Binding Ties (17 page)

Brass and Damon joined them at the rear of the SUV.

Brass looked toward the house. “Do we know if Bell is in there?”

“Doesn't appear so. Carrack's been here for the last two hours, reports no movement.”

“And no word of Bell otherwise?”

Grissom shook his head. “Nobody's radioed in to that effect.”

Damon asked, “What about the APB on his car?”

“Nothing yet,” Grissom said. “He may be holed up writing, inside, or at a motel on a bender or … Why don't we stop speculating and break in?”

The front door was recessed, and hidden from the neighbors on the north by the protruding two-car garage, in the shadow of which Grissom pulled on latex gloves. So did Sara. The cops did not.

Then—Brass at his side, Damon and Carrack behind them, Sara bringing up the rear—Grissom knocked on the green steel door.

“You want to try the bell?” Damon asked.

Grissom shook his head. “No. Might disturb fingerprints.”

The NLVPD detective frowned. “Why, is this a crime scene?”

“Do we know it isn't?”

Damon had no answer for Grissom, and the house had no answer for Grissom's knock.

The second time the CSI knocked harder, trying the knob as he did, finding the door locked, not surprisingly.

After a brief wait, Carrack and Grissom hit the door with a ram. The lock burst, the frame splintered, the door swung open and leaned drunkenly to one side. The foyer opened into a living room at right, a staircase along the left wall. Straight ahead, down a short hall, Grissom could see into the kitchen.

Brass was the first one through, but he did not get far.

The detective pointed to something dark on the floor and said, “Blood! Everybody freeze.”

The house was dark and Grissom had to pull out his Maglite to shine it on the floor next to Brass to get a clear look: a small dot of dark blood on the hardwood floor.

Grissom said, “Good catch, Jim—looks dried.”

Brass got his gun out with his right hand and turned on a small flashlight with his left. “Just the same, we're going to clear the house before you guys come in.”

“Nobody's been in or out, Captain,” Carrack insisted. “I swear.”

“Let's clear the house, shall we?” Brass said to the patrolman, gun in both hands, snout up. “Plenty of time for you to cover your ass, later….”

Damon pulled his pistol as did Carrack, and soon the two of them were moving up the stairs, eyeing the second floor suspiciously.

Grissom and Sara stepped tentatively inside.

“Stay,” Brass said them, then eased into the living room, and out of sight.

Grissom examined the blood under his flashlight beam again, moving closer, kneeling.

“This blood is indeed dried,” he said.

Sara said, “Whatever happened here…? Happened some time ago….”

From upstairs came Carrack's and Damon's voices, alternating as they went from room to room, a word batted back and forth like a tennis ball:

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Brass emerged from the rear of the kitchen. “From the living room you run into the dining room at the back, then the kitchen on the left—all clear.”

Top of the stairs, Damon said, “Upstairs, clear!”

Grissom moved the light from the original dot of blood toward the kitchen. He found another, then another, and so on, the trail—not of breadcrumbs,
like Hansel and Gretel, but blood drops—leading back into the kitchen and off to the left.

“What's in that direction?” Grissom asked Brass.

“Closed door,” Brass said. “Probably leads to a mudroom, and the garage.”

“Let's have a look.”

Brass looked unhappy. “Maybe I should take one of the guys with guns with me first …”

“It'll be fine,” Grissom said.

“One condition,” Brass said.

Grissom knew what that condition was: He transferred his flash to his left hand and got out his handgun; behind him, Sara did the same.

The kitchen was a big galley with the dining room visible through a doorless entry to the right. Going the other way, Grissom opened the door into a small room that held a washer, a dryer, and a small table for folding laundry on the opposite wall between two doors.

The far door, Grissom figured, would lead to the garage.

Carrack had looked through the garage window earlier, so they were fairly certain that was empty. The blood trail stopped at the nearer door, on the left.

Grissom hesitated to open the door.

Few things bothered him more than the possibility of being personally responsible for destroying evidence; but if someone was behind the door, and still alive, that concern was overridden.

Prints be damned, Gil Grissom's latex-gloved hand settled on the knob, and he opened the door to peer in at a tiny landing above a dozen descending plywood stairs, a two-by-four bannister on the right side. Without hesitation, Grissom flipped a switch that turned on a light overhead as well as several in the basement below.

Behind him, Brass said, “Damn it, Gil, that hasn't been cleared!”

Grissom turned to Sara and said, “Stay here.”

Then, ignoring the detective's admonition, Grissom—gun in one hand, flash in the other—started down….

Very few homes in Vegas even had basements, and the CSI was surprised that Bell's house would be one of those that did. As he took the creaking steps a slow, careful one at a time, the CSI could see more blood on the stairs—not just drops—and a small puddle off to the left on the floor.

At the bottom, having already taken care not to step in any blood, Grissom took in a much bigger pool, running out from under the stairs like something leeching up from the earth.

But the earth wasn't the source of this coagulating fluid.

Shining his light back there, Gil Grissom ruled out Perry Bell as a suspect.

SEVEN

A
fter positioning Officer Carrack and Detective Damon on the first floor, Jim Brass came down into the basement, his cop senses—honed by twenty-five years on the job—tingling, and (like Grissom) careful not to disturb blood evidence. His radar wasn't registering danger—this was the “something's wrong” tingle. Though his gun was in one hand, Brass strongly sensed he was not entering a fire zone, rather the aftermath of something … wrong.

On this case, with its ritualistic crime-scene fetishism, the detective knew before even reaching the last step, what he would see….

Brass came around the stairs and shone his flashlight into the open area beneath. The beam hit the large puddle of blood and followed its flow to the missing right index finger and then over the plump nude dead body. Seemingly with a will of its own, the flash found the face of Perry Bell.

That was when Brass realized he'd been at least a little mistaken—he had thought he had a fix on exactly what the crime scene would look like; but after the carefully staged murders of Sandred and Diaz, this tableau came as a shock …

… of recognition:
The real CASt was back.

The reporter's lips were painted with lipstick that mingled with blood dried on his face from a broken nose. Beaten almost beyond recognition, Bell had suffered more than any other victim, past or present, of CASt (or the CASt copycat). Semen was splashed on his lower back. Blood was everywhere in the basement, not like the neat amputations of the copycat, but spattered and sprayed.

“God-
damn
-it!” Brass exploded.

He wound up to throw the flashlight, but caught himself just before he let it fly. Instead, he turned it off, and jammed it into his pocket.

“I didn't work the original crime scenes, Jim,” Grissom said evenly. “But I take it … this is the real deal.”

Shaking his head, breathing hard, Brass let out a few choice epithets, then said, “Well at least we know he's still out there—and in our jurisdiction. He didn't move away or get run over or … shit, Gil, this …”

Grissom, awkwardly, touched Brass's arm with a latexed hand. “Do the work, Jim. Shake off everything else.”

Brass nodded, swallowed. “This is even more brutal than the crime scenes from years ago. It's like CASt nurtured a … special rage for Perry. Who was, after all, the reporter whose book chronicled the original spree. Making money off CASt, saying ‘bad' things about him.”

Grissom shrugged. “Everybody's a critic.”

Brass had his cell phone in hand before he realized he'd even reached for it. He brought it up to his ear, his fingers somehow having figured out to hit the speed dial. “This is Captain Jim Brass—who's this?”

The voice on the other end was cool and female.
“Laurel Thompson, Captain.”

That sent a quick spike of relief through him. Nothing rattled Laurel—she was one of the best dispatchers in the city.

“Laurel, I need you to send a patrol car to the
Banner.
The officers're to take David Paquette into custody on the CASt case. If he's not there, send a car to his house.”

“Yes, sir. Murder charge?”

Meeting and holding Grissom's eyes, Brass struggled with the urge to say yes.

The trouble was, he had no real proof, though logic seemed to say that if Bell wasn't the copycat, then Paquette had to be. Silently he willed Grissom to find some evidence to bust the editor; to speak that sentiment aloud, however, would only invite Grissom's disfavor.

To the dispatcher, Brass said, “Have them take him into protective custody.”

“Pardon?”

“Laurel, tell the officers Paquette's a material witness, and that I'm concerned for his safety…. In the meantime, I'll call David and tell him what's going on myself.”

“Car'll be dispatched immediately. Ten-four, Captain.”

“Thanks, Laurel.”

He clicked off.

“Material witness?” Grissom asked.

“Do we have enough to collar him?”

“No.”

“Point is, get him off the streets until we know one way or the other. If Bell's not the copycat, Paquette is the next best guess.”

“Here's a small suggestion,” Grissom said. “Let's not guess.”

“Then find me some goddamn evidence!” Brass snapped.

“Actually,” Grissom said, “that shouldn't be hard….”

Grissom moved in for a closer look.

The differences between this crime scene and those generated by the copycat were subtle but plentiful.

Grissom, kneeling near the mutilated hand, said, “The finger was severed while the victim was still alive.”

To Brass, this was obvious. Bell's heart had definitely been pumping when his finger got cut off.

“Tell me about it,” Brass said. “More blood here than the other two scenes combined.”

“The lipstick appears to be a darker shade than the one applied to Sandred and Diaz,” Grissom said. “But I can't be sure without lab comparison if it is truly darker, or if the limited light, and this preponderance of blood, is playing tricks on my perception.”

“I'd say darker,” Brass said.

Grissom continued, gesturing to the corpse: “The broken nose was likely sustained when Bell opened the door for his killer. Doc Robbins will provide the details, but this beating is clearly more vicious than anything either CASt or the copycat has done before. For reasons unknown—despite what we might speculate about his feelings for the author of
CASt Fear
—CASt felt compelled to torture Bell more than the others.”

Brass just chewed his lower lip.

Grissom turned toward Brass. “Can you see it, Jim? In your mind?”

Bell is home alone. He's in his study, going over his old files on CASt, excited that the ancient case has given his career a new lease on life. The doorbell rings and he comes downstairs. By the second ring he's gotten to the door to open it.

The front door is recessed, in a shady area, and it's hard
for the neighbors to see what's happening. It's similarly difficult for Bell to see who's on his doorstep. Either the killer strikes immediately, or Bell
knows
the killer and invites him in, and then the killer strikes as soon as he's inside.

Capture.

Either way, Bell catches a blow in the face—a heavy blow, breaking the reporter's nose and causing blood flow that will eventually lead the police to the basement.

Blood dripping from his nose, Bell is dragged by the killer down to the basement. Bell is stripped.

Affliction.

The noose is slipped around his neck and pressure is slowly applied. As the noose is tightened, Bell starts to slip away. He's brought abruptly back by the first punch to his face, immediately followed by another and another, the blows raining down. He tries to roll into a fetal position, to avoid the savage attack, but the killer jerks on the rope, the noose tightens again and Bell is forced to comply.

The killer lifting Bell's head by the rope, turning the face to just the right angle, then delivering another powerful punch to the reporter's face. Eventually, he passes out, the pain simply too much. He awakens after he doesn't know how much time to the sensation of something closing around his index finger.

The killer has Bell's finger between the blades of a metal clipper. The steel feels cold against his skin until the killer tightens and the pain begins. The cold is replaced first by the warm rush of blood, then the blinding heat of pain as the killer snips off the finger. Bell watches what
had once been his finger bounce on the floor before he closes his eyes, nerves screaming, but it does no good. The pain is like nothing he's ever felt before and he momentarily forgets the rope around his neck, but a quick jerk by the killer reminds him and again the noose tightens around his neck.

Strangulation.