Chapter One: A Familiar Face.
Welcome to my latest multi-chap case fic!
This one is set 10 years in the future and I'll be posting once a week, every Sunday. Enjoy! :-)
Booth groans as he arrives at his office on a cold, rainy Monday morning in Washington DC. His back is killing him and he would much rather be back in the countryside cabin where he and his wife had spent their anniversary weekend. Hell, he'd rather be anywhere other than here, stuck at his desk going through paperwork all day. The stack had amassed significantly on his desk during his mini-break and he's already dreading the prospect of working his way through all of it.
Reluctantly he sits down in his chair and sets his mug on his desk. Instead of logging into his computer – normally his first activity when he gets to work – he leans back in said chair and admires his surroundings. When he was promoted to Deputy Director of the FBI two years ago, he was granted a brand new office to go with his new job description. A new, much larger, much swankier office. He has the latest computer on the market, he can control his blinds from a remote without having to move an inch, allowing him more privacy during important meetings and his chair has the best lumbar support in the Hoover Building.
Ha!
He loves his promotion.
Of course, staple pieces from his old office had to be relocated to his new one. For example: pictures of his family, his hockey memorabilia and, obviously, his beloved Bobblehead Bobby that he'd been given by the cops at Scotland Yard all those years ago. No chance in hell was he leaving any of that for Aubrey when the younger agent took over him as head of the Major Crimes unit. Although he misses his old job – and he really does, especially the fieldwork aspect – he feels comfortable knowing that somebody he trusts as much as he does Aubrey has replaced him in his role.
Speaking of, the still-scrawny, dark-haired agent comes sauntering into Booth's office, one hand casually resting in his pant pocket, the other holding a reasonably sized cardboard box that Booth assumes contains donuts of some variety. He's come to learn that bringing Booth unhealthy treats is Aubrey's favourite way of asking him something that's probably going to piss him off.
"Hey, Booth," he greets with a broad grin, gesturing the box in Booth's direction. "I have some presents for you."
"Let me guess: donuts," he says as he accepts the box nevertheless, opening it to reveal a set of six delicious looking donuts. There's iced (both strawberry and chocolate flavoured), jelly and glazed. Booth has to admit that the younger agent has chosen well; they're his favourite sorts.
"I guess that's why you're Deputy Director of the FBI and I'm not. Well, that, and the fact you're older than me. Way older."
Booth shakes his head at the teasing tone to Aubrey's voice. "I'm not that old, pal, but since I am your boss, I could have you fired for making insulting comments about my age."
"Sorry, Booth. You look great – super young! I mean-."
"Stop." Booth holds up his palm, his eyes narrowing in a sharp glare. "Just stop. OK?"
"OK."
"Good. Now, what do you want? As you can see, I'm pretty busy here."
"I can see." Aubrey blows out a breath as he surveys the mess of filing and paperwork Booth has to sign off and organise. "I do not envy you one bit. I'd much rather have my gun," he says, patting the weapon in his holster.
"I'll use my gun on you if you don't spit it out."
Aubrey doesn't even flinch, having acclimatised nicely to the cantankerous agent's futile threats. He bounces nervously on the balls of his feet. "I have a case."
"I imagine you have many cases, Aubrey. You're a federal officer. Get on with it."
"Right. Um. I need – uh. I think I need your help with this one," he stutters, afraid of the older agent's reaction.
Booth raises his eyebrows. Aubrey is one of his most capable agents. He never asks for help unless the case is huge. Readying himself for an investigation filled with red tape and a million suspects, he easily agrees to assist his employee – and friend – in whatever capacity necessary.
"There's been a murder," he explains as he retrieves the folder tucked under his arm. He pauses before he opens it up. "It's pretty gruesome, so, you know. Just be warned."
"Thanks for your concern, Aubrey, but I've seen plenty of gross corpses in my time. You remember who my wife is, right? Come on, show me."
"Alright." He flicks the folder open and takes the set of crime scene photos into his hand. One by one, he lays them on the limited space in front of Booth, trying ineffectually not to react to the mutilated body before him. "It's a meaty one," Aubrey says, even though that is very much clear. Most of the flesh is still there – disgusting though it is – despite the insect activity that has evidently taken place. "As you can see, the corpse is riddled with bullet holes, here, here and here," – his finger points out the different close ups of the wounds – "and the face…"
"Has been completely bludgeoned to death," Booth finishes, pushing the donuts away from him, his appetite suddenly disappearing. "Wow. That's uh-. Wow."
"I thought you said dead bodies don't bother you anymore."
"I didn't say that," Booth quickly backtracks. "I just meant that-. I mean… I didn't think it would be so violent. Our killer must be completely deranged."
"The squints are all over it."
Booth chuckles softly. "They'll have a field day with that."
"Yeah, they will. Although, there might be too much skin for Dr. B to deal with."
"The flesh on the face has mostly gone so she'll be able to examine the skull and find the weapon, for sure. I imagine the rest of this delight will be left to Cam."
"Lucky her," Aubrey adds sarcastically.
"Yeah. So, you seem to have this all under control. What do you need my help with?"
"It's not the body that's the problem. An eyewitness at the crime scene was able to give Angela a detailed description of the killer. We have a sketch."
"That's great!" Booth responds, not understanding what the complication is. "That's more than I ever had at this stage in most of my murder investigations. Just run the face through all the major databases-."
"We don't need to do that. We already have an ID."
"Huh?"
Aubrey removes Angela's drawing from the folder and places it on top of the crime scene photographs. The sketch shows a man roughly in his fifties. He has short, dark hair greying at the edges, stubble and a strong jawline. With his brown eyes, the image portrays a familiar figure to Booth.
The younger agent waits for him to take it all in. When Booth's eyes – his pupils wide – catch Aubrey's, the tension in the office mounts. Aubrey decides to speak first. "Doesn't it look like…"
A lump forms in Booth's throat. "…Russ Brennan."
"Yes. Your brother-in-law."
Booth slams his fists against the steering wheel, frustrated as the traffic once again grinds to a halt. They've been stuck in the same queue of cars for the past half hour. So much for the urgency with which they'd ran out of the Hoover Building. Hadn't got them anywhere.
"Do you know where Russ is?" Aubrey asks out of the blue.
Booth's head snaps in his direction, his expression incredulous. "Are you kidding me? I'm stuck in this car with you and you're going to interrogate me about my brother-in-law's whereabouts right now. Seriously?"
"May as well pass the time productively," he answers with a shrug.
Booth cusses under his breath, not looking forward to this conversation. They're not even sure the sketch even is Russ yet, let alone if he's the killer. Surely they should gather all the facts before they start a vendetta against the guy.
"So?" Aubrey presses. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," Booth snaps, edging his SUV forward ever so slightly then braking again. The car pulls to a standstill. "I have no idea."
"You sure about that?"
"Yes. I'm not covering anything up for him, if that's what you're thinking. I genuinely don't know where he is."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Last Christmas," he replies tersely. "Nearly a year ago. And he hasn't been in contact since about six months ago – not even with Bones, so don't think about questioning her when we get to the Jeffersonian. OK?"
"I need to ask these questions, Booth. He may be our killer."
"Exactly. May be. Innocent till proven guilty, right?"
"Right, but-."
"No buts," Booth interrupts, his tone sharp, aggravated as the traffic slowly moves forward, although not by very much. The rain beating down against the SUV, combined with Aubrey's incessant questions and the endless traffic jam are not making this journey to the Jeffersonian the most enjoyable Booth has ever had. "We're going to go to Angela – without saying anything to Bones. She can run the sketch through the DMV database, see what it comes up with. Then we'll decide how we proceed from there."
"OK. I am the primary here though, remember? I'm only asking for your advice because of your personal connection to the case. I can do as I see fit."
"And I'm your boss," Booth says, scowling at him. He turns the dial on his car's radio and rock music blasts out, quickly shutting up the younger agent.
They travel the rest of the journey without talking to each other, aside from Booth's occasional swears at the traffic's lack of progression. His ire is rapidly growing and, by the time they reach the Jeffersonian's parking structure, his neck is flushed red and his heart rate somewhere in the stratosphere. He jumps out of his SUV, slams the door shut and marches off in the direction of the Medico-Legal lab, yelling at Aubrey to move his ass faster.
They swipe their ID that allows them into the lab, Booth storming off towards Angela's office, Aubrey having to take his steps double-speed behind him in a fruitless attempt to catch up.
Booth doesn't even knock before entering Angela's workspace, barging in and giving the artist – who was entranced in one of her paintings – a fright.
"Booth? What are you doing here?" As she stands to face her friend, gravity causes fresh paint to roll down the front of her sky blue smock. "Is Brennan OK?"
"It depends which Brennan you mean," Aubrey says, joining the two of them, the agent completely out of breath after racing to catch up with his former partner.
"Temperance Brennan? His wife, my best friend? That's the only time he looks this heated, when she's in danger. Oh my God, is she in danger?" Her voice rises to a high-pitch, her throat constricting with fear.
"No. Not that Brennan." Booth grabs the folder in Aubrey's hands and shows Angela her sketch. "This Brennan."
"Oh." Her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. "It really looks like him, huh?"
"Yes, identical. I want to know if you're absolutely certain this is who the eyewitness described to you. I mean – maybe you drew Russ because you know him. It might not actually be Russ, just somebody similar to him?"
"No, Booth, I drew it three times. They all came out the same." She picks up two discarded sheets of paper lying on her desk and presents them to the two FBI agents. "The similarities are unmistakable. The mandible, the brow ridge, even the description of his hair. It's Russ, Booth. It's definitely, Russ. Running the image through the DMV database confirms it."
"It can't be. It's not him," he asserts, ignoring Aubrey's protestations. "I might not know where he is, but I know Russ and I know he would never do this. He's a good guy now. He's got Amy and Haley and Emma and he wouldn't risk losing them. He was only in prison for thirty days and he hated it. He wouldn't want to go back there. I'm telling you."
"Booth, the sketch-."
"I don't give a damn about the sketch," he snarls. "Sorry, Ange," he then apologises quickly. "It's a good drawing. It's just-. I can't believe…"
"Neither can I. I don't want it to be him, Booth, but my witness sketches are usually extremely accurate."
Deciding to change the subject, lighten the mood, Aubrey wonders aloud why Angela isn't working on the case, nodding at her paint-splattered attire.
"The skull is too damaged for me to do a facial reconstruction right now, so I may as well create something beautiful to get over that guy's bashed in face," the artist defends.
Determined to figure out why the hell his brother-in-law is being accused of murder, Booth swiftly redirects the conversation back to the case. "Back to Russ. Did you show the witness a picture of him? Were they certain he's the person they saw?"
"I used that picture of Brennan and Russ you posted online from last Christmas. They were adamant it was him that they saw. 100%."
"And what exactly did they see?"
"They said they saw Russ get out of his car, pull a large body-shaped bag from his trunk and dump it behind a bush. They were in the parking lot when it happened. Nobody else around to corroborate their story."
Booth holds his palm up, stopping her. "Give me their number and I'll talk to them."
"Booth, I'm the lead on this case," Aubrey reminds him, insisting that he be the one to actually lead.
"Not anymore," Booth decides, pulling rank. "Is Bones on the platform, Ange?"
"Yeah. Brace yourself for the body. It's a nine."
The older FBI agent crinkles his nose in disgust. Nine meaning the second highest on their unofficial scale of the worst looking and smelling corpses. The water logged ones always top the list. A nine is still pretty awful. He turns on his heel and leaves, Aubrey trailing behind him, maintaining that this is his case and that Deputy Director's don't work in the field.
"I do when a member of my family is accused of murder, Aubrey," he growls, aggressively swiping his ID card and jogging up the few steps to take him to the forensic platform. He sees his wife stood next to the body, kitted out in her blue lab coat and latex gloves, hair pulled back off her face, and closes the distance between them. "Hey, Bones. What've you got?"
"Booth!" Brennan looks up from her examination of the skull trauma, surprised to see him. "What are you doing here?"
"Aubrey asked for my help. What've you got?" He asks again.
"A whole lot of damaged tissue and not much else." Cam.
"Tell me about it," Aubrey says, pulling a face as the pathologist removes some of the vic's internal organs for testing.
"Well, once again, I – the undisputed King of the Lab – have something," Hodgins boasts, puffing up his chest. "The presence of calliphoridae and sarcophagidae suggest the vic has been dead around twenty four hours."
"So a missing person probably won't have been reported yet."
"No. As if ID'ing this guy wasn't going to be hard enough," Cam laments.
"There's no evidence to suggest this is a guy, Dr. Saroyan. Our victim is quite clearly a woman. See the hair, the female sexual organs…"
"Guy can be a gender neutral term."
"Mmm," Brennan murmurs, disbelieving, as she returns to the skull, her thumb stroking the fractures to the bone. Angela can work some magic with her facial reconstructions, but it would be almost impossible for her to attempt anything here. Their victim is completely unrecognisable. "How is the investigation going on your end?" She asks Aubrey, glancing up at him. "Why did you need Booth's help?"
Aubrey exchanges a nervous look with her husband, unsure of what to reveal. Booth nods subtlety, giving him the go ahead. He clears his throat. "The eye witness was able to give Angela a good enough description for a sketch of the man they saw dump the body – who we're assuming is the killer."
"Isn't that good news? It's more than we normally have at this point."
The squints understandably look confused at the concerned expressions both Booth and Aubrey are wearing so openly.
"It's who the sketch looks like that's the problem," Aubrey elaborates.
"Did Angie do a bad job?"
"No, no… It just…" The younger agent falters and looks to his mentor for guidance. "Booth?"
Booth sighs. He had not wanted to be the person to announce this news to his wife, but they don't keep secrets between them. Regretfully, he knows he has to tell her. He touches his hand to the small of her back. "Bones, what I'm about to show you… We don't have all the facts yet, so just stay calm… Don't jump to any conclusions…"
"I have no idea what's going on."
Booth takes the drawing he'd dropped on the table when he first climbed up to the platform. He turns it over in his hands and shows it to his wife.
Her sharp intake of breath is audible and blood rushes to her cheeks. "Is this who I think it is?" She questions, her eyes darting to Booth's.
"Yes, Bones," he tells her, sadness infused in his tone. "This sketch implies that Russ is our killer."
Cam's eyes are as wide as saucers. "Russ… As in…?"
"My brother," Brennan whispers.
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