“Yeah,” Nick said. “Uh, Grissom.”
“Yeah?”
“ ‘Straight skinny’?”
Grissom just smiled, and Nick laughed.
They climbed back into the Tahoe and Nick started the engine. They were passing the airport when Grissom finally spoke again. “I guess you've picked up on my being hesitant to let you out on your own.”
Nick said nothing.
“You don't like that much, do you?”
Turning, Nick met Grissom's eyes, but he said nothing.
“You know why that is, don't you?”
Nick shrugged. “You don't think I'm ready.” A traffic-light turned red and Nick braked to a stop.
“I know you're not ready.”
Nick turned to his boss and even he could hear the earnestness in his voice. “You're wrong, Grissom. I'm ready. I'm so ready.”
Grissom shook his head.
The light turned green and Nick fought the urge to stomp on the gas. He slid ahead slowly.
“That bouncer,” Grissom.
Embarrassed, Nick said, “Yeah, yeah . . .”
“If I hadn't stepped in, you'd have wound up in a fight with a citizen. Which would have led to suspension for you, and a black eye for our unit.”
“I just . . .” Nick stopped. He knew Grissom was right and somehow that made him even angrier. He looked down at the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
“You forgot why you were there,” Grissom said, “and let it turn into some kind of . . . macho foolishness. The case is the thing, Nick. It's the only thing.”
Nick hung his head. “You're right. I know.”
“Don't beat yourself up—fix it.”
“Yeah, I will. Thanks, Grissom.”
“Anyway, this is a good example of why we let Brass and his guys handle the people. We're better at evidence.”
“Hey,” Nick said, pulling into the Criminalistics parking lot, “we didn't do so bad, end of the day, did we?”
“Not so bad,” Grissom admitted.
“Of course I'm not so sure we needed to brush our teeth.”
In the firearms lab, Bill Harper laid a hand on Catherine's shoulder and she jumped.
“Sorry,” he said, jumping back himself.
“No! No, I'm sorry. I must have . . .”
“Slept for hours?” he offered.
“Oh, no, I couldn't have. . . .”
He pointed at the clock on the lab wall.
“Oh, my God,” she said, flushed with embarrassment. “I'm really sorry, Bill.”
His smile told her it was okay. “Hey, it was all right—you seemed to need it. You really looked bushed.”
“Do I look any better?”
“Catherine, few look any better, at their worst. . . . Go wash up, and then we'll talk.”
With a reluctant smile, she took his advice.
Ten minutes later she returned from the locker room to the lab, face washed, hair combed. She hated to admit her own human frailty, but she felt worlds better after the nap. “Okay, Bill, what have you got?”
“Have a look at the monitor.”
She looked at the computer screen on Harper's work table and saw the butt ends of two casings next to each other.
“What do you see, Catherine?”
Studying the two images, she said, “Twenty-five caliber, one Remington, one Winchester.”
He pointed to the primers.
“They've both been struck,” she added.
“They've both been struck—identically.” Reaching over, he clicked the mouse and the two primers suddenly filled the screen. He pointed out three different bumps. They were correspondingly placed on each primer.
She could feel her whole face light up as she smiled. “The same firing pin?”
He nodded. “Helluva thing, ain't it? Fifteen years apart—two different crimes . . . same firing pin.”
Catherine took a step back.
Harper clicked again and the picture zoomed back out to show the ends of the casings. “And look here,” he said, pointing to tiny barely visible indentations at four points on the end of the cartridge, “this is where each one hit the breech wall.”
She felt almost giddy. “You're going to tell me they're identical, too, aren't you?”
“Yes, ma'am—and that ain't all. . . . The scratches from the extractor, when the shell was ejected?”
She nodded her understanding.
Harper grinned. “They match too.”
Catherine let out a long breath, shaking her head, amazed and delighted at the findings. “He's using the same gun . . . and thinks he's fooling ballistics, changing out the barrels. Grissom was right—Malachy Fortunato and Philip Dingelmann were killed by the same gun, presumably the same killer, fifteen years apart.”
Harper said, “That's what the evidence says.”
“And that's what Grissom likes to hear,” Catherine said, on her way out. “Thanks, Harper—I needed this as much as that nap. More!”
Grissom sat behind his desk, munching a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich. He sipped his glass of iced tea, and looked up to see a figure pause in his open doorway—a man maybe six-one in a well-tailored light blue suit, muscularly trim, with blond hair combed slickly back from a high forehead, and a strong, sharp nose, narrow blue eyes . . . and a smile of cobra warmth.
“Special Agent Rick Culpepper,” Grissom said, setting his iced tea carefully back on his desk. “Up late, or early?”
“How do you stand these hours?” The FBI agent smiled his oily smile. “With all the people you encounter, I'm complimented you remember me.”
“How could I forget?” Grissom gave the agent a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. “You're the man who tried to get one of my CSIs killed, using her as bait.”
Strolling uninvited into the office, Culpepper said, “My God, you're still upset about that? Sara Sidle volunteered, and everything came out fine—let it go, Grissom. Get past it.”
“I have trouble getting past you using . . . misusing . . . my people, Culpepper. We're busy here. What do you want?”
“You're takin' a lunch break,” Culpepper said, nodding to the half-eaten sandwich Grissom had put down. “I won't eat up any of your precious crime-solving time. . . . Relax, buddy. Ever think I might be here to help?”
Bullshit, Grissom thought; but he said nothing. He would let the FBI agent do all the work.
Sitting, Culpepper said, “Your people ran a print from a shell casing through AFIS.”
“We do that a lot.”
“Yes, and your federal government is glad to be of service.”
“Do you have a specific print in mind?”
Culpepper nodded. “Related to a recent shooting at a resort hotel—the Beachcomber.”
“We got no match from that.”
“That's right. That's because a little flag went up—AFIS wasn't allowed to make that match—classified information.”
“Is that the federal cooperation you mentioned?”
“The man who belongs to that print is a contract assassin. No one knows what he looks like, or who he is . . . but we've been looking for him ourselves, for a long, long time. And that's why I'm here—to share information.”
“Well thank you,” Grissom said. “Let me think—when was the last time the FBI shared anything? Blame excluded.”
Leaning forward, wearing a disingenuous grin, Culpepper said, “I know we've had our differences in the past, Grissom—but this is a crucial matter. It relates to a plethora of organized crime matters. Consider this a heads up, if nothing else—this guy is bad people.”
Grissom remained cautious, skeptical. “Which is why you're going to help us catch him?”
“Yes, oh yes—he needs to be stopped . . . and your unit, and Detective Brass and his fine contingent of investigators, seem to have the best shot at finally doing it.”
“. . . Right.”
“In fact,” Culpepper said, “I've already forwarded our files
to Detective Brass—everything we have on the Deuce.”
“That is cooperative,” Grissom said. He didn't tell Culpepper that he and Brass were already on the trail.
Culpepper beamed. “Now, you want to tell me what you have?”
“Anything to cooperate,” Grissom said.
He didn't want to give up anything, but Gil Grissom knew how to play the game. He gave Culpepper the basics of the Beachcomber shooting—information he was pretty sure the FBI agent already had. He left out, among other things, the videotape evidence; and said nothing about the mummy at all. When he finally finished, he looked at Culpepper's insincere grin and said, “Now what?”
“Nothing in particular,” Culpepper said, rising. “Just nice to know we can work together like this.”
And he gave Grissom his hand, which Grissom accepted—the agent's flesh cool, clammy—and when Culpepper had gone, Grissom sat there for a while, looking at his own palm, as if thinking of running it through the lab.
10
THESE LINKED MURDER INVESTIGATIONS REPRESENTED JUST the sort of case Jim Brass needed—not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, himself included.
Since his unceremonious return trip to Homicide, after the Holly Gribbs debacle, many of his colleagues avoided him as if he were a terminal case. Sheriff Brian Mobley spoke to Brass only when necessary. In recent months, Brass had, whenever possible, avoided Mobley, and would have ducked out fifteen minutes ago if the sheriff hadn't ordered him to come in and provide an update.
With no enthusiasm, Brass knocked on the wooden door with Mobley's name and rank inscribed in raised white letters. After losing command of the Criminalistics Bureau, Brass had been reduced to a plastic nameplate on an anonymous metal desk in the bullpen.
“Come in,” came the muffled response.
Bright sunshine from the huge window behind Mobley's desk infused the office with a white light that Brass supposed was meant to give the sheriff the aura of God. Unfortunately, it seemed to be working.
Despite a well-tailored brown suit and crisp yellow tie, attire worthy of the chairman of the board of a small company, the redheaded, freckle-faced Mobley looked not so much youthful as adolescent, a boy playing cops and robbers . . . and the top law enforcement officer of a city of over one million souls.
“Have a seat, Jim.”
The politeness made Brass even more uneasy, but he did as instructed. The wall next to the office door was lined with shelves of law books; on the left wall, a twenty-one-inch television—tuned to CNN, at the moment, sound low—perched atop a credenza. A computer sat on a smaller table on the sheriff's left, while his desk—smaller than the Luxor—appeared, as always, neat and clutter-free. The detective in Brass wondered if the sheriff ever worked.
Brass had been under Mobley, some years before, when the latter had been captain of Homicide. In truth, the man was probably as conscientious and hardworking as anyone; but Mobley's job was more about politics, these days, than actual law enforcement.
In 1973, the Clark County Sheriff's Department and the Las Vegas Police Department merged into one entity, putting the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department under the command of the sheriff. Now, the office more closely resembled that of a corporate CEO. Mobley was the fourth man to hold the position since the unification; rumor had it Mobley had his sights on the mayoral office.
The sheriff used a remote to switch off the television. “Well, at least CNN hasn't picked up Dingelmann's murder yet.”
Brass nodded. “Local press has stayed off it—mob stuff's bad for tourism.”
“You got that right—but the national press will pick up on this, and soon. Dingelmann's too high-profile for some national stringer not to connect the dots.”
“I know.”
“It's bad enough that the newspapers and the local TV picked up on this ‘mummy’ business. Now that's everywhere. Is it true it was our CSIs who dubbed the corpse that way?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, the press sure loved that baloney.” Sighing, the Sheriff loosened his tie. “Tell me where we're at, Jim.”
The detective filled him in.
Mobley closed his eyes, bowed his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Do we really think the same asshole killed two people, fifteen years apart?”
“The CSIs are working to prove it now.”
“And?”
“Who knows?”
Mobley shook his head, scowled. “Stay on top of this, Jim. There's a lot riding on it.”
“Sir?”
“We can look like champs if we catch this killer, or chumps if this guy gets away—bottom line'll be, we can't protect our city.”
“Yes, sir,” Brass said.
“And let's handle the FBI.”
“Sir?”
A tiny sneer curled the baby upper lip. “Take all the help they want to give . . . but if the FBI makes the arrest, they get all the glory. Now, if we make the arrest before them . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, go get him.”
Brass left the office, searching the halls for Grissom, wanting to tell him about Mobley's challenge, in particular the avoidance of the FBI, which put him in rare agreement with the sheriff. Instead Brass met Warrick Brown coming down the hall in the opposite direction.
“What are you still doing here?” Brass asked.
Warrick looked at his watch and laughed once and grinned. “Overtime, I guess. I was working on stuff, lost track. I've got something I need you to do.”
Skeptical, Brass asked, “What?”
The CSI explained about the running shoes and the different retailers.
“All right, I'll look into it. You going home?”
Shaking his head, Warrick said, “No. I'm going to the Beachcomber to look at some more tapes.”
“Cheaper than Blockbuster. Grissom still here?”
Warrick nodded back down the hall. “Yeah, we're all still here. Somethin' about these cases, you know, intertwined like they are—it's like a bug we all caught. Can't shake it.”
Warrick disappeared one way down the hall, Brass continued the other. He finally caught up with Grissom in the break room. They sat on opposite sides of the table.
Grissom took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked at Brass. “So—tell me about our friend Brian.”
Brass gave him the whole story, concluding, “The sheriff's hot to trot to close this case—these cases. Show the tourists we're on top of it. Show the citizens he's a great man.”
Grissom's half-smirk was humorless. “We'd like to solve it too, Jim. We're all working double shifts, what more—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Brass interrupted, holding up a palm. “Remember me? I'm on your side.”
Shaking his head, Grissom said, “Sorry. Stress. We're all feeling the pressure on this one.”
“Warrick said it was like a sickness.”
“The flu you can get over,” Grissom said. “Search for the truth has no cure.”
“Who said that?”
Grissom blinked. “Me.”
Looking surprisingly fresh in a blue silk blouse and black slacks, Catherine strolled in, a devious smile making her lovely face even lovelier.
“I was wondering who committed the crime,” Grissom said.
“What crime?” she asked.
“So you're the one that ate the canary.”
Her smile widened, eyes sparkled.
Brass looked at her, then Grissom, then back at Catherine. “What?”
“She knows something,” Grissom said, his own smile forming.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she said, “I know a lot of things.”
“For instance?”
“For instance . . . I know that the same gun killed both Philip Dingelmann and Malachy Fortunato.”
Brass said, “I don't know whether to laugh or cry. The same killer responsible for two murders, fifteen years apart?”
Grissom remained skeptical. “We ca
n't say that yet, can we?”
“No,” Catherine said, sitting down with them. “Not quite yet. But I can prove that both men were shot with the same gun.”
Astonished, Brass said, “I thought you found a discarded gun barrel with the mummy.”
She said, “We did. Riflings matched the bullets we found in Mr. Fortunato's head, too.”
Brass struggled to follow. “But the bullets didn't match Dingelmann, right?”
“No match, that's right.”
“So,” the detective asked, “how can you say they were shot with the same gun?”
Grissom—arms folded, sitting back—just watched her work.
“Wait,” Brass said, thinking back, “I've got it. This is just like Brad Kendall, the coffee shop guy.”
“Not quite,” Catherine said. “Even though Kendall had changed out the barrel, we proved he used bullets from a box in his possession, matching the manufacturer's imprint. We can't do that here—these bullets not only didn't come from the same box, they didn't come from the same manufacturer. Doubtful our man would be using bullets from the same box of ammo, fifteen years later, anyway, right?”
“Right, right, of course,” Brass said, bewildered.
Grissom just smiled.
Catherine continued, “When a bullet is fired from an automatic what happens?”
Brass sighed. “The firing pin strikes the primer, the bullet fires through the barrel, the casing gets ejected.”
“Bravo,” Grissom said.
“Shut up,” Brass said.
“There are,” Catherine said, “three distinct marks on any shell casing fired from an automatic. Like you said, the firing pin strikes the primer. The extractor scratches the casing as it grabs it, and the casing gets slammed into the breech wall before it's sent sailing out of the pistol. Each of those strikes leaves its own individual mark that, like fingerprints, is different for every weapon.”
Eyes narrowed, Brass said, “And you're saying . . .”
“The shell casings from the Beachcomber and the casing we pulled from Mr. Fortunato's driveway are from the same weapon.”
Brass allowed a smile to form. “Can we use that in court?”
“There's no way of arguing against it,” Grissom said.
Double Dealer Page 12
