Bones: Buried Deep Read online

  “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.”<
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  “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.

&n
bsp; 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.”