Brass pulled the drawstring and the curtain slid away to reveal Sara standing on the other side of the glass; she was no longer in the baseball cap and her expression was solemn, dignified. A body under a sheet on a gurney was between Sara and the picture window.
When Brass nodded to her, Sara pulled the sheet back to reveal Kathy Dean from the neck up.
Jason Dean groaned and his wife lurched into his arms. Then the mother took a quick step forward, hand splayed against the window opposite her daughter's face, the mother's breath fogging the glass. They were both crying now, Mrs. Dean whimpering and her husband's lip quivering, though neither spoke.
Brass was a hardened homicide detective; but he was also a father. And right now he hated his job almost as much as he would love that job when Kathy Dean's killer was in his custody.
When Brass nodded again-his signal to Sara to cover the body-Jason Dean waved for her to stop and she froze, the sheet not yet up over the dead girl's features.
His eyes still locked upon his daughter's still countenance, Dean said, "She looks so…beautiful…normal…natural, almost as if she could just…sit up."
"My baby," the mother said.
An edge in his voice, Dean said, "What killed her?"
"Gunshot to the back of the head," Brass said.
"Ooooh," Mrs. Dean said.
"She felt no pain," the detective said.
Both parents looked at him, though Mrs. Dean's hand remained touching the glass.
"Is that…is that true?" the mother asked.
"It's true," Brass said. "She never knew what happened. I will say to you as the father of a girl not much older than your daughter…that's a blessing."
"Where did you find her?" Dean asked.
"Why don't we sit down and I'll give you all the information," Brass said.
Dean turned back to face the window, as did his wife. They looked at their little girl for another long moment before Sara finally covered Kathy Dean's face with the sheet and-as Mrs. Dean reluctantly broke contact with the glass-Brass pulled the curtain, banishing the image that neither parent would ever forget.
"Sit-please?" Brass gestured toward the table and the tissue box.
Both parents shook their heads, holding their ground, standing there waiting for more, when they clearly had already had more than enough.
Brass had no choice but to give it to them. "As to where your daughter was, we found her in a grave in the Desert Palm Memorial Cemetery."
Dean was understandably incredulous. "Cemetery…how the hell…?"
Brass filled them in quickly, giving them the broad strokes of the fantastic situation.
"We're doing our best to find out how she ended up there," Brass told the startled parents. "Obviously we suspect the one who took her life did this thing as well."
Brass eased the stunned mother and father out into the corridor.
"You can understand," he said, "why we'd like to talk to you about Kathy's activities around the time she disappeared."
Before the door closed, Mrs. Dean stopped, looking back toward the curtained window. "When can we take her out of that dreadful place?"
"Just a little longer," Brass said. "Now that Kathy's case is a homicide, we have to make sure we have all the evidence we can before we release her body."
Mrs. Dean recoiled. "I want her out of there now!"
"Mrs. Dean, please, I can certainly understand your feelings…but your daughter's body is our only link to her killer."
"I don't care! I want her out of there!"
Jason Dean kept an arm tight around his wife. Wild-eyed, Mrs. Dean strained to get back into the viewing room; finally, Dean got control of her and looked pleadingly at Brass.
Keeping his voice low, his tone even, Brass said, "Our crime scene people are the best. You met CSI Sidle-she cares deeply about this case, I promise you."
Dean said, "What kind of 'evidence' can you hope to find at this late date? We need to deal with this-we have arrangements to make. We want our daughter, Captain Brass."
"Sir-there might be some microscopic clue that can lead us to her killer. Finding that piece of evidence might be the only way to stop whoever did this from doing it again…to someone else's daughter."
Mrs. Dean turned toward him and her expression had an alertness, as if Brass had slapped her awake. "You really think you can catch whoever did this?"
"I can't promise you. But our CSIs are the best, anywhere. And I promise you I will do my best. I see your daughter and, frankly…"
Something happened to Brass that hadn't happened to him on the job for a long, long time: He felt his eyes filling with tears.
He swallowed and said, "I see your daughter and I see my daughter. Do I have to say more?"
Mrs. Dean studied Brass for a moment, then she touched his cheek, very gently, and allowed her husband to steer her away from the viewing room door.
They were still trudging toward the exit when Sara came out of the morgue and rejoined the somber parade.
They all got into the Taurus for the long ride back to the Dean home. More traffic made this ride slower than their initial trip to the house on Serene Avenue. Brass watched in the rearview mirror as the Deans huddled in the backseat. Now, though, Dean seemed to have gone inside himself while his wife stared out the window, seeing nothing.
Finally, Mrs. Dean turned to look at Brass in the mirror. "I don't know what we can tell you that we haven't already told the other officers. When Kathy was a missing person."
Brass smiled mildly. "Well, let's go over it again and see what we can see."
Mrs. Dean nodded slightly. "What do you want to know?"
"How about her job at Habinero's Cantina? How did she get to work?"
"She had her own car."
Dean said, "2003 Corolla. Your crime scene people impounded it after she disappeared."
Sara caught Brass's eyes and mouthed: Dayshift.
Dean was saying, "They found Kathy's Corolla abandoned in a parking lot on Maryland Parkway. We still haven't gotten it back."
Brass ignored the small jab and asked, "How'd Kathy like her job? Been there long?"
Mrs. Dean gave that some consideration, then said, "She worked there for two years or so-started right before her seventeenth birthday."
"Did she enjoy it there?"
"Most of the time."
"Not all of the time?"
In the mirror, Brass saw Mrs. Dean wipe her nose with a tissue. "She did have some trouble…with a boy she dated there for a while?"
"What kind of trouble?"
"I said it was a boy."
Dean piped in to say, "He couldn't take the hint that she had other, more important priorities in her life than dating."
Definitely not the day to tell the Deans that they had almost been grandparents….
Brass said, "What kind of trouble exactly?"
"He wouldn't stop calling her," Mrs. Dean said, "but that was right after she started at the restaurant. She'd only been there a month or so when they began dating. It must have been over in, oh…two months?"
"Did you tell the Missing Persons detectives about this?"
Mrs. Dean thought for a moment. "I may have mentioned it, but maybe not-it was such old news."
Brass stopped for a red light and turned to look at Mrs. Dean. "Do you know if the detectives looked into it?"
"They never said."
"The boy's name?"
The light turned green and Brass got them moving again.
"Gerardo Ortiz."
"Did the trouble with this boy come to any kind of a head?"
Dean harumphed. "Kid must have finally taken the hint. He stopped calling. I was just about ready to track him down and beat the ever-living crap out of him."
Brass glanced in the mirror and saw the anger reddening Dean's face. "But you're over that now…right?"
Rubbing his forehead and obviously forcing himself to calm down, Dean said, "Yeah…yeah, I'm over it. Anyway…that kid quit
the restaurant, disappeared, far as I know."
"No idea where he is?"
"No! And good riddance, too."
Brass pulled into the Deans' driveway and they all got out.
As they walked up the sidewalk, Brass fell in alongside Dean, whose arm was around his wife. "Do you think the Ortiz boy was capable of harming your daughter?"
Dean paused and looked hard at Brass, eyes glittering. "For his sake?…I hope to God not."
They went inside the house and sat in the living room, the Deans on the sofa again, Brass and Sara in two wing chairs angled next to the couch. The grouping was great for facing the entertainment center, but not wonderful for eye contact during conversation, much less a police interview.
"We'll look into Gerardo Ortiz," Brass assured them. "But now I'd like to hear more about her other jobs. She have any problems at the blood bank?"
Both parents shook their heads.
Mrs. Dean said, "She handed out cookies and drinks to the people who gave blood. Everyone loved her."
Someone didn't love her,Brass thought; or maybe somebody had loved her too much….
Sara asked, "What about the babysitting jobs? Isn't that more a job for junior high, middle-school girls…?"
"Maybe so," the father said. "That's when Kathy started, and she held on to some of her 'clients'…mostly people who were friends of ours, who Kathy knew and got along with well. She loved kids, so she was a natural at babysitting."
Sara asked, "Would you mind if I took a look around her room?"
Nonconfrontationally, Dean said, "The other officers did that, already…when she first disappeared?"
"I understand, but fresh eyes might turn up something."
"Be our guest," Mrs. Dean said. "Her room is upstairs-last on the left."
"Thank you. Jim, could I have the keys? I need to get my kit."
Brass passed her the car keys.
"Kit?" Dean asked.
"Crime scene kit," Brass said. "Sara doesn't want to contaminate any evidence, should she find something."
"I see. But her bedroom isn't a crime scene, surely."
Brass thought, If she was abducted, it could be, but said instead, "Just routine."
Sara went out the front door.
"Let's get back to her babysitting," Brass said.
Mrs. Dean said, "Well, as I say, she didn't have that many regulars anymore-she was down to, oh, one or two nights a week? Usually, just helping out so a couple could go to dinner and a movie away from the kids. She was hardly ever out past midnight."
Sara came in carrying her silver crime scene kit and headed up the stairs.
"Didn't she have a sitting job," Brass asked, "the night she disappeared?"
"Yes," Dean said, "but she was home around twelve and in her room by twelve-thirty. She said everything went great. She really liked David and Diana."
"David and Diana," Mrs. Dean said, "kids she sat for that night."
"But she was home after that and everything seemed fine?"
"Yes, she closed her door, like my husband said, before twelve-thirty. She'd had a long day and was really tired. Jason had gone to bed about eleven, but I stayed up until Kathy got home-one of us always did. Anyway, she went to bed and, about ten minutes later, I went up."
"And that was the last time you saw her?"
Mrs. Dean swallowed; her eyes were very red. "Until today…yes. Kathy told me she was tired and that it had been a long day…those were the last words she ever said to me."
She stared into her lap; no tears-she was, for the moment at least, past that. Her husband's arm remained a comforting presence around her shoulder.
"Well, we'll start in her room and with that last day," Brass said, checking his notebook. "Uh, one more thing-what was the name of the family she sat for that night?"
"The Blacks," Dean said.
Brass's gut tightened. "Excuse me…? The Blacks?"
"Why, yes."
"Dustin Black?"
"Dustin Black," Jason said, nodding. "Do you know Dustin? He and his wife, Cassie, own Desert Haven Mortuary…. In fact, I'll be calling Dustin soon, about Kathy."
Me too,Brass thought. Me too….
6
THE HEAT WAVE HADN'T BROKEN YET, but at least Catherine Willows had gotten some time in with her daughter Lindsey yesterday; and the CSI felt more rested than she had in weeks.
Grissom had given both Catherine and Warrick the graveyard shift off to enable them to catch up on sleep and work the Vivian Elliot case in the daylight it called for.
Catherine was comfortable enough in her ponytail, sleeveless dark brown T-shirt, and pinstriped brown slacks; and Warrick, at the wheel of the Tahoe, in his light green T-shirt and blue jeans, looked cool in several senses of the word.
But it was early-they'd walked from the air conditioning of the police station to the air conditioning of the SUV. The hot day hadn't really had at them, yet…
They pulled up to the gate of the Sunny Day Continuing Care Facility. Detective Sam Vega had tagged along and was in the backseat, leaning up like a kid wondering how-many-more-miles-Daddy. The same silver-haired guard from yesterday was on duty, and Warrick had barely come to a stop when the guy waved them through.
"Hold up, Warrick," Vega said, hand on the CSI's shoulder. "We still need to talk to him. First chance I've had…"
The guard came out of his air-conditioned shack, frowning and clearly worried; this was apparently the biggest commotion he'd had to handle in some time.
"Hey!" he said to Warrick, who'd powered down the window. "Didn't you see me wave you through?"
Warrick nodded. "Yeah-we're Crime Lab, remember?"
The guard peered into the vehicle, his eyes finding Vega. "Yeah, I remember you people…. How are you doing, Detective? You need some backup?"
Catherine couldn't hold back the grin, but Vega remained stony as he unhitched his seat belt to lean even farther up, talking to the guard past the back of Warrick's headrest.
"We do need to ask you a few questions, sir. Starting with, what's your name?"
"Fred Mason. I'm an ex-deputy from Summerlin. Retired ten years ago."
"Meant to check with you yesterday, Fred, but you'd gone off shift. The other gentleman said that you each lock up your own clipboard. That right?"
"We each have our own responsibilities, yes."
"Could you check yesterday's sheet, and tell me if anybody signed in to see Mrs. Elliot?"
"Mrs. Elliot died yesterday morning. You know that."
"Before she died, Fred. Could you check?"
"Sure."
The retired deputy-did he have a single bullet in his pocket, Catherine wondered, like Barney Fife?-went back to his shack, got his clipboard and returned, flipping sheets. "Yeah, yeah, here she is…Martha Hinton."
Warrick and Catherine exchanged looks, Catherine mouthing: the neighbor.
"Fred," Vega was saying, "I'll need that sheet."
"Well-I'll have to get it photocopied before I hand 'er over."
"No problem, Fred. But if you go off shift, leave the original in an envelope with the guard who comes on after you. I'll give him a receipt for it."
The guard nodded.
Behind them a car honked.
"Anything else?" the guard said. "They're really starting to pile up."
One car was waiting.
Vega said, "Thank you, Fred. Appreciate your professionalism."
Fred liked hearing that.
Warrick pulled ahead. "Martha Hinton, huh? That's the best friend, right? But she said she didn't visit Vivian, right?"
"Said she hadn't been to see Vivian," Vega said, "for a day or so."
"Could she have been confused?" Warrick asked.
"Possible." Vega shrugged. "She was upset, hearing about her friend's death. Could have rattled her a little."
Catherine said, "In any case, you'll be talking to the good neighbor again, then."
"Yes…" Vega's eyes narrowed in thought. "…but we
're here. Let's deal with what's in front of us."
"Agreed," Warrick said.
Catherine nodded, ponytail swinging.
Within five minutes the detective and the CSIs were again seated in Dr. Larry Whiting's office.
The doctor did not look thrilled to see them, but he remained professional and polite. Again, he wore a lab coat, his tie brown-and-white striped and neatly knotted. Vega and Catherine sat in the chairs opposite Whiting while Warrick opted not to sit on the couch this time and leaned against the door.
The detective wasted no time. "Our crime lab has conducted an autopsy. The evidence indicates that Vivian Elliot was murdered."
"That's terrible," Whiting said, obviously surprised.
Catherine wondered if the doctor considered it "terrible" for Vivian that she'd been murdered, or for the Sunny Day facility?
Sitting forward, the doctor asked, "Do we know how it happened yet?"
Catherine noted the doctor's editorial "we"-as in, a doctor on rounds greeting a patient with, How are we feeling today?
"I'm not at liberty to say at this point, Doctor," Vega said. "But the CSIs and I will be looking into the backgrounds and records of all the employees here."
Whiting sighed, but said, "I understand."
Getting out his notebook, Vega asked, "I'll need the names of Vivian's caregivers."
"I would have to pull the records to know for sure. When do you need that?"
Catherine said, "Now would be good."
Whiting reached for a file on his desktop; he had vaguely implied it would take some doing finding the file, and here it was, at his fingertips-clearly he'd anticipated needing it.
He read, "Kenisha Jones…Rene Fairmont…and Meredith Scott." He lay down the file. "Those were the main ones. Various nurses might enter for assorted small tasks."
Vega was writing down the names. "What shifts did these three work?"
"Kenisha works days, Rene is second shift, and Meredith works overnight."
"What can you tell us about them?"
"Nothing beyond that they're professionals," Whiting said, gesturing with open palms. "Frankly, I don't know what kind of information you're looking for. Do I think any of them killed Vivian or any of the others? No. Of course not."
"Can you be specific about their individual performance?"
"I don't work with Meredith that much, as you might imagine-I'm seldom here overnight. As for the other two, Kenisha is a first-rate nurse; I've worked with her for as long as I've been here. Rene, the second shift nurse, strikes me as a dedicated caregiver as well. Never had a bit of problem with either of them."
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