She shrugged. No tears, not even wet eyes—just a shrug.
Atwater said, “You should give Captain Brass the background of this…situation.”
Situation again.
“Captain, it wasn’t long after my mother finagled my father out of his flagship car lot…in their divorce…that I learned her new boyfriend was actually someone she’d been seeing at the very same time my father was indulging in his own extramarital meanderings…. In other words, she was playing the violated wife in the divorce court, when she herself had been cheating. Her lover was one Peter Thompson, and they’d been seeing each other for months before Mother caught Daddy…what’s the term? In flagrante delicto?…with that bimbo secretary of his. Would you like to know something interesting?”
Brass, fairly overwhelmed by this little soap opera, said, “Sure.”
“My mother never fired the woman—Daddy’s secretary, I mean. Don’t you think it’s possible the secretary was in on it? That it was a put-up job?”
Brass said, “Possible.”
“Anyway, my finding out that Mommy screwed Daddy over was what drove the wedge between us. My father going broke, dying of alcoholism a few years later, didn’t exactly…help. I didn’t even go to the wedding when she married Peter. I was still in high school then—that was one of our four-alarm arguments, let me tell you.”
“I can imagine,” Brass said. “How long since you’ve spoken to your mother?”
“Over ten years.” Another shrug. “As I said, since shortly after my eighteenth birthday…when I moved out. Not so much as a Christmas card.”
“And, if you don’t mind my asking,” Brass said, “what have you been doing all this time?”
“I worked my way through Cabrerra University in Miami. Waitressing. Took six years to get the four-year degree.”
“Why Miami?”
“That seemed about as far away from home as I could get without falling in the ocean. I majored in hotel/motel management—both my parents had business in their blood, and it got passed on, I guess. After that, I worked for a chain in Miami, last six years. Two months ago, I got transferred out here—the Sphere.”
“Finding yourself in such close proximity to your mother—did you try to contact her?”
“Yes…yes, I thought fate had finally put me on the spot. Time to be a grown-up and make some kind of peace with the miserable bitch.” She laughed harshly and then it turned into a sob. She got into her purse, found a tissue, and dried her eyes.
Brass and Atwater exchanged raised eyebrows.
Then Rebecca was talking again. “That was when…when I finally learned that she’d died. Just this May.”
“You talked to your stepfather?”
“Yes—he said she died peacefully.” She paused for a long, ragged breath. “In her sleep.”
Brass glanced at Atwater, but the sheriff had his eyes on Rebecca Bennett.
“But you don’t believe him,” Atwater prompted.
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s what brought you here today, isn’t it?”
Hesitating, Rebecca glanced between the two men before saying, “Yes. I think my stepfather murdered my mother.”
A prickle of anger tweaked the back of Brass’s neck—so that was why Atwater had brought him in on this! With the daughter of a deceased major contributor battling the widower, who could say where the money would wind up?
Brass allowed himself to cast his boss a disgusted smirk, but Atwater didn’t seem to notice—he appeared placid, somberly so. Just a concerned friend of the family, trying to do the right thing…
“I want you to know right now, Rebecca,” Atwater said, “that we’ll look into this immediately…and thoroughly.”
Brass had sense enough to tread carefully around the sheriff when Atwater was playing one of those cards from up his sleeve. Nonetheless, he asked, “Why don’t you believe your stepfather, Ms. Bennett?”
She turned to Brass, her wide eyes like exclamation marks in her surprised face. Apparently it had never occurred to her that anyone might question her reasoning, much less her motives.
“There are several things,” she finally said, as if that were explanation enough.
“What were the autopsy results?”
Rebecca’s mouth formed a sarcastic kiss. “What autopsy results?”
“There was no autopsy?”
She shook her head. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I suspect Peter—he told me an autopsy would have been contrary to my mother’s wishes…due to her religious beliefs.”
“And you’re skeptical of that reason?”
“I’m skeptical of that excuse—I’ve been away from Mom for a long time, and I understand that things can change, people can change…but she wasn’t religious at all when I lived with her.”
“Some kind of religious conversion, then….” Brass offered.
“Yes, a conservative fundamentalistic church she and Peter joined—the body has to be preserved for resurrection and all of that b.s.”
“Not everyone considers that belief ‘b.s.,’ Ms. Bennett….”
“I know, I know…. I don’t mean to sound like some kind of religious bigot, but it just…seems very drastic for Mom. Out of character. But there are other things too. For example…Peter got everything in Mom’s will.”
Brass already knew why Atwater was here (to protect his ass, whichever Bennett inheritor wound up with the family fortune) and why he himself was here (to provide Atwater with a potential fall guy); and now, finally, Brass understood why Rebecca Bennett was here. Whatever contempt she might have felt for her mother, Rebecca wanted her share. Her piece.
She must have read what he was thinking, because she quickly said, “Understand, it’s not about the money.”
Keeping his face neutral, Brass nodded. Very little was certain in this wicked world; but one thing Jim Brass knew: Whenever somebody said it wasn’t about the money—it was about the money.
“My mother’s fortune was built on my father’s used car business—a business she and Peter Thompson all but swindled Daddy out of. That after all these years Peter would be the one to benefit—it’s just too much. Just too goddamn much.”
“Ms. Bennett—”
She sat forward, blue eyes flashing. “There just seems to be so much…secrecy about my mother’s death, and when I tried to talk to Peter? He shut me out.”
“Which is why,” Atwater said, with terrible casualness, “you want her exhumed.”
Brass sat up like a sleeping driver awakened by a truck horn. “Ex-,” Brass said, “-humed?”
“Yes,” Rebecca said, with her own dreadful ease. “I want my mother exhumed, and an autopsy performed, so I’ll know once and for all whether or not Peter Thompson killed her.”
Brass felt the words tumble out: “Well, certainly your stepfather will fight you on this….”
She laughed, head back, as if proud of herself. “He promised me he would. He hates me like poison…and he’ll use my own murdered mother’s money against me.”
Softly, to try to bring the melodrama down a notch, Brass said, “We’ll check him out.”
“What about the exhumation?” she asked, sitting forward, excited now, nostrils flaring, tiny teeth clenched.
“Well…” Brass said, looking toward the sheriff, who would surely have the sense to call off this witch hunt….
Atwater jumped into the situation with both feet…which of course landed on Brass, right where the sun didn’t shine, even in a Vegas heat wave.
“The exhumation will be no problem,” Atwater said, his gaze flicking for just a second to Brass, then back to his potentially lucrative audience. “As your mother’s last blood relative, you have the right to an autopsy…especially with your suspicions about your stepfather. My best man, Captain Brass, will see to it…personally.”
Here they were, murders up higher than the temp, and Sheriff Atwater was assigning him a case that was little more than a political favor.
In his
mind, Brass said, “Like hell I will. Do your own damn political bullshit!”
But what he said was, “Get right on it, Ms. Bennett.”
He had to swim in these waters, too.
The Desert Palm Memorial Cemetery occupied a lush green space not far from the intersection of North Las Vegas Boulevard and Main Street. Two days had passed since Captain Brass met with Sheriff Atwater and Rebecca Bennett, and the detective stood with court order in hand, in the middle of the cemetery. Like most grave robbers, they were working in the wee hours—at the behest of the cemetery management, who requested that this effort not interrupt their regularly scheduled interments.
The desert was cool at night, it was said; and right now the temperature was all the way down to ninety-eight, with a slight devil’s-breath breeze. Of course this was actually morning, about two hours from dawn, toward the end of the CSI graveyard shift…literally graveyard, this time.
Brass was well aware that CSI Supervisor Gil Grissom sympathized with his distaste for politics. But they all had a job to do, including two more nightshift crime scene analysts, Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes. The four of them cast long shadows in the light of a full moon as they waited while a backhoe tore open the earth over Rita Bennett’s grave.
Two gravediggers were paid accomplices tonight on this ghoulish mission. Joe, a lanky guy with stringy black hair and sky blue eyes, sat atop the backhoe. His partner, Bob, shorter but just as skinny, stood beyond the grave directing Joe to make sure the backhoe didn’t smash the concrete vault that held Rita Bennett’s casket. Both men wore filthy white T-shirts and grime-impacted blue jeans, appropriate for this dirty job that somebody had to do, if less than wholly respectful to the deceased they were disturbing.
Next to the backhoe, a flat bronze headstone with Rita’s name, birth, and death dates carved into it, stood on edge, standing sentinel over the awkward proceedings. Brass and the CSIs stood well off to one side, watching the growling machine paw at the dirt.
Moderately tall with graying hair and a trim dark beard, Gil Grissom was dressed in black, head to toe, blending with the night. Even when the sun was out, though, the man in black gave no sign that the heat bothered him in the least. Brass, meanwhile, wore a tan sportcoat and light color shirt and had, all day, felt like he was walking around inside a burning building.
Grissom’s two associates seemed dressed more appropriately for the weather. Sara, her dark hair tucked under a CSI ball cap, wore tan slacks and a brown short-sleeve blouse; her oval face had a ghostly beauty in the moonlight. Square-jawed, kind-eyed Nick Stokes stood next to her, a navy blue CSI T-shirt doing its best to contain the former jock’s brawn; his dark hair was cut high over his ears and he seemed almost as at ease in the heat as Grissom.
Stokes said, “With the run of murders we been havin’, I wouldn’t think the sheriff would want to go digging up new customers.”
“If it does turn out to be a legitimate customer, Nick,” Grissom said, in his light but pointed way, “we’ll give full service.”
“No autopsy,” Sara said. “That doesn’t smell right.”
“Don’t say ‘smell’ at an exhumation,” Nick said.
“That’s not inherently suspicious,” Grissom said to Sara, meaning the lack of autopsy. “Some people want to get shuffled off this mortal coil in one piece…. Not unusual for religious beliefs to preclude an autopsy.”
Sara made a face and shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
But that was all she said.
They watched as the backhoe clawed another gouge in the earth. Before long, Bob the gravedigger waved for Joe, the backhoe operator, to stop. Joe climbed down off the machine and the two men met at the head of the grave, in executive session, apparently.
“Everything okay?” Brass asked with a frown.
Bob, hands on hips, looked over. “We’ve reached the vault.”
Brass and the CSIs moved to where Bob and Joe stood at the edge of a hole that went down three to three-and-a-half-feet. Barely visible at the bottom was a sliver of something brown.
“Have to dig the rest by hand,” Bob said. “Graves on each side are too close to use the backhoe, and ’course we don’t want to damage the vault.”
Brass knew this and so did Grissom, Sara, and Nick; but the gravedigger had never done an exhumation with this group before, and he seemed to enjoy sharing his wealth of information.
“Not our first time at the rodeo, Bob,” Brass said dryly. “Do what you do.”
“Could take some time,” Bob said, cocking his head, relishing his power.
“This is a graveyard, Bob,” Grissom said. “We’ll reflect on the relative nature of time.”
“Huh?” Bob said.
“Dig,” Nick said.
Bob thought about that and then a grin appeared in the midst of his dirty face. “Yeah—yeah, I dig.”
And the gravedigger scurried back to work, as Sara and Nick traded rolling-eyed expressions.
The detective and the three CSIs watched as the two men used tile shovels to carefully excavate around the concrete vault. Neither of the workers looked very happy as they gingerly pawed at the earth within their small hole.
“Where’s the concerned daughter,” Nick asked, “to watch us dig up Mommy?”
“Be nice, Nick,” Grissom said.
Brass said, “She’ll meet us back at CSI and be there when we finally open the coffin. Legal procedure requires her presence.”
Sara said, “If I were forced to do this, with the grave of a loved one…? I wouldn’t want to be anywhere around.”
Grissom looked at her curiously. “But you’re a scientist.”
“Even scientists have feelings,” she said, with a mildly reproving glance.
Shrugging, Grissom said, “Nobody’s perfect.”
Sara and Nick took photographs of what followed. Grissom made field notes. Brass just watched.
The two workers finally got cables under the vault and, using the backhoe like a crane, they lifted the concrete box out of the ground and set it on a flatbed truck. Brass and the CSIs piled into the black Tahoe and followed the vehicle back to the station, where the flatbed backed in the tall door at the end of the garage behind the CSI building. Meanwhile, Nick parked the Tahoe, after which the quartet marched inside to get down to business.
The garage had spaces for three cars, beyond which was an oversized bay built to accommodate trucks even bigger than the one that carried the strapped-down remains of Rita Bennett. Essentially a concrete bunker with a twenty-foot ceiling and an overhead crane, the garage had a workbench along the back wall and two huge tool chests, one against each of the side walls.
First, Nick and Sara climbed up onto the truck and removed the straps from the vault. As they did, Brass went inside, to the office, to bring back Rebecca Bennett. As Brass disappeared through the door, Nick motioned for Grissom to come closer to the truck.
Keeping one eye on the door even as he and Sara undid the straps, Nick asked, “Don’t we have better things to be doing than an exhumation to satisfy one of Atwater’s contributors?”
Grissom’s voice remained soft, but his face grew serious. “She’s not a contributor—her late mother was.”
“What, are we gonna quibble?”
“No, Nick, we’re not going to quibble—this is a woman who needs answers about the death of her mother…answers that we might be able to provide.”
“Hey, all I mean, there’s serious crimes—”
“Do your job, Nick.”
Nick started to say something, but Sara cut him off: “It’s a sealed vault! Gonna take us some time gettin’ into it.”
Nodding once, Grissom said, “No time like the present.”
Using the overhead crane, Nick and Sara put the crane’s metal runners under the frame of the concrete lid and tightened them down. Then, using the column of buttons on the hanging control box, Nick nudged the RAISE button a few times, until the slack was gone from the chain and the vault was just about to
leave the bed of the truck.
Accepting a pry bar from Sara, Nick went to work on the sealed edge of one side of the vault while Sara worked on the opposite side. They had been at it for almost ten minutes, both perspiring despite the air conditioning inside the garage, when Brass reappeared with an attractive, slender, black-haired woman in dark-green slacks and a black silk blouse.
Grissom extended his hand as Brass and the woman approached where he stood next to the truck. The woman’s eyes remained locked on the vault on the back of the vehicle, the two CSIs still plugging away with the pry bars.
“I’m Gil Grissom from the crime lab,” he said, his hand still hanging out in space.
She finally tore her eyes from the vault, looked for a moment at his hand like she couldn’t understand why it was there; then, with a visible flinch, she focused and shook it.
“Sorry,” she said. “Rebecca Bennett…. I guess I wasn’t prepared….”
“As an abstraction, exhumation is just a word,” Grissom said. “The reality is…sobering. You don’t have to stay long.”
“No, that’s all right,” she said, her voice cold, detached now, an attitude she assumed like a cloak she’d suddenly gathered herself in. “So that’s Mother?”
“Yes. We’ve already started working on the vault, but it’s sealed…so it’s going to take a little time.”
She nodded, her eyes returning to the vault.
At that moment the epoxy bond was broken and the vault settled back onto the truck bed, the shock absorbers and springs grunting as it did. The noise made Rebecca jump a little.
Brass walked the woman to a chair across the garage.
“Easier than I thought,” Sara said, mopping her brow with her hand.
Nick gave her a sarcastic look. “Piece of cake.”
Sara looked at him, smiling, but hard-eyed. “Nick…tell me you’re not creeped out by this….”
“What? Gimme a break. I’m a scientist, too, you know.”
“Scientists have feelings, remember?”
“After all we’ve been through? Don’t insult me.”
Sara made a shrug with her face. “I wouldn’t dream of it…but we all have our little, you know…bugaboos.”
Grave Matters Page 2