Two SUVs are waiting for us at the airfield. Danielle, the sweet redhead, finds an FBI jacket in an overhead bin and hands it to me as I exit the plane. On the ride to the cemetery I answer a few of her polite questions. Nobody is talking about where we’re going. The driver, a special agent out of the field office named Shannon, tells us we’re going to get a briefing at the location.

He looks to be in his late thirties. He’s got a muscular build and a shaved head. His eyes occasionally flicker back at me from the rearview mirror. He’s asked me twice who assigned me here. I explain that I’ve been sent as an adviser, but decline to explain why. I already feel out of place.

The sun has gone down and the sky is filled with dark, slate-colored clouds. Drab houses with lawns of yellow weeds give way to concrete and corrugated-metal buildings set back in cracked black asphalt and gravel yards. There’s a light rain that makes the roads slick. We pass through a bend in the road, and the red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles parked on either side come into view. Two television news trucks are across the street with their microwave masts pointed to their towers back near the city.

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.”

I notice the way Special Agent Shannon says the last words. There’s a moment of hesitation there. He meant them to sound forceful, but they weren’t. He has a sense of doubt about everything. This can’t be the same girl, but it’s gnawing away at him.

Obviously this is just some sick game the killer is playing. However, I get the feeling that something about it unsettles Shannon more than usual. Guys like Shannon tend to like straight-up, predictable crimes. Bank robberies, kidnapping for money, a murder of passion. It’s the kind where the motives are the most alien that give them stress.

I suspect because it’s easier to think about things when you can imagine yourself doing them. We can all fantasize about the perfect caper, like how we’d pull off the perfect bank robbery. But to try to understand the motivations of someone who is just plain disturbed is much more difficult and stressful. There’s no predictability there. We don’t want to see any part of ourselves in people capable of that.

We want to hunt monsters, not be them.

Danielle speaks up. “What kind of forensic evidence do we have that it’s the same girl?”

Shannon walks us over to the edge of the white screen. “Blood tests. We’re trying to do a hair sample too. As I mentioned, the parents confirmed it was her. There are even scars in the same spots where Chloe was stabbed. They had no doubt.”

“What about fingerprints?” asks Danielle.

“Well, that’s a little complicated. You’ll see in a second.” He nods to a deputy who waves us through a gap. “When we found her, the first thing the examiner did was take a core temperature and measure elasticity and other signs of necrosis. This girl died less than twenty-four hours ago.”

A field technician is taking photographs of the scene. I blink from the light of the flash. As my pupils dilate, the body of Chloe McDonald comes into focus.

Danielle gasps. I’m sure I do as well. It’s not the dead body that unsettles us, it’s the look on her face. Mouth open, eyes wide. It’s a look of sheer terror frozen in time.

This is the gut reaction Ailes wanted me to have. I think of him as a sadist for not warning me. He had to have known. I’m sure on his desk or on his computer screen was a photograph of the crime scene. But he didn’t show it to me. He didn’t prepare me for this.

He wanted me to see what the Warlock wanted us to see. This wasn’t watching from the wings, this was sitting in the front row. The reaction is visceral.