As she approached the open door of Morwood’s office, her anxiety spiked. Shit, it had to be that. Almost four months now, and she hadn’t blown her top once. Figures she’d do it just at the worst time, and at the worst guy possible. She knew that, as her FTO, Morwood had the power to fire her. While that was almost unheard of, he could certainly put a note in her jacket that would be an anchor on her career for a long time.

On top of everything else, the Rolling Stones’ “19th Nervous Breakdown” had wormed its way into her head and refused to leave. Here it comes…

Mouth dry, she knocked on the doorframe. Morwood, who was holding a stapled sheaf of papers in one hand, glanced up. As usual, she could tell nothing from his expression. “Swanson,” he said, looking back at the papers. “Come in.”

Usually he asked her to sit. Not this time.

She waited while he turned over one page, then another. Then he cleared his throat and—without looking up—asked: “Are you familiar with what happened at Glorieta Pass?”

Glorieta Pass? That road was unfamiliar to Swanson. She racked her brains, recalling the names of the streets in the Alta Monte neighborhood where their raid had gone down—Candelaria, Comanche—but she couldn’t recall any Glorieta.

“I’m not sure, sir,” she said, bracing herself.

Morwood let the sheaf of papers drop on his desk and finally looked back up at her. “Frankly, Agent Swanson, I’m surprised at you.”

“Sir?” Here it comes, here it comes…

“A student with your depth of scholarship, and you’re going to tell me you don’t know about the Battle of Glorieta Pass?”

Now Swanson was thoroughly confused. With a stab of annoyance she thrust Mick Jagger’s nasal voice out of her mind. “I’m not sure what you mean. There was no battle; the cooks surrendered without a fight. If you’re referring to the incident with Breitman, I want you to know, sir, that I’m sorry if there were any hard feelings—”

“Swanson, are we even on the same planet? I’ve read your John Jay transcript. It says you took a course on the American Civil War your sophomore year. Or maybe you slept through it?”

Swanson swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Are we talking about history?”

“Of course. What did you think we were talking about—that DEA dustup yesterday? Sure, Breitman called me. I told him to untwist his underwear and forget about it. No, I’m talking about Glorieta Pass—the westernmost major battle of the Civil War. The Confederacy invaded New Mexico Territory in an attempt to cut the West off from the Union, and got their asses royally kicked. At Glorieta Pass.”

Swanson felt surprise, relief, and then embarrassment. Now that her anxiety was receding, the name did have a familiar ring. But her professor for that class had been boring as hell, and there’d been so many battlefields to remember…

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, a class of mine covered it. Sorry, sir.”

He frowned at her in what she hoped was mock disappointment. “I’m relieved to hear it. Not exactly Gettysburg, of course, but over sixty men, Yanks and Confederates both, lost their lives in that battle. Several of them are buried up there, at a place called Pigeon’s Ranch.”

Swanson was silent, listening. As relieved as she was to learn this had nothing to do with the reaming-out she’d given Breitman the day before, she was mystified as to what Morwood was getting at.

“About an hour ago, a body was discovered in the Pigeon’s Ranch cemetery. Well, two bodies, perhaps—although that remains to be seen. A man was found shot, lying atop a coffin in a freshly dug-up grave.”

Swanson nodded. She wondered if she should be taking notes, decided against it.

“Feel free to chime in anytime, Swanson. Now: Glorieta Pass was a Civil War battle. Part of the battlefield is a national historic park, and that grave was in a small cemetery there.”

At this, Swanson did chime in. “That would make the site federal land.”

“Yes. You may now keep your diploma. Go on.”

“Any crime committed there would be our responsibility to investigate.”

“Correction: your responsibility.” And with that, Morwood picked the sheaf of papers off his desk and handed it to her.

Swanson took the papers gingerly. “Sir?”

“It’s quite simple. As I recall, three weeks ago you came to me asking for a new challenge. An active investigation, perhaps.” Morwood coughed behind one palm, then waved at the sheaf of papers. “I herewith give you a dead body in a vandalized grave in the cemetery at Glorieta Pass.”

When Swanson remained silent, Morwood said: “Isn’t this what you wanted? A case of your own?”

Swanson recovered her voice. “Yes, sir, I want that very much. But what do I…?” She fell silent again, seized with panic.

“You don’t know exactly what to do? Of course not. It’s your first case. But here’s the chance to see how that Quantico training and these four months of casework pay off. I’m eager to hear what your budding forensic expertise makes of it all. So: you’ll be the initial federal investigator. Liaise with local law enforcement, make sure the site has been secured, examine the body, supervise the collection of evidence, prepare a preliminary report. On your own.”

Swanson didn’t reply. She was aware of several emotions: excitement, even elation, but at the same time concern, as the ramifications of what Morwood was saying hit home. “What about you?” And, as an afterthought: “Sir?”

“What about me? I’ll be in this office, eager to hear your findings.”

Swanson swallowed. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. But Morwood was FTO for her probationary period. He was supposed to ghost her, mentor her, through just this kind of process. Was this his version of teaching her to swim by throwing her into the deep end of the pool?

“What about, ah, calling in an Evidence Response Team Unit?”

Morwood shook his head. “As the lead investigator, you’ll be in charge. That’s up to you.” He gave her a wry smile. “But keep in mind you’ll have local law enforcement and their CSU on hand, with the coroner’s office and other support staff. Certainly, if you feel it’s necessary to call in the ERTU, do so, but consider the optics first.” He picked up his phone. “Take a look at that brief. Meanwhile, I’ll get Operations to set you up with a pool car, a radio, and the rest of it.”

When she remained motionless, Morwood put the phone down again. “Well? Remove thyself, Agent Swanson. Get thee to Glorieta. It’s only an hour away. And it’s even a rather attractive drive.”

9

AS SHE DROVE the duty vehicle down the winding, dusty road, Morwood’s sheaf of papers—now carefully read, reread, and tucked into a folder—lying on the seat next to her, Agent Swanson found herself beset by unexpected emotions. This was a day she’d dreamed of for a long time: Special Agent Corinne Swanson, lead FBI investigator, on a homicide case. And yet, instead of focusing like a laser on the case, she felt awash in anxiety. Only the most banal thoughts seemed to come, unbidden, into her brain—trivial details of the weather, the color of the road, a broken piñon tree.