“I don’t know how I can help,” she interrupted.

  “First, tell me what he looked like.”

  “A monster.”

  “Okay, so...”

  “Maybe a demon. He was wearing a Halloween costume: like a black jumpsuit with a hood and a skeleton’s mask beneath it. I know the police believed it was a prank, but there was something about him. I knew... I guess, well, people decorate. And they do come in costume, but usually only on Halloween day or evening.”

  “Okay, how tall do you think he was?”

  Debbie shook her head. “Regular-guy size? I’m pretty sure it was a guy. I think maybe six feet and medium build?”

  Angela nodded. “And where exactly did you see him? Was he headed for one of the exits?”

  Debbie almost smiled. “Exits? You don’t need an exit for that place. The stone wall that surrounds it isn’t more than two feet high. But he seemed to be heading toward the... um, north side. Where the forest has kind of encroached on some of the stones. There’s a tree that’s half in the cemetery and half out. I think he ran past it and into the woods.”

  Angela mentally drew a map of the cemetery in her mind. Since the Robertson family vault or mausoleum was in the center of the place, he might have quickly come from it while Debbie was kneeling at her father’s grave. And when she looked up, he could have easily been halfway out of the place.

  “I just knew he’d killed someone. But then he was gone. And I—I didn’t see anyone who had been stabbed or was bloody or... anything. And I was terrified. So, I ran. I got into my car and drove around to the office. And that lady, that Ms. Valois? She was so nice. She called the police right away, and they walked through the cemetery. But the one officer just seemed entirely disgusted by how the relatives of those buried or interred there decorate for the holiday. Some people think it’s horrible and disrespectful. It really isn’t. It’s remembering those we love during the holidays. As if they are still with us.”

  “It’s okay, Debbie. People remember their loved ones in different ways.”

  “I’m not usually scared. Most horror movies are funny to me and I like haunted houses. But I was terrified last night. So scared that when an officer called to say he’d be watching over me, I almost didn’t dare believe him. I called the precinct first... and they said that I was being watched. I knew someone had found something. But even with a cop outside, I couldn’t sleep. I... I loved my dad so much, but I don’t think I can ever go back there again.”

  Angela nodded and suggested softly, “Maybe not at Halloween. And until we find out what happened, there will be an officer or an agent looking out for you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. I—I called in sick today. I teach art at a local community college. I was so tired and scared. Then Special Agent Crow called me, but before the officer brought me here, I saw the news. I saw that three people were found in the cemetery, victims of a murderer. The blood on that knife was real.”

  She let out a breath. “Honestly, I’m not a horrible coward. I live by myself now in my folks’ old home. My mom died when I was little. I don’t even remember her. I just lost my dad two years ago, and I’m an only child. I have an alarm, but it’s only on the front door. It isn’t attached to any of the windows. I mean, I’m not an idiot, they’re all shut and locked, but—”

  “It’s all right.” Angela appreciated the fact that Debbie was scared and rambling. Her job was to calm her down and see if she could gather any useful information. “We know you’re frightened. But no one knows if he saw you. Though perhaps you’ll feel a little better if I tell you this. He knows you can’t identify him. He was wearing that mask. So, he has no reason to come after you.”

  “What if he’s just insane? He has to be a little, right?”

  “I like to believe that any human being who can hurt another in that way has to be a bit off,” Angela told her. “But we will protect you. An officer will be near at all times, I promise.”

  Debbie still looked uneasy. “Could he—or she—just come in and watch television? Then I wouldn’t be so scared about the windows, especially those in back.”

  “I think we can arrange that,” a masculine voice said.

  Jackson had slipped into the conference room. He gave Debbie an encouraging smile. “And we’ll set up an assurance program. A way for you to talk to headquarters and know for sure that a patrolman or woman is who they say they are when the shifts change. You good with that?”

  “I’m grateful for that,” Debbie said. “I’m so tired. I am just so, so tired.”

  “Officer Whittaker can take you home. Shift will change before dark, and then you’ll be all set. It’s going to be okay, Debbie. If you hadn’t had the courage to report what you saw and insisted that it was real, we wouldn’t have known anything was wrong. We wouldn’t know about this killer. So, thank you. And please believe we’ll look after you. That’s a promise.”

  “Thank you,” Debbie said again. Angela rose, and the young woman stood, too, looking from her to Jackson.

  “It’s okay. Keep our numbers on speed dial and call for anything,” Angela told her.

  Jackson escorted her out to the main reception area where Officer Owen Whittaker waited. He was a ten-year veteran with the force and someone his colleagues and the Krewe trusted implicitly. Angela remained in the conference room, anxious for Jackson to return.

  He walked back in and frowned, likely at the look on her face.

  “We have to go back,” she told him.

  “Back?”

  “To the cemetery. Jackson, I don’t know why, but... maybe we missed something. I know the forensic crews were there all night, and I know the medical examiners are still identifying the victims, but I just feel like we need to go back.”

  “All right. But we have several people to interview—”

  “And a roster of agents ready to work,” she reminded him.

  “Okay. But there’s someone we need to see first. One more person.”

  “Who?” she asked him.

  He smiled grimly. “I’ll bring him in.”

  Jackson left for a minute again and returned with a man who was speaking even as they entered the conference room.

  “Horrible! Beyond horrible. What kind of a sick person would do something like that?”

  Without an introduction, she knew it was Benjamin Robertson.

  “Horrible. Horrible! The worst dishonor to the dead. Murder? In the tomb of a true American patriot no less. Unknown bodies left, families now feeling lost and full of fear and worry. Horrible!”

  Either the man was a good actor—it was always possible—or he was truly distraught over what had been discovered in his family’s tomb.

  “We all agree it was terrible,” Jackson said. “We’re hoping you can help us.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Nothing unusual happened when your father was interred?” Angela asked, keeping her questions polite and her manner that of someone seeking help rather than accusatory in any way.

  Angela had done her research and knew the man was in his early forties. Naturally proud of his heritage, he’d written several books on the Founding Fathers. When he wasn’t writing, he ran a tech company that specialized in helping those who did their own income taxes. He’d created the company along with a college buddy from Yale. The two continued to do well—so well, in fact, their employees now handled the day-to-day.

  Which left Benjamin Robertson time to pursue his research and whatever other interests he might have.

  Murder?

  He was a handsome man with strong bone structure, curly, dark hair, and a clean-shaven face. He wasn’t quite six feet tall but had a fit body for his medium build.

  He wore a crisp, clean, dark blue business suit.

  He frowned, looking from Jackson to Angela. “When we interred my dad? No, nothing unusual. There were no bodies in the tomb then. I mean, none that didn’t belong there. Oh, my God. Even talking about this is ridiculous. Don’t take that wrong. It’s horrible and tragic, but...” He paused, lifting his hands helplessly. “Nothing was unusual the day my dad was interred. My pops died of natural causes—a bad heart. We knew he was also going into kidney failure, and those who knew and loved him were prepared. Ready to see him at peace. Many people attended his funeral, and the priest was in the tomb with him, too. Honestly, no, there was nothing.”

  “Is that the last time you were in the crypt?” Jackson asked him.

  Benjamin Robertson nodded. “Other people were in there that day. Not just to honor my father, but... my several-times great-grandfather was a famed patriot. People like to see the tomb. Even architecturally, it’s a historical monument.”

  “But you didn’t leave anyone in it after the funeral?” Angela asked.

  He shook his head. “No. No, of course not.”

  He didn’t sound entirely convincing.

  “And you locked it when you left. Are you certain?” Jackson asked him.

  “I, yes. I’m sure. I...”

  He appeared somewhat perplexed, then suddenly exploded with confusion and anger.

  “I don’t know! I think I locked it. I was ready and prepared for my dad’s death, but it was still... it was a damned hard day. I think I locked it, but I was trying to watch over my mother and talking to the priest. To others. I think everyone was out. I think I locked it. And I probably did. You know the cemetery office keeps a copy of the key, too.”

  “We do,” Angela assured him quietly. “And we know how upsetting this must be for you. I’m sorry to put you through it. We’re trying to get to the truth, make sure someone is held accountable, and ensure such horror never takes place again.”

  Robertson let out a long sigh. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. I guess... well, the media has it out there that bodies were found in, as they called it, the patriot’s tomb. And then they act all sanctimonious, like they aren’t going to say anything. The victims’ families need to be notified. And, of course, they are all aware it’s an active investigation. That fellow who wrote the article, Jefferson Moore, is after me again. At first, it was just fine and cool, but not now. People always want to be sensational. You know, whoever shocks the world the most gets the best ratings or reviews.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jackson told him. “It is an active investigation, and the media will not be getting anything else until we know more. But we’ll speak with the fellow who did the article.”

  “Jefferson Moore,” Robertson repeated. “I thought it was great that he wanted to write about Gordon Town Cemetery. It’s notable, but it’s too close to Arlington and other historic cemeteries and places that are all major sites for historians. I was glad for the opportunity to explain that decorating was a way to include our lost loved ones in our holidays. And he did a damned good job with the article. But I just don’t want to talk to anyone now.”

  “Understandable,” Jackson told him, handing him a card. “If anyone causes you difficulty, or if you think of anything, please call us.”

  “Absolutely,” he assured.

  “By the way, do you have a list of people who attended your father’s funeral?” Jackson asked.

  “A list? Well, it was in the paper, so...”

  “Was anyone filming? Doing video?” Angela asked.

  “I... I don’t know,” Robertson said. “Maybe. I can ask around. My cousins were there. The service was beautiful. A soprano from the church sang Ave Maria, and my cousin’s son did an amazing job with Danny Boy. You never know. I guess maybe...”

  “Please find out for us,” Angela implored.

  “My friends, my family... no one would do anything so horrible.”

  “But as you said,” Jackson reminded him, “the funeral was listed in the paper, and you don’t know who might have been there. We’ll appreciate anything that might help.”

  Robertson offered them a grimace and said dryly, “You know, I’ve heard rumors. You guys are supposed to be ghost hunters or something. Maybe the dead guy can just tell you who killed him, huh?”

  “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Jackson asked, smiling ruefully. “Afraid we’ll just have to do a real investigation and see what we discover. Amazing what the living can tell us when we have brilliant psychologists and psychiatrists on hand.”

  Robertson frowned. “You don’t need a psychiatrist for this. A sick mind is sure as hell involved.”

  “Absolutely,” Jackson agreed. “Please call us if you think of anything.”

  “Yes, I will. Um, am I free to go?”

  “Of course. You’ve always been free to go,” Jackson said pleasantly. “We’re just seeking any help we can get.”

  Robertson nodded. “All right, then. You’ll keep me informed on what’s going on?”

  “Naturally. And thank you for coming in,” Angela said.

  He nodded, and then Jackson told him, “I’ll see you out.”

  Angela followed but hurried to her office and computer. She quickly did a search on the recent funeral at the Robertson tomb.

  Videos had been posted to various media outlets. She wasn’t sure how Benjamin Robertson could have missed the number of people who had been filming.

  Most of the videos were of the priest or the singers. Benjamin had been right, the Ave Maria soprano had a gorgeous voice, and Benjamin’s cousin’s son had a lovely tenor, his tone plaintive as he sang Danny Boy.

  But one video also showed the tomb and the crowd surrounding the service outside what would become the deceased’s final resting place.

  At least twenty-five to thirty-five people attended, each who might easily be identified.

  Jackson came into her office. “You found video?”

  She nodded.

  “I just got a call from Kat. They identified the second John Doe—our killer’s latest victim.”

  “And?”

  “His name is Arnold Kern. Until recently, he worked for Robertson Technologies.”

  “Benjamin Robertson’s company?” Angela asked.

  Jackson nodded gravely. “They let him go not that long ago. He has a record, something he kept hidden at first. But, apparently, it was information that came out when the human resources department did a deeper dive on some of their employees. He had a drug conviction. However, he didn’t do any time. Was only put on probation.”

  Angela sat back, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, Arnold Kern was the one who lost his job. If there was going to be a murder... Well, what are the most common motives? Money, love, jealousy—or revenge. But if revenge were the case in this, wouldn’t Benjamin Robertson be the one in trouble?”

  “Ah, well, that’s when there is a real motive for murder. And when it’s not someone who is, in layman’s terms, batshit crazy.”

  “But this doesn’t seem random.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Anyway, despite the state of decomposition in our other victims, Kat said they’re hoping for identifications on them soon. There might be a connection between the victims. We’ll have to speak with Benjamin Robertson again.”

  “But not now. Jackson, I really want to get back into the cemetery.”

  “All right. But we have video now to scan.”

  “Philip will be a lot better at watching the video and determining what might have been going on with someone.”

  Philip Law, like his sister, Colleen, was a valuable member of the Krewe. They were two of a set of triplets, and the third member of their trio, Megan, was now married to Agent Ragnar Johansen. She had kept her day job, editing for a major publishing house. Still, with her ability to read between the lines, so to speak, she often helped out.

  Philip, however, had degrees in not only psychiatry but also psychology, in addition to his talent for something akin to mind reading.

  Jackson nodded his agreement. “I already have him listening to the recordings I made in the conference room this morning—our sessions with Debbie Nolan and Benjamin Robertson. I’ll ask him to look at the videos that were posted of the funeral, as well. Mark and Colleen can help him with that. I’ve also requested the security recordings from the cemetery’s office. Later, we’ll get it all up on the main screen and see if any of us can find anything suggesting someone might have been at the funeral or in the office absconding with a key. Plus, we still have the office personnel to interview. And so many others. Then again, Rome wasn’t built in a day—”

  “Jackson, we have to figure out how to build Rome in a day—or at most a couple of days.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m afraid if we don’t, something even worse will happen by Halloween.”

  He grimaced. “Okay, so we’ll build Rome in day or two. Come on. We can head out for the cemetery now. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll find someone among the dead who might be able to give us something we can’t get from the living.” He hesitated and then shrugged. “Maybe revenge could go the other way. But it’s hard not to wonder how an employee of Robertson Technologies ended up in the Robertson tomb.”

  “Too obvious, perhaps? Someone who wants to see him blamed for the murder?” Angela suggested.

  “That’s a possible theory, yes. Anyway, let’s head out and trust our fellow agents to use their talents to uncover what they can see and hear in those conversations on the videos.”

  Angela nodded and closed her computer. They headed out to the parking lot.

  The drive to Gordon Town and the Gordon Town Cemetery took them about twenty-five minutes. While the Krewe offices were in northern Virginia, traffic getting out of the D.C. area was seldom easy.

  And yet it was strange. They went from an area that was heavily populated and continually congested to roads with almost nothing.

  Finally, they reached Gordon Town and the cemetery.

  The place remained roped off—yellow crime scene tape stretched around the entire burial grounds from triangle point to triangle point. And the local police presence was visible as intended. Before hopping over the stone wall by the embankment where they’d parked the car, Jackson waved to an officer and produced his credentials. The officer nodded and approached.