This was going to be a longer chapter, but then I realized this bit deserved its own space...

TEARS in the MIRROR

The Johnson house is a two-story brick enclave, circa 1900's. The windows have wooden shutters, dark green - as is the slanted roof. The lawn is well-kept, the hedges neatly trimmed. A white cement driveway runs up on the side to the white added on garage. The houses on this block are similar-looking, although a few are larger and the cost of them would be much higher. We walk up the small set of steps onto the porch and approach the simple white door. Booth is tense, and wearing his "telling the family of the victim's murder" expression. His jaw is set, shoulders sharply squared, and his deep brown eyes are very serious.

"You ready, Bones?"

He's turned to look at me. he has that half-smile on his face and I nod. In these situations Booth likes me to talk as little as possible. He prefers me to observe, the house, it's objects, the people in terms of any skeletal or muscular anomalies. He also doesn't want to upset the victim's family or tip off a suspect. That is most likely his first priority. Still, he's said on numerous occasions that my "neutral forensic anthropology eyes" often catch things he wouldn't have thought of. Not to mention that my photographic memory is as good as having a camera. All of which are true, but still, it is nice of him to say. At the time It surprised me so much that I didn't even tell him that the correct phrasing would be my "neutral forensic anthropologist eyes."

The doorbell chime is odd, but Booth seems charmed by it.

"Definitely a baseball house."

I don't think the statement is meant for me to give a response to, but it does still puzzle me.

Sometimes I wish I could process more abstractly. There is nothing about the house that signifies baseball... It must have something to do with the odd sounding doorbell. Perhaps I will ask Booth about it later.

"Gerry, honey, did you forget your key?"

The woman's voice coming towards the door is soft and the slight accent sounds like she is originally from South Carolina. She peers through the door's peephole and I assume sees both of us.

"Can I help y'all with something?"

Booth holds up his badge so that she can see it.

"Sorry to disturb you so late Mrs. Johnson. I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth from the FBI and this is my partner Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian."

"Who's at the door, babe?"

"It's the FBI!"

The door opens and I am looking down at the same eyes and general facial structure of Gerald Johnson.

"How, I mean what, what can we help you with Special Agent Booth?"

"Agent Booth's fine, Mrs. Johnson, and we're here to discuss your son."

"He looks very much like you."

Booth glances briefly at me. I didn't mean to say it. I just wasn't expecting so clear of a resemblance. When you've held a skull in your hands, felt its shape, its nuances, and then see so similar a face in the same day, it can be somewhat startling.

Mrs. Johnson seems less upset by my remarks than Booth, because she gives me a big smile.

"Yes, he does. People often remark on it. His height is all his father though."

"Yes, I can see that."

A tall burly man has stepped into the foyer. He and Booth are eye to eye, which doesn't happen often. He is older than Booth, but doesn't look at all as old as his actual age would indicate. His blond hair is turning silver and the creases around his eyes are many. There's a fair amount of sun damage to his skin that makes his face quite freckled. He is also quite clearly a very physically active man, as his physic in excellent condition.

"What on earth would the FBI want with Gerry?"

I can see that Mrs. Johnson is scared as her husband asks the question. Her ribcage pulls in and her eyes widen. My work with Sweets has helped me a great deal. Not the psychological work with Booth - that had been a complete waste of time. However, the facial recognition work and subsequent learning to read body language has been invaluable over these last two years.

Subtle words, voices, intonations, they rarely register in my brain. Sweets realized that perhaps my attention to detail could help me by assigning meaning to the various nuances that the face and body go through. In situations like this I find it relatively easy. It is during personal interactions that it is much harder, as the hormonal and neurotransmitter changes effect my concentration and thus my ability to recall what body changes go with what emotion. In truth, even when not emotionally invested, I find it tiring to try and follow it all and still be able to process and think. People can change expression in seconds. They are not like bones or artifacts, which simply are what they are, in whatever condition, and unless mishandled, stay that way.

"Something's happened to him, hasn't it! Something's wrong!"

"Calm down, Melinda, let the man talk."

I glance over at Booth; his jaw is clenched again. He hates doing this. I am tempted to blurt out that their son has been murdered, just so that he doesn't have to, but then his eyes briefly meet mine, and in that instant I know he's okay.

"Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I am sorry to be here so late, but your son, Gerry, was found murdered this morning."

Mrs. Johnson let's a wail as Mr. Johnson grows pale beneath his sun-freckled skin. Suddenly, Mrs. Johnson turns and starts pounding on her husband.

"I told you something was wrong! I TOLD YOU! He always comes home, always, always!"

Mr. Johnson doesn't try to stop her. There is moisture in his eyes, and his large arms encircle her shoulders, rendering the blows soft and inefficient against his chest. After a few moments she collapses against him while sobbing hysterically.

I understand that she is devastated, and I feel sad watching this. As he strokes her hair, rocking her softly, as she cries and screams into his chest, I think that we shouldn't be watching this moment. It feels too personal and intimate, but there isn't anywhere to go...so we watch.