“Okay. Like I said, there wasn’t anybody around except for the one guy I saw standing by himself by the Reflecting Pool, looking down at the water. I wondered if the guy was nuts. I mean, why stand there and freeze? I was thinking he wouldn’t want to come trudging up here, not with the wind howling all around the columns and the blowing snow.
“As soon as I saw the kid, I called 911. It took a good five minutes for a couple of squad cars to arrive. I think the squad car we’re in is one of them. Glad they’ve got the heat cranked up. The officers came running up and we all stood around the kid—the body. Nobody could believe it. I mean, the cops weren’t as shocked as I was, but they were surprised, I could tell. One of them said to the other, ‘Call Detective Raven, he’s on.’ And so they did. In twenty minutes or thereabouts, here comes this big young guy, and he looks down at the body and says, ‘Federal land, FBI,’ and he called you guys, then sent his men to interview anyone they could find.”
“So it wasn’t long until people started coming up to the memorial?”
“Folks seem to sniff out when something bad’s happened. I’m sure you know that. They came by ones and twos, and the worst part of it was all of them wanted to rush in and freak themselves out. The cops pulled out crime scene tape, bright yellow, like on TV.
“There were about twenty people, all yapping to beat the band, wanted to know what was going on, and they were snapping photos like you wouldn’t believe, until the cops managed to get them away again. I don’t know if they got any of the kid, though. I sure hope not. You think about his mama seeing her son like that—”
Savich kept his voice slow and calm. “You said you saw a man standing by the Reflecting Pool, Mr. Franks. Did you see anyone else nearby? Anyone hurrying away? Running?”
“No, only that one guy standing by the Reflecting Pool. Like I said, I remember wondering why he was here, I mean, you could freeze your eyeballs early this morning.”
Savich said, “Can you describe him, Mr. Franks?”
“He was all bundled up in a dark blue parka with the furred hood pulled up, nearly covered his face. I couldn’t tell if he was fat or thin, he just looked bulky. I was too far away to even guess how tall or short he was, sorry. I’d guess he wasn’t exactly fat; he gave me the impression he was strong, big, but I could be wrong.”
Sherlock said, “Did you see this man anytime later? Could he still be here?”
“No, and I’ve looked for him. Haven’t seen him anywhere since before the cops arrived.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Franks, when repairs are needed, how do you access the area above the ceiling in the central chamber where Lincoln is sitting?”
“You don’t; there’s no access. If anything needs attention they’ve got to bring in those really big extension ladders, or put up scaffolding.”
Savich said, “Did you look at the boy, Mr. Franks? At his face?”
Danny Franks lowered his own face to his hands, both his hands still clutching Sherlock’s. “Yeah, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him good.”
“Mr. Franks, did you think the young man looked familiar?”
Mr. Franks shook his head. “His face was such a mess, I don’t have a clue who he is.”
• • •
TWO HOURS LATER, Savich and Sherlock were at the Hoover Building when Palmer Cronin, the retired former chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank, called the FBI to identify the dead boy as his grandson, Tommy Cronin, still on his winter break from Magdalene College. His grandmother had made out her grandson’s white frozen face in a photograph picked up by an Internet news site. Someone had posted it on YouTube.
Maestro, Virginia
Early Saturday afternoon
Griffin had to pull over for half a dozen big SUVs on his prayer-filled drive through winding snow-drenched streets on his way from the hospital to Professor Salazar’s house on Golden Meadow Terrace in Maestro. He slid up as close as he could to the curb in front of Professor Salazar’s ranch-style home. Its sloping roof and large front yard were covered with snow and flanked by snow-laden oak and pine trees. He counted four cars in the driveway. Was the party still going on?
The front door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.
A woman about his age, wearing pink shorts, of all things—and in the winter and while it was snowing—a nubby pink sweater, and black boots to her knees blinked up at him. Her hair was long and black, parted in the middle, hanging down on either side of her pale, striking face. She eyed him. “Oh, I thought it was Barbara finally back from Starbucks, but no, you are a guy.”