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:
TO THE FBI:
I CAN’T WAIT FOREVER, THE CLOCK IS TICKING. YOU’LL HAVE TO DO BETTER THAN THE LOCAL COPS EVER DID. THEY HAVE HAD MULTIPLE CHANCES TO STOP ME AND HAVE FAILED. I GIVE YOU ANOTHER GIFT FROM MY COLLECTION TO SHOW YOU THAT I AM SERIOUS.
THERE ARE MANY PLACES TO FIND MALE VICTIMS, MANY OF THEM IN THIS VERY NEIGHBORHOOD. I THOUGHT IT BEST TO BRING YOU CLOSER TO MY TURF. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. LOOK HARD, MY NEW FRIENDS, I’M EVERYWHERE, YOU SHOULD HAVE NO TROUBLE FINDING ME.
I’LL BE WAITING,
TIM
“Tim?” Booth asked. “What the hell happened to Sam?”
“Sam?” Greene asked.
“That’s how the first note was signed,” Booth said.