Binding Ties (26 page)

The next shelf held coils of rope and a dozen lipstick tubes: Limerick Rose.

And the top shelf was home to a row of small jars, the likes of which you would be unlikely to find
in a typical fruit cellar, except perhaps at Ed Gein's farm.

In each jar sat a dried, shriveled index finger.

All but two, that is.

One jarred finger looked fairly fresh—very possibly, Perry Bell's.

And the fifth one from the left had no finger at all—likely the jar that had held Vincent Drake's finger before CASt sent it to the
Banner,
sacrificing it in defense of his good name.

This thought was still passing through his mind when he heard the sounds.

Grissom looked toward their source, yet another door, and what else was there to do but go through it? In such a small room it took only three quick steps, and he went in to see a yellow light on over a workbench and—their backs to him—the naked bloody Dayton and Brass struggling over a knife, locked in both their hands.

Brass had blood on him, too, perhaps not all of it Dayton's.

Grissom crossed the workroom just as Dayton, on top, hooked a left that caught Brass's chin and knocked the detective's head against the concrete floor. Brass didn't seem to be unconscious, but the fight appeared out of him, momentarily at least, and Dayton now had control of the knife. He grabbed onto Brass's left wrist and lay the hand on the cement. He was pressing the blade against the forefinger, just above the knuckle, when Grissom put the
nose of the pistol against the back of Dayton's head.

“Drop the knife,” Grissom said.

Dayton moved the knife to Brass's throat.

“Back away,” CASt said, “or I cut it!”

“When I fire,” Grissom said blandly, “your motor skills die with you.”

Dayton froze.

“It's not a theory,” Grissom said.

CASt cast the knife aside.

Grissom backed off slightly. “Stand up and fold your hands behind your head.”

Coming up slowly, Dayton spread his arms wide, crucifixion style. Then with great care, the killer wove his fingers together behind his head, grinning defiantly at Grissom.

“Turn around,” Grissom said.

Dayton did.

Then Grissom holstered the weapon and got out his handcuffs, about to secure the prisoner's hands behind him; but Dayton dipped, swept a leg around, and took the CSI's feet from under him.

Grissom went down hard on the cement.

Leg throbbing, Brass struggled to his feet, then slipped, his fingers nudging something cold …

… his pistol!

Grabbing the weapon, he wrapped his fingers around the grip and managed to get to a knee.

Dayton was punching a disoriented Grissom in the face, once, twice, then as the naked killer pulled
back his fist for a third blow, Brass got his footing and once again Jerome Dayton had the mouth of a pistol kissing the back of his head.

“Case you were wondering,” Brass said, “difference between me and Grissom? He did his best
not
to shoot you…. Jerry, Jerry, Jerry—please, please give me an excuse.”

Dayton swallowed thickly.

Sanity got the better of the madman, and he put his hands up, and caused them no further trouble.

ELEVEN

A
s he sat in the interview room, Jim Brass was constantly aware of the bandage under his pant leg, and the stitches pulling at his skin. On either side of him were Sara and Nick, who had worked the case from its two different angles: new and old.

For the first time since the discovery of Marvin Sandred's body, Brass was not struggling with rage and/or frustration. He felt good—cool and calm, and ready to enjoy his revenge as a dish best served cold.

Across the table, a sullen, silent Jerry Dayton—in jailhouse orange and handcuffs—stared at the detective with death daggers in his eyes, and Brass felt only amused. Next to Dayton sat attorney Carlisle Deams, looking as respectable and distinguished as a college dean, a ruddy study in gray (hair, mustache, three-piece suit), frequently referring to a small pile of papers, a man who seemed unable to stop talking in his effort to assure Brass that his client wasn't talking.

The “tell,” as ex-gambler Warrick might say, was the attorney's eyes: dark dead orbs that might have been a shark's.

“My client has nothing to say to you people—do you understand? Nothing.”

Dayton's cuffs were in front of him—not the standard, safer behind-his-back—since he was in the presence of his lawyer.

“He was fairly chatty before,” Brass said, “when he was running around wearing nothing but Mark Brower's blood, and sticking a knife in my leg.”

“Well, you'll just have to be content, Captain Brass,” Deams said with a nasty smile, “with your memories.”

Brass provided his own mirthless smile. “My take on your client is that he has a mind of his own. This meeting is a courtesy, really.”

The lawyer's dead black eyes blinked. “A courtesy?”

“Yes—to provide Jerry an opportunity to explain himself, to express his unique point of view.”

Warrick said, “Mr. Dayton obviously has a certain pride in his … hobby. We thought he might like to help us sort out
his
work from that of this … interloper.”

Sara said, “Of course, Mr. Dayton, if you don't
help clear things up? His efforts may be confused for yours, and vice versa.”

Dayton was frowning, and the lawyer patted his client on the arm while saying to the adversaries across the table, “Very clever. But your attempts to play on my client's pride are not going to crack his resolve. He has nothing to say to you, nor are either of us interested in anything you might have to say.”

Brass shrugged. “Well, then, we'll let the evidence do the talking … in court.”

Deams chuckled dryly. “I'm more than happy to face the best the District Attorney can throw at us.”

“Good.” Brass beamed. “You're happy. I'm happy.”

Deams smirked. “Let me tell you what you have—a charge against my client for simple assault.”

Warrick said, “Not that simple—he kidnapped Mark Brower, and cut off his finger, and had him bound up in a torture chamber.”

“Mark Brower came to my client's home and attacked him.”

Sara gave up a smile. “Really—so Mr. Dayton cut off Brower's finger in self-defense? And put his head in a noose? That'll be fun to hear you argue in court.”

Dayton frowned at his attorney, who then said to Brass and the CSIs, “Whatever you may have in the Brower matter is beside the point. You can't really think you're going to successfully prosecute my client for events that happened a decade ago?”

Brass said, “Mr. Dayton's DNA hasn't changed in
ten years—and we have his DNA from then
and
now.”

“Stored under what conditions?” Deams said, waving that off as if it were nothing more than a bothersome gnat.

Warrick said, “We have voluminous physical evidence, Mr. Deams, including the fingers your client harvested from his victims, which we removed from his little basement museum.”

Deams even shrugged that off. “We believe Mark Brower planted that evidence in my client's home.”

“Well, then Brower must've made your client help him out,” Warrick replied, “because only Jerome Dayton's fingerprints are on those jars.”

The attorney gestured with open hands. “Circumstantial evidence. You have surprisingly little. Is there anything else?”

“You mean, other than your client running around bare-ass with blood all over him,” Brass said, “stabbing a police officer whose presence was backed up by a warrant?”

Deams twitched something that was not exactly a smile. “My client is … a troubled young man. He has a medical history, which includes medication that has been quite successful in curtailing his … problem.”

“Not lately,” Brass said.

“We will show that a physician recommended my client take a drug holiday—that's a common practice for patients suffering chemical imbalance, who have
been medicated for many years. It would appear that this holiday was … ill-advised.”

“Ill-advised?” Brass said. “Maybe we should prescribe your client's doctor a lethal injection, too?”

“No such barbaric thing will happen to my client, Captain Brass. In fact, I'm quite sure this particular case will never get to trial.”

“Your ‘troubled' client,” Brass said, “was institutionalized before, and yet he was out within three years. And now that Mommy and Daddy aren't around to keep him in a druggy haze, he's reverted to his ‘barbaric' nature. No—even if you manage to convince a judge and jury that Jerry here doesn't know the difference between right and wrong … and I grant you he's a homicidal sociopath … he'll be in a state institution that'll make Sundown look like Club Med.”

Dayton finally spoke—three simple words, directed at Brass: “I hate you.”

“Well, that can be your new hobby, Jerry,” Brass said, “in your new padded pad.”

That did it.

Despite the cuffed wrists, Dayton came scrambling over the table at Brass, but Brass was ready and simply slipped aside, the killer sliding over the edge of the table, accidentally kicking his lawyer in the head before he landed face-first on the floor in an upended pile. The kick had sent Deams off balance, and he'd tumbled off his chair onto the floor as well.

A uniformed officer rushed in, but Brass waved
him away, grabbing Dayton by the scruff of the neck and picking him up like a big plastic bag full of trash; then Warrick was on the other side of the prisoner and together they dragged the dazed Dayton around and sat him down in his chair, hard.

Sara had come around to help the flustered attorney to his feet, and Deams growled a thanks at her and proceeded to slap away at his expensive gray suit as if it had gotten filthy from his trip to the carpet of the spotless interview room.

Both CSIs and the homicide captain seemed more amused than frightened or even flustered by this lame attack from a known serial killer.

“Jerry,” Brass said, in a tone usually reserved for wayward children, “you really must watch that temper—someday you may do something really violent, and who
knows
what kind of trouble you'll get yourself in.”

“I object,” the lawyer squeaked. He had finally stopped brushing away imaginary dirt from his suit.

“You're not in court, counselor,” Brass said. “Sit down!”

The attorney drew in a breath through clenched teeth; but he sat.

Deams turned to Dayton and, quietly, said, “You don't have to say anything. This interview is over when we say it's over.”

Dayton was pouting; he might have been a six-year-old, stiffling tears. Stealing a glance at Brass, he said to the attorney, “I'm not afraid of him.”

Deams shook his finger in Dayton's face. “You should be!”

Dayton lurched forward and bit down on the lawyer's finger, just under the middle knuckle, viciously.

Deams was screaming and both Warrick and Brass came around the table once more, the uniformed officer who'd been stationed outside sprang in again, this time with gun in hand.

With Warrick behind him, holding on to him, Dayton released his toothy grip and the attorney drew his hand away; the flesh was broken but the digit was still intact.

“You're not my father!”
Dayton screamed.

The attorney, blinking fear and pain, said, “Jerry, you need to be quiet … just be quiet….”

“You are
so
fired!”

“Jerry, please—”

“I told you what he did to me, Deams, and you didn't do anything!” Dayton strained forward as a cool Warrick held him by the shoulders. “You could have helped me! You let me go back to that house. Well, you're lucky I didn't make an example of you, too, counselor! Get out of my sight.”

Holding up his good hand, Deams said, “Slow down, Jerry—you don't know what you're doing or saying. Your emotions are running away with you. You need to calm down, and look at this rationally. So
much
is at stake….”

“You bleeding money out of me is at stake, you
conniving asshole!” Looking across the table at Brass, Dayton said, “Get him out of here—now!”

Sara was at the attorney's side. “Let's get that finger looked at, shall we?”

Deams swallowed, nodded, and—after gathering up his briefcase and papers in his good arm—allowed Sara to take him by the elbow; but the attorney paused near the door to say pointedly to Brass, “If you continue this interview, outside of my presence, with my client in his current mental state, I will—”

“He's not your client,” Brass said.

“Yeah!” Dayton yelled childishly, suddenly pals with Brass. “I'm not your client!”

The attorney, who was holding the hand with the damaged finger out in front of him, as if hailing a cab, said, “Tomorrow he'll come to his senses. Tomorrow he'll hire me back.”

“Today,” Brass said, “you're not representing him. Good luck with the finger.”

Sara walked the lawyer out.

Brass gave the uniformed officer a nod, and he stepped out. Now it was just Brass, Dayton, and Warrick.

Dayton's breathing—which had accelerated to that of a sprinter crossing the finish line—began to slow; his shoulders relaxed under Warrick's grip, and suddenly it was like the CSI was giving the prisoner a massage.

“I'm okay,” he said, looking back at Warrick.

Warrick let go of him.

Dayton sat docilely, cuffed hands before him on the table. He slumped a little. He seemed placid now, and a little tired.

To Brass he said, “You and I … we may be … antagonists, but … we do understand each other. Respect each other … right?”

Brass and Warrick exchanged tiny significant glances.

“Sure, Jerry,” Brass said.