Standard Disclaimers: I own nothing of Bones!

Booth took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial before the door behind him had even clicked closed. Dr. Temperance Brennan was apparently likewise motivated, as she was walking in step with him within moments, the dark anonymous viewing room left behind without a second thought.

"Moreau? Yeah, I need you to dig up some information for me," the request was given crisply. Brennan, or as Booth preferred to call her, Bones, had no doubt that Agent Moreau would prove adept at his job and within the hour have a file sitting on Booth's desk with everything he could possibly want to know about Mr. and Mrs. Sweet of 34 Waterford Lane.

While she had to admit she would have preferred to have the preliminary information, the information that would answer the most pressing questions, right away, she could see the value of patience. It would be better to have the whole picture, after all, rather than get a false sense of accomplishment merely by ruling out one improbable possibility.

Improbable but not impossible.

"So, if the Satanist that Mr. Penn described turns out to be Dr. Sweets, will you be bringing him in for questioning?" She asked Booth as soon as he returned the cell phone to his belt.

He turned his head to give her a sharp, incredulous look, "What? What are you talking about? There's no way he's talking about Sweets. It's just a coincidence."

He wasn't answering her question, she noted. Of course, she was already positive that Booth would not allow his feelings of friendship with the Doctor to effect his investigation. She was just curious how Booth would approach it and whether his gut (though gut was clearly just the colloquial term for it, as insights and instincts were clearly a function of the brain) was picking up on anything that she might not have.

"It might not be," Bones pushed for accuracy, "After all, we know that Sweets did favor death metal as a teenager and, if he followed the traditional cultural garb of that sub-set, probably would have been wearing clothing that was predominantly black at that time."

Booth sighed as he pushed open the large glass doors that separated them from the lobby and the distant outside world, hand extended to catch the edge and keep it open for her. "Yeah, but can you imagine Sweets threatening to kill another kid? Come on. It's Sweets. He'd get all beaten-puppy faced and attempt to give the bullies a hug."

Bones' memory provided her with hesitation on that conclusion, however.

"You're not going to believe me anyway. Just going to say I guessed. So have it your way, I guessed."

Sweets' expression when he'd told her that had been disconcerting. It wasn't that he'd displayed any overt signs of anger, but the flatness of his expression had been impregnable, even though it had come without warning and seemingly without effort. Such an ability to disconnect seemed painfully unlike the warm, almost goofy optimism, she'd come to expect of the man.

It reminded her of a boy she'd met briefly while in foster care. Martin Meserve had looked just as distant, just as remote, as he talked about burning down his foster parents' house.

That striking break in what she'd come to expect from Sweets was part of the reason she'd tried to get him to stay, to explain, and had called after him more than once.

"That's possible," Bones allowed, speaking slowly as she sifted through the essentials in her mind, "But, we do know that Dr. Sweets endured abuse as a child which would have most likely left him emotionally stunted and unprepared for normal social interaction." She glanced at Booth and he met her gaze briefly. His jawline tightened and she hurried to continue, as they stepped out into the street. "Without a strong guide at such a young age to proper mores, who knows how long it might have taken him to find his place in society? If he was still searching to find what was and what was not acceptable, it may have translated to aggression."

Booth stopped short and turned to her. The rise and call of the city surrounded them, the sidewalk outside of the building relatively clear of people but the streets pumping cars along like a steady supply of blood to the brain. The scent of pretzels sold from a cart was carried from the east and just across the way glass windows reflected the images of the two partners back at them.

"Bones. Do you really think that Sweets could murder not one, but two people?" Booth asked.

She shifted her weight, uncomfortable as he demanded an opinion from her that she couldn't possibly be completely certain of, "No."

Booth nodded, "There. Good enough. Now, let's stop talking about Sweets and his horrible taste in music and get back to solving this case."

She didn't argue, content enough to leave that line of hypothesizing behind them. She was certain that the questions she had raised were valid ones, but it was approaching mere speculation on potential motives or behavioral likelihoods.

She was more comfortable dealing with facts.

Within five minutes, however, Angela called to confirm the ID on the bodies. Tracy Schmidt and Bethann Morris. Both girls who had attended the local High School.

And within thirty minutes, Agent Moreau had taken the initiative to call Booth back. He'd thought that Booth would find it very important that Mr. and Mrs. Sweets of 34 Waterford Lane had been the adopted parents of a boy named Lance.