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puncture hole in the can’s lid, drawing a sample of air, and turned to the large instrument set on the steel table. Its Plexiglas panel revealed an extended capillary tube. As she injected the syringe’s invisible contents into the machine’s capillary tube, I heard a starting gun go off in my head.
    The great race of Gas Chromatography Mass Spectrometer.
    â€œThis is my fourth run on these volatiles,” she said. “Just so you know I didn’t pull these results out of thin air, so to speak.”
    â€œFour runs?”
    â€œI thought something was wrong.”
    Inside the instrument a small furnace heated the vapor within the capillary tube, exciting the compounds and breaking their bonds. As they separated into individual molecules, the smaller elements sprinted through the capillary tube, while the larger molecules lumbered for the finish line. Nettie pushed the safety goggles up on her forehead and keyed up the computer monitor.
    Within moments colored bar graphs started rising and falling on the monitor, showing individual weights and speed of travel for each molecule. Call me a nerd; I loved how GCMS was like a track race with no names on the runners. Like being told there’s a 119-pound female who does the hundred-yard dash in thirteen seconds. Your job was to figure out her name.
    Back in the early days, we matched molecules by combing through chemistry textbooks. These days computers did all the work.
    â€œThat’s what I’m talking about,” Nettie said as the mass spec painted its final graph, tossing names on the monitor. “The accelerant used to light that cross was mustard gas. And something called lewisite.”
    â€œMustard gas?” I leaned forward, staring at the results. “From what, World War I?”
    But she was already walking back to her desk down the hall from the instrument room. The smallest forensics department in the lab, mineralogy was tucked into the building’s north side. Nettie dropped into a swivel chair, stubbing her Birkenstock into the floor to pivot and reach under her desk, pulling out a folder.
    â€œMustard gas isn’t even the most peculiar compound,” she said. “Wait until you meet lewisite.”
    â€œMineral?”
    â€œDeadly chemical compound,” she said cheerfully. “All by itself, lewisite is nasty stuff. But add in some mustard gas and the toxicity goes off the charts. Whoever used these chemicals wanted to make sure that cross burned.”
    She flipped the folder open so I could see.
    The clinical photographs magnified five and ten times showed angry rashes that oozed blood and pus.
    But Nettie seemed unfazed.
    â€œIn addition to the skin trauma,” she said, “lewisite produces convulsions, vomiting, and catatonic states. Sort of like what happens to me when somebody hands me a Barbie doll. Mustard gas does about the same. Burns, blinds people. But it smells like geraniums.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I read. Who knew? I take that back. Whoever put this stuff on the grass knew. Or they’re dead from contact.” She tossed me the folder. “Your copy, all the data.”
    Opening the file, I glanced over her notes. Her penmanship surprised me. Scrolled and flourishing, as feminine as a wedding invitation, somehow it made the medical photos even more gruesome. “I appreciate the quick turnaround. Thank you.”
    â€œBut you’re going to tell me something’s wrong.”
    â€œThis happened in rural Virginia. See what I’m saying?”
    She nodded—a quick, excited gesture—and combined with the spray of freckles across her nose and the faded jeans, she looked all of fifteen. “I wondered about that too. So I went through the lab’s back files on cross burnings. To check accelerants.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œNothing’s even close.”
    â€œNothing?”
    â€œThey mostly use gasoline and