“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.