Doyle said, “I think a lot of people could claim to have had traumatic childhoods, though.”

“The CDC’s survey of seventeen thousand adults concluded that two-thirds have experienced at least one form of abuse or neglect while under the age of eighteen,” Larkin said to Doyle.

“Exactly. But not all those eleven thousand adults turned into sexual predators. Experienced childhood trauma isn’t anyone’s fault, but the decision to enact abuse into adulthood is a clear and conscious decision they made. That has no excuse.”

Larkin turned sideways, studying Doyle. “I agree. I’m only attempting to explain the uncomfortable positioning seen in the Reynold family photo.”

Doyle raised his eyebrows and leaned to one side, as if to view the framed portrait from where he stood.

Larkin walked across the room, collected the picture from the bedside table, and returned to his partner. He held it out: a snapshot from childhood—now discolored—a maternal figure standing at the base of a stoop, her arms crossed, a severe and hostile expression on her face. Beside her was a young Gary Reynold. He was clearly meant to be included in this family-of-two picture, but stood just far enough to the right that the distance between mother and son felt… awkward. Gary’s brow was furrowed as he stared at the camera, one arm crossed over his front to hold the other, a fist clenched at his side.

“You think his mother abused him?” Doyle asked, looking up from the photo.

Larkin turned the frame around, undid the clasp, removed the cheap backing, and his stomach lurched like the floor had suddenly dropped out from under him. He sighed audibly, held up three portraits—all young, dead, redheaded girls posed provocatively on subway benches, two with crowns of what this time seemed to be geranium leaves—and said, “I think Gary’s mommy issues are the least of his problems now.”

Doyle’s jaw worked, but he said nothing as he carefully collected the frame and photos from Larkin, handling them as if they were fragile, breakable—the only remains left of children who’d been deceived and degraded, but who deserved to have their likeness treated with love and protection.

“Seven unknowns,” Larkin said, trying to modulate his voice to reflect the gentleness of Doyle’s touch. “And still Marco to account for.”

“You might want to make that eight unknowns,” Millett broke in.

Both Larkin and Doyle turned toward him as he displayed in both hands a clear plastic bag tightly packed with gray granules.

“Are those cremated remains?” Doyle asked.

Millett nodded. “Seems to be.”

Larkin tilted his head thoughtfully, then turned on his heel and studied the dresser a second time. He grabbed the plastic box on top, spun it, and revealed an identification tag stamped across the front.

LOUISE REYNOLD

03/22/1948 – 10/03/2012