Binding Ties ccsi-6

by Max Allan Collins

  Next was a photo that showed a fracture match between the end of the rope that had killed Sandred, and one end of the rope that murdered Enrique Diaz.

  "Doesn't get better than that," she said aloud to the empty lab.

  "What doesn't?" Grissom asked, loping in.

  "We know that the same person killed Sandred and Diaz."

  He came over to where Sara sat and leaned in. She walked him through it.

  "Our most important product," he said. "Progress." He pulled up a chair. "Now what about the manila envelope from the Banner?"

  "Prints on it belong to the three employees-David Paquette, Mark Brower, and Jimmy Mydalson. Their prints were on the letter too. That of course just confirms what we already knew about who handled the envelope at the paper. How about you? Get anything on the handwriting?"

  "Going to see Jenny now. Care to come? We might both expand our vocabulary."

  Jenny Northam was a handwriting expert who'd done freelance work for CSI for years, but recently came aboard full-time. In her own digs, she had sworn like a pissed-off longshoreman with Tourette Syndrome; but here at CSI, Grissom had been encouraging restraint.

  As Sara and Grissom headed for Jenny's cubbyhole, the CSI supervisor seemed lost in thought, not an unusual condition for him. Sara didn't mind the silence-she was trying to work it all out in her head.

  Finally, as they approached Jenny's office, Sara stopped and said, "Bell wasn't killed by the same perp as Sandred and Diaz, was he?"

  Grissom gave her a guardedly hopeful look. "This opinion rises from evidence?"

  "Yes-the brutality of the beating and the amount of blood. Does Doc Robbins confirm the finger was cut off while the victim was alive?"

  "He does."

  "And from the photos, the semen appears spattered, random, not in what I believe you aptly described as the 'poured' fashion of the other two."

  Nodding, Grissom said, "All well-observed, Sara, but still circumstantial-we need better results from physical evidence before we start drawing conclusions. For example, if the semen at the Bell scene does not match the planted Orloff DNA at the other two."

  "And I presume Greg is working on that."

  "Yes. But DNA takes time."

  "Too bad this isn't a TV show," she said. "We could have the results after commercial…."

  Before long they reached the ajar door of the Crime Lab's handwriting expert, Jenny Northam. Grissom knocked, then entered without waiting for a response.

  Jenny was on the other side of the small lab, rolling around on her wheeled office chair like a drunken race car driver with a stuck accelerator. Petite, barely five feet and maybe one hundred pounds, the dark-haired Jenny ruled over various expensive equipment, which took up three of the walls and most of the large light-table in the middle, the infield of Jenny's makeshift racetrack.

  "Any luck?" Grissom asked without preamble.

  "Freakin' A," Jenny said, her voice too deep to come out of that tiny body. "Or do you prefer 'frickin' A'?"

  "Either is better than the alternative," Grissom said, "but I prefer results."

  "Results I got out the wazoo," Jenny said.

  Sara covered her smile with a hand. Jenny was doing her best to fit in at the sometimes politically correct CSI workplace, but there were still occasional lapses.

  Jenny was saying, "I compared the Banner letter to the ones from the original CASt investigation."

  "Yes?" Grissom asked.

  "The paper's different, though both are common bond, and the writing's in ballpoint. Small, precise but childlike-what you'd see from some damn prodigy."

  Sara said, "I was the first to read the letter, and I was struck by the perfection of the handwritten spacing, the evenness of the lines."

  "Damn straight! But it's unlined paper! There's a kind of…genius behind them."

  Grissom said, "Surely you're overstating."

  "Well I'm not overstating when I say this is as good a match as I've ever seen. This will hold up in any court, and a blind monkey could make this match."

  "Just the same, Jenny," Grissom said, "I'm content to stick with you."

  The handwriting expert was thinking about that as Grissom strode out, Sara falling in alongside him.

  "You knew it was a match," Sara said.

  "If not," Grissom said, "it would've been an expert forgery…and how many people had enough access to the original notes to pull that off?"

  They went back to Grissom's office where they found Warrick waiting.

  "I got Bell's phone records," he said.

  Grissom said, "Al says the lack of rigor mortis shows Bell had been dead approximately forty-eight hours."

  Warrick nodded. "Within an hour of when he made the call to his daughter."

  "If he was forced to make the call," Sara said, "his nose was probably already broken. Didn't she notice that he sounded funny?"

  Warrick said, "If Perry was talking to his daughter, knowing CASt was about to kill him…did he manage to give her a clue of some kind?"

  Grissom said to Sara, "Give her a call and find out."

  The supervisor took his pocket notebook out, flipped a couple of pages, tore one out and handed it to her.

  "There," he said.

  "Grissom," Sara said, leaning in. "I don't think it's appropriate, a CSI being the one who tells this poor kid that her-"

  "She knows. Brass already made that call."

  And Grissom went out.

  Sara looked at Warrick, who had a wry half-smile going. "I can do it," he said, "if you're uneasy about it."

  "No. Thanks, but no, I can do this. I should do this…."

  Going back to the lab, Sara got out her phone and dialed the number.

  Patty Lang picked up on the first ring; the voice was tired-and was that anger as well? "Hello?"

  "Ms. Lang?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Sara Sidle. I'm a CSI with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I'm very sorry to bother you at a time like this."

  "No, you're not bothering," Patty said, an edge in her voice. "You're working on my father's murder, aren't you? Well, that's what I want to hear."

  Sara swallowed. "I'd like you to know I'm sorry for your loss. We all liked your dad around here. Not every reporter has a fan club around the police department, you know. But your dad was one of the good guys."

  "Thanks for saying that. What can I do to help you find the son-of-a-bitch who killed my father?"

  "Did your father sound normal on the phone, when he cancelled his visit?"

  "I don't know if I understand the question. What do you mean by 'normal'?"

  "His voice," Sara asked, "his mood. Was there anything about the call that seemed different than usual?"

  Patty Lang took a moment before answering. At last, she said, "This isn't as easy to answer as it should be. You see, Ms. Sidle, I spoke to my father many times when he didn't sound 'normal.' He might be excited about a story he was working on, or depressed about the rut he was in or about losing Mom. And it wasn't unusual for him to call me after he'd had a few too many cocktails, either."

  "Did he sound like he'd been drinking this time?"

  "No," Patty said. "Not…exactly. But he was a little…odd, now that I think about it. Stiff. Even…stilted."

  "As if he'd been prompted about what to say?"

  "That's a strange thing to…Do you think his killer was there with him?"

  Sara saw no reason not to be frank. "We think the person responsible saw that your father was about to leave on a trip, and figured out that you were expecting him."

  "And forced him to call and cancel the trip?"

  "Yes."

  "But, why…?"

  "To delay the discovery of his body, Ms. Lang. To make our job more difficult."

  "You mean, I'd have been alarmed when Daddy didn't show up, and you might have gone looking for him, earlier than you did."

  "Yes."

  "Ms. Sidle, I've read my father's book about this…this bastard. I have a g
ood idea of how he must have suffered before he died. And I'm…I'm only dealing with that thought right now by knowing that Daddy's at rest now…and that this creature will be caught."

  "If anyone can stop CASt, it's us."

  "That…that is very good to hear. But…oh my God. Now I understand…."

  "Understand what, Ms. Lang?"

  But the young woman was crying.

  Sara swallowed; held onto the phone and waited.

  Finally the voice returned: "When he said goodbye to me…at the end of the call? He called me Pat-Pat. That…that was my nickname, when I was a little girl. I thought it was so strange he'd call me that, after all these years."

  "I see."

  "Do you? Ms. Sidle, he was saying good-bye to me…forever."

  The woman began to cry again and Sara said a few comforting things before they finally were able to say their own good-byes.

  Catherine Willows sat at her desk, phone to her ear, hoping she didn't get Brass's machine.

  Then Brass came on the line, and she blurted, "It's me."

  "How did you and Nick do out at that facility? What is it…Sundown?"

  "We found out Jerome Dayton is no longer a guest at that particular hotel."

  "What?"

  "Hasn't been for a while. Say, seven years?"

  The long silence told her that this was news to Brass.

  She continued: "Seems he got therapy and medication and returned to society, all better."

  "Good for him," Brass said coldly. "I suppose his father got him out?"

  "That would be a big bingo-Jerome was released into his parents' custody."

  "Hell…Well, Tom Dayton had a lot of pull in this city. I'd like to say I'm surprised."

  Catherine said, "Of course, as you know, his father's dead now. I assume Jerome's living with his mother."

  "Not unless he's gone Norman Bates on us," Brass said. "She died six or seven months ago. Got some play in the papers. You didn't see it?"

  Something cold ran through Catherine. "You mean…Jerome's got no supervision?"

  "It doesn't sound like it." Brass's voice changed from outrage that Dayton could be on the street without him even knowing, to something more hopeful. "Cath, that means we have a suspect for the copycat. A good damn suspect…."

  "Maybe. Or maybe you need to go back further." She drew a deep breath. "Jim-there's something else you need to know."

  "I'm in no mood for twenty questions, Catherine."

  "From the very moment Dayton was institutionalized, he was given day passes, weekend passes, to spend time with his folks."

  "God damn it! Are you telling me he was-"

  "Away from Sundown the day the last CASt kill went down…yes. He was in town when Vincent Drake was murdered."

  Silence on the line. For a moment she thought Brass had hung up, or maybe hurled the phone across the room.

  She asked, "Jim?"

  "I'm here."

  "Did Dayton have siblings?"

  "No. Only child."

  "Then he would have inherited everything. Like, say, the family home?"

  Brass didn't miss a beat: "That's on Proud Eagle Lane."

  A hint of a smile found its way across Catherine's face. "Of course it is. Where the hell is Proud Eagle Lane?"

  "Inside the TPC at the Canyons golf course."

  "Ah. I know the area. Round of golf costs more than a week's pay for a lowly CSI."

  "Cath, imagine what kind of home might face onto a course like that."

  "Jim, I'd like to find out."

  "Good. Then grab Nick and meet me there-but don't bring your clubs. We'll play another game."

  "What about a warrant?"

  "There isn't a judge in the county that'll listen to us at this point." Brass's voice lightened, or pretended to. "Let's just go see how Jerry Dayton's doing, out on his own. Can be tough on a 'kid,' y'know-losing his mom and dad."

  Catherine found Nick talking to Greg Sanders in the lab, gave her partner a nod from the doorway, and he joined her in the corridor.

  "Strike two," he said by way of greeting.

  "On?"

  "DNA. Dallas Hanson is not the copycat, nor is he the original CASt."

  "We knew that."

  "We thought that. Greg proved it."

  She reported her conversation with Brass.

  "Hey, great," Nick grinned. "I been thinkin' about gettin' a membership to TPC. Maybe buy a home where I can walk right outta my back door onto the links."

  "Sounds like a plan. You could start as a caddy."

  They exchanged smiles and headed for the parking lot, spring in their step. Finally, maybe, catching a break on this damn case….

  The guard shack that blocked their entry into TPC at the Canyons was not quite as big as Catherine's first apartment, if more nicely appointed. The air conditioner hummed quietly and the guard who came out to meet them wore pants with a crease you could slice bread with and a perfectly pressed shirt with a highly shined badge and absolutely no sign of perspiration. He was tall, muscular, and chisel-chin handsome, looking more like a golf pro than a security guard.

  His mouth smiled but his eyes were hard and cold. "Beautiful day, huh? And how can I help you?"

  Nick showed his credentials and introduced himself and Catherine.

  As at Sundown, the guard asked to see further credentials and Nick looked privately toward Catherine, crossing his eyes, and she laughed as they both handed over their wallet IDs.

  "Everything in order," the guard said. "Sorry to be a stickler-we have some very important people out here at TPC, club members and residents. Where is it you need to go?"

  Nick gave him the Dayton address.

  "Maybe I should call ahead for you," the guard said.

  Brass seemed to appear from nowhere, standing next to the Tahoe and holding forward his own ID wallet. The guard took an involuntary step backward.

  Brass said, "Don't call ahead."

  "Well, uh…Captain Brass? I'm afraid that's our policy."

  "It's not ours."

  Glancing in the door rearview mirror, Catherine saw Brass's Taurus parked in the drive behind them.

  The guard said, "Sir, we're not just a country club. We're a gated community, and our residents-"

  "Call ahead, I come back and arrest you for obstruction. Is that policy clear enough?"

  Nodding numbly, the guard retreated to his shack and his air conditioning, and raised the gate so they could enter the TPC at the Canyons.

  Everything here shouted affluence-the houses, the lawns, the cars, even the mailboxes, everything bigger, nicer, costlier, showier. They passed the clubhouse, where the golf carts stickered for about as much as Catherine's car. Nick pulled over, allowed Brass to pass them, and they followed the detective's Taurus through the compound until they ended up on Proud Eagle Lane.

  The expression "a man's home is his castle" is usually an exaggeration, but in Jerome Dayton's case, those words were the literal truth: The sprawling two-story stucco was twice as large as Catherine had seen in any other housing development in Vegas, a town that had more than its share of wealth and celebrity. Painted a light coral, the huge residence stood out among the other, slightly smaller mansions, which were uniformly a sand color.

  With Brass in the lead, the trio approached the door. The detective had been working hard for days now to keep the anger and frustration in check, to view these CASt killings as homicides and not personal affronts. But now he felt angry, frustrated, with himself, as if it had been his responsibility to know that Jerry Dayton had been released from Sundown.

  But such facilities were not required to inform law enforcement about the risks they were sending out into the world. And the Dayton family had somehow kept their son in check-to say Jerome Dayton had kept a low profile over these past years was a supreme understatement. Perhaps he'd been locked away in an upper room of this castle, like the Man in the Iron Mask, a medicated if pampered prisoner in his own home.

  Only wha
t had happened, lately? After both his jailers-that is, his parents-had shuffled off the ol' mortal coil?

  The lunatic would be in charge of the asylum.

  Of course, it might be a coincidence that Dayton had been on a weekend pass when Vincent Drake was murdered, but Brass-like Grissom-held no truck with coincidence.

  Coincidence was God's way of telling a detective that he had screwed up, probably missing something, something important. That, as much as anything, was why Captain James Brass was so royally pissed off when he marched up the sloping, winding sidewalk to the massive double doors of the Dayton home.

  Ignoring the bell, the detective pounded on the oak door with his fist. When no one answered immediately, he pounded again. He could feel Nick and Catherine behind him and he could also feel their mounting tension.

  Were they wondering if he was losing it?

  Well, maybe he was-and god damn it, maybe he had a right. Eight men were dead over the last eleven years, and what had Brass ever managed to do about it? It had been his job, his and Vince Champlain's, to catch CASt nearly a decade ago, and they had booted it big time.

  Now the sick evil son of a bitch was running wild again; only, finally, Brass might be on the literal doorstep of the solution….

  He was preparing to pound a third time when the door on his left suddenly opened, and framed there, leaning on the jamb, stood a tall, thin, dark-haired, hawkish-faced man with piercing green eyes, attired in a blue button-down shirt and black jeans.

  Jerome Dayton.

  Despite the years, little about Dayton had changed-the narrow face remained largely unlined, the hair untouched by gray; the only addition that Brass caught was an earring added to Dayton's left lobe, a "D" crafted out of small diamonds.

  His eyes narrowing, upper lip curling in contempt, Dayton said, "Brass," the single word an epithet.

  "Been a while, Jerry," Brass said, coolly, even as something burned in his stomach.

  "How did you people get past the gate?" Dayton's voice was as glacial as the glare he tossed at Catherine and Nick, then fixed upon Brass.

  "You know, Jerry," Brass said, "I'm flattered you remember me. Your lawyer liked to keep us apart, as I recall."

  "Who are your flunkies?"