Chapter Text
It was a cool, clear morning when two black FBI vehicles pulled into the forest parking lot. A white van followed, the side marked with blue letters: “Jeffersonian Institute.” Engines died down, doors slammed, and the air smelled of damp leaves and cold resin. Sheriff Brenner was already waiting, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He greeted Booth, Brennan, and Hodgins with a short nod. “Ten minutes’ walk to the clearing,” he said. “Perfect spot for a secret grave,” Hodgins muttered as he set down a crate of gear, eyeing the dense forest suspiciously. “High soil moisture, little sunlight, closed vegetation. Ideal conditions for decomposition, insect activity, and—” “Hodgins,” Brennan cut him off, cool as ever, “work.” The team pushed through the undergrowth until they reached the small clearing. A rough wooden cross stuck out of the ground, the name “Dean” carved into it in uneven cuts, with a birth and death date below. A stranger buried in the middle of nowhere. The work began routinely. First, photos from all angles. Then Brennan marked the grave’s edges with fluorescent cord. Two assistants dug layer by layer, while Hodgins knelt at the side, scooping soil samples into numbered bags. “Top layer: pine needles, humus, fern remains. Standard for this forest type,” he murmured. “Below… unusually high sand content. Could mean the soil’s from deeper layers. I’ll test later for lime or trace elements.” After over an hour, the shovels hit wood. About 1.5 meters down they uncovered a simple pine coffin—untreated, no fittings. When the lid was pried open, a dull stench of damp wood and decay hit them. Inside lay the body of a man. No mummification, not fully skeletal—skin and hair still visible but already discolored, swollen, and breaking down. Booth swallowed, Brennan stayed clinical: “Condition suggests about two to three months in the ground. Nothing unusually good or bad.” The clothes were surprisingly intact—jeans, flannel shirt, leather jacket. His arms were folded across his chest, a pistol in his right hand. At first glance, the burial looked almost careful, not rushed. “We’ll transport him to the lab,” Brennan decided flatly. “We’ll figure out the details there.”
— — —
Jeffersonian, a few hours later
The body lay on the metal autopsy table under bright lights, every shadow sharp. Brennan and Zack worked in silence, Booth stood back with his hands in his pockets, Hodgins fiddled with soil samples. “Clothes intact, no tears or bloodstains,” Brennan noted as Zack carefully opened the jacket. “Doesn’t fit with a violent death or animal attack—like Sheriff Brenner suggested.” Booth frowned. “Animal attack? Didn’t look like that out there.” “Wait,” Brennan murmured. She cut a slit in the shirt with a scalpel and pulled it aside. Underneath, the full picture showed: deep tissue tears, claw marks across chest and thighs, bruised ribs. Booth stepped closer. “Damn, looks like one hell of a fight.” “Yes,” Brennan confirmed. “These injuries could be from a very large animal—wolf, dog, maybe a bear. But look here.” She pushed more fabric aside. “No corresponding damage to the clothing. Which means the clothes were changed after death.”
Zack bent closer, frowning. “Dr. Brennan… the wound edges are cleaned. And here—” he pointed to the thigh. “—some of the tears were even stitched up, crudely.” Booth blinked. “Wait, what? Someone sewed him up… after he was dead?” “Correct,” Brennan said, pointing to the rough, uneven stitches. “No medical technique, improvised—synthetic fiber, probably dental floss, with household needles. Same on the forearms: cuts are bandaged. The body was treated postmortem, as if someone tried to… patch him up.” Silence hung for a moment. Booth’s gaze shifted between the corpse and Brennan. “So not just washed and dressed,” he muttered. “Someone tried to put him back together. Make him… look dignified.” Brennan nodded slightly. “It doesn’t match forensic standards. But it suggests the victim mattered to someone. They didn’t want him left as just an attack victim—they wanted him to look at peace.”
Hodgins came over with samples. “And the grave supports that. No quick burial. Neat, deep hole, even a cross. That wasn’t disposal. That was a deliberate funeral.” Booth crossed his arms, jaw tight. “So we’re not just looking for his identity. We’re looking for whoever knew him—and probably buried him. Maybe even loved him.”
———
Jeffersonian – Evidence Storage, later that evening
On the steel table lay the victim’s belongings, neatly laid out in clear boxes. Harsh neon reflected off the surfaces. Booth stood with arms folded while Brennan checked labels with gloved hands. “Let’s start with the jacket,” she said flatly. She lifted the heavy leather, still smelling of damp earth. “Cowhide, 1970s model. Heavily worn, patched several times. Clearly personal value. Not just practical repairs—someone wanted to keep it going.” Booth studied it for a long moment before saying quietly, “That doesn’t look like a thrift store find. That was… his jacket.” Next was the pistol, sealed in a box. Booth picked it up, inspecting it closely. “Colt M1911. Classic model. Well kept, no rust.” He slid out the magazine. “Fully loaded. No round in the chamber, but every slot in the mag full.” Brennan glanced at her notes. “It was found in his right hand in the grave.” “Dominant hand?” Booth asked immediately. “Yes. Bone markers on the arm and hand show he was right-handed. It wasn’t placed by chance.” Booth held the pistol the way the dead man must have. “Then someone buried him the way he lived. Gun ready, jacket on. Not like a victim—more like a soldier, still prepared.”
Brennan reached for the next evidence box. “Here. A ring.” She held a narrow silver band up to the light. The surface was dull, the edges worn down, but the engraving inside was still clear: John 19.08.75.
Booth frowned. “Wait a second. If we believe the cross at the grave, he was born in 1979. That means this couldn’t have been his own ring.” Brennan nodded slowly. “Correct. 1975 is four years before his birth. It could have been a parent’s wedding ring. Maybe he inherited it.” “Or someone gave it to him after he died, so he… wouldn’t be alone,” Booth added thoughtfully. Next to it lay a bracelet, stretched out on a foam cushion. Black stone, dark wood pieces, and tiny ivory beads — each carved into little skulls. Brennan flipped through her report. “Tibetan prayer beads. Traditionally used for meditation. The skull motif symbolizes the impermanence of life.” Booth gave a short snort. “Doesn’t exactly scream average American guy.” “It suggests he either had a connection to that culture himself — or that someone close to him did, and gave it to him,” Brennan countered. Finally, she lifted the last small box. Inside was a black wristwatch, the glass only lightly scratched but otherwise in good condition. “Suunto Core, black model. Multifunction outdoor watch — altimeter, barometer, compass. Heavily used, but still working.”
Booth furrowed his brow. “So not the kind of man who wore jewelry or accessories for looks. Everything here — the jacket, the pistol, the ring, the prayer beads, the watch… these are things with meaning. Either practical or personal.” Brennan nodded slowly. “And that’s exactly why they were placed in the grave with him. The picture is becoming clear: whoever buried him wanted him to be whole. Not just a body — but with all the things that defined him.”
On the table next to them were his jeans, faded and baggy at the knees, along with sturdy boots, the soles unevenly worn. “The boots are heavily worn on the inside,” Brennan noted. “Either from an old injury or a misalignment in the legs. They were worn for years. Not replaced — just used over and over.” “A man who didn’t care much for new things, but for the ones that stayed with him,” Booth said quietly. Brennan made notes in her file, though her eyes lingered on the items. Finaly, Brennan said, “It confirms what we already saw on the body. The stitched wounds, the careful burial, the cross. This man wasn’t someone they just wanted to get rid of. He was buried with intention, with care.” Booth drew in a long breath. “Then we need to find out who loved him enough…” Booth exhaled slowly. “To give him a loaded weapon… for whatever comes next.”
———
Jeffersonian – Bone Room, late night
The bones were now cleaned and laid out on the table. Under the bright lamps, the skeleton looked like a map of a hard life. Brennan pointed with a probe at the right humerus. “Old fracture, poorly healed. Likely as a teenager—fifteen, maybe sixteen. Hardly any medical treatment.” Zack added quietly, “Left forearm also broken a few years later. Signs sugeste he used it before it healed.” Booth grimaced. “So he was getting beaten up as a kid. Sounds like one tough life.” Brennan picked up finger bones, turning them under the light. “Multiple microfractures, some broken repeatedly. Typical of bare-knuckle fighters or martial artists. He used his hands often, long before healing. He also dealt plenty of damage.” “So not just schoolyard fights, that was routine,” Booth muttered. Brennan pointed to the scapula. “Gunshot wound. Bullet passed through shoulder and out upper arm. He survived—almost complete healing.” Booth let out a breath. “So… gunshots, fistfights, fractures. From fifteen until… the end?” “Yes,” Brennan confirmed. “A lifetime of violence. Not isolated incidents—it’s a continuous pattern.” Zack nodded. “And the ribs—fractures in different stages of healing. He kept going despite injuries. Pain tolerance must have been extraordinary.” For a while, Booth said nothing, staring at the remains. Then his gaze shifted to the pistol’s evidence box. “No matter how many times he was knocked down, he kept getting back up.” Brennan replied evenly, “Or he had no choice.” Booth looked at the neatly arranged bones, then at the gun and jacket. “But someone didn’t want him to just vanish as a victim. They washed him, stitched him, dressed him, put the gun in his hand. Like… he was still supposed to be ready to fight.”