Page 57 of Hudson River Homicides
“You make it sound so romantic.”
Larkin chuckled.“Erotomania has been classed as a subset of delusional disorder.It’s primary, chronic, and seen more often in women—the delusion that another person is in love with the individual.”
Doyle’s brows rose.
“Often, the object of desire is someone of higher social status, someone who would have no idea who the individual even is, but that ‘status’ can also mean different things to different people.Sometimes there’s no communication between the two parties.”
“And other times?”Doyle warily asked.
“Other times it has led to the individual who is suffering from the delusion to break the law in order to establish contact with their object of desire.”
“Like stalking?”
“Yes,” Larkin said on the release of a breath.“Like stalking.”
Doyle looked around, seemingly taking in the parked cruisers, the CSU van, the yellow crime scene tape, the comings and goings of uniformed personnel, everything a copy and paste of the corner of Carroll and Clinton.“Help me understand this.Did Phyllis just wake up one day and decide she was in love with the homeowner?Did she wait until Stephanie left and then break in to play house before going on the lam?”
“Erotomania can have a sudden onset, yes,” Larkin agreed, “but I suspect Ms.Sato was not Phyllis’s first delusion.”
“It started with Esther?”
Larkin nodded.“Erotomania can lead to pathological jealousy, even violence, if the individual feels their advances are being rejected.This is only a working theory, of course, but Phyllis’s behavior during our interview last month was… off.Her irrational disgust toward sex workers, when shemetEsther as a patron of the burlesque scene, can certainly be viewed as jealousy.”
Doyle said, “Phyllis claimed Esther left Frills because the industry was dying, and while that’s historically true, what if Esther had further incentive to leave?”
“Like an obsessed patron,” Larkin answered.“That was Phyllis’s own description of herself.Esther might have snubbed Phyllis’s interests, which could’ve made the delusion worse.Toward the end of their supposed relationship, Phyllis described Esther as coming home less often, staying with friends, carrying a gym bag to work with multiple changes of clothes….”
“When you say it like that, it sounds like a woman who was afraid to go home.”
“Like she was being stalked,” Larkin concluded.
“I guess the question is, how does Phyllis fit into all of these different events and timelines,” Doyle said.“If she does have a history of stalking women,didher behavior escalate into something more dangerous?Wasshe involved with Wagner’s murder?Could her presence have been total happenstance?And either way, where is she now?”
“She is most definitely a person of interest,” Larkin said.“And one I’d like to speak with again, at considerable length.”Hands on his hips, he turned to survey the row of multifamily homes.
Doyle was saying, “Three murders, two stalkers, one crime scene—”
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Larkin added sardonically before moving toward the set of cement stairs that led to the second-story neighbor.
A white woman sat on the landing outside her front door.She was middle-aged, dirty-blond hair piled into a bun atop her head, and she wore a pair of pajama shorts and matching tank top in baby blue, fluffy panda slippers, Dolce & Gabbana rose-tinted sunglasses, and was talking on her cell phone.
“Ma’am,” Larkin started as he removed his badge and flashed the identification.“I’m Detective Everett Larkin—”
“Steph, hang on, some cop’s finally decided to grace me with his presence.”She lowered the phone and said, “It’s about fuckin’ time.I was told to wait here at least an hour ago.My shoulders are sunburned and I’d like to go inside and start dinner for my kid.”
Larkin frowned.He wasn’t about to waste what was left of his stamina being the unstoppable force to this woman’s immovable object.He looked toward Doyle coming up the steps beside him.
Doyle was, as always, quick on the uptake.He said sympathetically, “We’re very sorry to have kept you this long, ma’am.”
“Becca.Friedman,” she corrected.
“Ms.Friedman—”
“Look, I don’t know anything.I didn’t hear anything.I didn’t see anything.Steph hasn’t even been home and—”
“Are you speaking with the homeowner now,” Larkin interrupted, pointing at the phone.
Becca looked at her cell too.“Yeah.”
