Sniper's Regret

Booth walked slowly down the familiar sidewalk he had traversed many times; hands thrust deep in his pockets, head down, lost in thought. He passed the doorway he had come through often, seeking his friend's wise counsel. Sharp memories of his tormented revelations in the bar's cold storage room, as he begged for advice-

"If I tell her what the bastard said, he'll kill innocent bystanders. Her best friend thinks I'm cheating on her. I can't reveal anything, but I can't lose her. What can I do?"

He was overwhelmed by guilt. How could Aldo have fallen so far in the space of fourteen months? Tom Ellis had taken over the bar, changed its name, making its former owner a mere employee. That didn't erase Booth's painfully vivid memories of the place. While the patron traffic at Paradise Lost had admittedly been slow at times, the former priest had managed to keep his place afloat, working by himself, sleeping in the back room to minimize expenses.

Attacked in his own home, betrayed by those he trusted, charged with a crime, incarcerated, beaten up, Booth was haunted by that experience long after his release, but that was no excuse.

During his lapse into gambling, Aldo had urged him to remember what he stood to lose, checking in with Booth by cell call and text when he didn't stop by for the crappy microwave hors d'oeuvres he served at the bar.

"Have you gone to your meetings?"

"Are you talking to Lutrell? Don't be an idiot, Booth."

"You remember what I told you in that church before you got married? 'You screw this up, and it'll be worse than any hell God can dream up for you!' For God's sake, Booth—'What you and Temperance have, it's the reason we draw breath!' You wanna lose the best thing you ever had? Pull your head out and grow a set, man!"

Aldo's support had steeled his resolve to resist, whenever he felt the urge, the siren song of the dice. As a priest and after, as comrade-in-arms and confessor, as bartender and friend, the man had never failed to be there when Booth had sought solace and forgiveness, asked for advice, needed him.

Ted McKinney was right; Booth hadn't been around enough, dropped by the VFW Hall recently, or checked on his friends—especially Aldo. Was he busy with worthwhile pursuits, crime investigations and family? Yes, but that wasn't a reason to drop the ball like he had. Rangers never left one of their own behind, except that he had. He couldn't remember the last time they'd spoken, and their most recent contact had been only by cell phone or text.

Booth knew the truth of Ted's accusations.

"Guess that's what it takes—one of us dying before he comes around here…What did Booth do to help him stay alive? Not enough!"

He replayed McKinney's distraught interrogation room comments in his head.

"I needed someone, and he wouldn't even talk to me… I didn't kill Aldo. I did something worse….I didn't know what I was gonna do…The driver gets out and jumps Aldo…Whatever happens, I deserve. Because I froze. I didn't help him!"

And therein was the terrible truth. He, Seeley Booth, hadn't been there to save Aldo either. Brennan's recounting the team's conversation in front of the Angelatron screen echoed inside his head.

"Why torture him so horribly, but end it with a relatively quick human death?" "There's a cruelty to this killer, it doesn't fit."

"I agree. Cause of death was a transected cervical spinal cord. We need to understand how that was done."

"Was that tape torn? I'm sure this is important."

"But why? If I'm the killer….I'd cut the tape."

"It was torn. Which suggests Aldo tried to break free."

"Not enough to escape…but give him some range of motion. If he pushed himself back up the table…and could raise his upper torso….to sever his spinal cord."

"…the man was once a priest. And suicide is a cardinal sin."

Booth replayed his all-too-clear visualization of the scene and sickening realization that Aldo had offed himself-and why.

"It wasn't a suicide."

"Booth the facts clearly indicate that it was."

"A sacrifice, it was a sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"

"He was trying to protect someone."

He thought back through his discussion at home with Brennan the previous night.

"Bones, he, um, he died 'cause he was trying to protect me. I'm the one who made that shot. Aldo knew that I was the shooter. He killed himself so he wouldn't have to give me up."

No amount of rationalization or protest from his wife would dissuade Booth from his conviction that Aldo Clemens had died a martyr.

His shoulders sagged. He knew, despite his friend's raging against God, that he still believed, held true to the tenets that had led him to become a priest. He knew that only extreme desperation would have caused him to break those laws, go against everything his life had stood for. As Father Clemens, Army Chaplain, Aldo had counseled dozens of soldiers to have hope, to stay the course, remain strong. Drug them back from a pit of self-loathing over what they had done to execute a mission, carry out orders, defend their country.

Aldo had willingly listened to any soldier in the outfit who came to him. But for the Catholics in the platoon, like Booth, he had also heard Confession, absolving the guilt he felt over taking a life, even officially sanctioned. He had relieved Booth's anxiety numerous times to the point that he finally gave up his vocation altogether; and the agent felt the burden of that fact.

In his churning gut, Booth knew his assumption about the killer's identity is accurate: the warlord's young son, now matured and out for blood. Once kidnapped, Aldo has shown himself made of stern stuff, enduring a dreadful end to maintain his silence. Despite his calling out God as a 'bastard' after leaving the priesthood, Aldo's taking his own life to avoid revealing the sniper's name to his tormenter would be a grave course of action, a last ditch decision born of desperation. Booth's mental image of the bleeding man straining at his bonds, whipping, slamming his head back, and lapsing into oblivion would never fade.

He raised his head, squared his shoulders, and continued walking. His next stop was the oldest parish church in the District. He pushed open St. Patrick's heavy oak doors, and headed for a back pew near the Confessional room. The search for Raddatz's son while protecting his own would demand his full attention. He needed to get square with God and Aldo, no matter what others might think.