The Elves in the Alley

Part Three: A Squib Among the Squints

Booth caught up with Ron early the next day.

"OK, we got a tie-in for the gun. It was actually registered to the guy whose prints we found on the clip.

"His name's Ralph Cole. He was a lieutenant in Marine Recon until he got himself dishonourably discharged. I can't find out why, it's still classified, but after that he dropped off the grid for a while. We think he operated as a mercenary.

"He turns up again in around 2000, working for Changeling Security as a 'Team Leader' on permanent contract to the Hellfire Club in New York. In 2009, Changeling was bought out by an outfit called IFIMO Services. They still list Cole as an employee. IFIMO is owned and run by two guys, Cain Marko and Fred Dukes. We're gonna go see them.

"But first you need to come with me!"

Booth took Ron to the FBI building, and down to the firing range.

"I know you're carrying, Ron, and I know you're an authorised shot with Scotland Yard, but we're going to be watching each others' backs out there, and I like to make my own judgements about who I work with. So do you, I'll bet!"

Ron was carrying a standard 9mm Glock, Booth noted, and followed range procedure to the letter. His marksmanship was impressive; quick, accurate and if anything even more closely-grouped than Booths'.

"OK!" Booth allowed. "I'm happy. Where'd you learn to shoot?"

"With the Met at first." Ron told him. "But then after they assessed me, they decided I should go for extra training at Hereford."

"The SAS?" Booth asked.

Ron nodded. "You think my pistol work is good, but you should see me with a rifle!

"Anyway, you've seen my shooting, now let's see your magic!"

Booth gave a wry grimace. "I can make a burger disappear..."

Ron, who had been setting up another target as he spoke, chuckled. "No trick! I can do that every time. This, however..."

He pointed his wand at the target and barked "Reducto!" The target promptly disintegrated.

Ron put his wand away and said to Booths' astonished expression. "Now you know what I can do! I don't need you freezing with shock in a tight place, Agent Booth!"

IFIMO Services, according to the posters and flyers scattered around the reception area, provided corporate and personal security, data protection, background checks, remote and on-site surveillance, 'bail bond retrieval' and 'secure-area janitorial services'. The middle-aged and courteous receptionist lost no time in taking Booth and Ron through to a conference room, where the owners of the company were waiting for them.

Ron and Booth were both big men, but they felt dwarfed by the two smartly-dressed men who rose to greet them. Not only were both of them taller than Ron, but Booth doubted that either would tip the scales at less than 300 pounds! Not that either seemed flabby or unfit – they reminded Ron of pictures he had seen of Victorian circus strongmen.

The one with fair hair and a square, strong-jawed face came forward. "Agent Booth, Inspector Weasley, pleased to meet you both. My name's Cain Marko, this is my business partner, Fred Dukes. What can we do for you?"

"We need to ask about one of your employees." Booth said, showing them a file photograph. "His name's Ralph Cole."

Marko and Dukes exchanged a glance. Dukes shook his head. "Aw, crap!" He said. "I knew this would happen! What kind of trouble he get himself into?"

"He may be a material witness in a double shooting." Booth said carefully.

"You mean you think he shot somebody, right?" Marko waved them to chairs. "Sit down, gentlemen, we need to talk."

"You don't seem very surprised." Ron ventured as the four sat down.

Dukes' jowly face stretched in a wry grimace. "English, right?" He said. "You don't know who we are, or who we used to be."

"I do." Booth stated. "I ran a background check. Cain Marko, formerly known as the Juggernaut, and Frederick Dukes, alias the Blob!"

"Ah, geez, did you have to?" Dukes groaned. "I been tryin' to live that moniker down for five years, now!"

He turned to Ron. "I'm a Mutant, Inspector. I used to work with Magneto – Erik Lensherr – back in the day, with the Brotherhood of Mutants. I was a terrorist, I suppose, though back then I figured I didn't have a choice.

"But when the Daleks came, Erik gave us all a straight choice. Join up with everyone else to defend the world, or run and hide. We knew he was right, all except Mystique, so we went out and fought. By the end, there was only Erik and me left."

Ron looked at Marko. "You're a Mutant too?" He asked.

Marko shook his head. "No. My problem was that my stepbrother is Charles Xavier. It's a long story, and it's all in the past now, but back then what happened between us sent me searching for something to make me more powerful than Charles. I found it, and became the Juggernaut. At first it was all about revenge, but after I met up with Black Tom Cassidy it was all about the money.

"We were in LA the day the Daleks came. Tom had gone out to get breakfast and was on his way back when a squad of them came into the street and started herding people. I went to the window when I heard the noise and saw the whole thing. Tom tried to fight them – he was a powerful Mutant, but they just went through him like tissue paper and left him dead in the gutter, my only friend. So I suited up, got out there, did what I could, for Tom, for Earth, for everybody."

He fell silent. After a moment, Dukes carried on.

"After that, we both got Presidential Pardons and invites to join the Avengers. But both of us had had it with that world.

"Well, Changeling Securities was a front for the Hellfire Club to hire mercenaries, but all the Inner Circle had been killed by the Daleks. With Sebastian Shaw gone, and all his little secrets coming out, his empire was falling apart. Cain and I knew each other by reputation, and we both had money, so we became partners and bought this company.

"Ralph and the other employees came with it. Some of them were just psychos, and we got rid of them fast, but Ralph seemed stable at first, didn't he, Cain?"

Marko roused himself. "Yeah. But after a while, he started hankering after the old days. Not so much the money as the shiny high-tech toys, or not knowing what you were going to be up against tomorrow. It was the excitement, the weirdness he missed.

"So anyway, a couple weeks ago, this British dame comes into the office. Calls herself Rosemary Simmons and says she's looking for personal security, a bodyguard. She said she was an investigative journalist and she'd had threats from some people she was looking into."

Ron frowned and took out a notebook. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr Marko. Can you describe her?"

Marko nodded. "White, kind of a heavy face, blonde, painted her nails bright red. Scotland Yard after her, Inspector?"

"Might very well be." Ron replied grimly. "Go on, please."

"OK. Well, we did a background on her, we do that with potential clients; we only take legit contracts. It wouldn't take much for those pardons to vanish and we've both got families now.

"There was nothing, nothing at all, about Rosemary Simmons further back than six months. When I say nothing, I mean zilch, zip, nada! We have a contractor in Sweden who specialises in this kind of thing, and she couldn't find anything. So either this Simmons lady has been off the grid -completely off it – for a lot of years, or her real identity is deep, deep black.

"Either way, we wanted no part of it, so when she came back, we told her it was no go. She was kind of pissed, told us we didn't know who we were dealing with. We told her that was the problem, so she clammed up and stalked out.

"But we saw her speaking to Ralph in the outer office. Next day, Ralph calls in sick. That was ten days ago, and we haven't heard from him since. His cell's switched off, he's not answering emails. I've been to his apartment a couple times, but there's nobody there and the doorman hasn't seen him.

"That's as much as we know, Agent Booth. IFIMO will cooperate fully with your investigation. Karen will give you everything we have on the Simmons woman and a copy of Ralph's employee file on the way out. You got a card? Good, if we hear anything, we'll give you a call."

"One last thing." Booth said as they prepared to leave. "Could this Simmons woman be somebody from the old days?"

It was Dukes who replied. "Only person it might be is Mystique, but the Raven I knew never needed a bodyguard and even if she did, she wouldn't be dumb enough to come to us for one."

Back in the car, Booth said to Ron. "You know this Rosemary Simmons?"

"Not under that name." Ron allowed. "But the description is very close to a witch called Rita Skeeter, who I do know."

"Why would a witch pose as a journalist?" Booth wanted to know.

"Well, Rita actually is a journalist." Ron said. "Witches and wizards have to earn a living, you know! Rita used to work for the Daily Prophet, and she had a column in Witch Weekly."

"Past tense?" Booth asked.

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Her line wasn't investigative journalism, more gossip and scandal, and she wasn't any too scrupulous. We first met her when we were in our teens. Our friend Harry got involved in something very high-profile and Rita was the official correspondent. She wrote a pack of lies about Harry and Hermione that really upset us all. But then Hermione found out a secret – Rita was doing something against wizard law – that shut her up for a bit. We were even able to blackmail her into doing a proper interview with Harry when we needed to.

"But when our old Headmaster -a really famous wizard – was killed by terrorists, Rita went back to her old tricks. She rushed out a nasty, scurrilous biography that upset a lot of people. But then the war was on, and things got messy, and we forgot about Rita until Voldemort was gone. But then she did no more than dash off a biography of Harry, who was the one who beat Voldemort, that was as twisted as the one of Dumbledore. What she didn't realise was that Harry was raised by Muggles, and unlike a lot of wizards, was quite prepared to take her to court.

"After the Minister of Magic, the Head of Hogwarts and about fifty other people, including the man who'd been Harry's worst enemy all the time we were at school, had all stood up in front of the Wizengamot and testified to the fact that Rita was talking out of her arse, she hadn't a leg to stand on.

"Last I heard, she was living on her savings and touting for secretarial work. If she's decided to get into investigative journalism, and into something dangerous, she's either desperate or she's onto something really big. If it involves Muggles, it could be mega-big!"

"Big enough to kill over." Booth observed. "Well, we need to get a warrant to search Cole's apartment. Then we'd better get back to the Jeffersonian and see if the squints have come up with anything more."

"And," Ron added, "to make sure Hermione and Dr Brennan haven't started fighting yet!"

Booth shrugged. "Worst they could do is overheat their brains trying to out-nerd each other!"

It was then Booths' cell went off. He spoke tersely into it, then started the car.

"There's been another one!" He told Ron.

When Agent Halliwell called to say the wand-maker had arrived from Chicago, the entire ream gathered to meet them. He was about three feet tall, with a long nose, a fluff of white hair around a shiny bald head, half-moon glasses over which he peered benignly, and was wearing a dark suit. He reminded Hermione more than a little of Professor Flitwick.

"This is Mr Barlow, the wand-maker from Chicago." Piper explained. "He should be able to tell us about the wand we found, if it's the one he thinks it is."

Barlow gave there assembled company a short bow, then spoke in a reedy voice. "First, Barlow must shed his disguise, if he is to work properly!"

A shimmer passed over him, and when it had gone, Barlow was revealed as a House-elf. Even his clothes had changed, now consisting of buckled shoes, white stockings, brown knee-britches and long jacket, a white shirt with a mustard-yellow waistcoat and matching cravat. There was a general murmur of surprise.

"Goodness!" Hermione exclaimed. "I've never heard of an elf wand-maker before!"

"Mrs Weasley would not have." Barlow replied. "As far as he knows, Barlow is the only one. Over a hundred and fifty years ago, Barlows' family decided to emigrate to the New World. Before leaving, they freed Barlows' father, but he refused to leave them, and accompanied them as a paid helper. The familys' name was Barlow, and that is the name Barlows' father took for himself.

"Old Mr Barlow was a wand-maker, and old Mrs Barlow was skilled in herblore and potioncraft. They set up an apothecary shop, with a wand workshop above. Alas, young Mr Barlow had no aptitude for wandlore, though like his mother, he is skilled with herbs and potions. But by that time, Barlows' father had married and Barlow had been born. Barlow proved to have the skills for wand-making, so old Mr Barlow trained him as an apprentice, and here he is!"

There was a moments' silence, then Angela murmured. "I'd imagined the ears bigger and the nose longer, I don't know why."

Barlow smiled at her. "Mistress Montenegro is correct in her imagining." He told her. "Barlow must admit to vanity, and he has had a little work done! But perhaps Dr Hodgins would be more comfortable if Barlow began talking about his Precious?"

Hodgins, who had almost unconsciously been making 'gollum' noises in his throat, had the grace to blush and mutter an apology.

Barlow gave a piping laugh. "Dr Hodgins need not worry. Barlow has read Professor Tolkiens' books, and understands why.

"But now may Barlow examine the wand?"

The House-elf peered at the wand, flexed it, hefted it briefly and waved it to send out a shower of silver sparks.

"Yes," he said finally, "Barlow made this wand. Sixteen inches, springy, hickory and Sasquatch hair. Barlow sold this wand twenty-three years ago to a young wizard named Jason Connover. Mr Connover had come all the way from Detroit to Chicago, to buy this wand after he was accepted to the Randolph Carter School for Witches and Wizards.

"Mrs Weasley will know that the wand chooses the wizard. This wand is suited to a wizard who is idealistic but easily swayed by the thought of adventure, especially in a good cause."

As he handed the wand back, Camille remarked. "Mr Barlow, you don't seem bothered by, er, Muggles?"

"No, Dr Saroyan, Barlow is not." He told her. "The family shop serves Muggles as well as wizards. Barlow, like his father before him, often helps in the shop, in disguise. But Muggles can be troublesome. Once, many years ago, the Muggle government made a law against intoxicating drink. But the family continued to sell elf-wine, butterbeer and firewhisky to wizards. By some means, a Muggle named Capone came to hear of this, and sent his men to the shop to take the stock. The family had to send them away. Old Mr Barlow visited Capone, and the trouble ceased. Mr Barlow made an offer Capone could not refuse.

"Now Agent Halliwell has promised that Barlow will be paid for his time, but he has one more favour to ask. Would it be possible for Barlow to examine Mrs Weasleys' wand?"

Hermione looked a little taken aback. "Certainly." She said. "But what for?"

Barlow bowed to her and said. "Barlow knows who Mrs Weasley is. She was once Hermione Granger, one of the Three Heroes. She is the wife of Ronald Weasley, the great battlemage, and the friend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, or as he is called in Chicago, 'the other Harry'. It would be an honour for Barlow to examine the wand of such a famous witch!"

"OK, now I'm dreadfully flattered and horribly embarrassed all at the same time!" Hermione said. "Here you go!"

Barlow handled the wand with a kind of reverence. "Ollivander, of course." He said finally. "Ten and a quarter inches, limber, birch and unicorn hair. This is not Mrs Weasleys' first wand?"

Hermione shook her head. "My original one was vine wood and dragon heartstring, but I lost it in the war. I used captured wands for a while, but none of them really suited. So when Ollivanders' opened up again I went and bought that one. I like it, better than my old one, actually."

Barlow nodded and handed the wand back to her. "This is a wand for a witch of very great skill, but only moderate power. Many wizards and witches lost their original wands in that war."

"I know." Hermione agreed. "Out of the three of us, only Harry still has his old one."

Barlows' eyes gleamed. "Yes! The famous holly and phoenix-feather wand of Harry Potter! Barlow would give much to see or touch that wand!

"But now Barlow must return to Chicago. But before he goes..." The elf produced a number of business cards which he handed out to everyone. "The Olde English Apothecary in Chicago is run by Barlows' family, and has a Muggle website – please to visit for many natural remedies and health products!"

With that, he disapparated with a boom that made everyone except Hermione jump!

After a moment, Hodgins said. "Wow!"

Brennan frowned. "He only used the third person in his speech. In a human, that would indicate some form of psychosis, would it not, Dr Sweets?"

It was Hermione who answered. "It's a cultural thing, Dr Brennan. In their own language – which humans can't learn because a lot of it is outside our auditory range – there's no first or second person, no 'I' or 'you'. We think it's because House-elves consider themselves, and everybody else, not as individuals, but as part of something else; a family, an organisation, a culture. It goes a long way towards explaining the way they behave."

"Right!" Piper said. "At least I have something to go on. I'll get back to the office and get some background on this Jason Connover. I'll be in touch."

The group broke up. Dr Sweets asked Hermione to meet him in his office. Once there, he said.

"Right, I'm the psychologist on this team, and one of the things I do is try to profile suspects. Now Booth and your husband, Mrs Weasley, will be able to get me everything I need about this man Cole, but the others are all wizards, so I need your help on those, OK?"

"I'll do what I can." She replied. "But I'm not a psychologist. You can call me Hermione, you know, Ron won't mind!"

He smiled at her. "Lance." He said. "Now, how much of what Mr Barlow said about Jason Connover can we rely on?"

"All of it." She told him. "Wandlore is a difficult and obscure branch of magical knowledge. Anyone can learn the basics – identifying the wood and the core – and Aurors are taught that. But to actually make wands requires a kind of inborn sensitivity to certain vibrations, you either have it or you don't. But if you do, you become aware of all kinds of things. They say the wand chooses the wizard, and certain combinations of wood, core, size and flexibility are drawn to certain kinds of people. Like mine: Barlow was right when he said that I'm a skilled witch – I can do complicated charms and transfigurations easily – but for raw power you need Ron! I can blow a hole in a wall if I have to, but I've seen Ron reduce bricks to powder!

"Aside from that, there are other things I can tell you, based on what we now know. Connover is almost certainly a Half-blood, for instance. Apart from anything else, there are only a couple of Pureblood families left in this country..."

"Three." Sweets murmured. Hermione raised an eyebrow, then carried on.

"We can also assume his parents are traditionalists, and relatively recent immigrants, because he went to a wizard school. Most American wizards are home-schooled in magic. It comes from the frontier days when it wasn't safe to live apart from Muggles and therefore wasn't practical to send the kids away to school. Muggle-born youngsters tend to be assigned a magical mentor, wherever possible. That explains why most American wizards practice wandless magic. Only the schools insist on students having wands, and that's for safety purposes while they're still learning.

"Now there are two schools of magic in the US. One was founded back in the 1600s -the Salem Academy in Massachusetts... No, Lance, that doesn't explain the witch trials! What went on in Muggle Salem was small-town politics, pure and simple.

"Salem Academy is a very small, very select, very old-fashioned place which only takes students from the original thirteen colonies who can trace wizard ancestry back to before the Revolutionary War. Because there are no wand-makers in the States of that vintage, most of the students there get their wands in England.

"But a lot of wizards emigrated to America during the late 19th and early 20th Centuries, and some of them were traditionalists who wanted to send their kids to a wizard school. At fi rst there were a lot of little schoold – Dame School kind of thing – but eventually, in the 1930s', a wizard named Etienne-Laurent de Marigny founded a new school, the Randolph Carter School for Witches and Wizards. He named it after a friend of his, a wizard who disappeared in 1928, leaving his fortune for de Marigny to dispose of. The school is in the Miskatonic Valley, about ten miles outside Arkham. It takes students from all over the States and Canada, and even some from Northern Mexico, though most South American wizards attend the Escuela El Dorado in the Andes."

"You know a lot about American wizard history." Sweets remarked.

She grinned at him. "I got an Outstanding in my History of Magic OWL exam. We didn't just do British, we covered most of the world. As I recall, America only took a couple of lessons - you don't have a lot of history, you know!"

Sweets laughed out loud, which was what Hermione wanted – she'd learned more than a few things from Ron!

She put her head on one side and said quietly. "Lance, you're a Squib, aren't you?"

He stared at her. "How...?"

Hermione shrugged. "It's my Sight. It's sort of like sonar. When I open my Third Eye, it's like active pinging, but the rest of the time, it's like passive sonar, just listening. I wasn't sure before, but your reaction to Ron and I was a little...off. Now I've had a chance to see you alone, without all the others about, I can feel it in your aura. Then, of course, you knew the exact number of Pureblood families left in the US!"

Sweets cleared his throat. "Look, as far as anyone else knows, my birth-mother was...is...a psychic working in a circus. The fact is, she's a witch, and my father was a wizard – he died.

"There are only three Pureblood families left in the States. There's one family who live in a spooky old mansion on a bayou in Louisiana. None of them ever leave it except to go to Europe to find Pureblood wives or husbands. The other two are carny families -it's a very insular community.

"My mother is a psychic, though, she has the full Sight. She knew as soon as I was born that I was a Squib. At first, she hid it from my father, but she was so ashamed, eventually she broke down and admitted it..."

He was having difficulty carrying on, and Hermione suddenly realised why.

"Oh, Hell!" She said softly. "They abused you, didn't they? Oh, Lance, I am so sorry! I should've left this to Ron, he's so much better with people than I am!"

He shook his head. "It's OK, Hermione, you weren't to know. They were proud people, and I was a disgrace to their bloodline. I was taken away when I was six, and put into the system, but that didn't work out so well. Then the FBS got involved, and I was adopted by a wonderful couple – both Squibs themselves - they're the ones I think of as my parents.

"When I went looking for my birth-parents a few years ago, it was the FBS who clued me in. They told me I mustn't tell anyone. I'd prefer it if you kept this between ourselves, Hermione."

"Of course." She promised.

Then, with only the most perfunctory of knocks, Dr Saroyan came in. "We have another murder." She said.

"This is not usual for me." Brennan remarked as she weaved through the traffic. "Normally, I go to crime scenes with Booth, and he insists upon driving. I suppose it is the same with you and your husband?"

"Depends." Hermione said. "We each have our own car, so who drives depends on which car we're using at the time. Ron's about a foot taller than me, so it would take forever to adjust all the seats and mirrors!"

Brennan nodded. "Your husband is an..unusual man. Not because he is a wizard – which I do not accept as an explanation for his odd abilities – but because of his character. Like myself, you have chosen a genetically-superior Alpha male as your mate, but Inspector Weasley has demonstrated a level of intellectual attainment I did not expect from a man of his type."

Hermione laughed. "You don't have to tell me that! We met when we were eleven, and I spent at least three years thinking Ron was as thick as two short planks and being driven mad by the fact that I couldn't beat him at chess!

"Then, of course, I admitted the truth. Ron is every bit as intelligent as you or I, Dr Brennan, he's just not an academic. He's ranked third in the Wizard Chess Amateur World League, for instance. He understands people in a way I never will and he can analyse a tactical situation at a glance. Before he became an Auror, he was a director in his brothers' business, and turned it into one of the wizard worlds' most successful ventures. But ask him to take an exam...!

"Oh, and by the way, I didn't marry Ron because of his genetic superiority. I married him because I love him!"

Brennan gave a small frown. "Agent Halliwell provided us with dossiers on yourself and your husband. From your record, I would have assumed we would have more in common. But you seem less rational-minded than I would have expected. You were, once. What happened?"

"I grew up." Hermione said simply. "But we do have something in common, Dr Brennan. We're related."

"Related?" Brennan was surprised. "How do you know that?"

"My husband is a Pureblood wizard." Hermione explained. "Like all Purebloods, the Weasleys know their family tree backwards, forwards and sideways. But like a lot of Muggles, my family had only the most basic idea about theirs. So I did some research.

"My mother's maiden name was Reeder, her great-grandfather was a John G Reeder, who was a detective working for the Public Prosecutor. John Reeder was the grandson of a Yorkshire squire called Sherrinford Holmes. Sherrinford had a sister, Sigrina, who was a noted Egyptologist and early campaigner for womens' rights. She married an American named Grissom, and they had three sons and two daughters. You're descended from one of those daughters."

"How remarkable!" Brennan said. "I will have to confirm this."

"I'll show you the research." Hermione promised. "But it gets better. Sherrinford and Sigrina had two other brothers. Their names were Mycroft and Sherlock!"

They had arrived at the scene, and Brennan parked the car. But instead of getting out at once, she turned in her seat to stare at Hermione.

"Do you mean...?" She asked, incredulous.

Hermione gave a peal of delighted laughter. "Yes, Cousin Temperance! Not only are we related to each other, we're both related to Sherlock Holmes!"

Hermiones' revelation was rapidly set aside as the two women entered the apartment. The FBS had kept the Muggle authorities away, so the scene was pristine. Brennan noted with approval that Hermione slipped on a pair of latex gloves before she entered. Booth appeared at a door and gestured them in.

"The rest of the place is clear." He told them. "We waited for you before we started."

The room was some kind of study or office, with a desk under the window and bookshelves full of box-files and reference books. Most of the books, Hermione noted, were Muggle ones on what they called 'occult' subjects. In the middle of the floor was a partially-blackened skeleton, surrounded by a contained area of burned floor. Nearby was a waste-paper basket full of burned shreds of paper.

"Do we know who he is?" Brennan asked.

"We know who he should be." Ron said. "This flat was rented to a Stephen Cronin, IC1 male, 42 years old. According to what we found, he was a reporter for a magazine called The Arcane, which specialises in reporting so-called supernatural events."

"The door wasn't locked," Booth added. "and there's no sign of forced entry. He let his killer in."

"Or not." Hermione pointed out. "An Opening Charm can bypass all but the most sophisticated modern locks."

"Damn!" Booth snorted. "This magic makes things really complicated!"

"Try living with it!" Hermione told him.

"Well," Brennan said. "if an IC1 male means a white male, then this is also a white male. As far as the skeleton can tell me, he would be in his late 30s to early 40s. There is a surgical pin in his left knee, which will have a serial number we can trace. That should confirm identity.

"We need to get him back to the lab to ascertain cause of death."

"Now you know better than that, Dr Brennan!" Ron said. "Mortuis revelis!"

The body was immediately surrounded by a vivid green aura.

"Avada Kedavra." Hermione murmured. "The Killing Curse. This is bad, very bad."

"Worse than killing a House-elf?" Booth asked.

"Killing a Muggle with magic is the most serious crime in the wizard world." Ron allowed. "But that's not what 'Mione means."

"This man is American." Hermione said softly. "The American Wizengamot still uses the death penalty for this kind of offence. That's something I really don't agree with!"

"Well, it's something our killer should've thought of before he made his choice, isn't it pet?" Ron pointed out.

"I know, I know." Hermione sighed. "The law is the law, even when we don't agree with it. Even so, I hope this man makes a fight of it. I'd far rather you or Agent Booth killed him in a fight than knowing he'd died in some cold-blooded legal revenge."

"I am sorry," Dr Brennan broke in. "But as far as I am concerned, some kind of conjuring trick does not constitute evidence of cause of death!"

"Just cool it, Bones." Booth told her firmly. "You need to accept that we're dealing with things we don't understand here!"

"If," Ron said, "the body was complete, a very thorough autopsy might show evidence of severe neurological disruption. But you'd need special equipment, and to know what you're looking for, to find that much."

"We can argue about that later." Booth said briskly. "Right now, it seems our suspect was trying to destroy evidence of some kind." He indicated the waste-paper basket.

"Angela may be able to reconstruct some of that." Brennan said.

"Between my magic and Angelas' technology, we might be able to retrieve all of it." Hermione noted.

Brennan looked about to say something, but caught Booths' eye, and contented herself by drawing her mouth into a tight, disapproving line.

"What I don't understand," Booth went on, "is why he left the laptop. It's here on the desk, still switched on, logged into some kind of video site."

Ron gave a short laugh. "If our killer is a Pureblood wizard – and it looks that way – he probably didn't know what it was! He certainly wouldn't know how to search it and delete files, because we don't use computers much. They tend to misbehave when there's too much magic about.

"That's why he was so careful to destroy all the written stuff, but only a relatively young and well-informed wizard would know to do anything about the computer. This chap might have thought it was a TV set, if the Muggle was using it to watch videos on."

"OK, we'll take it back with us and see what we can find on it." Booth decided.

"But not just yet." Hermione said firmly. "Just now, can you all go out of the room? I need to use my Sight again."

While Ron waited for his wife near the door, Brennan pulled Booth into a small living room.

"Booth," she began, in a low but intense voice, "I am disturbed by the amount of credence you seem to be giving these people! I know you are a superstitious man, but surely you cannot believe their claims? I have told you often enough what magic actually is."

He held up his hands. "Bones, you've told me what you believe magic is, which needn't be the whole truth or anywhere near it. You've also told me that one of the most important things in science is always to doubt your own conclusions -especially when you find new evidence!

"Now I'm not superstitious, I'm religious. I know you don't see a difference, but there is one. My religion tells me that there is magic, and that people who use it are evil and will go to Hell."

He paused and put his hands on her shoulders.

"But, Bones, I'm a cop. I work on evidence too, and I know about people. Ron and Hermione aren't evil. They're a couple, like us; they're parents, like us; they have jobs, like us. So they can do things we don't understand, so what? The world is full of things we don't understand. You do things every day in that lab that I don't understand, but that doesn't mean I don't believe in what you do!

"These people may or may not be wizards. They may be Mutants, or advanced aliens, or members of one of those secret Government organisations Hodgins is always talking about, it doesn't matter. Whatever they are, they're the genuine article, and they're here to help us. So give them a chance, OK?

"One thing I can tell you. Wizard or not, Ron's a cop, and a good one!"

She looked at him for a moment, then gave a faint smile. "Is this what your instincts tell you? Because although your instincts are completely irrational, I have found them to be almost invariably correct. I cannot accept the idea of magic, but I will accept your opinion of Inspector and Mrs Weasley as people. But you understand that I will make every effort to use proper scientific methods to confirm or disprove their assertions?"

"I think," he told her, "that that's what Hermione would want you to do. She's a lot like you, you know!

"Here she comes now, let's get the laptop and basket and let the FBS know they can come in to clean up."