"What do you mean dead?" Booth asked as he parked the SUV in the Jeffersonian parking lot.

"I mean dead. It says so right here." Temperance replied as she read the file Veronica had just handed to her. "Cameron Brown, born March 15th 1944, died April 16th 1982." Veronica double-checked everything but she couldn't find a second match."

"So you mean to tell me that Cameron Brown is the man Raquel used to see in her bedroom at night?"

"Unless she decided to lie, I'd have to say yes."

Jogging up the stoned stairs, Booth opened the door to the museum and stepped inside. A receptionist nodded politely at him. He nodded politely back.

"But that doesn't make any sense."

"You're telling me."

"What else did the file say?"

Temperance looked down at the papers in front of her.

"Incarcerated for the murder of Emily Brown, commited on February 22nd 1974, sent to life in prison with parole on May 5th 1974. There's a black-and-white picture of Emily Brown. Brown was 5'8", weighed 190 pounds. Half Caucasian, half Asian. Worked as a construction worker. That's pretty much it."

Cameron Brown always claimed he was innocent. What if now he is killing from beyond the dead, trying to get vengeance after being incarcerated for a crime he didn't commit?

"I can hear you thinking, Booth."

"And what am I thinking?" Booth asked as he stepped inside the Medico-Legal lab.

"I know you're thinking that Cameron Brown might be killing from beyond the grave but that's impossible. Ghosts cannot kill someone because they don't exist."

The image of the child hanging from the catwalk flashed before her eyes. Temperance shook her head.

"I'm sure Clara isn't going to agree with you on that one."

"I don't care about Clara."

"I know you don't."

Temperance looked up to find Booth standing at her door. Hanging up the phone, she stood up.

"Then why are we talking about her?"

"Did you just hang up on me?"

Temperance rolled her eyes, a smile twitching at her lips.

"Come on. Veronica is waiting for us."

As she passed in front of him, Booth grabbed her arm.

"Just a second." He said before pulling her to him and crushing his lips against hers.

After several seconds, Booth finally pulled away.

"Now we may go."

"Just so you know, I hate shrinks." Pharatt told the young psychiatrist in front of him.

"Lots of people do, including me." Dr. Rupert Rowland told the prisoner.

Pharatt frowned.

"Then why are you one?"

The psychiatrist grabbed his clipboard and a pen.

"Pays the bills and I get a lot of vacation."

Pharatt chuckled, making Dr. Rowland smile.

"How old are you anyway?"

"35."

The older man nodded.

"Why are we meeting today?"

"Just an evaluation, to make sure that your testimony is believable when you go to your appeal in a couple of weeks. I'll just be asking you a few questions. Try to answer them as honestly as possible. There is no good or bad answer. Whatever you tell me will only help you win the jury over."

Pharatt nodded.

"The problem with the fear of being underground is that there is no real screening test."

"I know. It's not the first time I've seen a shrink for this."

"Do you know where your phobia all started, Mr. Pharatt?"

Pharatt glanced around the room.

"You know, it's nice to be talking to someone without having a prison guard or two standing in the corner of the room."

"I asked that we be alone. After all, everything you will tell me today is confidential."

Pharatt nodded.

"I'm not sure exactly when it all started. I think about it, you know? All the time. I try to figure out why I'm like that and it's frustrating because I don't know why. It bothers me because I know I'll never be able to get rid of my fear of being underground."

"We're underground right now. How are you feeling?"

"Okay. A bit edgy. I really don't like this room."

"Are you feeling stress in any way?"

Pharatt shrugged. Dr. Rowland scribbled something on a sheet of paper.

"What are you writing?" Pharatt asked, trying to peek over the table and onto the paper.

"If you had to rate your level of stress at the moment, from 1 to 10, what would it be?" Dr. Rowland asked, ignoring the prisoner's question.

"5? 6?"

The young doctor nodded.

"You've lived here for a while now? Is it possible that you have grown accustomed to being underground?"

"My cell is on the second floor. It's no different than having a bedroom on the second floor of a house."

"What is it about the basement that frightens you?"

Pharatt shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"It's stuffy and dark. Everything is so closed up. I just feel trapped, I have trouble breathing and I just need to get out."

"Are you feeling like this at the moment?"

"No. But I do feel tense."

"When is the last time you faced your fear and went down in a basement, other than today?"

Rowland looked up at the man sitting across from him and watched as his features changed from semi-relaxed to tense. He watched Pharatt shift in his seat, visibly uncomfortable at having to talk about the last time he had faced his biggest fear.

"When Melanie's mother died."

"How did she die?"

"She fell down the stairs."

"How long ago was that?"

Pharatt ran a hand through his bushy hair.

"Mel was maybe... 2 or 3 when Monica died. So a very long time ago."

"Tell me about the day your wife died, Mr. Pharatt."

The man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was immediately transported back thirty-three years earlier when he had found her laying unconscious, bathing in a puddle of blood.

"It was late at night. Monica had just tucked Melanie in and she was heading down in the basement to clean after our daughter. We had built a small playroom for her a couple of weeks earlier. Even as a toddler, Mel was very messy. Monica didn't see the toy in the stairs before it was too late. I was in the living room when I heard a loud noise. I got up and went to see what all the commotion was about. That's when I saw her. She was just... laying there. Her leg was crooked, there was blood everywhere."

Pharatt stopped to take a deep breath.

"I went down there. I just wanted to see if she was still alive. When I checked her pulse, I felt nothing. Immediately, I felt like the air was being knocked out of me. My legs began shaking and I was sure they were going to give out from under me. I couldn't breathe."

"What did you do after that?"

"I ran back upstairs and called the paramedics."

The psychiatrist nodded.

"And when Melanie fell down the stairs, where were you?"

Tears shot to the prisoner's eyes.

"I was in the living room."

"Oh."

"I knew instantly what had happened."

"Did you go down in the basement at all to check if she was dead?"

"No."

"What did you do afterwards?"

"I called the paramedics."

"And could it be possible that Melanie was still alive while you did that?"

Pharatt frowned.

"Maybe. I don't know."

Dr. Rowland nodded once more before scribbling something down on his clipboard.

"Do you mind if I share this piece of information with your defence lawyer?"

Pharatt shook his head.

"I do have some good news, Mr. Pharatt. I think we may have found the reason behind your fear of being underground."

"Really?" Pharatt asked, surprised.

"Your wife's death. It's something called post-traumatic stress. Finding your wife dead at the bottom of the stairs left a deep scar in your mind and it never fully recovered. Don't look so offended, it happens quite often. To both women and men. It's nothing to be ashamed of. To a certain point, it's a normal reaction."

"How is our meeting going to help my case?"

The psychiatrist was about to answer when another question sprang in his mind.

"Mr. Pharatt, when you were cross-interrogated, did the prosecution mention your dead wife?"

"Yes but I don't see how this is relevant."

"Were you ever suspected of killing your wife?"

Pharatt nodded slowly.

"Why are you making that face?" Pharatt asked, suspicious.

"I'm no lawyer but I surely will pass on that piece of information to the one representing you. I think granting you your release will be much easier than we all expected."

The Angelator made a buzzing sound as Veronica pressed the "on" button. Booth joined his wife on the other side of the 3-D computer and crossed his arms against his chest. The piece of information Veronica had found confused him. He had checked with Kim Bennett and the young woman had confirmed the identity of the strange man lurking about her home in late afternoon. But if they were to believe the file, the man was no other than Cameron Brown, dead at least sixteen years at the time the Bennetts moved into his former home. Was it possible that Cameron Brown was haunting 53 Maple Street? Clara had felt a presence, she had later told him, but had been unable to tell him whom it belonged to. Raquel had told him there had been a girl sometimes? Melanie? After all, he had seen her himself.

None of this was making any sense. Never in his entire career in the FBI had he been forced to investigate murders made by possible ghosts. Were ghosts even able to kill people?

He had never truly believed in them. His religious part of him hoped that the spirit of deceased people still lived on after death but ghosts had never been really part of that speech. Evil ghosts even less.

His wife didn't believe in all that nonsense but something was telling him she was beginning to change her mind. She seemed less sure about the evidences she discovered. He knew that she had felt irritated at finding indications on Melanie's body that she hadn't been pushed down the stairs, after Clara had foreseen the same thing. She hadn't said it but her tone on the phone had spoken volumes.

"What do you think?"

A pain on his right side told him Temperance had just jabbed him with her elbow.

"I'm sorry. What?"

Veronica and Temperance exchanged looks.

"I said that it would be a good idea to start at the top of the stairs and then go down one step each time. I asked you if you thought it was a good idea."

"Oh yeah. Sure. Why not?"

Veronica nodded and Booth thought he heard his wife sigh in irritation.

The couple watched in mild disgust as a miniature version of Melanie fell down the stairs to collapse with a hard cement floor. Veronica, in front of the keyboard, clipboard in hand, forced herself not to close her eyes.

"So?"

Temperance shook her head.

"No. That's not it. There was only a minor fracture to the skull. From the top of the stairs, her skull would have been completely cracked and there would have been blood everywhere. Try going down two stairs."

"There wasn't any blood?" Booth asked, surprised.

"There were, just not everywhere. The blood could have easily come from the broken nose the victim had."

Booth agreed.

Two simulations later, they hit their match.

"I think we got it." Veronica said as she pressed replay.

The three of them watched for a second time as Melanie Pharatt was tripped from the middle of the staircase and fell down the five last steps. A tiny noise imitated the sound of Melanie Pharatt's bones breaking and Veronica winced slightly.

"I'll never get used to that sound."

Temperance remained silent and circled the computer. Stopping beside Veronica, she turned to the artist.

"Do you think you can estimate the height of that particular step?"

"I can try." Veronica replied.

There was silence while Veronica proceeded to calculate the distance between the floor and the step.

"At that point, I'd have to say five feet."

Booth and Temperance exchanged looks. Booth sighed.

"Wow! That rules out a lot of suspects." Booth remarked, sarcastically.

Veronica shrugged.

"It's the best I can do."

"I know."