations, and any other details to be gleaned wouldn’t be possible in the photo’s current state, as it was heavily smeared and discolored with human fluids.

“It was in John Doe’s pocket,” Millett said before adding, “look at the back.”

Larkin turned the bag around. Written across the back of the photograph in a shaky and slanted hand was Deliver me to Detective Larkin!

Larkin looked up.

O’Halloran gave him a mocking salute, said, “Mazel tov, motherfucker,” and walked out of the utility room.

“You know,” Millett stated after O’Halloran had departed, “there’s a forensic document examiner at the lab in Queens—”

“Blue ballpoint pen,” Larkin interrupted, studying the message again. “Cheap, disposable, probably Bic, which is the world’s most popular pen brand, selling an average of fifty-seven units a second. So, untraceable. The handwriting itself is disguised, below the individual’s baseline skill level.” He studied the evidence for one, two, three more seconds, before concluding, “Right-handed, but they switched as a means of concealment.” Larkin raised his head.

Millett’s expression around the respirator was pinched. “How do you know that?”

“Ambidextrous by nurture, not nature,” Larkin answered, pointing to himself. “Although I still favor my left for shooting and writing. Without practice, penmanship in the nondominant hand has a distinct tremor and slant, as the individual lacks the fine control and muscle memory found in the dominant hand. And because ninety percent of American citizens are right-handed, it is highly likely the individual is masking their identity by simply switching to the left hand.”

“How did I not see that?” Millett murmured with a distinct, cynical tone.

“My observation skills and recall are considered to be quite exceptional.”

“And so modest too.”

“I have neither the time nor inclination to take fragile egos under consideration while doing my job, Detective,” Larkin answered. He held up the evidence bag and asked, voice lacking that natural upward inflection found in English, “May I keep this.”

“By all means,” Millett concluded with an absent wave of his hand.

“You sound like your blood sugar is dipping,” Baxter said to Larkin. “Prolonged exposure to heat can do that.”