A search on his phone of the New York Public Library mobile site, with the keywords “death” and “mask,” had unearthed a book on the third page of results called Funerary Rituals: Faces From The Other Side, A Brief Account of Effigies and Death Masks. The title was available for check-out at the Main Branch on Fifth Avenue, so Larkin submitted his personal patron details, and when the Xanax made it so he could no longer feel his heart jackhammering in his throat, he drove into Midtown to pick up the research book.

Upon returning to the precinct, Larkin sat down at his clean and orderly desk, took a moment to mentally block out conversations, phones ringing, and doors slamming, which was admittedly easier when riding a Xanax high, and then began to read.

The death mask, as we understand its importance today—tangible proof of rare and true greatness achievable by humanity, and that by surrounding ourselves with their likeness, we are reminded to strive for answers to the unknowns just as they once did—was not seen as valuable in and of itself, but as a means to an end: that being the effigies of royalty.

“Who the fuck moved the Hello Phone?” Byron Ulmer shouted from across the bullpen at 1:45 p.m. “I got a CI more skittish than a newborn colt calling in five fucking minutes!”

Throughout the Renaissance period, France’s and England’s utilization of death masks was that of a tool. Court painters applied the details of the recently deceased to a wax or wooden likeness of the king, but as he was known in life, thusly confirming our previous account of being nothing but an instrument. The serenity of death was avoided at all costs in the full-bodied effigies—

“Grim.”

—but the death mask would eventually become treasured for what it was: realism artwork obsessive of the individual. The death mask would become the symbol of all that embodied the man. His face undying.

“Grim!”

Larkin put his finger on the sentence and raised his gaze to see Ulmer, the lox-stealing detective who looked more like a linebacker in a suit, moving up beside Porter’s empty chair and glaring down at him. He had a dark complexion, shaved head, goatee, and none of the patience seen in the squad’s veteran detectives. Ulmer was newly transferred and had been hard-pressed to become the face of Cold Cases—that was, until he’d come to realize that Larkin stood in his way of that career goal.

“Do you have the Hello Phone?” Ulmer demanded.

“Does it look like I have the Hello Phone,” Larkin answered in a subdued tone.

“What it looks like,” Ulmer began, puffing out his chest, “is that you went to a Scholastic fucking Book Fair and forgot to pick yourself up a Lisa Frank pencil on the way out.”