Bones: Buried Deep

5

Seeley Booth could hardly believe how pleasant walking with Brennan seemed.

She’d annoyed him with her generalization about law enforcement treating gays unfairly; but she’d clarified that well enough.

And now he felt he’d just been too touchy about the subject. Hell, he’d been too touchy about everything lately….

Now, with her here, at his side, the two of them strolling along anonymously on this big city street, the evening cool, the nightlife just starting to hop, he felt… fine.

“What’s bothering you?” she asked.

Wasn’t that wonderful — here he was, feeling great, and she thought he looked like something was bothering him.

“Nothing.” He glanced sideways at her. “What makes you think something’s bothering me?”

She chuckled, which was a warm, surprising sound: he didn’t think he’d ever heard her laugh before, at least not in that way.

He found himself smiling a little, and asked, “Oh, so now you’re laughing at me?”

Smiling a little herself, she said, “I seem to be.”

“Why?”

“It’s just that… that’s such a universal male response.” She lowered her voice and aped his reaction. “Nothin’.”

He did not respond, instead working at ignoring the tickle at the corners of his mouth.

She shook her head, but the smile remained. “Why is it so hard for men to admit something is wrong? Why so defensive?”

“I was not defensive.”

“Well — you were brooding, then.”

“I was not brooding! Anyway, men are wired to fix what’s wrong, not bitch about it.”

“Talking isn’t ‘bitching,’ ” Brennan said, the smile a bit condescending now.

“…Hey, I didn’t mean ‘bitch’ in any kinda, you know, way that’d—”

“Get you in trouble.”

Booth nodded, then shrugged. “If I really talked about what’s on my mind, you’d call it bitching.”

“Hey. Go ahead and bitch.”

He waited till they got past a blues club, from which funky music emanated, then said, “I’m supposed to focus on this Skel deal, but my head is still on that damn Musetti.”

Her forehead creased sympathetically. “He’s part of an important case — your case.”

“Right, and I was responsible for his safety. Musetti may not be part of either of our skeletons, but he’s almost surely dead. Snatched out from under—”

“You weren’t even there,” Brennan said.

“Right! Right. And maybe I should have been.”

“…How’s it working out for you?”

“How’s what working out for me?”

“This whole… omniscience thing. Where you’re Superman?”

He stopped and grinned at her. “Was that a joke, Bones? I didn’t think you did jokes. And a pop cultural reference yet!”

He couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a frown she was suppressing as she said, “I don’t spend all my time in the lab.”

He just stared at her, raising one eyebrow.

Her chin crinkled in near laughter; so it had been a smile, after all….

“All right,” she admitted. “I didn’t used to spend all my time in the lab. I had a childhood, for instance. An actual life. I do know some things.”

He began to walk again and she fell in at his side.

“I wasn’t brooding — if you don’t mind me saying, I was finding it kind of pleasant, walking along, not arguing with you.”

Another chuckle. “Well, that didn’t last long.”

“You’re not all wrong, though — I am frustrated, having to spend all my time on this Skel serial deal…. No offense…”

Brennan said, “None taken.”

“…and after months on that one case? Right now I feel like the Gianellis are slipping through my damn fingers and there’s not a frickin’ thing I can do to stop it.”

She said, “You have my permission to say ‘fucking’ in front of me, Booth. I won’t wither and die like a frail, fragile flower.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him. “You know, Bones — you’re just the right medicine for me tonight. You up for a Starbucks?”

She was.

After they somehow negotiated their way into two no-nonsense black coffees — which seemed to confuse the barista, who’d apparently never filled such an outlandish order — they sat in the cafe’s plush chairs and talked some more.

She said, “I certainly get why this Musetti matter is still on your mind. Where were you on the investigation, when our serial killer so rudely interrupted?”

He shook his head. “Nowhere with the Gianellis, really — several of us interviewed them, but they’re not giving up word one.”

Her clear blue eyes were thoughtful yet alert. “What about the agents you said were guarding Musetti?”

“We went over everything with them — sounds from when they were traveling, voices they might have heard, smells, everything. Bupkus.”

“What other avenues are there?”

Booth sipped his coffee. “Still haven’t found the escape vehicle.”

“Prints at that house, where your witness was grabbed?”

“None… none but those of the guys guarding him and Musetti himself, anyway.”

She said nothing.

Booth grunted a sort of laugh. “A print woulda been a miracle at that crime scene. Hell, there was no evidence at all — like ghosts grabbed him.”

She frowned. “You don’t have any other ways to track your witness down? I mean, it’s not my field, forgive my ignorance; but you FBI agents do have resources.”

Booth shook his head again. “We’re working on it, but things are moving slowly. We talked to Musetti’s girlfriend three or four times.”

“There’s a girlfriend?”

“Lisa Vitto. Works at a restaurant called Siracusa in Oak Brook. Owned by the Gianellis, by the way.”

“Not real conducive for getting her to talk, huh?”

“Not really. But we didn’t talk to her at the restaurant — we’re not entirely stupid. We did our questioning at her apartment. Still, nada.”

“Did you try a female agent?”

Booth’s brow knit. “No — you really think that’d make a difference? That’s a little sexist, coming from you, Bones.”

“Not sexist, or reverse sexist, either. Realist.” She sat back in her chair. “Some women are just more comfortable talking to other women.”

He waved that off. “Maybe, but I don’t think Ms. Vitto knows anything, anyway. She didn’t know where Musetti’s safe house was, so she couldn’t have set him up, unintentionally or otherwise.”

“Are you sure Musetti didn’t tell her?”

“Nothing’s certain in this world, but the guy was under our thumb, 24/7.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Well, he was till they snatched him.”

“That was cold, Bones — but accurate. Still, it would’ve been tough for Musetti to set this up himself to disappear… and, if he did, Ms. Vitto hasn’t gone to meet him yet…. Nah, there’s no way she could know anything. We’re just fishing.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“If we concentrate on the case at hand, we can get you back on that mob inquiry, sooner than later.”

Booth didn’t want to hear this, but he knew Brennan was right.

One thing at a time.

Finish the Skel case, then back to Musetti. Other agents were taking up his slack on that investigation, anyway — and he’d been getting daily written reports.

Amounting to zip.

They eventually exited the Starbucks and meandered back to the car, then drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour Kinko’s/FedEx, and sent the first skeleton’s worth of bones to the Jeffersonian.

At night, the hallways of the Jeffersonian Museum could seem spooky to Angela Montenegro.

Tall, with curly dark hair falling to her shoulders, Angela — a scientist with the Jeffersonian’s anthropology department — had the heart of an artist.

The work here with Dr. Temperance Brennan and the rest creeped her out at times, and more than once she’d considered tendering her resignation.

But in the end, her loyalty to Brennan won out.

Tonight, Angela — in dark slacks and a short-sleeved black blouse beneath her blue lab coat — walked the corridor toward the lab with soft drink in one hand, package of Twinkies in the other, not noticing anything even remotely spooky.

The rest of the team was in the lab — except for their fearless leader, of course, who was in Chicago with Booth and doing God only knew what. That thought caused a sneaky smile to cross her lips and she dismissed it just as quickly.

Actually, with the workload getting heavier by the day, Angela was wishing her best friend was at her side and not in the Windy City.

She opened the door into the lab and stood for a second, taking in the familiar but impressive surroundings. Unlike the staid, academic quality of the rest of the museum, the lab had an otherworldly air.

The Medico-Legal Laboratory — which had the ability to seal itself in airtight Plexiglas in case of a biohazard emergency — gave off a science-fiction vibe with its stainless-steel framing, Plexiglas backlit worktables, and translucent storage units consuming several walls.

On the other hand, the higher you looked, the more the place seemed like an old-time European railroad station; she’d seen a number of these on trips to the continent with her musician father.

The open-beamed ceiling consisted of translucent panels letting in light by day and giving the sensation of the beams melting into the dark sky at night. Somehow, that made the chamber appear even brighter under its harsh fluorescent lighting.

Brennan’s assistant, the oh-so-young Zach Addy, leaned over a table to her left, bones laid out in their basic anatomic position, the chalky array maintaining a hypnotic hold on his bespectacled eyes. To her right, gaze glued to a microscope, curly-haired Jack Hodgins studied some bug or other.

They were a disparate bunch, thrown together in this lab by their gathered talents and fate, each with his or her own set of foibles, habits, and annoyances (both given and taken).

Brennan, their queen bee, hovered over the hive and, despite her occasional lack of social graces, the anthropologist had somehow overseen their growth from hodgepodge of “squints,” as Booth called them, to the family they now were.

On her belt, her cell phone chirped. She jammed the Twinkies into the pocket of her lab coat, hiding the evidence.

The cell rang again and both Zach and Hodgins’s heads popped up, frowning at the interruption, each looking around like a prairie dog sensing imminent danger.

Snatching the phone off her belt, Angela answered on the third ring.

“It’s me,” Brennan said, sounding tired.

“What’s up, sweetie?” Angela asked right away. “You and Booth up to no good?”

“No, this is something else.”

Angela grinned. “Should I ask? Is it dirty?”

“…When I get back, you and I need to talk.”

“What?” Angela asked, almost offended. “I can’t be concerned about your social life? What kind of friend would I be if I ignored—”

“A great friend,” Brennan said cheerfully, then pushed on: “I’ve sent you a package at the museum. I need you, Zach, and Jack to run all the tests you can, and tell me everything there is to know about what’s inside.”

“What is inside?”

“An entire skeleton… only it’s not just one body.”

“I know it’s your line, honey, but — I don’t know what that means.”

“It means there’s enough bones to make a skeleton, but multiple bodies provided them. Somebody assembled a sort of… fake skeleton, real though the individual parts may be.”

“Parts is parts, huh?”

“I don’t know what that means, Angela.”

“Are you making fun of me, sweetie?”

“Possibly — but for sure I need you to identify how many people comprise this one skeleton; and, if possible, ID them.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“And I need it an hour ago.”

Angela glanced toward Zach and Hodgins.

They must have realized she was talking to Brennan and now were moving slowly toward her, friendly stalkers.

Into the phone she said, “You are making fun of me… and the sick part is, you’re even starting to sound like Booth. Y’know, I’m not sure you two should be spending so much time together.”

“Well, you can think about that till my package arrives; then get right on it.”

“You know we will, sweetie.” Angela closed her phone.

“We will… what?” Hodgins asked, suspicious.

Hodgins thought everything from the government to television to his breakfast cereal was part of some conspiracy or other to keep the regular people from finding out the truth — whatever that might be.

Generally, Angela considered her colleague just a little off center; but when his conspiracy theories sounded especially plausible, as they sometimes did, he scared her a little.

“We’re going to test the skeleton that Temperance is FedExing to us.”

“Hmm,” Hodgins said, skepticism in his voice but the hint of a smile at a corner of his mouth. He did love his work. “That’s it?” he asked.

“We do that all the time,” Zach piped in, in a no biggie manner.

“This one’s a little different,” she said, popping the top on her soda.

“Different?” they asked together. “How?”

“One skeleton,” she said. “Multiple donors….”

Booth parked the Crown Vic under the hotel’s portico. He got the door for Brennan, then helped her get her bag out of the trunk.

“Are you coming to the museum with me tomorrow?” Brennan asked him.

He nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“Pick me up early. I want to be there first thing.”

“You got it, Boss.”

“…Booth, that wasn’t an order.”

“Kinda sounded like one.”

She tried again: “Pick me up early, please.”

“No problem,” he said, and offered a smile.

She gave him a crooked smile in return, then grabbed her bag and rolled it through the revolving door into the lobby.

Booth turned the key in the ignition and, without even thinking about it, turned the Crown Vic toward the office.

End of the day was his only chance to check up on the Musetti/Gianelli case.

The next morning, Booth was (as requested) early.

Brennan waited inside the lobby until he pulled up, then walked out and got into the car.

She wore a brown blouse with tan slacks and a clunky wooden necklace, with a brown velvet jacket to keep off the autumn chill.

When she had her seat belt on, he handed her a coffee in a paper cup with a plastic lid — as established at Starbucks last night, hot and black.

“Did you have breakfast?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He pointed to a paper bag on the floor of the passenger side.

Brennan picked it up and opened it. “Bagels — perfect.”

He drove, she ate, and little conversation ensued on their half-hour journey — Booth felt awkward, for some strange reason. Last night had been friendly, but this new day would require a professional tone that he (and for that matter she) didn’t feel like establishing.

Once again, Dr. Jane Wu was waiting for them in the Field Museum lobby, but this time Lieutenant Greene was there, too, holding a box marked POLICE EVIDENCE.

As he and Brennan approached, the doctor and the cop did not at first notice the visitors, caught up in their own conversation.

Greene was saying, “How can you be a football fan in Chicago and not be a Bears fan!”

Dr. Wu grimaced. “I went to school in Boston. Patriots rule. Bears lose.”

Shaking his head, Greene said, “Kicked your butt in ’85, though.”

“Ancient history. Who won three of the last four Super Bowls?”

Greene had no answer for that.

Brennan whispered to Booth, “Looks like you’ve been replaced.”

Booth whispered back, “Well, you don’t have to sound so pleased about it….”

Dr. Wu waved. “Morning, you two! I’ve got the room all ready.”

Booth and Brennan exchanged greetings with Lieutenant Greene, while Dr. Wu pointed out redundantly, “The lieutenant here was nice enough to bring the evidence, so we’re good to go.”

Brennan nodded. “Let’s get at it, then.”

The tables in the basement chamber were empty now, and Dr. Wu had Lt. Greene place the box on the one farthest from the door, after which she and Brennan would work at the middle station.

While the two doctors began, Booth and Greene found a coffee machine in a break room down the hall. The FBI agent bought, and the two men sat down at a small round table.

The room was empty this early in the day and neither man seemed to mind the quiet. Booth nursed the coffee — already his second of the day — not wanting to blast off on a caffeine high.

Booth asked the Chicago detective, “Did you get anything else from our homeless witness? Pete?”

Greene shook his head. “No. But I gotta say, ol’ Pete was pretty cool, as homeless guys go. Led me to the parking place used by our skeleton transporter.”

“Your crime scene unit get anything?”

Greene grunted a frustrated laugh. “Nothing.”

“What about the neighborhood?”

“Got a team checking that.”

“Cold cases in that part of town?”

Greene sipped his coffee. “My partner’s checking missing persons cases going back forty years. Your people find anything?”

“Nothing yet. But my partner, Woolfolk, is on it.”

“I thought the girl was your partner.”

Booth’s eyebrows hiked. “Don’t let her hear you calling her a ‘girl,’ Lieutenant Greene… but she’s sort of my partner on this, too — on the skeleton side of it, anyway.”

Greene tilted his head. “Something you should know — I’ve got a call into a guy I know… about a possible suspect.”

“A suspect?”

“Don’t get fired up. This is from years ago.”

“So’s part of our first skel. Hey, I don’t care if it’s from a hundred years ago — spill.”

Greene sighed and looked down at his coffee. “It was in that neighborhood. Guy lived on that same street — Orchard, I mean. This was, oh, twenty years ago easy…. I was a fresh-faced kid hardly out of the academy. Detectives were working some missing person cases… gay guys — several had gone missing from that neighborhood.”

Booth twitched with irritation. “And you didn’t say anything last night?”

Greene patted the air with one palm. “I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it…. Anyway, our guys had no real evidence, but there was this one suspect who looked good for it. Looked good to me, I mean — but who was I? Just a wet-behind-the-ears recruit fresh out of the academy.”

“Nobody else went for your theory?”

“Not really…. The suspect in question… a guy named Bill Jorgensen… was fifty then. These kids, the young men, the victims, they were all in good health, some even worked out, and none of the guys at the precinct would take my ideas seriously. Just couldn’t get them to believe that this fifty-year-old cat could take down strapping youths like these M.I.A. gays. Plus, back then even more than now, gay men were on the move — not transient exactly, but it was no shock if a gay man picked up and left. ’Cause of problems at work, say, or just the desire for fresh pastures. Lots of reasons.”

Booth nodded. “Sure. But get to why you thought this older guy could’ve taken down young dudes.”

Greene crumpled his coffee cup and made a good shot at a trash can half-a-room away. Then he turned to Booth with a steady gaze.

“This guy Jorgensen was in real good shape, especially for a guy of fifty. He hung out at gyms — he even worked at a few. Real physical fitness type.”

“Makes sense. Anything else?”

Greene shook his head. “No real dead solid evidence against the guy… but he didn’t have an alibi for the times a couple of the guys disappeared, plus he’d been seen in the bars where they disappeared from… though no one could put him with any of the guys.”

“I see.”

Greene shrugged. “Lot of circumstantial stuff, but nothing solid, and not enough to get a warrant. And as a newbie on the force, I could only push so hard.”

Booth considered that for a long moment. “You didn’t bring it up last night — why?”

“Two reasons. First, I hounded the guy so bad the first time, he got a restraining order against me…. Don’t look at me like that, Booth — I was a kid, enthusiastic, and I thought I smelled a serial killer.”

“Okay. I can understand that.”

“Yeah, well understand this — I got a write-up in my file, and almost got canned. See, I spouted off to the media, and Jorgensen damn near sued the city over it….”

“You said two things.”

“Right. Second thing was, Jorgensen moved out of the neighborhood, and I lost track of him. Hell, he’d be seventy now, at least — I don’t even know if the geezer’s still alive.”

“You could check up on him,” Booth said.

Greene shook his head. “I am, but I’m using a snitch I trust — better to do it outside the system, first step, anyway. Even after all these years, too many people would shit bricks, me sniffing around Jorgensen again.”

“Even if the feds did it?”

Greene raised both hands. “My boss, and his bosses, know we’re in this together, Booth — and it wouldn’t take Dick Tracy to figure out where you got the tip. Even those schmuck detectives who blew the case twenty years ago could figure that one out.”

Booth sipped the last of his coffee, mulling all this.

Then he said, “This might be a pretty big leap to be taking.”

Greene grunted another laugh. “Well, why don’t we go after your suspect?”

Booth blinked. “What suspect?”

“Exactly,” Greene said with a grin. “Give me a better idea, buddy, and I’ll sign on with you.”

Booth mulled it some more. “Well… it wouldn’t hurt to look at this Jorgensen.”

“Like I said, I’ve got a guy I should hear from sometime today.” The cop took in a deep breath, held it, then finally blew it out. “You think we’ve got a chance in hell of catching this guy? If it is Jorgensen, he hardly even got on the radar, back in the day… and the only one who got in trouble was yours truly.”

Booth studied the detective. “This isn’t twenty years ago — you’re an old pro… and I’m damn good, too.”

“Plus, there’s that ‘girl’ of yours,” Greene said impishly. Or as impishly as a Chicago cop could say anything.

Booth said, “That ‘girl’ is a kind of genius, yeah, and in fact we’ve got good people all over this case — the best equipment, the best support, the best period.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each drinking his coffee, lost in his own thoughts.

Greene said, “And yet this prick literally dumps his victim on your doorstep.”

Booth nodded. “And the second one came pretty close to your doorstep — your turf, anyway.”

The detective’s upper lip curled. “If this is Jorgensen… the bastard’s blowin’ a Bronx cheer at both of us.”

“Well, then — we’ll just have to show him how foolish that was.”

Booth and Greene stood around for most of the next four hours, alternately drinking coffee and talking football, both men periodically checking in by cell phone with colleagues on the case.

Finally, Brennan called them over to the table where she and Dr. Wu had laid out all the bones from the bag.

“Two hundred six bones,” Brennan said. “Another complete skeleton.”

“One person this time?” Booth asked.

“Not hardly,” she said. “Our do-it-yourselfer is at it again. The femora?”

“The two big bones in the thighs,” Booth said, glancing at Greene.

Brennan asked the FBI agent, “Notice anything different about them?”

Booth’s eyes immediately went to the epiphyseal lines, which were both completely fused.

“No,” Booth admitted.

Greene said, “One’s longer than the other.”

Seeing that now, too, Booth felt a twinge in his gut.

He was not about to let himself be drawn into a pissing contest with his new colleague — showing off for these two attractive women in this case. That kind of junior high nonsense had no place here, and, anyway, he and Greene would just wind up looking like testosterone-addled fools with these women, both of whom had more education than he and Greene put together.

Focus on the case, he told himself.

When his eyes rose to Brennan’s, she was watching him; and Booth had the most unsettling feeling she could read his thoughts….

“Both men had reached full adulthood,” she was saying, “but one was ten centimeters shorter than the other.”

“Ten centimeters,” Booth mused.

Greene piped in with, “Four inches.”

Not rising to the bait, Booth asked, “Meaning?”

Brennan gestured with an open palm. “Meaning, with this difference in femur length? Either the man was seriously deformed, or we’re dealing with more than one body again.”

Greene, interested, asked, “When you say ‘man,’ do you mean… man?”

“The brow ridges on the skull indicate a male, yes,” Dr. Wu said. “More prominent than in females.”

Brennan added, “The pelvic bones are male as well.”

Nodding, Booth asked, “Anything else?”

“The fingers,” Brennan said.

Booth looked down at the skeleton’s hands.

The fingers were of differing lengths, which of course was normal; but, in this case, in an unnatural way — the left index finger longer than both the middle and ring fingers, one thumb long, one short, and another fingertip did not look quite right to Booth.

He asked, “Are you sure you’ve got the bones in the right places?”

Immediately he wished he hadn’t said that, but he had said it, and earned Brennan’s withering gaze.

He muttered, “Just asking.”

“We do indeed have the bones in the right places,” Brennan said.

Greene asked, “Walk us laymen through, would you?”

“Glad to,” Brennan said. “The fingers are made up of several bones.”

She pointed to each one as she ran down the list.

“There are the metacarpals,” she continued, “the proximal phalanges, the middle phalanges, and the distal phalanges.”

She held up her own hand.

“This is what a hand should look like, more or less… and as you can see, these two hands not only don’t match each other, the fingers of each hand line up incorrectly.”

Both Booth and Greene nodded in understanding.

Brennan went on: “Your suspect has used at least two bodies… and my guess is more… to build this specimen.”

“Jesus Jones,” Greene said.

“Same is true of the feet,” Dr. Wu said, and she too gestured as she went. “Although all the bones are here, they obviously don’t belong to just two feet. The wear and tear on them is all wrong.”

Booth asked, “What about the end of this ring finger?” He pointed to the finger that had struck him odd.

“Broken,” Brennan said. “A long time ago. That’s one of the reasons we know that this finger came from at least two fingers — the distal phalange is practically smashed, while the middle phalange is perfectly normal.”

“Why?” Booth asked. “Is that impossible?”

“No,” she said, “but it’s extremely rare… especially considering the extreme damage to the distal.”

Brennan turned to Dr. Wu. “These two bones came from two different people.”

Dr. Wu indicated her agreement.

“So,” Booth said, “can we tell if any of these parts belong to any of the bones from the first skeleton?”

“Yes,” Brennan said, “but not without more testing — I’ll know more when I get it back to the Jeffersonian.”

“You want to go with it?”

“Yes. This facility is fine, and I appreciate Dr. Wu’s help and hospitality, but I can do a much—”

“Can’t let you go, Bones,” Booth cut in, shaking his head. “We’ve got two skeletons in two days — do you really think our madman’s going to stop?”

Brennan’s brow creased, and she thought for several long moments, but she didn’t argue. “Then we’ll package this one up and get it to the Jeffersonian ASAP.”

“Good,” Booth said. “What about the first skel?”

“I haven’t checked in at the Jeffersonian this morning yet.”

Brennan got her cell phone out of her purse and hit speed dial.

Angela picked up on the second ring, and Booth’s sniper-sensitive hearing picked up her side of the conversation: “Sweetie, what’s up?”

“Getting ready to send you a second skeleton.”

“You’ve been busy. Where are you, Chicago or Sarajevo?”

“Still Chicago.”

“This another reassembly job?”

“It is — I already detect at least two sources for the bones. Did you get the first skeleton yet?”

“First thing this morning — we’ve started DNA testing, and Jack is working on soil still attached to the bones.”

“Excellent — don’t be shy about calling when you have anything.”

“These are not fast tests.”

“Somebody’s fast,” Brennan said, “delivering two homemade skeletons in two days.”

She clicked off.

Greene said, “I’ve gotta make a call myself — be right back.”

Greene headed quickly out, and Booth watched as Dr. Wu and Brennan packaged the bones for shipment in a box about the size of a small end table. The last thing Brennan did was use a marker to write the address of the Jeffersonian on the top.

By the time she finished, Greene was back, shaking his head.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, walking over to Booth. “And I don’t know if this is a good thing, or a bad one….”

“Your favorite suspect Jorgensen’s still alive?”

Brennan had perked at the word “suspect,” but she said nothing.

“Yeah,” Greene said. “Moved to the ’burbs… but he’s still around.”

Booth grinned. “You want to pay him a visit?”

Greene considered that. “Been a long time — twenty years. You think my old pal’ll remember me?”

“Take out a court order on somebody,” Booth said, “you tend to remember ’em. Makes an impression.”

“What court order?” Brennan piped in.

Booth ignored that and said to the cop, “Is it still in effect, that court order?”

Shaking his head, Greene said, “Naw — thing’s long since lapsed.”

“What court order?” Brennan repeated.

Booth waved her off. “Long shot. Not your concern.”

“Long shot,” Greene echoed.

Brennan looked increasingly agitated.

On the move, Booth said, “Lieutenant Greene and I are going to take a little drive.”

Brennan stepped in front of the FBI agent, blocking his path. An eyebrow was up. “Not without me, you’re not.”

Greene started to say something, but Booth just laid a hand on his arm. The detective stopped and gave the FBI agent a curious look.

Booth asked, “You want to go see your pal Jorgensen while he’s still breathing?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

Booth smirked good-naturedly. “Then don’t get started with Bones here, or we’ll all look like what’s in that FedEx box by the time we get out of here.”

Brennan glared at the Chicago cop.

“Well,” Greene said, with a sideways look at Booth, “you said it yourself — she is your partner….”

Brennan’s eyes shifted to Booth, defiance gone, mouth open, but no words coming out.

Turning to Dr. Wu, Booth said, “Could we impose on you for one more favor…?”

She nodded, ahead of him. “I’ll make sure the package goes out with the FedEx stuff today.”

Booth gave her his best smile. “Thanks.”

Greene took his car while Booth and Brennan followed in the Crown Vic. The ride from the Field Museum to the suburb of Algonquin took the better part of an hour.

Their conversation along the way mostly consisted of Booth filling her in on this old suspect of Greene’s.

But at one point, Brennan asked, “You told Greene I was your partner?”

“…Yeah, I did.”

“I thought that guy Woodfield was your partner.”

“It’s Woolfolk, and he’s my FBI-assigned partner. But this is our case, Bones.”

“…Glad you see it that way.”

“Well, I do.”

“But Booth?”

“Yes?”

“Stop calling me Bones.”

But that last didn’t have much energy in it.

Booth followed Greene as he left the expressway for a four-lane main drag, then a two-lane residential street, and they wove around until the Chicago detective pulled to a stop in front of one of three small houses on a quiet cul-de-sac.

Jorgensen’s residence sat in the middle, vacant lots on either side between him and his neighbors — a Tudor two-story, tan with brown trim, a two-car garage to the left, a sidewalk from the driveway to the one-step front porch.

The house, of 1970s vintage, was nice enough, well maintained if not impressive.

What it did not look like was the home of a homicidal maniac who left skeletons for the FBI.

Then again, Booth and other agents he knew had worked on serial killer cases, and in no instance had the perp’s house looked like the gloomy Gothic mansion on the hill in Psycho.

If anything, the homes in question looked like every other house on the block, in the neighborhood, as anonymous as their owners. And like their owners, it was what was inside them that was decidedly different….

Booth and Brennan met Greene at the end of the driveway. Looking around the end of the garage, Booth could see a chain-link gate that led to a fenced-in backyard.

“What’s the plan?” Booth asked.

Greene’s grin had a nasty edge. “I thought I’d knock at the front door and, if Mr. Jorgensen is good enough to answer, just say hello. Renew an old acquaintance.”

“Works for me,” Booth said.

“What should I do?” Brennan asked.

“Hang back,” Booth said.

“This is a seventy-year-old man…. I can handle—”

“Don’t,” Greene cut in, “underestimate this ‘seventy-year-old man.’ ”

Brennan frowned. “I realize—”

Greene cut her off again. “If he did what I think he did… he’ll have no hesitation, taking a human life. Dr. Brennan, you ever heard of a serial killer that stopped on his own?”

“I’ll ‘hang back,’ ” she said. “But I do have one more question….”

“Go on,” Greene prompted.

“What did Mr. Jorgensen do for a living?”

“When I was looking at him in those disappearances,” Greene said, “Mr. Jorgensen taught anatomy at Saint Sebastian University.”

“Never heard of it,” Booth said.

Brennan’s forehead crinkled.

Greene said, “Small school on the North Side, mostly medicine.”

Brennan asked, “Any connection between the missing men and the university?”

“Not directly to Jorgensen,” Greene said. “There was a connection between a student of his, however, and one missing man. Never anything we could tie to Jorgensen, though — guy is a near miss in all of this; always just on the periphery.”

“I suggest we go up and say hello,” Booth said to Greene, “before the neighbors call him to ask about the trio of strangers chatting outside.”

They went up the driveway, Greene in the lead, Brennan (as instructed) bringing up the rear.

As they moved up the walk, Booth unsnapped the safety latch on his pistol. Their guy might be seventy, but — as Greene had so forcefully made the point — Jorgensen was a suspect in multiple homicides.

Passing the living room window as they followed the walk, Booth thought he saw the curtains move, but couldn’t be sure.

Just as Greene reached the step, the front door swung open and a small, sturdy man stepped out, holding the screen door open with his left hand.

The man was on the short side, five-eight maybe, with dyed black hair and prominent crow’s-feet around dark eyes. He had a nearly lipless mouth, short straight nose, and wore tennis shoes, jeans, and a red tee shirt, sporting the massive biceps of a much younger man.

If this was Jorgensen, the old boy looked in better shape than half the FBI agents Booth knew.

“Help you folks?” the old guy said in a strong baritone, his expression not unfriendly, but tinged with skepticism.

Greene reached into his jacket pocket for his badge. “Mr. Jorgensen—”

For a split second Booth saw something in Jorgensen’s eyes, and knew they were in trouble.

“You!” Jorgensen bleated.

The gun appeared from nowhere and the first shot hit Greene full in the chest, driving him back into Booth as the FBI agent tried to draw his own weapon.

The impact sent them both to the ground as Jorgensen raised his pistol to take a second shot.

Booth didn’t have time to call out and stop her.

Brennan simply leapt over the fallen pair and spun, her right foot connecting with the gun and driving it out of Jorgensen’s hand, sending it spinning across the porch as the old man retreated into the house, his hand catching Brennan’s sleeve…

… and dragging her inside with him!

Struggling, rolling a stunned Greene off him, Booth checked that the lieutenant didn’t appear seriously injured, then bounced to his feet, gun in hand.

Throwing the screen door open, he rocketed into the living room.

The living room had been a tidy place, he assumed, before Brennan and Jorgensen had made their way through it, tipping over a lamp, breaking a glass coffee table, and scattering magazines all over the hardwood floor.

Booth heard heavy breathing to his left. He passed the sofa, rounded a corner, and found himself in a dining room with a table and six chairs, three upended.

The fight had moved into the kitchen, and Booth moved with it, jumping over a chair, his pistol up, entering the room, where he discovered Jorgensen, holding a large butcher knife over his head.

Booth would have taken him then, if Brennan hadn’t been between him and the killer, her back to the agent.

“Mr. Jorgensen,” she said, her voice calm despite the ragged breaths between words. “We just came to talk.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he snarled, eyes wild, “or that asshole cop!”

“Bones,” Booth said, “take a step either way.”

Without turning to look at him, Brennan snapped, “Booth, shut up!.. No one else is getting shot today.”

The FBI agent scanned the kitchen, looking for another way to get to his target. It was a wide, open room full of stainless steel appliances and dark, hard counters.

“Maybe not shot,” Jorgensen said, his upper lip curling to reveal very white, very false teeth. “But how about stabbed?”

He lunged at Brennan, blade and teeth flashing, and she dropped to the linoleum.

Booth squeezed the trigger, but Brennan swept Jorgensen’s feet out from under him, so that Booth’s bullet struck the old man in the shoulder, the knife flying out of his hand, clunking against the refrigerator as Brennan delivered an elbow to the old man’s temple, knocking him cold.

The knife, meanwhile, had dropped to the floor.

No one moved.

The aroma of cordite singed the air. Booth’s ears were ringing from the shot, his eyes glued to the knife sticking out of the linoleum inches away from Brennan.

Then Brennan got up, screaming at him. “What, are you trying to kill me?”

Suddenly, Booth’s hearing didn’t seem so damaged, though he would just as soon it had not recovered so quickly.

“I told you not to shoot. What part of that didn’t you understand? Booth, that knife…”

He holstered his weapon, grabbed her by the arms, firm but not rough. “I was scared, too.”

She backed away from him, obviously uncomfortable. “I… I wasn’t scared, just… sizing him up. I had him, I…”

“Bones, you’re shouting,” he said.

“I know I’m shouting. A big lummox shot at me!”

“Not at you, near you. Save the rest for later — gotta get back to Greene.”

On cue, Greene wobbled into the kitchen doorway, his jacket off, his shirt ripped open to reveal a Kevlar vest, the bullet still protruding over his heart.

He gave them a lopsided grin. “God damn, that hurt….”

“You okay?” Booth asked.

Greene swayed. “I’ve been worse. Not much worse, but…”

Sirens called from the distance.

Greene gestured with a trembling thumb toward the sound. “Called for backup. Not that you needed any.”

The Chicago cop nodded down at the old man, the blood turning the red shirt maroon.

“That evil old fucker dead?” he asked.

“No,” Booth said. “Brennan just knocked him out. With an elbow.”

Greene looked at Brennan with wide, respectful eyes. “Whoa. Are you shittin’ me?”

Booth grinned at the anthropologist. “Bones has unexpected skills.”

Greene loomed over the suspect, having a closer look. “Remind me not to mess with you, lady. Regular Rambo in a dress.”

Brennan’s brow furrowed. “I’m not wearing a dress, and, anyway, I don’t know what that means.”

Greene gaped at Booth.

“She doesn’t get out much,” the FBI agent said.

Grabbing a towel off the counter, Brennan dropped to one knee and pressed it against the man’s wound.

Sizing up Greene, Booth said, “Maybe you ought to sit down for a minute, pal. You look a little pale.”

Greene leaned against the kitchen counter. “No matter how heroic it looks in the movies? Getting shot sucks.”

Sirens screamed outside. “Evidently, Mr. Jorgensen still holds a grudge,” Booth said.

Brennan looked up from the bandage. “Or Lieutenant Greene was right, and he’s got something to hide.”

Booth, eyes narrowed, said, “I’m with you, Bones…. Once the EMTs get here, we’ll have a look around.”