Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

She kept looking at him. She was using her best half-smirk and single arched eyebrow.

  So, of course, finally he caved. "Give me a call tomorrow. I might have something."

  She beamed at him. "I know you'll come through. Adios, amigo."

  He grinned and waggled a finger at her. "Patronize me, chica, and see where it gets you."

  Then he and the two CPUs were gone.

  With the computers out of the way, Catherine went back to the bedroom office and started going through the desk and all the files. Soon she found Vivian's checkbook in a drawer. That was something, at least.

  The balance was just over a thousand dollars. Catherine found paperwork from a lawyer and a financial advisor, as well as envelopes with statements from June that Vivian had evidently opened just before her car accident.

  Vivian had a money market and an annuity. It wasn't a lot, but it was far from nothing. Murders were committed in Vegas for pocket change every day. And Catherine estimated the value of Vivian's estate at just about a hundred thousand, not figuring in the house.

  She joined Warrick in the living room. "Anything?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Not unless you count chicken pot pies in the freezer or a half-bottle of Canada Dry in the fridge. How about you?"

  She told him about the money.

  "With hubby and baby gone," Warrick said, "who inherits?"

  She shrugged. "Don't know yet. The mysterious guest? The best friend? Who are maybe one and the same."

  "None of this makes sense," he said, shaking his head. "Why would anyone go to all this trouble to kill this woman?"

  Catherine said, "The money isn't chump change-but other than that, I can't see any reason to do it."

  "Where's the money now?"

  "Still invested, I'd assume. I'll call the financial guy and the lawyer when we get back to the office."

  Warrick looked at her for a long moment, then his voice grew quiet and serious. "Please tell me we're not on a wild-goose chase."

  "Wouldn't be the first time."

  "Yeah, but as backed up as we are right now, can we afford chasin' wild damn geese?"

  "Doc Robbins thinks it's murder. That air bubble says so. Can we afford not to chase what might be a wild goose, if somebody murdered the nice old lady that lived here? She may have had a sad little life, in the end…but it was hers. And she deserved to finish it out at her own speed."

  Warrick's expression had sobered. He nodded. "Yes she did…and she deserves our best damn effort."

  "Yes she does."

  Vega came in through the front door.

  "What did you find out?" Catherine asked.

  Vega had that wide-eyed look he got when he finally had something. "The neighbor to the west thinks Vivian was the most wonderful person she ever met. She's a widow lady, too. Her name's Mabel Hinton-she's the one that's been watching the house."

  Jazzed by this news, Catherine asked, "Did she visit Vivian early this morning?"

  "Like, right before she coded?" Warrick put in.

  Vega said, "She says no. But do we buy it?"

  Catherine held out open hands. "Who else could be our mystery lady? And now we have a suspect."

  "Yes we do," Warrick said.

  "Hold those horses, gang," Vega said. "This gal's a basket case. She hadn't even heard about Vivian's death before I told her. She came frickin' un-glued!"

  Warrick said, "She could be acting."

  "If she is, Meryl Streep could take lessons."

  But Warrick pressed. "Was this Hinton in line to inherit any of that dough?"

  "No! That's the crazy thing-no one was. Several neighbors told me Vivian planned to leave everything to some charity!"

  "We'll have to confirm that," Warrick mumbled.

  Catherine said crisply, "Anybody say which charity?"

  Vega shook his head. "No one knew that for sure."

  "Another reason for me to call the lawyer," Catherine said, almost to herself.

  Vega threw up his hands. "Everybody said Vivian Elliot was the grandma for the whole neighborhood! Everybody's kids were welcome and accepted here. She baked more cookies than Mrs. Fields."

  "Greeaat," Warrick said.

  "Well, somebody didn't accept her," Catherine said, hands on hips. "Where there's a murder, there's a motive."

  "We look for evidence, Cath," Warrick said.

  "The evidence can show us the motive."

  "True."

  Vega's and Warrick's skepticism was understandable to Catherine. It certainly seemed like they had a crime-someone had to have administered Vivian her deadly shot of air…but who in hell would want to murder the neighborhood's grandma?

  And why?

  5

  DUSTIN BLACK HAD about as much color as his clients before the makeup; unlike the dead he served, however, he was sweating.

  Right now the obliging mortician, leading them down a hallway at Desert Haven Mortuary, was assuring Brass and Grissom that he could not understand how they might think the bodies had been switched here at Desert Haven; and, still, the answers Black gave to their questions all sounded just…off.

  "Gentlemen!" Black said, up ahead, holding open a door for them. "This is the preparation room…."

  They stepped into a large chamber that might have been a morgue-three steel tables in the middle, walls lined with countertops and cupboards. Over to the far wall was a double door; three embalming machines lined up against the near wall. At this moment, the room was empty of either the living or the dead-not counting Brass, Grissom, and Black, of course.

  Brass asked, "What's the procedure, exactly?"

  Black frowned in confusion. "I'm not sure I know what you're asking."

  "The whole deal-the funeral home routine."

  "We don't really think of it as a 'routine,' Captain…."

  Vaguely uncomfortable, Brass tried again: "What happens when, say, my ex-wife dies?"

  Grissom gave Brass a quick arched eyebrow, as if to ask, Wishful thinking?

  The mortician tented his fingers; his voice assumed a slow, calming cadence. "You would call us, of course. We would arrange to pick up the body of the deceased, wherever the final moments took place-her home, perhaps, a hospital…."

  "Keep walking me through, Mr. Black."

  "All right. We would bring your ex-wife here…you'd be handling the arrangements yourself, despite being divorced?"

  "Let's say we're not divorced."

  Black frowned again. "But you indicated this was your ex-wife…."

  Fighting exasperation, Brass said, "Hypothetically speaking, Mr. Black-make it my wife."

  "Sorry…. In that case, you and either myself, or one of my staff, would make decisions concerning the disposition."

  "Disposition? Of the body, you mean?"

  A solemn nod. "Either burial or cremation. We offer both services here."

  "Always nice to have options," Grissom said pleasantly.

  Brass winced; his headache was coming back. He managed to get out, "Let's say I decide to bury her."

  "Then," the mortician said, "the next step would be embalming, which would happen in this room…. Did you want me to go into that process, in detail?"

  Brass held up a palm. "No."

  Black nodded again, exhaled, gestured to one of the trays. "After embalming, your wife would be dressed in clothing selected by you or other family members, and our cosmetics expert would make her up for viewing, probably using photographs you provided for reference as to her preferred style. May I assume there'd be a viewing?"

  "You may."

  "The viewing would probably be the afternoon and/or evening before burial, with visitation, followed by the service, perhaps in the morning or afternoon, after which your wife would be laid to rest for eternity."

  The only thing creeping Brass out more than the mortician's Addams Family demeanor was Grissom's little smile; the CSI was standing there, arms folded, lapping up the information.

  Black was saying, "As you can see,
gentlemen-the deceased would always be with someone…and frankly, in this controlled environment and situation, I don't begin to know how someone could ever have exchanged the bodies."

  Grissom's smile disappeared. "You don't see anywhere in this process when the corpse would be left alone for a significant time?"

  "We don't use the term 'corpse' in this facility, Doctor Grissom. It's disrespectful."

  Grissom's brow knit. "It is?"

  Brass said, "Could you answer Doctor Grissom's question, Mr. Black?"

  "Certainly. I don't see any window of opportunity for this ghoulish thing to have occurred."

  Grissom asked, "Obviously, the visitation is attended by friends and family, looking at the…body in an open casket? So a switch can't have occurred until afterward."

  "Yes, of course."

  "So, any switch would have to have been made after that. Visitation for Rita Bennett was the night before the service?"

  "Yes."

  "Is there anyone here after hours?"

  Black looked uncomfortable. "No, but obviously the mortuary is locked for the night and our security is first-rate."

  "You use a service?" Brass asked.

  "Yes-we have a contract with Home Sure Security. They drive by on a regular basis…and all the doors and windows are wired. No one gets in without the security code."

  "Who has the code?"

  "Myself and five employees."

  "Which gives us at least six suspects," Grissom said, almost to himself.

  "Suspects?" Black's eyes and nostrils flared. "I cooperate like this, and you call me, and my people, suspects?"

  Grissom, innocently, said, "Why? Is that another disrespectful word here at the facility?"

  "You have no right-"

  "We have every right, Mr. Black," Grissom said, his tone as gentle as his words were not. "Someone switched those bodies, and the best opportunity was right here in your shop. The body that replaced Rita Bennett's was that of a murder victim…and that makes this a homicide investigation. So, yes-you and your people are all suspects."

  Black's eyes darted around the empty room, as if confirming no one was hearing Grissom's accusations.

  "Now," the CSI said, "let's get back to how and when the bodies could have been switched."

  "I…I still don't see how…"

  "The visitation is usually the night before the service-was that the case with Rita Bennett's funeral?"

  "Yes."

  "You're sure."

  "Positive."

  "That means her body spent the night in here…with no one watching over it."

  Black shrugged dismissively. "That's a question of semantics-yes, no one was in the building; but Home Sure Security was on the job every second. Besides, in Rita's case, a second, shorter visitation took place an hour before the service."

  Grissom frowned in thought. "The coffin was open?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you close the coffin before or after the service?"

  "Generally, before."

  "Specifically," Grissom said, "in Rita's case…before or after?"

  Obviously struggling to control his temper, Black said, "Before."

  "Good. All right-what happens after you close the coffin?"

  "I need to back up a step…."

  "Please."

  The mortician folded his hands in a dignified manner over his slight paunch. "Behind the curtain, the family has one last opportunity to privately say goodbye to their loved one before the coffin is closed. The family is escorted to their seats and we then shut and lock the coffin, and open the curtain to begin the service."

  Brass asked, "You were personally with Rita's body during that entire time?"

  Impatience edging his voice, the mortician asked, "Why don't you follow me to the chapel? I can show you in detail."

  "Please."

  The trio walked across the preparation room and out the double doors, which took them to a short, dark corridor. A few steps more led them to another set of double doors, one of which Black opened, and bid Grissom and Brass to pass through, which they did.

  Brass found himself facing the pews of the chapel, as if he were officiating the service. He was standing near where the coffin would have been.

  Grissom and Black flanked the detective.

  "That," the mortician said, gesturing, "is my station during most services…and I was here for Rita's."

  Brass said, "But you could see Rita the whole time until the coffin was closed."

  "Yes."

  "How did it proceed from there?"

  "The family left after the service to gather in a receiving line. While that took place, we wheeled the casket out the back, through the doors we just entered…to the hearse."

  The detective frowned. "Who's we?"

  "Myself, Jimmy Doyle…you met him…and the new guy, Mark Grunick."

  Brass jotted down the names. "And the three of you loaded the coffin into the hearse?"

  "Yes, then Jimmy drove the hearse and I chauffeured the limousine, conveying the family to the cemetery."

  "No stops along the way?"

  Black shook his head. "Short of a flat tire or some other emergency, that's just not done. One does not make a detour from a funeral procession into a 7-11 for a package of gum."

  "Everything, as you remember it, went off without a hitch?"

  "Yes."

  "And yet, somehow, some way…Rita Bennett's body was not in that casket."

  Black held out his hands, palms up. "There's always the cemetery, you know. All I can say is, I spent the whole day with Rita-she was in the casket from the time we got her into it."

  Brass turned to Grissom. "Any thoughts?"

  After considering for a moment, Grissom said, "Not now. We just keep gathering information, which will lead us to more evidence and eventually we'll find Rita Bennett."

  Black said, "She deserves a proper burial. To rest in peace."

  "Mr. Black," Grissom said, "we also have a murdered woman who took Rita Bennett's place in your casket-and she deserves to rest in peace, too…with her killer tracked down, and punished."

  Any sign of anger or irritation banished behind his calm facade, Black said, "I wish you gentlemen nothing but good luck in your endeavors. I only wish I could be of more help."

  Grissom smiled. "Oh, Mr. Black-you will be."

  As Brass and Grissom found their way out, the detective could almost feel the mortician's uneasy eyes on them.

  Sara and Nick were in the breakroom, huddling over a file folder, when Brass and Grissom strode glumly in.

  The usual exchange of "hey's" was foregone as Brass poured himself some coffee and Grissom went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water.

  "I'm not feeling a good vibe," Sara said. "No lucky streak in Vegas this morning?"

  Grissom was in the middle of a long pull on the bottle and Brass, stirring in creamer, answered her question. "Nothing at the cemetery-less at the mortuary."

  "Come on," Nick said. "Somebody has to know something."

  Brass offered up half a smirk. "They knew all kinds of things, both places-just nothing useful."

  Grissom said, "We don't know enough yet to make that call-something important might be right in front of us, and we don't have the context yet to make sense of it."

  Brass said, "It would be nice to at least know who our girl in the box is."

  "I can brighten your day, then," Sara said. She showed them a photograph. "Meet Kathy Dean-before she stowed away in Rita Bennett's coffin."

  Grissom and Brass came over to view the snapshot of a smiling, pretty teenage girl.

  "Came in just a few minutes ago," Sara said.

  "Fingerprints do it?" Grissom asked.

  Nick said, "Naw-AFIS was no help. Missing Persons matched our morgue photo of her with this one."

  "So who is Kathy Dean, exactly?" Brass asked, the young woman's photograph in one hand.

  "A nineteen-year-old, just out of high school, getting ready for college."<
br />
  "And never made it."

  "No. Disappeared about three months ago."

  Grissom's eyes widened. "Around the time of Rita Bennett's funeral?"

  Sara smiled without humor. "Actually? Within twenty-four hours of Rita Bennett's funeral."

  Grissom asked, "Disappeared from where?"

  Sara glanced down at the report before answering. "She came home from a babysitting job, talked to her parents for a few minutes…they both said she seemed fine, normal, so on…then she went up to bed. Her parents woke up the next morning, her bed was empty, what she'd been wearing in her hamper, and her nightgown on her bed…and no Kathy."

  "When we found her," Grissom said, "she was fully clothed…. Did she change clothes and sneak out, or was she forced to get dressed, and abducted?"

  Sara lifted an eyebrow. "The parents say they didn't hear anything unusual during the night."

  "And what does the evidence say?"

  "We've just started going over the reports in detail, but what it looks like? She sneaked out. Bedroom window showed no signs of forced entry…and the only sign that anyone other than the family was in that house was a semen stain in her bed."

  Grissom found that interesting. "Fresh?"

  "No. Predating the disappearance."

  Brass asked, "So there was a boyfriend?"

  Nick shrugged. "Hard to say."

  Brass's eyebrows rose. "There was semen in her bed but it's hard to say if she had a boyfriend?"

  "The parents don't think she had a regular boyfriend. Matter of fact, they thought their daughter was still a virgin."

  Sara picked it up. "According to these reports? Mom and Dad had no idea who Baby Bunting was seeing, or for how long."

  Nick was nodding sagely. "These are parents who kept their daughter on a pretty tight leash."

  "She was nineteen," Grissom said.

  "And just out of high school, and an only child, still living at home. Gris, parents of a girl that age don't always know what their 'little girl' is up to."

  "Tell me about it," Brass said.

  "It gets worse," Sara said. "During the autopsy, Doctor Robbins discovered a pregnancy-just over two months."

  "Let me get this straight," Brass said. "She disappeared, when…around Memorial Day?"

  Nick nodded. "May twenty-ninth."

  "And was buried on…?"

  "Same day…at least that's when Rita Bennett was buried."