Bones: Buried Deep

4

Temperance Brennan’s irritation existed on dual levels — neither one, she knew, particularly rational.

She wasn’t exactly jealous over Booth’s saying he might call Dr. Jane Wu. That, after all, was none of her business. And why should she care?

After all, they had no real relationship beyond work, had never dated, never even gone out for a drink together….

Okay, so the handsome FBI agent in her novel, Bred in the Bone, had borne a greater likeness to Booth than she had intended. In her mind, Booth had been in the mix, the fictional agent a composite of Booth, several other agents, and her imagination.

When her staff had called her on the character’s being Booth-And-Only-Booth, she had pooh-poohed the idea; but Angela — whose mission was to fix people up with each other and make everybody and everything happy and nice — had jumped all over it, despite Brennan’s protestations.

If Brennan found herself rolling her eyes over Booth’s knee-jerk response to the attractive Dr. Wu, her own knee-jerk response, about someone she had on occasion worked with, only made her shake her head… at herself.

If forced, she’d have described her relationship with Booth as more of… a brother and sister thing (to which Angela would not doubt gibe, “Right — like in the Ozarks!”). Even if she felt the feelings Angela attributed to her, however, Brennan knew such a relationship would be unprofessional; and professionalism was as close to a personal code as Brennan had thus far formed.

Besides, she was not in the right place in her life for any kind of male-female connection.

What bothered her most, though, were her envious feelings about Dr. Wu. The Field Museum anthropologist — whom Brennan liked and respected — saw what she wanted and went right after it, an approach that had always been out of reach for Brennan… at least when it came to male-female stuff.

Envying someone for having the self-assurance to strive for what she wanted, well, that irked Brennan — about herself. Envy seemed petty. Was petty, she knew.

That didn’t make the feeling go away.

She neither liked nor trusted such feelings. As a scientist, she preferred an intellectual path. “Feelings” were nothing more than emotion, a desire for something that the brain told you was probably counterproductive.

Just minutes ago, this frustration had seemed about to reach a blessed conclusion. She’d be on a flight back to DC with the remains, and Agent Seeley Booth would be half a continent away.

She’d sat in Booth’s Crown Vic, looking out the window, ignoring the man behind the wheel, relieved to see the WELCOME TO O’HARE AIRPORT sign as they started up the serpentine road that led to the terminal.

But then Booth’s cell phone chirped, and everything changed.

“What do you mean,” she said, trying not to sound as irritated (and frustrated) as she felt, “I’m not going on that flight?”

These were the first words she had spoken to him in quite a while.

Sitting behind the wheel at the curb, with the motor running, he appeared lost in thought, and his response had an absent quality: “Guess we’ll have to FedEx the skeleton.”

“What kind of silly red tape have you got us caught up in? Booth, I take stuff like that on planes with me all the time!”

As he turned to her now, she could see Booth’s troubled expression, the angles of his face highlighted by the setting sun.

“You won’t be able to convey that evidence,” he explained, “because you won’t be getting on that plane.”

“Why the hell not?”

He tasted his tongue; didn’t seem to care for the flavor. “Because we need you… I need you.”

“Be still, my beating heart,” she said. “Why do you need me?”

“Seems we just got ourselves another skeleton.”

“…Another…” She gaped at him. “You have to be—” But she didn’t complete that: he clearly wasn’t “kidding.”

He flipped the switch for the flashing lights and got the car in gear and the siren going.

Gunning the car and dodging around a taxi, he said, “Call just came in — skel number two, outside a theater in Old Town.”

“Old Town?”

They were speeding now, headed back toward the expressway. “On the North Side, border of Old Town and Wrigleyville, two sections of the city.”

“You seem to know your way around Chicago pretty well….”

He zoomed past a truck, jumped two lanes left. “Feels like I’ve been here forever, on this mob case. But I spent some time in the Windy City when I was a kid, yeah.”

Oddly, a part of her didn’t mind staying, while a more sensible portion of her mind was frustrated that her evidence would head home without her.

Finally she asked, “This… new skeleton?”

“Yeah?”

“Wired together, like the last one?”

“Don’t know — my guy Woolfolk didn’t say — you know as much as I do.”

They rode in silence for a time, cars barely getting out of their way or forcing Booth to swerve around them.

Brennan worked at remaining calm, and on the outside it took; but inside, despite having dug up mass graves during wars in Bosnia, Guatemala, and half a dozen other hellholes, she felt something approaching apprehension.

They were hurtling through traffic to get to a skeleton, a dead person, someone who could not get up and walk away… and yet Booth was racing there like they could arrive and perform CPR on the patient.

“Why?” he asked, with a sideways glance.

The word, after all that silence, seemed a non sequitur.

She squinted at him. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to know if our new skeleton is wired?”

Glad to have something to think about besides imminent death in a car crash, Brennan pondered the question.

“Just — the timing,” she said at last.

“How’s the timing relate?”

“Well, it’s just now getting dark. What’s the neighborhood like around that theater?”

Booth considered. “Lots of shops, restaurants, bars, apartments above businesses.”

Brennan nodded. “No shortage of traffic — foot and car both.”

“Plenty.”

“Daylight, or near to it, lots of traffic… and your suspect managed to drop a skeleton right in front of a theater?”

“Not in front of the theater,” Booth clarified. “Actually in an alley next to the building… but I get your point. Reasonable to assume some passerby would notice a guy lugging around a skeleton, or even a big unwieldly package.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The remains are in an alley?”

“Yeah. A famous alley, at that.”

“How does an alley get ‘famous’?”

“John Dillinger gets shot in it.”

“The bank robber from the thirties,” she said, eyes narrowing further.

“July 22, 1934, to be exact — Melvin Purvis and a squad of FBI agents shot Dillinger dead in an alley outside the Biograph Theater.”

“The FBI — it doesn’t go back much further than that, does it?”

“No. It was just this fledgling agency called the Division of Investigation. Purvis taking Dillinger down was a big deal — a public relations coup for the bureau.”

“…Don’t you see, Booth?”

“See what?”

“You’re being taunted. This killer is thumbing his nose at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Booth frowned. “You could be right.”

“You mean, I am right.”

His eyes were on the traffic, and his response came so late, Brennan almost didn’t know what he meant.

“You are right,” he said.

Almost didn’t know what he meant….

The neighborhood turned out to be as Booth had indicated — considerable foot traffic going by the shops, bars, and of course the famous theater (sadly closed but with its marquee promising to “reopen soon” with performances by the Victory Gardens theater company).

At the moment, pedestrians were forced to cross to the other side of the street, police having put up crime scene tape to cordon off the area of the alley and around the theater.

As Booth double-parked, Brennan could see the passersby gawking at the scene — police and federal agents milling around the mouth of the alley, haphazardly parked cars both marked and unmarked, the coroner’s van closest to the alley.

Booth displayed his ID, sticking it into his breast pocket. The cops cleared a path and Brennan followed, ducking under the crime scene tape as they entered the dark alley.

Night had settled over the city and their path was illuminated by halogen work lights, two to a yellow tripod, the tripods set every ten feet or so along the alley, with a triangle of them pointed at something on the ground at the far end.

Three men in suits waited there as well, talking to each other, watching as she and Booth approached.

As they neared these men, Brennan could see that the closest one stood up straight, his square shoulders back, chest out, his expensive suit barely able to contain his alpha male attitude.

He was definitely the boss.

Booth said, “Special Agent in Charge Robert Dillon, this is the anthropologist I told you about — Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

Dillon extended his hand. “Glad to have you aboard, Dr. Brennan.”

As she shook his hand, she struggled to keep her face impassive. Welcome aboard? As if they were fellow passengers on a cruise ship? He had a firm grip, and dark eyes that struck her as avian and predatory.

But his next remark was friendly enough: “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Thank you. I never expected to be doing anthropological work on the streets of Chicago.”

“And we never dreamed we’d have to ask you to.”

He turned to a tall man of thirty-five or so with stubbly brown hair, a day’s growth of beard, a strong chin, lively brown eyes, and an affable expression that nonetheless told Brennan he was checking her out… and not for her professional expertise.

Dillon said, “This is Lieutenant Brett Greene of the Chicago PD.”

Greene extended his hand. He wore black slacks, an open-collared black shirt, and black leather coat. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Brennan.”

She shook his hand, a warm, friendly handshake that matched his expression.

“You, too,” she said, giving him a professional smile.

Booth introduced the third man. “This is Special Agent Josh Woolfolk. He’s my partner on this investigation.”

Brennan felt vaguely hurt by that — wasn’t she Booth’s partner?

Smaller and older than Booth, Woolfolk might have been a middle manager, with his well-kept dark hair swept over to the right, wearing a light blue shirt and darker blue tie under a navy suit.

She shook his hand, said hello, and then looked toward the object under the triangle of work lights.

Brennan had expected a skeleton similar to the last one, but what she saw was a garbage bag with the top open. From here, she could not see the bag’s contents.

“What have we got?” Booth asked.

Despite the presence of the federal agents, the Chicago cop, Greene, spoke up. “Homeless guy saw somebody dump this garbage bag back here.”

Greene squatted next to the bag and carefully held the top open so they could look inside.

A skull and a pile of bones beneath it.

Greene said, “Homeless guy says that he thought there might be good trash in there… these scavengers check everything out… so he opened the bag.” Greene laughed. “When he saw the bones, he freaked. Ran back to the street and flagged down a squad car.”

“Where’s our witness now?” Booth asked.

Greene jerked his head toward the street. “Backseat of a squad.”

Crouching next to Booth, hands on her knees, Brennan peered into the bag that Greene still held open.

Under the harsh glare of the work lights, the skull was white — bleached-looking. She also saw at least one femur, both humeri, ribs, two tibiae, and a pile of smaller bones.

No wire this time, but what seemed to be a complete human skeleton.

Again.

“We need to get this to the Field Museum,” she said.

Dillon checked his watch. “Closed by now.”

Brennan glanced up at Booth. “Call Jane Wu. Use her home number, if you have to — I mean, you do have it….”

Booth gave her a funny look, but said, “Good idea.”

“Wu who?” Dillon asked.

Greene smiled at that, his eyes catching Brennan’s.

“Dr. Wu,” Booth said to his superior. “Our contact at the Field Museum — also an anthropologist.”

“Call her, by all means,” Dillon said.

“But before you go poking around in this bag,” Greene said, holding up a traffic-cop palm, “it goes to the station to be printed.”

Brennan nodded. “I have no problem with that.”

The three federal officers gave her a collective fish eye.

“Well, isn’t that the next logical step?” she asked, looking at Booth. “Fingerprinting the bag and its contents?”

Dillon answered crisply. “We don’t generally take orders from local officers.”

Shrugging, Brennan asked, “I’m just a consultant, on only one aspect of this investigation… but if I might suggest? Why don’t we table any turf wars, and just work together on this — we might get farther, faster.”

Dillon frowned but said nothing.

Brennan turned away from the federal agent and faced Lieutenant Greene. “You’ll have that done tonight and the bones will be at the Field Museum first thing in the morning, right?”

Greene had been grinning when Brennan had the heat on Dillon, but now that it was on him, the smile faded. “Yeah, sure, no problem, only—”

“You need the address of the museum?”

Again, the detective looked uncomfortable. “No, I know where the Field Museum is! Jeez.”

“Good. Where’s the nearest FedEx?”

Greene told her, then said to the others, “I’m all for the cooperation Dr. Brennan advises; but this body, bones or not, was found in a Chicago alley. I don’t see what makes it a federal matter.”

Dillon said, “The first skeleton was found on government property, the Dirksen Building — this is clearly the same perp, and the same case.”

“Do we know that?” Greene asked.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” Dillon said. “You saw the note addressed to us…. Now, take the bag and there mains. We’ll take this.” He pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket. “And we’ll make sure it gets to Quantico ASAP.”

“What have you got there, Robert?” Booth asked.

It was Woolfolk who answered, chiming in, “Another note, Booth.”

Booth glared at Dillon. “Little slow telling me, don’t you think?”

“Just hadn’t got around to it,” his superior said, unapologetic.

Brennan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at all this male posturing; and would it have happened if she weren’t here, she wondered? The answer to that question seemed obvious to an anthropologist.

Dillon was saying, “Let’s get back to the car.”

Brennan trailed the men back up the alley, the crime scene investigators passing them as they made their way back to the homeless man’s discovery.

As the little group neared the cars, Brennan saw another man she didn’t know, but undeniably a federal agent, using a digital camera to snap photos of the crowd of gawkers behind the crime scene tape, lined up three and four deep.

Watching him photograph the people reminded Brennan of something she had heard about serial killers — that they sometimes inserted themselves into the investigation, so they could find out what the authorities knew, and give themselves the rush of power that came with knowing how close they were to getting caught.

And relishing a sense of power was a part of every serial killer’s psyche….

She looked out at the faces — young, old, Caucasian, African-American, Hispanic, Asian, eyes looking back at her, past her, glancing left, peering right.

Was the killer out there?

He — or she — could be any one of them or none of them. No way to tell by just looking. And, anyway, Brennan always found the dead more cooperative than the living….

Booth, Dillon, Woolfolk, and Greene formed a small circle between two unmarked cars. Brennan strolled over, Woolfolk and Greene separating to make room for her.

Woolfolk held a small MagLite that he turned on when Dillon spread out the note.

Even through the plastic evidence bag, it was easy to read:

“Tim?” Booth asked. “What the hell happened to Sam?”

“Sam?” Greene asked.

“That’s how the first note was signed,” Booth said.

“What first note?” the Chicago cop asked.

Brennan watched as Booth’s eyes cut to Dillon.

“A similar note was attached to the skeleton at the Dirksen Building,” Dillon said. “We’ll send you a copy.”

“A copy?” Greene blurted. “Take your time, no rush — it’s just evidence in a series of goddamn murders! Are you going to take Dr. Brennan’s advice and work with us on this, or what?”

Dillon kept his voice low, his face impassive, but his tone had an edge.

“Lieutenant Greene,” he said, “get a grip. We have a crowd around, including media, and God only knows how many with cameras — is this what you want broadcast? That we’re not cooperating?”

Greene started to say something, glanced around, then blew out a long breath. “Okay… you have a point. But the alley by the Biograph is not federal property.”

“Be that as it may,” Dillon said, “the first skeleton was found on federal property. Anyway, at the time, we didn’t know if the note was credible or just a diversion.”

Greene blinked. “Diversion?”

“We weren’t sure what that skeleton represented, Lieutenant. Whether we had a prank, or a murder — that’s part of why we flew Dr. Brennan in from DC. Here on out, we’ll keep you up to speed, Lieutenant — you have my word.”

“All right,” Greene relented. “Do that, and there’ll be no more bitching on my end. You’ll keep us in the loop on the notes, we’ll deal with the other physical evidence…. Now, tell me, for Christ sake — who the hell is Sam?”

Booth said, “Like I said — it’s how the killer signed the first note. Now we’ve got ‘Tim’ claiming the work.”

Greene’s brow furrowed. “The other note looked similar?”

“At first blush,” Booth said, “the work of the same correspondent.”

Greene’s wheels were turning. “Son of Sam reference, you think?”

Shrugging, Booth said, “That occurred to me, too. But honestly, I don’t know. Maybe he’s signing the name of another noted serial killer to each note…. Anybody know a serial killer named Tim?”

Woolfolk said, “There was that guy — Judy.”

“Judy? We’re looking for a Tim.”

“Steven Timothy Judy. Guy raped and killed women in Indiana, Texas, Louisiana, and California. Eleven in all, including drowning three children of one of his victims.”

Greene offered, “There’s Timothy McVeigh.” The man convicted for the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995.

“Not really a serial,” Booth pointed out.

Brennan said, “If he’s taunting you, invoking someone who struck at the federal government before could be part of that.”

Dillon’s eyes were on her. “Taunting us?”

Booth said, “Dr. Brennan has the idea, and I think it’s a good one, that the choice of this site has to do with the Dillinger shooting.”

Greene laughed. “That’s ridiculous…. Sorry, Doc, but that’s—”

“No,” Dillon said. “She’s right again — this was the site of one of the Bureau’s first great triumphs… nailing Public Enemy Number One.”

Booth nodded. “The guy is definitely yankin’ our chain.”

Dillon, his scowl deeper than usual, said, “Let’s yank his, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.” Booth turned to Greene. “I’d like a chat with our homeless citizen.”

“No problem,” Greene said.

Dillon put a hand on Booth’s shoulder. “I’ll be calling it a day — Seeley, it’s all yours from here.”

“Thanks, Robert. I’ve got it.”

Dillon got in his unmarked car and started the engine. They watched him navigate through the thinning crowd into traffic.

The bystanders were losing interest — no one could see what was in the alley, and the coroner’s van had pulled away empty. No blood, no further excitement, no reason for them to hang around. Time to head for dinner or home.

Woolfolk brandished the note in the evidence bag, said, “I’ll get on this,” and was gone as well.

Greene led Booth and Brennan to an unmarked car up the block. The detective opened the back door and made a motioning gesture. A tall, older man unfolded himself from the backseat.

Brennan was surprised to see the man’s hands cuffed behind his back.

Rail-thin, the man wore a threadbare black suit several sizes too big for him, a shirt that had once been white with a Superman tee shirt pulled over, and grimy tennis shoes.

Brennan was estimating the man had not bathed in weeks when a shift in breeze confirmed her theory.

Their homeless gent had a receding hairline, a gray beard, and a wad of nose that seemed to take up most of his face. The scruffy visage was softened, however, by mild blue eyes.

“Why is he cuffed?” Booth asked. “I thought he was just a witness.”

Greene gave the homeless man a hard look. “He tried to run, after he told the patrolmen about what he found.”

“Any possibility he dropped that package off himself?”

“Hell I did!” the guy said. “Told the cops what I found, then I tried to leave! This is still America, isn’t it?”

Booth sized up the guy. “It’s America, but you’ll excuse me if I don’t just take your word as gospel.”

“Free country,” the guy said with a shrug.

Greene said, “Two other people verified that someone else took the bag down the alley. They’re with a forensic artist back at the precinct. Unfortunately, both got a better look at this guy than they did the delivery boy with the bag.”

“That’s just peachy,” Booth said. To the homeless guy, he said, “What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Pete what?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You won’t get a meal till we’re through here,” Booth said.

The blue eyes sparked. “I’m gettin’ a meal outa this?”

“Maybe. What’s your last name?”

“These cuffs hurt, too, y’know. Can’t eat with cuffs on.”

Booth let out an irritated sigh.

Brennan intervened. “Lieutenant, will you remove the cuffs, please?”

“If I do, he’s just going to try to run again.”

“Probably,” Pete admitted, bobbing his shaggy head.

Pointing to a restaurant two doors up the street, Brennan said, “You really want dinner?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

“If I get your cuffs taken off, can you eat and talk at the same time? And by talk, I mean answer our questions?”

The homeless man considered that. “Could I have a beer?”

Brennan held up an index finger in the man’s face. “One beer, one dinner — you answer our questions.”

“No cuffs?”

“No cuffs.”

“How about another beer after dinner?”

“If you’ve been straight with us, sure.”

A smile blossomed in the bush of Pete’s beard. “Done deal!”

Pete turned his back to Greene so the lieutenant could undo the bracelets.

“This may be a bad idea,” Greene said, but he did it anyway.

“If he runs, you could shoot him,” Brennan suggested.

Pete’s head jerked.

Brennan could tell Pete wanted to think she was kidding, but she made sure her face gave away nothing.

The restaurant was a Mexican joint and they took a booth near the back — or anyway, that was where the hostess sat this oddly mixed group.

With Booth and Brennan on one side, Greene was forced to sit next to aromatic Pete. The crowd was thin, the salsa spicy, the beer cold.

When they were each nursing a Tecate, Booth asked, “So, Pete — what did you see?”

Pete didn’t have his large combination plate yet, but he munched chips and salsa, sipped his beer, and nodded at Booth’s question. “I was across the street, headed for my alley.”

“Your alley,” Booth said. “That’s the one next to the Biograph?”

“Naw. I got a place a couple of blocks down… but I was headed that way when I saw the guy get out of the car.”

Booth leaned forward. “Did you see the car?”

“Sure did.”

“Did you see what kind?”

“Oh yeah. You bet.”

“What kind, Pete?

“Blue.”

Brennan felt Booth tense next to her and she spent the next several seconds concentrating very hard on the label of her beer.

With the expression of a nearsighted person trying unsuccessfully to thread a needle, Booth asked, “You, uh, wouldn’t know the make of car?”

Pete shook his head. “Last car I owned was a 1968 Dodge. Somehow, I haven’t kept up.”

Booth nodded his surrender. “And you didn’t get the plate number.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Nope.” Pete took a deeper drink from his beer. “He was weird, this guy. Which is why I noticed him.”

When somebody like Pete found somebody else “weird,” that was worth a listen.

“Weird how?” Booth asked, perking up. “Dressed like crap, this guy.”

“Define ‘dressed like crap.’ ”

Pete thought for a second, munched a chip.

“Dressed like me — dirty face like me, too… only he got out of a big new-lookin’ car. That’s weird to me. Isn’t that weird to you?”

“Oh yeah,” Booth said. “Was that on this block?”

“No… more like — east of Halsted over on Orchard… in front of some of them row houses? Guy parked in that residential neighborhood, probably ’cause nobody was around. He was lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Findin’ a parkin’ spot. Anyway, I was just cuttin’ through, on my way back to my alley, like I said… and this guy gets out of the car lookin’ homeless as hell, then he opens the trunk and yanks out this garbage bag. He tosses it over his shoulder like fuckin’ Santa, and off he goes.”

“Which way?”

“To the corner, then west on Fullerton to Lincoln, and up to the alley. And me? I followed him the whole way.”

“Why did you follow him?”

“Are you kiddin’?” Pete snorted, and chewed a chip. “He had a trash bag!.. And a nice car. If he was dumping something that he had to take blocks from the car, that meant he didn’t want nobody to find it. And if he didn’t want nobody to find it, maybe he was Santa, and Christmas come early for Pete this year.”

Brennan looked at Pete in a new light. He definitely wasn’t homeless because he was a mental case.

Gently she asked, “Pete, why is a smart fella like you on the street?”

Pete shrugged. “Havin’ lots of stuff never brought me anything but pain — I decided to cut my losses and carry a lighter load.”

She wasn’t sure she knew what he meant, and she was about to ask something else when Booth cut in.

“What did ‘Santa’ look like?”

“I told ya! A homeless-lookin’ dude!”

“Be specific, Pete. Sing for your supper.”

Pete thought and chewed another chip; salsa dotted his beard now. “Shorter than me, stooped over a little, like he was old… but not so much right away, he sort of got that way as he carried the bag. Like maybe it was gettin’ to him? Dude wore sunglasses, too — like a homeless guy could afford expensive sunglasses!”

Booth tilted his head. “How do you know they were expensive sunglasses?”

“I dunno. Just looked like it to me. I mean, the ones that get thrown out that I can salvage are usually cheapies that got left behind or expensive ones that got busted.”

“You didn’t get a good look at his face?”

“Just that he had it all smeared with dirt. He was white, if that’s where you’re goin’.”

“Any distinguishing marks? Anything at all?”

Pete shook his head and finished his beer, milking every drop.

Then he posed a question to Brennan: “You sure I can’t have that other beer now? I mean, I been talkin’ like crazy for you people, and it’ll go swell with my meal.”

“Sure,” Brennan said.

Booth accepted this, and waved the waitress over and ordered Pete’s second Tecate.

Then the FBI man asked Lieutenant Greene, “Can you get someone over to run the scene on Orchard?”

“After we finish eating,” Greene said, “I’ll take Pete over there, and he can show me where the guy parked the car.”

“I’ll do that,” Pete said, bargaining some more, “if you promise me a ride back to my alley.”

Greene nodded, and even smiled a little.

“You guys are the nicest cops I run into in a long time,” Pete said. To Brennan he said, “And you’re the foxiest.”

Booth grinned and so did Brennan, flushing a little, saying, “Thanks, Pete.”

Their food arrived and they mostly ate in silence — if Pete’s enthusiastic style of putting food away could accurately be described as silent….

When the meal was winding down, Brennan turned to Booth. “What do you make of the note?”

Booth glanced at Pete, whose full attention was devoted to his large combination plate. Like Brennan, the FBI agent clearly didn’t consider talking in front of Pete much of a risk.

“Two different signatures?” he asked. “The ‘clock’ is running? Male victims in the neighborhood? I think the note writer is just screwing with us, typing anything that comes into his head.”

“A few gay bars in the neighborhood,” Greene pointed out.

“That’s just it,” Booth said, warming to the topic. “He’ll get us to go off on some wild-goose chase while he laughs his ass off at us.”

Greene thought for a moment. “Like he’s been laughing at us cops, you mean?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to — the bastard’s note did. He’s supposedly been active for how long?”

Brennan said, “One of the bones might be as much as forty years old… but we don’t know for sure yet.”

Greene scowled, waved that off. “Forty years and we didn’t tip to him? And catch him? That’s bullshit.”

“One thing isn’t bullshit,” Booth said. “This guy’s got access to skeletons, and some of them are old. We find out where he’s getting them, maybe we find him.”

Greene sighed. “We’ll do what we can.”

After Booth paid the check, they went outside into the cool, clear night.

Greene and Pete headed for the cop’s car, and Booth — who had found a place to park his Crown Vic before they went to dinner — headed off in the opposite direction, Brennan hustling to keep up.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Where’s the fire?”

He stopped and smiled. “Just walking off dinner… and some frustration.”

They continued up the well-lit street.

As they walked north on Lincoln Avenue, Chicago blues poured out of several bars, dance music out of others; and a few of the shops still had their lights on. They passed a club called Centre Stage, which, according to the marquee, tonight featured entertainment by a group of cross-dressing singers called Cher and the Cher-alikes.

“He could be stalking gay men, at that,” Brennan said, but not pushing it.

Booth gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He wouldn’t be the first… but forty years? Only way he could not’ve got on the local PD’s radar is if he struck only very, very occasionally over all those years.”

“I suppose.”

“Greene’s probably right — that’s a long time to go without getting noticed, much less caught.”

“Depends on his victims, though, doesn’t it?”

He stopped and turned to her. “Meaning?”

She stopped, too. “Meaning that if his victims are very young men and older men, you don’t really have a neat cross section of missing persons. And if he’s hunting in a segment of the population that doesn’t always get full service from law enforcement—”

“Hey, I treat everybody equally.”

“That’s probably true of most law enforcement these days,” she agreed, “but think how homophobic the Chicago police would’ve been when this character started out.”

He did think about that, then started walking again, quickly.

Catching up, she said, “Even now, gay people at least feel like they never get a fair shake from law enforcement.”

Though he was less than happy, Booth said, “Granted.”

“How accurate do you suppose missing persons records are, really?”

He didn’t respond.

“Pete goes missing, for instance — who would ever know?”

Booth continued to walk in silence.

“What about young boys running away?”

Nothing.

“Face it, Booth, if this guy’s smart… and his reconstruction of those remains tells me he is… my question isn’t why hasn’t he been caught by now — it’s how do you ever expect to catch him?”

He stopped and faced her again. “Simple.”

“Yeah? How, then?”

He twitched a smile. “Why — with your help.”

They walked on.