"Jim, did you get a detailed description of Lynn Pierce beyond the photo her husband gave us?"
"I didn't, but the officer that spoke to Owen Pierce on the phone…he did. Why, what do you want to know?"
"Distinguishing marks?"
He could hear Brass riffling through some papers.
"A small scar on her left hand," Brass read, "an episiotomy scar, a bluish birthmark on her right shoulder…"
The torso didn't have a left hand or a right shoulder.
"…and another birthmark, uh, on her left hip."
Grissom let out a long, slow breath.
"Jim, that was her in Lake Mead."
"Damn," Brass said, the disappointment evident in his tone. "I was hoping…"
"Me too."
"But if she's been killed, at least we have something to go on. We need to get over to Pierce's before the media…" The phone line went silent.
"Jim, what is it?"
"I just turned on a TV, to check…we're too late. It's already on channel eight."
"I'll call you right back." Grissom hung up and strode briskly toward the break room, pulling his cell phone and jabbing in Brass's number, on the move. In the break room (Warrick and Nick long gone), he turned on the portable television on the counter and punched channel eight. He heard the phone chirp once, and Brass answered.
"I've got it on," Grissom said.
They watched as Jill Ganine stood next to Owen Pierce, the physical therapist, in dark sweats, towering over the petite reporter, on the front stoop of his home.
"Mr. Pierce," Ganine said, her voice professional, her smile spotwelded in place, "as you know, the severed remains of a woman were pulled from Lake Mead this morning. Do you believe this to be your wife?"
Pierce shook his head. "As I've told the police, Lynn left us…both my daughter and myself. Lynn and I'd had some problems, and she wanted time by herself…. We will hear from her."
"But, Mr. Pierce-"
"I have to believe that the poor woman found today is someone else…" He touched his eyes, drying tears-or pretending to. "I don't wish anyone a tragedy, but…I…I'm sorry. Could I…say something to my wife?"
The camera zoomed past a painfully earnest Ganine in on Pierce. The big man steadied himself, rubbed a hand over his face, then looked into the lens.
"I'd just like to say to Lynn, if you're listening or watching-please, just call home, call Lori…that's the important thing. We so need to hear your voice."
Giving a little nod of understanding, Ganine turned to the camera, as Pierce disappeared behind his front door. "That's the story from the Pierce house, where the little family still holds out hope that Mrs. Pierce is alive and well…and will soon get in touch with them…. Jill Ganine for KLAS News."
Grissom clicked off the television.
"You believe that shit?" Brass asked in Grissom's ear.
"What I believe doesn't matter. Melodramatic TV news is irrelevant. What matters is the evidence."
"Like the birthmark?"
Grissom said, "And the audio tape."
"Shit! Damn near forgot about that tape."
Grissom said, "I just got the voice analysis back-and it's definitely Pierce talking. He threatens to cut his wife up in little pieces and now we have a piece of a woman…"
"Not a 'little' piece, though."
"No…but one with a birthmark identical to a marking his wife's known to have. Can I assume, Captain Brass, you'll be on your way to call on Owen Pierce, soon?"
"Meet me at my car."
8
AT THE SAME TIME GIL GRISSOM WAS MEETING UP WITH Jim Brass in the parking lot, Catherine Willows sat before a monitor at a work station in her office. The TV remote in hand seemed grafted there, as grainy images slipped by on the screen, rewinding, then playing again, rewinding….
Despite her glazed expression-Catherine had been at this three hours-she was alert, and the unmistakable aroma of popcorn penetrated Catherine's concentration. Keenly tuned investigator that she was, she turned toward the doorway. There stood Sara Sidle, typically casual in jeans, blue vest and cotton blouse, holding out an open bag of break room microwave popcorn like an offering to a cranky god.
"If that smelled any better," Catherine said to her colleague, "I'd fall to the floor, and die happy."
Sara placed the steaming bag on the counter, away from the stack of tapes they'd been plowing through, and wheeled her own chair up beside Catherine's. "Careful-don't get burned."
"In this job? When don't you get burned…?" Taking a few kernels, Catherine blew on them, then popped the popcorn into her mouth. "You know, normally I have a rule against eating while I work-I don't have your youthful metabolism."
"Yeah, right…. Anyway, when was the last time you had a meal? Christmas?"
"Well…maybe New Year's…."
Sara smirked triumphantly. "My point exactly. We've got to eat something sometime, don't we?"
"We'll take a break when we come to a break…. I just feel…I don't know, guilty somehow, taking off before anything's been accomplished."
"Feeling guilty is one thing," Sara said, shoving the bag at her again. "Feeling faint is another."
Catherine glanced at Sara-when an obsessively dedicated coworker tells you to slow down, maybe you ought to listen. And yet Catherine kept at it, the grainy video images crawling across the screen. Right now she was viewing the angle behind the bar. In the frame, the guy in the hat, dark glasses, and Lipton Construction jacket, strolled through then disappeared. Rewind. Again.
"That might be Lipton," Sara said, leaning in, eyes narrowed. "Then again, with this picture, it might be Siegfried or Roy."
"Or their damn tiger." Catherine sighed, shook her head. "We've got to get a better look. Where's Warrick, anyway?"
Audio-visual analysis was Warrick Brown's forensic specialty.
Sara shrugged. "Off with Grissom and Nick. They're neck-deep in the Pierce woman's murder."
Catherine looked sharply at Sara. "That torso's been identified positively?"
"Close enough for Grissom to call it science and not a hunch. And I think our likelihood of borrowing Warrick for this, in the foreseeable future, is-"
"Hey! You remember that one guy?"
Sara's eyebrows went up. "I'm good, but I need a little more than that to go on."
Then Catherine traded the remote for her cell phone and punched in Grissom's number.
"Grissom," the supervisor's voice said, above the muted rumbling of motor engine and traffic sounds that told her he was on the road; he was, in fact, on his way with Brass to Owen Pierce's residence.
"Gil, I've got a problem."
"Jenna Patrick?"
"Yeah," Catherine said. "The videotapes are so grainy, not even Lipton's mother could ID our suspect. I'm assuming you can't spare Warrick-"
"Normally when you assume you make an ass of u and me. This is one of the rare other occasions."
Catherine rolled her eyes at Sara; a simple "That's right" would have been sufficient. Into the phone, she asked, "Gil, who was that guy?"
Again Sara raised her eyebrows. Grissom, however, had no problem deciphering who Catherine meant, answering without hesitation: "Daniel Helpingstine."
"Helpingstine," Catherine echoed, nodding. "That's right, that's right."
"Anything else?"
"Can I borrow Warrick?"
"No."
"Then I have to spend a little money."
"That's what we have-a little money. But do it."
At that, they both clicked off, no good-byes necessary. She rose and moved behind her desk. Sitting down, she quickly found the leather business-card folder in a drawer and riffled the plastic pages.
"Helpingstine?" Sara asked, still perplexed; she hated not knowing what was up.
"Yes." Catherine was flipping pages. "I guess you must've been out in the field, when he stopped by-manufacturer's rep from LA, who was here, oh…maybe six months ago…. Here you are!…He was pushing t
his new video enhancement device called Tektive-not computer software, a standalone unit."
"What's it do?"
Catherine started punching buttons on the cell phone again. "Just about everything short of showing the killer on the Zapruder film, if Helpingstine's to be believed. He might be able to out-do even Warrick, where this security tape's concerned."
On the other end of the line, the phone rang once, twice, three times, then a recorded message in Helpingstine's reedy tenor came on, identifying the West Coast office of Tektive Interactive.
Catherine waited for the tone, and said, "I don't know if you'll remember me, Mr. Helpingstine, this is Catherine Willows, Las Vegas Criminalistics. If you could call me, ASAP, at-"
She heard the phone pick up, and the same reedy tenor, in person, said, "Ms. Willows! Of course I remember you, pleasure to hear from you."
"Well, you're really burning the midnight oils, Mr. Helpingstine."
"My office is in my home, Ms. Willows, and I just happened to hear your message coming in-you're nightshift, if I recall."
This guy was good. But she could practically hear him salivate at the prospect of a sale.
"That's right," Catherine said, "nightshift. Never dreamed I'd get a hold of you tonight-"
"It's been what, Ms. Willows-six months? How may I help you? Are those budget concerns behind you, I hope?"
Maybe she could pull this off without spending even "a little money." "Mr. Helpingstine, are you still willing to give us an on-the-job demonstration of the Tektive?"
He was breathing hard, now. "Happy to! As I told you when we met, as good as our prepared demonstration is, it's far better for us to help you with something, and, uh…" She could hear pages turning quickly. "…how is Thursday?"
"I know it's terribly short notice, but…could you possibly fly in here tomorrow?"
Silence indicated he was considering that. "This isn't just…any demo, is it?"
"No," Catherine confessed. "It's a murder."
"Let me check on flights and I'll get back to you."
"You have my number?"
"Oh yes. In my little book."
She could almost hear his smile.
Catherine hung up, and with a wry smirk said to Sara, "He thinks he's got my number."
"That's only fair, isn't it?" Sara batted her eyes. "I mean, you've got his."
They returned to the tapes and the popcorn, and less than a half hour later the desk phone rang.
She answered, and Helpingstine asked, "Can you have someone pick me up at McCarran?"
Catherine smiled; now this was service. "Tell me what gate and what time, Mr. Helpingstine. Someone will be there, possibly my associate Sara Sidle or myself."
She could hear his pen scribbling Sara's name, then he gave the information, finishing with, "And would you please call me Dan?"
"Happy to, Dan. And it's Catherine. See you soon."
Catherine hung up and Sara asked, "How soon?"
"Six-thirty."
"Tomorrow evening?"
Catherine grinned. "No-this morning."
Sara grinned, too. "He have a thing for you, or what?"
"I think he has a thing for money-this little item sells in mid five figures." She sighed. "That means we can stop looking at these grainy videotapes until he gets here and concentrate on other things."
"For instance?"
"We could grab some food, if you like."
Sara half-smirked, lifted a shoulder. "Actually, I'm kinda stuffed."
"Demon popcorn. There's always searching Lipton's house."
Sara's eyes brightened. "About time!"
Reaching for her desk phone, Catherine said, "I'll call Conroy."
An hour later they met Detective Erin Conroy-crisply professional in a gray pants suit-in the driveway of Ray Lipton's house on Tinsley Court, not far off Hills Center Drive. A baby-blue split level built in the 'eighties, the house perched on a sloping lawn, looking well-taken care of in a neighborhood of other well-maintained homes, always a quiet area, particularly so at this hour of the night. The driveway ran alongside the house, a two-car garage around back.
The detective stood next to her Taurus, warrant in her hand, at her side, almost casually. "I've got it-let's go in."
"How are we getting inside?" Sara asked.
"Look what our buddy Ray gave me…" Conroy flashed a key. "The warrant's just to dot the i's. Lipton's still cooperative-insists he's innocent."
Innocent men always do,Catherine thought; but then so do most guilty ones….
The three of them pulled on latex gloves, then the detective unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
"You want upstairs or downstairs?" Catherine asked her coworker.
"Cool stuff's always in the basement," Sara said, with a smile of gleeful anticipation. "I'll take that."
"Let's clear it first," Conroy said.
So the three of them walked through the basement, then Conroy and Catherine went up.
Stairs from the entry way opened onto the living room. Catherine noted the good-quality brown-and-tan carpet, and heavy brown brocade drapes hanging from ornamental rods, shut tight, the sunlight managing only a hairline or two of surreptitious entry. With everything shrouded in darkness like this, the house gave the impression it'd been closed up much longer than twenty-four hours. Only yesterday's Las Vegas Sun, on the coffee table and open to the cross-word puzzle, indicated ongoing life. Beyond the coffee table, the cream-color plaster wall was occupied by an oversized brown couch accented by a couple of tan throw pillows; a starving-artist's-sale desert landscape hung straight above the couch. However neat the living room might be, one aspect seemed to indicate a male presence: the room had been turned into a formidable home entertainment center.
A thirty-six-inch Toshiba color TV ruled the room from a wheeled stand in a corner of the room, while a tan high back armchair sat to Catherine's left, where she stood at the top of the entry stairs, the chair's twin across the room next to the sofa. Both were placed at angles to the couch so they faced the TV. Speakers were mounted to the walls around the room and she noticed a black sub-woofer on the floor next to the TV stand. A DVD player and VCR were stacked on the lower shelf of the stand and through a smoked-glass door below that, she could make out a row of DVDs.
"Why go out to the movies?" Conroy asked.
"It does beg the issue," Catherine said.
"So maybe he was home watching football."
"We'll see…."
Using her Maglite, Catherine took a quick look at the DVDs, then at the other shelves of the TV stand, one of which had a few prerecorded tapes and a lot of T-120 cassettes, some with notations: "Friends season closer"; "Sat Nite Live w/ John Goodman"; and so on.
She checked the VCR: no tape. Question was, had Lipton recorded the Colts/Chiefs game, watched it after committing Jenna's murder, then hidden (or thrown away) the incriminating tape, just so he could have his TV ball game alibi?
Stranger things had happened, of course, but Catherine had a hard time buying that Lipton had strangled his girlfriend, come home, maybe had a beer while he watched the taped game, while at the same time getting his story ready for when the police came around. That seemed a reach to her.
Nonetheless, she gathered all the videotapes, including the prerecords, stacking them in front of the TV; she told Conroy to collect any video cassettes she might run across, and called the same instructions down to Sara. They would box them all up as evidence.
Catherine and Conroy checked the cushions of the furniture and behind the framed landscape over the sofa, finding nothing, not even loose change. They moved through the dining room, Conroy pausing briefly to riffle through the pile of mail on the table. She found nothing worth bagging.
The kitchen, a small galley-type affair, had a U-shaped counter at the far end, home to a double-basin sink with a couple of dirty plates and a glass in one side. The stove and refrigerator were a matching off-white, and Catherine found healthier food in the
fridge than she would expect from a single guy. In the freezer and cupboards, she found nothing noteworthy.
The refrigerator had a piece of note paper held to the door by a Wallace and Gromit magnet: a list of names and phone numbers. Conroy put the list into an evidence bag and replaced the magnet on the refrigerator.
"Not much so far," the detective said.
"Well, we know Jenna was living here," Catherine said. "Or do you know a man who could keep a house this tidy?"
"Not many," Conroy admitted.
They moved down the hallway to where two doors stood opposite each other. The one to the right was a spare bedroom, the one to the left the bathroom. Conroy took the bathroom, Catherine the bedroom. Sparsely furnished with only a tiny dark dresser and a single bed covered with a tan quilt, the room with its bare cream-color plaster walls looked like a nun's cell.
A closet hid behind wooden, sliding double doors. Catherine opened one side and saw shoe and other boxes stacked from the floor to the shelf, with more boxes occupying that space.
She heard Conroy pad in from the bathroom.
"Nothing in there," the detective said. "I'm going to check out the master bedroom."
"All right. I'll be going through these boxes."
The fourth box down in the back row, a flowered Mootsie's Tootsies shoebox, presented Catherine with the prize. Opening the box-the only woman's shoebox in the stack-she found a false beard, mustache, and a small brown bottle of spirit gum.
She felt her hopes that Lipton might be telling the truth start to fade, as this discovery seemed to confirm what she'd seen in the videotape…that he had, indeed, worn a fake beard and mustache to throw people off the track, and yet still had the bad sense to wear a coat with his company's name on the back.
Lipton didn't seem that thick, but plenty of other criminals had done dumber things in the commission of their crimes. She recalled one Don Dawson, who had worked at Castaways Bowling Center. Dawson had been smart enough to know the boss had a camera in the office, so when he'd gone in to crack the safe he'd worn a mask-style stocking cap. The cap had gone nicely with the satin jacket with Castaways Bowling Center embroidered on the back, and his name, "Don," on the breast. Dawson had lasted through almost thirty seconds of interrogation before he'd copped to the robbery.
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