“You know—go out with guys, go to concerts, get a job. She wanted me to be the girl in the plastic bubble. She barely tolerated my boyfriend, Gary.”
“Tell me about your boyfriend.”
This time the nod carried some enthusiasm. “Gary Blair. He’s cool.”
“Cool? Aren’t the Blairs a pretty straight-laced family?”
A tiny smile appeared. “Basically. I don’t know about lace, but he’s pretty straight. His parents are in a church group with Mom…otherwise, I don’t think she’d even let me go out with him.”
“How strict was your mom?”
She snorted. “She’s way past strict into…” Her expression turned inward. “…I mean, she was way past strict…. ”
Brass could have kicked himself for the past-tense slip. She’d just been opening up, when he made the faux pas, and now he had to find a way to save the interview, before the kid caved.
“What do you and Gary like to do together?” Brass asked. “Movies? Dancing?”
Lori, lost in thought, didn’t seem to hear him. She was still on his previous question, mumbling, “Yeah, Mom made the 700 Club look like, you know, un-psycho.”
“You and Gary?”
She seemed to kind of shake herself out of it. “We, uh…you know, go to the movies, we hang out at the mall. Sometimes we just stay here.”
“Ever go to the Blairs?”
“Not much. His mom is really weird, kinda…you know, wired? Like a chihuahua on speed?”
Brass smiled at that, though the drug reference was disturbing. “So when you and Gary hang out here, what do you do?”
Yet another shrug. “Listen to CDs in my room, watch DVDs, stuff like that. Sometimes surf the ’net. Go in chat rooms and pretend to be people, you know, like pretend I’m a nympho or a dyke or somethin’—typical shit.”
Brass was starting to wonder if the shrugging was a nervous tic, or simply generational—his sullen daughter had shrugged at him a lot the last time he’d seen her. Somewhere along the line, shrugging had become a substitute for speech. “Gary ever around, when your parents argued?”
She gave him an odd, sideways look. Her response turned one syllable into at least three: “No.”
“But you did? See them argue?”
“I…I don’t know if I should be talking about stuff like that…. That’s personal. Family shit.”
“It’s all right, Lori. I’m a…public servant. I’m just trying to help you…help your family get through this.”
She drew back. “That’s bullshit.”
He froze, then laughed. “Yeah…I guess it is, sort of. Lori, this is a crime. I have to find out what happened to your mom. If you don’t talk to me, you’ll have to talk to somebody, sometime. Why not get it out of the way?”
Lori considered that for a moment before answering. “Yeah, well. They fought sometimes. All parents do. All married people do, right?”
“Right.”
“I don’t think they fought any more than anybody else. I mean, I never saw Gary’s parents fight, but they’re such…pod people. My other friends’ parents fight, at least the ones that are still together do.”
Out in the large, tidy garage, Pierce stood on the periphery, arms folded, while a latex-gloved Grissom poked around.
One of the two parking places stood empty, the therapist’s blue Lincoln Navigator occupying the other. A workbench made out of two-by-fours and plywood ran most of the length of the far wall, tools arrayed on the pegboard above it, larger power tools stored on the shelf below. Three bikes and two sets of golf clubs in expensive bags lined the nearest wall. A plywood ceiling held a pull-down door with stairs that gave access to the crawlspace up there.
“Do you own a chain saw?” Grissom asked affably.
“A chain saw!” Pierce’s eyes and nostrils flared. “I resent this harassment! I’m trying to—”
Holding up a traffic-cop palm, Grissom interrupted. “I’m not harassing you, Mr. Pierce.”
“That’s how it looks to me.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way. I’m doing my job, which is to find and eliminate suspects based upon the evidence.”
“I’m automatically a suspect, I suppose, because I’m the husband.”
“Based on that tape you heard Captain Brass play, it’s fair to say you had argued with your wife, threatening her with violence…and when she turns up dead in just the manner you described, you tell me? Are you a reasonable candidate for the crime?”
The therapist looked dumbfounded. “Well…”
“Your cooperation helps me eliminate you as a suspect. Remember that.”
Pierce turned conciliatory, sighing as he walked over to the criminalist. “I’m sorry, Mr. Grissom. I guess I lost my head, because I do know how it looks.”
The question, the CSI thought, is how did your wife lose her head? But Grissom had enough sense and tact not to blurt as much.
Instead, Grissom said only, “Understandable, sir. Understandable.”
“Lynn and I had some really good times, before she was… born again. I’m telling you, it’s like she joined a cult. Do you know that she told me, once, that she felt it was so sad that good people like Gandhi and Mother Teresa had to go to hell, ’cause they hadn’t been saved, like she had? I can’t lie to you, Mr. Grissom—we were definitely in the divorce express lane.”
“The chain saw?”
Pierce sighed, pointed. “Under the workbench…. Want me to…?”
Grissom nodded, followed him over and watched as Pierce pulled out two chain saws and hauled them, one at a time, up on the bench. One, a brand new STIHL, was still in the box.
“This box is sealed,” Grissom said, giving it a close, thorough look.
“Yeah, just bought it yesterday. Got the receipt.”
The other, an old Poulan, was so rusty that Grissom could tell just by looking that the saw wouldn’t even start, let alone cut through a human body.
“What do you generally use a chain saw for, Mr. Pierce?”
“Cutting firewood, mostly. Pile out back.”
Grissom nodded at the door leading outside. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Behind the house, in the moonlight, Pierce showed Grissom to the woodpile. Using a pocket flash, the CSI knelt and inspected several of the cords.
“These are freshly cut, Mr. Pierce.” He stood. “You’ve got one saw that’s inoperable, and another still in the box. How is it you have fresh cut firewood?”
Pierce didn’t miss a beat. “Nextdoor neighbor. Mel Charles, he loaned me his chain saw.”
“When?”
“Couple of days ago. I like to watch a fireplace fire…helps me think, relax. So, I cut some wood. That’s relaxing, too—use some muscles I don’t, in my work.”
Grissom nodded; he’d have Brass check with the neighbor.
They went back into the garage, Pierce saying, “Is that all, Mr. Grissom?”
“Crawlspace?”
Pierce pulled the steps down, and Grissom and his Maglite went up for a look—nothing. He would send Warrick and Nick in for the fine-tooth comb tour, later.
The physical therapist ushered Grissom back into the house, where Brass and Lori were just wrapping up their interview. Brass glanced up as they came in, but continued the interview.
“Lori, you’ve gone through some pretty big changes,” Brass said. “The dyed hair, the pierced eyebrow, weren’t you worried about what your mom would say when she came home?”
Lori’s eyes shot to her father’s, but she said nothing.
Pierce, sitting next to his daughter, putting a hand on her shoulder, said, “Lori was so upset when we thought Lynn had abandoned us, well…I thought a few changes wouldn’t hurt anything, and would help Lori’s state of mind.”
“But wouldn’t her mother have been furious?” Brass asked.
Pierce waved that off. “Lori had every right to be angry. At least, she thought so at the time.”
Bra
ss’s eyes moved to Grissom. The CSI supervisor shook his head: nothing in the garage. Rising, Brass said, “Thank you, Lori—I really appreciate your cooperation.”
The girl shrugged—but a tiny one-sided smile indicated the slight but significant rapport Brass had established.
To Pierce, Brass said, “I’m sure we’ll have more questions for Lori, as the investigation continues. But I promise you we’ll keep her best interests in mind.”
“I’m sure,” Pierce said dryly.
“We’ll also have more questions for you.”
“Then you’re not arresting me?”
“No,” Brass said, a “not at this time” lilt in his voice, “but you may wish to consult with your attorney.”
Pierce’s reply was quietly sardonic: “Because you have my best interests in mind.”
The investigators moved to the door and Pierce shut it wordlessly behind them.
Out in the yard, Grissom gestured to the sprawling stucco ranch-style house next door. “We need to stop by the neighbor’s house.”
“Kinda late.”
Grissom explained what Pierce had told him about the chain saw. “I want that chain saw, now.”
“Are you saying Owen Pierce borrowed his neighbor’s chain saw to cut up his wife?”
“He could have. Any way you look at it, I want that chain saw.”
They crossed the well-manicured yard, a dwarf fruit tree perched in the middle of a brick circle surrounded by a moat of mulch. Brass rang the bell.
“They’re gonna love us,” Brass said.
But it was only a moment before an auburn-haired woman of about thirty answered the door. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with the “Race for the Cure” logo splashed across the front. Green-eyed with milky skin, she had a small rabbit-twich nose and an inquisitive expression—but she didn’t look annoyed.
The muffled sound of Conan O’Brien came from the living room. Good, Brass thought. We didn’t wake anyone.
“I don’t normally open the door at this time of night,” she said, and her voice, though quiet, carried a backbone of authority. “But I’ve seen you before, stopping next door, and on TV, too—you’re the police officers on the Lynn Pierce case, aren’t you?
Brass already had his I.D. out to show her. “That’s right, ma’am. I’m Captain Jim Brass and this is crime-scene investigator, Gil Grissom. Is Mel Charles here?”
“Mel is my husband—I’m Kristy Charles.” Her smile disappeared. “The house is kind of a mess—you mind if I bring Mel to you?”
“Not at all,” Brass said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“Any help we can give, we’re glad to—Lynn’s a great gal, but her husband…well, I’ll get Mel for you.”
Soon Mel Charles filled the doorway, his wife staying just behind him, taking it all in. She seemed to have a satisfied expression, as though relishing this call by the police.
“Mr. Charles,” Grissom said, “did you loan a chain saw to your nextdoor neighbor, Mr. Pierce?”
“Couple days ago,” Charles said.
“Have you loaned him the saw on other occasions?”
Charles considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “Never needed it before. He had his own. He’s always out there cutting wood.”
“Why’d he need yours?”
“Said his had rusted up on him, and he hadn’t had a chance to get a new one.”
“Are you and Owen Pierce close, Mr. Charles? Hang out, shoot the breeze, loan each other garden tools and so on, pretty casually?”
“No. We just nod at each other…. Kristy and Lynn are friendly, share a cup of coffee now and then…I wouldn’t say ‘close.’ ”
“Obviously, you’ve seen the news about the disappearance of Mrs. Pierce, and what was found out at Lake Mead, today…”
Mrs. Charles’s face was etched with dread. “You don’t mean…he used our chainsaw to…oh my God…. Excuse me.”
And she was gone.
Brass said, “Your wife liked Mrs. Pierce.”
Eyebrows rose above the Buddy Holly rims. “You make it sound like Lynn’s dead, Captain Brass.”
“The evidence leans that way, yes.”
Charles shook his head, mouth tight. “Well, that’s a damn shame, God, a pity. She was real nice—kind of straight-laced? But nice.”
“Straight-laced?” Brass echoed, remembering using the term himself when questioning Lori.
“You know—Born-Again Christian, conservative as hell.”
“How about Mr. Pierce?”
With a shrug, Charles said, “We don’t know them that well, really. But I get the idea he wasn’t the church-going type, himself.”
“What makes you say that?”
Charles was clearly trying to decide how much it was fair to say. “…I’ve seen rough characters stop by the house.”
“Any you might be able to identify?”
“There was this one guy…I don’t want to sound prejudiced.”
“Black? Hispanic? Asian?”
“Black guy—dreadlocks, jewelry, baseball cap backwards.”
“Often?”
“No. Few times, when Pierce’s wife was away. He had different women in the house, too, when Lynn was visiting relatives or even just off doing some church thing.”
Brass frowned. “Different women? Not one woman?”
“Hookers, is my guess. Right in his own house.”
“What about his daughter? Would she have witnessed it?”
“She wasn’t home that much, especially when the mom wasn’t around.”
Mrs. Charles’s voice chimed back in; she’d returned, drying her eyes with a tissue—maybe she’d been off throwing up. “That daughter’s got a smart mouth…but I suppose people think the same thing about our kids.”
Brass was not surprised the Charleses and the Pierces weren’t close—typical for neighbors in a city growing as fast as Vegas. It was one of the things Brass hated about living in the fastest-growing city in the United States. In the last ten years, the population had expanded by the size of Minneapolis, and every single day the equivalent of Salt Lake City came to visit. He lived in a city of strangers, some good, some bad, and one of them had killed and dismembered Lynn Pierce.
Mel Charles did not object when Grissom collected the chain saw into evidence.
As they drove back, Brass turned to Grissom. “What do you think?”
“If Pierce used this chain saw, all the cleaning in the world didn’t get the blood off. The luminol will tell.”
But an hour later Grissom was in his office, on the phone to Brass. “This chain saw hasn’t cut anything but cord wood.”
“Jesus,” Brass said into the phone. “This guy Pierce has an answer for everything.”
“Too many answers, Jim—and too pat. Don’t despair—this tells us a lot.”
“What does it tell us? A chain saw with no blood on it? That doesn’t tell us a damn thing!”
Patiently Grissom said, “It tells us there’s a missing chain saw—probably at the bottom of Lake Mead.”
“Where we’ll never find it—but how do you figure…?”
“I should have known,” Grissom said, disgusted, “when Pierce all but walked me over to that nextdoor neighbor. He was sending us on a wild goose chase, Jim, while trying to build a sort of alibi. Doesn’t wash, though.”
“Because there’s a third chain saw?” The skepticism in Brass’s voice was thick.
“No, there are four chainsaws. Think it through, Jim—Pierce has an ancient, rusted-out chain saw. That thing hasn’t been used for some time. Yet the neighbor has seen him, fairly recently, cutting cord wood.”
“There’s also a brand-new, in-the-box chain saw.”
“Yes—to replace the chain saw used to dismember Lynn. The one now, presumably, at the bottom of the lake.”
Brass was getting it. “And after he tossed that chain saw in the lake, he borrowed his neighbor’s…to cut some firewood, and to throw us off
the trail.”
“Exactly. To make it appear that there had never been a chain saw in the Pierce household between the old rusted one and the new-in-the-box.”
Brass grunted a humorless laugh. “Well, Gil—I’ll let you walk your new proof over to the D.A. That’s about the most circumstantial circumstantial evidence I ever heard.”
“I didn’t say it would hold up in court. But it’s a piece of the puzzle, and we need all the pieces we can get our hands on.”
“Particularly since we only have one piece of Lynn Pierce. Can you make the picture out yet, Gil, of this puzzle you’re working?”
“I can tell you Owen Pierce cut up his wife with the missing chain saw.”
“After he murdered her?”
“That,” Grissom said, “I can’t say.”
“Great. If we can prove he cut his wife up, but not that he murdered her first, we can book him on his other crime.”
“What other crime?” Grissom asked.
“Littering.”
And the phone clicked in Grissom’s ear.
10
W ell past the end of her shift, the long hours suddenly catching up to her, Catherine Willows sat at her desk, on the phone, talking to a lawyer—and the hell of it was, it had been her own idea.
She was speaking to Jennifer Woods, in “legal” at ESPN, and had introduced herself. The woman—whose voice was alto range, self-confident, professional—did not seem at all surprised, or for that matter impressed, to be hearing from a Las Vegas PD criminalist.
“How may I help you, Ms. Willows?”
“Ms. Woods, we have a suspect in a murder case who claims he was watching television at the time of the murder.”
“Our network, I take it.”
“That’s right.”
“What day, what time?”
Catherine read from her notes: “Thursday, October twenty-five, from five thirty Pacific time until, let’s say midnight.”
“And what are you after, Ms. Willows?”
“First, your program listing. Second, a VHS dub of your file tape, assuming you keep such a thing. As I said, we’re checking a murder suspect’s alibi.”
A pause—ducks were being gathered into a row. “All right, Ms. Willows, here’s how it works. We need a letter of request sent to us. If it’s not in writing, it doesn’t exist.”
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