John the Baptist

It was so simple. Ask and it shall be given. John had never before asked to hear his direction. Certainly he had heard enough disembodied voices speaking to him in his lifetime, yet he had never thought to pray for guidance before that night. John had not slept since he'd baptized the dirty priest in fire. He was far too giddy. Over and over his mind replayed the scene he'd witnessed. He couldn't hear what the two had said to one another, only knew that the taller one had attacked the smaller, the display a filthy perversion of how a man of God should behave.

But then, there were many filthy perversions. Worse than merchants defiling the temple of Christ's youth with their lust for money – today's filth had dressed as holy men, slept in the beds of holy men, spoken of prayer and forgiveness, then preyed upon the small. Filthy, disgusting perversions!

John had found his path. He would cleanse these abominations and make way for His return, just as John the Baptist had done once before. He had only needed direction, and yes, oh yes, this was it. He could be the second coming of the voice crying in the wilderness, though the wilderness was now a sea of concrete and steel rife with crime and despair. He was a hero and God's instrument.

He knelt to pray and thank God for the mission – his soul so grateful, his heart so full. And he could hear the same voice that had directed him to the church in the first place. Now he was sure that that one belonged to God, the others could be ignored. He would use the direction of the gospels, to be John the Baptist reborn. He would destroy the abominations – all of them. And he knew exactly where to go next.

It was painful to sit in the rectory of Saint Patrick's and speak with the priests that frequented the pulpit of his church – priests who Booth must now regard as potential suspects. He folded his hands around the mug of coffee he had been provided by Most Reverend Ernest Arneson, who was retired and a permanent resident of the parish. Booth was struggling to cling to his interview training – something he hadn't had to think about in years. Usually his instincts guided him, but today he felt he couldn't trust them, as though his faith might betray his duty.

"Your face is familiar," Father Ernest said, a fact that was off-topic in so far as they had been discussing who was where in the nighttime hours.

Booth looked up at Father Ernest, intending to answer, yet his voice faltered and he couldn't think of a response that didn't give away too much or lead to other things. Training said his answer should be polite and close off the avenue of discussion, leading this witness/potential suspect back to a carefully guided interrogation. Booth forced a cough, rubbed his throat and took a sip of coffee, while his mind scrambled for the prescribed answer.

"I've seen you at mass, haven't I?" Father Ernest continued.

Booth could only nod almost imperceptibly. He couldn't lie to a priest, even if the lie was necessary to be professional.

"How devastating this task must be for you," Father Ernest observed, patting Booth's hand. "Here I was thinking how much I detested the thought of having my parish turned inside out." Booth could only stare at his hand – the point of contact. He felt numb.

"Did you know Father Thomas?" Father Ernest asked softly.

Again, Booth nodded. Suddenly reduced to the position of a rooky, his interview had been taken over by the interviewee. Worse, Father Ernest had taken for granted that Father Thomas was the victim, and Booth had long ago learned that suppositions of that sort could lead an investigation in the wrong direction. By the dread he was experiencing, his gut was telling him the same thing, though at present, Booth refused to admit it. He looked at the surface of his coffee and wondered why it was as turbulent as a sea.

"Poor, dear boy," Father Ernest said, his eyes also on the shaking coffee mug. He patted Booth again, this time on the shoulder, and Booth found himself wishing he'd brought Bones with him. He'd purposefully not shared where he was going – the last time a murder investigation had taken the pair to a parish, he'd felt slightly incensed by some of her questions, remarks and disrespectful behavior. Now, he needed an edge, even if it came as misdirected anger at his partner.

"Father Ernest," Booth started, trying to regain some control, "What makes you so certain that Father Thomas was the victim?"

The retired priest sat back in his chair. "Well, if you knew Tom, you knew a man who took his calling seriously. As monsignor, he would most certainly be here in our time of need. Only death would keep him. What I cannot imagine is why anyone would kill him. He wasn't just a good man – and he was – the best -- but he was also a good priest. I was proud to work beside him, proud to pass the parish to him, and proud to spend my final years watching him shine. Ask any member of the parish and you will hear the same. Ask any member of the congregation – there will only be good things said about Father Thomas Cleary, mark my words."

Booth smiled thinly. He was a member of the congregation, and he did have only good things to say about Father Thomas. It was the reason he wanted nothing more than to find the person who'd done this and punish him. Perhaps it was grief misguiding his intuition, but there was something he didn't like about Father Ernest. In his current state, he could not put his finger on it.

"Since the authorities arrived, the parish has been in turmoil. We knew the moment we couldn't find Tom that he was gone. It is the reason that the rest of the parish priests have spent the morning in devotion, even though they know the flock will need them. He wasn't just their priest, he was their friend, as he was mine." Father Ernest let a tear slide down his cheek. "I can't believe someone would do this – this – this vile thing to him."

The old man's grizzled face quivered. "I know the Lord has told us to pray for our enemies. I'm sure Father Thomas would have done so – it's the kind of man he was. But I'm praying for you, Agent Booth. You find the one who did this." He gave no more directive, though Booth imagined the rest was something a priest should not say. For Booth it was as if he'd been given permission to pursue a dark urge. It was a fact that alarmed him, turning his insticts inside out.

Booth nodded again. There were more people to interview, but he needed some distance first, and maybe he'd have to bring Brennan with him when he returned. "I do need to speak with the others," he said softly. "However, I can give them a little more time to grieve. I'll come back this afternoon. If they've seen anything that might lead me to the killer – and they may not realize they have – I dare not let it wait too long. I wish I could give them more time, Father Ernest, but..."

"No, that's – that's more than kind. Come by at noon. We will break bread together. You can come as our guest and perhaps learn more that way. If we're seeking something that they don't know that they know – an open discussion is the best way to find it."

Booth excused himself and sat afterward in his FBI issue vehicle, feeling like he'd just screwed up the most important case of his life.