Chapter Ten -- Demons

Dana was coming undone. Father Samuel tried to coax her out of herself, but her feet had turned to cement and had become anchored to the spot, while she leaned against the wall to keep the rest of her from toppling. If Father Sam had not wiped at her face with a handkerchief, she might not have realized she was weeping. It was clear that Father Sam felt her sorrow, and he sympathized with it, yet it was extreme and even she knew that. How could she explain this to him?

For days she had been tortured by her actions. She was a killer -- the person who had unquestionably ended the life of a man she had trusted with her deepest secret. It was his attack that had allowed her to keep her silence – that and certainty that she had not set fire to the church. She had thought she might be somewhat justified for the accident, and was convinced that she had not been the greatest villain in that evening. Now she was not so certain. Now she began to fear she had done everything and more.

Dana watched the bedlam around her with tunnel vision. Everything but the area where the body rested was blurry to her. People appeared as if from nothingness – friends of the church, police investigators, then FBI. Once a reporter had jabbed a microphone at her after asking an inane question that might just as well have been spoken in Chinese for all that it made sense to her. She'd stared at him. Or was it a woman? She wasn't sure. Father Sam had been with her ever since though she didn't know what had become of the reporter.

Now the investigators were familiar – Doctor Brennan, Agent Booth, and a group of their coworkers. Doctor Brennan was examining the body with the help of a very pretty woman with dark hair and eyes, though Dana was uncertain how she knew those details when both were wearing protective suits. There was a new man with them as well. He had striking blue eyes and was overseeing the removal of the bathtub. What was a bathtub doing in the burnt out chapel? Why was he directing them to pack it so carefully when it was charred inside and split in two?

All the while the two women, Doctor Brennan and the other, photographed and cataloged the placement and debris around Father Ernest. Was that Father Ernest? They believed so. He had disappeared in the night and then this discovery had been made. It was not as though they could positively identify this poor soul which more closely resembled a burnt offering than a person. Bones and teeth and cinders. The body had mirrored the window that had once stood above him. He was positioned as though crucified on a metal cross that had survived an oven. Miraculously the church had suffered no further damage. Even that seemed to rouse her suspicions. She, Dana, had loved that window most. She had been appalled by the destruction of her church. But she had also loathed Father Ernest. There were stories – people who had other personalities living within them. Could she be one of those? If she had killed one priest, would not the other body also be her doing? Could she be harboring a criminal in her own skin?

"This is my fault," she whispered in a voice that did not sound like her own. They were the first words out of her mouth in hours.

Father Samuel patted her shoulders. "No. Do not blame yourself. If you do, then I must. Both of us stayed late at the soup kitchen. Neither of us checked on Father Ernest until he was missed this morning. My dear friend, you are not responsible. This is the work of a demon – and it will be Satan that welcomes him when at last he faces his death."

This brought her no comfort. "Every house divided against itself shall not stand," Dana quoted. Father Sam regarded her somberly before she added, "This house is collapsing."

"No!" Father Sam replied fiercely. "We are not divided. Father Ernest divided us. I will not say that he earned his fate. No one deserves a cruel death, but it was a trial to keep him after all those accusations. If you believe that by speaking out against him, you are more to blame than I am, stop. You were right. Father Tom and I were cowards for not backing you. Maybe there were no solid witnesses against Father Ernest, but we all knew the truth."

Dana nodded feebly, but when she'd referenced a house divided, she'd meant herself, for she knew what she was. A pretender. And now, a killer. No amount of good deeds could change the truth, and this revelation was far too long in coming. At the verge of confession, she heard Dr. Brennan say, "The time of death would have to be between eight and ten p.m. last night then." Dana was uncertain why that declaration swam through the fog in her mind.

"There, you see," Father Sam said, patting her. "We would not have been back -- even on a normal evening. We're usually at the soup kitchen until 9:00 and making chapel rounds until 11:00. Please, don't torture yourself further. Come into the rectory and rest."

Dana followed him like a child, allowing him to open the door for her and usher her to the rectory sofa. He gave her a glass of wine that was kept for solemn occasions and covered her with a throw. There was a whispered conversation between Father Sam and Mrs. McMasters, but Dana did not understand a word of it. She had slipped too deeply into herself.

"I just don't see it," Booth said.

Jack grinned. "That's why you have me," he replied. "It is brilliant really. What your killer has is a knack for problem solving. He says to himself, 'How can I burn the body completely this time without further destroying the church?' Answer: a bathtub. Pour the accelerant on the body. Drop the bathtub over it upside down. Drop a match in the drain hole, or this other hole here on the end, and Voila! can see the results. This body has far less tissue than the last."

"Yes," chimed in Cam. "Meaning I'm pretty much useless."

"Perish the thought," Jack returned. "If you want to pick a third wheel, I vote Davis."

Booth made a sour face and looked back at the Assistant Director. He had been brought out under threat – Agent Booth had indicated intent to let Brennan answer the media questions. "Hodgins, where do you think this tub came from?"

Jack didn't want to guess, though he suspected it was something found at the city dump. "Let me run some tests. I might find trace particles to answer that."

"I wish there had been prints. I'd even take a partial – anything," Booth remarked with so much frustration in his face that it was palpable. "What do you make of this other hole drilled in the end?"

Jack grinned, for this was an obvious thing to him. The hole in question could have doubled as a second drain and might have been made with a hole saw. "Did you know that pyromaniacs think fire is a living thing?" He didn't wait for Booth to nod, though he did. "There is some arguing it, scientifically speaking – if you reach a bit. A fire eats, breathes and grows. ALIVE! This extra hole is to provide oxygen. The fire might have smothered before the body was consumed, but for this ingenious solution."

Booth's eyes flashed. "You planning on starting a fan club, Hodgins?"

Jack felt somewhat deflated. He caught Brennan's eye. She was shaking her head. "What I'm saying is that this killer is not an idiot. The FBI uses profilers to help them narrow down suspects, right? This one knows fire the way you know firearms. He could even have been a fireman at some point in the past."

"Yeah," Booth admitted. "Or maybe he was an alter boy that understood why the fire snuffers worked."

"No," Jack insisted, motioning for the lab guys to stop loading the tub. "First. By the smell, your accelerant is probably acetone. It burns hot and has a relatively low flashpoint – easy to light, hard to put out. Look at how the tub split. This was a hot fire. If the tub had held longer, there would be even less bone to examine. Face it, most amateur fire bugs don't understand the use of acetone. They use less interesting accelerants like gasoline." He stopped and swabbed the back of the tub with a folded napkin from his pocket, then motioned for the lab team to resume their task. "Smell." He held the specimen out to Booth, who took a whiff and coughed. "Polybrominated diphenyl ether!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"In English…" Booth retorted.

"Really?" Brennan remarked, leaving the body to close in on the pair.

"Yeah. Cool, huh?" Jack said, forgetting to translate.

"Hodgins!" Booth cued.

"Spray-on flame retardant. It's all over the outside of the tub, but not the inside. This guy didn't want to further damage the church, but he definitely wanted his victim reduced to ashes."

"And the ring of soot!" Brennan burst, catching on. "He must have swept it over as an additional firebreak, backed up by the stacked stones."

"Right!" Jack agreed. "That's why the body wasn't discovered earlier -- the wall of stones hid the bathtub and no one questioned it. But that wasn't an accident. Maybe yesterday's volunteers stacked the stones similarly, but if you could see photographs, I'll bet they've moved. The killer was taking no chances of causing further destruction to the church."

"What little we got to see of the first body seemed almost accidental. Even his accelerant was something on hand," Brennan stated, stunned. "There is no question your killer has escalated. This isn't just premeditation; it borders on compulsively ordered."

Jack nodded fervently. "This killer is brilliant. Yes, he might have researched enough to find all of these details, but to have access to each of these chemicals, and to use them so successfully on his first try – this guy is not a fire virgin."

Brennan frowned slightly, but it hardly dampened Jack's enthusiasm. Jack continued to explain, "He's not someone who adores fire though. A true pyromaniac would never consider ending the life of his monster. Consider John Orr, the infamous California arsonist who impeded fire fighters when they had almost contained the Los Angeles fires a few years back. He told police it was worth sacrificing his life to let his 'child' grow. But this guy – he's the opposite. It got away from him once. This time he was not taking any chances. And – and he has the know-how and the free access to the best chemicals in the business to control it."

Booth smiled ever so slightly. "This is good, Hodgins," he said, nodding. "I can work with this." Already his cell phone was out of his pocket and he was searching for a number.

Jack turned, feeling triumphant, only to find a silent priest standing there. He was trying to catch Brennan's eye, and finally succeeded. "I'm so sorry, Tempe," the priest said. For the first time in a while, Cam looked up. She and Jack locked eyes and he shrugged. How strange to hear a priest refer to Doctor Brennan so familiarly. "This must be so hard for you. I'm certain we won't see you or Seeley tonight, but I hope you will return to the kitchen at some point when this nightmare is over. Even if you don't, I want you to know it is a comfort to me that you are looking into these events again. We are really blessed to have you. I have always thought the FBI made a mistake returning this case to the police. Father David and I need closure desperately, and I know in my heart that you will make it happen. In the meantime, I will keep you both in my prayers."

Brennan raised an eyebrow at the point he mentioned prayer, but did not question it, a fact which surprised Jack greatly. "Thank you, Father Sam," she said. "We cannot make it to the kitchen tonight, but we will come again. I think –" she hesitated, "I think Agent Booth will need to talk to you later."

"I will be at the soup kitchen for the usual shift, and then return here. Father David plans to remain though. He's taken this hard. Still, he will be available as you need. You may consider all of the rectory staff at your service. I must attend my duties, but please tell Seeley that I will give him every spare second – whatever he needs. He is welcome to meet me there if it cannot wait." The young priest waited only for her to agree to pass the message, then he left.

"Brennan, have you and Booth been volunteering at a soup kitchen?" Cam asked.

Brennan merely nodded, before returning to her crime scene.