CSI Mortal Wounds

by Max Allan Collins

  Chin high, proud of herself, the dancer said, “Belinda Bountiful.”

  Catherine laughed out loud. “That wouldn’t be a stage name, by any chance?”

  The redhead glanced around, making sure no one was listening, and whispered, “Pat Hensley.”

  “Don’t the other girls know your real name?”

  “We’re not that close. I like to keep my private life private, that’s all…. I got a husband and two kids to feed.”

  Catherine sat on the edge of a dressing table. “So, the money’s dried up around here?”

  With a shake of her ersatz-auburn mane, the dancer said, “It was hard enough to make money here when Jenna was alive—this ain’t exactly the Flamingo, you know. But now…”

  “What about now?”

  “Whose fantasy is it, to go into the club where there’s been a murder, anyway? Jeffrey Dahmer’s maybe? Ted Bundy’s? And those two ain’t been hittin’ the club scene much, lately. Plus which, we’ve had cops in and out of here, almost nonstop since Jenna bought it.”

  That was touching. “You have a few customers out there. It’s early, yet.”

  “Probably as big a crowd as we’ll see all night.”

  Trying to catch the dancer with her guard down, Catherine asked, “Bother you at all, how much money Jenna was pulling down?”

  The Hensley woman scoffed at that. “Hell, no. You’re kidding, right?”

  “You were making your fair share then?”

  Moving a well-manicured hand to her cleavage, the dancer asked, “You know anything about this life, then you know that as long as I have these, I’m going to make my fair share.”

  “You happen to know if Jenna Patrick was using her real name?”

  The belligerence was gone, now. “That was her real name—had the right sound, y’know? Lots of ‘Jennas’ around the strip circuit, right now. Hot porn star name.”

  “You knew that was Jenna’s real name, but she didn’t know yours?”

  “Hey, just ’cause I’m belly-achin’ about business, don’t think I’m glad Jenna’s gone. Truth is, we were friends. I get along with her roommate, too.”

  “Tera Jameson, you mean?”

  “That’s right—ever see that one dance? Now she is class; she was born with a great rack, and she studied ballet and shit. Yeah, before Tera left for Showgirl World, the three of us was pretty close.”

  Catherine cast an eye toward Conroy who was still talking to the African-American dancer. “Has Detective Conroy talked to you yet?”

  The dancer shrugged. “Last time you guys was here.”

  “Not this time around?”

  “No, why?”

  “I had the impression,” the CSI said, “that the girls around here weren’t all that tight.”

  Pat nodded. “That’s true enough, but I’m kinda the…den mother, I guess. And the three of us, Tera and Jenna and me, we hung out together quite a bit. Shopping, the occasional breakfast after we got off, stuff like that.”

  “How well do you know her boyfriend?”

  “Hothead Ray? Not all that well.” Pat smirked sourly. “I was a little surprised when Jenna hooked up with his ass.”

  “Surprised, why?”

  Again the dancer looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “I never knew what was goin’ on with Jenna and Tera, not exactly, not really…”

  Catherine nodded, even though she didn’t know what she was agreeing with.

  “…but I just assumed…well…you know.”

  The CSI’s antennae were tingling as she said, “No—I don’t know.”

  “Knowing that Tera was a lez, I just assumed that Jenna was too. Anyway, that’s why I was so surprised when Jenna hooked up with Lipton. I mean, I didn’t know Jenna was bi—but what the hell? Whatever gets you through the night…or workin’ these hours, the day!”

  Catherine’s eyes bored into those of the dancer.

  “Ooooh shit,” Pat said, eyes as big as her bosoms. “You didn’t know Tera leaned that way, did you?”

  “Never came up before. All we knew was, she and Jenna lived together; but nobody mentioned a relationship between the two, other than that they were roommates.”

  “Didn’t you talk to Tera yet?”

  “Yes. She didn’t say a word about it.”

  The dancer shrugged. “Well, even these days, people don’t always advertise it.”

  However you figured it, Catherine knew, this little sexual tidbit would call for another trip to Tera Jameson’s apartment.

  The criminalist decided to push on; she had in Pat a close friend of the deceased, after all. “Any idea who would be jealous of Jenna, either here in the club, or, I don’t know…maybe somebody out of Lipton’s life? Coworker at the construction company, maybe?”

  Pat looked slowly around the room. “Here at Dream Dolls? Any of these girls who haven’t saved up for new ones were jealous of her. And she had really nice work done…I’m saving up to get mine overhauled.”

  Catherine’s eyes travelled around the dressing room and she realized Pat’s words might apply to all of these other dancers. That meant if Lipton really was innocent, they would have no shortage of suspects.

  Sara strolled up and looked at Pat. “You ready to give at the office?”

  Before Catherine’s eyes, Pat Hensley disappeared and in her place stood Belinda Bountiful, returning in all her bitchy glory. “Is this trip really necessary? Ain’t it enough you’re keeping us from makin’ a livin’?”

  Sara shrugged with her mouth. “You can either do it voluntarily, or we can get a court order. Do it now and we’re out of your hair—your choice.”

  Making a real production out of it, star stripper Belinda Bountiful finally agreed to follow Sara back and have the blood drawn. Turning privately to Catherine, Pat peeked out from behind the Belinda mask to whisper, “Can’t ever let ’em forget who the real diva is around this hellhole.”

  While Conroy and Sara finished up, Catherine moved back to the tiny room where a murder had occurred. Using her Swiss Army knife, the CSI sliced through the yellow-and-black crime-scene tape and eased the door open. Having been closed up for this long a time, the cubicle hit Catherine in the face with a hot, fetid aroma, as if not an atom of air conditioning had penetrated the police seal.

  Pulling on latex gloves, she stepped in. They were missing something—something important, she thought; and maybe they had missed it in here….

  Standing there at the threshold of the murder, Catherine saw it happen.

  Lipton—in a fake beard and mustache, dark glasses on, cap pulled down tight, the LIPTON CONSTRUCTION lettering on his jacket standing out in bold red letters against the denim background—walks down the hall, leading Jenna Patrick down the familiar path to the lap-dance cubicles. Naked except for the flimsy lavender thong, Jenna trails behind a few steps, an apprehensive smile on her pretty face as she wonders why her boyfriend is tempting fate by coming in here. Still, it excites Jenna, knowing that he would disguise himself so they could be together here, at the forbidden place that Dream Dolls has become….

  They enter the little room, he sits on the chair and Jenna closes the door. She goes to him; perhaps they even kiss. He is, after all, no ordinary customer. Jenna spins around, sits on his lap and begins to gyrate to the music filtered in through the speakers, even as behind her back, he pulls on gloves, takes the electrical tie out of his pocket, and at the critical moment, slips it down over her head, and around her slender throat.

  He yanks it tight. Within seconds it cuts off the blood in her carotid arteries. She struggles to get a grip, her eyes wide with fear and pain and betrayal and sorrow; but it’s too late…. Essentially unconscious, brain death only a few short minutes away, she stops fighting as the electrical tie does its terrible work. All Lipton has to do is sit quietly and watch her die.

  When she is dead, dropped to the floor, he need only rise, and make his way through the bar, out the door, and into the cool night, where a
new life awaits, where he will find some new woman who will not betray him with this sorry, sordid lifestyle.

  “You all right?” Conroy asked.

  Catherine shook herself to awareness. She hadn’t even heard the detective come up behind her. “Yeah—fine. I was just thinking it through.”

  Sara strolled up in the hallway. “Four of the girls aren’t here, but they’re scheduled to work tomorrow. We can go to their apartments, or stop back, then.”

  “Tomorrow’ll do fine,” Conroy said, as the three women confabbed in the corridor. “We got plenty to work on.”

  “You get anything interesting?” Catherine asked them.

  Conroy shrugged. “Hard to say. The dancer that spoke to you…” She checked her notes. “…Belinda Bountiful, aka Pat Hensley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She brought out some things that might be worth looking into. Especially if you’re still unsure about Lipton.”

  “Namely that Tera Jameson is gay,” Catherine said, “and Jenna bisexual.”

  “Well,” Sara said, taking this new information in stride. “I think we need to drop around at the roommate’s again.”

  “Yeah,” Conroy said. “That’s a swell idea.” The detective let loose a long sigh. “So—should we kick Lipton, you think? Are you sure he’s not the guy?”

  “Not sure at all,” Catherine said. “We’ve got Jenna potentially in a love relationship with her roommate, but Ty tells me Jenna was being courted by Los Angeles pornographers, offering the world to her on a blue movie platter. Other than his half-assed alibi and the security videotape, it’s all pretty shaky where Lipton’s concerned…and if this tech we’ve got working on the tape says that’s not Lipton…well…”

  “That doesn’t really answer my question,” Conroy said. “Do we kick him loose, or don’t we?”

  Catherine thought about it. Then she asked, “How long can you hold him?”

  “Without pressing charges?” Now Conroy thought about it. “We may be pushing it already. He’d be on the streets by now, if he’d asked for a lawyer.”

  Sara asked, “Can’t you hold him as a material witness?”

  Conroy turned up her palms. “How? If Ray boy wasn’t here, then he can’t be a witness…and if he was here, that makes him our number-one suspect. Ladies, you better talk to your videotape expert, and find out where we really stand.”

  A little over half an hour later, with Detective Conroy’s blessing, Catherine was back in an interview room with Ray Lipton. A lidded medium-sized evidence box was on the table before her.

  The construction mini-magnate looked like hell. The last forty-eight hours had seemed to chew him up pretty bad, his eyes red and puffy and locked into a vacant, not-quite-there holding pattern. He hadn’t shaved or bathed and he carried the heavy, sour scent of sweat that came from living in the same clothes in the same small cell for way too long. He sat alone at the table, his head hanging. Though physically much smaller, the CSI towered over him.

  His voice was low, strained, as if he hadn’t taken a drink of water since the last time they had seen him. “I need a lawyer, don’t I?”

  “If you want one, you have every right to make that phone call.” In her one hand, Catherine held a fax from Jennifer Woods of the ESPN legal department. Along with a stern reminder to make sure the letter was in the mail, Woods had sent a log of all programming from noon until midnight, October 25, 2001; a videotape had been Fedexed.

  “But before you make that call,” Catherine said, “I’d appreciate it if we could talk, just a little more, about your alibi.”

  “I don’t have a damn alibi.” He shook his head. “I told you, Ms. Willows—I was home alone, watching a football game.”

  “That’s my point, Mr. Lipton. The football game can help give you an alibi.”

  He looked up. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “No—not one iota, Mr. Lipton. It won’t clear you, but it would be a good start. Now…what time did you say you started watching the game?”

  Lipton shrugged. “Game started at five-thirty. Got home about seven, took a shower, nuked some dinner, probably sat down just about seven-thirty. Second half had started. Like I told you before, Peterson kicked a field goal; then this guy I never heard of ran the kickoff back for a touchdown.”

  Catherine checked the sheet in her hand. According to the ESPN log, Dominic Rhodes ran back a kickoff for a touchdown with 4:50 left in the third quarter. The action occurred at 7:34 P.M. Pacific Time. “Dominic Rhodes ring a bell?”

  Lipton brightened. “Yeah! That’s the guy.”

  “Then what?”

  “Couple of minutes later, the Chiefs scored a touchdown. It was a hell of a half—I think there were four touchdowns in the fourth quarter alone.”

  “Do you recall how many were made by each team?”

  “Two,” he said, with confidence. But then his expression dimmed a bit. “Now…can you tell me something?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “How does this help me?”

  “The game was broadcast live, right?”

  “Yeah. Of course. I don’t care about that tape-delay shit.”

  “Did you tape it?”

  This had apparently not occurred to him. Lipton shook his head.

  “I’m pretty sure of that myself,” Catherine told him. “There was no tape in your machine, and we’ve checked every videotape in your residence, and the game hadn’t been recorded on any of them. You would have had to tape it, watch it, and dispose of the tape before the police arrived. More importantly, you’d have had to anticipate we would ask you specifics about the game, and you’d have to be ready for our questions. Not impossible, but in real life, in the time frame we’re talking about, highly unlikely.”

  His eyes had come alive. “Does that mean I’m finally free?”

  Catherine gave him a “sorry” smile, and shook her head. “Not just yet. We’re still working on the security videotape.”

  The contractor retained his hopeful expression, nonetheless. “I’m not worried—that’s not me on the tape, ’cause I wasn’t there…. And you don’t think it’s me on the tape yourself, do you, Ms. Willows?”

  With a quick glance at the two-way mirror where she knew Conroy and Sara were watching, she said, “This isn’t about my opinion, Mr. Lipton.”

  “Sure it is. You can’t tell me you people don’t look at this evidence from some kind of point of view. Everybody knows that instincts are just as important as facts.”

  Gil Grissom would disagree, Catherine knew; but she said, “Let’s just say I’m not entirely convinced one way or the other.”

  That took some of the air out of him.

  “Also, I need you to explain these.” She took the lid off the box that contained the evidence bags from the house: the beard, mustache, spirit gum, and shoebox.

  Lipton looked in at them without touching anything. He shrugged. “That’s Jenna’s stuff.”

  “A beard and a mustache?”

  “Yeah—it’s from her act.”

  “Her act?”

  Lipton nodded matter of factly. “She had this routine where she’d put this stuff on, dance around the bar dressed as an old man. She didn’t make a stage entrance, you know? And another girl would still be dancing. Jenna’d just sort of show up out in the club, kinda sneak out there.” He grinned, shaking his head, remembering. “She’d have ’em all fooled.”

  “Did she?”

  “Oh, yeah, she was really good. She’d rub against these guys as she moved through the bar, drove ’em batty—they thought she was an old gay guy tryin’ to get lucky or somethin’! Eventually, she’d work her way to the stage and got up there with the girl that was dancing at the time, and rub all over her.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s just about the only bit I ever liked about her dancing. See, the other dancer would pretend to be grossed out by the old man and’d leave the stage…then this ‘old man’ would start stripping. When the st
iffs finally figured out they had pushed her away, they went ballistic. She had them all in the palm of her hand.”

  “That must have got under your skin,” Catherine said.

  “Naw,” Lipton said, shaking his head. “Just the opposite. That act wasn’t about cheap sex, her act was…social commentary. Jenna liked making that point; she was smart, you know, and sensitive. Don’t turn someone away until you get to know ’em. It was subtle, but it was about a hell of a lot more than just Jenna taking off her clothes. Like I said, it was the only bit of hers I liked.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone mentioned this act before?”

  “Well, she hadn’t done in quite a while. After she, you know…had her augmentation surgery, it wasn’t so easy for her to pretend to be a man…. Does this clear me?”

  “No.”

  His face fell.

  She continued: “I need to confirm that this act really existed.”

  “That Kapelos character’ll tell you.”

  “I’ll call him right now and find out,” she said. “You see, it’s like I told you when this started, Mr. Lipton.”

  The suspect’s eyes were poised between hope and despair, now.

  “If you are innocent,” she said, “we’ll find that out, and we will catch the killer.”

  “Not for my sake,” he said.

  She wasn’t following him; her expression said, What?

  “For Jenna’s,” he said.

  11

  A t the same time Greg Sanders was giving Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle the skinny on wig hair, Gil Grissom—in a loose long-sleeve dark gray shirt and black slacks—was striding down the hall, a file folder in one hand, his heels clicking softly on the tile floor. Finally arriving at his destination, he knocked on a door with raised white letters spelling: CAPTAIN JAMES BRASS.

  “It’s open,” came the muffled voice from the other side.

  Grissom walked in and granted Brass a boyish grin; the detective was sitting in a large gray chair behind a government-issue gray metal desk.

  The office was a glorified cubicle, the wall to the left filled with file cabinets, a chalkboard all but obscuring the wall at right, with a table covered with stacks of papers camped beneath it. Brass’s desk, however, was tidy, bearing only the open file before him, a telephone, and a photo of his daughter, Ellie.