113. Composite Sketch

LVPD.

Dean and Rust found Carl to inquire about the progress of the investigation.

"Gentlemen, be patient. It’s only been a morning; how could we possibly find clues that quickly?" Carl shook his head. "The guys are still out checking surveillance footage and questioning Grace’s former colleagues. They’ll likely bring back the collected evidence tonight."

Carl rubbed his temples, looking slightly exhausted. "And that will mean another sleepless night."

"We found an important suspect," Dean said. "I don’t have a name, but I can describe his appearance. I need a professional sketch artist to help me draw him."

Dean was a genius-level artist in spirit, but he lacked the skill to render the Scarred Man’s likeness, and there were no computer graphics in this era.

"Wait, what suspect? Where did you find him?" Carl frowned deeply.

Dean gave Rust a look, and the latter recounted the events and deductions from the morning.

"A Scarred Man, perhaps a loan shark? Worth investigating." Carl stroked his shiny bald patch and looked at Dean. Remembering the uncanny accuracy of the young man’s intuition in previous cases, he nodded.

"There is no full-time forensic sketch artist at the LVPD currently. We have to wait for Holden to return so he can draw it himself, or we could invite a teacher from the local art academy, but that would take a long time."

"Then we’ll wait for Holden. But what is this 'forensic sketch artist' profession you mentioned?" Dean asked curiously.

Carl began to explain with an expression of admiration.

"A forensic sketch artist, also known as a criminal sketch artist, can draw a suspect based on the descriptions of witnesses or victims."

"They don't just need to understand drawing, light, and lines; they must also understand criminal investigation and medical anatomy."

Carl smiled as he looked at the contemplative Dean and the impressed Rust.

"They can combine environmental factors, cause of death, and anatomy to reconstruct the original appearance of highly decomposed corpses or even skulls."

"They can also communicate with witnesses to tease out the physical features of a suspect and produce a portrait."

"A good forensic sketch artist doesn't just copy or imitate; they perform logical analysis and deduction, possessing exceptional spatial imagination and reasoning skills."

"Are you saying Holden is that good?" Dean asked.

"Why else would the department keep this maverick on a pedestal? Forensic sketch artists are rare across the entire United States—it's almost one in ten thousand."

Carl shifted his tone, looking at the young man before him with a complex expression.

"Speaking of which, you’re not bad yourself. Forensic sketching is based on existing evidence and deductive reasoning, a process I can at least understand. But you—the way you helped me catch the culprit in the Abby case and the robbery-homicide case... it was like guessing out of thin air, yet you managed to be right every time."

"Your methods involve a lot of baseless speculation and lack scientific evidence, yet you always manage to catch the killer."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Half an hour later.

Holden finally arrived fashionably late. Without a word, he led them straight to his office, pulled charcoal pencils and a sketchbook from a file cabinet, sat down in his preferred position, and scanned them.

"Let's start. Dean, you go first. Tell me what face shape the suspect has."

"You saw him too, didn't you, outside the Gawain Hotel that time?" Dean said.

"It’s been over a month, and I didn't pay much attention at the time," Holden shook his head. "Hurry up."

Dean closed his eyes, his mind instantly sinking into the "record" function of his god’s-eye view, beginning to flip through the footage from over a month ago.

The process was like playing a VR game; he was once again immersed in the scene where the Scarred Man was pestering Grace.

In this illusory realm, he was an omnipresent eye, able to shift angles at will and observe to his heart's content.

"A melon-shaped face with a long chin," Dean said.

Holden casually sketched a circular shape like a cranium and drew the contour of the jaw underneath. He showed it to Dean.

"Hmm, the angle of the jawline needs to be wider."

"How about now?"

"Perfect."

"Describe what you consider to be the suspect's most prominent facial features. The more detailed, the better."

"He has a scar about the size of a fingernail on the bridge of his nose, shaped like a coin, located right between the lines connecting the inner corners of his eyes."

The pencil skidded across the white paper with a soft rasp. Rust, observing quietly from the side, held his breath as he listened to their exchange.

"Does it look like this?"

"Close enough."

Holden drew several intersecting lines, dividing the face into several zones. "Continue. What kind of eyebrows and eyes did he have?"

"Sparse, light-colored eyebrows. His eyes were small like a rat's, and his gaze was shifty."

"Monolid or double eyelid?"

"Monolid."

"What was his profession?"

"Possibly an underground loan shark."

...

Inside the office.

The methodical dialogue, mixed with the sound of pencils and erasers sliding across paper, echoed through the room.

Holden kept asking about the suspect’s facial features, demeanor, and posture. Based on Dean’s answers, he would think, deliberate, and repeatedly revise his work until, at last, he produced a lifelike portrait of the suspect.

A middle-aged man with a scar on the bridge of his nose, shifty, rat-like eyes, and an expression that appeared both cunning and cruel.

Dean took a quick glance and compared it to the image in his records, exclaiming, "It’s eighty percent similar to the suspect. You were hiding your skills well—you're not just a profiler, but a one-in-ten-thousand forensic sketch artist."

Holden put down the sketchbook and shook his head.

"I’m just an average profiler, and as a sketch artist, I’m merely an amateur."

"The reason this turned out so accurate is because of your description. Few witnesses can describe a suspect so precisely, down to the angle of the nasolabial folds by the nose. Any guy with solid drawing skills could have done as well as I did."

Rust looked at his companion in amazement. "Those three little punks gave such vague and general descriptions of the Scarred Man, but you only saw this guy once last month—how is your memory that good?"

Dean shook his head with a vague excuse. "I’m just sensitive to this type of criminal face."

...

Afterward, the three of them made a stack of copies of the Scarred Man’s portrait. Most were left with the officers in the station, while Dean and Rust split the remaining few.

Rust looked at the man in the drawing with gritted teeth and suddenly suggested, "Gentlemen, can we post this portrait publicly?"

Holden and Dean exchanged a look and shook their heads.

"Right now, it’s just a suspicion; we have no evidence. Besides, if the Scarred Man really is the killer, doing this will surely alert him, causing him to flee, destroy evidence, or even kill to silence witnesses."

Rust’s face turned deathly pale.

"Don't be too anxious. The guys in our group are veterans. With this portrait, as long as he’s still in Las Vegas, he won't be able to escape." Holden tucked a copy under his arm and analyzed calmly, "Let’s go check the archives. This guy isn't a small-time crook; he might have a criminal record."

...

Holden led them to the records department, where they buried their heads in piles of dense photos. Rust was full of energy and particularly active.

"Does this guy look like him?"

"The Scarred Man doesn't have such a large hook nose."

"Look at this photo—the hair, the eyes, the nose! It’s like the Scarred Man’s twin brother!"

"Honestly, it doesn't look like him at all. Rust, calm down. Don't look at everyone as a suspect; it will only slow us down."

"I... I understand."

From three in the afternoon until past six in the evening, the three of them worked until they were dazed. After reviewing hundreds of mugshots, it was a pity that they failed to find a matching target.

Just then, the officers who had been out investigating returned one after another to the conference room to analyze the case and gather evidence.

"Watching the surveillance and transcribing statements is exhausting. You two should go home and rest; you'll collapse before finding anyone," Holden said, putting away the criminal files. "Come back tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you the conclusion directly."

Dean persuaded a reluctant Rust to leave and handed Holden several hundred-dollar bills. "Take this and buy the guys some late-night snacks."

"You're very thoughtful."

Holden took the money and left with the stack of copies.

"Buddy, I owe you for this treat," Rust said, feeling deeply ashamed. It was his case, yet his friend had to spend his own money to smooth things over. "I'll pay you back when the case is over."

"What's money between us? If you consider me a friend, don't mention it," Dean said, draping an arm over his shoulder. "Half a year ago, I shamelessly ate and drank on your dime quite a bit. Besides, I told you I owed you a favor, and I don't want anything to happen to Grace."

As they spoke, Dean suddenly turned his gaze toward the entrance of the police station.

Britney, Baker, and three other friends arrived, jogging in from the lobby with their bags. They surrounded Rust, chattering with concern and inquiries.

Beside them, Gretchen picked up her shoulder bag and lightly tapped Dean on the arm.

"Is there anything we can help with?"

"Actually, there is some manual labor to be done."

...

Since it wasn't appropriate to post the Scarred Man's photo, the group printed a large stack of missing person posters for Grace and drove around the city, sticking them on walls, utility poles, and street lamps.

They finished the job after ten o'clock at night.

"Advertising worker" Dean took Rust back to his house; after all, they had just taught those three punks a lesson near Rust’s home that morning, and it carried a certain level of risk.

As soon as they walked inside.

"Good evening, Mr. Paqui."

"Come here, Rust."

Paqui, who had been sprawled on the sofa without a care, enjoying a televised song-and-dance show, put down his beer and sat upright.

"I heard about it on the phone. Don't worry too much; your mother will surely return safely." Paqui opened a beer and handed it over. "Take a shower and get some sleep later; you look exhausted."

Rust took the beer, took a long gulp, and sat on the sofa, yawning with fatigue, though his body trembled slightly.

Too many things had happened today, leaving him physically and mentally drained.

The moment he closed his eyes, that face—familiar to the very depths of his soul—seemed to be slipping away from him.

A faint sense of panic took hold in his heart, and he dared not think about it too deeply.

"Rust, relax. You’ve done everything you can. Don't put too much pressure on yourself, or when Grace comes back and sees you so haggard, she’ll be heartbroken."

"Yeah." Rust took a deep breath and leaned back into the sofa.

Paqui looked at his nephew. "What do you have in your hand?"

"A suspect," Dean said, handing over a sketch. "We have to find him as soon as possible."

Paqui examined the portrait, frowning as he thought for a moment. "Andre and Jacob know some well-connected locals. I’ll take this sketch and have them help look for him."

"Thanks, Paqui." The drowsy Rust perked up instantly.

"Don't make it common knowledge and alert the suspect," Dean warned.

"Have you forgotten what your uncle does for a living? I know how to handle this," Paqui said, patting his chest and giving them a hearty smile. "Wait for good news."