Binding Ties (12 page)

“No way,” Paquette said, eyes popping. “Whose is it?”

“We don't know,” Brass said.

“That's
what you were talking to my boss about!”

Grissom said, “We can't reveal our sources.”

“Screw you, Grissom! This, this doesn't mean someone at the
Banner
is responsible for the murders …” Anger and frustration flared in his voice. “… It could have been stolen, and planted at the scene!”

“Gee thanks,” Brass said. “Where would we be without a true-crime writer like you to develop our theories for us?”

“Screw you, too, Brass.”

The detective moved closer to the editor. “You and your pal Perry were closer to the CASt case than anybody this side of the P. D. insiders or the goddamn victims. You think this keycard turning up in a victim's cold little hand is a
coincidence?”

Paquette began to speak, but then thought better of it.

“Where
is
Perry?” Brass asked.

Paquette's eyes were on the evidence bag now, probably wondering if his collaborator had become a murderer. “He's … out of town for a few days. Wanted to see Patty before school started.”

“Patty?” Grissom asked.

Brass and Paquette answered simultaneously. “His daughter.”

“She's a sophomore at UCLA,” Paquette added.
“She'll be starting the school year soon, and, hey, he's her dad—he wanted to spend some quality time with her, before her schedule got too busy.”

“When was the last time you saw Perry?” Brass asked.

“Day before yesterday,” the editor said.

Before Diaz's murder,
Sara thought. Maybe their pool of suspects wasn't so big after all; maybe it was more a hot tub….

“How can we get a hold of Mr. Bell?” Grissom asked.

“Cell phone, I guess,” the editor said.

“I've got that number,” Brass said.

“Listen, he wouldn't do this,” Paquette said. “He just doesn't have that in him.”

Brass smirked, shook his head. “You and I both know that the only reason Perry Bell still has a job here is your guilt over the success you got from the book. You swam upstream, but ol' Perry's just treading water. He's still a journeyman crime writer, riding what little fame is left from your long-ago project … which just happens to be about the CASt serial-killer case.”

The editor seemed more embarrassed than intimidated by Brass's diatribe.

After a moment, Paquette finally said, “Suppose Perry
does
have a job because of me, how in God's name does that make him a … a killer?”

“Maybe it doesn't,” Brass said. “But that kid Brower's doing most of the work now, and Perry's
got to be feeling the breath on his neck. You stay in the same job long enough, you get to feel like a dinosaur—what better way to rejuvenate his career than to resurrect CASt's career? The killer who gave him his fifteen minutes of fame?”

The editor wasn't buying it. “Perry, some kind of cold-blooded copycat? Hell, Jim—that'd make him an even sicker S. O. B. than the
original
CASt! Listen, I know Perry, and he's got a heart of gold—you know him, over the years you've cooperated with him and he with you. Good, decent guy. I'm telling you, this is
not
him.”

Brass said, “Fine. So where was he when Sandred died?”

Shrugging, Paquette said, “How should I know?”

“You're his immediate superior here at the paper.”

“… He was out of the office.”

“The other murder was yesterday morning. Do you know where he was then?”

“I told you! Visiting his daughter. Being a father, and a decent human being! You and Grissom ought to try it for a change! … Now, I have work to do.”

He hustled them out.

The door shut behind them, and the two CSIs and the homicide captain were once again out in the bustling bullpen.

“What do you think, Gil?”

“I think,” Grissom said, “we have work to do, too.”

FIVE

S
ome sleep, a shower, and a change of clothes had done nothing to improve Gil Grissom's mood. Sheriff Atwater—in a patronizing, pseudo-friendly way that made Grissom's eyes glaze over—was putting the squeeze on about the need to catch this killer before panic settled over the city and, worse, national attention started scaring tourists away.

Interesting concept, really: Atwater wanted Grissom to “get off” his “duff” and do something about this case, but at the same time thought Grissom had nothing better to do than sit at his desk on the phone listening to a by-the-numbers lecture that, had it been any more predictable, Grissom could have mouthed along with.

Grissom hung up the phone, then glared at the thing, as if the instrument were responsible for Atwater's latest harangue, and for the sheriff's speed-dial now seeming to hold but one number … Grissom's.

The TV stations were already pulling out file video of the old CASt murders and the CSI supervisor knew the morning editions of the papers would all have stories. The Enrique Diaz case had been tied in as well, and Grissom wondered if their two small conversations at the
Banner
had somehow added up to one big leak.

Grissom abhored the media—not the concept of the media, he believed in the abstract idea of a free press—but its bothersome reality in his work-life annoyed him; and similarly he hated politics—not the government or even any particular political party, but the self-interested backstabbing and gladhanding of those who—like the media—pretended to be interested in and aiding his work while only hindering it.

Brass trudged in and dropped copies of the three daily papers onto Grissom's desk.

“Extry extry,” the detective said dryly.

The
Sun
and
Journal-Review
both ran CASt headlines, and front page stories on the new crimes with continued coverage of the old ones on the inside. The
Banner,
to its credit, covered only the current crimes with just a perfunctory CASt mention, so as not to look wholly out of step, apparently; their headline story read:
Romanov Sold In Billion Dollar Deal.
Grissom did not resent what coverage they did give the murders, as they had a responsibility to their readers (and their stockholders).

“Looks like the
Banner
's doing its best to honor our agreement,” Grissom said, “considering.”

“Yeah, for what good it's doing us,” Brass said, “with all this other CASt coverage … and you don't even wanna turn
on
the tube. And Dave Paquette's been calling me, like, every damn half hour since we left his office yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don't know—maybe to see if we've come up with something that will save his job?”

“We have to
have
something,” Grissom said, “to
share
something.”

Falling into the chair opposite Grissom, Brass said, “Along those lines? Never did get a hold of Bell. I've called the college-age daughter he's supposed to be visiting, but I get the machine, and the tape is full.”

“Technology has its limitations.”

Brass shrugged. “One way or another, I'll track down the daughter today, and see if I can get to Perry through her.”

“All right. In the meantime, don't get too comfortable in that chair….”

“Gil, I've never sat in a harder chair. It's almost like you don't
want
visitors….”

Grissom smiled a little. “On your feet, then—let's see how the rest of our world is faring.”

Brass rose, wincing as if he could feel every aching bone and muscle. “Yeah … let's.”

They found Catherine and Nick in the break room, looking like they'd had maybe six hours of
sleep between them in the past several days. Nick leaned at the counter against the back wall, waiting for the microwave. Catherine sat at a table, a paper cup of coffee in her hands, gazing into the dark liquid as if seeking a happier future; her best prospect was the raspberry Danish on a napkin nearby.

“Anything?” Grissom asked.

“Yes and no,” Catherine said, holding the cup of coffee near her lips now. She blew steam off.

“I was hoping for a little more detail,” Brass said.

Nick said, “How's this for a detail? Phillip Carlson is a total freak.”

Grissom said, “Freak as in possessing a physical oddity? Or as in, sexually promiscuous? Be precise, Nick.”

“Freak as in he's built a freaking shrine to a certain digit-snipping, semen-sharing serial killer.”

Grissom and Brass sat at the table with Catherine, as Nick came over with coffee and a warmed-up bagel-and-egg sandwich, and the two of them told their story.

“Oh,” Grissom said, after five minutes. “That kind of freak.”

Catherine smirked humorlessly and shook her head. “Yes, but unfortunately, not looking like the
right
freak….”

Brass didn't like hearing that. “Sounds to me like he's plastering his walls with his own press clippings!”

Nick said, “He's not looking right for it, Jim, at least not these new killings.”

“Because?” Grissom asked.

“DNA didn't match either crime scene.”

Catherine added, “His DNA didn't match anything from any of the original CASt cases either.”

“And we had plenty of DNA samples to check,” Nick said, momentarily putting his food down.

Grissom asked, “How so?”

Catherine said, “We ran RUVIS over the carpet in Carlson's CASt shrine room …”

She referred to the gadget known as a Reflective Ultra-Violet Imaging System.

“… and white flowers blossomed all over the place.”

Grissom frowned. “He's been masturbating to this CASt material?”

Brass was shaking his head. “Damn it, it does make sense…. He's a chronic confessor. He identifies with the sick bastard.”

“But he's not
the
sick bastard,” Nick said.

“Not the one we're looking for,” Catherine said.

“Is all the evidence processed?” Grissom asked.

“No,” Catherine said. “We've got other lab results we're waiting on, but, Gil—it's no hunch when I say Carlson's a dead end.”

Nick nodded. “We're moving on to the other two suspects—Dallas Hanson and Jerome Dayton.”

“As well you should,” Grissom said.

Greg Sanders came in, poured himself a cup of coffee and stood smiling in front of Grissom.

“You have something,” the CSI supervisor said.

Greg's eyebrows flicked up. “Our killer? Is … a … copycat.”

Grissom's mood lightened. “You
know?
This isn't a guess, educated or otherwise?”

“I
know,”
Greg said.

“How?”

All business now, Greg said, “I located the DNA evidence from the original cases, the stored semen samples—thanks to Detective Champlain, now retired but still our M. V. P. Anyway, none of it matches Rudy Orloff's deposit from the victims' backs …
or
the DNA from the epidermal cells on the rope.”

“Rudy Orloff,” Brass said, and sighed. “Damn, I almost forgot about him, in all the hubbub of the Diaz killing.”

“Hubbub can be distracting,” Greg said.

“Greg,” Grissom warned.

“Sorry.”

“Greg?”

“Hmmm?”

“Good work.”

Greg, heady with that praise, took his coffee cup and headed back to his lab, before he got himself in trouble.

“All right,” Grissom said to the others. “Let's prioritize.”

“I'll take Orloff,” Brass said. “I'll make our NLVPD associate Damon feel important and bring him along. I suppose I could stop and talk to the TV
reporter, Jill Ganine, on the way. Maybe we can pin down the leak.”

Catherine said, trying not to smile,
“You
should talk to her, Gil. She likes you.”

“I'll call her,” Grissom said, in quiet agony. “Strictly phone call—if a follow-up seems necessary, then—”

Brass said, “Appreciate that, Gil.”

Catherine said, “Nick and I'll find out what we can about Hanson and Dayton.”

“Right,” the supervisor said. “What did you do with Carlson?”

Nick grinned. “He's in a cell. Found pot in the adjacent apartment, which is also his—not dealer quantity, though. And he
did
run.”

Grissom thought about that. “Hold him at least till all the lab work's back and you're sure he's cleared. Last thing we want to do is put a serial killer back on the street.”

“If Carlson's in stir when the next murder goes down,” Brass said, “we'll at least be able to rule him out.”

They just looked at him.

Brass, appalled with himself, said, “Did I say that? Please tell me I didn't assume we'd have another murder before we could stop this guy….”

“I didn't hear anything,” Catherine said.

“Hear what?” Nick said, nibbling his bagel-and-egg.

Catherine said to Brass, “Did you ever get a hold of Perry Bell?”

The detective shook his head. “Tried until nearly midnight. He never answered his cell phone. I've got his daughter's number in her dorm room at UCLA.”

Grissom said, “You find out what you can from this Orloff. I'll track Bell and his daughter.”

“What about Paquette?” Brass asked.

Before Grissom could say anything, Brass's cell phone interrupted.

Checking caller ID as he flipped open the phone, the detective said, “Speak of the devil.” He punched the button. “Brass. What's up, David?”

As Brass listened for several long moments, the detective's face seemed to lengthen, every line in it deepening; his eyes, unblinking, spoke alarm.

Finally Brass said into the phone, “I'll have someone there in ten minutes. Don't touch a damn thing … I know you know! … and hold onto
anyone
who's been anywhere nearby, put 'em in a room together, because we'll want to print them.”