DeWinter, a bold blue lab coat over a bold green dress, worked off a tablet while the artist, snug black pants, her braid falling down the back of a hip-skimming white tunic, keyed data into her own tablet.
“I need the face,” Eve said, and had both women turning.
“We’re working on it. It requires considerable measuring, calculations.”
“We’re making progress,” Elsie told her.
“Show me.”
DeWinter looked annoyed. Elsie simply looked mildly distressed. “I could use a few more hours before—”
“Just let me see what you’ve got.”
At DeWinter’s nod, Elsie used the tablet to bring up a screen image.
“Wider face,” Eve noted. “Nose, too. Higher forehead, right? The eyes look rounder, the mouth thinner.”
“Using Dr. Morris’s measurements—that’s flesh and muscle—and Dr. DeWinter’s on bone, we’ve been able to estimate at—I’m confident—a ninety-five percent probability on this structure.
“Projecting…” And she did just that, bringing up a three-sixty holo. “Using the DNA results, and Harvo’s findings, I’m reasonably confident of this skin tone and coloring. I’ve gone the hair medium length just for the visual, as there’s no way to know.”
“How about sketches? Do you have any?”
“Those, right now? Guesswork. Not supposed to say guess,” Elsie added, with a quick grin at DeWinter. “Speculations based more on estimates, projections, and personal sensibilities than scientific fact.”
“Screw science and let’s see the sketches.”
“We live and die by science here,” DeWinter reminded her.
“Science got you this.” Eve gestured to the screen. “And it’s a good start, but it’s not enough to use for face recognition. So we guess and see what we have.”
“Go ahead.” DeWinter waved a hand. “It wouldn’t hold up under analysis, and certainly couldn’t be used in court.”
“We’re not in court.”
Eve studied the offered sketch pad. The face took on more life. In the sketch the hair formed curls, the eyebrows ran thick and nearly straight over the eyes. The jaw, more square than rounded, suited the wider face.
“This we could run, but … Can you do another, cut some years off? What would she look like at ten or twelve? She covered her tracks, but why would she delete or alter her ID from that far back?”
“Give me a second. If I program this sketch in, the computer will give us an image projection of that age range.”
“If you’d give us another day—” DeWinter began as Elsie went to work.
“We try this. If it doesn’t work, you take another day. I’ve got a list of her marks, and we’ve got another of people she was working to victimize. I’d like to know who she was.”
“If the sketch is anywhere close,” Elsie said, “she would have looked like this at the age of ten.”
A rounder face—that was youth. Softer, and more innocent.
“Calculate the date, and run it.”
“Then hydrate,” DeWinter ordered.
“Happy to. I could use a hit. Anybody else?”
“I could. How’s the coffee in Vending here?” Peabody asked.
“Bilge,” DeWinter said.