Reynold’s complexion was steadily going waxy. “I only suggested it to Marco. He was looking for part-time opportunities and—and he could have been my way in.”

Larkin asked, “You mean, a foot in the door for you to make contact with this other individual.”

Reynold weakly nodded.

“Then what.”

“Marco got the job. After school, mostly. He told me how it was going now and then.”

“And did you meet your new friend,” Larkin asked.

“I mean, not—not really.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t,” Reynold said in another half-sob, half-wheeze. “We never met in-person. None of us in the forums did. Marco’s presence was what helped… facilitate our business relationship.”

“How did you conduct business, if not in person.”

“I, um… I mailed cash and then he mailed my… artwork.”

Larkin straightened his posture and asked, “You participated in the shipping and receiving of underage, necrophilic pornography through the United States Postal Service.”

Reynold barely whispered, “Y-yes….”

“Jesus Christ. What’s your pen pal’s address.”

“It’s a ghost address. Totally anonymous. Like a P.O. Box, but you pay in cash and there’s no legal information on file.”

“Where is it located.”

Shriveling under Larkin’s unrelenting gray stare, Reynold reluctantly gave him the address of a commercial facility in Bushwick that he mailed payments to, and one in East Harlem where he retrieved his packages. “He went by Archie Bunker.”

Larkin rolled his eyes while he pulled the addresses up on his phone to confirm they were legitimate, still-existing locations. “Why did Marco have one of those photos in his possession,” he eventually asked.

“I don’t know. I have no idea. I swear to God.”

“God doesn’t give a shit what you say,” Larkin stated, tucking his cell back in his pocket. “Did Marco find out about you and your buddy.”

“I don’t know,” Reynold repeated. “I found out Marco died the next day, at school, like everyone else.”

Larkin felt as if he were running face-first into a wall.

Like the world was hellbent on proving that even a star detective and shepherd of the dead and forgotten couldn’t win them all, save them all, or remember them all.

Taking a deep breath and recollecting himself, Larkin reconsidered the clues at present and asked instead, “Who’s Creepy Dicky.”

Reynold groaned and turned his head away.

Larkin snapped his fingers in front of Reynold’s face. “Look at me when I talk to you.”

“He’s just some homeless schitzo.”

“Mr. Reynold,” Larkin began with a frown. “Need I remind you, I was tased earlier this afternoon, and suffice it to say, I am not in a particularly amicable mood. So if you bullshit me one more time—”