“You were the backup.”
“Huh?”
“If Dustin Black didn’t want to leave his wife…he was a successful, respectable businessman, remember…? she needed somebody to step in and take responsibility.”
Brass said, “Maybe it wasn’t admirable, Jimmy—but she was just a kid, after all. Worried about the future. With dreams.”
“Maybe,” Sara said, “she was just looking for somebody to love her. Somebody to give her consolation, comfort…maybe just somebody to talk to her, in a bad time of her life.”
The boy swallowed; his expression was pitiful. “…You think?”
Grissom shrugged. “We don’t know what Kathy was feeling or thinking. Our job is science. DNA tests prove conclusively that you weren’t the father of Kathy’s baby…but you did kill it, when you killed her.”
His fingers no longer tapping, Doyle sat there with the empty eyes of a corpse.
The killer was led off to lock-up, and in the hall Sara showed Grissom and Brass a handful of papers. “By the way, that iPod? It’s Kathy Dean’s, like we suspected. Tomas just finished matching the files in the player to Kathy’s computer.”
“We probably won’t need even half of this evidence,” Brass said dryly. “Kid knows he’s caught, and he’s trying to buy off his conscience by telling us everything he knows.”
Grissom asked, “Anybody hear from Nick lately?”
“He found something interesting at the mortuary,” Sara said.
“Such as?”
“A sealed concrete vault. He got Black’s number from me. Where that went, if anywhere, I have no idea.”
Grissom’s expression was thoughtful. “I think I know what might be in that vault…let’s have a look. You and your ribs up to it, Jim?”
“If somebody else drives,” Brass said, “I am.”
“I’ll stay here,” Sara said, “and keep at this evidence.”
But Grissom and Brass were already on their way.
Together, Nick Stokes and the mortician Dustin Black pried the concrete vault open.
A casket was revealed within; Nick recognized it as identical to the one in which Kathy Dean had been found.
Nick looked across the vault at the mortician, who gazed back with wide eyes.
“Rita,” Black said.
Nick said, “Your assistant called you away for a nonexistent phone call, and then he just switched the coffins….” The CSI sighed. “We need to confirm. Let’s pop the top…. No disrespect meant.”
Using the crane, Black hauled the casket out of the vault and rested it on one of the tables in the center of the room. Nick waited for the mortician to climb down the ladder and join him before unlocking the casket. The two exchanged wary glances, and then Nick threw open the lid.
Inside, still perfectly preserved from being in the airtight vault and air-conditioned shelves of the workroom, lay an at-peace Rita Bennett. Beautifully coiffed and dressed, she might have walked off the set of one of her used-car commercials to lie down for a nap. Not even the smell of death was present to disturb the illusion.
“What now?” the mortician asked.
“These remains, and this casket, are evidence in two cases, Mr. Black.”
“Two cases?”
Nick nodded. “We exhumed Rita…or tried to…because of suspicion of foul play in her death.”
The mortician closed his eyes. “When will this be over?”
As if in response, a voice said, “Soon, you evil son of a bitch. Very, very soon….”
In the workroom doorway, in a polo shirt and jeans that looked slept-in, stood Kathy Dean’s father, Jason. He somehow appeared both bleary-eyed and alert, his regular features touched with several days’ growth of beard, his wispy blond hair askew.
Dean held a Glock in his right hand.
Barely six feet from Nick, the broad-shouldered, menacing figure was on the other side of the casket from the CSI, pointing the pistol directly at the undertaker.
Nick had no idea whether or not the distressed father was a decent shot, but at this range he wouldn’t have to be. Black would be dead with a squeeze of the trigger; Nick would be dead before his own weapon cleared its holster.
But maybe Dean didn’t realize Nick was armed—after all, the casket blocked the man’s view of the hip-hugging nine mil….
“Unholster the gun,” Dean said, his voice a deadly monotone, “and use only two fingers.”
Nick did as he was told.
“Drop it in the casket.”
Nick again obeyed, placing the weapon on the late Rita Bennett’s midsection.
“Now close the lid.”
Nick complied, and said, “Mr. Dean, we are handling this. We have your daughter’s killer in custody.”
“My daughter’s killer is standing right in front of me.”
Black said, “No…no, I didn’t…”
Nick said, “It was a boyfriend—named Jimmy Doyle. He worked here for Mr. Black.”
“I never heard of him,” Dean said, and raised his handgun and trained it on the mortician’s chest.
Black said, with resignation in his voice, “My wife called you.”
“Yes,” Dean said. “Yes. She told me everything. Are you going to deny that you defiled my daughter?”
Black said nothing.
“She was pure. She was a virgin. And you…old enough to be…you defiled her….” The man’s voice was trembling, but his gun-in-hand was not.
Nick said, “We have evidence that—”
“Shut up!” Dean swung the gun around so that the barrel now aimed at Nick’s face. “Move around to this side. I want you over here with the dead man.”
Nick raised his hands slightly and came around to Black’s side of the coffin.
The mortician was in full capitulation mode, hands raised high, no sign of fight in his body language, ready to offer himself up to the angry father.
Ready, Nick thought, to die.
“I trusted you,” Dean said, the gun swivelling back to Black. “You have children! How could you be so goddamn low…?”
Black said nothing.
“You…you took advantage of her. You…you…”
“Loved her,” Black said quietly. “I loved her.”
The wrong thing to say!
Nick watched Dean’s face tighten and so did the finger on the trigger and just as Nick was about to leap, Brass’s echoing voice stopped all of them.
“No, Mr. Dean!”
Though the gun never left its Black-bound trajectory, Dean’s eyes darted from side to side searching for Brass, who was somewhere behind him. Nick saw the detective just inside the doorway, his gun pointed at the middle of Dean’s back. Grissom stood next to the detective, no gun in his hand, but with a grave, determined expression.
“You know what he did to my little girl!” Dean said, voice echoing off cement walls. “Why shouldn’t I kill him?”
“I do know what he did,” Brass said. “I’ve got a daughter, too. I know how you feel…I understand your rage, and your contempt.”
“Then don’t try to stop me.”
“If you don’t put that gun down, Mr. Dean, I’m going to have to shoot you…to stop you.” The regret in Brass’s voice was as real as the threat. “I can’t take any chances—I’ll have to take you down.”
“You’d kill me? Is that justice?”
“No it isn’t, but it is my job—you’re threatening the lives of a citizen and a CSI. And I will take you down.”
“It’s worth it….”
“Is it, Mr. Dean?…You’re hurting, and so is your wife. Crystal needs you, Mr. Dean. Don’t give her another tragedy to have to deal with…alone.”
Nick was watching Dean’s eyes—they were wild, careening, though the gun-in-hand remained steady and poised to shoot.
Suddenly Grissom spoke. “Let him live,” the CSI said. “That’ll be your best revenge.”
“What?”
“He’s ruined,” Grissom said matter
of factly. “You know what a high-profile business he has. His wife’s left him, and the reason why’ll all come out soon enough. Whole city will know. They call us Sin City, but you know at heart, this is a conservative town—he’ll be a pariah.”
Dean finally seemed to be faltering. Nick could see the man sliding an inch toward sanity….
“Grissom’s right,” Brass said. “If you really want Dustin Black to suffer, Mr. Dean—let him live.”
Dean considered that for a long time……and then he fell to his knees and began to sob, the gun limp in his fingers when Nick stepped forward to lift it from the man’s grasp.
Nick cuffed the distraught father, but when he went to take his own gun from the casket, Grissom said, “Uh uh uh…it’s evidence now, Nick.”
“Oh. Sorry, Gris.”
Grissom leaned close to Nick. “Take Mr. Dean out, Nick,” the CSI supervisor whispered. “So Jim doesn’t have to.”
The detective approached the mortician. “You all right?”
Black said, numbly, “You and Doctor Grissom…you saved my life.”
“You know,” Brass said, “if I wasn’t a cop? I’m not convinced I wouldn’t’ve just laid back and watched.”
Black began to smile, a slow, ghastly thing that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling.
“Captain Brass,” the mortician said, “I’m not sure I don’t wish you hadn’t done that very thing…. Just now? I’m not at all convinced you and Doctor Grissom did me a favor.”
The CSI crew was having breakfast at the diner on Boulder Highway (where Catherine had met cabby Gus Clein).
Catherine and Warrick sat on one side of the booth, Sara and Nick on the other, Grissom occupying a chair at the end of the table. They had just finished filling each other in on their respective cases and were now quietly digging into their food.
“Kathy Dean’s finally at rest,” Sara said.
“More than can be said for Jimmy Doyle and Dustin Black,” Grissom said. “Or her parents…. What could turn a decent normal kid like Kathy into such a manipulative little schemer?”
“Mom and Dad,” Sara said.
Grissom’s smile was distant. “Like so many parents, the Deans loved their child not wisely but too well.”
“So what about Rita Bennett?” Warrick asked.
Nick shook his head. “No sign of poison. She wasn’t murdered. Heart attack all along.”
“So investigating a murder that wasn’t a murder led you to a real one?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s about right.”
Catherine said, “So, then…Peter Thompson gets to keep his wife’s estate, and his stepdaughter, Rebecca, is left out in the cold?”
“Hey, Cath, it’s Vegas in August,” Nick said. “It’s not that cold…. Besides, she’s got a job—she’s doing fine, at least financially.”
“What about Atwater?” Sara asked. “Does our esteemed sheriff still have a hefty contributor, even though he never told Thompson that Rita’s body was missing?”
Grissom said, “I wouldn’t say ‘never.’ ”
Sara was shocked, in an amused way. “Rory did get around to telling Thompson about the body switch?”
“In a manner of speaking. Atwater sent Brass—that’s where Jim is now, trying to mend the sheriff’s political fences.”
“Well,” Warrick said, raising a glass of orange juice, “here’s to us—in a matter of days, we cracked two of the most complicated cases any CSI anywhere ever saw.”
Clinks of juice glasses and coffee cups followed.
Grissom said, “Let’s not get too cocky—the first team did fine, but the second team made it happen.”
Catherine was nodding. “Gil’s right—our assistant coroner, David, had to push us into accepting Vivian Elliot as a murder case; then Jenny Northam’s handwriting analysis, and Greg’s findings from the remains of Derek Fairmont, gave us our case.”
Sara nodded, too. “Greg’s DNA findings handed us the father of Kathy Dean’s baby, and Tomas linked the vic’s iPod to Jimmy Doyle. Here’s to our support team—without them, where would we be?”
And again the glasses clinked, and Nick said, “Let’s just not tell them,” and laughter ensued.
All their beepers squealed at once, causing the other diners to turn their way.
“A call now?” Warrick moaned.
Catherine said, “Poor Warrick…”
“I knew him well,” Grissom finished.
Warrick half-smirked in response, albeit good-naturedly.
As they headed into the parking lot and another scorcher of a day, Nick shook his head. “Y’know, Gris—we been working so much, I don’t know whether this is the end of the shift…or the beginning?”
“Some mysteries, Nick,” Grissom said, “are beyond science.”
A Tip of the Test Tube
My assistant Matthew Clemens helped me develop the plot of Grave Matters, and worked up a lengthy story treatment that included all of his considerable forensic research, from which I could work. Matthew—an accomplished true-crime writer who has collaborated with me on numerous published short stories—has taken frequent research trips to Las Vegas, essentially location scouting, and if any sense of the real city is achieved in these pages, he must take much of the credit.
We would once again like to acknowledge criminalist Lieutenant Chris Kauffman CLPE—the Gil Grissom of the Bettendorf, Iowa, Police Department—who provided comments, insights, and information; Chris, thank you for all you do! Thank you also to Lieutenant Paul Van Steenhuyse, Scott County Sheriff’s Office, for help with computer forensics; Sergeant Jeff Swanson, Scott County Sheriff’s Office for autopsy and crime scene assistance; Stephen M. Thompson, D.O., for help on the Vivian Elliot case; and Marcus Cunnick, Cunnick-Collins Mortuary, for his “behind the scenes” look at the running of a funeral home.
Also, Matt and I spent two days with dozens of real investigators at the actual CSI headquarters and lab in Las Vegas; in a future book we will list many of these helpful individuals—for now, a big thanks to all of these dedicated law-enforcement professionals.
Books consulted include two works by Vernon J. Gerberth: Practical Homicide Investigation Checklist and Field Guide (1997) and Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Investigation (1996). Also helpful were Crime Scene: The Ultimate Guide to Forensic Science, Richard Platt; and Scene of the Crime: A Writer’s Guide to Crime-Scene Investigations (1992), Anne Wingate, Ph.D. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own.
Ed Schlesinger at Pocket Books provided gracious and friendly support. The producers of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation provided scripts, background material (including show bibles), and episode tapes, without which this novel would have been impossible. In particular, I’d like to thank Corinne Marrinan, with whom it’s a genuine pleasure to work.
Anthony E. Zuiker is gratefully acknowledged as the creator of this concept and these characters; and the cast of the show must be applauded for vivid, memorable characterizations that make it easy to write for the theater of the mind. Our thanks, too, to various CSI writers for their inventive and well-documented scripts, which we frequently drew upon for inspiration and backstory.
Max Allan Collins…
…a Mystery Writers of America “Edgar” nominee in both fiction and non-fiction categories, has been hailed as “the Renaissance man of mystery fiction.” He has earned an unprecedented twelve Private Eye Writers of America “Shamus” nominations for his historical thrillers, winning twice for his Nathan Heller novels, True Detective (1983) and Stolen Away (1991). His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, video games, and movie/TV tie-in novels, including the New York Times-bestselling Saving Private Ryan.
His graphic novel Road to Perdition is the basis of the Academy Award–winning DreamWorks 2002 feature film starring Tom Hanks, Paul Newman, and Jude Law, directed by Sam Mendes. His many comics credits include the Dick Tracy syndicated strip (1977
–1993); his own Ms. Tree; Batman; and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, based on the hit TV series for which he also writes a bestselling series of novels.
An independent filmmaker in his native Iowa, he wrote and directed Mommy, premiering on Lifetime in 1996, and a 1997 sequel, Mommy’s Day. The screen-writer of The Expert, a 1995 HBO World Premiere, he wrote and directed the award-winning documentary Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane (1999) and the innovative feature, Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market (2000).
Collins lives in Muscatine, Iowa, with his wife, writer Barbara Collins; their son Nathan is majoring in computer science and Japanese at the University of Iowa.
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