Sin City ccsi-2

by Max Allan Collins

  Such stories abounded in national CSI circles. Like the two star athletes who robbed a local Burger King where their pictures hung in honor on the wall; or the numerous bank robbers around the country who would write their robbery notes on their own deposit slips.

  Over the years, Catherine had seen enough reasonably bright criminals do enough dim things to know that anything was possible. She carefully dropped the beard and mustache into an evidence bag, the spirit gum into another, and the shoebox itself into a third.

  Sara appeared in the doorway. "Any luck?"

  Holding up the bag with the fake beard, Catherine said, "Jackpot."

  Sara came over with "wow" in her eyes and had a look at the treasures Catherine had dug up.

  Catherine asked, "How about you?"

  "Well, I found a box in the basement with two Lipton Construction jackets in it. They look new, or anyway they've never been worn."

  "Anything else?"

  Sara shrugged, a little frustrated. "There's some stuff down there that doesn't fit Ray. Most of it looks like Jenna's-diet books, Men Are From Mars, Cosmo's, and some other fashion magazines, buncha Vogue's."

  Conroy came back in from the master bedroom. "Nothing in there. Clothes from both of them. Obviously, Jenna was living here. You want to take a quick look around?"

  This was addressed to Catherine, but Sara said, "I'll go, while you finish in here, 'kay?"

  Catherine nodded. "'kay."

  She spent another hour going through boxes, but found nothing. When Sara and Conroy came back from the bedroom with a bag containing Ray Lipton's work boots, Catherine looked at the evidence curiously.

  Sara said, "You lifted boot prints, didn't you, from the lap dance room?"

  "Right," Catherine said, smiling, "and Lipton was wearing tennies when Conroy hauled him in…Good catch, Sara!"

  "Thanks."

  "That the only pair of boots in the house?"

  "Didn't see any others."

  "Well, Warrick says it always comes down to shoe prints…we'll see."

  Back at HQ, the two CSIs and the detective logged in evidence for several hours. Catherine instructed Sara to line up some interns to go over the box of video cassettes, to check for a tape of that Colts game.

  Shift was almost over, and the sun freshly up, by the time Catherine was back in one of the Tahoes, taking the 515 to 15 South, so she could get to the airport without having to fight morning traffic on the Strip.

  Helpingstine was coming in on Southwest 826, which meant Gate C of Terminal One. A long hike, but after a cooped-up night of sitting in front of a monitor, then crouching in a closet at Lipton's, and finally logging evidence at CSI, the walk would seem like an invigorating relief.

  As she made her way through the concourse, Catherine struggled to put a face with the name of the man she was picking up. They had met only once, briefly, about six months ago. Her memory was finally jogged, when the tall, fortyish man-glasses riding a pug nose, straight dark hair parted on the left, graying at the temples, his light gray suit looking suitably slept in-recognized her instantly, and strode up to her with a wide smile and a hand outstretched.

  "Ms. Willows," he said, in a nasal but not unpleasant twang that indicated Chicago somewhere in his background, "good to see you again."

  "Mr. Helpingstine," she said, smiling and allowing him to pump her hand, "you're very kind to come at such short notice, and so quickly."

  He raised a gently scolding finger. "It's Dan, remember?"

  "And Catherine," she said, falling in alongside him as he walked.

  "Afraid we'll have to go to baggage claim to pick up the Tektive. They're understandably fussy about carry-ons."

  Helpingstine's luggage consisted of a nylon gear bag with a Lakers insignia on it, and a square silver flight case on wheels that Catherine assumed contained the Tektive.

  She led the way back to the Tahoe, with the salesman's small talk running to how well the Tektive was going over with various major metro police departments. But when Catherine tried to turn the conversation to the Jenna Patrick case, the manufacturer's rep waved a meaty hand. "Let's wait till I've had a chance to look at the tape."

  "Fair enough, Dan. We'll follow your lead."

  "I do have one other request."

  "Name it."

  "They didn't feed us anything on the flight. Can we go through a drive-thru or something?"

  Suddenly she remembered her popcorn snack with Sara, a hundred years ago; her stomach growled its opinion. "I think I can manage that request."

  They got McDonald's breakfasts, went back to headquarters and ate in the break room.

  Sara ducked her head in. "I smell something very nearly like real food…What'd you bring me?"

  Catherine handed her a breakfast burrito-vegetarian, of course-and Sara pulled up a chair and soon was digging in like she hadn't seen food since the Reagan administration.

  "Dan, the dainty flower to your left is Sara Sidle."

  Sara nodded and kept chewing.

  "Dan Helpingstine," he said. "Tektive Interactive."

  "Heard all about you, Dan-can't wait for you to work your magic." Between burrito bites, Sara said to Catherine, "Lots of footprints in the lap-dance room, and in the hall."

  "Yeah, dozens," Catherine said between bites of a bagel sandwich. "Lots and lots of high heels. I remember."

  "But just the one pair of work boots."

  "I remember that, too."

  Sara shook her head, shrugged, started a second burrito. "I haven't compared them up close yet, nothing Grissom-scientific yet…but the eyeball test says the boots we brought in tonight, from Lipton's, are larger than the prints we lifted at the strip club."

  Catherine said, "We'll check that out more thoroughly, as soon as we're finished with the video."

  Setting up in Catherine's office, they got Helpingstine settled at a work station and lined up with the Dream Doll security tapes.

  "First we'll digitize them," he said, working in his shirtsleeves, "then we shall see what we shall see."

  "How long's the digitizing take?" Catherine asked.

  "How long are the tapes?"

  Catherine explained what they had, what they wanted, and why, for now, they were going to concentrate on just small segments representing two cameras: the one from behind the bar and the one from the end of the hallway.

  Leaving the Tektive rep to his work, they went back to the footprints. Working in the layout room, they took prints from Lipton's boots and compared them to the one they got from the strip club.

  "This print," Sara said, meaning what they'd just created, "is definitely shorter than the lap-dance boot."

  "Are we sure Lipton had the boots on that night?" Catherine asked. "Is it possible that it's somebody else's boot, and we missed Lipton's print? Maybe he's one of the running shoes we found."

  Sara shook her head. "The tennie he was arrested in's been ruled out…and the boot print was the oddest we got at the strip club, as well as the freshest, I mean it was on top…so we assumed it had to be the killer's."

  Catherine wasn't sure whether to feel good or bad about this indication of Lipton's innocence; Grissom would advise her not to "feel" anything.

  So she calmly said, "We'll check the videotape first, then if we get nothing, we head back to Lipton's to bring in all his shoes."

  "It's a plan."

  They returned to Catherine's office to find Helpingstine hunkered over his black box with its keyboard and built-in monitor screen.

  "You ready for us?" Catherine asked.

  The tech nodded. "These tapes are for shit, of course. Not exactly broadcast quality."

  Catherine leaned in and patted his shoulder. "Which is why you're here, Dan, right?"

  He gave the two women a little sideways half-smile. "You came to the right man…. I've cleaned up the images some, already, and I can isolate your guy in a couple of them."

  "Any shots of his shoes?"

  He returned his attention t
o his machine. "Let's see."

  Catherine and Sara sat down on either side of him, facing the Tektive monitor, Helpingstine stationed at the keyboard. He punched some keys and the screen came to life, the angle on the tape playing from high behind the bar.

  "That looks just the same to me," Sara said. "No offense."

  "None taken," Helpingstine said. "Just wait." He tapped some more keys and the picture improved, sharpening, the video garbage clearing somewhat.

  But it was still disappointing, and Catherine groaned, "Dan, I was hoping for better…"

  "Hey hey hey," the tech said, sounding mildly offended. "A mini-miracle I can do on the spot. You want an act of God, it's gonna take some time."

  "Okay, show us a mini-miracle."

  With a few keystrokes, Helpingstine outlined Lipton in the frame. Then the screen went blackly blank, except for the figure of the killer center screen.

  "Now that is interesting," Sara said.

  The murderer had no legs below the level of where the bar would have been, but was intact from the waist up except for a spot on his shoulder where a customer's head had been between him and the lens. They could barely make out the Las Vegas Stars logo on the ball cap, and the large dark glasses gave him the appearance of an oversized insect.

  "Can you give us better detail on his face?" Catherine asked.

  More work on the keys and the picture became slightly less blurry. "Quick fix," Helpingstine said, "that's what you get."

  Catherine leaned forward in her chair. "That is a fake beard, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," Sara said. She jabbed at the monitor screen. "And a mustache too…. Could be what you found at Lipton's."

  Catherine asked the rep, "Any other quick tricks for us?"

  Using a mouse, Helpingstine moved the killer's image into a corner. Then, fingers flying over the keys, he brought up another still, this one showing the killer from behind as he towed Jenna Patrick down the hallway, toward the private dance room where she was killed. A few more clacks from the keyboard and everything in the bar disappeared except for Lipton and Jenna.

  A few keystrokes later, the grainy image sharpened further, the Lipton Construction lettering on the back of the jacket springing into sharp relief. From this angle, just barely able to see one side of the killer's partially turned head, they could clearly discern the fake beard.

  "Is that a shoe?" Catherine asked, pointing at a dark spot at the end of the killer's leg.

  Helpingstine said, "It would appear to be the toe of some kind of boot."

  Catherine and Sara traded looks.

  The killer stood practically upright, bent only slightly as he extended his hands back to Jenna's. She seemed taller than he was, but then she was wearing those incredible spike heels.

  "Did you monkey with the aspect ratio on this?" Sara asked. "Is the picture squeezed or stretched in any way?"

  "Not at all," the rep said. "That's reality, as seen by a cheap VHS security camera."

  "And cleaned up by an expensive electronic broom," Catherine pointed out.

  Sara pressed: "What's wrong with this picture?"

  They all studied the frozen image for a long time.

  Finally, Helpingstine said, "His head seems too big. Is that what you mean?"

  The question was posed to Sara, but it was Catherine who said, "That could be part of it…but there's something else."

  "What?" Sara asked. "It's driving me crazy…it just looks…wrong to me."

  Catherine pointed. "Look at the shoulders-doesn't Ray Lipton have broader shoulders than that?"

  "You're saying that's not Ray Lipton," Sara said.

  "Call it a hunch," Catherine said.

  Sara gave her a wide-eyed look. "You know what Grissom would say. Leave the hunches to the detectives-we follow the evidence."

  "Let's follow it, then," Catherine said. To Helpingstine, she said, "Can you stay at this a while?"

  "Absolutely," he said.

  "Sometime today, call a cab, check yourself in to a hotel…there are a few in town…and save your receipts."

  "Hey, Catherine, I'm here to help-no charge."

  "You're here to make a pitch for your product; but we're not going to take advantage. You may have to stay over a night. We'll cover it."

  He shrugged. "Fine."

  She explained that their shift started at eleven P.M., but gave him her phone and pager numbers, should he come up with something sooner.

  "Are you clocking out now?" Helpingstine asked.

  "No, Dan. I have a little more work to do, before I call it a night."

  "Or day," Sara said, hands on hips. "What do you have in mind?"

  "I'm going to check Ray Lipton's alibi."

  Her eyes getting wider, Sara said, "But he doesn't have one."

  Catherine shrugged, smiled. "Let's follow the evidence, and see if you're right."

  9

  NOT AS MANY LIGHTS WERE ON IN THE PIERCE CASTLE, tonight-a few in the downstairs, one upstairs. Distant traffic sounds were louder than those of this quietly slumbering neighborhood, the only voices the muffled ones of Jay Leno and David Letterman.

  Out on bond on his possession charge, Owen Pierce opened the door on Brass's first knock-as if he'd been expecting them-the physical therapist's handsome features darkly clouded, the blue eyes trading their sparkle for a dull vacancy. He slouched there in a black Polo sweatshirt, gray sweat pants and Reeboks, like a runner too tired even to pant. His eyes travelled past the homicide captain to Grissom.

  "What you found…" Pierce began. "Is it…Lynn?"

  But it was Brass who answered: "Could we come in, Mr. Pierce? Sit and talk?"

  He nodded, numbly, gestured them in, and soon Brass and their host sat on the couch with its rifles-and-flags upholstery, while Grissom took the liberty of pulling a maple Colonial arm chair around, so that he and Brass could casually double-team the suspect.

  "It's Lynn, isn't it?" Pierce said, slumped, arms draped against his thighs, interlaced fingers dangling.

  "We think so, Mr. Pierce," Grissom said. "We won't have the DNA results for a while, but the evidence strongly suggests that what we found was…part of your wife's body."

  Pierce stared at the carpet, shaking his head, slowly. Was he trying not to cry? Grissom wondered. Or trying to cry…

  Grissom had a Polaroid in his hand; he held it out and up, for Pierce to see-a shot close enough to the torso to crop out everything but flesh. "Your wife had a birthmark on her left hip-is this it?"

  Swallowing, he looked at the photo, then dropped his head, his nod barely discernible but there. "Is it…true?"

  Brass asked, "Is what true, Mr. Pierce?"

  He looked up, eyes red. "What…what they're saying on television…" Pierce's voice caught, and he gave a little hiccup of a sob; a tear sat on the rim of his left eye and threatened to fall. "…that Lynn was…cut up?"

  Brass sat, angled toward the suspect. "Yes, it's true…. I'd like you to listen to something, Mr. Pierce." Pulling a small cassette player from his suitcoat pocket, already cued up, Brass pushed PLAY.

  Pierce's angry voice came out of the tiny speaker: "You do and I'll kill your holier-than-thou ass…"

  Another voice, Lynn Pierce's terrified voice, said, "Owen! No! Don't say-"

  "And then I'll cut you up in little pieces."

  Brass twitched half a humorless smile. "Gets a little ugly after that…. Wouldn't want to disturb you in your time of sorrow."

  Pierce had a pole axed expression. "Where did you get that?"

  Brass ignored the question. "Maybe now would be a good time to advise you of your rights, Mr. Pierce."

  The therapist's dull eyes suddenly flared bright, as he rose to loom over the detective and the criminalist, and the sorrow-possibly fabricated-turned to unmistakably real rage. "You're arresting me? What for? Having an argument with my wife?"

  "You threatened to cut her into pieces," Brass said, "and shortly thereafter…she was in pieces. We don't view that as a coincid
ence."

  "That tape probably isn't even admissible. Who gave it to you? What, the Blairs? Those religious fanatics? Probably doctored that tape…edited it…."

  "We've had the tape closely examined," Grissom said. "It's your voice, and the tape is undoctored."

  A half-sigh, half-grunt emanated from the therapist's chest, and he sat back down, hard, shaking the couch, jostling Brass a little.

  Pierce fixed his red-rimmed blue eyes onto Grissom. "Are you a married man?"

  "No."

  Then Pierce turned to Brass. "How about you, detective? Married?"

  Brass said, "My marital status isn't-"

  "Ha!" Pierce pointed at homicide captain. "Divorced!…And I suppose you never threatened your wife? You never said, I could just kill you for that? One of these days, Alice, pow!, zoom!, straight to the moon?"

  "Ralph Kramden," Grissom pointed out, "never threatened to dismember his wife."

  Brass glanced at the criminalist, surprised by the cultural reference.

  Backing down now, Pierce ran a hand over his forehead, removing sweat that wasn't there. "I see your point, guys, I really do…I have a nasty temper, but it's strictly…verbal. I'm telling you, those words were just me losing it."

  "Your temper," Brass said.

  "Yes. No question."

  "Lost your temper, killed your wife, dismembered her. You're a physical therapist-you have some knowledge about anatomy."

  "I didn't kill her. It was just an argument-we had them all the time, since her…conversion, that Born-Again crapola. But do you honestly think I would kill my wife over religious differences?"

  Brass was about to respond when the front door opened and a teenage girl stepped into the foyer.

  Grissom didn't recognize the girl-she had short, lank black hair, a pierced eyebrow, enough black mascara to offend Elvira, black form-fitting jeans, and a black Slipknot T-shirt. He wondered if this was a friend of Pierce's daughter, Lori, come to visit.

  "Daddy, what is it?" the girl asked in a mousy voice that didn't go with her punky Goth look.

  Pierce's eyes went from Brass to Grissom to the girl. "Lori," he said slowly. "These officers have some information about Mom."