Binding Ties (19 page)

“Well, he's not a patient now.”

Nick noted the ambiguity of that and pounced. “But he
was?
Jerome Dayton was one of your patients?”

The smile was long gone. Dr. Royer's face had turned stony. “There are just around one hundred guests here at Sundown and none of them is named Jerome Dayton.”

“Did he go out in one of those body bags you mentioned?”

The doctor thought for just a second, then said, “I don't think I can be of any help to you. Very sorry.”

Catherine pressed: “Could you check your records?”

“No.” The finality in the previously pleasant doctor's voice was unmistakable. “That would be a violation of the patient's right-to-privacy.”

“But if he's
not
a patient …”

“The privacy of former patients is also a concern.”

Shaking her head, smiling in a forced manner that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling, Catherine said, “Dr. Royer, this is a murder investigation. We just got word of our third murder in a little over one week.”

The stony face remained such.

Nick said, “Jerome Dayton was a major suspect in the CASt case … perhaps you remember it? And if he's
not
a patient in this hospital … then he's a key suspect in the series of murders occurring in Las Vegas
right now.
”

Dr. Royer did not seem terribly impressed by Nick's impassioned statement. She merely said, “That doesn't give either the Las Vegas police or, for
that matter, myself any authority in a matter of violating this patient's rights.”

Catherine nodded icily. “You have a point. So we'll get a court order.”

The doctor shrugged, then jotted a number on a business card and handed it to Catherine.

“That's our fax number” she said. “Have the court order sent here. In the meantime, let's see if we can track down Mr. Dayton's records.”

Catherine blinked, and her expression would have been no different had Dr. Royer slapped her. “You're … going to help us?”

“Call for your court order,” she said crisply, “and we'll look while we wait.”

“I don't understand ….”

“Of course you do. You're both professionals. I can see that. Well, so am I … and I'm a stickler for the rights of our patients, Ms. Willows.”

Catherine seemed almost embarrassed as she said, “Of course you are.”

“Is there any reason to think you won't get your court order?”

“No. That will be easily obtained.”

“All right,” the doctor said. “Then if this man
is
a killer, there isn't a second to waste.”

While Catherine made the cell phone call, Nick watched Dr. Royer search through one of the file cabinets. Apparently Sundown hadn't converted their older records to computer files as yet—not surprising.

By the time Catherine had made her call, the doctor was already sitting down again, going over the contents of a file folder, her expression thoughtful.

“As soon as the judge signs the order,” Catherine said, “it'll be faxed over.”

“May be a waste of time,” Dr. Royer said, eyes still on the file.

“Why?” Nick asked.

The doctor looked up and said, matter-of-factly, “I don't see how Jerome Dayton could be your killer.”

“Why?” Catherine asked.

Royer nodded at the file before her. “Jerome Dayton became a patient here about ten years ago. Long before I accepted my post at Sundown, by the way.”

Catherine said, “Well, that tallies with what we know about Dayton—he would have been admitted ten years ago.”

“Yes. He was admitted as a paranoid schizophrenic.”

“Meaning,” Nick said, “he heard voices?”

“That's only one of the symptoms,” Royer said. “Hallucinations, both auditory and visual, can be symptoms of schizophrenia. But the patient can also suffer from delusions of persecution.”

“Was that the case,” Catherine asked, “with Jerome Dayton?”

“Yes, he did have such delusions.”

Royer slowly scanned the file further. She read to herself for five minutes, flipping through pages.

Nick and Catherine waited patiently. Ten minutes
more had passed before the dour nurse returned with the fax and placed it on Royer's desk. The nurse disappeared, Royer glanced at the fax, nodded, and returned to her reading.

Several minutes later she said, “It appears Jerome thought his father was emasculating him, forcing him to have sex.”

Catherine said, “Do we know these were in fact delusions?”

Nick picked up the thread: “Were there examinations to look for signs of sexual abuse?”

“According to this file,” Dr. Royer said, “there were indeed such examinations, and nothing was found to support the young man's claims. The father, Thomas, was, of course, one of the biggest contractors in the city at the time.”

Nick frowned. “Since when is there a cure for schizophrenia?”

“Four out of five patients respond well to certain medication,” Dr. Royer said. “In Jerome's case, Haldol helped him turn a corner. He was, according to the file, going through counseling and group therapy while he was here.”

Catherine's expression was troubled. “So, he was under control … if not cured.”

“Yes.”

“And he was released?”

“He was,” Royer said.

Nick shook his head, disbelievingly. “When
was
this?”

“Seven years ago.”

Nick sat forward. “He was cured in
three years?”

Royer looked at the CSI over the file. “I've already said, he was not ‘cured.' He was, however, on medication, and had his illness under control. According to the file, he made incredible strides once my predecessor diagnosed his problem. Jerome was even taking day trips and weekends with his parents.”

Catherine asked, “Is that normal?”

The doctor smiled, the first time since the subject had changed to Jerome Dayton. “ ‘Normal' is not a scientific term, Ms. Willows. And since you're a scientist yourself, you can guess how seldom the word ‘normal' comes up around a facility like this…. No, such day trips are not ‘normal,' but it's not unheard of either. Remember, Jerome was admitted voluntarily; he cooperated when his parents admitted him.”

Catherine, alarmed, asked, “Could he have signed
himself
out?”

“That's possible, though the file doesn't specifically indicate as much…. Sometimes diagnosis and medication are all a patient needs to get on the road to recovery, Ms. Willows, and they get better at a remarkable rate. Sometimes spending time with family—day trips and weekends—can be beneficial to the healing process.”

“Seven years,” Nick said, shaking his head again. “I can't believe no one knew this guy was back on the
street
.”

Royer shrugged. “If he was a suspect in the CASt case, those murders stopped what, eleven years ago?”

“Ten,” Catherine said. “He was admitted just before the last murder.”

“That's why I don't see how he can be your man,” Royer said. “He's been out for seven years, and there have been no killings.”

“Until recently,” Catherine said.

“Granted,” the doctor said, nodding, “until recently. But you're the criminalists—you tell me: Do serial killers normally take a seven-year hiatus?”

Catherine shook her head. “No. But as scientists, doctor, we don't use the word ‘normally' much in our work, either…. Do you know where we can find Jerome Dayton?”

Royer thumbed through the file. “Ah, here it is…. Presumably, his parents. He was released into their custody.”

“The father's dead,” Nick said. “Two or three years ago. Got lots of play in the press.”

“I remember that,” the doctor said. “Mr. Dayton was something of a celebrity, at least locally. Then I can only assume Jerome Dayton is still with his mother.”

“Can we be sure he stayed on his medication?” Catherine asked.

“Reasonably sure. For the first several years, he did counseling, group therapy, and received his drugs here. Eventually, he started obtaining his meds from
our sister facility, and this file stops. You might want to get the subsequent file from them.”

The doctor then carefully read the order.

“Everything looks good,” Royer said. “Do you mind if I photocopy this file, before I turn it over to you?”

“Not at all,” Catherine said. “No telling how long it might be in our hands.”

“Right … I wish we could have been more help, but everything I see here points at Jerome's innocence. And as you'll see, there are no violent episodes in his history, either.”

“Known
history,” Catherine amended.

The doctor echoed that, then went out to get the file copied.

“I can't believe it,” Nick said to Catherine. “This clown was released seven years ago, probably the best CASt suspect of all, and no one knew he was out!”

“Well … maybe it doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter?”

“Yeah, Nick. I mean, he was incarcerated
here,
when the last murder of the original CASt cycle went down.”

Soon Dr. Royer returned, and gave the original file to Catherine, who said, “Thank you, Dr. Royer, for your time and effort.”

“We do what we can.”

When they were outside, Nick said, “You remember the date of the Drake murder?”

“Well I've got it written down,” Catherine said, and took out her pocket notebook and showed him.

As he pulled out the Tahoe keys, he said, “What does the
file
say for that date?”

Catherine riffled through, found it, and then looked at Nick with wide eyes. “Oh … my … God. Jerome was on a weekend visit to his parents.”

Not knowing whether to feel nauseated or triumphant—and settling on a little of both—Nick said, “Maybe we'd better go find Jerome Dayton, and see how well he's doing these days. You know, if the meds are doing the trick?”

“Why don't we,” Catherine said. “We can cure him of one thing, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“He isn't paranoid. We
are
after him.”

EIGHT

A
t a chair by a counter in a lab, Sara Sidle greeted the sheaf of test results that Greg handed in to her as if her birthday had come early.

“You'll be pleased,” Greg said from the doorway.

“I'm pleased to get anything solid,” Sara said. “I'm tired of processing air….”

“If you do, keep an eye out for hydrogen.”

She grinned at him and said, “Thanks for the tip,” and he was gone.

Finally,
Sara thought.

The first sheet said the lipstick used on Diaz was an exact match to the shade used on Marvin Sandred—Bright Rose by Ile De France. This tended to confirm the theory that the vics shared a killer, which was further supported by the next page stating that the rope from both murders had the exact same chemical makeup.

Next was a photo that showed a fracture match between the end of the rope that had killed Sandred, and one end of the rope that murdered Enrique Diaz.

“Doesn't get better than that,” she said aloud to the empty lab.

“What doesn't?” Grissom asked, loping in.

“We know that the same person killed Sandred and Diaz.”

He came over to where Sara sat and leaned in. She walked him through it.

“Our most important product,” he said. “Progress.” He pulled up a chair. “Now what about the manila envelope from the
Banner?”

“Prints on it belong to the three employees—David Paquette, Mark Brower, and Jimmy Mydalson. Their prints were on the letter too. That of course just confirms what we already knew about who handled the envelope at the paper. How about you? Get anything on the handwriting?”

“Going to see Jenny now. Care to come? We might both expand our vocabulary.”

Jenny Northam was a handwriting expert who'd done freelance work for CSI for years, but recently came aboard full-time. In her own digs, she had sworn like a pissed-off longshoreman with Tourette Syndrome; but here at CSI, Grissom had been encouraging restraint.

As Sara and Grissom headed for Jenny's cubbyhole, the CSI supervisor seemed lost in thought, not an unusual condition for him. Sara didn't mind the silence—she was trying to work it all out in her head.

Finally, as they approached Jenny's office, Sara stopped and said, “Bell wasn't killed by the same perp as Sandred and Diaz, was he?”

Grissom gave her a guardedly hopeful look. “This opinion rises from evidence?”

“Yes—the brutality of the beating and the amount of blood. Does Doc Robbins confirm the finger was cut off while the victim was alive?”

“He does.”

“And from the photos, the semen appears spattered, random, not in what I believe you aptly described as the ‘poured' fashion of the other two.”

Nodding, Grissom said, “All well-observed, Sara, but still circumstantial—we need better results from physical evidence before we start drawing conclusions. For example, if the semen at the Bell scene does not match the planted Orloff DNA at the other two.”

“And I presume Greg is working on that.”

“Yes. But DNA takes time.”

“Too bad this isn't a TV show,” she said. “We could have the results after commercial….”

Before long they reached the ajar door of the Crime Lab's handwriting expert, Jenny Northam.
Grissom knocked, then entered without waiting for a response.

Jenny was on the other side of the small lab, rolling around on her wheeled office chair like a drunken race car driver with a stuck accelerator. Petite, barely five feet and maybe one hundred pounds, the dark-haired Jenny ruled over various expensive equipment, which took up three of the walls and most of the large light-table in the middle, the infield of Jenny's makeshift racetrack.