Binding Ties ccsi-6

by Max Allan Collins

  This room was not black.

  It was red.

  Bare cement walls, floor, and ceiling-some pipes exposed above but blending into the overall mono-color scheme-had been painted out by a bright glossy red. The only light was a red bulb, stuck in a high socket on the left wall and, like every other room in this house, had another door at the far end. In the center of the crimson chamber-above a drain in the floor, cloaked in shadow but not clothing-Mark Brower hung from a noose just tight enough to keep him from moving, but not constrictive enough to kill him.

  His hands were behind him, obviously bound but by what Grissom could not yet see. Blood poured from behind Brower to pool almost invisibly on the scarlet floor, and even Gil Grissom needed no further evidence to know that the finger flung at Brass had been unwillingly contributed by Mark Brower, mouth agape in some sort of bawling that Grissom saw but could not quite hear with his ringing ears.

  His eyes wild with fear, and pleading with his potential rescuer, Brower managed, "Help me," but the words came to Grissom only as a faint, far off whisper, though the CSI's lip-reading skills made the cry crystal clear.

  The red chamber was empty but for Brower, but Grissom didn't know whether Dayton's dive through that other door might not bring him back here around through a back way. As such, he didn't want to holster his weapon; but he had to help Brower, even if the common palmar digital artery was too small for the copycat to exsanguinate.

  With any major trauma, however, the victim might go into shock, and Brower was definitely bound (so to speak) to injure or kill himself, if he didn't quit bouncing around with the noose around his neck….

  Switching his gun to his left hand, Grissom withdrew a pocket knife, got it open, and started to cut the rope just over Brower's head. The entire time, the CASt copycat kept moaning, "Help me, help me," like the human-headed fly in the old horror movie, and that was about how distant it sounded to Grissom, with his gunshot-ravaged hearing.

  But the longer the CSI worked on the rope, the more the gunshot echo dissipated and the ringing in his ears dissipated too, Brower's appeals growing louder and more intense.

  "Quiet," Grissom said, his own voice not much above a whisper. "We don't know where he is."

  "You got a goddamn gun, Grissom!" Brower said, his features distorted with hysteria and pain. "Get me the hell out of here!"

  Grissom kept at it and when he finally cut the last strand, Brower dropped to the floor, rolling into a fetal position.

  "Gris!" came Warrick's voice from the walkie-talkie. "Please report! Do you need assistance?"

  He pocketed his knife and pulled the walkie off his belt. "I have Brower down here. He's alive but short a finger."

  "I'm coming down with Carrack and Jalisco-"

  "No," Grissom interrupted, voice was low but emphatic. "Stay upstairs-it's dark down here, might wind up shooting each other. Set up a perimeter around the house, watch doors, windows, any possible exit. Brass remains in pursuit of Dayton, who is naked and bloody…and possibly armed and dangerous."

  Nick came on then. "Gris, you sure you-"

  "No," Grissom said, and shut off his radio.

  Though the handcuffs served as a temporary tourniquet, Grissom thought it best to get direct pressure on Brower's wound. After returning his walkie-talkie to his belt, the CSI withdrew a standard handcuff key, and released the man…despite his own desire to leave him cuffed, and save time at the inevitable arrest.

  "Sit up," Grissom said.

  Brower just lay there, whimpering-probably, Grissom thought, much as Sandred and Diaz had, when this creature exercised his performance art upon them, at their expense….

  With more urgency, Grissom said, "Sit up."

  "Help me…"

  Grissom did not want to touch Brower, who was, after all, evidence.

  So it was not entirely a lack of compassion for the copycat that prompted Grissom to say, "No."

  Reluctantly, Brower managed to sit up by himself. Grissom handed the man a handkerchief.

  "What am I supposed to do with this?" Brower asked numbly.

  Grissom said, "Apply direct pressure to your finger."

  "What finger? That maniac cut off my goddamn finger!"

  "Apply direct pressure to the wound…and stay here."

  Still agitated, Brower asked, "Where the hell else would I go?"

  "Well, if it's upstairs, you'll probably be mistaken for Dayton and shot." Which would be a nice irony, considering that was who Brower had homicidally imitated.

  "I'm not going anywhere," he whimpered.

  "To jail, you are," Grissom said.

  Grissom moved to the back door of the room, listened intently, hoped it was the last room in this fun house, and reached for the knob.

  Following Dayton, Brass-his flashlight beam leading the way-plunged into darkness.

  He wanted to move faster, sure that Dayton was getting away; but he also knew others were posted upstairs, and that a little caution might go a long way toward keeping himself alive, if Dayton happened to be lying in wait somewhere….

  The detective swept the area with his beam.

  Some kind of storage room-empty cartons stacked, shelves all around with smaller unmarked boxes; but no suspect.

  Brass crossed the space, and found-yes-another damn door…open.

  Doing his best to move silently, Brass eased through and swept the light over a workroom with bench, to his left; along the other walls, tools on pegboard, a drill press, a table saw, and a smaller bench with both a grinder and a vise. Beyond the bench on the left, at the far end of the room, naturally, waited yet another door. Smell of sawdust in his nostrils, Brass was almost past the bench when he felt a blow against his left leg, just below and to side of the knee, and then a blinding pain.

  The gun and flashlight both fell from his hands, his weapon clattering to the floor somewhere at right, the flash bouncing off something before hitting the floor and spinning to a stop, the light now pointed at him.

  He looked down at the knife sticking out of his pants leg, a dark circle spreading in the gray slacks. He started to lose his balance, but before he went down, Dayton rolled out from under the workbench and came up with a head butt that sent Brass tumbling backward, starbursts in his eyes, and he crashed into something hard, then fell to the floor.

  He was trying to get back on his feet when a click preceded stark but limited illumination.

  Very nearby, Dayton-red spattered on his face like he'd been eating barbecue, sloppily, eyes showing white all around, his wolfish white teeth exposed in an animal snarl-stood at the workbench, having just flipped on a switch for a single work light.

  Brass had been looked at with displeasure by many a perp in his time, but never with such complete contempt and hatred.

  "You-you meddling imbecile son of a bitch…you petty little civil servant scum of the earth…you've screwed my life over for the last goddamn time!"

  Dayton lurched over and grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked it out of the detective's leg, like a demented dentist extracting a tooth.

  Feeling white hot pain from head to toes, Brass nonetheless kicked with his good leg at the red-streaked naked figure, sending the killer sprawling back, and giving himself time to at least get to one knee before Dayton charged him again.

  And when the attack came, Brass crouched low as Dayton raised the knife high.

  When the blade arced down, Brass threw himself forward and left, the knife grazing his sportcoat and sending Dayton off balance, just as Brass smashed into the killer's knee with his shoulder.

  Brass heard the satisfying crunch as Dayton's knee gave way and the killer toppled, twisting as he went. Then with a jungle cry, Dayton lunged at Brass, and the two of them rolled on the floor, fighting over the one knife they had between them.

  Again Grissom found himself in a darkened room and flipped on the flashlight.

  This room was small, rather like a fruit cellar, and indeed a set of shelves against the wall on
the left recalled such a cubicle. Of the five shelves, three contained books and magazines and scrapbooks, including various editions of CASt Fear, including the recent one self-published by Perry Bell; Grissom allowed himself an educated guess that the other books and magazines contained chapters or articles about the murders, and the scrapbooks CASt clippings.

  The next shelf held coils of rope and a dozen lipstick tubes: Limerick Rose.

  And the top shelf was home to a row of small jars, the likes of which you would be unlikely to find in a typical fruit cellar, except perhaps at Ed Gein's farm.

  In each jar sat a dried, shriveled index finger.

  All but two, that is.

  One jarred finger looked fairly fresh-very possibly, Perry Bell's.

  And the fifth one from the left had no finger at all-likely the jar that had held Vincent Drake's finger before CASt sent it to the Banner, sacrificing it in defense of his good name.

  This thought was still passing through his mind when he heard the sounds.

  Grissom looked toward their source, yet another door, and what else was there to do but go through it? In such a small room it took only three quick steps, and he went in to see a yellow light on over a workbench and-their backs to him-the naked bloody Dayton and Brass struggling over a knife, locked in both their hands.

  Brass had blood on him, too, perhaps not all of it Dayton's.

  Grissom crossed the workroom just as Dayton, on top, hooked a left that caught Brass's chin and knocked the detective's head against the concrete floor. Brass didn't seem to be unconscious, but the fight appeared out of him, momentarily at least, and Dayton now had control of the knife. He grabbed onto Brass's left wrist and lay the hand on the cement. He was pressing the blade against the forefinger, just above the knuckle, when Grissom put the nose of the pistol against the back of Dayton's head.

  "Drop the knife," Grissom said.

  Dayton moved the knife to Brass's throat.

  "Back away," CASt said, "or I cut it!"

  "When I fire," Grissom said blandly, "your motor skills die with you."

  Dayton froze.

  "It's not a theory," Grissom said.

  CASt cast the knife aside.

  Grissom backed off slightly. "Stand up and fold your hands behind your head."

  Coming up slowly, Dayton spread his arms wide, crucifixion style. Then with great care, the killer wove his fingers together behind his head, grinning defiantly at Grissom.

  "Turn around," Grissom said.

  Dayton did.

  Then Grissom holstered the weapon and got out his handcuffs, about to secure the prisoner's hands behind him; but Dayton dipped, swept a leg around, and took the CSI's feet from under him.

  Grissom went down hard on the cement.

  Leg throbbing, Brass struggled to his feet, then slipped, his fingers nudging something cold…

  …his pistol!

  Grabbing the weapon, he wrapped his fingers around the grip and managed to get to a knee.

  Dayton was punching a disoriented Grissom in the face, once, twice, then as the naked killer pulled back his fist for a third blow, Brass got his footing and once again Jerome Dayton had the mouth of a pistol kissing the back of his head.

  "Case you were wondering," Brass said, "difference between me and Grissom? He did his best not to shoot you…. Jerry, Jerry, Jerry-please, please give me an excuse."

  Dayton swallowed thickly.

  Sanity got the better of the madman, and he put his hands up, and caused them no further trouble.

  Eleven

  A s he sat in the interview room, Jim Brass was constantly aware of the bandage under his pant leg, and the stitches pulling at his skin. On either side of him were Sara and Nick, who had worked the case from its two different angles: new and old.

  For the first time since the discovery of Marvin Sandred's body, Brass was not struggling with rage and/or frustration. He felt good-cool and calm, and ready to enjoy his revenge as a dish best served cold.

  Across the table, a sullen, silent Jerry Dayton-in jailhouse orange and handcuffs-stared at the detective with death daggers in his eyes, and Brass felt only amused. Next to Dayton sat attorney Carlisle Deams, looking as respectable and distinguished as a college dean, a ruddy study in gray (hair, mustache, three-piece suit), frequently referring to a small pile of papers, a man who seemed unable to stop talking in his effort to assure Brass that his client wasn't talking.

  The "tell," as ex-gambler Warrick might say, was the attorney's eyes: dark dead orbs that might have been a shark's.

  "My client has nothing to say to you people-do you understand? Nothing."

  Dayton's cuffs were in front of him-not the standard, safer behind-his-back-since he was in the presence of his lawyer.

  "He was fairly chatty before," Brass said, "when he was running around wearing nothing but Mark Brower's blood, and sticking a knife in my leg."

  "Well, you'll just have to be content, Captain Brass," Deams said with a nasty smile, "with your memories."

  Brass provided his own mirthless smile. "My take on your client is that he has a mind of his own. This meeting is a courtesy, really."

  The lawyer's dead black eyes blinked. "A courtesy?"

  "Yes-to provide Jerry an opportunity to explain himself, to express his unique point of view."

  Warrick said, "Mr. Dayton obviously has a certain pride in his…hobby. We thought he might like to help us sort out his work from that of this…interloper."

  Sara said, "Of course, Mr. Dayton, if you don't help clear things up? His efforts may be confused for yours, and vice versa."

  Dayton was frowning, and the lawyer patted his client on the arm while saying to the adversaries across the table, "Very clever. But your attempts to play on my client's pride are not going to crack his resolve. He has nothing to say to you, nor are either of us interested in anything you might have to say."

  Brass shrugged. "Well, then, we'll let the evidence do the talking…in court."

  Deams chuckled dryly. "I'm more than happy to face the best the District Attorney can throw at us."

  "Good." Brass beamed. "You're happy. I'm happy."

  Deams smirked. "Let me tell you what you have-a charge against my client for simple assault."

  Warrick said, "Not that simple-he kidnapped Mark Brower, and cut off his finger, and had him bound up in a torture chamber."

  "Mark Brower came to my client's home and attacked him."

  Sara gave up a smile. "Really-so Mr. Dayton cut off Brower's finger in self-defense? And put his head in a noose? That'll be fun to hear you argue in court."

  Dayton frowned at his attorney, who then said to Brass and the CSIs, "Whatever you may have in the Brower matter is beside the point. You can't really think you're going to successfully prosecute my client for events that happened a decade ago?"

  Brass said, "Mr. Dayton's DNA hasn't changed in ten years-and we have his DNA from then and now."

  "Stored under what conditions?" Deams said, waving that off as if it were nothing more than a bothersome gnat.

  Warrick said, "We have voluminous physical evidence, Mr. Deams, including the fingers your client harvested from his victims, which we removed from his little basement museum."

  Deams even shrugged that off. "We believe Mark Brower planted that evidence in my client's home."

  "Well, then Brower must've made your client help him out," Warrick replied, "because only Jerome Dayton's fingerprints are on those jars."

  The attorney gestured with open hands. "Circumstantial evidence. You have surprisingly little. Is there anything else?"

  "You mean, other than your client running around bare-ass with blood all over him," Brass said, "stabbing a police officer whose presence was backed up by a warrant?"

  Deams twitched something that was not exactly a smile. "My client is…a troubled young man. He has a medical history, which includes medication that has been quite successful in curtailing his…problem."

  "Not lately," Brass
said.

  "We will show that a physician recommended my client take a drug holiday-that's a common practice for patients suffering chemical imbalance, who have been medicated for many years. It would appear that this holiday was…ill-advised."

  "Ill-advised?" Brass said. "Maybe we should prescribe your client's doctor a lethal injection, too?"

  "No such barbaric thing will happen to my client, Captain Brass. In fact, I'm quite sure this particular case will never get to trial."

  "Your 'troubled' client," Brass said, "was institutionalized before, and yet he was out within three years. And now that Mommy and Daddy aren't around to keep him in a druggy haze, he's reverted to his 'barbaric' nature. No-even if you manage to convince a judge and jury that Jerry here doesn't know the difference between right and wrong…and I grant you he's a homicidal sociopath…he'll be in a state institution that'll make Sundown look like Club Med."

  Dayton finally spoke-three simple words, directed at Brass: "I hate you."

  "Well, that can be your new hobby, Jerry," Brass said, "in your new padded pad."

  That did it.

  Despite the cuffed wrists, Dayton came scrambling over the table at Brass, but Brass was ready and simply slipped aside, the killer sliding over the edge of the table, accidentally kicking his lawyer in the head before he landed face-first on the floor in an upended pile. The kick had sent Deams off balance, and he'd tumbled off his chair onto the floor as well.

  A uniformed officer rushed in, but Brass waved him away, grabbing Dayton by the scruff of the neck and picking him up like a big plastic bag full of trash; then Warrick was on the other side of the prisoner and together they dragged the dazed Dayton around and sat him down in his chair, hard.

  Sara had come around to help the flustered attorney to his feet, and Deams growled a thanks at her and proceeded to slap away at his expensive gray suit as if it had gotten filthy from his trip to the carpet of the spotless interview room.

  Both CSIs and the homicide captain seemed more amused than frightened or even flustered by this lame attack from a known serial killer.

  "Jerry," Brass said, in a tone usually reserved for wayward children, "you really must watch that temper-someday you may do something really violent, and who knows what kind of trouble you'll get yourself in."