Even with his photograph being a small thumbnail in a sea of tragedy, his resemblance to the reconstruction sitting with them at the worktable was… uncanny. Andrew had been a young man running that final stretch into adulthood. His slightly rounded cheeks were what many would consider a baby face, which Doyle had accurately produced, although that could simply be due to his understanding tissue marker mathematics and how individual muscles played over human bone. For Larkin, the surprise was in Andrew’s clean-shaven face and Teen Beat heartthrob hairstyle.

“You were correct about his hair.”

“Good guess.”

Larkin looked at Doyle. “That wasn’t a guess.”

“There’s some psychology that goes into reconstructions or aging processes.”

“But you didn’t have a profile of the victim.”

“That’d have certainly made it easier,” Doyle said by way of answer. He nudged Larkin’s hand away from the touchpad and clicked the link.

Doyle had big hands with big knuckles, and the veins in his arms were pleasantly defined and close to the surface. That attraction came from a subconscious place, Larkin knew. The biological imperative to find the ideal partner—a strong and healthy physique being an incentive for most. Not that Larkin was in the market. But it was nice to window-shop now and then.

“Andrew Gorman, date of last contact was March 28, 1998.” Doyle let out a breath. “What day did McClennan say the crabapple went in the ground?”

“April 2, 1998.”

“You were right.”

“Not entirely. There’s a five-day discrepancy.”

Doyle leaned back in his seat, staring at Larkin. “And those five days are going to tell the story of Andrew going missing and how his remains came to be found over twenty years later. You don’t like compliments, do you?”

“No. And neither do you.”

“Oh, I’ve got an ego,” Doyle corrected. “You’ve just got a curious way of stroking it that I’m still adjusting to.”

“Noted.”

Doyle raised his hand and made like he was—was going to reach for Larkin’s arm. As if to confirm understanding through physical touch. But he stopped midway, caught himself when Larkin raised an eyebrow, and dropped his hand to his thigh. Doyle returned to the screen and said, “Missing age was twenty-two years old. That lines up. Five foot ten, Caucasian—good, good. God, look at his nose. I’d bet he never saw a medical professional for that. Poor kid.”

“Scroll down to last known location.”

Doyle did, and read, “New York, New York. No exact address… oh, the circumstances of his disappearance: Andrew was last seen by his roommate leaving their apartment at 8:00 p.m. to take the subway—”

“Where.”

“Doesn’t specify… Andrew took his wallet and has not been seen or heard from since. That’s all it says.”

Larkin made a sound. “Someone is concerned for Andrew and then supplies as little information as possible to NamUs. Was the case filed by an individual or law enforcement?”