“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.”