Characteristics was the next stage. Doyle spent several quiet moments adding more in-depth linework and shaping the hair. He asked Jessica more questions: How is the shape of the head and hairstyle? Do the eyes and nose appear similar? Is this sketch within the realm of possibility? This stage ended up taking much longer—fifty-seven minutes, by Larkin’s count. Jessica was uncertain at times, referring time and again to the photos she’d chosen, hemming and hawing over the eyes in particular, growing frustrated when fragmented memories failed her.
“I know this isn’t easy,” Doyle said, “but you really are doing a great job.”
“I bet you say that to everyone.”
“Most everyone needs to hear it,” Doyle answered.
After they’d settled on the characteristics, Doyle explained that the final stage was rendering. This was where he’d add contrast, tone, lighting, and shadows. Conversation lulled. Doyle’s pencil scratched the surface of the expensive-looking paper. PomPom snored. Jessica got up to pour herself more whiskey.
“He’s very good,” she murmured against the rim of the glass, her eyes cutting to Doyle.
Larkin glanced across the kitchen and studied the composite sketch. It’d gone from a pile of nonsensical lines to a living portrait in just under two hours. Larkin had seen police sketches that were akin to political cartoon caricatures, anatomical abnormalities such as a missing jawline, or drawings done by someone who simply couldnot draw. But Doyle? Doyle was the real deal, and if the skull reconstruction hadn’t been enough proof, this sketch solidified his skill and merit.
“Yes, he is,” Larkin answered. Jessica was smiling at him when he returned his attention to her. “May I ask you another question about Andrew.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me how he broke his nose.”
She lowered the glass sharply, amber liquid sloshing. “How would you know that?”
“Autopsy reports and facial reconstruction.”
“They might be wrong.”
Larkin frowned at her suggestion. He retrieved his phone, pulled up the profile from NamUs, and showed Jessica. “You supplied this photo.”
Jessica’s shoulders drooped and she nodded meekly. “Yeah…. God, his nose looks so fucked-up in that picture.”
“How’d it happen.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. We’d been roommates for a few months and it was right before graduation. Andy had seen a few guys senior year, so I guess I assumed one of them got rough with him. But when I’d asked the first time he came home all bloody, he’d only say, ‘Jessie, baby, don’t worry about it.’” She looked down, tilted the glass, and watched the whiskey catch the overhead light on its surface. “I guess I should have worried.”
“You’re certain this happened before meeting his jewelry-designer friend.”
“Oh yeah,” Jessica answered confidently. “Like I said, it was shortly after we moved in together. Andy didn’t meet What’s-His-Name for another half a year? I guess it was more like a month or so before he disappeared that they met….”
“Was Andrew involved in anything illegal.”
“Like what, drugs?”
“That’s a start.”
“God, no. He drank, but he waited until his twenty-first birthday. I don’t think he’d ever even smoked a cigarette. Andy was a good boy.”
Larkin considered, then tried, “Did he know anyone who worked for Parks and Recreation.”
Jessica’s brow furrowed in sincere confusion. She slowly shook her head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Which room was Andy’s.” Larkin motioned over Jessica’s shoulder.
“The office.”
“Did you keep any of his belongings.”
Jessica stared at the open doorway, as if looking for an answer somewhere in the dimness beyond. “Some photographs. I think I still have his copy ofThe Idiot. I tried to give some of his belongings back to his parents when I realized he… he probably wasn’t going to come home, but they didn’t want any of it. The rest—clothes and furniture—I donated.”
“His parents—”
