Body of Evidence ccsi-4

by Max Allan Collins

  Warrick took one side of the ram and Brass the other, as Grissom and Sara backed to the edge of the porch. Then, lining it up with the deadbolt, Warrick glanced at Brass and they swung the ram away from the door, straight back, then propelled it forcefully forward….

  The head hit with a satisfying, explosive crunch, the jolt shooting up Warrick's arms through his whole body as the door burst inward, the jamb splintering into kindling.

  Brass allowed Warrick to return the ram to the Taurus while he stood in the doorway, nine millimeter in hand again, and peered carefully inside.

  When Warrick returned, Grissom was saying, "I'm putting my gun away."

  "You do that," Brass said. Then he turned to the CSIs with a tiny rumpled grin. "Open house, gang. Refreshments later."

  Brass again drafted Warrick, who drew his own sidearm, as they went through every room of the house, making sure the suspect really wasn't home.

  After the detective pronounced the house clear, the CSIs went from room to room, checking drawers, closets, drains, carpeting, everything. For the next two hours and then some, they turned the house upside down and inside out, and when they were finished, they met in the foyer amid the detritus of the broken front door.

  "What have we got?" Grissom asked.

  Sara said wryly, "The only evidence of a crime? Looks like some people broke in here."

  Grissom was not amused.

  Warrick said, "If anything this place is cleaner than the mayor's place or Hamilton's"

  "No blood, no hair, nothing," Sara said, then she addressed Grissom and Brass: "What about videotapes? Did you find any?"

  Grissom picked up an evidence bag from his open crime scene suitcase. "Only three home-recorded: labeled NYPD Blue, Without a Trace, and Lexx. Everything else is prerecorded DVD, horror movies mostly."

  "Porn?" Warrick asked.

  Grissom shook his head. "Nothing rated NC-17, let alone triple X…We'll check them when we get back to the lab, but it doesn't look promising."

  They loaded their gear inside and hauled it out to the Tahoe. An aura of dejection and confusion hung over them, and few words were exchanged. Sara, Brass and Grissom gathered near the vehicles while Warrick went back and put crime scene tape up across the broken door.

  Nearing them, Warrick heard Brass saying, "I'll take the heat for this-Mobley's gonna be very pissed if we broke down the wrong door and the department gets sued."

  "I think this is one case," Grissom said, "where Brian will cut us some slack."

  Feeling movement more than hearing it, Warrick turned to see a forty-something couple sauntering over from the house next door.

  In shorts and Miller Beer T-shirt, the man was tall, balding and trimly bearded, with the look of a one-time football player whose paunch said most of his sports were conducted in front of the tube, these days; his wife was a petite brunette with a ready smile and bright brown eyes, wearing a yellow sundress. They approached with a confidence that was a relief, considering how many neighbors and witnesses were wary of the police.

  "Are you looking for our neighbor?" the man asked. "David Benson?"

  Grissom met them halfway. "We are. Do you know where he is?"

  "He works a lot," the woman said. "Very dedicated. Gone at all hours. He's in the security business."

  "I'm Gil Grissom with the crime lab. And you are?"

  "Judy and Gary Meyers," the wife said, as her husband slipped an arm around her shoulders. "We've lived next door for the last five years. Of course, David has only been here a couple of years…. He prefers 'David,' doesn't care for 'Dave.' "

  "And you think David's at work?"

  Gary shook his head and said, "I don't think so. We haven't seen him for a couple days. He's probably out at that cabin of his." He checked with his wife: "Don't you think, honey?"

  "He calls it a cabin," Judy said, nodding, "but it's really a second home. Very nice."

  Her husband picked up on that: "He's got all sorts of high-tech gear out there."

  Warrick glanced at Gris, but the man's attention was fully on the couple.

  Brass stepped up to Grissom's side, introduced himself and told the couple he'd be making a few notes; they said they wouldn't mind.

  "Sounds like you've been there," Grissom said, meaning the cabin.

  "Yeah, just once, though," Gary said. "He invited us out, 'cause Jude's a photographer, and David found that interesting-said he was a camera buff, himself. Told us there were some desert birds and rodents around out there, if she wanted to take some interesting shots."

  "That was right after he moved here," Judy said. "But we must have overstepped, somehow."

  Grissom frowned in interest. "Why do you say that?"

  The woman shrugged. "Well, he hasn't invited us back since."

  "You notice his video equipment," Gary said, "when I tried to talk to him about it, he got kinda close-mouthed and said it wasn't any big deal. Most people with a hobby, you know, if you're into something, you usually you wanna talk about it. Try to get me to stop talking about the Dodgers."

  Grissom smiled. "I've been a Dodgers fan my whole life…and I see your point."

  Warrick and Sara traded glances; Grissom connecting with a human being was always worth noting.

  Grissom was asking, "Could you give us directions to David's cabin?"

  Judy shook her head. "I'm directionally dysfunctional. You remember the way, Gary?"

  "We only went that one time," her husband said, "but I think so…if you don't arrest me, if I steer you wrong…."

  Brass jotted the route down.

  "I hope David's not in some kind of trouble," Judy said. "He's nice, in kind of a quiet way."

  Yes, Warrick thought, the rule of the "nice, normal" serial killer next door always seemed to pertain….

  But then Gary Meyers contradicted it: "Yeah, honey, but to be honest with you? He's got a streak. Guy's an oddball. Not that that's against the law. Has he done something?"

  Brass said, "We don't know yet. Just following up on a lead."

  "Must be some lead," Gary said. "You busted down his door."

  "Thank you for your help," Grissom said, bestowing his fellow Dodgers fan a curt smile, then turning his back on them.

  Dismissed, the couple headed to their own homestead, and the CSIs and the detective huddled in the street, between parked vehicles. Brass got on his cell and called to post a patrol car to watch Benson's residence while he and the CSIs took their excursion to the country and the cabin.

  Then Brass suggested, "Let's take one vehicle."

  Warrick opened the driver's side door, saying, "Always room for one more, Captain."

  "Why don't I drive," Brass said, holding his hand out for the keys. "I'm the one with the directions."

  "You can navigate."

  "Warrick, I've seen you drive."

  Shaking his head, Warrick got in back with Sara.

  They were at the far north end of the city; Benson's cabin was south and west out Blue Diamond Road, down some back roads, almost to the county line. After a stop downtown at the courthouse for a search warrant, the drive took the better part of an hour; but it was time well spent, much of it on their various cell phones.

  Grissom talked to the County Recorder and discovered that Benson had purchased both the house and his cabin about the same time. This also provided them with an exact address, which seemed to fit the neighbor's directions.

  Warrick leaned up from the back. "Why is this guy so flush all of a sudden, Gris?"

  Grissom said, "See what you can find out, Sara."

  And Sara got a dayshift intern to help her dig into Benson's records to find out what else they had missed. The intern told her that an aunt of Benson's had died and left him a good chunk of money, explaining his sudden move from renter of a nondescript apartment into multiple-property owner.

  Warrick phoned Benson's place of employment, Double-O Gadgets, and spoke with a receptionist who seemed more than happy to talk about Benson, as lo
ng as she mistook Warrick for a security-system client.

  After he clicked off, Warrick said, "Our guy's on vacation this week, and they have no idea where he is."

  "On vacation at his cabin?" Sara asked.

  "Didn't know. He could be in the Bahamas, or in Cleveland."

  Sourly, Brass said, "Or on the run."

  Grissom shook his head. "No reason to think he's made us, Jim."

  Brass ground the wheel to the left and everybody leaned to one side, comically, as they headed up a dirt inlet that seemed to Warrick more like a path than a road. The Tahoe jumped and bucked and a cloud of dust that could be seen in Arizona trailed them like a jet plume.

  "Really sneaking up on the guy, Jim," Warrick said, still nursing hurt feelings over the general disregard for his driving abilities.

  Half-smiling into the rearview mirror, Brass said, "Still a couple more miles before we're even close enough to worry about it."

  Grissom looked back at Warrick. "Consider this an intervention, Warrick-where we demonstrate what it's like to be driven by a maniac."

  Brass flicked a frown at Grissom, obviously not liking the sound of that any better than Warrick.

  But any criticism of Brass's driving did not prevent the detective from jostling them around several more times before turning off onto another dirt road, this one even more dubious and less forgiving. Then, once he'd made the turn, Brass took what seemed like a firebreak at a more manageable speed.

  They were winding up into the foothills now and-despite what Benson's neighbors had said about the cabin being more a second home-Warrick began conjuring visions of this trip ending outside a rundown, ramshackle tacked-together hovel purchased from the Unabomber.

  When they popped up over a rise, however, and got their first look at Benson's "cabin" in the distance, Warrick's notion of a shack dissolved and he realized that couple back on Roby Grey Way had not exaggerated. The house perched on a low hill to the west, a long, low-slung stucco ranch-style with a typical Vegas-area tile roof.

  Grissom said, "Most people have a cabin to 'rough it,' get away from civilization. Why does David Benson need two houses, roughly the equivalent of each other, only miles apart?"

  Sara said, "Do I have to answer that?"

  Their supervisor went on: "He's not next to a stream, for fishing. There's nothing to recommend this location, other than its…"

  "Splendid isolation?" Warrick offered.

  Grissom nodded.

  Only one way up the hill to the house: a curving dirt driveway that-no matter how slow they took it-would give Benson ample opportunity to spot them coming. Nonetheless, Brass took the hill slowly, kicking up a minimum of dust, though if Benson was home, they were made, no question.

  They pulled up in front, in a small graveled area extending from the garage's gravel drive. A propane tank sat off to one side of the house, and next to it a large generator chugged right along, little wisps of exhaust disappearing skyward.

  "Okay," Grissom said, almost to himself. "So he's a survivalist-that's one reason to have a second house, in the boondocks…."

  They got out and no one made a move to unload the Tahoe. Unholstering his sidearm, Brass gave the CSIs a look that had all of them-even Grissom-unhesitatingly unholstering theirs.

  Even if David Benson wasn't their homicidal necrophiliac, he was a loner in the security business who had the earmarks of a survivalist, and when the cops showed up, that type of individual sometimes…overreacted.

  They went to the door, with its cement-slab stoop, the detective in the lead, Warrick right behind him, feeling beads of sweat on his brow, and not just because they were no longer in the air-conditioned vehicle.

  Brass tried to peek around the curtains of the front window with no success, then turned and gave Warrick a had-to-try shrug.

  Poised at the front door, with Grissom and Sara off to the sides of the stoop, weapons in hand, Brass signaled Warrick to go around back.

  Which Warrick did, the gun heavy if reassuring in his hand as he skirted along the side of the structure. With no lawn out here, the desert floor seemed to crunch under his feet like broken glass, as if the ground itself were a security alarm. With his left hand, he rubbed the perspiration from his face, particularly away from his eyes, drying his hand on his shirt, and crept along. Three windows on this side-as heavily curtained as the one in the front.

  In back, a twenty-foot-wide flat space extended to where the scrubby hill sloped steeply up. More windows-four to be exact, two on either side of a screened backdoor, each as heavily curtained as the others. Beyond the screen, the rear door was steel with a peephole but no window.

  Warrick pounded hard on the metal border of the screen, but got no response; and it proved to be locked.

  To the far side of the house, the CSI noticed three small bushes, their leaves brown and withered…and Warrick realized he'd likely located the source of the crushed leaves found in Candace Lewis's carpet cocoon.

  He didn't know how far Brass and the others were-or weren't-getting, out front; but he figured if Benson did happen to be inside, and Brass succeeded in chasing him out, this was the way the suspect would be exiting…so Warrick decided this was exactly where he ought to be.

  Nerve endings on alert, Warrick imagined he could feel every molecule of the breeze slipping past him. The gun now felt more heavy than reassuring, and the impulse to drop his arms down to his sides beleaguered him; but he fought it, and kept the gun up, barrel pointed at the sky.

  If he leveled it, it would be for one purpose only.

  Warrick took a position off to one side, preparing himself for whatever came through that door. His back was against stucco, shirt cool and damp against his back, bumps of the wall digging into him, reminding him he was alive. A good way to be…

  Nothing to do but wait.

  Then his cell phone trilled, and he felt himself jump a little-no one was around to see that, thankfully-and he jerked the phone off his belt, about to shut it down when he recognized the incoming number as Brass's.

  "What?"

  "We don't think he's here," Brass said without preamble.

  "He could be burrowed in," the slightly amped Warrick reminded the detective, "just waiting to jump out and say 'boo.' "

  "Is there a car, any kinda vehicle, back there?"

  Warrick glanced, then felt silly for not putting it together sooner: no car out front, no car in the back, middle of nowhere, equals…

  No Benson.

  "No vehicle out back," Warrick said.

  "Join us," Brass said, sounding laidback. "We'll do our deal with the door, you and I, then while you CSIs start working your wonders, I'll move the Tahoe around back of the house. Assuming there's room…?"

  "Plenty," Warrick said, taking in the flat space.

  Warrick circled the building and met Brass at the rear of the Tahoe. They fetched the battering ram and lugged it to the stoop, to repeat the action from the other house. This door proved more secure, and it took a second blow to send the puppy sailing in, this jamb splintering, too, survivalist measures or not.

  After leaning the battering ram against the side of the house, Brass told Grissom and Sara to stay put and keep a watch for Benson, should he return.

  Then Brass went in first, Warrick after him, guns drawn. Warrick held a flashlight in his left hand and the weapon in his right, fanning them both around.

  The single curtained picture window shrouded the room, but sun spilling through the open door aided the flashlights, if also creating dancing shadows. A certain strobe-like effect resulted, and Warrick had trouble adjusting for a few moments, not able to recognize even familiar objects.

  The room was air-conditioned-cold in here, which explained why the generator was working with nobody (apparently) home. Warrick recalled Doc Robbins saying Candace Lewis's body had been preserved for some time, and a chill ran through him that had nothing to do with air conditioning.

  Brass clicked the light switch and revealed a me
dium-sized living room that was at once cluttered and stark: parked in the middle were the only furnishings-a big lounge chair and a small, round table with a coaster and a remote control, opposite a huge projection TV against the far. The cluttered feel arrived by way of the right wall, which was consumed by shelving, the upper levels home to more electronic gear than the backroom at Best Buy-several VCRs, DVD players and recorders, laserdisc player, various cameras and more. The lower shelves were lined with hundreds of videotapes, all the homemade variety, with white spines hand-lettered in black felt-tip.

  Even from across the room, Warrick could make out a row of tapes labeled CANDY, volumes one and two and three and on and on….

  Shuddering, Warrick glanced around the other, vacant walls-no pictures at all, not mom, not Jesus, not even a velvet John Wayne.

  Brass and Warrick exchanged lifted-eyebrow glances, and the detective led the way through an archway into a dining room, each going down one side of a scuffed, secondhand-looking wooden table and two wooden chairs with spindle backs. The chair on Warrick's side was rubbed white on one of the spindles-could this indicate Candace had sat here, handcuffed, while her host fed her during her imprisonment?

  Beyond the dining area was the kitchen, but Warrick couldn't move any further without exposing himself to a hallway at left. Brass indicated he'd take the kitchen, and Warrick nodded toward the hall, a choice Brass confirmed with a return nod.

  Warrick had taken only a few steps down the narrow corridor when Brass whispered from behind him, "Kitchen's clear, too."

  The first two doors in the hall faced each other.

  As before, Brass went right and Warrick left, turning into a room bearing the fragrance of a relatively recent paint job, the walls a flat white; probably intended as a bedroom, this had been converted into a kind of office-devoid of furniture but for a swivel desk chair facing a TV monitor on a small desk. A cable behind the monitor ran up the wall, and out of sight. What appeared to be a closet had its door padlocked.

  Again, Warrick felt Brass right behind him.