Binding Ties

by Max Allan Collins

  “What do you think?” Brass said. “Police business.”

  Paquette snorted. “Who do you think you’re tryin’ to hose here? I know there was another murder!” He pointed an accusing finger at them, each getting a turn. “And do I hear one peep out of you guys about it? No—you aren’t talking to me or Bell, or Brower for that matter. Did we have a deal or not?”

  Grissom’s forehead was tensed; this was his version of a frown. “What makes you think there’s been another CASt killing?”

  Paquette grunted a deep humorless laugh. “I didn’t say I thought there was another murder, I said I know there was. What, are you so self-important and self-deluded, you imagine I don’t have other sources in the LVPD?”

  Grissom offered what may have seemed to Paquette a non sequitur: “David, do you have your keycard on you?”

  “What?”

  “Your Banner keycard.”

  Paquette stuffed a hand in his pants pocket, fished for a few seconds, and indeed withdrew a keycard.

  “What’s your interest in this?” the editor asked.

  Grissom pulled the evidence bag out of his pocket but kept the contents tightly wrapped in his fist. “If I show you this piece of evidence, I need an assurance.”

  “What the hell kind of assurance?”

  “That our arrangement is still intact and in force. You run nothing in the Banner till we give you the all clear.”

  “After you held out on me? What a load of—”

  “Hear me out,” Grissom said, evidence still concealed in his grasp. “This is something only my lab knows about—it won’t be in any of the other media. And it’s of particular importance to your paper.”

  Paquette’s natural newsman inquisitiveness took over. “I’m listening.”

  Grissom knew he had the editor, but he tightened the screws: “And we still have a deal, agreed?”

  Paquette was shaking his head, but he said, “Agreed.”

  Letting the bag unfurl like a flag, Grissom revealed the keycard, its Las Vegas Banner label plainly visible to the editor.

  “Yes, there has been another murder, as you know,” Grissom said. “But what you—and none of the media knows—is the victim had this item clutched in his hand.”

  “No way,” Paquette said, eyes popping. “Whose is it?”

  “We don’t know,” Brass said.

  “That’s what you were talking to my boss about!”

  Grissom said, “We can’t reveal our sources.”

  “Screw you, Grissom! This, this doesn’t mean someone at the Banner is responsible for the murders …” Anger and frustration flared in his voice. “… It could have been stolen, and planted at the scene!”

  “Gee thanks,” Brass said. “Where would we be without a true-crime writer like you to develop our theories for us?”

  “Screw you, too, Brass.”

  The detective moved closer to the editor. “You and your pal Perry were closer to the CASt case than anybody this side of the P. D. insiders or the goddamn victims. You think this keycard turning up in a victim’s cold little hand is a coincidence?”

  Paquette began to speak, but then thought better of it.

  “Where is Perry?” Brass asked.

  Paquette’s eyes were on the evidence bag now, probably wondering if his collaborator had become a murderer. “He’s … out of town for a few days. Wanted to see Patty before school started.”

  “Patty?” Grissom asked.

  Brass and Paquette answered simultaneously. “His daughter.”

  “She’s a sophomore at UCLA,” Paquette added. “She’ll be starting the school year soon, and, hey, he’s her dad—he wanted to spend some quality time with her, before her schedule got too busy.”

  “When was the last time you saw Perry?” Brass asked.

  “Day before yesterday,” the editor said.

  Before Diaz’s murder, Sara thought. Maybe their pool of suspects wasn’t so big after all; maybe it was more a hot tub….

  “How can we get a hold of Mr. Bell?” Grissom asked.

  “Cell phone, I guess,” the editor said.

  “I’ve got that number,” Brass said.

  “Listen, he wouldn’t do this,” Paquette said. “He just doesn’t have that in him.”

  Brass smirked, shook his head. “You and I both know that the only reason Perry Bell still has a job here is your guilt over the success you got from the book. You swam upstream, but ol’ Perry’s just treading water. He’s still a journeyman crime writer, riding what little fame is left from your long-ago project … which just happens to be about the CASt serial-killer case.”

  The editor seemed more embarrassed than intimidated by Brass’s diatribe.

  After a moment, Paquette finally said, “Suppose Perry does have a job because of me, how in God’s name does that make him a … a killer?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t,” Brass said. “But that kid Brower’s doing most of the work now, and Perry’s got to be feeling the breath on his neck. You stay in the same job long enough, you get to feel like a dinosaur—what better way to rejuvenate his career than to resurrect CASt’s career? The killer who gave him his fifteen minutes of fame?”

  The editor wasn’t buying it. “Perry, some kind of cold-blooded copycat? Hell, Jim—that’d make him an even sicker S. O. B. than the original CASt! Listen, I know Perry, and he’s got a heart of gold—you know him, over the years you’ve cooperated with him and he with you. Good, decent guy. I’m telling you, this is not him.”

  Brass said, “Fine. So where was he when Sandred died?”

  Shrugging, Paquette said, “How should I know?”

  “You’re his immediate superior here at the paper.”

  “… He was out of the office.”

  “The other murder was yesterday morning. Do you know where he was then?”

  “I told you! Visiting his daughter. Being a father, and a decent human being! You and Grissom ought to try it for a change! … Now, I have work to do.”

  He hustled them out.

  The door shut behind them, and the two CSIs and the homicide captain were once again out in the bustling bullpen.

  “What do you think, Gil?”

  “I think,” Grissom said, “we have work to do, too.”

  FIVE

  Some sleep, a shower, and a change of clothes had done nothing to improve Gil Grissom’s mood. Sheriff Atwater—in a patronizing, pseudo-friendly way that made Grissom’s eyes glaze over—was putting the squeeze on about the need to catch this killer before panic settled over the city and, worse, national attention started scaring tourists away.

  Interesting concept, really: Atwater wanted Grissom to “get off” his “duff” and do something about this case, but at the same time thought Grissom had nothing better to do than sit at his desk on the phone listening to a by-the-numbers lecture that, had it been any more predictable, Grissom could have mouthed along with.

  Grissom hung up the phone, then glared at the thing, as if the instrument were responsible for Atwater’s latest harangue, and for the sheriff’s speed-dial now seeming to hold but one number … Grissom’s.

  The TV stations were already pulling out file video of the old CASt murders and the CSI supervisor knew the morning editions of the papers would all have stories. The Enrique Diaz case had been tied in as well, and Grissom wondered if their two small conversations at the Banner had somehow added up to one big leak.

  Grissom abhored the media—not the concept of the media, he believed in the abstract idea of a free press—but its bothersome reality in his work-life annoyed him; and similarly he hated politics—not the government or even any particular political party, but the self-interested backstabbing and gladhanding of those who—like the media—pretended to be interested in and aiding his work while only hindering it.

  Brass trudged in and dropped copies of the three daily papers onto Grissom’s desk.

  “Extry extry,” the detective said dryly.

  The Sun and Journ
al-Review both ran CASt headlines, and front page stories on the new crimes with continued coverage of the old ones on the inside. The Banner, to its credit, covered only the current crimes with just a perfunctory CASt mention, so as not to look wholly out of step, apparently; their headline story read: Romanov Sold In Billion Dollar Deal. Grissom did not resent what coverage they did give the murders, as they had a responsibility to their readers (and their stockholders).

  “Looks like the Banner’s doing its best to honor our agreement,” Grissom said, “considering.”

  “Yeah, for what good it’s doing us,” Brass said, “with all this other CASt coverage … and you don’t even wanna turn on the tube. And Dave Paquette’s been calling me, like, every damn half hour since we left his office yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—maybe to see if we’ve come up with something that will save his job?”

  “We have to have something,” Grissom said, “to share something.”

  Falling into the chair opposite Grissom, Brass said, “Along those lines? Never did get a hold of Bell. I’ve called the college-age daughter he’s supposed to be visiting, but I get the machine, and the tape is full.”

  “Technology has its limitations.”

  Brass shrugged. “One way or another, I’ll track down the daughter today, and see if I can get to Perry through her.”

  “All right. In the meantime, don’t get too comfortable in that chair….”

  “Gil, I’ve never sat in a harder chair. It’s almost like you don’t want visitors….”

  Grissom smiled a little. “On your feet, then—let’s see how the rest of our world is faring.”

  Brass rose, wincing as if he could feel every aching bone and muscle. “Yeah … let’s.”

  They found Catherine and Nick in the break room, looking like they’d had maybe six hours of sleep between them in the past several days. Nick leaned at the counter against the back wall, waiting for the microwave. Catherine sat at a table, a paper cup of coffee in her hands, gazing into the dark liquid as if seeking a happier future; her best prospect was the raspberry Danish on a napkin nearby.

  “Anything?” Grissom asked.

  “Yes and no,” Catherine said, holding the cup of coffee near her lips now. She blew steam off.

  “I was hoping for a little more detail,” Brass said.

  Nick said, “How’s this for a detail? Phillip Carlson is a total freak.”

  Grissom said, “Freak as in possessing a physical oddity? Or as in, sexually promiscuous? Be precise, Nick.”

  “Freak as in he’s built a freaking shrine to a certain digit-snipping, semen-sharing serial killer.”

  Grissom and Brass sat at the table with Catherine, as Nick came over with coffee and a warmed-up bagel-and-egg sandwich, and the two of them told their story.

  “Oh,” Grissom said, after five minutes. “That kind of freak.”

  Catherine smirked humorlessly and shook her head. “Yes, but unfortunately, not looking like the right freak….”

  Brass didn’t like hearing that. “Sounds to me like he’s plastering his walls with his own press clippings!”

  Nick said, “He’s not looking right for it, Jim, at least not these new killings.”

  “Because?” Grissom asked.

  “DNA didn’t match either crime scene.”

  Catherine added, “His DNA didn’t match anything from any of the original CASt cases either.”

  “And we had plenty of DNA samples to check,” Nick said, momentarily putting his food down.

  Grissom asked, “How so?”

  Catherine said, “We ran RUVIS over the carpet in Carlson’s CASt shrine room …”

  She referred to the gadget known as a Reflective Ultra-Violet Imaging System.

  “… and white flowers blossomed all over the place.”

  Grissom frowned. “He’s been masturbating to this CASt material?”

  Brass was shaking his head. “Damn it, it does make sense…. He’s a chronic confessor. He identifies with the sick bastard.”

  “But he’s not the sick bastard,” Nick said.

  “Not the one we’re looking for,” Catherine said.

  “Is all the evidence processed?” Grissom asked.

  “No,” Catherine said. “We’ve got other lab results we’re waiting on, but, Gil—it’s no hunch when I say Carlson’s a dead end.”

  Nick nodded. “We’re moving on to the other two suspects—Dallas Hanson and Jerome Dayton.”

  “As well you should,” Grissom said.

  Greg Sanders came in, poured himself a cup of coffee and stood smiling in front of Grissom.

  “You have something,” the CSI supervisor said.

  Greg’s eyebrows flicked up. “Our killer? Is … a … copycat.”

  Grissom’s mood lightened. “You know? This isn’t a guess, educated or otherwise?”

  “I know,” Greg said.

  “How?”

  All business now, Greg said, “I located the DNA evidence from the original cases, the stored semen samples—thanks to Detective Champlain, now retired but still our M. V. P. Anyway, none of it matches Rudy Orloff’s deposit from the victims’ backs … or the DNA from the epidermal cells on the rope.”

  “Rudy Orloff,” Brass said, and sighed. “Damn, I almost forgot about him, in all the hubbub of the Diaz killing.”

  “Hubbub can be distracting,” Greg said.

  “Greg,” Grissom warned.

  “Sorry.”

  “Greg?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Good work.”

  Greg, heady with that praise, took his coffee cup and headed back to his lab, before he got himself in trouble.

  “All right,” Grissom said to the others. “Let’s prioritize.”

  “I’ll take Orloff,” Brass said. “I’ll make our NLVPD associate Damon feel important and bring him along. I suppose I could stop and talk to the TV reporter, Jill Ganine, on the way. Maybe we can pin down the leak.”

  Catherine said, trying not to smile, “You should talk to her, Gil. She likes you.”

  “I’ll call her,” Grissom said, in quiet agony. “Strictly phone call—if a follow-up seems necessary, then—”

  Brass said, “Appreciate that, Gil.”

  Catherine said, “Nick and I’ll find out what we can about Hanson and Dayton.”

  “Right,” the supervisor said. “What did you do with Carlson?”

  Nick grinned. “He’s in a cell. Found pot in the adjacent apartment, which is also his—not dealer quantity, though. And he did run.”

  Grissom thought about that. “Hold him at least till all the lab work’s back and you’re sure he’s cleared. Last thing we want to do is put a serial killer back on the street.”

  “If Carlson’s in stir when the next murder goes down,” Brass said, “we’ll at least be able to rule him out.”

  They just looked at him.

  Brass, appalled with himself, said, “Did I say that? Please tell me I didn’t assume we’d have another murder before we could stop this guy….”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Catherine said.

  “Hear what?” Nick said, nibbling his bagel-and-egg.

  Catherine said to Brass, “Did you ever get a hold of Perry Bell?”

  The detective shook his head. “Tried until nearly midnight. He never answered his cell phone. I’ve got his daughter’s number in her dorm room at UCLA.”

  Grissom said, “You find out what you can from this Orloff. I’ll track Bell and his daughter.”

  “What about Paquette?” Brass asked.

  Before Grissom could say anything, Brass’s cell phone interrupted.

  Checking caller ID as he flipped open the phone, the detective said, “Speak of the devil.” He punched the button. “Brass. What’s up, David?”

  As Brass listened for several long moments, the detective’s face seemed to lengthen, every line in it deepening; his eyes, unblinking, spoke alarm.

 
Finally Brass said into the phone, “I’ll have someone there in ten minutes. Don’t touch a damn thing … I know you know! … and hold onto anyone who’s been anywhere nearby, put ’em in a room together, because we’ll want to print them.”

  He listened again, as the CSIs traded grave looks.

  “Ten minutes,” Brass said, “count on it. And one more thing—thanks, Dave.”

  Brass clicked off.

  His eyes met Grissom’s. “He’s got a letter and a package from CASt.”

  “Or maybe the copycat,” Nick put in.

  “I don’t think so—the Banner people already read the letter, because they didn’t know what they had, right away. But the gist is, the real deal is unhappy with the imitation.”

  Catherine sighed, shook her head.

  Brass went on: “Paquette’s seen the originals, remember, the letters from eleven years ago that also went to the Banner—and he says he thinks this is the real thing.”

  Grissom spoke up. “Everybody just keep working on what they’re working on—I’ll get Warrick and Sara down to the paper right away.”

  “I’d prefer Dave to be wrong, you know,” Brass said. “We’ve got enough trouble already with the copycat—last thing we need is the undefeated sicko, coming out of retirement.”

  “What,” Nick said, with a sour half-smile, “and try to top the new guy?”

  It had been a flip remark, but its truth caught all of them like a board alongside the head. They all froze with dread at the terrible thought of that.

  Even Gil Grissom.

  Walking into the Banner lobby, following Sara, Warrick Brown decided these must have been the kind of faces that greeted crime-scene analysts who’d come to a building in response to one of those anthrax calls that had been so prevalent after 9/11.

  The employees he passed on the stairs gave him glances more haunted than frightened. But it was clear, word had spread through the building: The notorious CASt had once again elected the Banner to be his personal messenger.

  And when Warrick and Sara walked past the closed door of publisher James Holowell, who seemed to have bunkered himself inside his office, reporters at desks in the bullpen watched the two CSIs, as if observing ghosts haunting the paper, eyes glued to the pair but strictly nonconfrontational.

  A loose crowd had formed outside Paquette’s office, not unlike groups Warrick had seen gather when someone walked out to the edge of the roof of a high-rise hotel. Intellectually, the crowd wanted the jumper to be saved—the bystanders had, after all, cheered for the jumper’s rescue, hadn’t they?