BB Christmas in Stillwater Ch 2

A/N: Note that I've corrected the fact that Jackson Gibbs and Hank Booth Sr. are actually brothers, per Penandra's amazing original saga, upon which my story is based.

As a parent, when you hear your child's urgent call, their age makes no difference. You come as quickly when they're 23 as when they're 3. So Christine's surprised cry brought both her mom and Booth to her side as fast as the cave's uneven walkways allowed. Prepared for anything as usual, Brennan pulled her new headlamp from a pocket, slipped it in place on her forehead, and bent to examine the foot over which her daughter had tripped. A properly illuminated examination revealed a very old shoe, leather slightly shriveled from repeated dampness and drying. The sock-clad ankle and limb extending from it was equally aged and bent at an unnatural angle. The trouser hem above that was frayed, faded and ragged in places. Its owner's body was wedged into a large crevice; a hunched male figure with arms wrapped around itself in a final futile hug. Whoever this unfortunate person was, he wore an old coat, flannel shirt, and worn out overalls.

Christine had ventured down a passage no longer used by the brewery above it. A barely visible sign and arrow painted on the sandstone wall read "Spare Oak Barrel Storage" and beckoned its reader further down the corridor. Ryan, their guide, who had been at the head of the group arrived, a bit breathless and slightly flustered. Gibbs was right behind him.

"What's the problem, folks?-"

"Ohh, omigosh, golly, what happened?-Whoooo the heck is that?"

Brennan spoke calmly to the upset young man. She and Christine had already checked the man's chest, face, and pulse for signs of life and found none.

"It appears that this poor man suffered a badly twisted ankle and was trying to keep warm until help arrived, which never did. He could have been a stockman, though his absence would have been noted. More likely, he was a vagrant seeking to swipe a few bottles of beer, or perhaps he just wandered down this way, inebriated and seeking a warm place to sleep off the effects of too much imbibed alcohol."

Ryan blanched. "He's dead?! Whoa boy, my bosses aren't gonna like this. People hearing a dead body been found during our cave tour is gonna kill business for sure. And things have been slow, due to Covid. Just now beginnin' to pick up a little, since the pandemic died down last fall. I'm gonna get canned, sure as I'm standin' here," he worried aloud.

Booth spoke up. "Ryan, our family is in law enforcement. I think we can help you figure out who this unfortunate fellow is without causing panic among your other visitors. We need to alert your local police or sheriff, see if there's any identification in this man's clothing, and quietly remove him to your town's morgue, or wherever your medical examiner can determine his cause of death."

"Do you know if there's an outside exit beyond this unused passageway? What procedure were you taught for summoning a supervisor in case of an emergency? Hopefully, your boss can notify local law officials quietly; steer the other tourists from using this particular restroom, and remove this poor guy's body without causing any furor or panic."

"Can you help us do that?"

Ryan had calmed down by now and regained his composure. Sure, we're trained for when a tourist suffers a health emergency. I can notify my boss on my walkie."

"Fred, this is Ryan in Tunnel 8. I have a Code 72 here. Could you come help me, please?"

A scratchy voice responded immediately. "Ryan, what're you doing in Tunnel 9? We haven't included that in any tours lately?"
Ryan wisely refrained from any explanatory details and spoke carefully. "One of my tourists needed the restroom and made a wrong turn coming back to the group. No serious injuries, but I do need your help pretty soon."

His boss picked up on the young man's odd phrasing. "Sure thing, Ryan. I'll be there in a few minutes. Tunnel 8, right?"

"Yes, sir."

Five minutes later, a lean man with a slightly balding crew-cut came striding down the stone hallway. He navigated the uneven floor as if he'd done it for years; which, in fact he had.

"Hey, Ryan. Hello, folks. I'm Sam Heliger. Has one of your group injured themselves?"

Ryan motioned for his supervisor to step a little further down the hall.

"Holy Toledo!" Sam muttered. "What happened here?"

Christine spoke up. "I was returning from the restroom, noticed an unusual coloration on the stone walls, and tripped over this poor man when I came over to look more closely. I'm with ATF, my dad is with the FBI, and my mother is a forensic anthropologist. So a deceased person doesn't phase us, but we didn't want to upset your other guests, and would like to help identify this poor fellow. He appears to have expired some time ago."

Sam whistled. "Boy, are we fortunate that you were the ones who found this poor guy! Normal tourists would have freaked out…not to imply that you good folks aren't normal, but you know what I mean…"

Booth smiled slightly despite the situation. "Yes, we do. My wife works at the Jeffersonian in D.C. so our kids are aware of our line of work. Is there someone in local law enforcement we can alert to this man's demise? And how can we extricate him without everyone else watching?"

Sam thought for a minute. "Yes, I'll call Tom Browning. The further back in these caverns you go, the colder it gets down here, which is probably why no one smelled anything odd and came to investigate. We haven't stored oak barrels in this area for years."

He pulled a mobile radio from his belt. "Henrietta, can you ask Tom to give me a call as soon as he can, please? It's a Code 72 in the brewery caves. Not recent, but I do need his help. Thanks."

The dispatcher responded. "Sure thing, Sam. He just came back in and is down the hall getting some coffee. Here he comes."

A deeper bass voice came over the radio. "Sam, you got a situation in the caves? How many staff do I need to bring?"

Sam was ready for his question. "If you can have Malcolm bring the white van to our rear brewery exit, there's an elevator down to the old storage areas we can use."

Tom replied. "Got it. Be there soon."

Brennan looked at Sam questioningly. "What's a Code 72? All your people seem to hear that phrase very calmly under the circumstances."

Sam smiled a bit. "Years ago, when they started the brewery, even before the cave tours, my dad, uncles, and grandfather devised a few codes to communicate with the local police and hospital quickly. A Code 71 means we have an injury situation needing urgent attention. A Code 72 means we've had a death which, as you know, requires a completely different response. Both the law enforcement folks and medical teams around here have given us the appropriate help very efficiently over the years in both circumstances. It's a small town and a simple procedure but it works for us."

"First off, once we get him back to our station, we'll have to determine who this man is. I'm aware the jurisdiction will vary whether he's local, military, or turns out to be involved in interstate crime."

Booth grinned at the brewery owner. "I wish all the people we deal with were as knowledgeable as you are."

Up to this point, Gibbs had stood back, just listening. Now that things had calmed down, Sam glanced over and noticed him.

"Leroy, what're you doing here? I thought you'd done this tour years ago."

Gibbs stuck out his hand. "Hey, Sam. I didn't need a tour. I worked here one summer during high school. These folks are family in town for Christmas, so I brought them over to see the caverns. Sure didn't expect to be pulled back into work during the holidays, but here we are."

Suddenly, a clattering noise further down the passage was followed by a rusty scraping sound. In a few minutes, a uniformed officer came around the dimly-lit corner, followed by a man in dark jeans and a heavy jacket.

Tom Browning and Malcolm Hester acknowledged Sam and nodded to the group. "What have we got here?" Tom asked.

A brief explanation was followed by the coroner and police chief bending to examine the body.

"This might be Joe Clendenning. His landlady reported him missing two years ago. Whoever it is, he wrenched the bejesus out of his ankle. No way he could walk out of here in that condition."

Brennan bristled slightly. "You had a local citizen go missing and never found him?" she asked.

Tom grimaced. "We looked all over he—'s half acre, and put out BOLOS, but never found any sign of Joe. The way he moved around, we finally thought he'd left the area and hitch-hiked somewhere else. Poor fellow lost his wife and childhood sweetheart to cancer two decades ago, didn't have any kids, and took to the bottle seeking solace he never found. He'd leave Stillwater, wander somewhere else, then come back to town for a few months, take a cheap room, work some odd jobs to earn a little cash, and then take off again. Didn't have anyone to answer to around here. The pastors in town tried to help him, but he was an independent old coot and no one could ever talk any sense into him but Minnie. He was an excellent auto mechanic for years; had a shop over on Garver Street that was real successful. Even taught shop for awhile at the high school. But when Minnie wasted away and finally died, nothing else mattered. He lost all interest in life, gave his shop to his employees and wouldn't take any payments. Just wandered around missing her from then on."

Sam spoke up. "The store rooms on down this corridor have been closed up for years. You heard how creaky and rusty that old elevator is. It's a wonder it still works. To get down here, you have to operate it by hand, like the old miners did. Guess my dad and uncle never thought anyone could get into the brewery and get lost back this far."

Malcolm Hester spoke up. "I'll get him, whoever he is, back to my lab and see what I find. Who, what, how…you folks will have to supply the why."

Hank had been standing around, taking all this in. "What a sad end for anybody," he observed.

Sheriff Browning looked up. "Yup, son, it surely is. When a man loses the love of his life, sometimes it takes all the wind out of his sails, and kinda the will to live. Just wastes away."

Booth took a deep breath. Brennan said nothing, but thought of Edwin. There are many ways to waste a life.

Everyone was silent and morose for a few minutes. Then Sam brightened and spoke up. "I'm going up to the office and refund the ticket fees you folks paid for our tour. We appreciate you handling this discovery so discreetly. Our business has been affected by covid like everyone else. The legislature finally loosened their regulations on how we can sell beer so things have picked up a little and our bottom line is recovering, but tourists seeing a dead body during one of our tours would be devastating right now. So your tact and awareness are very helpful. We hope you can come back soon and finish the tour under better circumstances."

"Believe me, Sam we understand completely. During our partnership, we've handle all sorts of crime scenes, situations, and investigations, and sometimes it's important to limit the rubberneckers," Booth said.

Brennan opened her mouth, but Booth squeezed her hand. "Bones," he cautioned under his breath. "I'm sure you'll let us know if the circumstances of this victim's untimely demise requires the involvement of the FBI, ATF, or NCIS," he said to the sheriff and brewery owner.

Gibbs shook his head slightly, remembering their turf wars in the past; then nodded to acknowledge Booth's wise comment and gave the pair his cell phone number. "If this fellow has Navy connections and foul play is involved, I can get you in touch with my old team in D.C.," he said.

Booth, Brennan, and Christine each handed their business cards to the brewery owner. "Didn't know we had such distinguished guests today," Sam commented.

Christine smiled at him. "If this man's identity needs to involve any of us, just let us know. We're not distinguished, just effective. My parents are the best crime investigation team on the East Coast; no offense, Gibbs."

"None taken, Missy," Gibbs responded. "Now if your dad said that…but from you, it's okay."

Gibbs phone rang and he glanced at the screen. "This is one of our guests who didn't make it up yesterday. I need to take this call." He stepped away and answered the phone, "Marcie, is everything okay?"

"Booth, let's head back to Gibbs' house and hopefully the rest of the day will be more relaxing," Brennan suggested.

Parker spoke up. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starving!"

Meredith chimed in. "Me, too."

Hank said, "Me, three."

Christine retorted, "Hank, you're always hungry!"

Her brother scowled at her. "Unlike some people, I'm still growing!"

"Yeah, both directions," his sister returned.

"Okay, you two. You're way beyond elementary school; act like it!" said Parker.

Gibbs intervened. "There's plenty of food back at the house. Marcie said she and Andrew are driving up right now, and should be in town in an hour. Wendell is apparently on the way from his mother's house and will arrive before nightfall as well. Each of them was delayed by family or work responsibilities, but they can join us for the rest of the week."

"Sounds good to me," Booth said. "Everybody go pile in and let's head out! Sam, Tom, Malcolm, wish we'd met under better circumstances, but let us know if you need help. And Merry Christmas to you and your families."

Gibbs added, "Guys, I'm sure I'll see you around town, now that my repair work on Dad's house is finished. Happy New Year."

"Same to all of you," the three town officials replied. "Be safe out there. Weather's turning rougher around midnight."