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! It’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.