The park was idyllic. Trees peppered the northwest corner, maples and oaks with dappled sunlight spotted the grass below. A small reflective pond graced the far end and an 8-seater swing set overshadowed a modest sandbox, a dozen or so children, some laughing, some shrieking, clambered over the area. The rest of the park was field: open, green, welcoming. It was perfect for tag, Red Rover, or throwing Frisbees to dogs. It was also a perfect cadaver hangout, at least according to the mystery guest currently in the Jeffersonian's lab.
"So what exactly are we looking for?" Brennan asked as she tried to maneuver her crutches over the soft ground.
"Oh, the usual," Booth replied, squinting in the bright light. "Signs of a struggle, drag marks, scorching, maybe a couple shoes. You know, Bones. Clues."
"You don't think he was killed here, do you? It's so…public."
"Nope. That I do not. But we can't rule anything out just yet. Isn't that your mantra? Don't jump to conclusions?"
Brennan's cell phone chirped.
"Brennan."
"Dr. Brennan," Zack Addy began excitedly. "We have some information for you."
"What is it?"
"I'm still narrowing down the specifics, but it looks like the victim was stabbed with a fairly standard kitchen knife. And the stabbing was definitely perimortem."
"Zack, I appreciate the update, but that isn't particularly helpful. The victim was stabbed with a common, nondescript knife shortly before or after his death? We're going to need a lot more than that to find the killer."
"Of course, Dr. Brennan. I just wanted to keep you updated on our status. The real news is Angela's. She identified the victim."
"Well, put her on, Zack!"
Brennan could hear the amplified shuffle as Zack handed the phone to Angela.
"Hey, hon. Sorry to cut your promenade in the park so short."
"Angela, Zack said you identified the victim."
"Okay, I get it. Enough with the small talk. Hello to you too, by the way."
"Angela…"
"Chill, sweetie. His name is Michael August. He's the senior pastor at Faith Community Church; 44 years old; graduated from Olivet in 1988; interned at Unity Baptist in West Virginia until 1992; was assistant pastor at Pilgrim's Way Nondenominational Chapel through '96; and from there, began at Faith Community. Married 21 years to Allison Beck August, two kids, one dog."
Brennan was speechless.
"Bren--are you there?"
"How-Angela, how did you find all that out?"
Angela chuckled. "It wasn't really that hard. When Hodgins took the shirt for analysis, we found a tract in the breast pocket. You know, 'this is your brain; this is your brain on God?' Anyway, it had the church's name, address, phone number, and website stamped on. I compared my facial reconstruction sketch to the pictures posted online, and…well, behold the wonders of the Internet."
"That's fantastic. Thanks, Ange. Hang on a minute." Brennan held the phone against her right shoulder as she turned to her partner to share the news.
"We have a name already?" Booth interrupted immediately, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Yes, we do. Michael August, pastor of a local church."
"Do we know which local church?"
"Faith Community. I've driven by it. It's on Marks near Inverness. But Booth, Angela says he was married too. Shouldn't we see her first?"
Booth's face hardened, a look attesting to his empathy for Mrs. August. "Gotta let the widow know she's a widow. Do you have an address or a number?"
"Angela does." Brennan returned to her phone. "Ange, we're going to talk to her. You have the parsonage location and contact information for the victim's wife?"
"Of course I do, Bren. But next time, let's work on your 'please' and 'thank you' skills. It's 2842 Jefferson Court, and the number is 555-0102."
Angela heard Brennan repeat the specifics to Booth just before the click and hum of the dial tone. "You're welcome," she quipped into the phone, shaking her head.
Allison Beck August fingered her husband's tie as she sat, reeling with shock and grief, in one of the FBI interrogation rooms. Brennan was always impressed with Booth's ability to break the news of a loved one's death to a wife, husband, son, or daughter. Brennan watched, mostly in silence today, from the other side of the observation window as Booth gently explained the circumstances surrounding the recovery of Mr. August's body. It was with great respect and almost reverence that he gave Mrs. August her husband's necktie and the leaflet from his pocket. Booth explained in hushed tones that evidence was still being gathered from his other personal effects, but once the case was closed, they would be made available to family.
"I don't understand," Allison whispered, clenching the tie, tangling it in her shaking fingers. "You don't need me to…to identify him? Can you be certain it's Michael?"
"Mrs. August, we use facial recognition tools that produce very consistent results. And if you can verify that these items were on your husband's person…"
Allison nodded, eyes squeezed shut, seemingly unable to speak, then murmuring, "But can you be certain?"
Booth paused a moment before answering. "Our reconstruction imaging is very accurate. We use it when family and friends can't reliably make an identification. Most people recognize others from their most familiar, visible features: their hands, face. In your husband's case, Mrs. August, there was just too much trauma."
Allison was crying outright now, shuddering, one clenched fist to her mouth.
Booth covered her other hand with his own. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Can you think of anyone who might've wanted to harm your husband? Any old rivalries, anyone with a grudge?"
"Michael was a good man. He--his life revolved around his family and his church. And he was very well loved by both."
Booth nodded, and gave Allison's hand a gentle squeeze, then stood. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. August. And again, I'm very sorry for your loss. God be with you."
"And also with you," Allison returned, almost on impulse.
Booth nodded once more, then turned and exited the interrogation room, leaving Allison at the stark table, the dark textured walls an appropriate background for her continuing grief.
A moment later, the staff door opened and Booth stepped out to join Brennan at the observation window. The pair quietly watched the stunned and sorrowful Mrs. August for about a minute until Brennan spoke up.
"Do you think she did it?"
Booth shook his head. "Nah. She was genuine."
"How can you be so sure?" his partner asked in an unconscious imitation of the widow.
"I've seen enough liars and fakers and slime to know when I'm being played. And she was real. She truly is shocked and horrified." Booth nodded to the scene on the other side of the glass.
Allison August was right where Booth had left her, but now a guard had entered, in hopes of escorting her out. Mrs. August, though, remained firmly rooted in her chair, still crying, and clutching her husband's tie to her chest.
"So who's next in your queue?" Brennan asked. "Do you have another suspect in mind?"
"In my queue?" Booth rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation.
"Yes. It means a line or lineup, and, although you don't literally have suspects in a line--"
"I know what a queue is, Bones."
"Then why did you--"
"Because it's not normal English. Nobody west of Liverpool would even say stuff like that."
"Booth, Liverpool is in England."
"Exactly my point."
"How is that your point? If you're looking for examples of standard English, England would be an ideal place to start."
"Not England English, Bones. American. Nobody who speaks American would talk like that."
"'American' isn't a language, Booth."
Booth closed his eyes and heaved a sigh in a show of infinite patience. "Fine. Okay. You win. Can we just drop it?"
Brennan shrugged.
"Besides, Allison August was never really a suspect. I mostly brought her in for information."
"Why isn't she a suspect? Isn't the victim's spouse always the most likely?"
"Sure, generally, but this woman couldn't have done all that. Look at her, Bones. Do you really think she'd be able to stab the guy and burn him past recognition? Even if she used a sedative and tied him down, she doesn't have it in her."
"So my question remains. Who's next in your…" Brennan narrowed her eyes mischievously at Booth, smiling lightly. "…Gut?"
"You heard her. Michael August's life revolved around his family and his work. If it wasn't family, my next bet is the assistant pastor."
"The assistant pastor? I don't remember her mentioning him. Or her."
"There's always an assistant pastor, Bones." Booth checked his watch. "1:25 on a Monday. He'll be there. Shall we?"
Bones shifted herself more squarely onto her crutches. "We shall."
After negotiating midday DC traffic, the agent and the anthropologist found themselves in the quiet vestibule of Faith Community Church.
"Excuse me, sir?" Booth addressed a bearded man, broadly built, kneeling and oiling the hinges of a darkly stained door.
"Help you?" The man craned his neck, meeting Booth's eyes, but didn't stand.
"Yeah, maybe. We're looking for the pastoral offices."
"Oh, sure. Go along straight, hallway on your left, last couple offices. Pastor Mike ain't in, but Pastor Dave is."
"Great. Thanks, Mister…"
"Logan. Barry Logan."
"Mr. Barry Logan."
"Welcome."
Booth shifted his weight and turned slightly as if to leave, then changed his find, focusing his attention back on Logan. "Mr. Logan, do you attend services at this church?"
"Sure do. It'd be kind of awkward, me being the custodian, if I didn't."
"I guess so. You know, Tempe and I, we were looking into this place. What do you think of it?" Booth asked, as he reached toward Brennan, placing his open palm on the small of her back.
Brennan met her partner's eyes sharply, surprised at his sudden and unprofessional display of affection. She relaxed almost immediately, though, as she realized that Booth must have been implying the relationship as a means of establishing a rapport with Logan, which he certainly couldn't achieve if he'd flashed his badge.
Logan stood, finally, and scratched his thick, dark beard. His pale blue eyes flicked about the ceiling and walls, as if his answer might be found in one of the many felt banners proclaiming 'He is risen!' and 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be made white as snow.'
"You folks looking for a church home?"
Booth smiled broadly but did not actually answer.
"Because I gotta tell you, this is a good place. Good people, good congregation. Only trouble is, it ain't what it used to be, far as preaching goes."
"How so?"
"Well, Pastor Mike--he's a good guy, now, don't get me wrong--he's awful interested in how God is love, and there's redemption for all what ask, and we'll all go to Heaven and spend happy eternity in the loving, comforting arms of Jesus Christ."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing's wrong with that. It's sound Bible principle. Trouble is, that's all he preaches."
Booth cocked an eyebrow, prompting Logan to continue.
"There's another side to it, see? God surely is love, but He is also vengeance. Not everybody's going to Heaven. It ain't rainbows and angels for all, you get me? There's a Hell just as certainly as there's a Heaven, and people, sinners, folks committing abominations against the Lord, they're on the fast track to the lake of fire. Do you know your Bible?"
"Yes sir," Booth answered, not missing a beat.
"Well, that Bible is the infallible word of God, and it says something about sinners, liars, fornicators, idolaters, and homosexuals. Now, if they repent, that's one thing. They're saved by the grace of Jesus Christ and pure in the eyes of God. But if they don't…" Logan trailed off and shrugged his broad shoulders. "Pastor Mike don't like to think about that, so he don't preach it. I think a little hellfire's good for the soul every now and again. Wakes you up, even God's elect. Makes you remember not to take nothing for granted."
Brennan observed the exchange in silence, mentally recording the conversation to pour over later.
"In general, though, you'd recommend this church?"
"Yes, sir. I surely would. Like I say, I got great respect for Pastor Mike. Great respect. I don't always agree with his point of view, but until you start pastoring your own church, you ain't never gonna find a preacher you agree with one hundred percent, you know what I mean?"
"I sure do, Mr. Logan."
"But Pastor Mike, he's a real good guy. I'd stand up for him any day."
"Thank you, Mr. Logan. You've been a great help." Booth thrust out his hand and Logan shook it, his grip strong.
"More than welcome. What'd you say your name was?"
"I didn't. And I'm afraid we're going to be late for our appointment. Pleasure meeting you. Thanks again." Booth released Logan's hand and he guided Brennan, his hand still behind her, in the direction Logan had indicated.
Halfway down the hall, Brennan spoke up. "Booth, we don't have an appointment. You never called ahead."
"True. But I don't want our pal Barry to start thinking the FBI is here. I'd rather keep as many people in the dark as long as possible. Ah." Booth stopped. "Here we are." He rapped sharply on the half open door and stepped in the office. "Pastor Dave?"
"Come in."
Booth continued in, his partner close behind. The walls were littered with posters, flyers, and sticky-note reminders. A wire trash basket overflowed with crumpled sheets of paper. Before them, a large, though obviously inexpensive desk dominated the room, with an overhead lamp set at a rakish angle to the left, and two well worn, maroon, lightly upholstered chairs facing it. At the desk sat a plump, balding, ruddy-cheeked, jovial man in a casual dress shirt and untacked tie emblazoned with a fish motif.
"Can I help you folks?"
"Are you Pastor Dave?" Brennan asked.
"In the flesh. Have a seat." Dave gestured to the chairs. "Make yourselves comfortable."
Once they were seated, Dave asked again, "So what can I do for you? Or are you with the couples counseling group?"
Booth opened his mouth to speak, but the assistant pastor cut him off. "Forgive me, forgive me. I'm terrible at remembering faces--terrible curse for a pastor, right? Really puts a cap on how far I can go in the people-helping business, doesn't it?
"But enough with that. Aaron and Gina, right? This is, what? Session number two for you folks?"
"Actually, we're not--" Brennan began, but Dave interrupted.
"Josh and Amy! I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Where did we leave off last time? Right, of course. Amy, are you finding yourself more comfortable in your intimacies with Josh?"
"No, I don't--"
"Amy, now weren't you going to work on that? I know it can be difficult, but when God created humans, male and female, He created a great capacity for the pleasure that can be derived from the sort of relationship a husband and wife can enjoy in each--"
"Pastor Dave, we're not here for couples counseling." In a smooth motion, Booth slipped his badge from his interior pocket and held it up for the assistant pastor to see. Dave's eyes widened and Booth could see that the man was finally listening. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth and this is my partner, Temperance Brennan. We're here about Pastor August."
"Mike? What about him?"
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Well, he delivered the Sunday sermon, of course. Third in his series on Job. Then, after a short time for fellowship following the service, Mike usually takes the rest of his weekend for himself and his family. Why? Has something happened?"
"So you haven't seen him since late Sunday morning, then?"
"Around noon, yes."
"And you have no idea what might have happened afterward?"
"No, Agent Bell, I don't. Please, what is this about?"
"It's Agent Booth, actually. Michael August's remains were discovered early this morning in a public park."
The color drained from Dave's face. "Good gracious. What happened? Did he have a heart attack? His father died recently of a heart attack."
"No, sir. The FBI doesn't investigate heart attacks. Pastor August was murdered."
"Murdered! By whom?"
"That's what we're trying to find out. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against August? Any rivalries, jealousies, offenses? Any trouble he might have been in?"
"No, none. Mike was a well-respected man, a man with integrity. He loved his Lord and the people he served. And they love him as well."
"Love him?" Brennan spoke up. "How exactly do you mean?"
"Well, not romantically, of course. Are you a religious woman, Mrs…"
"Dr. Brennan."
"Yes, of course. Dr. Brennan. Are you a Christian?"
"No."
"Well, there is a deep-rooted respect and affection, almost an allegiance, between a pastor and his church. Rather like the relationship of a shepherd and his flock."
"Sir, can you think of any reason at all why someone would want to hurt Michael August?" Booth asked.
"None whatsoever. Mike was a peace-loving man and his life reflected that."
Booth nodded slowly. Brennan watched her partner critically. He wasn't looking at the pastor with his 'I know what you did, and I'm going to get you for it' look. Booth believed him. Which meant that Pastor Dave would not be likely to find himself on the suspect list. Which meant that they were still on square one.
There was a quick sound of movement, and a door opened to the far right that Brennan hadn't even noticed. A slight woman, probably in her late sixties or early seventies, bustled in, her black orthopedic shoes making a muted shuffle on the tile floor.
"Reverend! Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were in a meeting."
"Not at all, June." Dave waved toward the woman. "This is June Baker, our secretary," he said by way of introduction. "These people are with the FBI. Agents Bell and Bannan. They're investigating; apparently Pastor Mike has been murdered."
"Murdered! Good Lord." June's hand flew to her chest.
Booth grimaced, clearly not thrilled that Dave had so freely told the woman that they were law enforcement. "Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan, actually. Are you all right, ma'am?"
June was pale, looking like she might pass out at any moment. She shook her head, though, and appeared to recover. "No, I'm fine, thank you. It's just such a shock. Murdered! Who would do such a thing?"
"That's what they're investigating, June," Dave replied. "Why don't you come sit down?" He stood, offering his chair to her.
June made no move to accept his offer. "Well, I'll tell you who did it. The ZCB. They're always raising troubles, always giving the reverend such a terrible time."
"The ZCB?" Booth asked, pulling out a notepad and pen.
"Yes, sir. The Zion Celebration Baptist Church. They're fundamentalists." June gave a knowing nod to Brennan.
Brennan blinked and leaned in toward Booth. "I'm not sure what she means by that."
"She means they're not real compromising in what they believe, Bones. No holds barred, take no prisoners; Christianity at its least tolerant."
"Like hellfire?" Brennan asked, remembering Logan's speech.
"And how!" June interjected. "Those people have so many laws and rules, they have no room left in their hearts for mercy. They absolutely tormented Reverend August."
"Could you elaborate on that, ma'am?"
"Yes, I could. They sent him awful letters and e-mails, telling him he was damned. Damned! Can you imagine anyone saying such things to that gentle man? They'd even sit in on his sermons, sometimes, and stand up to argue a point. In the middle of the service! And him at the pulpit!"
"To your knowledge, did anyone ever make any specific threats against August?"
"Not to my knowledge," June answered, emphasizing her words. "But it wouldn't surprise me in the least if they had. Not in the least."
Booth nodded. "Thank you for your cooperation, ma'am. Pastor." Booth stood and shook the pastor's hand while Brennan pulled herself up and repositioned her crutches. "I may be calling again with further questions."
"Anything we can do to help." June gave Booth a weak smile as the two partners turned and exited the office.
