"These are crime scene analysts from the Crime Lab-Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes. I've been telling them all about you. We're anxious to sit and talk about…old times. And new."
Dayton said, "Not without my lawyer sitting in," and started to close the door in the detective's face.
Brass forced himself into the doorway, blocking the young man's attempt.
Dayton's eyes turned to slits; his sneer of a smile formed slowly but effectively as he took a long, deep breath. Then he exhaled and said, "And my lawyer, I think, is just who I should to talk to-in the case of a harassment suit."
Brass put on his patented rumpled smile. "Come on now, Jerry-you must see the papers, the TV. Certainly you know why we're here. You're going to have to talk to us at some point. We're just eliminating the old names from our list, and you can get that out of the way and-"
"Old suspects, you mean." The hawkish, sneering face looked at each of them, pausing for a derisive chuckle, again landing on Brass. "You think I don't know what you want? You're here about Cee Ay Ess Tee. Wasn't ruining my life once enough for you?"
Giving the man a tight smile, Brass said, "That earring's sure handsome, Jerry. Never knew you to go in for the bling bling."
Dayton's smile widened, lips parting to reveal perfect white wolfish teeth. "It was my mother's-a ring I had made into this. Normally I'm not ostentatious…you know that, Captain. But I loved my mother."
"How about your father?"
Dayton frowned. "This conversation is over."
Catherine eased forward a little. "Mr. Dayton, the crimes you were suspected of aren't what we're investigating. We're not after the real CASt-many believe him dead, or at least living far away from Las Vegas."
"Really," Dayton said, vaguely interested.
"We're after this new killer-this copycat."
Nick said, "Yeah-kind of the new, improved CASt?"
"But obviously," Catherine said, "we have to revisit and review the old files. It's really quite routine."
Brass realized what Catherine and Nick were up to: If Dayton was the real CASt, they'd been needling him pretty good….
Dayton was studying Catherine, stroking his chin with his right hand. A swollen, ugly purple bruise painted most of the back of it.
With a nod toward the man's hand, Brass said, "Quite a purple badge of honor you got yourself there, Jer."
Dayton lowered the hand, shrugged. "Shut it in the car door." He shrugged. "I get distracted sometimes. Do stupid things. Don't you, Captain?"
"Been known to. But why don't you let us do you a solid-I'll have one of the CSIs take a picture of that mitt of yours, we can be witnesses, and you can use it when you sue the car manufacturer."
"Lame," he said, shaking his head. "So lame. Are we done?"
Nick said, "We could be, if you'd let us take a DNA sample."
Catherine said, "Clear you once and for all."
The armor-piercing gaze shifted toward Catherine. "My name wouldn't need clearing, if Detective Brassballs here hadn't made a hobby out of me, when I was just a damn defenseless kid. This jerk harassed my family, during the original CASt case, and now he's trying to do it again. I'm almost glad my parents are gone, so they don't have to endure this humiliation a second time."
"Speaking of which," Brass said, "who is your caregiver now, Jerry? You are still on medication, I presume…."
"I'm a big boy, Captain. I take of myself, and yes, I am on medication, and have been since you railroaded me into that institution."
"If you feel railroaded," Catherine said, "why keep taking the meds?"
His chin, which was almost pointed, lifted. "I don't deny that I have certain medical problems. I have a chemical imbalance that manifests itself, on occasion, as what you cretins would call mental illness. I monitor my own condition now."
Nick asked, "How's that going?"
"Very well. It's working. I take my meds on schedule, every day-I even have a little pillbox with the days printed on, like the senior citizens."
"Nothing to be ashamed of," Nick said.
The green eyes flared and so did the hawkish nostrils. "Who in hell is ashamed?"
Holding up hands, half-smiling, Nick said, "Whoa-little touchy, aren't we?"
Their reluctant host swallowed. Summoning dignity, he said, "I have lost both my parents. They were never the same after the CASt debacle. I watched them both die, slowly, a process that began long before they actually ceased to breathe."
Dayton's glare returned to Brass.
"It started," the man said, "when they had to put me in that place, that…that home. Well, I'll tell you how much progress I've made, Captain, battling my illness. I used to blame you for their deaths." He pointed a purple finger at Brass. "But now I know…you were only doing your job. Trying to do your best for the community, however misguided and misinformed you were…. My psychiatrist almost got me convinced that it wasn't your fault."
Brass said, "So you're not mad at me, anymore, Jerry?"
Dayton shrugged. "Well…therapy is an ongoing process."
"Speaking of which, what's your doctor's name?"
"I don't have to share that with you."
If Brass's grin had been any tighter, his face would have split. "How about I get a court order, Jerry, and we try this again?"
"Want a name? I'll give you a name."
"Thank you." Brass got his notebook out, pen poised to write.
"Carlisle Deams-D-E-A-M-S. My attorney."
Brass put the notebook away.
Grinning his wide white grin, Dayton said, "And I guarantee you, Captain, he'll be at the courthouse before you. While you attempt to get your nontestimonial court order to get my DNA, my attorney will be filing an injunction to stop you from harassing me further."
"When'd you learn so much about the system, Jerry?"
"I started studying up in Sundown. I had plenty of time-and incentive."
Brass studied the man. "How about I get a patrol car to park outside here, until we get back with our nontestimonial court order?"
A flip phone came out of Dayton's pants pocket. He hit a button. While he waited for someone to answer, he said, "Captain, Captain…you make this too, too easy…."
Brass spun on his heel and pushed through a faintly startled Catherine and Nick and stalked off. They followed quietly.
As he went down the driveway, Brass could hear Dayton say, "Carlisle? Jerry Dayton." After a pause, he said, "Fine, fine. I'm just calling to remind you why I keep you on a such a healthy retainer…."
Brass, pleased he'd managed not to pop the guy, walked around the Tahoe and got out of earshot. To his surprise, Nick and Catherine were right behind him.
Nick said, "He doesn't seem delusional."
Catherine said, "He's smart."
Brass just shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it-we'll pick it up back at the lab, okay?"
He stomped off, got into his car and managed not to peel out as he gunned the gas and sped away. He was only a block away when he called dispatch and ordered a patrol car to come sit on Jerry Dayton's front door.
If Jerry Dayton thought Brass had been kidding, the guy really was delusional….
* * *
Warrick Brown found Grissom and Sara in the former's office, going over crime-scene photos from the Bell murder. Flopping down in a chair in front of Grissom's desk, he let out a long sigh.
"Good news," Warrick said, "bad news. Choose."
Grissom said, "Good?"
"Finally matched the fingerprints on the Banner keycard."
"They belong to Perry Bell."
All the air went out of Warrick's balloon. "How the heck did you know?"
"Same way I know the bad news is no one else's prints are on the card."
Warrick sat up straighter now. It drove him nuts when Grissom did this and the CSI supervisor did it a lot-to all of them. "Greg already gave you the report?"
Grissom shook his head.
That was the other
thing that made Warrick mental: Grissom never told him how he knew these things.
Warrick went to the doorway, turned and pointed an accusatory finger at his boss. "If you're guessing again…"
Grissom cast a boyish smile Warrick's way. "No reason to get nasty."
Warrick trudged back to the lab, and immediately dug in to work on the remainder of the prints. His goal was to know who was who, and where they were, in proximity to the crimes. And he wanted to know before Grissom knew….
He dumped all the prints into the computer and let the software sort out what matched what. While he waited, he caught up on reports, starting with one Greg had sent that said the dried blood in the Bell home all came from Bell himself.
Another report showed that the synthetic hairs removed from Enrique Diaz matched the toupee of the late Perry Bell. If the late Bell really was the copycat-which was strongly suggested by his ersatz hair being on Diaz's body and his Banner keycard being found at the scene-did that mean they were now only looking for one killer?
Had CASt served as vigilante, showed the copycat who the real Bad Boy in Town was, and capped the cat?
Warrick wasn't sure what to think.
Thankfully, he had little time to worry about it. His phone rang and Grissom told him to grab his kit-an officer had found Perry Bell's missing car.
The parking garage for the Big Apple Casino and Hotel hid behind the main building, which was on the corner of Tropicana and Las Vegas Boulevard. The six-story concrete parking structure was the perfect place to ditch a ride. A cop on a routine drive-through had spotted the local wheels parked on the sixth level, almost by itself.
When the officer ran the car, Brass's APB came up, and the officer called in that he had found Bell's car.
The 2003 blue Cadillac hunkered in a corner, a lonely visitor to the Big Apple. While Grissom worked the trunk, Sara hit the backseat, and Warrick labored up front.
Warrick found several hairs lodged in the seams of the headrest, which he carefully caught with tweezers, then bagged. He dusted the ignition, the dash, the steering wheel, and the glove compartment for fingerprints, vacuumed the floor for stray fibers and detritus, then used the electrostatic print lifter to get footprints from the gas and brake pedals.
When he had finished all that, Warrick went over the seats (as they said in the Vegas lounges) one more time. Just on the front edge of the driver's seat, out of sight (unless you were on hands and knees), he found a maroon spot, the diameter of a pencil.
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 clima
te-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…."
Binding Ties ccsi-6 Page 15