Binding Ties (23 page)

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.

“Clear,” Brass said for Warrick's benefit, backing out.

They proceeded with the garage, finding it deserted, as well. They went back to the dining room and into the hall, checking two bedrooms, the bathroom
and all the closets. Mark Brower was not here, but it was abundantly clear that someone—two someones—had very much
been
here.

Back outside, Brass huddled again with the CSIs, saying, “There was a hell of a fight in there, but nobody's in the house now … and from the smell in the kitchen, there hasn't been anyone for some time.”

“You think CASt found out Brower is the copycat?” Warrick asked.

Brass shrugged. “I dunno, but something went down here … either that, or this guy's a worse housekeeper than me. We'll keep searching for him. I'll talk to DMV and find out about his car, get an APB out.”

Turning to Warrick and Sara, Grissom said, “We're here, we'll work the scene. Maybe there's something. Sara, bedrooms and bathroom. Warrick, dining room and living room. I'll be in to help you, soon as I do the kitchen.”

Brass returned to his car as Grissom got his kit out of the Tahoe. As the three crime-scene analysts neared the house, Grissom said, “Warrick, you've already been in the house. Go through and open the garage door, so I can get to the kitchen that way.”

“Will do.”

Enough feet had tracked through the crime scene already, and Sara had no choice but to enter through the front door to get to her assignment. Still, no reason for Grissom to add his prints to the pile.

A minute or so later the garage door motored up slowly and Grissom ducked inside. The garage was clean—a bicycle hanging upside down on the right wall, a small workbench in back, a lawnmower at left next to a plastic garbage can. A fresh oil stain about the size of a softball marked the cement where a car usually sat.

Moving through to the kitchen, Grissom got his first look at the destruction inside.

A small table, just big enough for two, normally in a bay window, had been shoved off in a corner, one chair on its side, the other, its back broken off, near the door to the garage, broken back wedged under the refrigerator. The mess included mounds of spices and powders on both the floor and the counters, having spilled from several open cupboards; and a broken bottle of jelly looked like a purple fragmentation bomb had gone off.

The tiled kitchen floor provided prime opportunity for footprints, and inspired Grissom to get out the electrostatic print lifter. He rolled out the mylar sheet, applied the two electric leads and touched them to the sheet, taking five long mylar sheets to get the kitchen done.

Next, he photographed the room from various angles, before going through the kitchen on his hands and knees, investigating the various pieces of things that had ended up on the floor during the skirmish. He bagged shards of broken glass that might contain fingerprints, did the same with bits of broken furniture
and the toaster. He took samples of blood, and carefully collected threads of fabric and various powders that were probably only spices.

Finished, he took one last look around. He had covered the floors, the counters, the small table, and chairs and even looked in the open cupboards and been careful to dust for prints. The CSI was packed up and ready to leave when he glanced over at the double well sink. He
had
looked in there, hadn't he? Retracing his investigation, Grissom realized that when he had gotten to that part of the kitchen, he'd been focused on several blood smears on the countertop, and the hope that one might hold a fingerprint.

Pulling his Mini Maglite out of his pocket, Grissom returned to the sink. The garbage disposal side had a plastic cover fitted tightly over the drain. The sink itself was empty. The one place where all the mess should have gone, it was completely avoided, just another anomaly in a lifetime of crime scene anomalies.

The well on the right held a microwave container of chicken noodle soup that had obviously been spilled there from the drainboard next to the sink. The strainer basket had wound up across the room, against a wall, possibly used as a weapon hurled by one opponent at another. Grissom had bagged that already.