“I thought that stuff was off the market.”
Greg nodded. “At least seven years. Copycat’s been using Bright Rose—a newer product, but similar shade.”
Frowning, trying to wrap his head around this, Warrick said, “Are you telling me that lipstick from ten years ago is still usable?”
The tech shrugged. “All in the packaging. And if someone took care of it—kept it in climate-controlled conditions—almost anything’s possible.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“Why would anyone strip, torture, and strangle a victim, apply lipstick to the mouth and put a DNA cherry on the sundae?”
“I got a better one…. Why would two people do that?”
“That kind of question, I can’t answer. What I can give you is: old rope and old lipstick, on the new killing … You think ol’ Mackie’s back in town? The original CASt, I mean?”
Warrick’s shrug was elaborate. “It’s looking that way. Can you imagine a scenario where the copycat suddenly shifts to old rope and ancient lipstick?”
“Just tell me this isn’t Freddy versus Jason.”
“Greg—it just might be.”
The tech grinned. “You could always call in Ash to take ’em on.”
“Huh?”
“Evil Dead? Chainsaw? … Warrick, you have absolutely no sense of great cinema.”
“Riiight,” Warrick said, and slipped out.
Back in the fingerprint lab, Warrick checked the results of the first batch of prints he’d put in. Paquette, Brower, and Mydalson’s prints were, of course, on the CASt envelope from the Banner. Bell’s prints were all over his house and on the keycard. No fingerprints inside the Diaz residence, other than those of the owner; same was true of Sandred’s place. No surprises, there.
But then the computer slapped Warrick right in the face.
Fingerprints, from the doorbells of the two houses, matched.
And the truly shocking thing was the identity of who those fingerprints belonged to….
Warrick grabbed the report from the printer and hustled off to tell Grissom. The CSI didn’t know what thrilled him more: the idea that the case was finally breaking; or that for once he had something that Grissom couldn’t already know.
Gil Grissom and Jim Brass sat opposite David Paquette at the interview room table. The editor’s gray suit looked rumpled and much the worse for wear; so did the editor, his red-rimmed eyes indicating sleep was a luxury he hadn’t availed himself of since being taken into protective custody.
“What makes you think Perry wasn’t a victim of the copycat?” Paquette was asking. “Why do you peg the real CASt for Perry’s murder?”
Brass and Grissom exchanged looks; the latter nodded and handed a file to the former, who got up and handed it to Paquette.
Brass said, “I know crime scene photos are second-nature to an old police beat reporter like you … but these are rough. The first set is Sandred, then Diaz … and then Perry Bell. I know Perry was a good friend….”
Paquette opened the file, hunkered over the photos, his face turning as white as dead skin over a blister as he paged through. During the final set, he shook his head and said, “Perry … oh, God, Perry …”
The editor shut the file, passed it down to Brass, who took it and returned to his chair next to the CSI.
“I … I see what you mean,” Paquette said. “The first two are … obviously staged. The final one … final one is all too fam … familiar.”
The editor leaned on an elbow and covered his face with a hand. He wept.
Brass rose again, pushed a box of Kleenex toward him, and he and Grissom waited for several minutes.
The editor used two tissues, drying his eyes, blowing his nose, then he gathered himself and said, “What makes you think this … this maniac might be after me, too?”
Grissom said, “You were the coauthor of CASt Fear—with Perry a target, his collaborator seems likely a second one.”
Brass made a casual gesture. “Of course, it’s possible Perry was the copycat.”
Paquette’s bloodshot eyes popped wide. “Are you serious? You can’t be serious. Perry? Perry Bell?”
Grissom said, “Perry was a good reporter past his prime, apparently with a drinking problem. Putting CASt back on the front page would revive his glory days. Desperate men do desperate things.”
“Gil,” Paquette said, “you knew Perry. He was a sweetheart. He just didn’t have the sick twist of mind necessary, not to mention the stones, to carry off those first two killings.”
Brass said, “John Wayne Gacy visited children in hospitals and did a clown routine. He was active with the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Not Perry. No way.”
“Dave, I tend to agree with you. I think Gil does, too. But it’s an easy road to take.”
The editor blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, that the real CASt—seeing that a copycat is stealing his thunder—might logically assume that you and or Perry were responsible.”
“Perry the copycat? Me? Why, in hell?”
Grissom said, “With the exception of a small handful of police, you and Perry know more than anyone about the original crimes … including the digit removal and the semen signature.”
Paquette had nothing to say to that. He rubbed his stubbly chin. “Then … you really think I’m next, on his list?”
Before either man could answer, Warrick slipped into the interview room.
Grissom gave him a sharp glance—this was a breach of not just procedure but etiquette—but Warrick leaned in and said, “I know, I know, I’m sorry … but this won’t wait.” He shot a look at Paquette, then handed his supervisor the printout.
Grissom read it fast, then passed the sheet to Brass, who also quickly absorbed its contents. Warrick slipped out.
Brass looked up at Paquette. “Tell me about Mark Brower.”
“What about Mark?” Paquette asked.
“Is there any way he might have had access to the hold-back details on the original case?”
“Not that I know of—he wasn’t even around during the first cycle of murders, or for that matter, when Perry and I were writing the book.”
Grissom said, “Could Mark casually … wheedle something like that out of Bell … like when Perry was in his cups?”
Paquette thought about that. “Possibly. Perry reprinted the book—there was talk of revising it, which ultimately didn’t happen, because it was a self-publishing deal, and expensive.”
Grissom considered that momentarily, then asked, “So Perry and Mark, when the possibility of doing a revision was on the table, might have talked about the details that were omitted first time around?”
“I don’t know that for a fact, Gil. But it’s possible, yes. You’re not looking at Mark as a suspect?”
Brass said, “Aren’t we?”
“He’s one of my best employees. He’s a stand-up guy.”
Grissom titled his head; an eyebrow raised. “Really. Maybe you can explain how his fingerprints got on Marvin Sandred’s doorbell?”
Brass added, “And Enrique Diaz’s doorbell?”
Paquette smiled disbelievingly and shook his head. “Oh that’s just crazy … I don’t buy that for a minute….”
“At least consider the sale,” Brass said, and he handed the report across to the editor.
Leaning over, holding the sheet in both hands, close to his face, his expression shifting from incredulous to outraged, David Paquette read of the match between the prints on both doorbells and the ones Warrick took at the Banner office.
“Goddamn that little bastard!” Paquette said, shaking the sheet. “That psychotic little son of a bitch!”
Grissom and Brass traded glances, both thinking that the editor’s warm assessment of Brower had not taken long to turn.
Brass said, “What do you make of it?”
Grissom said, “What would inspire Mark Brower to play CASt copycat?”
“Ar
e you kidding?” the editor said. “It’s painfully obvious! Mark figured to resurrect CASt, and frame Perry for it.”
Brass said, “To what end?”
“Think about it! He immediately takes over the column, and he’s in a perfect position to write the follow-up book himself … as the crime reporter who actually worked at Perry ‘CASt Copycat’ Bell’s side.”
Quietly aghast, Grissom said, “For something as fleeting … as meaningless, as fame? Brower would go to these … bizarre, malignant lengths?”
Paquette said, “You’re not naive, Gil. Of course he would.”
Brass’s mouth twitched with disgust. To Grissom he muttered, “No wonder you prefer insects.”
Paquette said, “I’d, uh … just as soon stay in protective custody, if you don’t mind.”
“Our pleasure,” Brass said, just as his cell phone trilled. He left the room to answer it in private.
Grissom said, “Perry Bell’s crime-beat column was at a dead end. Why would Mark Brower see it as a career opportunity worth killing for?”
Paquette was shaking his head, his smile a glazed thing. “Bell was at the end of his career, his life. For Brower, it’s a stepping stone, but think of the context: It’s a different world than back when Perry and I wrote CASt Fear. Now there’s way more of a chance for movies, TV, and on top of the book sale, he’d have speaking fees, talk shows would pick this up, he’d maybe even wind up on Leno or Letterman. Mark Brower … if this plan worked … would’ve been a star.”
“He may still be,” Grissom said softly, “after we arrest him.”
“Damn right,” the editor said. “Look at Richard Ramirez, David Berkowitz, Aileen Wuornos. Between movies, documentaries, TV shows, books, hell—they have more exposure than some mega-stars.”
Grissom—wondering if he’d somehow entered a Twilight Zone of infamy—glanced toward the door just as Brass came back in, his face a pissed-off mask.
“What now?” Grissom asked.
Rage barely in check, Brass said, “Patrol car I assigned to keep an eye on Dayton? They lost him. He came out of the house, drove off and our men got stopped at the gate long enough for Dayton to shake them. Shit!”
Paquette folded his hands; looked at the table.
Something about Paquette’s manner—his attempt to turn invisible—triggered Brass. He turned on the editor. “You—you knew he was out! Didn’t you, Dave?”
The editor shrugged once, stared at his hands.
“You fucking knew!” Brass yelled, his voice echoing off the walls.
Paquette turned away, then blurted, “All right! Yes.” He threw his hands in the air. “Yes, damn it, I knew!”
Brass drew a deep breath; exhaled; said, “Did Perry Bell know a major CASt suspect was on the streets?”
“… No.”
“Brower?”
“Not to my knowledge. Who knows with that bastard.”
“How long have you known Dayton was out?”
Paquette hung his head. “I knew … knew not long after he got out. Maybe a month.”
Grissom said, “Seven years.”
The editor nodded.
“And it never occurred to you to tell us?”
“I didn’t see it as your business.”
Brass slapped his hand on the table and Paquette jumped.
The detective said, “Not even when murders started in again?”
“We all thought it was a copycat.” The editor shrugged. “Look, the murders had stopped. Dayton got out of the nuthouse, and nothing bad happened. Anyway, you remember our book. You read it, right?”
Grissom said, “I just reread it. You didn’t think Dayton was a valid suspect. You devoted a chapter to him and how the police were on the wrong track.”
Brass leaned on his hands. “Oh … why, Dave, I almost forgot. You said Vince and I were on the … what was the phrase? ‘Verge of persecuting Jerome Dayton, an innocent afflicted with mental problems?’”
Paquette sat up, his face red. “Damn it, Brass, Dayton was innocent! You know that. Hell, he was already committed out to Sundown, when Drake got killed.”
Grissom had never seen Brass deliver a more terrible smile than the ghastly thing he cast upon David Paquette. “Really, Dave? You investigative journalists really dig, don’t you? Only you failed to dig up one small fact: Jerome Dayton was on a weekend pass when Drake was killed.”
“… what? Oh, no. Oh, hell no …”
“Hell yes, Dave.”
Shaking now, Paquette fell back in his chair, tears glistening again. “Honest to Christ, Jim—I thought he was innocent.”
Brass said nothing.
Grissom said, “Where’s Brower right now, Dave? Is he at work?”
The editor sighed, shrugged. “Normally … but if he’s working on a story, he could be out anywhere.”
“Reporting news, you suppose?” Brass asked sarcastically. “Or making it?”
Brass sent an ashen Paquette back to protective custody.
As he and Grissom walked down the corridor, Brass got on his cell and dispatched Detective Sam Vega to try to locate Brower at the Banner; then he called for two patrol cars.
Grissom said, “You’re picking up Brower?”
“Gonna try to. If he’s our copycat, that makes his house par for the CSI course. Wanna round up Sara and Warrick and come with?”
“Try and stop me.”
Mark Brower lived in Paradise, on Boca Grande, just off Hacienda Avenue. Boca Grande, Brass thought, “Big Mouth”… who the hell would name a street that?
The tiny bungalow with an attached one-car garage was what a Realtor would call cozy, talking up the proximity of Tomiyasu Elementary School, and a prospective buyer would call small. From the street, the place appeared empty, curtains drawn, doors closed. The postage-stamp lawn hadn’t been mowed for some time—not that it mattered, brown as it had turned.
Brass blocked the driveway with the Taurus, while Warrick left the CSI Tahoe in front, he and Grissom getting out to join Brass next to his vehicle. The two squad cars were parked nearby, uniformed officers hustling over to huddle up with the others.
“Around back, you two,” Brass told the officers, but before he got any further, his cell phone rang.
“Brass.”
“Vega. Brower’s not at the paper, and nobody here has seen him since around lunchtime yesterday.”
Brass cursed, once. “All right, Sam—thanks. We’ll hope he’s in the house.” He cut off the call and reported to the others.
“Next best chance is here,” Warrick said.
The two patrolmen—Carl Carrack again and another vet, Ray Jalisco—had headed around opposite sides of the bungalow. Jalisco radioed that he’d looked through the window of the garage: Brower’s car was gone.
Brass acknowledged that and waited for the two men to get around back and report in before he, Warrick, Sara, and Grissom approached the house.
Sara and Grissom hung back near the garage, to serve as backup, while Brass and Warrick went for the door. Warrick took the side near the knob, while Brass went wide to the far side.
Once in place, Brass knocked loudly on the door. “Mark Brower, open up! Police!”
The order was met with silence.
“Anything?” Brass asked into his walkie-talkie.
Carrack’s voice came instantly. “Nothing, Cap—tumbleweed blowin’ through, back here.”
Brass pounded on the door again.
They waited.
Nothing happened.
Raising his chin and nodding toward the door, Warrick signaled Brass that he was going to try the knob.
Brass nodded permission; his pistol was in both hands, barrel pointed skyward. Leaning forward, Warrick had his gun in his left hand, to use his right to turn the knob.
To the surprise of both men, the door was unlocked.
The CSI gave the door a shove and it swung in out of Brass’s way, and the detective entered the house, gun dropping down to chest level,
both hands still gripping it.
Though the room was dark—only marginal light spilled through the open door and filtered around the drapes—Brass could nonetheless see the place was a shambles.
Oh, hell, he thought. Another damn crime scene …
Having come through on the detective’s heels, Warrick hesitated just long enough to hit the light switch next to the door, prints be damned in a potentially dangerous situation like this.
An overhead light revealed a tight little living room of overturned and broken furniture, magazines, newspapers, framed pictures, and knickknacks, all scattered as if dropped from above, TV set on its side, frame cracked, picture tube shattered.
Brass listened, listened, listened, but heard no sound save a clock or two ticking. The living room led straight into a dining room, where three of four chairs at a round oak table were overturned. The fourth chair lay in splinters, possibly having been used as a weapon. The detective and the CSI remained silent as they moved across the living room, guns at the ready. Just inside the dining room, a hallway peeled off to the left, and another door at the back of the room led into the kitchen.
They tried not to disturb evidence, but first priority was clearing the house, and—if they ran across him—taking Brower into custody. Signaling to Warrick to watch the hallway, Brass moved to the kitchen. Warrick backed along with him, careful where he stepped, but keeping his eyes mostly on the hallway, having no desire to be attacked from that direction.
The kitchen—light streaming in through windows over the sink—was even messier than the other rooms; it was almost as if a tornado had swept through without touching walls or roof. Brass also noticed blood spatter here and there on the floor, and on the counters—more indicative of a brawl than the chopped-off fingers of this case. And it was easy to note the smell of food going bad in the refrigerator, standing ajar.
To the right was a closed door, the garage probably; to the left, a door that led to a bedroom, maybe. Jalisco had looked through the garage window, so Brass went to the unknown entry first.
With Warrick guarding his back, Brass found a neat spare bedroom, a single bed against one wall, a desk with a computer against the other wall, near the only window. He checked the closet, but found only some hanging clothes and a case of computer paper.
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