CSI Mortal Wounds

by Max Allan Collins

  Stunned, the pair just stared at her. Hoskins kept his arm around Mrs. Fortunato, but said, finally, “How can we help?”

  Sighing, relieved but weary, she started over: “I need fingerprints from both of you.”

  The man nodded. “Can you do it here, or do we have to go to the station?”

  From her field kit, Catherine removed a portable fingerprint kit. “We can do it here.” She wanted to kick herself for botching this so badly. It shouldn’t have gone like this; thank God Grissom wasn’t around.

  Mrs. Fortunato seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry for calling you…for what I said.”

  Managing to summon up a gentle smile, Catherine said, “I’m sorry if I misled you in any way. I know this isn’t how you thought things would go…but I have to investigate everything, every aspect—good or bad, comfortable or uncomfortable.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just all been so…emotional. Gerry and I are both on edge. I’m sure you folks are too.”

  Every day, Grissom would remind them, we meet people on the worst day of their lives.

  Catherine printed them quickly, now in a rush to get the hell out of there. She had just opened new wounds in this old affair, and she wanted to slip away as swiftly as possible.

  As she finished and handed Hoskins a paper towel, to wipe off the ink, he said, “Thank you,” and Catherine said, “No, thank you, Mr. Hoskins.”

  He walked her to the door. “Ms. Willows.”

  “Yes?”

  “One favor?”

  “Try.”

  He swallowed. “Catch the son of a bitch.”

  Her eyes met his and held. “Oh, Mr. Hoskins. I will. I will.”

  13

  I n Henderson, Warrick—with Conroy riding in front, Sara in back—guided the Tahoe down Fresh Pond Court, looking at street numbers; this was a walled (not gated) housing development, designed for, if not the rich, definitely the well-off. When the SUV pulled up at the house in question, Brass’s Taurus was already parked in front, Grissom in the passenger seat. The two CSIs and the homicide detective got out and jogged up to the unmarked vehicle, Warrick taking the lead.

  The stucco ranch was the color the local real estate agents called “desert cream,” and sported the obligatory tile roof, with a two-car attached garage and a well-manicured lawn. Not many houses in the area could boast so richly green a lawn, or even grass for that matter; most front yards were either dirt or rock. This one rivaled a golf-course green, but instead of a flagged hole, a single sapling rose right in the middle. The rambling house had a quiet dignity that said “money”—no, Warrick thought, it whispered the word.

  “Somebody made the American dream pay off,” Warrick, leaning against the roof of the Taurus, said to his boss. “You been up to the door yet?”

  His expression blank, Grissom still had his eyes on the place. He said, “When we got here. Nobody home. Where have you been?”

  A sheepish half-grin tugged a corner of Warrick’s mouth. “We kinda got lost.”

  “How many CSIs does it take to screw in a light bulb?” Brass asked, sitting behind the wheel.

  “Two and a homicide detective, apparently,” Sara said. “Conroy’s with us.”

  “Hey, it’s a new neighborhood,” Warrick said. “Last time I was out this way, it was scrub brush and prairie dogs.”

  “Skip it,” Grissom said. “Nobody home anyway.”

  Conroy had gone around the other side of the vehicle, to talk to Brass; she was asking him, “You want me to check around back?”

  “We don’t have a warrant,” Brass said. “We’re gonna step carefully on this—case like this, you don’t want to risk a technicality.”

  “Almost looks deserted,” Sara, sidling up next to Warrick, asked her seated boss. “Nobody home, or does maybe nobody live here?”

  A dry wind rustled the leaves of the front yard sapling.

  “Furniture visible through the front windows,” Grissom said, “and the power company, water company, and county clerk all agree—this is the residence of one Barry Hyde.”

  “You don’t let any grass grow,” Warrick said.

  “Except for occasionally getting lost, neither do you.”

  Warrick took that as the compliment it was.

  “In fact, I think we’ve earned a break,” Grissom said.

  “Huh?” Sara said.

  “I think we should go check out the new video rentals,” Grissom said.

  Warrick, pushing off from the roof of the Taurus, said, “Might be some interesting new releases, at that.”

  Conroy stayed with the Taurus, at the residence, while Brass piled into the Tahoe, in back with Sara, with Warrick and Grissom in front.

  From the backseat Brass said, “If you’d like me to drive, I do know the way.”

  “I came up with this address,” Warrick said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “I’ll do the honors.”

  Barry Hyde’s video store was close to his house, just a few turns away and onto Wigwam Parkway. Glad he had his sunglasses on, Warrick turned into the Pecos Legacy Center parking lot, where glass storefronts reflected bright afternoon sunlight. A-to-Z Video—a typical non-chain store of its kind with a neon sign in the window and movie poster after poster taped there—sat at the far end of the strip mall, a discount cigarette store its next-door neighbor.

  Brass led the way into the video store, Grissom hanging back, in observer mode. To Warrick, it looked like every other non-chain video store he had ever been in—new releases around the outside wall, older movies in the middle. DVD rentals filled the section of the wall to the right of the cash register island, which was centered between the two IN and OUT doors. At the rear of the store was a door that presumably led to the storage area and the manager’s office.

  Behind the counter, in the cashier’s island, stood the only person in the store, a petite American Indian woman of about twenty, a blue imitation Blockbuster uniform over slacks and T-shirt, her straight black hair worn short. Her name tag said SUE.

  Fairly perky, and perhaps a trifle surprised to have customers, she asked, “Hi—welcome to A-to-Z Video. Are you looking for a particular title?”

  “Sue, I’m looking for Barry Hyde,” Brass said. He didn’t get out his badge—this seemed to be a toe in the water.

  The cashier smiled. “Mr. Hyde is out for the day. May I be of assistance?”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not going to be available until after the weekend.”

  Now Brass displayed his badge in its leather wallet. “Could you tell me why he’s not available?”

  Seeing that badge, the cashier’s cheerfulness turned to mild apprehension. “Oh, well—I’d like to help you, but I’m just…uh, maybe you should talk to Patrick.”

  Brass’s melancholy face twitched a sort of smile. “And who is Patrick?”

  “The assistant manager. He’s in charge until Mr. Hyde gets back.”

  “I’d like to talk to Patrick. Is he around?”

  “In the back,” she said. She pressed an intercom button and said, “Patrick, someone to see you?”

  The intercom said, “Who?”

  “I think it’s the police…. I mean, it is the police.”

  Patrick said, “Uh…uh, just a minute, uh…I’ll be…uh…right…uh…out.”

  Four minutes later, more or less, Grissom was prowling the store like each video was potential evidence; but the others—Warrick included—were getting impatient.

  Warrick realized that mid-afternoon wasn’t a busy time for any video rental store; but this place seemed particularly dead. He noted the posted rental rates—they weren’t bargains.

  Brass leaned against the counter. “Sue—would you rattle Patrick’s cage for me again?”

  The cashier was about to touch the intercom button when the door in the back opened and ambling out came a zit-faced kid who seemed younger than the cashier. Bleached blond with a dark goatee and black mid-calf shorts,
he had a sharp, short nose, small lips, and green eyes with pupils the size of pinheads; but for the blue polo shirt with A-to-Z stitched over the breast pocket, he looked like a guitar player in a metal band.

  As the kid stepped by him, Warrick noticed Patrick (as his name tag confirmed) smelled like a combination of Tic Tacs and weed. Which explained their four-minute wait.

  The assistant manager said, “Can I…uh…like, help you?”

  Brass seemed to be repressing a laugh; they’d sent for a manager and got back Maynard G. Krebs. “Are you Patrick?”

  He thought about it. Then, without having to refer to his name tag, he said, “Yeah. McKee. Is my last name.”

  “Patrick, we’d like to talk to you about your boss—Barry Hyde.”

  The kid’s sense of relief was palpable in the room and Warrick turned away to keep from laughing out loud. He pretended to study the new DVD release wall so he could still listen to the conversation.

  Patrick asked, “What about Mr. Hyde?”

  “He’s out of town?”

  Nodding, Patrick said, “Until Monday.”

  “Is Mr. Hyde out of town a lot?”

  The kid had to think about this question for a while, too. Finally, he managed, “Some.”

  “For how long? How often?”

  “He’s been doing it since I’ve been here.” Shrug. “Uh…eight months.”

  Brass shook his head. “That’s not what I meant, Patrick. I mean, how long a period of time is he generally away?”

  “Sometimes a couple of days, sometimes a week.”

  Warrick pulled a DVD box off the shelf and pretended to read the back—Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market. He knew Hyde couldn’t be gone for long stretches, because the man had rarely missed his regular Monday and Wednesday visits to the Beach-comber.

  Patience thinning, Brass was asking, “Do you know where Mr. Hyde is now?”

  Patrick thought about that one for a long time too. “No. I don’t think he said.”

  “What if there’s an emergency?”

  The kid’s face went blank. “Emergency?”

  “Yeah, emergency. He’s the boss. Don’t you have a number to call if you get robbed or a customer has a heart attack in the store? Or maybe a valuable employee, like you, has a family crisis?”

  “Oh, sure,” Patrick said.

  “Could you give us that number?”

  “Yeah—nine-one-one.”

  Brass just looked at the kid. Then he blew out some air, and called back to Grissom, at the rear of the little group. “You want to take a crack at this?”

  Grissom put his hands up in surrender.

  Warrick put the DVD box back—100% Multi-angle!!!—turned, and stepped forward. “Why don’t you guys wait outside. I’ll talk to Patrick.”

  Sara’s eyes met Warrick’s—they were on the same wavelength. She said, “Yeah, guys—I’ll stay with Warrick.”

  Grissom, sensing something from his CSIs, turned to look at Brass, shrugging. “Any objection, Jim?”

  “All right,” Brass said. He said to Grissom, “Why don’t you run me over to the house.”

  His car and Detective Conroy were there, after all.

  “Sure,” Grissom said. Then to Warrick and Sara: “Pick you up in fifteen.”

  Once the homicide cop and Grissom had left, Warrick turned to the assistant manager. “Okay, Patrick, truth or dare—just how stoned are you?”

  The eyes widened; however, the pupils remained pinpoints. “No way!”

  Sara said, “Cut the crap, Patrick. Dragnet has left the building—this is the Mod Squad you’re talking to…. We know there’s stoned, and there’s stoned.”

  Patrick seemed to have lost the ability to form words. He stood there with his mouth hanging open.

  “Why don’t the three of us,” Warrick said, slipping his arm around the skinny kid, “go into the back office, and just chill a little.”

  “Not the back room. I mean…uh…it’s…uh…private.”

  “That’s why we’re going to use it,” Sara said. “Because it’s private—customer comes in, we won’t be in the way.”

  The beleaguered Patrick looked to the cashier for help, but she turned her back, suddenly very interested in sorting returned videos. “Uh…I guess so…”

  “Cool,” Warrick said. He led the way to the back and was the first one through the door. The cubicle reeked of weed, even though the kid had lit three sticks of incense before he’d come out front. The “office” consisted of a shabby metal desk, a cheap swivel chair, some two-by-four-and-plywood shelves piled with screener tapes, and walls decorated with video promo posters, mostly for XXX-rated tapes.

  “Sorry,” Patrick said, coming through the door next. “It’s kind of…uh…grungy back here.”

  “And,” Sara said, just behind him, “it smells like Cheech and Chong’s van.”

  “On a Friday night,” Warrick added.

  Unable not to, the kid grinned at that.

  She wide-eyed the porno posters. “You actually carry this trash?”

  Patrick’s silly grin disappeared and professionalism kicked in: he was the assistant manager of A-to-Z Video, after all. He said “American Booty and The Boner Collector are our top two adult rental titles. You have to reserve them a couple weeks in advance.”

  “I’ll pass,” Sara said.

  “So, then,” Warrick said, sitting on the edge of the desk, “store does a pretty brisk business, huh?”

  Patrick snorted. “Yeah, right, whatever.”

  Sara asked, “Is it always like this—tumbleweed blowing through the place?”

  “Lot of the time,” Patrick admitted. “We do pretty good on the weekends sometimes, but there’s a Blockbuster on the next block, and the supermarket, at the other end of the mall? They rent tapes, too.”

  “Does Mr. Hyde seem concerned about business?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if it’s slow, do you have meetings—pep talks, try to figure out strategy, lower your prices…. ”

  “No, not really. Barry’s pretty cool for a boss. He’s got a wicked sense of humor—really dark, man, I mean brutal.”

  I’ll bet, Warrick thought.

  Patrick was saying, “He doesn’t give us a lot of shit…” He glanced at Sara. “…trouble about stuff.”

  “Does Hyde come in every day? When he’s in town, I mean?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he does. He doesn’t stay very long, most days. He comes in, maybe orders some tapes, checks the books, goes and makes the deposit from the night before. Oh, and sometimes he brings in munchies like doughnuts and stuff.”

  “How many people work here?”

  “Besides Mr. Hyde, four. Me, Sue—she’s out front now—Sapphire, and Ronnie. Me and Sue are usually paired up, Sapphire and Ronnie, same. We trade off every other week working days and nights. This week we’re on days, next week we’ll work nights. We don’t get bored that way, and then everybody can kind of, like, have a life, you know?”

  “That does sound cool,” Warrick said. “We just work the night shift.”

  “But it’s day,” Patrick said, shrewdly.

  Sara said, “We like to think of it as flex hours. How much do you make, working here, Patrick?”

  “Eight-fifty an hour. Me and Ronnie, I mean, ’cause we’re both assistant managers. Sapphire and Sue are makin’ seven-fifty an hour.”

  “Not bad pay,” Sara said, “for sitting here getting stoned.”

  Patrick tried to parse that—nothing judgmental had been in Sara’s tone, but she was with the cops—but finally he said, “I only do that if it’s real dead.”

  “Which is a lot of the time.”

  Patrick’s shrug was affirmative.

  Warrick, feeling Sara was getting off track, asked, “Do you remember, exactly, when Mr. Hyde has been out of town?”

  “Oh, hell—all his trips are marked on the calendar.”

  Warrick traded glances with Sara, then asked, “What calen
dar is that, Patrick?”

  “This one,” the kid said, pointing to the July Playmate, who loomed over the desk.

  “Mind if I have a look?” Warrick asked.

  “No, but…don’t you need a warrant or something?”

  Warrick’s reply was casual. “Not if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, well. Sure. Go ahead.”

  Flipping the pages with a pen, Warrick read off the dates and Sara copied them down. When they finished, she used the little camera from her purse to take shots of the calendar, just in case.

  Patrick became a tad nervous, when Sara started shooting the photos, and Warrick put an arm around the young man. “Patrick, I’m going to make you a deal.”

  “A deal?”

  “Yeah, if you don’t tell Mr. Hyde that we were here asking questions, I won’t bust your ass.”

  “Bust my ass…”

  “You know—for felony possession.”

  “Felony? I’ve only got half a…” Patrick froze as he realized what he was saying. His eyes looked pleadingly from Warrick to Sara. “I mean…I thought you guys were cool…. ”

  Warrick’s voice went cold. “Patrick, have we got a deal?”

  Reluctantly, Patrick nodded. “Yeah.”

  Outside in the sunshine, Warrick said to Sara, “There’s something not right here.”

  “More than pot smoke smells in there,” Sara agreed. “The manager’s never around, doesn’t worry about business, and lives in an expensive new house in an upscale neighborhood.”

  “And he’s gone from time to time—just short hops.”

  “Like maybe the Deuce isn’t retired, you mean?”

  “That does come to mind. We better go do some research about Mr. Barry Hyde.”

  That was when Grissom swung in, in the Tahoe; and on the way back, Warrick driving, they told their supervisor what they’d learned—and what they thought.

  “I want that list of dates,” Grissom said, “when Hyde was out of town.”