The cemetery is in an industrial area. There are a few open fields and lots of neglected warehouses. A sheriff’s deputy in a yellow raincoat uses his flashlight to direct us to a parking spot. We get out and I help Danielle and the rest of the team with their cases. Shannon does the same and we carry them to the iron gates at the entrance.

Reporters and onlookers are standing behind the ropes trying to get a glance as we pull up. Cameras flash when they see our jackets. The FBI is here.

Wet and gloomy, the air has a cold nip to it. Perfect cemetery weather. I’m grateful for the jacket Danielle found me. Besides being warm, with “FBI” written across the back in bold yellow letters, it’ll let me fit in a little more than I would in just my hoodie and jeans.

At the gate, a detective named Gimbal wearing a drenched suit and tie introduces himself to Shannon. He fumbles with his umbrella to shake hands. “These your D.C. folks?”

Shannon nods. “Pretty much.”

I’m not sure if that was directed at me or not. I just keep to the back and focus on helping. When Grandfather was in a rage, or Father in a manic mood, I just did what Uncle Darius did, move a piece of equipment or clean something.

The detective glances at our faces, then nods. A thick black mustache almost covers his mouth. He looks like a charter boat captain. “All right. Hurry up. Gladys can’t wait to get the girl on the table.”

As we enter the cemetery, he explains that Gladys is the county medical examiner, well respected and often brought in for outside opinions. He walks us past the stone markers toward what looks like a large catering tent. It’s actually a wall of white fabric to block the crime scene from the front road and the press.

“We’ve cleared the area, but please don’t pick anything up or touch anything you don’t have to.” He knows he’s talking to professionals, but he has to say it. “When we got the GPS coordinates we had someone call the caretaker. He was the first one on the scene this morning and didn’t let anyone else in the cemetery.”

I look around at the grave markers. Most of them are small. There’s none of the really fancy sculpture or stonework you’ll see in big city cemeteries. Like the houses we passed on the way in, this feels working class. Clean, utilitarian, but nothing more. The dates are all over the place. Some are recent. Some are a half-century old. The recent ones tell me it’s the kind of place that could get visitors on a Saturday morning.

Shannon turns around and gives us the field report. “We called in local police to verify, then I came out here. County did a preliminary forensic examination on-site and drew blood samples before we contacted the parents of the girl and showed them a photograph. They confirmed her as their daughter. And there begins one of several mysteries.” Shannon looks at the grass and realizes he’s resting his foot on a grave marker. He pulls it away. “Chloe McDonald was declared dead almost two years ago. Her body was found in the bay three miles from here. She’d died from multiple stab wounds. Killer still unknown. An autopsy had been performed. There was no doubt about her identity, cause of death and, well, the fact that she was dead.”