As the sun over the Vatican gradually sank below the horizon, the sun over Los Angeles hung high in the sky.
For most people, it was merely an ordinary morning. Fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, with a light breeze at force three—perfect weather for exercise.
But for the Millers, this was no ordinary day.
Their granddaughter, eighteen-year-old Angela Warren, had jumped to her death that morning.
The floor where they lived was not particularly high, but just as she jumped from the window, a car happened to pass beneath the building.
She died beneath its wheels. Though her body had been removed, a large pool of blood remained at the scene. By the time Mills arrived, the police had already set up a cordon, with residents gathering all around outside it.
Holding a cup of coffee, he casually lifted the police tape and walked in. The intern assigned to protect the scene immediately stopped him.
"What are you doing?" the intern asked.
"Do you know who I am?" Mills pointed at himself, putting on an arrogant air.
"I don't know you." The intern looked him up and down and answered hesitantly.
"When I was a detective in this neighborhood, you were still in elementary school learning how to change diapers. Who's in charge of the scene today?"
"I can't let you in. Those are the rules," the intern said firmly.
Mills tried to push past him toward the apartment building.
The intern hurriedly grabbed him.
As the two of them tugged at each other, an obviously overweight Black police officer, his waist nearly twice that of an average man, appeared at the entrance to the apartment building.
"Let him in," the Black officer said. "I know him."
The young intern stopped pestering Mills.
Mills adjusted his trench coat and walked over to