Harry blinked once or twice, looked toward the hole and the crate again, then said, “I guess it was probably closer to seven. Look, man, they got me on a special project at work this week. I was supposed to get in early. But I was running late because of the fuckin’ skunk weed my cousin buys. If I said I got wrapped up in all this shit a little earlier, it’d look like I wasn’t scrambling, you know?”

Larkin narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain it was 7:00.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Harry removed an iPhone from his flannel shirt in Lumberjack Red, swiped, and said, “I called 911 at 7:06.”

“Thank you, Mr. Regmore.”

“Can I go now? The patrol cops had me waiting this whole time.”

“Did you touch anything.”

“What?” Harry gave an overt expression of shock. “Hell no. I was waitin’ under the Shake Shack roof until youse all started showing up.”

Larkin dismissed Harry and watched him walk toward the park gates, where he was swallowed whole by the storm.

Millett said, his voice puncturing the steady pat, pat, pat of rain on the tarp overhead, “I bet the in-laws love that human polygraph trick come Thanksgiving, huh?”

Larkin shoved his left hand into his trouser pocket and stared.

Millett looked away first. He crouched in the hole, disappearing briefly from view, then straightened and offered up a plastic evidence bag. “This was near John Doe’s feet. I don’t think it was visible when Cheech called it in.”

Larkin accepted the bag and spun it around. Inside was a face.

Specifically, a bronze casting of a face. It was an impressive piece of artistry—adult male with a chin cleft and horribly crooked nose that suggested whoever the model had been had once found himself on the losing end of a brawl. His cheeks were slack and eyes closed—a study in sleep. It took an additional moment of examination for Larkin to deduce why something about the face was off, only to realize the artist hadn’t thought to include eyebrows or eyelashes.

“Are you acquainted with Detective Doyle?” Millett asked, staring at Larkin from within the hole.

“No,” Larkin murmured. He turned the mask over again and studied the negative space where it could perhaps be worn, should the unique dimensions match the wearer.

“Forensic artist. Down at 1PP.”

Larkin glanced at Millett and raised one eyebrow.

“You might want to give him a call.”