“Sean’s well occupied with Simon and Lilly. Computer games and popcorn at your sister’s house.” Sherlock shivered. “It’s cold, Dillon; it’s so very cold. What kind of monster would do this? And why?”

Savich said, “A monster wanting to make a statement, though it’s not clear what it is. Picking the Lincoln Memorial was a sure way to make the international news very fast.”

Sherlock said to Ben Raven, “I’ll bet you Callie is already getting photos emailed to her at The Washington Post. I see the newspeople are setting up already.”

Ben said, “I got a call from my wife a few minutes ago about the email she got along with a grainy photo shot from the sidewalk—impossible to see anything clearly through the snow. She wanted to know what was happening. Of course I couldn’t tell her.” He grinned. “It doesn’t keep her from hammering at me, though.” He looked up at the fat white flakes pelting down thick from the steel-gray clouds. “We’ll find out who our victim is soon enough, no doubt about that.” He paused, looked out over the Reflecting Pool. “Why are the weatherpeople always right when it comes to predicting the bad stuff?”

Savich looked one last time over his shoulder through the falling snow at the statue of Lincoln. What kind of statement did this horrific act mean to send? Would they be hearing from this killer again? Soon? He saw the media had arrived en masse despite the weather, newscasters speaking urgently into microphones as they stood on steps that began at the edge of the Reflecting Pool, probably leading off by describing the Lincoln Memorial with its thirty-six Doric columns and what it means to all of us. What else would they have to talk about until they learned something about the dead young man up there?

Ben eyed all the reporters. “Don’t let it slip your mind, Savich, that we’re standing on federal land, and that means you’re in charge. And these guys are all yours.” He gave Savich a huge grin and slithered off into a crowd of WPD officers.

Savich manned up and spoke to the reporters. It was nice to tell them he didn’t know a thing yet, and not lie.

Lincoln Memorial

“Makes me sick,” Danny Franks said to Savich and Sherlock as they sat beside him in the Metro squad car. “Awful thing. I haven’t ever seen anything like that, I mean, this poor young guy, frozen dead, and he looked like someone beat him to pieces.” Franks’s voice shook, and he sucked in a deep breath, and focused his eyes on Sherlock’s face. She’d pulled off her wool cap, sending a riot of red hair around her face. Mr. Franks didn’t seem to be able to pull his eyes away from her hair. “I mean,” Mr. Franks continued, “you see dead bodies all the time on TV, even see them medical examiners cutting them open, showing bloody organs, whatever, but it isn’t real, you know it isn’t real.”

Danny looked back up to the memorial. “That young man was so young, barely starting his life.”

“I know what a shock it was, Mr. Franks,” Sherlock said, squeezing his gloved hand in hers. Even if she’d found his outpourings fascinating, she had to bring him back on track. “We need your help, sir. You seem like an insightful person, very visual. Can you tell us what you saw when you found the body?”

“My wife always says I’m clueless, thick as a brick. It’s good to know an FBI agent thinks she’s wrong. I already told a bunch of cops everything, but I know you’re federal, so if the U.S. government wants to have another go, it’s all right with me.” He gave her a big smile. “You guys are at the top of the cop food chain.”

Sherlock grinned back at him. “Start at the beginning, Mr. Franks, if you would.”

He nodded. “It was almost nine o’clock when I climbed all those steps . . . Geez”—he looked down at his watch—“that was less than two hours ago. I didn’t see him at first. I was whistling ‘Yesterday,’ you know, the Beatles? Anyways, I was making sure everything looked like it’s supposed to when I nearly stepped on him.” He swallowed. “I really did nearly step on him. I looked down and couldn’t believe it. It’s a dead kid was all I could think, and someone took all his clothes and left him lying beside Lincoln and he’s frozen stiff.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“Not a soul; no one was out yet in this miserable weather. It was real cold, I was huffing my breath into my gloves to keep my pipes from freezing up, and like I said, I nearly stumbled over him.”

Sherlock squeezed Franks’s hand again, kept all her attention on his ruddy face, seamed from years in the sun. He looked nearly sixty, a steady man, straightforward, and he was badly shaken. “It’s all right, Mr. Franks. Take your time.”