“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.”
6
Temperance Brennan, arms folded, chin high, the picture of a professional woman, was trembling.
As she stood outside the nondescript house — policemen, crime scene analysts, and EMTs hustling in and out — she had finally succumbed to fear… or at least an unsettled sense that she could not shake.
She hadn’t lied to Booth: she really hadn’t been scared in that kitchen, all her focus had been on Jorgensen and that knife.
But when Booth’s bullet whizzed past her and struck Jorgensen, the knife heading in her direction, her grip on her self-control had vanished.
Flimsy thing, control.
One second you had it, next you didn’t. Oneminute you’re at the Jeffersonian studying an arrowhead in the chest of an eight-hundred-year-old Native American, next you’re in Algonquin, Illinois, stanching the wound of a seventy-year-old probable serial killer.
Nice thing about the lab, she had control — she was in charge.
Things occasionally went differently than expected, but the lab was strictly science, and the unexpected was part of that too.
Not that there wasn’t pressure at the Jeffersonian — a bone broke in the lab, it was generally hundreds if not thousands of years old… in a world where value was determined by whether bones were whole or not. But when things went wrong there, no bullets flew, no knives hurtled in your direction.
More Chicago cops were arriving, and the FBI had a large contingent on hand as well; the neighbors, few that there were, had turned out to watch. SAC Dillon was off to one side, giving Booth the third degree about the shooting, while Lieutenant Greene was being treated by EMTs in the yard.
An ambulance had already carted Jorgensen away to a hospital. The wound was not life-threatening, but the bullet would have to be removed, and the old boy needed to be stitched up.
Jorgensen would remain under police watch, and — at the very least — charged with attempted murder for shooting Lieutenant Greene and attempted assault on Brennan. If the Chicago and FBI CSIs found evidence of more crimes in the house, that list could grow.
Brennan — with no one yet questioning her, treating her, or for that matter bothering to ask if she was okay — stood off to one side, alone.
Which was fine; she figured now would be a good time to keep a low profile, and stay out of the way.
This plan seemed to be working nicely until her cell phone rang.
When she reached for it on her belt, the cell got caught and kept ringing. Heads slowly turned her way. She finally got the thing loose and punched the button.
“Brennan,” she said.
“Hi, sweetie,” came Angela’s cheerful voice.
Turning her back on Dillon, Booth, and the others, Brennan filled Angela in on everything that had happened since they last spoke.
“Oh my God,” Angela said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Brennan said.
It was only a small lie.
“I’m not talking just physically, honey, but mentally — emotionally. You must be—”
“I appreciate your concern, Ange, but where are you with the first skeleton?”
“…Trying to identify the different components, but frankly, it’s slow going.”
Not what Brennan wanted to hear.
On the other end, she heard a small commotion, and Angela interrupted their conversation to talk to someone, then was back.
“Jack wants you,” Angela said. “Hang on.”
Dr. Jack Hodgins, the staff entomologist, knew more about spores and minerals than the science department of your average university.
“Temperance,” he said, each syllable a machine-gun bullet. “How’s Chicago? And by that I mean, did you solve the assassination of Anton Cermak yet?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Nineteen thirty-four, Capone gang CEO Frank Nitti had Mayor Cermak whacked in Miami. Press of the day made out it was a miss on FDR, but it was really a hit on His Honor.”
Shaking her head, Brennan asked, “Interesting to know, but not terribly helpful. Got anything relevant for me, Jack?”
“C’mon, Doctor, you’re in Chicago! I
t’s like… the Disney World of conspiracies! Vote early, vote often, the Chicago Seven…”
“I meant relevant to the case,” she interrupted.
“Oh,” Jack said. “Well. Sorry. Yeah, I’ve got some preliminary findings about the soil still clinging to the bones.”
She waited.
“The silica and oxygen content of the soil is very high.”
“Sand?”
“Not sand like beachfront… but very sandy soil.”
“In Chicago?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “That was my first reaction — get past the lakefront, what’s sand got to do with the Second City, right? But then I got to thinking about just how big that lake really is.”
“The bones were from bodies that were buried on the beach?”
“Say that fast, three times…. No, not in sand, sandy soil.”
“Which means?”
“Which means this ground is probably around the lake somewhere, near but not actually at the lake… maybe by a river, or even out in the ’burbs. Plus, it’s nutrient rich, so a marsh maybe. Not acidic enough to be from a bog.”
“That takes in a lot of area,” Brennan sighed. “Do you know where in greater Chicago that might be?”
“We’re working on it. Got some other tests still ongoing — I’ll tell you more when I know more.”
“All right, Jack,” she said.
After quick good-byes, she clicked off.
Brennan went looking for Booth, found him huddled on the driveway with Dillon and the Chicago PD crime scene crew.
They all parted and turned to look at her as she approached.
“What’s the deal?” she asked, stopping in the gap they had made in their little circle.
Booth said, “This is Lieutenant Ron Garland.”
A tall, thin man with a blond butch haircut and sad blue eyes stepped forward. He wore gray slacks, a white shirt open at the throat, and a navy windbreaker with the words CHICAGO POLICE CRIME SCENE UNIT emblazoned over the left breast.
“Ron, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan,” Booth said, and Brennan shook hands with the man. “Tell her what you told me.”
After clearing his throat, Garland said, “Uh, Ms. Brennan, it’s an honor to meet you…. I, uh, just loved your book.”
Brennan smiled and looked away — she always felt awkward meeting the public, though hearing praise from a law enforcement professional pleased her.
Still, she never knew what to say beyond “Thank you,” which she did.
“Not that,” Booth said, frowning at the crime scene lieutenant. “About the house.”
Garland shot a glare at the FBI agent, as if about to tell the fed where to go.
Brennan interceded, saying, “Don’t take offense — tact isn’t Agent Booth’s strong suit.”
Garland responded to Brennan with a small smile, then quickly morphed back to dead serious. “Dr. Brennan, we found a hidey-hole in the bedroom closet… and came up with this.”
Another investigator stepped forward and displayed a huge green album already sealed in a plastic evidence bag.
“What is it?” Brennan asked.
“A sort of keepsake book,” Garland said. “A, uh… what you’d have to call a scrapbook.”
Brennan’s eyebrows climbed. “Really? What sort of scrapbook?”
“When I say scrapbook, I mean that literally,” Garland said. “Sickest shit I’ve ever seen… and I’ve seen some.”
Something slithered in Brennan’s stomach. “How literally?”
Garland heaved a sigh that started in his toes and ended in his scalp. “He apparently peeled a piece of skin from each of his victims… and pressed it into his scrapbook.”
She swallowed, the things slithering in her stomach seeming to multiply and fight for space.
Now Garland’s eyebrows rose. “And I’m afraid that may not be the worst thing.”
Brennan braced herself. “How could it not be?”
“There’s a crawlspace.”
Immediately, Brennan felt better.
“Actually,” she said, “that’s not worse.”
Garland blinked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant that only from a standpoint of investigating a crime scene. This kind of thing… well, it’s my turf.”
Garland relaxed, apparently knowing he didn’t have to say anything more.
And he didn’t: Brennan already knew what the crime scene lieutenant was talking about, and what he wanted. In an instant, all was clear: her squirmy stomach over the scrapbook, her posttraumatic anxiety about the fight in the kitchen, were gone.
For the first time since they had left the Field Museum this afternoon, she really felt like herself.
“Show me,” she said to the lieutenant.
Brennan and Booth followed Garland through the living room, dining room, and into the kitchen.
Around the corner from the refrigerator, out of sight from the other doorway, was a door she had not noticed before. This led to a mudroom with a washer and dryer, beyond which was another door, now open to the two-car garage.
Garland stopped just before he got to the garage door and turned to face Booth and Brennan. He motioned for them to take a step back, which they both did — Brennan caught between Booth and the washer.
Garland pointed to the floor.
Brennan saw a hatch carved into it, a small metal ring set in an indented area on the side nearest her.
“Crawlspace,” Garland said.
She traded a look with Booth, who seemed more unnerved about this than she did.
Which somehow felt reassuring. Big sniper guy, uneasy about a dark place in the floor. A place she would go without hesitation or fear, even already knowing what waited down there.
After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, Brennan crouched, grabbed the ring, and lifted, the door raising easily, a safety hinge latching when the lid was up all the way, holding it in place.
The smell, faint though it was, hit her instantly.
Looking up at Garland, she said, “You’re right — something’s decomposing under this house.”
Neither man said anything as she eased forward, sat on the edge, and let her legs dangle into the dark crawlspace.
Garland handed her down a Mini MagLite and she screwed its head half a turn, providing a fairly wide beam.
She smiled up at the troubled men and said, “Fellas — it’s going to be all right.”
Then she dropped through the door into a crouch.
She found herself in a large area with a dirt floor and less than three feet of clearance to the joists of the house’s main floor.
On her hands and knees, she moved forward, the beam of light sweeping back and forth. She tried to follow the smell of decay, which so permeated the space she did not wonder what awaited her; she knew: death.
The only question that remained at this point was… how many?
Finally making it to what (if she had her bearings right) must be the front wall, she sent the beam into a corner, revealing a stack of bags of agricultural lime.
Some bags were full, most empty.
The house was not huge, but the crawlspace seemed to be open under all of it. Thinking of her two skeletons formed from different remains, she saw plenty of room down here for enough bodies to make several more.
She took a more circuitous route back to the door, skirting the far end of the house, and she was just about to turn back when the light caught something shiny.
Even when she got right above it, she could not see it clearly.
Then, brushing away some dirt, she saw what looked like a diamond ring.
She cleared away more earth, using her fingers, digging tiny bits at a time until she saw that the ring encircled a finger, the finger was attached to a hand, and the hand to an arm.
She went back to the hatch and looked up to see both Garland and Booth peering in.
To Garland she said, “I need work lights — enough to illuminate the whole area d
own here. And can you rig up some way to blow clean air in?”
The Crime Scene lieutenant nodded and grinned. “Lights and air conditioning, Dr. Brennan — no problem.”
To Booth she said, “Call Dr. Wu…. No, wait, help me up out of here and I’ll do it.”
Garland and Booth both extended a hand. She took them both and let them pull her up out of the hole.
“Thanks, guys,” she said.
The two men exchanged wan glances, apparently spooked a little by how nonchalant Brennan was in the presence of death.
Booth handed her his cell phone. “Jane’s number’s up — just hit the green button.”
She nodded, surprised he didn’t have Dr. Wu on speed dial yet.
The Field Museum anthropologist picked up on the first ring and Brennan explained the situation and what she needed.
“I could bring a couple of interns,” Dr. Wu said.
“No room. They’ll just end up cramped and bored. Better if it’s just the two of us.”
“Might take me a while to get there.”
“No real rush,” Brennan said. “The victims aren’t going anywhere. Just make sure you’ve got everything. My gut tells me, when we do get started? We’re going to be at this for some time.”
Brennan ended the call. “Know where we can get a cadaver dog?” she asked Booth.
“Cadaver dog?”
“An animal that works like a bomb-sniffing dog, only it finds corpses.”
Booth shook his head.
“In Chicago, neither do I,” she said. “Let’s get a tech with ground-penetrating radar instead.”
Booth called in that request; while they waited for the tech and for Dr. Wu, Brennan and Booth tracked down Greene, in the front yard, smoking a cigarette.
“How you feelin’, buddy?” Booth asked.
Greene managed a shrug. “By the time my boss got done reaming me out, my ass hurt more than my chest.”
The FBI agent laughed. “Yeah, I got a rubber-glove exam, myself.”
Brennan spoke up: “We captured a killer — a suspect who responded to our presence by shooting Lieutenant Greene, point blank. Since when does that rate a reprimand?”
Greene smirked but it was not at all nasty, merely weary. “The doc here really isn’t law enforcement, is she?”
Bones: Buried Deep Page 11