CHAPTER FOUR #2
“Larkin?” Doyle had moved into the hall. He held one of the swinging doors open with his foot and had his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed but not at ease. “Everything okay?” he called.
Larkin gave the elevator one final consideration before slowly walking back the way he’d come. The heels of his mint-green derbies echoed loudly against the concrete floor. “Costa was our only other connection to Adam Worth,” he said, just loud enough to be heard by Doyle.
“There’s no chance in hell his murder was a coincidence—not when his sister’s remains were found less than twelve hours ago.”
Larkin opened his mouth to remind Doyle of Anthony Vargas, a story he had shared in this very hallway only twenty-nine days ago, but then Baxter stepped out of the open suite and looked between them expectantly.
Prompted by his appearance, Doyle smiled politely and said, “Dr. Baxter’s offered to give us an overview of Wagner’s autopsy.”
“Since you’re already here,” Baxter added with a shrug. “I’ll email you the report later this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Larkin said, hoping it didn’t sound as stressed as it’d felt to him.
He called to O’Halloran, still inside and standing at the table, likely in Marsha’s way as she took photographs of their dead man, “We have to speak with Vargas.” Larkin waited for an acknowledgment, then said, louder, “ Ray .”
“I heard you,” O’Halloran answered, not looking away from Costa. He shook his head, slapped the notepad against his open palm a few times, then repeated, sounding a little defeated, “I heard you.”
Baxter ushered Larkin and Doyle deeper into the bowels of the OCME, saying over his shoulder, “I take it this whole fiasco isn’t good for one of your investigations?”
“Sal Costa was Matilde Wagner’s brother,” Larkin reluctantly explained, walking behind the doctor with Doyle taking up the rear.
“Angel of Death, Matilde Wagner?”
“Yes.”
Baxter glanced at Larkin a second time. “Didn’t she have something to do with last month’s mummy, too?”
Again, Larkin only said, “Yes.”
“Huh. And now here you are,” Baxter concluded thoughtfully. “Yearning for purpose, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead pushed open another set of double doors and stepped into the dark space beyond before flicking on the overheads.
The harsh fluorescents illuminated a rather small, windowless room, furnished with nothing but half a dozen stainless steel gurneys haphazardly shoved into one corner.
Opposite the herd was a bank of refrigerated doors along the wall, each with a stenciled number.
The linoleum floor had a drain in the center, and the chemical smell that’d permeated the basement was strongest here.
Larkin suspected something had been poured down there, and he unbuttoned the front of his suit, lifted his tie, and held the end to his mouth and nose.
“It’s been a busy summer,” Baxter explained, taking out a fresh pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and putting them on.
“Our walk-in morgue is already at capacity, so we’re in the overflow—oh, sorry about the smell.
The plumbing is sensitive. When I was hired at the start of the year, I asked why they didn’t just fix the problem.
One and done, right? But I guess it’s more in-line with city budget to pay the custodial crew to pour hazardous chemicals down there once a week until we all asphyxiate on the fumes.
I don’t even notice the smell anymore.” Baxter yanked open door number five and pulled out the retractable gurney from within.
Doyle leaned to the side, enough to whisper in Larkin’s ear, “I know you said not to smell you at work, but do you think I can get a pass this one time?”
Larkin’s cell rang before he could respond. He lowered his tie while retrieving the phone from his pocket and checking the ID.
Noah Rider.
He promptly sent his ex-husband to voicemail, pocketed the cell, then approached the gurney as Baxter unzipped the white body bag and exposed the carefully reassembled limbs.
Doyle swore quietly, and Baxter looked between the two before asking Larkin, “Did you not warn him?”
“No, no,” Doyle said, “I saw the crime scene photos.”
“Nothing like the real deal, huh?” Baxter pointed to the decapitated head, now sporting a roughly sutured incision across its crown.
“The weapon was held point-blank against her forehead. The wound diameter is approximately 9.1mm. I was able to recover the bullet from her brain, and that’s been submitted to ballistics for identification. ”
Larkin made a sound of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. His phone vibrated and he retrieved it a second time to see he had a voicemail notification. He tucked it away.
Baxter said, “As for the extensive bodily damage… there’re two distinct wound patterns. Look here, see how the first cut through the bone is relatively clean?” He held a gloved hand over one of Wagner’s lobbed-off arms. “But near the bottom, the skin and muscle are torn?”
“Like they went from hacking to sawing?” Doyle asked.
“Exactly,” Baxter replied. “Someone stood over her front and changed tools midway through. The blade’s approximately seven inches. It’s got a slight curve as well. Honestly, it reminds me of a meat cleaver. Which makes sense, since the other blade is about eight inches—”
“A serrated bread knife,” Larkin interjected. “She was dismembered with kitchen utensils and then tossed in a fridge.”
Changes in the barometric pressure didn’t seem to affect Doyle.
Or rather, if they did, he never vocalized it.
The morning humidity had gotten even worse, and Larkin could feel the impending storm throughout his whole body.
It was a physical mechanism he’d become more aware of as an adult—as if the heavy sensation was a warning to isolate himself before the first clap of thunder, before he sat on the dock again, touched Patrick’s sun-kissed skin again.
He had wanted relief from the heatwave as much as the next person, but he hadn’t realized that reprieve would come hot on the heels of a new Adam Worth case.
And after opting to work through the night, Larkin didn’t have the mental or emotional stamina to deal with a thunderstorm.
He stood just underneath the overhanging roof of the OCME, the front doors falling shut behind him and taking with it the last wisps of cool air, but at least he wasn’t breathing in chemicals anymore.
Larkin looked out over the concrete courtyard.
It was empty—too early in the morning to justify a smoke break—and the flag hung limp from its pole overhead.
Doyle stood beside him, wiping the lenses of his tortoiseshell sunglasses on a cleaning cloth.
“Do you recall my story about Anthony Vargas.”
Doyle paused and looked sideways.
Larkin prompted, “He was caught selling pharmaceutical drugs to an undercover cop.”
“And the OCME driver got stabbed,” Doyle said, snapping his fingers as the memory resurfaced. “Wait.” He turned to stare at the front doors, then said, “Is he the same Vargas as…?”
“I’ve asked the CO to check his paperwork and call me.” Larkin watched Doyle tuck the cloth away and put his sunglasses on. “What does your instinct say.”
“I thought you didn’t trust your gut without evidence?”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
A smile flittered across Doyle’s face, but he said seriously, “My instinct says Worth’s been playing a particular game of wits and intellect with you, and he’s, I don’t know, trying to get in your head—trying to make you doubt yourself, maybe.”
Larkin arched one eyebrow. “Please expound.”
Doyle ran a hand through his hair a few times. “It’s little things. Like, during Niederman’s case, the clues pointed us toward St. Jude’s Church—the same church where you got married.”
“The events surrounding that case could have easily—”
“Yeah, but they didn’t,” Doyle interrupted. “We found those clues just as the sender wanted us to find them. And what about Wagner and Costa trying to get me to walk through that apartment door first?”
“These two examples are night and day, Ira. Your safety is not a ‘little thing.’”
Doyle frowned. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw for a long moment, like he could tell this was territory that’d lead to discourse, before saying cautiously, “Your memory is your greatest asset and he seems to know it. Worth is poking and prodding, looking for any weak spots. If he can throw you off-kilter just enough that you make a mistake, he’ll have bested the NYPD’s greatest detective.
My gut says there’s no way in hell the guy who murdered Costa this morning isn’t the same Anthony Vargas from your patrol days, which…
considering it wasn’t even your case back then? ”
“I was there for crowd control,” Larkin answered somberly.
“Going forward,” Doyle said. “We need to question everything .”