“No ID anywhere around him?” Savich asked.

Ben Raven shook his head. “Nothing, no clothes, no nothing at all.”

His arms and legs were sprawled at odd angles, as if he’d been thrown or fallen from a great height. Savich looked up sixty feet to the grilled ceiling. “We’ve got to check with the Park Service, see about access.” Had someone managed to haul the young man up sixty feet and throw him from the ceiling above Lincoln’s head? He didn’t see anything broken or unusual about the grills.

“Ben, does he look familiar to you?”

Detective Ben Raven studied the face. “Hard to tell, he’s so messed up.” He looked up quickly, said in a sharp voice, hard and clear as glass, “Hey, buddy, back off. No photos. This is a crime scene.”

Savich wondered how many photos had already been snapped with cell phones or even with zoom lenses and uploaded to YouTube and Facebook, emailed to friends and family and The National Enquirer. Crime scenes in living color were everywhere now. It made their jobs harder.

“Ben,” Savich said, “look again.”

Ben again studied the young man’s face. “No, I don’t recognize him. I’ve got to say he wasn’t dressed for the weather. Looks to me like most every bone in his body is broken. You think he was thrown from up there?” He jerked his head upward.

They both turned when the four-person FBI forensic team came up the steps of the memorial, with them Dr. Ambrose Hardy, the FBI medical examiner from Quantico.

Hardy was as skinny as his favorite fishing pole, his face covered with a thick black beard, like some underfed mountain man. The few patches of gray in his beard added to the effect.

“Savich,” Dr. Hardy said, not looking at him but down at the frozen body. “Not something I like to see on a beautiful Saturday morning.” He knelt down beside the boy.

“Hey, Dillon, you look both hot and cold. Isn’t it sad how that works?” He grinned up at Ms. Mary Lou Tyler, supervisor of the FBI forensic team. She was tough and smart, and though she was his mom’s age, she was still a seasoned flirt. She knelt down beside Dr. Hardy. “Geez, this isn’t how I planned to spend my Saturday morning, either, Ambrose.”

“None of us did,” Savich said, turned, and saw Sherlock running up the steps toward him. He said, “Ben, do you want to be in on this?”

Ben looked back at the thin shattered body. “Yeah,” he said, “I do. Let me take you to the guy who found him. He’s a longtime employee of the Park Service, name’s Danny Franks. I told one of my guys to keep him warm in his squad car.”

Sherlock had her creds out so the cops in her path parted easily as she walked quickly to Savich and went down on her knees beside Mary Lou Tyler and Dr. Hardy. The two women spoke quietly. Savich watched her take in her surroundings, carefully, completely. It was her special gift, a kind of magic that happened when she re-created a crime scene in her mind. Sherlock said, “This was staged for effect, to focus public attention. Leaving him in front of Lincoln is a touch of drama to serve that purpose. A good choice, really.

“He was dead when his killer tossed him down here. You already realized there’s not enough blood with all his injuries for him to have died here.” She looked up. “So how could this work? I can’t see the killer climbing up access stairs sixty feet up, the boy over his shoulder. It had to be somewhere else. Actually, I doubt there’s any access to the ceiling.”

Dr. Hardy said, “I agree these look like massive deceleration injuries, Sherlock, such as a fall from several stories.”

Sherlock rose and dusted off her hands on her pants. “Yeah, but not here, which means the killer carried him here, to this public stage, where he arranged him just so.” She stared silently down at the broken body. “He’s so young. This is such a waste, such a horrible, needless waste.” She shivered, tucked a hank of curly hair back beneath her wool cap. “Dr. Hardy, can you tell us anything else about him?”

“Not a great deal. I’d say he was placed here within the last twelve hours; that’s as close as I can get since he’s frozen. He was alive when he suffered the visible injuries to his face and head. We’ll know at autopsy whether any of his other injuries were postmortem. I’ll have more for you this afternoon.”

She said, “Thank you, Dr. Hardy. We’ll leave him to you, then. Ben, let’s go see Danny Franks.”

As they carefully made their way through the heavy snow down the steps of the memorial, Savich asked her, “Sean’s okay?”