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Brennan stared dully at the portion of the wall which had once been stained with Bill Randall's blood. Three days had passed since she had pulled the trigger, but she remembered every detail.

When he had stepped into her bedroom, he had meant to kill her. She knew that. If she hadn't shot him, he most certainly would have.

She remembered watching his body fall as blood started to seep from his mouth. She remembered getting up and standing over his dying form, feeling no remorse, no sorrow. She just remembered feeling angry.

Though perhaps what was most disconcerting was the fact that the Man had died with a rather self-satisfied smile on his face. There was no rage or fear in his eyes as they glazed over, and in his dying breath, he spat out one final word, "Control."

She had pondered what that meant since that night. She had reached the conclusion that he was referring to his control over the victims. Of his control over herself.

And in the end she was forced to acknowledge the fact that he had won his sick game; he had gotten into her head and had made her a murderer.

She didn't have to kill him. She could have shot him in the leg or the arm. But when she had lifted that gun, she had aimed for his heart. She had killed him because she wanted to, and that was why he had won.

She remembered that a few seconds after the Man had died on her floor her partner had rushed in, gun out, worry on his face. And for a moment when he had looked at her, just for a moment, he had looked surprised. Almost a little afraid. He hadn't expected to see her in her silk robe covered in the Man's blood, a gun in her hand, and a look of hatred on her face.

That look in his eyes had scared her more than the dead man on the floor.

She jumped slightly as the door to her apartment opened, "Bones?" her partner called. "Bones?"

Brennan made no attempt to get up from the bed, "I'm here, Booth."

He walked in and looked at her for a few moments, saying nothing.

"Is he gone?"

Booth nodded.

She hadn't stepped into the Jeffersonian since that night. The thought of being in her office while the monster was next door had been too much for her to bear. She had been waiting until his body was released, his charts were filed away, and his blood had been washed from the stainless-steel tables, never to be seen in this world again.

She nodded, "I'll come back tomorrow."

Booth sat on the bed next to her, nodding once more, "Okay, Bones."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and just stared off at some far away point for what seemed like a very long time, "Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones?"

"I asked…I asked you earlier if you'd ever met a monster…" her voice trailed off. "William Randall was a monster, but I'm afraid…"

He turned her gently and looked at her, concern evident in his eyes.

"I'm afraid…Did he turn me into a monster too?" the voice from her mouth was quiet and soft; it almost didn't sound like her own.

He stared at her for a long moment, "No, Bones. You're not a monster."

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Epilogue:

The History of William P. Randall

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William, or Bill, Randall was born to a moderately powerful family in Chicago. At an early age, he developed an interest in some of the local gang activity, having witnessed some of it from his hideouts on the rooftops. Always solitary, he became distant from those around him, and never learned how to relate to his peers. As a child, he was kept buffered from any misery around him and never understood the meaning of pain.

When he was twelve, he found a dead squirrel who had been run over by a passing truck. Curious, he had cut open the animal and dug around inside the body. So started his interest in anatomy. Because of his indifference to pain, he starting to pick off local wildlife and domestic animals—becoming more and more insatiable with each kill, and discovering the pleasure he took in inflicting pain on those he deemed weaker.

By the time he was old enough to live on his own, Randall had enrolled in medical school. Although he was intelligent, the man had no patience for his peers or his teachers, and started to refuse to do studies, work with others, and cooperate in general. A formal complaint was made, and he was kicked out.

That was the triggering point; Randall became more and more unstable, although physically there was no difference. He applied to a severely under-staffed clinic and was able to fudge his history enough to get the job. There, he started getting ideas about the patients he met—women in particular.

He started to follow them; write notes about where the went, who they saw, how they talked. And then, one day, while following a twenty-three year-old woman named Amy Morrison, he got the idea to kill her.

It was like the case studies he would read about on animals. What dosage is effective at what amount. He took it one step farther and used it on Amy; she died of an overdose of ketamine.

In all, Bill Randall was responsible for the deaths of eighteen women. Fifteen of those women were found and identified by his eventual killer, Dr. Temperance Brennan. One of the victims was never found, and the other two remain in bone storage in Chicago to this day.

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Author's Note

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In case anyone was wondering, the necklace I described in Chapter Two was worn by Brennan in the Woman in Limbo and in the last scenes of Aliens in a Spaceship.

I have no training in forensics and am very ignorant to the processes of the law, so it would not be surprising to learn that a few things I mentioned were inaccurate. However, I am fully confident in whatever osteology-oriented information I gave—for it was taken from a few mixed forensic anthropology and osteology books.

Special thanks goes to Thnx4theGum, who introduced me to this site and encouraged me to post here.

Thank you all for reading.