That’s when Doyle went to work. A composite sketch has three stages, he’d told Jessica. The first focused on general proportions. Jessica said the man had been a fit white guy in his early twenties. But who looked older. She was very insistent on that point. The three were of the same graduating class, but this man Andy was smitten with could have been in his mid- or late twenties if she hadn’t known better. Doyle fetched a few six-packs from within the portfolio bag, sifted through the pages, then placed several of the reference photos in front of Jessica. Faces of strangers, but all of white men. The point was not to find someone who looked like their unknown love interest of the past, but to pick and choose elements that were similar to him. Eyes, nose, ears, etc.

After Jessica had chosen a few references, Doyle had her drag her chair around to him and he put pencil to paper. He sketched the outline of a very generic and entirely forgettable face. Then he started asking questions. Nothing leading, but very general, so as to force Jessica to focus on her own memory. How were the eyes? Should they be closer, farther, or stay as is? Should the hairline be higher or lower? What do you think of the length of the nose?

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 could not 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.