Beatrix got the report-in time for 9am sharp to SAC Johnson the day before, after being rotated off her last shift in the FBI's Homicide Division. The message was clipped, curt, like the underling passing it on didn't have time to answer questions. He'd hung up before she'd had time to say goodbye.
The building's almost depressingly innocuous when she reports to it, a three-story, squat looking HQ with a logo that looks like it needs a damn good polish over the door. There's a receptionist sat behind a low desk behind the automatic doors and the metal detector.
She's drinking coffee and talking on the phone to someone called 'Shaunee'.