Body of Evidence ccsi-4

by Max Allan Collins

  "Where's Gris?" he asked.

  Hanging just outside Grissom's door, she shrugged. "Just got here myself. Find anything?"

  "Maybe. How about you?"

  "I think so."

  Warrick chuckled. "You notice how gun-shy Gris has made us, about forming our own opinions?"

  She grinned. "Tell me about it."

  That was when Grissom arrived.

  "Inside," he said.

  They entered his office and spread out, Grissom sitting behind his desk, Warrick leaning against a set of shelves to the left of the entrance, Sara remaining near the door where she could see them both.

  Grissom began speaking without preamble: "The trace lab is working on the carpeting and the duct tape."

  "Anything yet?" Sara asked.

  "Results from the mass spectrometer say that the carpet is made of polypropylene-olefin."

  "Gezzundheit," Warrick said.

  Grissom gave Warrick the look he seemed to reserve for those times when his young CSIs exhibited humor too sophomoric for his tastes. "It's actually a good thing."

  "Why?" Sara asked.

  "Only about twenty-two percent of manufactured carpeting," Grissom said, not referring to any notes, "is made from that particular compound."

  "Which narrows our search," Warrick said.

  "Which narrows our search. What did you two find out?"

  Warrick and Sara traded looks, then she nodded at him to go first, which he did.

  "The plastic is from a taillight; we were already pretty sure of that. But I found a partial part number stamped on the inside, and ran that."

  "And?"

  "And the piece of plastic came from one of three types of cars: a 95-01 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, a Chevy Lumina from the same years or a Chevy Impala from 2000 or 2001."

  Grissom frowned in thought. "What did Mr. Benson say he saw?"

  Also not referring to notes, Warrick said, "A white Chevy, possibly a Monte Carlo."

  Sara said, "Could we possibly have actually found a reliable eyewitness?"

  "Let's not jump to that conclusion," her boss said. Then he asked Warrick, "How many 95-01 white Monte Carlos registered in Clark County?"

  "Car's only five years old, so there's quite a few. White ones? Just under a hundred. All Monte Carlos, Luminas and Impalas that fit the profile, and all the others-just in case our eyeball witness got the color wrong, or the car had been repainted-there's just about a thousand."

  "Tell me you started with the short list."

  "I did. Already put it on the radio-patrol cars'll be watching for a car that matches."

  "Good."

  Warrick twitched a smile. High praise from Grissom.

  Who moved onto to his other CSI, saying, "Sara?"

  "Biggest news is Ecklie's people found definite evidence that Mayor Harrison was having an affair with Candace Lewis."

  Grissom sat up. "How definite?"

  "Well…real definite. Like, his DNA was in her bed."

  Grissom's mouth dropped open like a trapdoor; the CSI supervisor rarely expressed surprise so blatantly. And the normally laid-back Warrick straightened up, the usually half-lidded eyes wide open.

  "Ecklie's people," Grissom said, in a measured manner, "found His Honor's DNA in Candace's bed…and said nothing?"

  Sara shrugged. "I don't know about that. File doesn't indicate whether or not they informed the sheriff or the FBI or either or neither…no notes in the file mention anything to that effect."

  Warrick let out a bitter chuckle. "Well, at least Ecklie didn't leak it to the press."

  Sara had not followed the story intently, but anyone in Las Vegas-really, anyone in America with cable or access to a newsstand tabloid-knew the parameters of the case.

  And for conclusive evidence of an affair between the Mayor and Candace to be the one bit of information about the case to have fallen through the cracks…well, that was unthinkable. The hell His Honor was currently living through would have been multiplied by a factor of ten.

  Grissom's eyes were grim. "Warrick, stay on the carpeting and the car." Turning to Sara, he added, "Get that file-we're calling on Sheriff Mobley."

  Ten minutes later, Sara was standing in the sheriff's outer office; her "day" was supposed to be over, and the city government's was just beginning. A recent City Hall renovation had garnered the sheriff the extra room and his civilian secretary, a very efficient-seeming woman in her forties, was doing her best to convince Grissom he couldn't enter Mobley's private office.

  "You simply can't go in there," she said again, her voice growing more shrill.

  But the preoccupied Grissom was already almost past her now, his hand on the knob of a door marked PRIVATE, and only when the woman gripped him by the arm did he turn to acknowledge her presence, despite the fact that probably most of the building had heard her all-but-scream at him.

  "What is it you want?" he asked, frowning mildly.

  "I said you can't go in there-Sheriff Mobley is in a very important meeting and doesn't wish to be disturbed."

  "I'm afraid he's going to be," Grissom said, "when he sees this." He held up the file folder. "You tell Sheriff Mobley that Gil Grissom from CSI has discovered suppressed evidence from the Candace Lewis case…and see if he doesn't make time for me."

  At that instant Mobley's door opened and the sheriff stood framed there, red-faced with anger, inches away from Grissom. "What the hell is going on out here?"

  Grissom brandished the manila folder. "Did you know about this?"

  The two men moved deeper into the office; the secretary was fading back, confused and alarmed. Sara kept her position on the periphery, fascinated to see Grissom in such an emotional state. Others might have assumed Grissom was as cool as usual, but Sara could sense the rage.

  "Did I know about what?" Mobley snapped, defensively. Then, taking it down a notch, the sheriff added, "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, Gil."

  A short, pudgy man in a crisp suit and tie, his flat face decorated with a beaky nose and black-button eyes, stood eavesdropping in the doorway. Sara did not know this man, but his grimace and generally dismayed expression indicated he recognized the file folder, even if the sheriff did not.

  "This," Grissom said, indicating the folder, "is the report Conrad Ecklie's people did on their search of Candace Lewis's apartment."

  The pudgy little man stepped into the room and said, "You two gentleman have things to talk about-I'll stop back later, Sheriff."

  "Don't rush off on my account, Mr. Anthony," Grissom said with an acid smile.

  "See you later, Ed," the sheriff said, absently, and Anthony hurried across the office, flashing a nervous smile at Sara before he rushed out and was gone.

  Interesting, Sara thought.

  "Mrs. Mathis," the sheriff said to the secretary, "please step out into the hall, and make sure no one enters."

  "Yes sir," she said, her confusion apparent, but she complied.

  They did not move into the sheriff's office, remaining in the outer reception area, as if this were somehow neutral turf. The sheriff seemed calmer, now. "I didn't know there was a report from the Lewis woman's apartment. I thought they were still waiting for lab results."

  Grissom winced. "For three weeks?"

  "Well, don't some of your lab results take a long time?"

  That slowed Grissom down. He flapped the air with the folder. "You didn't know about the report?"

  "Gil, you have my word."

  Grissom said nothing for a moment; he was studying the sheriff as carefully as he might a specimen on a slide. Then he said, "How is it that you never saw the crime scene report from the highest-profile missing persons case we've had in years?"

  Mobley thought about that, and the irritation in him was building-and Sara didn't sense the irritation was aimed at Grissom.

  Finally the sheriff said, "Frankly, I don't know-let's find out."

  Mobley went to the door and opened it, scaring his secretary a little, as she
stood out there awkwardly waiting. "Mrs. Mathis," he said, "come back in and find out where Conrad Ecklie is-and tell him I want to see him immediately."

  "Certainly, sir," Samantha said, slipping in, moving past the sheriff and returning to her desk.

  Mobley was heading toward his inner office, motioning in a manner that wasn't unfriendly. "You two come in," he said, "and let me have a look at that report."

  Now it was Grissom who hung back. Sara was surprised to note an expression of confusion on the boss's face-it wasn't common.

  "What is it?" Mobley demanded.

  Grissom shrugged. "You've recused yourself from this case."

  "Gil!" Mobley blurted. His eyes were huge and rolling. "For God's sake, man, you can't have it both ways. Either you want me to see that report, or you don't!"

  "You're a suspect, Brian."

  "Well, I think you've already made that clear," Mobley said sarcastically.

  Grissom's tone seemed tentatively conciliatory. "What I need is for you to tell me the truth about this report. I need to know if you've already seen it."

  The secretary was on the phone, trying to make her call to Ecklie.

  "You have my word, Gil, I haven't. I have never seen any crime scene report about Candace Lewis. Now, damnit…come in."

  As Sara and Grissom entered Mobley's inner office, the CSI supervisor handed the sheriff-who had shut the door-the manila folder.

  Seated behind his desk now, Mobley opened the folder, slow-scanning contents; then he looked up disbelievingly at Grissom and Sara, who stood in front of his desk.

  "Sit," the sheriff said, his voice weary, and they did, as Mobley went back to the report to read it more carefully.

  When he'd finished, the sheriff looked across at the two CSIs. "They found Harrison's DNA in her bed?"

  Grissom nodded.

  Sara couldn't tell how her boss was reading the situation, but to her, Mobley seemed completely, honestly surprised. She believed the man had never seen the report before; and, if he had, Sheriff Brian Mobley was a better actor than the vast majority of liars the CSIs encountered. And they had encountered quite a few.

  Before the discussion could even begin, a soft knock came at the door.

  Mobley said, "Come in," and Mrs. Mathis ushered in dayshift CSI supervisor Conrad Ecklie. The secretary disappeared, but Ecklie froze just inside, apparently surprised to see Grissom and Sara.

  "Come in, Conrad," Mobley said.

  Ecklie nodded to the other two and stood next to where Grissom was seated.

  "Good morning, Sheriff," Ecklie said. "I understand, there's a matter of some urgency…?"

  Mobley tossed the report across the desk. Ecklie looked down at it; his eyes and nostrils flared. "What's this?"

  "Nothing much," Mobley said. "Just the Candace Lewis crime scene report."

  Ecklie seemed confused. "What do you mean?"

  "Do I stutter? How much more clearly do I need to put it? This is the Candace Lewis crime scene report!"

  "But…Sheriff…Brian…I gave that to you weeks ago."

  Sara and Grissom exchanged glances, then turned back to the sheriff, Grissom saying sharply, "So then, you have seen it?"

  Mobley shook his head vigorously. "No." Then to Ecklie, he demanded, "Conrad, why the hell are you lying about this?"

  Both Mobley and Grissom were glaring at the dayshift supervisor.

  Who seemed beside himself. "But I'm not! I'm not lying-what possible reason would I have to lie about that?" Ecklie looked pleadingly at Grissom. "I know we've had our little problems, Gil-but the sheriff…this must be some political maneuvering. If one of us is lying, it has to be him!"

  "Goddamnit," Mobley began, thrusting to his feet.

  Eyes moving quickly from Grissom to Mobley and back again, a desperate-sounding Ecklie said, "I'm telling you, Grissom, I brought that up personally to this office, two weeks ago!"

  Mobley, almost shouting, said, "And you claim you gave this to me, personally?"

  "Yes! I…" Ecklie's mouth went slack. "Actually…no. No, come to think of it…no. I didn't."

  "Did you or didn't you give the report to the sheriff?" Grissom demanded.

  Pitiful now, Ecklie said, "I gave it to him…but I didn't give it to him."

  No wonder,Sara thought, Grissom always seemed on the verge of tearing his hair out, when Ecklie's name came up….

  "Care to explain that?" Grissom asked, outwardly calm; but one of the hands in his lap had, Sara noted, involuntarily balled into a vein-throbbing fist.

  Taking a deep breath, Ecklie alternated his gaze from Grissom to Mobley and back again. "I was bringing it to the sheriff, when I ran into Ed Anthony in the hallway."

  Grissom sat up; Mobley's face fell.

  Ecklie was saying, "We got to talking, some political chit chat or other, and Ed volunteered to deliver the report to the sheriff for me…. You were in some kind of meeting, Brian."

  Mobley sighed and fell into his chair, hanging his head.

  "And you handed that little toady a confidential report," Grissom said. It wasn't really a question….

  "He…he was already coming this way," Ecklie said, with an elaborate open-handed defensive gesture. "Told me the sheriff was busy in a meeting, and…anyway, it's not like that was the only case we had on our plates…"

  "Just the biggest case in Vegas so far this century," Mobley said softly.

  Ecklie swallowed and continued: "…and besides, the report was going straight from here to the FBI. After all, at that point it was just a kidnapping."

  Sara couldn't believe anyone could, with a straight face, say "just a kidnapping"; but she knew better than to get into this.

  Mobley's fist banged off his desk.

  Sara jumped a little and Ecklie flinched; Grissom had no reaction.

  The sheriff's face had turned a delicate shade of pink, definitely on its way to the full-blown red-faced rage for which the sheriff was famous.

  Mobley used the intercom to tell his secretary: "Mrs. Mathis, get Ed Anthony back up here, now!"

  Within minutes-long, strained minutes, during which Sara, Grissom, Ecklie (seated now) and Mobley waited silently, the sheriff's rage palpable-a timid knock came to the door.

  "Come in!" the sheriff bellowed.

  It was not the most inviting invitation Sara had ever heard….

  The door squeaked open and Ed Anthony's hairchallenged head poked through the narrow opening; the political adviser's eyes were bright, or was that just…fear?

  "Wanted to see me, Brian?"

  "Get your ass in here, Ed."

  Swallowing, the aide shut the door gently and padded over, standing beside Sara, his hands fig-leafed before him. "Problem, Sheriff?"

  Mobley picked up the manila folder, shaking it nastily. "Did Conrad Ecklie give you this report, to pass on to me?"

  Anthony nodded meekly. "Why? Is that a problem?"

  "Well, you didn't pass it on to me, did you?"

  "No…I didn't."

  "Do you know what's in this report?"

  The political hack looked everywhere but at the sheriff. "Yes. I, uh…gave it a read."

  He might have been talking about the latest Stephen King novel.

  Grissom turned Anthony's way and said, pleasantly, "And then you decided to hold it back until the election-so you could use it to smear Mayor Harrison?"

  Anthony said nothing.

  "That," Mobley said tightly, "is tantamount to withholding evidence."

  "No! No, I was protecting you, Brian."

  "Protecting! You're about to screw my career over!"

  "Not at all." Anthony patted the air, placatingly. "I was attempting to help you. Information of that sensitive a nature needs to be released carefully, at an opportune time. Correctly used, that's the ammunition we need to-"

  "We?" Mobley interrupted, on his feet again, hands flat on the desk. "There is no 'we,' Ed. You're fired."

  "Brian, I understand that you're concerned. And we both know you
have a temper. I'm going to advise you count to ten and-"

  "You're not going to advise me about shit, from here on out!"

  "Brian…"

  "Get out! Get out!"

  And now Anthony was almost running to the door.

  But Mobley froze him: "And don't even think about leaving town, because if I can find a way to bring charges against you for this, I will."

  At the door, with a little space between them now, Anthony suddenly summoned some anger of his own. "For what, Brian? For trying to get your hot-headed ass elected mayor?"

  Sara was not quite able to process that mixed image.

  "No," someone said, calmly.

  Grissom.

  His voice was quiet, the serenity of it causing the other two men to stop shouting and gape at him: "For aiding and abetting. For possibly turning Candace Lewis's kidnapping into a murder."

  Anthony gestured to himself, his eyes enormous, almost as enormous as the fear in his voice. "I…I…I didn't kill her!"

  Grissom's tone remained placid. "You withheld key information from our top law enforcement officer…the sheriff, here…information that might have saved her."

  "You can't know that."

  "You're right, I can't, I don't-and now? None of us ever will."

  Finally Grissom stood, turning toward the former aide. His voice was so unthreatening that it went beyond any threat: "But I will tell you this, Mr. Anthony. Without your interference, that young woman might still be alive…. A fact that will not reflect well on your candidate-Sheriff Mobley."

  "Out, Ed," Mobley said, sounding fatigued. "Just go."

  Face white with alarm, features slack with defeat, Anthony slipped out.

  Turning his attention to Ecklie, Mobley said, "You know better than this, Conrad."

  Ecklie nodded; the normally egotistical supervisor now seemed humble. "What can I say? I was careless. I screwed up."

  "Yeah, you did."

  "Brian, I appreciate this…you being so understanding."

  "You're welcome, Conrad-three days' suspension. No pay."

  Swallowing hard, Ecklie accepted his punishment in silence.

  "Go home, Conrad. And if you breathe a word to the media, I'll fire your ass, too."