Binding Ties (22 page)

First he photographed it, then carefully scraped what appeared to be dried blood into an evidence envelope. He hoped the blood wasn't Bell's.

When he showed Grissom what he had found, the supervisor said, “Nice catch.”

Warrick grinned at what, coming from Grissom, was an effusive response. “Just doing the job.”

“Get back to the lab and keep up the good work. Find us something that can help us track down Perry Bell's murderer.”

“You got it, Gris.”

As they loaded their equipment back into the Tahoe, Sara cast a tiny crooked smile on him. “Suck-up,” she said.

Warrick just grinned.

NINE

B
ack at the Crime Lab, Warrick Brown catalogued the evidence from Perry Bell's car, sent it off to the appropriate labs, then dug in to try matching the footprints from Bell's brake pedal with the print he'd obtained in Marvin Sandred's yard.

Nothing.

He checked the pedal print against Bell's shoes.

Nothing.

He checked Bell's shoes against the print from Sandred's yard.

Nothing.

Longer it don't,
he told himself,
sooner it's gotta.

Hadn't Grissom himself said,
“The essence of good police forensics is perseverance?”
On the other hand, Warrick's supervisor was unlikely to accept what was known as “the gambler's fallacy,” that piece of folk wisdom Warrick picked up before kicking his gambling habit: The longer you didn't win, the sooner you had to start.

For gamblers, a fallacy. For this CSI, a theory.

Sara came in, waving a report; she seemed chipper, which considering the double shifts they'd been pulling was either a miracle or hysteria.

“Got the results on the hairs you found in the headrest of Bell's car,” she said, easing up next to where he sat.

He looked up, arching an eyebrow that asked for more info.

She gave it: “All but one strand matched Bell's toupee.”

“What about the other hairy little devil?”

She offered a shrug. “A stranger.”

“Could belong to our killer.”

“We'll be closer to knowing when Greg gets through with that straggling strand—root was still attached.”

“Nice.”

She nodded brightly. “Greg's running a DNA test to match it to the blood spot you got off the seat.”

“Which also may match our killer. Well—can you believe it? Getting somewhere.” He shifted on his chair, frowned in thought. “Sara, is Greg also checking that DNA against the original CASt crimes?”

“Yes—but he won't have results for a while.” She gave him a pleasant shrug of a smile and said,
“Meanwhile, I'm back at it—just thought you'd wanna know.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, meaning it, knowing how easy it was for each CSI to get immersed in work and not take the time to bring the others up to speed. Tunnel vision, working in a vacuum, was an obvious but too frequent FUBAR in any CSI lab.

He got back to his own work, entering fingerprints from the Cadillac into AFIS. While those ran, he dropped by to see Greg Sanders himself—never hurt to apply a little pressure.

Greg leaned back in a desk chair, feet up on a table,
Rolling Stone
magazine open on his lap, listening to his iPod.

Warrick with both hands waved at the tech, as if bringing in an ailing plane for a landing, finally got his attention, and Greg smiled and tossed the magazine on the table, put his feet on the floor and detached himself from the iPod.

“And you want to give all this up,” Warrick said, with an open-hand gesture, “to go out in the field with us?”

Arms folded, rocking back in the chair, Greg said, “Here's the thing, Warrick—when you excel in a profession and reach the top of your game, you need to walk away and try something else…. You know, before you stagnate.”

“Right,” Warrick nodded, leaning against a counter. “So is that what you're doing right now? Stagnating?”

“I'm
working.
Hard at it.”

“Maybe you should take five. Wouldn't want you to sprain anything.”

Greg cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. “What I'm doing is running your DNA tests.”

“And what have you found?”

“Nothing yet. Perfection takes time.”

“So I hear.”

“Still replicating the DNA.”

Warrick nodded, started out. “So I'll check back in an hour or so.”

“Sure—drop by. We'll trade barbs and witticisms some more.”

Warrick paused in the doorway. “Two hours, then?”

“Make it tomorrow—end of shift. Even that's pushing it.”

Warrick smirked mirthlessly. “Well, what do you have for me today? Anything?”

“How about, the rope that strangled Perry Bell is different than the ones used at the previous two murders? Do anything for you?”

Drifting back in, Warrick said, “Yeah—consider me officially perked up…. Different how?”

“For one thing—it's older.”

Warrick frowned.
“Older
rope?”

“Probably a good ten years. Same deal with the lipstick: It's Ile De France brand, all right; but it's a shade called Limerick Rose, which is what the original CASt used, back in the good old days.”

“I thought that stuff was off the market.”

Greg nodded. “At least seven years. Copycat's been using
Bright
Rose—a newer product, but similar shade.”

Frowning, trying to wrap his head around this, Warrick said, “Are you telling me that lipstick from ten years ago is still usable?”

The tech shrugged. “All in the packaging. And if someone took care of it—kept it in climate-controlled conditions—almost anything's possible.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Why would anyone strip, torture, and strangle a victim, apply lipstick to the mouth and put a DNA cherry on the sundae?”

“I got a better one…. Why would
two
people do that?”

“That kind of question, I can't answer. What I can give you is: old rope and old lipstick, on the new killing … You think ol' Mackie's back in town? The original CASt, I mean?”

Warrick's shrug was elaborate. “It's looking that way. Can you imagine a scenario where the copycat suddenly shifts to
old
rope and
ancient
lipstick?”

“Just tell me this isn't Freddy versus Jason.”

“Greg—it just might be.”

The tech grinned. “You could always call in Ash to take 'em on.”

“Huh?”

“Evil Dead?
Chainsaw? … Warrick, you have absolutely no sense of great cinema.”

“Riiight,” Warrick said, and slipped out.

Back in the fingerprint lab, Warrick checked the results of the first batch of prints he'd put in. Paquette, Brower, and Mydalson's prints were, of course, on the CASt envelope from the
Banner.
Bell's prints were all over his house and on the keycard. No fingerprints inside the Diaz residence, other than those of the owner; same was true of Sandred's place. No surprises, there.

But then the computer slapped Warrick right in the face.

Fingerprints, from the doorbells of the two houses, matched.

And the truly shocking thing was the identity of who those fingerprints belonged to….

Warrick grabbed the report from the printer and hustled off to tell Grissom. The CSI didn't know what thrilled him more: the idea that the case was finally breaking; or that for once he had something that Grissom couldn't already know.

Gil Grissom and Jim Brass sat opposite David Paquette at the interview room table. The editor's gray suit looked rumpled and much the worse for wear; so did the editor, his red-rimmed eyes indicating sleep was a luxury he hadn't availed himself of since being taken into protective custody.

“What makes you think Perry wasn't a victim of the copycat?” Paquette was asking. “Why do you peg the
real
CASt for Perry's murder?”

Brass and Grissom exchanged looks; the latter nodded and handed a file to the former, who got up and handed it to Paquette.

Brass said, “I know crime scene photos are second-nature to an old police beat reporter like you … but these are rough. The first set is Sandred, then Diaz … and then Perry Bell. I know Perry was a good friend….”

Paquette opened the file, hunkered over the photos, his face turning as white as dead skin over a blister as he paged through. During the final set, he shook his head and said, “Perry … oh, God, Perry …”

The editor shut the file, passed it down to Brass, who took it and returned to his chair next to the CSI.

“I … I see what you mean,” Paquette said. “The first two are … obviously staged. The final one … final one is all too fam … familiar.”

The editor leaned on an elbow and covered his face with a hand. He wept.

Brass rose again, pushed a box of Kleenex toward him, and he and Grissom waited for several minutes.

The editor used two tissues, drying his eyes, blowing his nose, then he gathered himself and said, “What makes you think this … this maniac might be after me, too?”

Grissom said, “You were the coauthor of
CASt Fear
—with Perry a target, his collaborator seems likely a second one.”

Brass made a casual gesture. “Of course, it's possible
Perry
was the copycat.”

Paquette's bloodshot eyes popped wide. “Are you serious? You can't be serious. Perry? Perry Bell?”

Grissom said, “Perry was a good reporter past his prime, apparently with a drinking problem. Putting CASt back on the front page would revive his glory days. Desperate men do desperate things.”

“Gil,” Paquette said, “you knew Perry. He was a sweetheart. He just didn't have the sick twist of mind necessary, not to mention the stones, to carry off those first two killings.”

Brass said, “John Wayne Gacy visited children in hospitals and did a clown routine. He was active with the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Not Perry. No way.”

“Dave, I tend to agree with you. I think Gil does, too. But it's an easy road to take.”

The editor blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that the real CASt—seeing that a copycat is stealing his thunder—might logically assume that you and or Perry were responsible.”

“Perry the copycat?
Me?
Why, in hell?”

Grissom said, “With the exception of a small handful of police, you and Perry know more than anyone about the original crimes … including the digit removal and the semen signature.”

Paquette had nothing to say to that. He rubbed his stubbly chin. “Then … you really think I'm next, on his list?”

Before either man could answer, Warrick slipped into the interview room.

Grissom gave him a sharp glance—this was a breach of not just procedure but etiquette—but Warrick leaned in and said, “I know, I know, I'm sorry … but this won't wait.” He shot a look at Paquette, then handed his supervisor the printout.

Grissom read it fast, then passed the sheet to Brass, who also quickly absorbed its contents. Warrick slipped out.

Brass looked up at Paquette. “Tell me about Mark Brower.”

“What
about
Mark?” Paquette asked.

“Is there any way he might have had access to the hold-back details on the original case?”

“Not that I know of—he wasn't even around during the first cycle of murders, or for that matter, when Perry and I were writing the book.”

Grissom said, “Could Mark casually … wheedle something like that out of Bell … like when Perry was in his cups?”

Paquette thought about that. “Possibly. Perry reprinted the book—there was talk of revising it, which ultimately didn't happen, because it was a self-publishing deal, and expensive.”

Grissom considered that momentarily, then asked, “So Perry and Mark, when the possibility of doing a revision was on the table, might have talked about the details that were omitted first time around?”

“I don't know that for a fact, Gil. But it's possible, yes. You're not looking at
Mark
as a suspect?”

Brass said, “Aren't we?”

“He's one of my best employees. He's a stand-up guy.”

Grissom titled his head; an eyebrow raised. “Really. Maybe you can explain how his fingerprints got on Marvin Sandred's doorbell?”

Brass added,
“And
Enrique Diaz's doorbell?”

Paquette smiled disbelievingly and shook his head. “Oh that's just crazy … I don't buy that for a minute….”

“At least consider the sale,” Brass said, and he handed the report across to the editor.

Leaning over, holding the sheet in both hands, close to his face, his expression shifting from incredulous to outraged, David Paquette read of the match between the prints on both doorbells and the ones Warrick took at the
Banner
office.

“Goddamn that little bastard!” Paquette said, shaking the sheet. “That psychotic little son of a bitch!”

Grissom and Brass traded glances, both thinking that the editor's warm assessment of Brower had not taken long to turn.

Brass said, “What do you make of it?”

Grissom said, “What would inspire Mark Brower to play CASt copycat?”

“Are you kidding?” the editor said. “It's painfully obvious! Mark figured to resurrect CASt, and frame Perry for it.”

Brass said, “To what end?”

“Think about it! He immediately takes over the column, and he's in a perfect position to write the follow-up book himself … as the crime reporter who actually worked at Perry ‘CASt Copycat' Bell's side.”

Quietly aghast, Grissom said, “For something as fleeting … as meaningless, as fame? Brower would go to these … bizarre, malignant lengths?”

Paquette said, “You're not naive, Gil. Of course he would.”