Body of Evidence ccsi-4

by Max Allan Collins

  Was this buffoon their killer?

  The skinny guy, swallowing, finally rose out of his stance and looked over each of their I.D.s, comparing their faces to the pictures on the cards.

  "Sorry," he said, a little sheepishly. "Have to be careful, these days. Lotta psychos out there…. And you startled me."

  Brass gave him a facial shrug. "We didn't think anyone was home."

  "Well, I am home," he said, pointlessly. "But I have a bad cold. I've been in bed on NyQuil since yesterday morning, dead to the world…. A little better now."

  That explained why no one had answered the bell on Warrick and Brass's first stop by the house.

  Brass finally got around to asking, "Are you Kyle F. Hamilton?"

  The guy nodded. "Listen, I'm a big supporter of law enforcement. I didn't mean to scare you."

  Warrick's mouth twitched as he fought a smile and Sara turned her head and coughed to cover her laugh.

  "How may I be of help, officers?"

  Brass said, "Your car has come up in an ongoing investigation. It appears to be routine, but we'd like to talk to you about it."

  "My car? Well, I haven't even been out since yesterday. I was following up on an installation at New York New York, and this cold just did me in."

  With his narrow face and high cheekbones, his wide blue eyes darting from one to the other of them, Hamilton had a confused, vaguely victimized expression that reminded Sara of several other nerdy, paranoid types she'd met who'd gone into security work.

  Brass was saying, "Mr. Hamilton, can we come in? This should only take a minute or two."

  Hamilton said, "Of course," then to Warrick, Hamilton added, "Could you get the paper? That's why I was going outside in the first place."

  "Sure thing," Warrick said with a smile, and did, then followed Brass into the house, Sara trailing them both.

  The front door opened into a modest entryway with a smallish living room to the right. The hard-wood floor was covered only in the very center by a small round rug depicting the yin and yang. A white futon hugged the back wall and a small television perched on a low table against the front wall with DVD and VCR beneath. A cloth wall hanging of Bruce Lee hung prominently in the center of the far wall.

  "So what's my car got to do with anything?" Hamilton asked, his face revealing a thousand dire scenarios unfolding themselves in his paranoid imagination.

  "We got a report that your vehicle might have been at the scene of a crime earlier this week. We can check that out easily enough. We'd just like to take a look at your car."

  The skinny guy considered that for a moment, knuckles of one hand unconsciously riding up and down scruffy whiskers. "Please don't misunderstand. I support you guys, but I know my rights. I'm a real bug about procedure. You need a warrant."

  Brass withdrew the warrant from his inside coat pocket and handed the papers forward. "Here you go."

  Eyes wide, horrified, Hamilton leaned back like he expected Brass to slap him with the papers. "I didn't mean you had to have a warrant! I'm happy to cooperate. I just wanted you to know I was familiar with my rights. I can waive that warrant."

  "Why don't you take it. Look it over."

  "All right." He grinned nervously. "It's just that…well…it's early, I'm sorry. I still have a NyQuil hang-over-that stuff puts me out! Hey, I know you have a tough job and I want to help. You just surprised me."

  "Fine," Brass said.

  Hamilton studied the document for a long moment, then, taking a step toward the back of the house, said, "It's this way. What makes you think it's my car? At this crime scene of yours?"

  Warrick said, "The car spotted at the scene had a broken right taillight."

  Hamilton stopped and the three of them nearly piled into him. Turning back, he said with a frown, "Well, then you're wasting your time."

  Sara asked, "Why is that, Mr. Hamilton?"

  He shrugged. "I don't have a broken taillight."

  "We need to check," Brass said. "Procedure."

  With a little nod, Hamilton turned back toward the rear of the house.

  "So you guys are CSIs?" Hamilton said to Warrick.

  "That's right."

  "That must be an exciting job."

  "It has its moments."

  To Sara, Hamilton said, "Meet some real oddballs, I bet!"

  "Now and then."

  When their host got to the kitchen, he turned left and opened a door that led into darkness. Pushing open a screen door, he flipped a light switch and the two-car garage was bathed in light.

  The '98 white Monte Carlo sat directly in the middle. On this side of the car, a heavy punching bag was chained to the crossbeam of the ceiling. Next to it hunkered a weight bench, with a barbell on the rack supporting about the same amount Sara could bench-press.

  Hamilton led them to the back of the car and looked down at the taillight.

  "What the hell!" Hamilton blurted, his head tilting to one side, as he tried to comprehend the broken light on the right rear fender of his car.

  Actually, the taillight was mostly intact, a small piece broken out near the bottom, as if something had smacked against it and cracked off a piece, like Candace Lewis's body maybe.

  After setting his crime scene kit on the concrete floor with a clunk, Warrick opened it and fished out the evidence bag with the piece of red plastic inside.

  "What's that?" Hamilton asked, hovering, his voice unsteady.

  Sara said, "Piece of a taillight found at our crime scene. We just need to see if it fits the break in yours."

  Hamilton looked pale as death, and Sara didn't think it was the man's cold. He shuffled back, out of the way, as if every bad thing in his past, real or imagined, had caught up with.

  Taking the piece out of the bag, Warrick fitted it into the hole in the Monte's taillight.

  From the sidelines, Hamilton said, "It fits perfectly!"

  "Yeah," Warrick said, dryly.

  "What's it mean?"

  Brass showed their host the hint of a smile. "It means, Mr. Hamilton, you're going to be answering a lot more questions and these criminalists will be searching both your house and the car."

  Hamilton seemed to crumple in on himself; Sara wondered if the man was about to faint.

  Then he hauled himself up straight and said, "I haven't done anything. You're welcome to search all you want-you don't have to go out and get another warrant for my house or anything. But there's nothing to find."

  Warrick gestured toward the broken tail. "You don't remember doing this?"

  "No. Unless…" His eyes flared; paranoia danced in them. "Maybe somebody's trying to frame me!"

  "Frame you for what, Mr. Hamilton?" Brass asked pleasantly. "Why don't we let our CSIs work their magic, while you and I go have a talk."

  "All right. I'm here to cooperate. I hope I've made that clear."

  "Crystal."

  Sara and Warrick rolled their eyes at each other and got to it: she took the car, he took the garage.

  After an hour in the trunk, she had found no blood, no fibers, no hair, no leftover adhesive from the duct tape, no anything. She climbed out, perspiration matting her hair to her forehead and the back of her neck.

  "This is the wrong car, Warrick," she said, matter of factly. "There's never been a body in this trunk."

  "You're sure?" he asked, crossing from the workbench on the far side of where she stood. "Guy's a law enforcement freak. Maybe he cleaned it."

  "Does he strike you as savvy enough to obliterate each and every trace of evidence?" She pointed to the Monte Carlo. "If Candace Lewis's body had been in this trunk, there would be some evidence of it. Blood, fibers from the carpeting, a hair, something. Instead, there's nothing but trash. What did you find?"

  "Diddly," Warrick said.

  Sara gestured with both hands. "You think maybe that's because there is nothing to find? I mean, geez, we found more at the mayor's house. At least those hairs confirmed Candace had been there."

  Warrick m
ulled that for a while; then, tilting his head toward the house, he said, "Let's go have a talk with Brass."

  They packed up their gear, lugged it through the house and Warrick signaled for Brass to meet them in the front yard. A moment later, Brass joined them.

  "What have you got?" he asked.

  They both shrugged.

  Brass frowned. "Meaning?"

  Sara said, "Unless this guy is the Dr. No or Professor Moriarty of crime scene cleanup, Candace Lewis was never in that trunk."

  "You're sure? Didn't that taillight match?"

  She nodded. "It did, and that's a significant puzzle piece, a literal one. But other than that, I can't find anything. What's Hamilton saying?"

  Brass sighed. "He claims he never heard of her until she made the papers."

  "You believe him?"

  The detective gave a half-hearted shrug.

  "He have an alibi for that night?" Warrick asked.

  "Yeah-he says he was at the All-American Jukebox casino, all night."

  "Gambling?"

  Brass shook his head. "Installing a new security system."

  "He's not a security guard?" Warrick asked.

  "No," the detective said. "He installs stuff. Works for a company that handles a lot of the casinos."

  Warrick frowned. "Security systems. Doesn't that ring a bell?"

  Sara's mind was elsewhere. "So, he should be on videotape somewhere, sometime, night of the murder?"

  "Should be," Brass said.

  "Helpful," Warrick said.

  Hamilton peeked tentatively from his doorway, then came outside; he was holding a cup of coffee. "Are you guys done in there?"

  They traded looks, then shrugs, and finally, Brass nodded to Hamilton.

  Hamilton approached them and, in a confidential manner, asked, "So, are you allowed to tell me who claimed my car was at your crime scene?"

  Slowly, Brass shook his head. "Sorry."

  Hamilton took a slug from his mug, swallowed, and looking Brass in the eye, asked, "I was just wondering…Was it David Benson?"

  Their eyewitness!

  And Benson was also an installer of security systems…. That was the ringing bell none of them had been able to answer!

  Brass kept his cool. "Why do you ask, Mr. Hamilton?"

  "Oh, I don't mean to be rude-anybody want coffee?"

  "Thank you, no, Mr. Hamilton," Brass said. "Benson?"

  His voice icy, Hamilton said, "The little bastard's been my nemesis for a couple years now. See, I work for Spycoor, and Benson works for Double-O Gadgets."

  Warrick said, "You're competitors?"

  "Sort of. We work the same territory for different outfits. We've had a couple of run-ins over clients and he's tried to blackball me with customers, by trying to get me in trouble with the cops."

  "Can you give us the details?"

  "Sure. Chapter and verse."

  Sara turned to Warrick and whispered, "Grissom's mantra."

  With a pained expression, Warrick replied: " 'First on the scene, first suspect.' "

  "So. We've been played?"

  Moving closer to her, keeping his voice low, Warrick said, "We have been played."

  Brass was still talking to Hamilton. "Thank you for your time, sir. I'm going to send another detective out to get the details on Benson's other…pranks on you. But in the meantime, you've given us a real lead."

  The skinny man's eyes danced behind his glasses. "Have I? Great! I can't imagine anything cooler."

  "Pardon?"

  "Helping break a big case, and getting Benson's ass in a sling! You know-I'm feeling better!"

  The trio practically sprinted to the street and around to the back of the Tahoe where Sara and Warrick loaded in their gear. Then they moved around to the far side, so the vehicle was between them and Hamilton's house.

  "What do you think?" Brass asked.

  Warrick still kept his voice down. "So who checked Benson out?"

  They all took turns looking at each other.

  Warrick groaned.

  Sara was getting her cell phone out, to fill Grissom in, when it twittered on its own.

  "Sara Sidle."

  "We overlooked something," Grissom's voice said.

  She glanced around the neighborhood as if he were somehow shadowing them. "We just figured that out too."

  "Kyle Hamilton's car may be a wild goose chase," Grissom said, "the killer sent us on."

  "That's right. The broken tail matches, but the car is cleaner than Martha Stewart's sink. How did you know?"

  "I was just talking to Nick and Catherine about their case, and how they'd neglected a key aspect…and it dawned on me we'd made the same fundamental mistake…"

  And in unison, Sara and Grissom said: "First on the scene, first suspect."

  Sara said, "Hamilton's a rival of Benson's in the security installation game."

  "Now we know why Benson was such a great eyewitness. Get back here."

  "We're on our way," she said, but it was too late, as Grissom had already hung up.

  Within the hour, they were all working different angles, trying to learn more about David Benson. Warrick was tracking the man's work history while Sara dug into his past, looking for a connection between Benson and Candace Lewis. Grissom spent the time dealing with the various labs about the physical evidence they had, such as it was.

  He was, in fact, the first one to announce any progress when he came into the room where Sara was working.

  "Mobley's in the clear," he said. "Greg reports the sheriff's DNA doesn't match any of the other samples we have."

  "How about Ed Anthony?"

  "Clean, too. He may be our favorite suspect, but he's not the guilty one."

  "Pity. How's Warrick doing?"

  "Nothing so far. How about you?"

  She glanced up from the monitor and gave him a small shrug. "We know Candace was a workaholic and spent very little time with friends or family. Benson's sort of a cipher, himself. Bought his house two years ago, pays his bills, seems like a regular guy."

  "He may be a regular guy whose hobbies include necrophilia and framing the competition for murder. Keep digging, there's got to be something."

  "You know, Gil, our eyewitness may not be the killer. He could have just used this opportunity to cause trouble for this business rival."

  "I don't buy that. There's no way he fit Kyle Hamilton for a frame without having something to do with this."

  "What's that," she asked innocently, "a hunch?"

  He just looked at her blankly; and then his expression turned into a little grin. "Okay, that's one for you. Get yourself another, by finding the link between Candace Lewis and David Benson."

  And he was gone.

  Warrick Brown finished Benson's work history and came up with nothing; but rather than just sitting around, he tracked down Grissom, finding his supervisor in the trace lab bent over a work table.

  "What have you got, Gris?"

  "If we've learned one thing in this case, it's not to ignore the basics. So I'm going back to the one thing that can't lie."

  "The evidence," Warrick said.

  Peeking over his boss's shoulder, Warrick saw a strip of duct tape on the table.

  "I already did the smooth side and got nothing," Grissom said. "But I thought maybe we might get lucky on the adhesive side."

  "Gentian Violet?"

  Grissom shook his head. "What makes duct tape strong is the fibers running through it. Those fibers absorb Gentian Violet, and if we do raise a print, we wouldn't be able to tell what it is."

  "Sad but true."

  "Well, I remembered this detective I met at a conference a few years back, from the Midwest-Jeff Swanson. He told me he'd been experimenting with small-particle reagent on duct tape. We haven't really had a chance to use it until now."

  SPR, or molybdenum disulfide, Warrick knew, was a physical development procedure that involved the tiny black particles adhering to the fatty substances left in fingerprint resi
due. Though it had been successful on many different surfaces-glass, metal, cardboard, even paper-Warrick had never heard of it being used on duct tape.

  "Is it working?"

  "Yes. I photographed it as it was, then put on a small amount of SPR, which gave everything a charcoal color. Then I rinsed it with just a tiny bit of tap water, and that made the print appear to be floating in the water. The SPR helped remove the fibers and other background noise."

  Pulling out his Polaroid MP4, Grissom took three shots in quick succession.

  "What kind of film?" Warrick asked.

  "Six sixty-five positive-negative."

  That meant prints in less than a minute. Warrick almost patted Grissom on the back. Almost.

  The boss was saying, "Swanson even said that if we use lifting tape when it's not saturated, but still moist, we can lift the print. I've been wanting to try this for some time."

  The man was giddy with the science, and Warrick couldn't help but smile.

  When Sara Sidle found what she needed, it was so obvious she almost tripped over it.

  She printed two pages, then tore off down the hall in search of Grissom and Warrick. She found the two of them in Grissom's office, both looking beat, which was unusual for the CSI supervisor, who sat behind his desk, his shoulders hunched, arms heavy on the desktop before him. As for Warrick, he leaned against a set of shelves, likely to slide down the front and fall asleep right there.

  Understandable that even bricks like Grissom and Warrick would show the strain: few cases in recent years had inspired more overtime, more double shifts than the Candace Lewis case. But Sara was about to wake her colleagues up….

  "And you're this chipper why?" a sleepy-eyed Warrick asked her.

  "I found it," she said, holding up the pages.

  Grissom sat up, instantly alert. "The link?"

  "They were neighbors," she announced, and handed her boss the sheets. Then she leaned on his desk with both hands, grinning, unabashedly pleased with herself.

  "Who were neighbors?" Warrick said, coming over beside her.

  She looked from Warrick to Grissom. "Before Candace moved into her condo, and Benson bought his house, they were neighbors in an apartment complex in Green Valley."

  "What kind of neighbors?" Warrick asked.

  "The next-door kind," Sara said.