The other two rescuers snatched up their weapons even as Rene—with an animal cry of pain and rage—fell backward, taking the old woman with her. The hostage landed on top of Rene, then rolled off and scurried away with surprising spryness, leaving the killer prone on the ground with a wounded arm, the wind—and her future—knocked out of her.
Vega went to the hostage and swept her into his arms, getting her away, as Warrick stood over their suspect with his handgun aimed at Rene’s face.
“Just try something, Nurse Fairmont,” Warrick said, “and it’ll be time for your shot.”
Catherine felt bile rising within her and fought the urge to purge.
She wasn’t upset about the shooting. It was righteous enough. But she would lose sleep over possibly endangering that suspect with such Annie Oakley nonsense. Still, she’d had less than a second to make her decision and knew she’d made the right one.
Oddly, she was relieved she hadn’t had to kill the angel of mercy, much as the monster might deserve it. Catherine Willows already had two kills to live with, and that seemed sufficient to her.
Suddenly Warrick was at her side. “You okay, Cath?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Peachy. I was just thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“Wasn’t Sunny Day supposed to be a normal call?”
11
GIL GRISSOM SAT in his darkened office at a desk piled left and right with paperwork, which he was ignoring in favor of staring into his thoughts.
Jim Brass poked his head in and said, “Brooding? Meditating? Saving the city on the electric bill?”
Grissom waved Brass in. The detective took the liberty of hitting the light switch, which caused the CSI supervisor to grimace.
Brass dropped himself into the chair opposite. “We have a good suspect, finally. Why are you troubled?”
“I’m not troubled,” Grissom said. “I’m just not convinced.”
“The evidence—”
“Not enough yet. And there are anomalies.”
Brass winced. “I hate it when you use that word….”
“Such as…whoever murdered Kathy Dean also disposed of Rita Bennett’s body. Where are those remains?”
“Who knows? But who better than a guy like Black to stage the disappearing act? Getting rid of corpses is his racket.”
“Why, then—in a house of corpses—would our presumed guilty party, mortician Dustin Black, choose a high-profile local celebrity like the Bennett woman for the switch?”
“I have no idea,” Brass admitted. “She must have been…handy.”
“Handy? The choice of Rita is further compounded by the used-car queen having been a friend of our mortician.”
Brass shrugged. “I have to tell you? People do wacked-out things”
“Granted.” Grissom sat forward. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd that Black, running a mortuary where dozens of bodies move through in a week, didn’t pick a stranger for his shuffle?”
Brass ticked off on his fingers. “Motive points to Black. Opportunity points to Black…means to dispose of the body, possession of the murder weapon. Somebody told me once that the evidence doesn’t lie.”
“No. But you have to ask it the right questions.”
Amusement twitched at Brass’s lips. “You know what, Gil? I think you’re a man with a hunch. Hey, happens to the best of us. Even atheists pray in foxholes.”
Grissom arched an eyebrow. “Well, right now I’m praying for more evidence. At the moment, I’m waiting for lab results. Anything on your end?”
“Also waiting. Patrolmen are bringing in Grunick and Doyle from the Desert Haven staff—assistant morticians who helped with Rita Bennett’s funeral.”
“Makes sense,” Grissom said, nodding. “If Black did switch the bodies, one of them may have seen something. Meaning no criticism, Jim—we should have interviewed them sooner.”
Brass sighed. “Yeah, I know, and we would have, if Black hadn’t kept us hopping, chasing down his lies.”
“Let me know when the junior morticians arrive. I’d like to watch the interviews.”
“Will do.”
First to be led by a patrolman into HQ was Mark Grunick, in a conservative suit the color of a storm-bearing sky, his short dark hair fading north of his forehead, ears sticking out slightly.
In the observation booth adjacent to the interview room, through the one-way glass, Grissom watched and listened.
Seated at the table with its two chairs, a portable cassette recorder nearby, Grunick had a passive manner that may have reflected the fatalism of his chosen profession. If being interviewed by a police detective created any anxiety in this subject, Grissom would hate to see the assistant mortician bored.
Brass, seated across from Grunick, hit the RECORD button. “State your name, please.”
“Mark Patrick Grunick.” The young man looked at Brass with an unblinking expression that was not quite sullen. “I’d like to know why I was brought in.”
Brass outlined the situation in very general terms, which were nonetheless startling, though you wouldn’t know it by the assistant mortician’s shrug.
“I don’t think so,” Grunick said.
“What don’t you think?”
“That any kind of switch was made. Mix-up maybe—that’s a long shot. But a switch? It’s not a horror movie; it’s a funeral home.”
Brass cocked his head. “Mr. Grunick, I was there when the casket was exhumed. That wasn’t Rita Bennett in the coffin. It was a young woman named Kathy Dean.”
“Fine, if you say so—but I don’t know how that could’ve happened. Before the service, Jimmy and I closed the coffin ourselves.”
Brass smiled with what might have been patience but wasn’t. “Why don’t you think carefully and give this to me in more detail? A lot more.”
Grunick sighed, which was the first indication the young man was capable of an emotional response; he looked skyward, as if referring to notes in the air.
Finally he said, “We sat through the service, took the casket out, loaded it in the hearse, went to the cemetery, had the committal service there, and the casket was interred. The end. Literally.”
Brass’s eyes narrowed. “You were with the coffin for every second?”
“Yes—that is why it’s impossible….”
Brass tossed a picture of Kathy Dean in the coffin onto the table in front of the interview subject. “Not impossible. It happened…and I’m asking you again. Think hard. Were…you…with…the…coffin…every…second?”
His brow knit as he indeed thought about it. Then the color drained from Grunick’s face.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait a minute…I’m sorry. I am sorry.”
“About…?”
Energy came into the young man’s manner and his expression. “I do see how it happened…. Understand, inmost cases these days, the pallbearers are ceremonial. We’re the ones that do the work, and it’s always the same: After Mr. Black backs the hearse up to the door, Jimmy and I do the lifting. That one funeral, Rita Bennett, though—it didn’t go down that way, not exactly.”
“What did happen ‘exactly,’ Mark?”
“Well, Mr. Black and Jimmy were talking about something. I was leading the way, and the two of them were pushing the cart with the coffin down the hall…toward the side door? Anyway, they were blabbing and I couldn’t hear about what, nor did I care…but suddenly Jimmy peeled off and went back into the chapel. And when we got to the door, Mr. Black told me he’d watch the body while I got the car.”
“So Black was alone with the coffin.”
“Sure, which means he was alone with the body. And I’ll bet that’s when the switch went down!”
Brass nodded now, playing along as the guy got more into it. “What happened, Mark, when you came back with the hearse?”
“Well, we loaded the coffin in the hearse.”
“Who did?”
“Jimmy and me.”
“Where was Mr. Black?”
“When do you remember seeing Black again?”
“Oh, well, by the time the procession was ready to leave, Mr. Black was behind the wheel of the limo. Jimmy and me, we were in the hearse.”
In the observation booth, Grissom heard the door behind him open and he looked back at a grave Nick, in the doorway. The younger CSI gestured for Grissom to join him out in the hall.
“Something, Nick?”
“Something, all right. I fingerprinted Black.”
“Good.”
“Then I compared his prints to the ones we had from the coffin? His prints are on the casket Kathy Dean was in.”
“Also good. If to be expected.”
“Well, maybe that is. But I lifted prints off the gun—”
“Really? You got prints off the gun? Unusual.”
Nick shrugged. “Being packed away in that box, all those smaller boxes on top of it, kept the gun cool and safe from the weather. Desert Haven’s garage being air-conditioned didn’t hurt, either.”
“So,” Grissom said, “is that the unexpected development?”
“Not really.” Nick’s expression was apologetic. “I printed Black, and his prints don’t match the ones on the gun. Indicates Black is not the shooter.”
“Well.”
“And the hairs found in the casket with Kathy? Not the undertaker’s either. Sorry.”
Grissom shook his head, then said, “Never apologize for the evidence, Nick. We listen to it, it doesn’t listen to us.”
Nick said, “Well if it did, it’d hear me saying, ‘Huh?’ ”
“Is the weapon with the firearms examiner?”
“Yeah, I dropped it off. We haven’t confirmed it as the murder weapon yet, though the caliber is right.”
“One step at a time,” Grissom said. “Now, here’s what I want you to do next….”
He laid out a plan and Nick nodded, and went off to carry it out. Grissom was about to head back in to the observation booth for the rest of the Grunick interview when his cell phone chirped.
“Grissom.”
“It’s Sara. Got the results of the DNA tests—Dustin Black is the father of Kathy Dean’s baby.”
“Not really a surprise.”
“And I finally tracked down Janie Glover. Off to interview her now.”
“Janie Glover? Remind me.”
“Kathy Dean’s friend…who told our Habinero’s waitress about ‘FB’?”
“Ah. Good.”
“Is Black looking more guilty, or less?”
“Too early.”
They rang off.
As he turned back toward the booth, the interview-room door opened and Mark Grunick filed out, followed by Brass. A free man, the slightly shell-shocked-looking Grunick kept going, while Brass fell in alongside Grissom.
“Well,” Brass said cheerfully, “young Mr. Grunick seems to like his boss for the body switch. And so do I.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jim.”
Exasperated, Brass invited the CSI supervisor into the observation booth so their discussion wouldn’t be in front of the whole world.
Forcefully, the detective pointed out, “The murder weapon was found in Black’s place of business.”
“We haven’t confirmed that it’s the murder weapon.”
“It’s the right caliber, it’s been fired….”
“Probably is the murder weapon. Probably isn’t enough. We’ll know soon.”
“For the sake of argument, then. Say it’s the murder weapon.”
“All right,” Grissom said. “Let’s say it is.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere….”
“Black’s fingerprints weren’t on it.”
Brass’s eyes popped. “What…? Well, then Black wore gloves, or wiped it clean.”
“Someone else’s prints are on the gun.”
“Who in hell’s?”
Grissom shrugged. “We don’t know yet. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please!”
“Get the prints from the other mortician’s assistant—Doyle.”
Brass’s eyes narrowed. “What about the other assistant—Grunick?”
“I posted Nick up around the corner—waiting to bump into Mr. Grunick, as he exits. My guess is when they separate, Nick will have some helpful fingerprints.”
Finally Brass seemed to like something Grissom had said. “Sneaky,” he said with admiration.
“And if Black is innocent,” Grissom said, “these two are our next most likely suspects. They’re the only other ones who had access to Rita Bennett’s casket.”
“Makes sense.”
“And Kathy Dean was seeing a younger man, in addition to Black—the assistants are in that age range.”
“Now you’re talking….”
“If one of them’s the killer, Jim, we can’t put too much stock in what they individually have to say in interview. We can’t expect either one to be cooperative or honest, when it comes to helping us catch him.”
“One should be telling the truth….”
“Right. Not to tell a skilled interrogator what to be looking for, but inconsistencies between Grunick’s interview and young Doyle’s could be…helpful.”
Brass’s cell phone rang. “Brass…Yeah, all right, interview room one.” He hung up. “Doyle’s here,” he said.
As if those words were the starting gun, Grissom dashed off, leaving Brass wondering what the hell that was about. In the breakroom, the CSI got a can of soda out of the fridge; he wiped it down with a towel and held it gingerly by the top edges and took it to the interrogation room, where Brass was waiting for Doyle to come in.
“For me?” Brass said, looking at the soda can. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“I do care,” Grissom said. “About this case…” He placed the can on the table, touching only the sides of the top. “Offer it to Doyle, a few minutes in.”
Brass, smiling knowingly, nodded.
Then Grissom exited to assume his position in the observation booth. Moments later a uniformed officer escorted Jimmy Doyle into Interview, depositing him at the table.
Unlike fellow mortician-in-the-making Grunick, Doyle’s attire was unfunereal—navy blue Dockers, a lavender dress shirt, open at the throat, loafers with no socks. His black hair was slicked back. The anonymous funeral home helper suddenly struck Grissom as a young man who might have looked attractive to affection-hungry Kathy Dean.
Brass hit RECORD again and filled in Doyle about the body switch and the discovery of Kathy Dean’s body. He put the dead girl’s photo before the interview subject—the same in-the-coffin shot.
Doyle glanced at the photo of the deceased Kathy Dean. “Never saw her before—good-looking girl, though.”
Brass twitched a smile. “Considering she was dead for several months when this was taken, you mean.”
The young man shrugged. “I work in a funeral home. I can see past that.”
“Ah…Tell me what happened with the Rita Bennett service.”
Doyle lacked Grunick’s sullenness; he seemed fine with helping the police.
“Mark and I closed the casket, right before the service. Afterward, Mark rolled the coffin back, Mr. Black and me pushed it, as we went from the chapel…to the side door where we load, y’know?”
“I’m familiar,” Brass said.
“Mr. Black said that the flowers from the top of the casket were missing, which they were. I said I was sorry, that I thought he’d put ’em back on after we closed the coffin. He said no, and sent me back, toot sweet, to the chapel.”
“For the flowers?”
“For the flowers.” Doyle shrugged. “It was just a small spray, and no one noticed it during the service, but a good mortician pays attention to details, and Mr. Black’s a good mortician. Anyway…I cat
ch up, and the coffin’s sitting alone in the corridor. And there’s no sign of Mr. Black.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Real unusual! So Mark pulls up with the hearse, then him and me load the coffin. Just as we’re wondering where the hell Mr. Black is, he comes out and jumps in the limo. To me, he looked sweaty, and…well, this is an opinion. Is that all right to express?”
“Sure, son.”
“Well, he looked like something was really bothering him. Freaked out, kinda.”
Brass leaned in. “Any idea what was the matter?”
Doyle shook his head. “No, sir. Not a clue.”
“You okay, Jimmy?” Brass gestured to the soda can. “Help yourself, if you’re thirsty.”
Shaking his head again, Doyle said, “Never touch that junk—too much sugar.”
On his side of the mirror, Grissom frowned. But then, to his amazement and pleasure, the CSI saw Doyle pick up the soda can and move it next to the tape recorder, closer to Brass. “But you can have it if you want, Captain Brass—won’t bother me.”
Brass smiled again. “Thanks, Jimmy. Maybe later.”
The interview continued, but the explosive aspects had all passed; everything else was mundane material about Doyle’s work at Desert Haven. Soon the talk was over, and James Doyle was allowed to leave.
Grissom slipped into the interview room and carefully took charge of the soda can and transported it down to the lab for fingerprinting.
If the boy was telling the truth, the CSI could easily see how Dustin Black could have committed the crime.
Kathy Dean—shot to death the night before—is packed away in a matching coffin. The mortician knows his business, after all, and keeps his inventory, so only he will know that the two coffins are both gone.
Black sends Jimmy Doyle back into the chapel, for the conveniently missing flowers, and Mark Grunick out to fetch the hearse. This allows the mortician a minute, maybe even two, to make the well-planned switch. Storage rooms of various sorts are off the corridors of Desert Haven, each one under lock and key—locks and keys controlled by Black.
The mortician Black unlocks a door, rolls out a waiting cart with Kathy in the matching casket. He leaves that in the hall, and pushes Rita’s casket somewhere, and hides it for later disposal, at his leisure….
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