Binding Ties (13 page)

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?

But viscerally, in the domain of the id, they longed to see the poor soul take the long plunge to oblivion. This they would never admit to themselves, that animal fascination with death lurking deep in the species.

Warrick sensed that same response in the group gathered near Paquette's office—they knew that death, the real thing, lay behind that closed door. Not a corpse, but something even more exciting: the
promise
of death …

… by that superstar of death-dealers, a serial killer.

Sara fell in behind Warrick, and kept close as they neared the office. They both carried their flight-case-style silver crime-scene kits and had their credentials flapping loose on chains around their necks. Warrick could tell that Sara felt the vibe, too, that vicarious morbid rush, coursing through the crowd.

“Paquette's first one on the right,” Sara said.

With virtually every eye in the place on that office
door, Warrick wondered why Sara was stating the painfully obvious—unless she just wanted to hear someone's voice (even her own) in the overt silence gripping the room.

Warrick knocked on the door and it opened a crack. He'd met David Paquette a time or two and the slice of face revealed to him was enough.

“You're … Brown, Warrick Brown,” the slice of Paquette said.

“There's two of us, Mr. Paquette. Sara Sidle's with me.”

The door opened wider but Paquette blocked the way; he frowned a little. “Where's Jim Brass?”

“This is crime lab business…. Do you mind?”

Stepping back, Paquette allowed them inside, but never did open the door all the way, and once they'd scooted through, the editor shut and leaned against it, as if the crowd outside might try to rush the place. Maybe use a bench as a battering ram. Light up old rolled-up papers, as torches….

Hadn't the serial killer replaced the monsters of myth and movies? Perhaps due to the unique nature of Vegas—that desert oasis of fun and sun, attracting visitors and new residents from every corner of the map—the LVPD had faced more of these modern monsters than perhaps any other single department in the USA.

Nonetheless, it was a relative handful, and even Warrick Brown—the least flapable of all the CSIs, with the possible exception of Grissom—could never
get used to the wholesale carnage, the literally monstrous egos, and the extremes of what had once been called evil and now seemed to be pathology.

But those “townspeople” out there? They would keep their distance; that much Warrick knew from experience—however fascinated these civilians might be, contemplating the sick mind that had sent this package into their domain, the other side of that door was as close as they wanted to get.

Two other men were crowded into Paquette's office. One looked to be little more than a kid with stringy blonde hair and wide blue eyes, wearing jeans (in the front pockets of which his hands were wedged) and a black Slipknot T-shirt. The other one was Perry Bell's research assistant, Mark Brower, in a white dress shirt with blue pinstripes and a blue-and-red tie with navy slacks.

“I think you know Mark,” Paquette said to Warrick.

“We've met,” Warrick said, nodding, then shaking Brower's hand.

“And Sara's an old friend,” Brower said, shaking her hand too.

From Sara's expression, that seemed to be overstating it. But that was the atmosphere—oddly tense, forced….

Finally deciding the villagers were not a threat, the editor left his post at the door and approached his desk, gesturing to the blonde kid. “Jimmy, here, found the letter first. Jimmy Mydalson, works in the mailroom.”

The kid nodded but left his hands in his pockets; so much for the handshake ritual here, the mailroom guy too preoccupied, flicking his eyes toward the manila envelope on Paquette's desk, as if keeping track of a coiled snake that might suddenly bite him.

“This is the item?” Sara asked, taking a step nearer the envelope.

“Part of it,” Paquette said.

“Where,” Sara said, with a sideways smile, “is the … rest of it?”

Paquette summoned a grotesque smile. “What, what's in the envelope is, uh, only part of the … uh … package. We haven't touched that. The package.”

“Oooh-kay,” Sara said.

“The letter, that's underneath the envelope. Right there. All three of us have touched that, and the envelope itself.”

“Let's slow down,” Warrick said. “Tell us what happened. Take your time.”

Paquette and Brower turned to Mydalson.

The kid looked like he wanted to bolt or barf or both. Finally, he took a deep breath, pointed a shaky finger toward the package and said, “That came into the mailroom this morning. I opened it, I read it, then I ran up to Mr. Brower, ran like hell.”

“Mark's not even a reporter,” Sara said. “Why didn't you go to one of the editors, or someone else higher up the food chain?”

Mydalson shrugged. “I trust Mark. He's always friendly.”

“Okay, Mark,” Warrick said. “Over to you …”

The mailroom kid heaved a big relieved sigh, and turned to Brower, to listen to him pick up the story.

Which he did: “Jimmy brought me the letter, I read it, then we
both
hotfooted it up here … so David could see it.”

Sara said, “Why not take it to your boss, Mark? You're Perry Bell's assistant, right?”

Brower shrugged. “Perry's in California, seeing his daughter. David's the editor Perry reports to, so that makes David my boss in this case … and I took the package to him.”

Warrick said, “Did anyone else handle the letter besides you three?”

Head shakes all around.

“Okay—nobody panic, but we're gonna have to print you. Got to eliminate you to hone in our bad guy. Okay?”

Head nods all around.

The two CSIs put on latex gloves. While Warrick printed first Paquette, then Mydalson, Sara moved the envelope, carefully spreading open the letter, using a forceps to smooth it and not damage the evidence any further. The paper was bond, with small precise handwriting in blue pen in perfect rows.

She read the letter once, silently, then for Warrick's benefit, began again, aloud:
“‘Captain Brass—so
many years have passed, and yet you have not advanced in rank. It is as if you were frozen in time and remain unchanged. In that we are alike—I too am the same. I too am frozen in time.'”

Warrick had finished with Mydalson and was about to do Brower.

“Guys, is this really necessary?” Brower asked. “I barely touched that thing, and I got a deadline to make.”

Warrick gave the man an easy smile. “Relax, Mark—anyway, it'll just take a few seconds, and it'll help us zero in the perp's prints.”

“What the hell,” Brower chuckled, stepping forward. “I'll just look at it as research.” He held out his right hand.

Sara returned to her reading:
“‘They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But I am not flattered. I feel violated, and so I turn to you, Captain, for justice. I want you to know, Captain James Brass, that I had nothing to do with these reckless, witless crimes. As a token of my sincerity, I am parting with a treasured souvenir.'”

Frowning in thought, Sara stopped reading and returned her attention to the manila envelope itself, which was at least eight and a half by eleven; obviously something square still took up a good portion of the bottom half of the envelope.

Warrick finished printing Brower and moved to Sara's side.

Bending to look into the open envelope, he could see a white box maybe four inches square, a festive
red ribbon wrapped around it. Sara was at his side, getting a peek herself; she glanced at Warrick, who took that as a hint.

Using his thumb and middle latexed fingers, he lifted the box out of the envelope, then studied it. After taking pictures of both the box and the letter, Warrick dusted the ribbon for prints, found none, and carefully cut it.

Then, Christmas: Warrick lifted off the top.

Inside the box, on a bed of cotton, lay a mummified human finger.

Paquette and Brower recoiled, and the mailroom clerk, Mydalson, jerked a hand to his mouth and ran to the door, opened it, sprinted out, knocking onlookers aside like bowling pins—all in about two seconds.

Good luck to you, kid,
Warrick thought.

The white index finger was so seriously dried out, Warrick immediately wondered if they'd be able to get a print.

While Warrick took more pictures, Sara picked up the letter's narrative:

“ ‘You will find that I am who I say I am—that I am indeed the one and only, the genuine article, no cheap imitation—once you identify my possession. I have had no part in the two murders committed recently in our city. The person behind these acts is a sad imposter trying to feel important through my power. I will not allow that. My reputation is at stake and must be protected. If you cannot protect my good name, I will.'”
And it's signed,
“ ‘Capture, Afflict, Strangle.'”

Warrick shook his head. He and Sara exchanged telling glances—in front of these citizens, neither would comment, but both were wondering just how CASt intended to “protect” his good name.

“He's an egotistical maniac,” Paquette said.

Warrick offered up the tiniest of smiles. “That may be the most accurately that phrase has ever been put to use, Mr. Paquette.”

The conversation with Jill Ganine went about the way Grissom figured it would.

“Ms. Ganine,” Grissom said to the phone, the image of the attractive brunette newscaster in his mind not an unpleasant one, “with a murder case like this, when confidential information finds its way into the media, we are concerned for a multitude of reasons.”

“Like, who you can trust, Gil? For God's sake, call me Jill. How many times have I interviewed you? Have I ever misrepresented anything you told me? Ever betrayed a confidence?”

“No, Jill, you haven't, and I respect that.”

“Good. Then you'll respect me for not divulging a source.”

Grissom sighed, but didn't let the phone hear it. “You're compromising a case that involves a vicious killer, who is still at large—”

“You mean ‘CASt,' or maybe you mean a copycat?”

“Jill, the person or persons who are providing you with information may very well be suspects themselves!”

“Interesting. Can I quote you?”

“This conversation isn't going to improve, is it?”

“You know, Gil—I don't think so.”

“Suppose I got a court order?”

“To improve the conversation, or to try to get me to reveal a source? Do you really think either one would work?”

“Probably not,” he admitted.

“But look at it this way, Gil—you can tell Jim Brass you gave it the ol' CSI try, right? Give me a C, give me an S, give an ay-yi-yi? What does it spell?”

“Goodbye, Jill.”

Perry Bell still wasn't answering his cell phone and Grissom was having trouble tracking down the reporter's daughter. He finally got through to the dorm room, only to find out from Patty's former roommate that the young woman had taken an apartment this semester. Grissom asked for the phone number, but the former roommate said she didn't have it.

“We didn't get along,” the roommate said. “She got really pissed at me for barfing on her rug that time. I mean, like it was
my
fault!”

“Barfing on her rug wasn't your fault?”

“No way! I was drunk, wasn't I?”