Later that night, Booth had verified with me to make sure I didn't want an FBI escort home. However, I was more than happy to stay with them, since the option had been open to me. So, in the falling light of dusk, I was kneeling by Brennan and Zach over a human skeleton. Although I wasn't allowed to touch anything, the crime scene unit had made me wear latex gloves anyway. I was cool without touching. I have no problems with it, but if I demonstrated my expertise all at once, it might raise more questions than intended. Zach was taking pictures with a huge disco camera to put on file.
"The remains are wrapped in four-milled, flat poly-construction sheeting," Zach observed, deducing the material.
"PVC-coated chicken wire," I translated for Booth, who made a face at the grad student's offered information.
"It's weighted," Brennan stated simply. "That's why the body didn't surface during decomposition. The skeleton is complete, but the skull is in fragments."
"What else can you tell me about the victim?" Booth demanded, holding a little notebook and a pen from a little barber shop on Main Street.
"Not much," Brennan decided with an undertone of disappointment. I guess she wanted this over with. "She was a young woman, probably between 18 and 22."
"That's all?" Booth verified sarcastically.
"Tennis player," Brennan offered.
Booth made a face and gestured to the bones with a look of disgust. "How do you get 'pretty tennis player' out of that… yuck?" He finished for lack of a better word.
Zach didn't bother to correct Booth on the very unscientific term for the remains, instead answering his question without a fuss. "Epiphyses fusion gives age, pelvic bone shape gives sex…"
"And the bursitis in the shoulder has to be an athletic injury in someone that young," I finished with a shrug. All three of them looked to me in surprise. "What?" I defended. "I have unusual hobbies."
"Whatever," Booth shrugged, writing it off. "When did she die?"
"Eh," Brennan dictated, her eyebrows furrowed.
"Eh?" Booth repeated mockingly. "What does that even mean?"
Zach moved his position so that he could get more pictures of the remains from a different angle. "It means wait until our bug and slime guy takes a look."
"No clothing," I observed, leaving the rest of the sentence open to implications. The skeleton was completely barren, with no trace signs of tailored fabric.
"You know, in my line of work, no clothes usually means a sex crime," Booth informed us with an air of smug finality. He thought he had this one down.
"In my line of work," Brennan contradicted. "It could also mean the victim favored natural fibers."
Zach didn't look up from his camera, but without any attitude, tacked on to Brennan's sentence, "Your suit, for example, will outlast your bones by decades."
Booth brought the notepad and pen down to his sides and looked down at his suit with a grimace before looking up, giving Zach a look that suggested he really hadn't needed to know that. If Zach knew Booth was giving him that look, the intern didn't show it.
"Collect silt, three meters' radius, to a depth of ten centimeters," Brennan ordered Zach, her voice lacking a firm tone that most people usually carried when they demanded things. I guess that shows that Zach is a good boy who does as he's told. Brennan looked up to Booth and told him, "FBI forensics team can take the plastic and the chicken wire. We'll take the rest."
I groaned loudly while I was waiting with Booth to be called into the FBI Deputy Director's office. "Dude, why couldn't I have gone to the Jeffersonian with Dr. Brennan? Why do I have to stay with you and listen to you get reprimanded?" I whined, ignoring the agitated looks I was getting from the other agents in the room.
"Because you are under my protection, and you don't even know the squints," Booth said with an exasperated tone. It was fair; I'd asked a dozen times.
"But Dr. Brennan is more awesome than you!" I argued. "She was more respectful, too. I mean, she's the awesome scientist who beat up an agent from Homeland Security, you're just the pest that took me away from my job."
"Agent Booth!" Someone called from the next room. Booth ignored me and stood up, going into the office. After a moment, I gave an exaggerated sigh and trudged through after.
The same man that had told Booth I was under his care was sitting at a desk. Booth took a seat in a chair across from the director and I stayed standing, looking around the room at the awards and certificates hung on the walls.
"So," the director said, peering at Booth indecisively, like he didn't know what to make of the special agent. "You guaranteed a squint a field role in an active murder investigation."
I really wish that they would stop calling the scientists 'squints'. It's derogatory and rude.
"Yes, sir," Booth nodded respectfully while I mused over a certificate of appreciation.
"The one that wrote the book," the director clarified.
"Yes, sir."
The director gave him a skeptical, calculating look. "Thought you said that she wouldn't work with you anymore."
Booth didn't meet the director's eyes, even as he listed off the beneficial effects Brennan had had on a previous case. "Well, the last case we worked, she provided a description of the murder weapon and the murderer, but I didn't give her much credence."
"Why not?" The director asked, an eyebrow arched in curiosity.
Booth looked off to the side and his tone was quiet and submissive. "Because she did it by looking at the victim's autopsy x-rays."
The director snorted. "Well I wouldn't have given her much credence, either."
Booth looked back to the director at the negative attitude he expressed towards Brennan. "Turns out she was right on both, plus the pond victim? Brennan gives me the age, sex, and favorite sport."
Actually, I told him about the sport, but I'll let Brennan take the credit. She would have gotten to it if I hadn't, anyway.
The director laughed like this was an amusing game. "Which is?" He asked, humoring Booth.
"Tennis," I answered distantly, reading another paper on the wall.
The director stopped laughing, surprised it hadn't just been a joke. "She's good," he said in awe.
"She's amazing," Booth fervently agreed. "If the only way I can get her back to my side is to bring her out in the field, I'm willing."
"Well, squints like to stay safe, back at the lab," the director theorized. "What's with Brennan?"
Booth sighed and fiddled with his hands. "Remember a case back in the early 90's, a couple goes missing on the interstate and the car was found at a rest stop?"
"Yeah," the director confirmed. "Upstate New York, upstanding citizens, nobody found anything."
"Those are Brennan's parents," Booth confessed quietly.
The director narrowed his eyes, thinking hard about this. "Fine," he finally consented. "She's on you. Take a squint out in the field, she's your responsibility."
"What about me?" I asked suddenly, seeing a way to worm my way into the operation. The way my life was going, this would be the only time I could ever play the part of a hero, the only time I could ever play a part of getting a murderer behind bars, which was something I'd aspired of doing for years before reality hit me in the face.
The director raised his eyebrows at me and started to laugh breathily, but I kept my expression stony and serious. The director's eyes widened when he realized I wasn't kidding. "And you are?"
"I'm the girl who can take care of herself, but who your bureau now has to deal with because you put me under the care of an idiot who can't be respectful of people who have jobs working in the scientific community because he feels intimidated by their intelligence," I said rather sassily but dead serious. "So now, because of that decision, I have all the information I need to go along in this investigation because I haven't been allowed to leave his side for more than ten minutes. I'm seventeen, I graduated high school early, and I have a high IQ. You'll find, if you bother to look at my government file, that my grades were outstanding and I did multiple extracurricular activities, often versing in forensics and law enforcement. I speak several languages, so obviously I'm quite intellectually capable, and I've attended college seminars on various fields before I was a teenager." It was unusual, but it was how I had wanted to spend my time. It had started as a means of staying away from the house I resided in; away from the cruel 'siblings' and the selfish 'parents', then became something I was genuinely interested in. The information may benefit me well.
The director surveyed me for several tense moments, and Booth had his eyes closed like he was waiting for a bomb to drop. I think I caught him mouthing a prayer from the Catholic Bible. So he's Catholic. Good to know, I guess, although I don't see how it will benefit me, considering I'm Atheist, but who knows?
The director finally looked away from me. "Take her into the field with you if you care to," the director finally told Booth. "She's got one hell of an attitude but she's got wit, I'll give her that."
"She's also got a name," I heatedly interjected.
The director glanced at me, then back at Booth. "There we go, attitude," he said like I'd proved a point. He leaned back in his chair. "You're free to go."
Booth stood quickly and bowed his head. "Thank you, sir," he said hurriedly.
Outside the office, I fist pumped victoriously behind Booth's back. Yes!
The next morning, I'd had to sleep in a hotel with an FBI guard at the door at all times. It was annoying, but it was worth it to get to catch a murderer with THE Dr. Temperance Brennan. Ugh, and Booth, but right now I'm still a bit pissed off at him.
Eight o'clock saw Booth escorting me into an office in the Jeffersonian Institution's Medico-Legal lab. It was hard to contain my excitement. I heard of this place in newspapers, sometimes passed it on the bus, but… wow. It was incredible, practically a tangible heaven for anyone interested in science. A raised platform of metal had examination tables and and desks scattered around by the silver rails with various equipment on them. A large terrace led up to offices on a level higher in the domed building. Off to the side of the room led to a laboratory, and down a couple hallways were more offices.
This office in particular was very technology-based. The room was lit dimly, but I got the feeling it was on purpose. The walls had paintings, sketches, collages, and drawings carefully posted around, making this office feel cozy and homely. There was a red couch and a squared off space towards the back of the office, but we were sort of in the middle. There was a large square pedestal rising up from the floor, and in the same location on the ceiling, about a foot of the same brown, polished material came down. Between the two was a glowing orange-yellow grid for holograms. Whoa. That's really all I can say.
Brennan, Booth and I were all standing at various points around the large holographic projector. Also with us was Zach, a woman, and a man, the last two of which I'd never seen before. The woman looked a mix of European and Asian, with high cheekbones and yet some definitely European features. Her complexion was creamy and smooth, her skin a light cream color. She had sharp chocolate eyes and held a computer pad, which she was tapping data onto. Her brown hair was curly and smooth, part of it falling to either side of her face and over her shoulders. She wore fashionable, stylistic clothing, with expensive brands. I think I recognized her shirt from an advertisement for J Crew. She wore high heels (obscenely high heels) and a bit of makeup. She had on pink lipstick and dark mascara and eye shadow. I think Brennan had called her Angela.
The strange man was kind of short (no offense, dude, short people can be cool, too). He had wildly curly hair, longer than most men's but shorter than Zach's, and a short beard. He had keen blue eyes and a chronic 'mad scientist' air about him. He was white-skinned. He was, along with Brennan and Zach, wearing a lab coat with the Medico-Legal lab emblem sewn onto the front, with his first initial and last name embroidered on in thread. J. Hodgins. I filed that away for later use. Hodgins? Hodgins, as in, the Hodginses of the Cantilever Foundation?
"Now that we're all here," Brennan announced as Hodgins took his place by the generator and next to Zach. They might be friends, I mused. "I've been told I should start by saying 'good morning'," she said unsurely, looking to Angela for approval.
Angela gave a slightly pained smile to her. "It would have been better if you'd been more confident about it," she told her. "But, yeah. Good morning, everyone."
"Yo," I said with a short wave.
"Who's the kid?" Hodgins asked without warning, looking to Booth for an explanation as to my presence.
"She's Holly Kirkland, Booth's temporary legal charge as she's under federal protection," Zach answered raptly.
I rolled my eyes. No one let me talk for myself here. "Call me Holly," I invited. "The FBI have signed me onto this case as per request and due to the convenience for Booth."
"Hey, Holly," Hodgins greeted, shaking my hand around the side of the hologram generator. "Jack Hodgins. I'm the bug and slime guy."
"Angela Montenegro, sweetie," the Eurasian woman smiled at me. "Call me Angela or Ange."
I smiled back at her. The employees of this lab seemed generally friendly. Booth was the rudest person here – well, aside from myself. I suppose I can be pretty nasty when I want to be, but as long as these guys were nice, then I'd play nice, too.
"This computer program," Angela started to explain. "Which I designed by the way," she added as an afterthought, giving herself credence. "Patent pending, accepts a full array of digital input, processes it, and then projects it as a three-dimensional holographic image."
"Okay," Booth nodded.
"Brennan reassembled the skull and applied tissue markers," Angela stated, starting up the program.
Brennan tilted her head to the side slightly as the basic shape of a human skull was created in the glowing space. "Her skull was badly damaged, but racial indicators, cheekbones dimensions, nasal arch, and occipital measurements suggest African American."
Angela added in the desired changes and information to the machine and the tissue markers were highlighted. Quickly, the skull morphed into an expressionless face of an African American young adult. Cool.
"And we have our victim," Angela announced proudly. The digital reconstruction rotated around in the perimeters of the holograph grid.
"That's awesome," I said with approval. Booth seemed to share my thoughts; he stretched out a hand to the hologram and his fingers passed through. It was a little creepy, to be honest.
Brennan reached out and batted his hand away. "Ange," she instructed, "Rerun the program substituting Caucasian values."
The image altered; the difference was small, but very noticeable. It gave the woman a less African look and greatly affected the outcome. "Does she look familiar to anyone else?" I asked, frowning. I could have sworn I'd seen that face somewhere, or at least one that looked incredibly like it…
"No," Hodgins reported.
So, she wasn't familiar as an African American, but she seemed a little familiar as a dark-skinned European… "Angela," I started, surprising everyone in the room. "Could you split the difference and make it mixed race?"
Considering my age and lack of official credentials, I was surprised when Angela picked up the stylus again and started changing values. "Lenny Kravitz or Vanessa Williams?" She asked to clarify.
I considered this for a second before answering, "I'm leaning more towards Kravitz."
Angela changed the input accordingly and the image changed once more. The girl was Eurasian, with brown skin but the bone fusion of a European. Her eyes were sort of black; reconstructions couldn't tell what color they were. Booth rocked backwards on his heels in surprise. "Angela, reduce tissue depth over the cheekbones to the jaw line," Brennan requested. As it changed for a final time, Booth looked from the hologram to the reconstructed and marked skull sitting on a table a few feet away before looking back to the holographic image, looking like someone had slapped him with a dead fish.
Angela paused. "Is that who I think it is?"
"The girl who had the affair with the Senator!" Hodgins declared triumphantly. Wow. He's a lot more excited about that than he should be.
"Commendable work, Holly," Brennan praised.
Booth swallowed dryly before quietly putting his thoughts in with theirs. "Her name is Cleo Louise Eller. Only daughter to Ted and Sharon Eller. Last seen approximately 9:00 pm, April sixth, 2003, leaving the Cardio Deluxe Gym on K street. She didn't even make it to her car."
"Pretty good memory," Brennan commented in surprise.
Booth shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, well, it's my job to find her."
"Well, in that case, when's the party?" I asked sarcastically.
"Yeah, congratulations on your success," Hodgins agreed.
Booth looked back to the skull, his eyes seeming sad. "This wasn't how I wanted it to end."
"Cleo Eller isn't just some missing girl," Booth scowled, hitting the heel of his hand with Eller's file folder. While he was being a right misery, the rest of us had ordered fast food delivery, and now we were eating out sandwiches on the large, wide front steps of the Jeffersonian Institution. Booth stayed standing, hovering around and whining about the identity of the girl, while the rest of us talked about less gory things. So far, I knew that Angela was an artist who worked reconstructions and 3D scenarios for the Institution, Brennan was thinking of writing another book ("Can't wait!"), and Hodgins had three PhDs, all in different biological fields, but he went by entomologist.
"Yeah," Hodgins, who I was quickly learning was a conspiracy theorist, agreed with a satisfied smile. "She was a Senate intern who was boinking Senator Allen Bethlehem."
Booth glared at the entomologist roughly. "I was working secondary in that case, and we couldn't prove it."
"The FBI's job is to save lives," I pointed out carelessly. "And uncover lies that affect the civilians. You couldn't manage one, so what makes you think you could do the other?"
Booth glared at me, but his underlying curiosity won out. "And how did you recognize her before she even had her own face, huh?"
I shrugged. "I recognized the underlying architecture of her features. The rest is just detail. You can wear a standard FBI uniform or you can rebel society by wearing stupid belt buckles and silly socks." I held my arms up helplessly as Booth gave me a wary look, like he knew I was about to insult him. "Either way, you still look like something. That something, in this case, happens to be a fool, but you get the idea."
Zach leaned forward to speak to Hodgins and I at once. "I'm not an expert, but shouldn't he be happier?"
"Oh, no, believe me, I'm happy," Booth lied.
"He's also a horrible liar," I told Zach.
"He's not happy because Senator Bethlehem chairs the Senate overseeing the FBI," Hodgins crowed, happy that Booth was finally under control by his own case.
"You seem happy to me," Angela noted.
Booth glared at us all, trying to be intimidating but only really getting that effect on Zach. "I need this kept quiet."
"Ha!" Hodgins exclaimed, pointing up at him. "Cover up!"
Booth rolled his eyes and starting speed walking down the stairs. I sighed and picked up my sandwich wrapper, tossing it in the trash at the bottom of the stairs. "Good aim," Angela commented.
"Thanks," I muttered, lifting my bag off of the stairs by Hodgins and following Booth. Brennan was hot on my heels.
"Paranoid conspiracy theorists," Booth grumbled when we caught up to him.
Brennan got up to his side while I followed along behind them, looking around the Jeffersonian gardens. They were very well cultivated. "So what do you do first," Brennan asked curiously. "Confront the Senator?"
Booth winced. "Listen, Bones, I know…"
"Don't call me Bones!" Brennan sharply interrupted.
"I know we talked about you coming out in the field and all…"
Brennan's eyes narrowed when she caught his meaning. "Ugh!" She groaned. "You rat bastard!"
Booth put his hands up like he thoughts she might hit him. "A case this big and the director is going to create a special investigation. If I line all my ducks up in a row, I could maybe, maybe head it up."
Brennan kept up with him, but walked sideways as she tried to get in front of him. "I don't know what that means-" That could be her catchphrase. "But I think I could be a duck!"
I snickered. "That's not exactly what he means, Dr. B."
"You're not a duck, okay?" Booth was quick to dismiss. "On this one we stick to the book. Cops on the street, squints in the lab."
Brennan finally pulled ahead of him and stopped. Booth had to pause in order to not run straight into her. She crossed her arms arrogantly. "Well in that case, the Jeffersonian will be issuing a press release identifying the girl in the pond."
Booth's jaw dropped slightly. "If you do that, I'm a dead duck." Wow, they're really taking that expression for a long walk. "What are you trying to do?"
"Blackmail you," Brennan said with a smirk.
"Blackmail a Federal Agent?"
"Yes."
"I don't like it."
I laughed at the incredulity of the statement. "It's blackmail; you're not supposed to like it!"
Booth scowled at Brennan. "Fine. You're in."
An hour later brought us right back in director Cullen's office. I really was starting to get familiar with this place… not a good thing, in my opinion. "You're certain it's Cleo Eller," Cullen confirmed for a second time.
"The profile hit it on the nail," I said simply. "Age, race, height, plus the fissures in the clavicle and humerus fit for tennis, which Cleo Eller played in college."
"Talk to me about the Senator," the director ordered Booth.
Booth passed a photograph of Senator Bethlehem over the table to his superior. "Cleo Eller, the victim, worked for Senator Bethlehem…" he trailed off when the director's eyes landed on the picture.
"It was reported that they were involved sexually," Brennan added.
"We couldn't confirm that," Booth corrected hastily.
"Oh, Bethlehem's a hound, everybody knows that," Cullen said casually. He accepted another picture from Booth. "The boyfriend?" He asked.
"Ken Thompson," Booth nodded.
"Thompson's still Bethlehem's aid." Cullen told us, having apparently looked into it already. "Thompson keeps Bethlehem's calendar. No way the Senator has an affair the Thompson doesn't know about. No sexual relationship, no motive. What about the, ah, nutcase?" I scowled. I hated his mannerisms. He was so rude to everyone NOT in the FBI and he easily wrote off key suspects.
Booth handed the director yet another laminated paper with the smiling face of a guy with curly black hair. "Oliver Laurier. A restraining order was filed against him on charges for stalking."
"What's your first move?" Cullen asked inquisitively.
Booth bowed his head. "I'd like to inform the Ellers that we found their daughter."
Cullen dropped the paper and it floated down to the top of his desk. "It's better to keep this quiet. It's been, what, two years? What's another few days?"
I scoffed, appalled. "They are her family! They have more of a right to know what happened to her than the FBI does! Why deny them closure when they've been waiting for years already? That's rude and insolent!"
Cullen fixed me with a hard glare. I didn't back down. Booth cleared his throat, regaining control of the situation. "With all due respect, sir, I've come to know the family pretty well, especially the Major, and two years is a hell of a long time in my book."
Brennan jumped up, fighting for our cause. "I'll have details of cause of death by this afternoon."
Booth nodded to Brennan. "Then that's where we'll get started."
I reflected on what had happened in the SUV, mulling the information over. The Ellers led us to their sitting room, where Booth motioned for Brennan and I to share the small sofa while he took the armchair across from the rocking chair and La-Z-Boy where Mr. and Mrs. Eller were. Hodgins had called Brennan. He'd gotten an identification on the particulates in Cleo's skull. They were rolled steel – like from a sledgehammer, for instance -, concrete, and diatomaceous Earth. Even though the name was fancy, it was really common and didn't tell us much. It was used for so many things – even insecticide – that it wouldn't be much help in narrowing down where Cleo Eller was murdered.
Mr. and Mrs. Eller were in tears. Mrs. Eller had her hands over her face. "You're – positive it's our Cleo," Mr. Eller confirmed, his voice choked and raspy.
"We established 22 matching points of comparison-" Brennan started. I flinched. I'll be the first in line to say I'm not the most sensitive person, but I knew that that is NOT how you tell someone that, yes, we're sure your daughter's dead.
Booth gave Brennan a stern look. "Yes. We're certain." I said instead. "We're very sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs. Eller."
"Did he do it?" Mr. Eller asked, leaning forward to Booth. "The Senator. One military man to another."
Booth looked genuinely regretful as he had to reply, "Major Eller, we can't discuss the investigation in any way."
Mrs. Eller took her hands away from her face. "Can you at least tell us if our daughter suffered?" She asked me with a pleading look. I was surprised she even acknowledged me as working on the case, but henceforth, Booth had said he can't tell them an answer to a question and Brennan was… well. She was Brennan.
"Given our findings, it's most likely that Cleo would have died instantly. She wouldn't have felt anything," I said softly. I wasn't sure if I was lying or not. Yes, she would have died instantly, but that's after the fact. Would I feel being hit in the head with a sledgehammer to death before I actually had a chance to die? Or would I go into shock and not feel anything? Or would the nerves even have enough to time to respond?... Wow, I need to think about something less morbid.
"Thank you," Mr. Eller told me, looking relieved.
"Mrs. Eller," Brennan started. "Can you tell us what Cleo wore around her neck?"
"Her father's Bronze Star," Mrs. Eller recalled nostalgically. "Ted won it in the first Gulf War, then he gave it to her for luck," she choked on the last word, dissolving into a mess of tears. Booth and I exchanged looks, then looked to Brennan.
We excused ourselves and Booth offered them his card. Outside the Eller residence, by the SUV, Brennan started voicing her complaints of being silenced. "Those people deserved the complete truth!"
"Dr. Brennan, their daughter was murdered. They deserve not to have to listen to the science behind our discoveries. It makes it harder," I told her softly.
"But there will be an inquest report," Brennan warned.
"Which they won't read, because they don't want to, especially because toward the end, Cleo and her parents weren't even speaking," Booth revealed with a grim expression.
"They told you that?" Brennan's body language radiated surprise.
Booth flipped his keys up in the air and caught them effortlessly, turning to face her. "You know, getting information out of live people is a lot different than getting information out of a pile of bones. You have to offer up something of yourself first."
"What exactly did you do in the military?" Brennan asked, testing out his words.
Booth tossed his hands up in exasperation. "See? See what you did right there, Bones? You asked a personal question without offering anything personal in return. And since I'm not a skeleton, you get zilch. Sorry," he finished, without any real apologetic tone.