Binding Ties

--06 Binding Ties (04-2005)

For Terri and Rod- nicely bound.

I would like to acknowledge my assistant on this work, forensics researcher/co-plotter

Matthew V. Clemens.

Further acknowledgments appear at the conclusion of this novel.

M.A.C.

"A sound thinker gives equal consideration to the probable and the improbable."

-R. Austin Freeman's DR. JOHN THORNDYKE

"Nothing is simpler than to kill a man; the difficulties arise in attempting to avoid the consequences."

-Rex Stout's NERO WOLFE

Like a cold harsh mountain wind wailing down across the Nevada desert, panic swept through Marvin Sandred.

Awake again finally, his first realization was of his utter helplessness, a figure behind him, straddling his ass-literally-and a rope looped around his neck, pulling back, choking. Chills shook Marvin's body, making the noose chafe harder, and he felt it tighten more and more with each passing second.

Arms flailing, Marvin tried to control and even out his breathing. He did not have the time or frame of mind to take stock of his situation; still, he knew he was home, in the livingroom of his small North Las Vegas house-on the floor, on his stomach, his bones aching, his lungs burning, his assailant sitting astride his backside, as the noose slowly squeezed against his windpipe, and no matter how hard he worked to avoid it, his breaths could only come in short, sucking gulps. The room reeked of his sweat and the rope seemed to be squeezing his bladder as much as his throat.

Somehow, the worst thing of all, the most extreme indignity, was his nakedness-his clothes had been stripped from him, and he battled the urge to piss himself. Cold yet sweating, hands swimming limply in the air, fighting suffocation even as he wondered if he should just go ahead and free his bladder to remove the only pain within his control, Marvin Sandred was experiencing the reality behind the abstraction.

This was terror.

Terror-that word so bandied about on the news every day-was not an abstraction, but a very real emotional and physical state. Sheer terror-pain and helplessness and fear and despair and, worst of all, hope. He was still alive. He'd gotten into this somehow, and he could still get out. He might still survive….

Not so long ago, Marvin had responded to the doorbell, finding a well-dressed man in a black suit standing before the peephole, clean-cut enough to be a Jehovah's Witness or Mormon missionary, only those guys travelled in pairs and the man on Marvin's doorstep had been alone.

Marvin had long since learned that there is much in this life that the individual cannot control. But a man remained king of his castle, however shabby, and invasions by phone solicitors and door-knocking salesmen were indignities he did not have to suffer. Didn't he have a NO SOLICITING sign on his goddamned door?

Marvin saw the bland individual on his doorstep as representing every intrusion, every invasion of his precious privacy, and an indignant Marvin Sandred had opened thedoor wide, to tear this guy a new orifice and send him on his fucking way, only not a word had emerged from Marvin's mouth before things went wrong, horribly, terribly…wrong.

Whether he had been drugged or punched or hit with a tire iron, he did not know, perhaps never would know. Right now, all he knew for sure was that he lay naked on the floor, the rough carpeting irritating his nipples and his ample belly and his genitals, even as the noose closed ever tighter around his throat. He stopped flailing and tried to get at the rope, but couldn't get his fingers beneath the damn loop….

Even though his attacker was behind and above him, Marvin kept his eyes pinched shut. On waking, finding himself under attack, that had been his first instinct-if he didn't open his eyes, he reasoned, he wouldn't see his antagonist's face.

If he did not get a good look at the man, the attacker might let him live-the intruder might be a burglar who would leave Marvin unconscious on the floor to be found later. Two facts that Marvin did not grasp made the point moot: Had he opened his eyes, sweat would have poured into them, impairing his vision; and his attacker's ride-'em-cowboy position made him impossible for Marvin to see, anyway.

The attacker controlled the situation so utterly, Marvin knew that the decision of his life or death belonged to the man in the black suit.

One tiny hope glimmered in Marvin's mind….

He knew that a letter opener lay on the nearby coffee table, under the morning paper and a stack of bills, if only he could reach it. Eyes still squeezed shut, Marvin pawed helplessly in that direction, with his left hand, but his arm felt heavy, like trying to lift a refrigerator, not his own limb.

The attacker slapped the arm down, and Marvin couldn't find the strength to raise it again….

As it got harder and harder to breathe, and surviving became more and more abstract, a thought jumped into his mind, between panic-stricken plans to somehow get loose: That thought was how stupid he had been to move to Las Vegas in the first place.

Then his wife Annie popped into his mind: her pretty, smiling face, the way she had looked at him so often, before she left him last year.

Though these thoughts lasted only a few seconds, they were profound: Marvin realized he still missed his ex-wife, and wished he'd been smart enough to stay in Eau Claire and try to patch things up with her, instead of throwing away his entire life to move to the city of dreams….

He'd been an idiot. He still was an idiot. He knew as much, even with the breath being sucked out of him for what was probably the last time…a goddamned idiot, cashing in his retirement, driving away Annie, looking for a new life….

Marvin Sandred, at the brink of death, did not have the time or luxury of acquiring a longer, more mature view of his life and where it had gone awry. Lots of people had come to this city of dreams, from Bugsy Siegel to Howard Hughes, from Liberace to Penn and Teller. Formerly an assistant plant manager at Eau Claire Steelworks, Marvin Sandred had been one of hundreds of thousands of dreamers who'd migrated to the neon oasis, not just to visit, but to live.

Marvin's dream was modest, comparatively speaking, if typically unrealistic of Vegas dreamers. Just as Annie was entering menopause, Marvin's midlife crisis kicked in, and the forty-six-year-old had felt life slipping through his fingers, opportunities and dreams betrayed by a lifetime of doing "the right thing." Marvin had started watching poker on ESPN, and then played it on the Internet, till his wife put her foot down just when he was starting to win a little; so he'd practiced on a ten-buck computer game and did very well indeed, so well that he finally decided to come to Las Vegas to play poker professionally.

His retirement settlement gave Marvin just enough money to get to Vegas and put a down payment on this little bungalow; he'd hoped his wife-they were childless-would view this as a fresh start. Actually, she saw it as a dead-end. The rest of his money he had used to fund his fantasy of becoming the next Amarillo Slim or Doyle Brunson.

The dream had indeed gone quickly south, his poker skills faring far better against his computer game than real people. After two tournaments, Sandred got a day job in the sales department of a welding equipment company. The dream began its slow death from that point on, his meager earnings winding down the spiraling hole of Texas Hold-'em, casino-style….

Still, Marvin had never given up, and his sick-gambler's optimism stayed with him, right up to where his dream was swallowed by this full-fledged nightmare, the attacker applying even more pressure now….

Marvin felt his head grow heavy, the weight of it trying to sag to the floor, the rope around his neck keeping his skull up, but a certain bobbing motion making his forehead occasionally brush the rough rug. Colored lights burst behind his eyelids in a tiny fireworks show, and for just a moment he was downtown in Glitter Gulch with the overhead display of Sinatra singing, "Luck be a lady," and Marvin's arms were rubbery things and tears mingled with sweat as his dream dissolved and his mind was filled with a nightmare that would end not with waking, but rather with going to sleep.

Forever.

And as the colored lights subsided and blackness fell across, Marvin Sandred saw Annie in his mind, smiling sadly, shaking her head, saying, as she had when she left, "Don't you know, Marvin? One person's dream is another's nightmare?"

One

T he North Las Vegas neighborhood was slowly making the transition from cozy to shabby. A 420 on the radio, this homicide call-which on the Strip would be treated like a presidential assassination, every squad car rolling in with lights strobing and siren blaring-had generated only one North Las Vegas PD squad, which sat parked out front of the house as quietly as if this was the officer's home…

…and not a crime scene.

Which was what brought LVPD Crime Scene Investigation supervisor Gil Grissom to this declining residential area, and not for the first time-wasn't a habit yet, but calls in these environs were definitely on the upswing.

Seasoned veteran Grissom descended on this troubled neighborhood like the angel of death, albeit a casually attired one, such a study in black was he: sunglasses, Polo shirt, slacks, shoes. Gray was invading the dark curly hair, however, intruding as well into a beard he'd grown to save himself time, only to find trimming the thing was its own burden. He'd thought of shaving the damn thing off, at least twenty times, but that much of an expenditure of time he wasn't ready to invest.

Gil Grissom's life was his work, and his work was death.

Nick Stokes, behind the wheel, parked the black CSI Tahoe behind the NLVPD cruiser; after him, Warrick Brown pulled in a second Tahoe. Grissom and Stokes had ridden in the lead vehicle while Warrick shared his with fellow CSIs, Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle.

Muscular, former college jock Nick had dark hair cut close and an easy smile that belied how seriously he took his job. The heroic-jawed CSI wore jeans and a T-shirt with the LVPD badge embroidered over the left breast.

Green-eyed, African-American Warrick was tall and slender, and his expression seemed serious most of the time, though wry twists of humor did come through. In his untucked brown T-shirt and khaki slacks, the loose-limbed Warrick seemed more relaxed than Nick, but Grissom knew both young men were tightly wired, in a good way, excellent analysts and dedicated hard workers.

Even more intense than her two male teammates, Sara Sidle wore her dark hair to her shoulders and preferred comfortable clothes like today's tan T-shirt and brown slacks. Still, she was as striking in her way as Catherine Willows, a redhead with the chiseled features of a model and the slenderly curvaceous body of a dancer. Wearing an aqua tank top and navy slacks, Catherine still more closely resembled the exotic performer she had been to the crack scientist she'd become.

Though they worked the graveyard shift, Grissom's team-thanks to manpower shortages this week-was currently working overtime to help cover dayshift court appearances and vacations. Normally, these CSIs would have showed up at a crime scene in the middle of the night, but with the OT, they found themselves arriving at this one with the summer sun already high in a cloudless blue sky, the heat dry but not oppressive, tourist friendly.

Pulling off his sunglasses, Grissom studied the bungalow: tiny and, particularly for this neighborhood, still in decent repair. The dirt yard was small and bisected by a crumbling sidewalk that passed a steel flagpole on its way to the open front door. Two flags hung limp on the windless day, an American flag at the top and a Green Bay Packers one beneath it, while a short gravel driveway ran up the far side of the house, a dark blue early nineties Chevy parked in the middle.

Even though homes surrounded the bungalow all along the block, to Grissom, the house looked lonely, somehow. Heat shimmered off the pavement outside this house; but sadness shimmered off the house itself.

As Grissom hopped down from the Tahoe, his peripheral vision caught an unmarked Ford pulling up on the other side of the street. He paused to glance back and see the detective getting out, a lanky six-three in an ill-fitting gray suit-Bill Damon. The detective was still in his late twenties, having been with the North Las Vegas PD for five or six years, now deep into his first year as a detective. Though his pants always seemed an inch or so too short, and his jacket seemed large enough for a man twice his size, Damon fit the job nicely-if still unseasoned as a detective, this was a good cop, with his heart in the right place.

While more than a hundred thousand souls made North Las Vegas their home-and had their own police department-the Las Vegas crime scene analysts served all of Clark County, which meant occasionally the CSIs worked with detectives from departments other than their own. Grissom had run into Damon on a couple of cases before, but always as the secondary detective, never the primary.

As the detective crossed the street, he held out his hand to Grissom-long, slender fingers with big, knobby knuckles.

"Gil," he said as they shook. "Been a while."

"Yes it has," Grissom said, offering up a noncommital smile.

"Checked inside yet?"

The CSI supervisor shook his head. "Just got here. All we know is it's a 420."

Damon shrugged. "Which is what I know. Guess we better get informed…."

"Always a good policy."

While Grissom's team unloaded their gear from the back of their vehicles, a stocky, sawed-off uniformed cop walked over from the front door of the bungalow to join them. He carried a click-top ballpoint pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. His nametag said LOGAN. An African-American of forty or so, he wore his hair trimmed short, which minimized the tiny patches of gray here and there. He stood just above the minimum height requirement, making the tall Damon seem towering.

Logan nodded to Grissom but gave his attention to his own department's detective.

"Hey, Henry," Damon said.

"Hey, Bill."

So much for small talk.

Logan smirked humorlessly, nodding back at the house. "Got a real ugly number for you in there. Guy murdered in his living room-but I sure don't call that living."

Grissom asked, "You've been inside?"

Logan nodded, shrugged. "Don't worry-your evidence oughta be waiting, and plenty of it. All I did was clear the place and make sure the killer was gone. One path in, one path out."

"Good," Grissom said, looking toward the house again.

No screen and the front door yawned wide.

"Did you open that door, Officer Logan?" Grissom asked.

"Hell no. Do I look like-"

"Have you done this before? Cleared a murder scene?"

"Had my fair share of bodies over the years. And this is the kind of corpse you don't trip over or anything-guy's in plain sight from the front doorway, and dead as shit."

Grissom's smile was so small it barely qualified. "Officer, I don't care how many murders you've covered, our victim deserves more respect than that."

Logan looked at Grissom like the CSI was from outer space.

Damon asked, "You're sure he's dead?"

Logan gave the detective a vaguely patronizing look. "Hey, I been doin' this a long time, Bill. Like I said, this guy's dead as…can be-or I'd have an ambulance here and we'd be wheeling him out. Take a look for yourself."

But Grissom wasn't satisfied with the background yet. "How did the call come in?"

"Next-door neighbor," Logan said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "She went out to the street to get her mail…"

Logan pointed at the row of mailboxes running along the curb.

The cop continued: "…then our neighbor lady glanced over and saw the door open. The guy who lives here…" He checked his notebook. "…guy who lived there, Marvin Sandred, usually worked during the day. So, when the neighbor, woman named…" He checked his notebook again. "…Tammy Hinton, saw the door standing open, she went to check on the place. One gander at the body and she phoned us."

Grissom asked, "She said it was Sandred?"

"Yeah."

"We should talk to her."

"Yeah," Damon said, as if reminding everyone, including himself, that he was in charge, "we should talk to her right away."

"I can cover that," Logan said, but shook his head. "I'm just not sure it'll do any good, right now. She was pretty shook up, which is why I sent her home. Anything else you need?"

"No, Henry," Damon said. "Thank you."

Logan frowned at Grissom. "All due respect, Dr. Grissom-I know who you are, everybody does-I don't appreciate you going all self-righteous on me."

With no inflection, Grissom said, "Then don't use terms like 'dead as shit' to describe a murder victim."

Logan's indignation faded to embarrassment. "Yeah, okay. Point taken. No harm, no foul?"

"Not yet," Grissom said.

Logan headed to the neighbor's house, while Damon said, "You ready to check this out?"

"Yes."

Grissom started for the house, the CSIs and the North Las Vegas cops trailing in his wake. Over his shoulder, he said, "Nick, you take the backyard-Warrick, the front."

"You got it, Gris," Nick said.

Warrick just nodded.

While the two CSIs peeled off, Grissom, Catherine, and Sara-trailed by Detective Damon-pressed on to the front door atop a two-step stoop. At the threshold, he stopped.

"Sara," Grissom said, as he and the others snugged on their latex gloves, "let's see if there are any prints on the doorbell."

She nodded and stepped off to the side. Like the other CSIs, she had lugged along her tool-kit-style crime-scene case, which she set down on the concrete, and got to it.

Grissom led the way through the front door, Catherine right behind; Damon was lingering on the porch, watching Sara work, making conversation that she wasn't taking much part in.

The house was dark, curtains drawn, lights off. In the gloom, Grissom could nonetheless see that the living room was to the right, the kitchen through a doorway to the back and a hallway, at the rear of the living room, led to the bedrooms and bathroom.

Next to him, Catherine clicked on her mini-flash. There could be no turning on of lights until the switches and their plates had been dusted for prints. She used the beam to highlight doorways, then settled on the corpse, at right.

The living room stank of death in general; sweat, urine, and excrement, in particular. With its scant rent-to-own furnishings-a sofa, a coffee table, a TV at an angle in the far corner, and a couple of end tables-the room seemed as lonely inside as the house had from out. A lamp on one end table seemed to be the only potential light source, other than a picture window behind drawn curtains. Newspapers, some mail, a couple of carry-out containers cluttered the coffee table; otherwise, the room was clean-not counting the body sprawled in the middle of the floor.

The first detail Grissom picked up on was a pool of blood near one of the hands, where the index finger had been amputated. Grissom got his own mini-flash out and its beam looked around, but there was no sign of the digit. Perhaps the killer had taken a souvenir.

"I'll work the body," Grissom said, "while you do the rest of the house."

Catherine glanced down at the victim. "He's all yours…. Wasn't exactly in charge of his own destiny when he died, either."

"Might have something significant here," Grissom said, as he swept with the mini-flash around the body, not wanting to disturb any evidence when he drew nearer.

Catherine arched an eyebrow. "You think?"

She turned toward the hallway as Detective Damon finally made his way inside the house. Pulling up short, he winced, nostrils flaring before he quickly covered them. "Whoa-well, isn't that nasty?"

"Victim evacuated at death," Grissom said matter-of-factly.

Between the man's spread legs, feces pooled in urine. Grissom was long since used to this, but what bothered him most was that these strong odors could blot out other, subtler, more important ones.

From the corridor, Catherine said, "I'll start in the kitchen." Her crime-scene case swinging at her side, Catherine disappeared through the doorway.

Color had drained from the detective's face; perhaps the word "kitchen" had in this context given him a bad moment.

"You need me here?" he asked with an audible gulp.

"You'll just be in the way," Grissom said.

"I mean, it is my crime scene…."

Grissom gave him a firm look. "No it's not-it's mine. Let me process it, then we'll talk…outside."

The detective desired to take the argument no further; he practically sprinted out the front door.

Returning his attention to the body on the floor, Grissom started by getting the big picture.

A Caucasian man between forty-five and fifty, he estimated; the victim was nude, prone, on his stomach, a rope around his neck. The index finger of his right hand had been severed and-so far, indications were-taken away. The man's head was to one side, giving Grissom a view of a telling touch by the murderer: the deceased's lips had been painted with a garish red lipstick.

A CSI always kept an eye out for modus operandi; but seldom was a signature so explicit. The normally detached Grissom felt a chill, but it had nothing to do with fear or even revulsion-he just knew he had to make a phone call on this one. A friend was affected by this.

But, his nature being his nature, he decided to work the scene first.

The vic had probably been asphyxiated, but Grissom knew better than to make that more than a working hypothesis, and would wait for the coroner, to make the final call on cause of death.

Grissom got his camera from his stainless steel crime-scene kit, and started taking pictures. First he did the room, then the body, then close-ups of the body. It took a while, but he had long ago learned patience, and even though thoughts flooded his mind, Grissom held himself to the standard of quick-but-not-hurried. He forced the impending phone call to the back of his mind and continued his work.

After a while, Sara came into the room. Unlike the detective, she reacted not at all to what a civilian would consider a stench, but which a professional crime scene analyst would consider par for the course. Nor did anything but the faintest trace of sadness-even pros were allowed compassion-cross her wide, pretty mouth.

Then she said, "Got a partial off the bell, couple partials off the knob."

"It's a start," Grissom said.

"What's Catherine up to?"

Grissom glanced at her, a little mischief in his faint smile. "Woman's place is in the kitchen."

She grinned, grunted a laugh. "You wish…. This one's…specific, isn't it?"

"It is that."

"Doesn't ring any of my bells, though. How about yours, Grissom?"

"They toll for him," he said, nodding toward the victim, but explained no further.

Sara didn't expect him to, and didn't press it, saying, "Okay I head over next door, to join our detective and officer? They're interviewing the neighbor, and I'd like to print her, get her eliminated. Partial on the bell might be hers, y'know."

"Might. You do that."

"…There's never a good way, is there?"

"What?"

"To get murdered."

"No," Grissom admitted. "But this strikes me as one of the least desirable."

"I hear that," she said, and strode out.

He smiled to himself, pleased at how unfazed by the crime scene she'd been. He had picked Sara personally, when a CSI had been killed on the job and needed replacing; she'd been a student who excelled at his seminars, and he'd been impressed and sought her out and brought her in, and she had not disappointed.

On the other hand, he was disappointed in himself, sometimes, as his affection for this bright young woman had on occasion threatened to take him over the professional line.

And that was a line Gil Grissom did not wish to cross.

The supervisor returned his attention to the dead body.

Some sort of liquid pooled on the victim's back and he bent down to take a closer look.

Little sailors,he thought, as he took a photo of the semen gathered at the small of the victim's back. Setting the camera aside, he then swabbed a small portion of the fluid for DNA testing later. Something about the sample troubled him, though; this was part of the M.O. he had recognized, but it was a little…off.

Then he had it: The fluid on the back was meant to suggest that the killer had masturbated onto the victim, but the semen pooled neatly in that one spot on the vic's back.

It's been poured there,Grissom thought with a grim smile.

If the killer had ejaculated, in a sick frenzy attached to the murder, the result would hardly have been one tidy little pool. Most likely, other droplets would be here and there, spattered….

He bagged the semen sample, finished taking his photos, swabbed the blood in the rug, and went over the body for any trace evidence. He found nothing. The last thing he did was carefully remove the rope and bag it. When he had completed his initial pass at the body, he withdrew his cell phone and punched the speed dial.

On the second ring, a brusque voice answered: "Jim Brass."

"I've got something you need to see," Grissom said, without identifying himself. "It's not in your jurisdiction, but it's right up your alley."

"Cute, Gil. But haven't you heard? I'm on vacation."

"Really kicking back, are you?"

Silence; no, not silence: Grissom, detective that he was, could detect a sigh….

"You know as well as I do," Brass said. "I'm bored out of my mind."

"You know, people who live for their work should seek other outlets."

"What, like collecting bugs? Gil-what have you got?"

"An oldie but baddie-I wasn't with you on it…kind of before our time, together."

"What are you talking about?"

"The one you never forget-your first case."

The long pause that followed contained no sigh. Not even a breath. Just stony silence.

Then Brass said, "You're not talking about my first case back in Jersey, are you?"

"No. I've got a killing out here in North Las Vegas that shares a distinctive M.O. with your other first case."

"Christ. Where are you exactly?"

"Just getting started."

"I mean the address!"

"Oh," Grissom said, and gave it to him.

"Twenty minutes," Brass said and broke the connection.

The homicide captain made it in fifteen.

From the open doorway, Grissom watched Brass's car pull up and the detective get out, and cross the lawn like a man on a mission. Which, Grissom supposed, he was.

The compact, mournful-eyed Brass-always one to wear a jacket and tie, no matter the weather-had showed up in jeans and a blue shirt open at the neck.

The uniformed officer, Logan, went out to catch Brass at the front stoop, thinking a relative or other civilian had arrived. The detective flashed his badge, but Logan seemed unimpressed.

"What brings you to our neck of the woods, Captain?"

Leaning out the doorway, Grissom called, "He's with me, Officer. It's all right."

Logan, apparently not wishing to tangle with Grissom again, sighed and nodded and let Brass pass.

"You could've told him I was coming," Brass complained.

"Yeah, well I'm still working on my social skills," Grissom said.

"Really? How's that coming along?"

Shrugging, Grissom stepped back inside and got out of the way so Brass could see the body.

The detective took one look and shook his head. The blood had drained from his face and his eyes were large and unblinking. "Well, son of a-"

"Is it CASt?" Grissom asked.

Catherine came back in from the kitchen, kit in one latex-gloved hand, gesturing behind her with the other. "I didn't find anything except dirty dishes…" Seeing Brass, she froze and blinked. "Aren't you on vacation?"

Brass nodded to her. "I was." His sad gaze fixed on Grissom. "Well, it sure looks like CASt's handiwork…."

"Cast?" Catherine asked, joining them. The three had the corpse surrounded-he wasn't going anywhere.

Closing his eyes, Brass touched the thumb and middle finger of his right hand to the bridge of his nose. "You didn't work that case…you might even have been a lab tech still. I dunno."

Catherine looked at Grissom and tightened her eyes in a signal of, Help me out here? Grissom, of course, merely shrugged.

Brass was saying, "I know you've heard me talk about it-my first case here? Never solved? Lot of play in the press? Worst serial killer in Vegas history? Cop in charge an incompetent New Jersey jackass? Sound familiar?"

"Taunted the PD in the papers," Catherine said, nodding, thinking out loud. "Used the initials…C period A period S period tee."

" 'Capture,' " Grissom said, " 'Afflict, and Strangle.' "

"I did a little lab work on the case," Catherine said. "I was nightshift then, too. And wasn't it a dayshift case?"

"Yes. This was ten, eleven years ago." Brass rubbed his forehead. "I just transferred in, from back East. Still shellshocked from my…my divorce. Not exactly on top of the Vegas scene, yet…."

"All I remember about the case is pretty vague," Catherine admitted. "More from TV and the papers than anything in-house…."

Grissom said, "Lots of media, but we were able to control it better in those days. And fortunately it never caught wide national play."

Brass said, "Yeah, we kept as much out as we could. My partner, Vince Champlain, didn't want to muddy the waters."

"Good call," Catherine said. "Wish we had better luck with that, these days."

Brass continued: "Vince was the senior detective. He figured, more we put in the paper, more crackpots we'd have to deal with. S. O. P. And yet, of course, there were plenty just the same. We must've had twenty different whack jobs try to claim those crimes."

"None of the wrongos looked right?" Catherine asked.

Brass shook his head. "Nah, standard issue nut-cases. Serial confessors."

Catherine said, "What did you have?"

With a dark, defeated smile, Brass looked at her and said, "Victims-we had victims. Five-all male, all white, all in late middle-age, and all on the heavy side…"

As if it had been choreographed, the detective and the two CSIs looked as one at the dead body.

"…and all strangled with a reverse-eight noose."

Catherine frowned. "Which is what, exactly?"

"A knot-a 'wrong' running noose," Grissom said. "It's about which end of the rope you pull to tighten the noose. This knot's backward…and other than yo-yos, you never see it used."

Turning back to Brass, Catherine asked, "Any real suspects back then?"

"We started with a slew, but we narrowed it to three," Brass said. "I had a guy I liked, Vince had a guy he liked, and there was a third one that looked good, only neither of us thought he did the killings."

Pointing at the body, Grissom said, "Here's how we do this: Run it like we would any other homicide investigation."

Brass nodded, then asked, "You want me to start with looking into our old suspects?"

Grissom gave him a long, appraising look. "First, a question."

"Second, an answer."

"Should you be working on this?"

"Shouldn't I?" Brass said, his voice rising slightly.

"Jim," Catherine said. "You've carried this one around for a long time. Objectivity-"

"Can kiss my ass," he blurted, then immediately seemed embarrassed about it.

Grissom studied his friend. "So you're Captain Ahab on this one?"

"Let's just say," Brass said, "I'm gonna catch the dick."

"Ah," Grissom said ambiguously.

"And," Brass said, swallowing, his tone softening, "we will, as you say, work it like any other homicide."

Grissom's eyes met Catherine's. Her skepticism was etched in an open-mouthed smile.

Apologetically, Brass said, "Come on, you two-you'll keep me honest on this. You'll keep me-"

"Objective?" Catherine offered. "You really think this is a good idea, Jim?" But her question was obviously intended for Grissom.

Grissom ignored that and said to Brass, "Do you see any reasonable way this could be a coincidence, looking so much like a CASt-off?"

Catherine added, "Which is what the press called his victims, right?"

"Yeah, and it's no coincidence." Brass indicated the corpse. "If this isn't the guy's real signature, it's sure as hell a copycat who knows how to commit a hell of a forgery."

Catherine asked, "How so?"

Brass shrugged. "Well, if it's a copycat, he or she knows way more than was ever in the media."

Nodding, Catherine said, "You kept things back, so you could sort through the false confessions. Of course…"

Grissom said, "Whether this is a blast from the past, or a latterday cover artist…we're going to need all the help we can get."

Catherine drew in a deep breath and let it out. "New or old-this is one vicious killer."

Grissom was watching the homicide captain. "See anything here, Jim? You're the veteran of the CASt-off crime scenes."

Brass moved closer, squatted next to the dead man, then finally rose and faced Grissom.

"Much as I'd like to have a crack at the original CASt," he said measuredly, "I think this may be a copycat."

Grissom and Catherine traded a look.

"Why?" Grissom asked.

"Appears staged. For one thing, there's not enough blood."

Catherine stared at the coagulating puddle on the rug. "How so?"

"Those five original murder scenes," Brass said, and his eyes took on a haunted cast, "spray was everywhere. Here, there's none of that."

"Blood spatter," she said with satisfaction; after all, it was her specialty. "In the other cases, were the fingers cut off before the victims were killed?"

Brass, pleased she was following him, said, "Yes."

"Here it would seem to be postmortem. A living victim would have considerable spray, and might wave his mutilated hand around, further spreading the blood."

"Right," Brass said with a nod. "And there's something that isn't right about how the semen is pooled on his back…."

Grissom fielded that one, explaining his theory, concluding with, "It's always hard to tell with ejaculate at a crime scene-configuration of the victim's body, and how the perp's body functions; but this looks almost-poured on."

"B.Y.O.S.," Catherine said.

Brass and Grissom frowned at her in confusion.

Her eyebrows rose. "Bring your own semen? The killer brought his specimen from home. Or maybe it was a woman, who had to bring a specimen…."

"Makes sense either way," Brass said. "A copycat is coldly staging a crime; the real crimes were driven by passion, by a killer really…into it."

"Exactly my point," Grissom said. "Still, this crime scene is close to the originals, right?"

"Yeah," Brass said. "Other than these details we've discussed…oh yeah."

"With a copycat, our lines of inquiry become nicely narrowed." Grissom gestured toward the body. "Who did know this much information about those murders?"

Thought clouded the detective's face. Then: "Well, the killer, of course…the cops on the case, ourselves…and a couple of newspaper guys."

Catherine asked, "Who, specifically?"

"Two crime beat reporters for the Las Vegas Banner-Perry Bell and David Paquette. They received the original taunting letters from CASt. And they even did a quickie paperback together, about the case."

"Isn't Paquette an editor at the Banner?" Catherine asked.

"Now he is-Paquette seemed to get the better end of the book notoriety. Paquette got the editor's post, but then Bell did get his own column."

Both CSIs nodded.

Most LVPD personnel knew of Bell and his column, The Bell Beat. Grissom didn't think the guy was much of a writer, but then neither were Walter Winchell or Larry King; but the columnist did have a reputation for honesty, and it was said he never betrayed a source, or any kind of trust, which was a big part of how he'd been successful for so long. When a cop shared something with Bell in confidence, it stayed that way until the officer told him he could print it.

"Guess I better go have a chat with the Fourth Estate," Brass said.

Catherine gestured to the grotesque corpse. "You think either Paquette or Bell might be capable of…this?"

Brass shrugged. "Gacy was a clown, Bundy a law student, Juan Corona a labor contractor who killed two dozen for fun and profit. Who's to say what people are capable of? One thing I do know-if we're treating this like a normal homicide, then Perry Bell and Dave Paquette are suspects…and I'm going to go have a talk with them."

They met with the other cops and CSIs in the yard while paramedics went inside to deal with the body.

Damon looked annoyed as he eyeballed Brass. "What are you doing here, Jim?"

Brass started to say something, but Grissom stepped up like a referee.

"I called him in," Grissom said. "As an advisor. He worked a case very similar to this years ago."

"Similar how?" Damon asked.

"Similar," Grissom said, "exactly."

"Another murder?"

"Murders," Brass said. "A serial killer."

"Oh, come on," Damon said. "What is this, the movies?"

Catherine said, "Why, do you get a lot of d.b.'s out here in North Las Vegas, men with lipstick smiles and semen on their backs?"

Damon's mouth opened but no words came out.

Grissom said, "It's a perp called CASt."

That really got Damon's attention; he took a long pause and swallowed and said, "Holy shit…I remember him. It was in the papers when I was in college! Damn…you think he did this?"

Grissom and Brass exchanged glances; then the CSI supervisor shrugged. "We don't know. He's been inactive for something like eleven years. We'll see."

"You'll be working with me, of course," Damon said. "I mean, it is my case."

Again, Brass started to say something and Grissom cut him off. "Certainly."

"Well…then…good." Damon nodded, put his hands on his hips and puffed up a little bit. "Glad that's understood. Good."

Turning his attention to his team, Grissom asked, "Well?"

Nick said, "Nothing that seems related in the backyard."

"Front yard looks clean too," Warrick said. "Got a partial footprint, but it could be nothing."

"Or something," Grissom said.

"Or something," Warrick said with a humorless smirk.

"I got a sample of the neighbor's prints," Sara said. "But she claims she never touched the bell or the knob. She says she just looked inside, saw the 'horrible thing,' and called 911."

Grissom began to smile-just a little. "Possible fingerprints, possible footprints, DNA evidence…. We've started with less. And we have an M.O. match to past crimes. What do you say, gang? Shall we cast out our line, and reel in a killer?"

Two

O ne of the nice things about living in Vegas, Captain Jim Brass knew, was that if you wanted to get away from everything and everybody, and go completely unnoticed, well…you could.

All you had to do was head out to the Strip.

Crazy as it seemed, the busiest part of Vegas was-for locals-the easiest place to hide. Of course, some residents worked there; but the ones who didn't-and those who did, in their off-hours-generally avoided the area like an active desert nuclear test site.

The Strip's never-ending influx of cash, after all, came from visitors. If Las Vegans wanted to go out to eat or even gamble, they steered well away from that massive neon hive of tourist traps, and found places in the less trendy, and less expensive, corners of the city.

Was it Sherlock Holmes or maybe Poe's Dupin who said the best place to hide is in plain sight? That maxim made the Strip the perfect place for Brass and Grissom to hold their meeting with Perry Bell and David Paquette of the Banner. The detective and the CSI had little chance of running into anyone who would know all four of them, and at this point, Brass figured a low profile wasn't a bad thing.

But it did trouble him that he had to start his investigation by talking to members of the media, as the goal of keeping this a by-the-book inquiry included staying off the public radar as long as possible.

Walking down the stairs from the parking building connected to the Sphere, Brass said to the CSI, "I don't mean to keep you away from valuable time at the lab."

Grissom shrugged. "I got the feeling you wanted Catherine and me to spot you on this."

"Spot me how?"

"Keep you from prematurely throwing harpoons, Captain."

"Gimme a goddamn break, Gil. I been on this case, what? An hour, and already you're thinking I'm-"

"An hour on this case?" Grissom's smile was gentle and not at all mocking. "Isn't that more like, going on a decade or more?"

Brass felt a surge of warmth for his friend and colleague-something that wasn't a common emotion between the two, at least not one that either man allowed to enter in very often.

Still, the detective couldn't keep the real feeling out of it, when he said to Grissom, pretending to kid, "So-you're really there for me, huh, Gil?"

Without a beat, but not allowing his eyes to meet Brass's, Grissom said, "Always."

The Raw Shanks Diner huddled in a far corner of the casino, near the back. A fifties motif ran rampant through the place-everything from the Fiestaware plates to the menus to singing waiters and waitresses who served up Elvis, Little Richard, and Fats Domino tunes to the luncheon crowd.

A tiny waitress with corn rows and a big voice was belting out the Etta James classic "At Last" as Brass and Grissom took seats on opposite sides of a corner booth, getting as far away from the karaoke waitress as possible. A waiter with a pompadour haircut a sixteen-year-old Frankie Avalon would have envied brought them coffee while they waited for the newspaper men to show.

A place this relentlessly entertaining, no sane local would ever frequent.

Grissom said, "A suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Let's not pose the copycat theory."

Brass nodded. "Yeah. Good idea. Be interesting to gauge their reactions."

The detective was less than halfway through his coffee when the crime beat writer, Perry Bell, waved at him from the hostess stand. Two other men huddled behind him-David Paquette, the Banner's Metro editor, and Bell's research assistant, Mark Brower.

The captain had known Bell and Paquette for the better part of eleven years, and Brower he'd met not long after the man took the job as Bell's assistant, maybe seven years ago. Or was that eight? Brass sighed to himself, struck by how the years were slipping away, and yet how immediate the old CASt case still felt.

Brower had, no doubt, heard all of the stories about CASt, but hadn't been part of the original coverage. The guy was in his early thirties now, and would have still been in journalism school somewhere or even high school, when the crimes occurred.

The hostess, the diner's idea of Sandra Dee (ironically, a waiter was doing Bobby Darin's "Splish Splash" right now), spoke to Bell, who pointed at Brass, then moved past Gidget to waddle toward the table, Paquette and Brower trailing.

Bell was all smiles, but Brass wasn't: He was wondering just why the hell Brower was even along on this trip. Damn it, he had told Bell that he wanted to meet the two of them, Bell and Paquette, alone….

A roly-poly man with a thick brown toupee parted on the left, Perry Bell looked like he'd been trapped in a time warp in the disco era-witness the wide-lapeled brown suit with yellow shirt, its top three buttons open to show a gold Star of David medallion on a gold, chest-hair-nestling chain. The huge open collar of the shirt extended like giant wings outside the jacket.

Bell had a concrete block of a head with a large glob of loose mortar serving as a nose. His deep-set dark eyes peeked out from under broad, heavy brows and as he approached, his wide mouth broke into an easy, if uneven and tobacco-discolored, smile.

"Got a hot lead for me, Jimbo?" Bell said, extending his hand.

Yes, Brass thought, a real wordsmith….

"We'll get to that," Brass said, shook the moist hand, and gave it back to its owner.

"Must be big," Bell said, turning to shake Grissom's hand as well, "if you're bringin' 'round the Crime Scene Investigator's Crime Scene Investigator-great to see you, Gil."

The big build-up got a curt nod out of Grissom.

"You all know my boss and buddy, Dave, here."

Nods were granted to the editor.

Paquette had mischievous blue eyes and a ready smile; his blond hair had long ago flown south for the winter and showed no signs of coming back north. But Brass thought both the editor and his columnist seemed forced in their bonhomie, with each other as well as Brass and Grissom.

Though Paquette and Bell had been peers at the time their book CASt Fear came out, their careers had taken significantly different routes. Easy-going with a ready-smile, happy in his fate, editor Paquette now supervised his old pal, whose career had hit a groove more than a decade ago only to have the needle get stuck: A crime column that had gone briefly national had flamed out in syndication, making a bumpy local landing.

Perhaps out of the grace of his old friend, Bell and his column were hanging on.

Brass and Grissom both shook hands with Paquette and Brower also. Grissom moved around to Brass's side of the booth, while Bell and Paquette sat on the opposite side, Brower pulling up a chair from a nearby table.

Solidly muscular-hardly the norm for the sedentary newspaper breed-Brower wore his dark brown hair short; his dark eyes and the thought-carved groove between his thick brows conveyed seriousness, and a narrow, nearly lipless mouth gave him a vaguely feral look, especially when he smiled. He'd been with Bell for quite a while now, and had earned from Brass the same trust as his boss.

Still, Brower remained, in Brass's mind, an uninvited guest, which was the first topic of conversation….

Brass said, "Don't take this personally, Mark," he said, then turned to Bell and asked, "but what's he doing here?"

The reporter's smile faded. "Well, hell, Jim. He…he's my assistant. Mark goes where I go, you know that."

"Did you think this was a social call?"

Bell glanced at both Paquette and Brower. "Isn't it?"

Brass studied the crime writer for a long moment. "Your scanner broken?"

"No, why?"

"You didn't hear the 420 in North Las Vegas this morning?"

The newspapermen would all know the radio code for homicide.

Bell shrugged. "Yeah, so? There was the original radio call, then nothing. I figured there'd be more later, if it was anything worth covering. Is that what you got for me?"

"It's not like you to miss a residential murder call, Perry…" Brass tried to keep his voice neutral, even nonchalant. "So where were you off to, this morning?"

The reporter seemed not to notice that he was being questioned. "In the office, mostly."

"All morning?"

For the first time, Bell seemed to understand he was being interrogated.

Alarm was morphing into anger, and he was about to speak when their Teen Idol waiter came over and put a cup of coffee in front of Bell and the others, then freshened Brass's and Grissom's.

"Any food for you guys?" the waiter asked.

"No," Brass said, waving the waiter away.

Steam rose off the coffee-but the reporter was steaming, too.

"What in the hell kind of crap is this, Brass?" Bell caught himself-he'd almost been shouting-and looked around, but none of the other diners seemed to notice over the din of the restaurant and the singing staff. "I mean, really, Jim…am I some kind of suspect in something? What the hell kind of murder went down this morning, anyway?"

Brass said nothing.

Paquette leaned forward, his features intense. "Look, Captain Brass, if you're accusing one of my employees of something, you do it through proper channels, not call us out to a restaurant on some flimsy damn-"

Eyes taut, Grissom said, "There's nothing flimsy about murder. Captain Brass is making this informal, as a courtesy to you people."

Brass held up a hand and said, "No, Gil-Perry and Dave have a point."

The editor and columnist exhaled air, like twin punctured tires, and settled into a placated limbo, waiting for Brass to continue. From the sidelines Brower watched quietly but intently.

The detective gathered himself, took a long pull on his coffee and then studied Bell, considering exactly how much he wanted to tell the reporter.

Finally, he said, "I'm sorry, Perry…Dave. We caught one that's put me on edge, and if I've been out of line with you guys…I do value our relationship…please blame it on tension."

The two journalists shrugged, in accidental rhythm with a waiter doing Elvis singing, "All Shook Up."

"But," Brass said, "when this case goes public, there's going to be hell to pay."

Reaching into his inside pocket for a pen and pad, his anger all but forgotten, Bell said, "Well, then, let's get started…."

Brass held up his hands, as if being robbed. "That's just it-I don't want it to go public, just yet."

The reporter froze for a moment, then, slowly, his hand came out of his coat-empty. "Well, Jim, why are we here, then, if we can't talk about it?"

For the first time in a long time, Brass wished he hadn't quit smoking. "I needed to talk to you, off the record."

"Captain Brass," Paquette said irritably, "we're all for cooperation with the authorities, but just like you have a job to do, so do we. We have a responsibility to the public."

"You have a responsibility to me," Brass said, "that overrides that, in this instance."

The editor shook his head. "You don't have that kind of pull."

"I don't?" Brass asked. "My cooperation on a certain case gave you two a bestselling book. Which you both made careers out of."

"What," Bell said, "you're calling in that marker?"

"Yes," Brass said.

After a moment's consideration, Paquette asked, "If the story's that big…and you need our help, including putting the public's right-to-know on hold…we'll want something in return. Something more than the old news of what you did for us a long time ago."

Brass and Grissom both just looked at him.

"When the time comes," Paquette said, his hands flat on the edge of the table, "we want an exclusive."

Brass started to say something, his temper rising, but Grissom put a hand on his arm.

"Not possible," Grissom said. "Not even legal."

Everyone at the table knew that the two county employees could never consent to an exclusive on a big case; but by asking for the whole pie, Paquette clearly expected to come away with the biggest slice.

Brass relented a little. "Twenty-four-hour lead."

Paquette considered that, then nodded.

"What have you got?" Bell asked, sitting forward, the hunger in his voice obvious. Other than an exposé on crime in the rap world, when Tupac Shakur got shot, Bell hadn't had a story go national since the CASt book; and the columnist could easily see, from Brass's behavior, that this was something very big….

"You gotta promise, Perry," Brass said. "Not even a hint until I give you the okay. That means all three of you. You can cover the story in a modest way, just straightforward news…but the key aspect, we have to downplay, even sit on."

Bell studied him, questions all over his face, even though the reporter never uttered a word, simply nodded his agreement.

"Cross me," Brass said, with a smile that wasn't friendly, "and the cooperation you've known in the past…will be past."

The reporter snapped, "Hey, Jim, when was the last time any of us screwed you over?"

Brass wiped a hand across his forehead. Christ, he'd been on the job forever and here he was sweating like a rookie. He'd been needlessly antagonizing these people, who had always been allies.

"You're right," Brass said. "You've always been straight-up. So let me ask a question-how long ago was it? The CASt case."

The reporter, apparently thinking this was another reference to Brass helping him and Paquette out on their book, raised a single eyebrow, then shrugged. "I don't know, ten, eleven years?"

Bell looked to Paquette for confirmation.

The editor nodded. "Eleven. When it started."

"Qualifies as ancient history in this town," Bell said. "Is that a point of reference, or…what?"

Three waitresses were singing, "My Boyfriend's Back (and You're Gonna Be in Trouble)."

Brass sipped his coffee, eyes travelling from Bell to Paquette and making the return trip. "We always wondered why he stopped-had he died in an automobile accident? Was he committed somewhere? Did he move, and pick up somewhere else?"

Bell said, "You know the latter isn't true-even now, I keep an eye on the national scene, looking for that M.O. to turn up again. I mean, as M.O.'s come, they don't come much more specific."

"Not hard to recognize," Brass admitted. "What would you say if that M.O. had turned up again?"

"I'd want to know where," Bell said. "What state, what city, hell, what country?"

Grissom said, "Nevada. North Las Vegas. The United States of America."

"Bull…" Bell began; but then he pushed away from the table a little. "You two aren't kidding, are you?"

Brass sighed. "Has this meeting struck you as hilarious so far?"

"The M.O.," Bell said. "The same M.O.-in North Las Vegas, this morning?"

Brass indicated Grissom with a head bob. "We just left the crime scene, and it looks very much like CASt's handiwork."

"Hard to miss," Grissom said.

Brower hadn't said anything yet, but now he leaned forward, as did Bell and Paquette. Their eyes were glued to Brass, waiting for more, coyotes catching the scent of blood.

The detective's eyes volleyed from Bell to Paquette as he said, "We wanted to talk to you two, because nobody knew as much about that case, those murders, as you guys…. And frankly, Mark, that's why your presence here got under my skin. No offense meant."

Brower said, "None taken."

But Bell's hackles were up. "So that's why you're treating me like a suspect! Because I am one. Listen here, Brass, you knew as much, more than either Dave or me. You and Vince Champlain were our primary sources!"

"That's fair," Paquette said.

Grissom said, "Let's hold off before we start suspecting the police, shall we, gentlemen?"

"What's this?" Bell blurted. "The great Gil Grissom making an assumption! I thought you were Mr. Follow-the-Evidence-Wherever-It-Goes! Unless in this case, if it goes to your pal Brass…."

To his credit, Grissom kept his cool. The press annoyed the CSI, their place on his list of unfavorite things ranking just under politics and politicians.

Knowing that, Brass jumped back in. "Guys, yes, you're right-Vince Champlain, and, yes, yours truly, knew more about this case than anyone."

"The tens of thousands who read our book," Paquette said, "also knew the case inside out, from the naked vics to that distinctive knot. Mark's been subjected to Perry and me babbling over beer about this case so much, he oughta go on your suspect list, too, I suppose. And maybe that Hollywood producer who optioned our book, and-"

"The killer," Brass said, "knows more than what was in your book-he knew the handful of things you agreed never to share with the public."

Bell blinked. "How much did…this killer know?"

"Every damn detail," Brass said. "And as to adding Mr. Brower to the suspect list, hey, I'd be glad to. How much have you told him?"

"Hey, hold on there, Jim," Brower said. "You want to know what I know, ask me!"

Paquette held up a silencing palm, Brower's way. "Mark knows more than was in the book, but he doesn't know everything everything. The things that Perry and I agreed we wouldn't tell anyone until the killer was caught, we haven't told him, we haven't told anyone."

Brass gazed at the editor for several seconds then turned his eyes to Bell who nodded affirmation.

Bell leaned closer again. "Did he cut off-"

But Brass cut Bell off, with a look.

The detective's eyes went to Brower, then back to Bell, who got the message.

"Mark is my research assistant," the reporter complained.

Shaking his head, Brass said, "You can't tell anyone about the two hold-backs. Even at this late date-especially at this late date."

The "hold-backs"-designed to trip up false confessors-were the semen on the victim's back, and the severed (and collected) finger. These key details both Brass and Grissom knew, and Paquette, too. The point was to keep the circle as small as possible, and that didn't include adding Mark Brower to the loop.

"I know," Bell said in embarrassed frustration, "I know…"

A waitress was doing Connie Francis singing, "Who's Sorry Now?"

Pointedly, Brass asked, "So neither of you has shared either hold-back with anyone?"

Paquette shook his head. "No one's even asked about that case in years. Old news."

"Now me, I've talked about the case to groups," Bell said, "even as recently as this year. See, I put our book back into print-print on demand? I have several boxes in my car trunk, and you can buy it on Amazon and…"

Bell, it seemed, had been out on the local lecture circuit, even travelling to towns as far away as Los Angeles, hawking his self-published reprint.

Sad, what things had come to: Paquette had used the national publication of the book to build a local celebrity that had ultimately led to the editor's chair; but short, pudgy Bell-less telegenic than Paquette-had a stalled career that his self-financed reprint was being used to help shore up.

But Brass knew this effort was far too little, far too late, to have any effect on Bell's flagging fortunes, and the reporter mining the rubber-chicken circuit, selling paperbacks out of his trunk, seeking support to help him hang onto his column, was frankly a little pathetic-Rotary Club luncheons, library chat groups, and the odd program at the museum, were not going to rekindle a flame that had never burned that brightly to begin with.

Bell was saying, "…but obviously, I've never spoken on the things we kept silent about."

Grissom asked, "Is the book a revision?"

"I did a new introduction, but we just used a copy of the original book to shoot from-didn't retype-set it or anything."

A nugget of ache that would eventually become a full-fledged headache throbbed just behind Brass's eyes. Such headaches had been with him for years; they'd began about the time he'd become embroiled in the CASt case….

He said, "Either somebody has shared information, or CASt is back, and his M.O. is the same."

Brass studied their faces. Paquette seemed to be processing the information, while Bell appeared shellshocked. Brower was unreadable, the intense serious expression pretty much a constant with the guy. None of the men said anything for several long moments.

Paquette was the one who finally broke the silence. "Have you talked to your old pal Vince? Maybe he's been talking."

"There's a thought," Brower agreed.

Brass's words came out cold and hard: "Look, Mark, I'm going to cut you slack, because Vince was long retired before you even started at the Banner. Dave, you know better. Vince was always a good cop. He never did anything to jeopardize an investigation, not on any case!"

Grissom said blandly, "But, of course, we'll be talking to him next. You're quite right to put him on the suspect list."

Brass turned sharply toward the CSI.

"This is a murder investigation like any other," Grissom was saying. "We'll talk to anyone and everyone we think can help us. For example, there are easily half a dozen others in the department who might have had access to the withheld information about CASt's full M.O."

"That's right!" Paquette said, with a snap of his fingers. To Jim he said, "Who did you report to, you and Champlain?"

"The sheriff at the time," Brass said. "Who is now deceased."

Bell said, "What about Conrad Ecklie? He was the dayshift CSI supervisor. He knew!"

Grissom said, "We'll talk to him."

Knowing how much Ecklie and Grissom hated each other, Brass thought to himself: Someone will talk to Conrad, but it won't be Gil….

Brass said, "Search your memories, guys. I confided in Grissom, here-he did only incidental work on the original case. Maybe you confided in somebody, too, and it's slipped your mind…. Anyway, think about it."

The newspaper guys lapsed into silence.

"I can assure you," Brass said, "we're going to turn over every rock we can."

Paquette and Bell both flashed glares his way.

"Sorry…I didn't mean it to sound quite like that…. I just mean that we're going to do everything we can to catch this guy, and quick. If it is CASt, we all know what he's capable of. If he's decided to repeat his cycle, we could be looking at four more victims…."

"Jesus," Brower said.

"If it's a newcomer with a similar M.O…" Brass let that hang in the air for a few seconds, before he added, "We don't wanna go there till we have to…but either way, we've got to catch this guy, and fast. Look, I know it's a big story, but we need, at the outset anyway, to control it."

Bell glanced at his two cohorts, who both gave him slight nods, the three of them somehow communicating silently.

Then the reporter said, "Whatever you need, Jim, you let us know. We'll help any way we can."

"Thanks."

"But," Paquette added, shaking a forefinger, "we get that twenty-four-hour lead, remember."

Brass nodded and Grissom said, "That much we can do."

The Elvis waiter was singing "Jailhouse Rock" when Brass and Grissom headed out.

* * *

Vince Champlain and his second wife occupied an independent living apartment at the Sunny Day Continuing Care Facility in Henderson.

A guard stopped Brass and Grissom at the gate and checked their credentials and wrote their names on his clipboard. Brass and Grissom were familiar with Sunny Day since Catherine and Warrick had worked a case recently concerning murdered patients in the continuous care wing.

Not far from Lake Mead Drive, Sunny Day offered independent living apartments in a building at the left end, and various levels of escalating care in a high-rise at the right end. For the geriatric set, Sunny Day was the living end, or the end of living, depending on which building you occupied.

Brass turned the Taurus to the left and found a parking place not far from the entrance. The Champlains were on the third floor, and-Brass having called ahead-the visit was expected. In fact, when Grissom and Brass exited the elevator and started down the hall, a petite blonde stuck her head out from a door and waved eagerly.

"Jimmy!" she practically squealed. Her expression was joyous.

Grissom gave Brass a sideways look and pointed at him. "Jimmy? You're…Jimmy?"

"Keep that to yourself."

"That's asking a lot."

"Don't make me shoot you."

Grissom was smiling at Brass, who was smiling at the tiny woman who stood just outside her doorway with outstretched arms.

"Margie," Brass said, and allowed himself to be folded in a surprisingly massive hug coming from such a diminutive woman.

As slender as she was short, Margie Champlain had hardly aged since Brass had last seen her; the blonde hair had always been dyed, and she'd had at least one facelift back then-and at least another since.

Brass had first met Margie not long before her husband had retired. A bartender in a small dive off Fremont Street, Margie had been a fireball back in those days, one too powerful for Vince Champlain to resist. The affair had led to the break up of Vince's marriage, but Vince and his first wife, Sheila, were both better off today. Vince's affair with Margie had blossomed into true love and Sheila was now happily married to a retired Golden Nugget casino manager. Brass knew the two couples even went out to dinner together occasionally.

"How could you let yourself be such a stranger, Jimmy?" Margie asked, backing away to look him in the face but still hanging on and in no hurry to let go.

"It's working the damn nightshift," Brass said. "I got no social life. You were lucky you hooked up with Vince so close to retirement."

"Yeah, I missed all the fun of being a cop's wife, right?" She released Brass and finally noticed Grissom. "I recognize you from TV-you're the one who's always nabbing the bad guys!"

Brass glanced at Grissom, who seemed to be trying to decide whether to be confused or embarrassed.

"I like to think of him as my little helper," Brass said dryly. "This is Gil Grissom-our crime lab's answer to Sherlock Holmes."

Grissom frowned and said, "I didn't know Sherlock Holmes was a question."

Margie laughed once, then said to Brass, "Is he kidding?"

"No one knows," Brass said.

Margie stuck her hand out and Grissom took and shook it.

"Aren't you the cutie pie," she cooed to Grissom, maintaining her grip.

The CSI supervisor smiled nervously and looked down at his hand like a trapped animal wondering if he'd have to chew off his paw before he could escape.

"Did Vince get back yet?" Brass asked.

"Afraid not," Margie said, finally releasing the CSI's hand. "No, like I said on the phone, he's been gone since early this morning."

"But he will be back soon?"

"Should be any minute," she said. "You kids come on in and wait. I'm making decaf."

Margie had said on the phone that Vince ought to be back by the time Brass and Grissom arrived; but now Brass-knowing how abstract time could be to older, retired people, and how lonely for company they could be-wondered if he and Grissom should enter that apartment and risk wasting valuable time, the early hours in any murder case being the most vital.

Knowing Grissom was probably thinking something similar, Brass looked at the CSI, who shrugged in an it's-your-call manner.

Before Brass was forced into making an executive decision, a tall, athletic, silver-haired man strode into view up the hallway.

The well-tanned Vince Champlain wore light gray sweat pants, a dark gray-and-black striped Polo shirt, and tennies. He moved toward them with no sign of weakness or age in his gait.

His wide silver-mustached mouth broke into a smile, his teeth a little too white, too straight to be nature's work.

"Jim! Why you dirty son of a-"

Margie shushed him loudly and said, "Vince, please…the neighbors." Then she whispered to Brass and Grissom, "We have goddamn prudes on either side of us, and then here's Vince, with that fuggin' cop's mouth of his!"

Grissom's eyes were wide and Brass had to smile; Margie had worked as a barmaid for a long, long time….

Champlain was patting Brass on the shoulder, then nodded and grinned at Grissom and said, "Been seeing your name in the papers, your shining face on the tube, Gilbert. Making a mark, making a mark."

Grissom shrugged a shoulder and gave up a shy smile.

"Let's go inside," Champlain said, waving them toward the open door, "where I can say 'son of a bitch' without Margie having heart failure."

"Vin-cent," Margie scolded, but she was smiling.

Margie went in first, Champlain followed, and Brass looked at Grissom and said, "After you, Gilbert…"

"No, no-you first…Jimmy."

Brass smiled and Grissom chuckled, and the homicide captain wondered if the CSI shared his relief at even being able to smile, considering the circumstances of this day.

Champlain closed the door after them, and Brass and Grissom took in the living room, which wasn't terribly large, but had a nice homey feel to it, particularly considering the Champlains were essentially in the least-assisted wing of a nursing home.

A big-screen TV dominated one corner while a well-worn lounge chair angled into another corner and a floral sofa took up the wall near the door. Another chair sat at an angle to the sofa, and the tiny, magazine-covered island of a coffee table floated. Champlain gestured easily for them to sit. Brass and Grissom took the sofa while Champlain fell into his lounge chair.

"Beer, gents?" their host asked.

"No, thanks," Brass said. "We're actually on duty."

"Thought you guys were strictly graveyard…?"

Grissom said, "Dayshift's got sick leave and court time."

Brass said, "Pulling more than our share of double shifts."

"Don't bitch," Champlain said. He'd been the kind of career cop who had not looked forward to his last day on the job. "I miss what you got…though retirement does have its bennies."

Hovering, Margie asked, "How about some of that decaf?"

"Please," Brass said.

"Yes, thank you," Grissom said.

"Bottle of water, honey, please," Champlain said.

Margie disappeared through a doorway into the kitchen.

"Two under par today," Champlain said, only the merest trace of gloating in his voice. "Golf's one of those bennies I was talking about."

"Where at?" Brass asked dutifully.

"Rio Secco," Champlain said, as if that would mean something to the cops.

Brass nodded like he understood and the expression on Grissom's face said that he suspected Champlain was speaking Esperanto.

"Now," Champlain said with a glance toward the kitchen, "surely a couple of on-duty coppers like you two didn't come all the way out here to the old fart's home to hear me brag about my golf game…. What's up?"

"I think we may have a ghost," Brass said.

Champlain sat forward, eyes slitted. "The past rattling its chains, is it? Some old pal of ours resurface?"

Margie brought in a tray with cups of coffee for herself, Grissom, and Brass, and a cold-sweating bottle of Evian for her husband.

Again she hovered, clearly wondering if she should alight and join the party-but was she wanted?

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Margie asked tentatively.

"Business, dear," Champlain said.

"Oh," Margie said, her disappointment not well hidden. "I just remembered-I have some straightening to do in the bedroom."

Champlain gave his wife a warm smile. "Thank you, babydoll."

After the "babydoll" in her early seventies walked down a hallway and slipped into a doorway on the right, Champlain turned his attention back to Brass and the CSI.

The detective said, "This morning, Gil had a murder call out in North Las Vegas. The M.O. was too damn familiar-Vince, it reminded me whole a lot of CASt."

Some of the color managed to drain from Champlain's deeply tanned face. "You have got to be shitting me…."

Brass said nothing.

Champlain blew out air, as if an invisible birthday cake with every candle he'd earned sat in front of him. "Okay, Jim-let's have it…chapter and verse."

Brass did-leaving nothing out this time, including the copycat notion.

Then, with another huge sigh, Champlain shook his head. "But if this kill had the earmarks of the real CASt, like you say-how could any copycat pull that off? We kept a lid on everything."

Grissom fielded the question. "Certain aspects of the scene do suggest a staged crime, as opposed to the more spontaneous activity of our original killer. But we're not ruling anything out yet-certainly not the idea that our original CASt is back."

"What can an old retiree like me do to help?" Champlain asked.

Right now, the "old retiree" looked more fit than Brass had ever felt.

Brass said, "Have you spoken to anyone about the case? Anyone at all?"

"Not since the newspaper coverage died away years ago. And you know how careful we were back at the time-only the sheriff, rest his soul, and the dayshift CSI supervisor knew our hold-backs."

"How about lately?" Brass asked. "I mean, you might sit around with some of your new friends here, and swap war stories about your various professions."

Champlain waved that off. "Come off it, Jim-you, too, Gil. You both know we don't go around bragging about our failures…and CASt was my biggest."

Nodding, Brass asked, "How about Margie?"

"No. She's got a tough hide, but the rougher aspects of what I used to do…she's squeamish. And I don't remember ever getting into the case much with Sheila, either. Of course, that was a long time ago," Champlain said, brow furrowed. Then he shrugged, rather elaborately. "Guys-I'm afraid I got nothing for you. God knows I'd like to help. CASt was the big fish that got away."

"I know how you feel, Vince," Brass said. "We just had to check."

Champlain said, "Be honest with you?…If I can avoid it, I try to not even think about that goddamn case. We were so close to catching that bastard. So close. Jim, I was always pretty good at leaving the job behind, when I got home at night. But that case…those poor S. O. B.s who got humiliated and strangled…the mental pictures of those crime scenes…late at night…."

Champlain shivered.

Brass and Grissom got to their feet.

"If it is him," Brass said, "we'll get him. Don't worry about that, Vince."

"And if it's not him?"

"If it's not him, if it's some other sick bastard, we'll catch his ass, too. Either way-this killer goes down."

Champlain rose and walked them to the door. He laid a hand on Brass's shoulder. "You sure as hell aren't the young guy that filled my shoes when I left."

"Those were big shoes," Brass said. "And I don't remember ever being young."

"You will," Champlain assured him. "You will."

"Lot of miles since then," Brass said distantly. "A lot of miles and a lot of death…."

Out of nowhere, Grissom chimed in: " 'The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance.' "

Brass smirked and asked Grissom, "Who said that?"

But it was Champlain who answered: "Judge John Philpot Curran."

Grissom, impressed, bowed his head and smiled at the retired cop.

"But," Champlain said, "I kinda doubt that judge was talking about Las Vegas Homicide."

With a little shrug, Grissom said, "Well, there's always that other old saying, Vince."

"Yes?"

"If the shoe fits…"

Three

A lmost every black leather chair around the large rectangular table in the CSI conference room was filled, although the one at its head remained vacant. The X-ray box on one wall, and the whiteboard running the length of another, were not in use. Fluorescent lighting gave the assembly a deathly pallor, as they sat like relatives gathered to hear the reading of a wealthy patriarch's will, each with the expectation of not getting one red cent.

Catherine Willows, leaning back, arms folded, unobtrusively gauged the other faces around the table. To her left, Warrick Brown studied some papers, his eyes half-lidded, his face a grim mask. Across the way, Nick Stokes slouched in his seat, uncharacteristically down, staring at nothing, his mouth a tight line. Opposite Catherine, Sara Sidle fiddled with a pen, spinning it on the table in front of her, her forehead free of thought, her eyes hollow.

The crack CSI nightshift team-who prided themselves on not only their expertise and energy, but their patience-seemed beaten down by a dreary week of dead ends.

Left of Sara, Greg Sanders, their spiky-haired topnotch DNA lab tech-whose inexplicable aspirations for the lesser pay of CSI field work Grissom had been humoring of late-sat and rocked back and forth, his head bobbing to some rhythm playing in the iPod of his mind as he read a report. The energetic Greg alone seemed happy with where he was in the current investigation. Perhaps this was due to Grissom recently granting his request to leave the lab for the field, even though Greg's apprentice CSI status was not yet full-time.

Across from Greg, immediately to Catherine's right, sat Dr. Al Robbins, his metal crutch propped next to him, his eyes riveted to autopsy photos spread out on the table in front of him, like a losing hand of cards he was trying to assemble into some kind of winning order. His salt-and-pepper beard was merely flecked with pepper now, its sodium count long since out of control. The doctor's normally cheerful eyes seemed clouded as he looked from one stark picture in the pile to the next. The gravity of the situation was apparent in the coroner's rare public appearance outside of the autopsy room.

To Catherine's left, beyond Warrick, at the far end of the table, Brass stared into space, as if seeking an opinion on whether he should remain pissed off or give in to despair. He had been the last one to walk in, carrying a large cardboard box that now sat on the floor next to him.

Supervisor Gil Grissom, who had called this meeting, wasn't here yet, and his disheartened troops were getting antsy. They had been on the Marvin Sandred murder for a week and had little more to go on than the victim's name. The only thing working in their favor was the press coverage-no one in the media had thus far connected Sandred with CASt.

While Grissom had kept tabs on what each individual CSI (as well as Greg and Robbins) had been up to, this would be their first group meeting, to present, contrast, and compare what they'd all learned, and have a look at the lab results that were just coming in.

Grissom entered quickly, his demeanor just as serious as the rest but minus any overt sign of frustration. Catherine admired quite a few things about Gil, but not the least of them was the chief CSI's ability to remain objectively professional no matter how fast and hard the brown rain was coming down. Oh, there'd been exceptions; even Grissom had his weak spots-violence against children brought the human side out, in spades-but generally he maintained a high standard of scientific detachment that Catherine could esteem without really striving toward.

Catherine's process necessitated maintaining her humanity, and even subjectivity. Different strokes.

A light-blue lab coat was draped over Grissom's standard black attire; his wireframed glasses were on. Unceremoniously, he dropped a stack of folders onto the table with a dull thud. The CSI's upper lip formed a subtle sneer, which was the equivalent of anybody else tearing the room up and throwing things out windows.

Sitting up, Catherine said, "Let me guess-somebody up there hates us…." She'd gone for a lighthearted tone but fell just short.

"Nicely deduced, Catherine," Grissom said tightly.

Nick groaned. "Atwater?"

"Atwater," Grissom affirmed, the word sounding more like an epithet than the name of a human being-specifically, their boss, the sheriff. "He's starting to get calls…about CASt."

"Ah hell," Warrick said, pawing the air.

Grissom continued, "Our esteemed sheriff wanted my assurance that no one at CSI was leaking anything to the press."

Brass said, an edge in his voice, "Who is it, bugging the sheriff? Our pal Perry Bell?"

"No," Grissom said. "It's from the broadcast side-a local TV station."

Catherine considered that for a moment, then asked, "Do we trust our North Las Vegas brothers? Bill Damon and Henry Logan? You gave Logan kind of a hard time."

"I did?" He seemed genuinely not to know what Catherine was referring to.

Brass said, "I'd be more inclined to think it was one of our 'friends' from the Banner, feeding info to the TV guys-tips get traded, you know."

"Once the CASt aspect is public knowledge," Nick said to the detective, "any gentlemen's agreement you had with the Banner boys becomes moot-and they'd be free to run with it."

"If those clowns sold us out," Brass said, his voice as hard as the table his hands rested on, "they'll never get cooperation out of this department again…Gil, do you know which TV reporter?"

Grissom's shrug indicated that to him, these reporters were interchangeable, but he said, "Jill Ganine."

"Maybe we ought to go have a chat with her," Brass said.

"I have no intention of wasting my time with the media," Grissom said. "If we've been betrayed by the Banner, finding out exactly who leaked it does not put us any closer to our killer."

Brass grimaced, but said, "Right. You're right."

Grissom's eyebrows flicked up and down. "We had a week without press pressure, and that luxury helped us get a good start on this thing."

Warrick looked at Grissom like his boss was cutting out paper airplanes, but said nothing.

"Now," Grissom said, finally sitting, "we work the case and worry about the media in our spare time…and if any of you have any spare time, please let me know. So…what have we got?"

He looked around the table, but no one volunteered to get things going.

Not a good sign,Catherine thought. But she didn't feel like being the first in class to raise a hand….

Grissom turned to Greg, sitting immediately to his right; apparently the supervisor sensed the only positive attitude in the room and honed in on it. "Make me happy, Greg."

Greg said, "All the blood belongs to the victim."

Grissom looked no happier. "Anything else?"

"The semen on his back did not belong to the victim. CODIS is still working on finding a match."

While the Combined DNA Index System was growing, Catherine knew all too well that getting a hit off CODIS was far from a sure thing.

"Catherine," Grissom said, turning her way, his face passive, any tension from the sheriff and media a distant memory now, "what do we know about the victim?"

Without referring to the report before her, Catherine said, "Marvin Sandred, forty-seven, lived in Vegas a little over a year. Worked for a welding supply company where he'd been for six months."

She glanced at Brass to pick up her thread, which he did: "I talked to Sandred's boss, and half a dozen coworkers, too. Nobody had anything bad to say about him. No one had much good to say about him, either-he was still the newbie, never really integrated with his coworkers. They thought of him as kind of a sad guy, oddly distracted, like work was something he was just putting up with till he could get back to…what really interested him."

Taking over again, Catherine said, "He was originally from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Ex-wife back there. Her name's Andrea Dean, Annie for short, remarried after Marvin moved to Vegas."

Grissom winced in thought. "You found this out how?"

But it was Brass who explained: "I asked Catherine to make the call for me-I know it's not really CSI work, but I felt, woman to woman we'd get more."

Catherine picked up: "She really broke down big-time when I told her…cried so much, she asked me to call back in five minutes. I did, and she had composed herself, and answered all my questions. But she couldn't help us much, either."

"Had she kept in touch with her ex?" Grissom asked. "Ever visited him here?"

"They talked on the phone a few times. They were a childless couple, who broke up acrimoniously, over his cashing in his retirement and moving here…to be closer to his gambling habit."

Warrick said, "So that's what he was preoccupied about at work."

Both Catherine and Brass nodded.

"By the way," Brass said, "the neighborhood canvass was a bust-what few people were home didn't notice anybody strange in the area, much less actually see our killer go to the front door."

"So much for talk," Grissom said. "What about actual evidence?"

"The partial footprint is from a current Stasis M658 running shoe," Warrick said. "There weren't any of those in Sandred's closet, or anywhere on his property for that matter…and the next door neighbors don't own any either. Could belong to the killer."

"Good, Warrick," Grissom said.

Sara said, "Partial prints on the bell and front doorknob? Didn't belong to Sandred."

"Do we know whose they are?" Grissom asked.

Nick said, "I ran them through AFIS and got a goose egg."

Sara added, "I went through the Gaming Commission, the military…came up empty."

"Any trace?" Grissom asked.

"Just those black threads you found," Nick said. "Polyester."

Grissom turned to the coroner.

Dr. Robbins said, "Victim died of asphyxiation due to the ligature around his neck. Quite a bit of struggle. I'm afraid I don't have a lot more than that to offer."

"You've gone over the original CASt files?"

"Yes-this death is consistent with those."

Grissom nodded and the coroner did the same, then rose, slipped the cuff of his crutch over his arm, and headed out, but then paused at the doorway, file of photos under one arm.

"It wasn't a pleasant death," Robbins said. "It'd be nice not to have to add any more pictures to my collection."

Catherine said, "See what we can do, Doc."

Robbins nodded somberly, then exited.

"Takes one sick perp," Nick said, "to bum out a coroner."

Grissom turned to Nick. "You were working the lipstick database…"

"Yes-this one's called Bright Rose, made by Ile De France. Similar to, but not the same as, the Limerick Rose that was CASt's preference years ago."

Catherine said, "Limerick Rose was also an Ile De France."

Nick found a meager grin. "Ask an expert…. Problem with the Bright Rose is, it's sold everywhere, from the cosmetics counter at a Fashion Mall department store to Walgreens. We'd have about as much chance as tracking a bottle of soda."

"The rope?" Warrick said. "Same deal-sold in every hardware store. But I did get epidermal cells off both sides and both ends of the rope."

"I'm still testing them," Greg said. "Trying to figure out which are the vic's, which the killer's. Where the rope was around the vic's neck, that was easy-but the rest of the rope, well, key is trying to find where the vic fought against it, and where the killer might have been pulling it. Then we can determine whose cells are whose."

Grissom's head tilted to one side. "Matter of time?"

"Matter of time-not much of that, really."

"All right, Greg. Keep me in the loop."

"In this case," Greg said, "you might not want to be in a loop."

Grissom said, "I'll do the gallows humor, Greg-and I'm not in the mood."

The lab tech lifted his eyebrows and set them down and looked anywhere but at Grissom.

"Come to think of it, Greg," Grissom said with a ghastly smile, "don't you have work to do?"

"Yes. Yes I do." Greg rose, his smile one of the most strained in the history of man. "Work. To do. 'Bye. Everybody…."

And Greg took his files and went.

So much for the only upbeat attitude at the table.

Travelling from face to face of his CSI team, Grissom said, "All right-here's what we're going to do."

Brass said, "You're going to tell me what to do, Gil?"

Grissom said, "Yes."

Brass thought about that; then said, "Okay."

"You want to talk to that reporter, Jim, be my guest. But first, sit down with Catherine and Nick."

Brass gave Grissom a tentative nod.

Grissom said, "Cath, I want you and Nick to go through the old case file, all five kills, all the old suspects, find out everything you can, cross-reference and collate and stay alert. Sit down with Jim. Find out where our suspects are…here in town, moved away, in the ground, but find their whereabouts. And keeping in mind what the files have told you, develop theories about whether any of them might be back in business with an adjusted M.O."

"Theories?" Catherine said, wondering if she'd heard him right.

"That's right. Not wild guesses."

"Glad to."

"Warrick, Sara, and I will continue to work the evidence from the Sandred house and see if we can turn something we've missed. Call it the first of the theories if you want. But I'm on record: This guy is just getting started."

Not a wild hunch, Catherine knew, as they all recognized the mark of a serial killer when they saw it, and there could be no question: This creep was just amping up.

"And another troubling aspect," Grissom said. "If, as with our would-be Jack the Ripper a while back, we have a copycat who's following the pattern of an original, then we might have a finite number of victims…five in this case…after which our homicidal performance artist stops, and fades into the night."

"Like the original Ripper," Nick said.

"Hell," Warrick said, "like the original CASt!"

Grissom, Warrick, and Sara surrendered the conference room to Brass, Nick, and Catherine, who huddled around one end while Brass pulled the large cardboard box closer to him, to lift items out.

Businesslike, nearly robotic, Brass withdrew the first file. "First vic was November 1994. Guy's name was Todd Henry. He lived in an apartment downtown. No family, no friends. He'd been dead better part of a week before we got the call."

"Who found him?" Nick asked.

"Smell got so bad one of the neighbors called in a public-nuisance complaint, and we went in. Guy was on the living-room floor, rope still around his neck."

Catherine asked, "Was the full M.O. established from the start? Lipstick, semen, noose?"

"Yeah," Brass said. "This perp had either been setting this up, planning it out, for a long time, fantasizing maybe…or he'd been doing it somewhere else. However you look at it, when the killings started in Vegas, the M.O. was full blown and never deviated."

Nick said, "Obviously you and Vince checked other jurisdictions."

"Nationwide, but nobody ever matched up. We checked out Canada, too, and finally Europe. Anyway, after Todd Henry, John Jarvis showed up dead a month later. Everything was exactly the same as the previous case."

Catherine asked, "Jarvis have any connection to Henry?"

"Other than a basic physical similarity? No." Brass tapped a forefinger in a palm. "Henry was a transplant, Jarvis a lifelong Vegas resident. Henry did odd jobs, Jarvis was an accountant. Henry lived alone, Jarvis had a family, wife and a son. Lived in a nice house in Boulder City, while Henry hung out in that downtown rathole. The only thing they had in common was appearance. Fiftyish white males, overweight."

"What about the others?"

"George Kim, the third vic, was half-Asian-other than that all five…Henry, Jarvis, Kim, Clyde Gibson and Vincent Drake…were overweight white men around forty-five, fifty. Although each had some things in common with one or two of the others, nothing other than physical appearance could be seen as a common denominator."

"Nothing?" Nick asked, hardly believing it.

Brass shrugged elaborately. "Kim worked at the Lucky Seven, Drake worked as a supervisor at the city garage and Gibson was a self-employed furniture maker. Some had kids, some didn't. Some were married, some weren't. The only other thing that changed was CASt's frequency-month between the first two, barely a week between the last two. The guy was definitely picking up speed-really getting into it. Then…he stopped cold."

"Okay," Catherine said, trying to regroup mentally. "What about the suspects?"

Brass blew out air. "There were hundreds at the beginning. Serial confessors, heavyset men calling in saying their neighbors were acting suspiciously, all kinds of dipsticks. When we got through weeding 'em out, we were down to three-loser named Dallas Hanson, scumbag named Phillip Carlson, and this complete psychopath, Jerome Dayton."

Catherine said, "Fill us in."

"When I say Dayton was a psychopath, I don't mean 'eccentric,' I mean clinical. His dad, Thomas Dayton, was a big-time contractor who built a lot of the county buildings and several casinos that went up in the late eighties and early nineties-remember that guy?"

"Oh yes," Catherine said.

Nick was nodding in recognition, too.

Brass continued: "And Jerome was my personal favorite candidate for the killings, only he ended up in a private hospital where he's been since late 1995. I woulda bet a year's pay he was the killer, but Drake died after Dayton went into the hospital."

Nodding thoughtfully, Catherine asked, "What about the others?"

"Vince liked this loser Dallas Hanson. He was a cowboy from Oklahoma. He and his quote-unquote old lady bought a used-but-abused mobile home on the far northwest side. When she thought Dallas was screwing around on her, she threw his ass out. He ended up taking an apartment in the same building downtown where Todd Henry lived. Then he showed up on a security tape from the Lucky Seven where George Kim worked."

"Promising," Nick said.

Catherine asked, "What physical evidence did you have against Hanson?"

Shaking his head, the detective said, "The only thing was a fingerprint of his that turned up on a cup in Henry's apartment. Hanson claimed that he'd had a neighborly drink with the soon-to-be-dead man on the day Henry disappeared, but that was it."

Nick asked, "No alibi?"

"He claimed he'd been passed out drunk in his room after his drink with Henry. No witnesses, of course."

"He have a record?" Catherine asked.

"Minor," Brass said. "Got caught up in a couple of barroom dustups back in Oklahoma and had done some county time here for a misdemeanor assault…but nothing to show CASt-like leanings."

"How about DNA evidence?" Nick asked. "You had that semen at the scene…."

Brass shook his head. "We didn't get a match, but our methodology in those days wasn't where we are now."

Catherine pressed: "What about Phillip Carlson?"

"That guy was a stone freak, a gay basher. He'd pose as a hooker, then when he got his john alone, he'd beat the hell out of him and rob the guy."

"Charming," Nick said.

"Oh how we wanted it to be that asshole…. Hell, he even confessed. But then it turned out he was a chronic confessor, at least when it came to any murder that had any gay overtones. Shrink said Carlson was gay or bi himself, trying to repress those tendencies, and the only thing he hated more than the average homosexual he victimized was himself."

"Sounds like a strong candidate," Catherine said.

"Sure," Brass said. "Only he just wasn't in the right places at the right times…or I should say wrong places. He was at the Lucky Seven, too, caught him on video. Problem was-we had him on camera within an hour of the time George Kim was murdered. That made the schedule awfully tight for Carlson, Kim living way the hell and gone across the city from the Lucky Seven. It wasn't impossible Carlson could've made the trip, but highly unlikely."

Nick asked, "Was Carlson clear on any of the others?"

"Same kind of deal with the Henry murder," Brass said, exasperation and resignation melding in his tone. "He'd been seen downtown that day, but nowhere near the time of Henry's death…and when Henry was getting the life choked out of him, Carlson was at Lake Mead with witnesses."

"Good witnesses?" Catherine asked.

Brass grunted a bitter chuckle. "Would you believe, biker gang?"

Nick smirked humorlessly and said, "Not ideal witnesses, but harder than hell to break down their stories, I bet."

"You bet right, Nick-none of 'em budged. 'Our code is our word!' "

"Oh-kay," Catherine said, and slapped her thighs. "We'll start working it again."

Brass seemed damn near on the edge of tears. "We worked that case hard, Vince and me-can't believe we missed anything…"

"I'm sure you guys did your best," she said. "But times, and technology, have changed…. Did you guys happen to keep any of the semen?"

Brass brightened. "Hell! I forgot all about that. I mean, it has been a long time…"

"Spill," Nick said.

Brass, reenergized, said, "Vince, thinkin' ahead, had it frozen, just in case. We were in early days with DNA, and we hoped the science would improve. Vince thought it would be best to be prepared, though-every unsolved murder case is an open file."

"Good," Catherine said. "Very good."

Suddenly Brass was smiling. "You know, I hadn't thought about that in…I dunno, ten years, maybe. Yeah, check the evidence freezer! Should be there somewhere."

They were just about to break up the confab on this high note when North Las Vegas detective Bill Damon came scowling into the conference room.

"What the hell?" he asked, the vague question directed at Brass.

"What the hell what, Bill?"

Damon came over to loom over the seated detective, then got right in the smaller man's face, saying, "Atwater thinks me and my guys are leaking information to the media!"

Brass kept his calm, rising. "No, Bill-from what I understand, our sheriff doesn't know where the leak is coming from. Just that there is one."

Sneering, Damon gestured to Nick and Catherine. "Well, I say it came from here-right here!"

Nick, teeth showing but not really smiling, said, "Well, it didn't, Bill-maybe the sheriff has it right."

Brass gave the CSI a hard firm look that said the detective would handle this.

"Now look, Bill," Brass said, his voice quiet, easy-going, "the sheriff's not accusing you, or anyone else in your department-or ours-of being the leak. He just wants to know who the leak is, at this point. Can you blame him? And, personally-I don't think it's you."

Damon's body language shifted slightly, the detective somewhat appeased.

Catherine knew better than to mention that she had been the one to suspect Damon and Logan this morning, wondering herself if it wasn't one or both of them. The two NLVPD cops had seemed vaguely resentful of Brass absconding with their investigation.

Having gone to all of the trouble of working himself into a lather, Damon stayed angry enough to say, "And what about sharing information? I haven't heard anything from you people for, what? Three days?"

Brass held up a gentle palm. "I was just going to call you. The lab results have started coming back today, and we've got some info, finally."

Nodding a little, finally satisfied (at least slightly), Damon said, "Good. Well, good…. So, so tell me."

"I will," Brass said, "in the car."

Surprised, the younger detective parroted, "In the car?"

"Yeah-we're going to go talk to the TV reporter who called Sheriff Atwater, asking about CASt."

Catherine could see the young cop was feeling better about where this was going.

"Which reporter?" Damon asked.

"Jill Ganine," Brass said. "Over at KLAS?"

Everything seemed to have calmed down. Damon and Nick exchanged embarrassed smiles and sorrys, and Brass and the NLVPD detective had each taken a step toward the door when Grissom came back in, Greg Sanders trailing behind in that bright-eyed way of his.

The CSI supervisor, however, did not appear bright-eyed: His expression was grave, even troubled, as he looked down at a sheet of paper in his hand.

"Who died?" Catherine asked.

Grissom's voice was flat: "CODIS matched the semen from Marvin Sandred's back."

Catherine shrugged a little. "And that's good news, right?"

"Normally I would say, yes. But CODIS says the DNA belongs to a guy named Rudy Orloff."

Brass looked at Damon. "I know that name from somewhere-do you?"

Damon shook his head.

"I know that name," Brass repeated.

Grissom said, "Says here Orloff's got a history of male prostitution."

"Ooooh yeah," Brass said. "I remember him. We pulled him in for questioning on the Pierce case, remember, Gil? That skinny little scumbag doesn't have the stomach to kill anybody, let alone-"

"Evidently," Grissom said, "he developed the requisite stomach a year ago in Reno. He stabbed a john, nearly a fatal wound. Since then, he's been in Ely, doing life with the chance for parole for attempted murder."

Catherine felt something like a stomach punch. "Our best suspect has been in a maximum-security prison? For the last year?"

Grissom waved the paper. "Actually, just for about the last two months-the Reno cops didn't catch him right away; then there was the trial, a quick appeal, and finally, he was taken to Ely. Where, presumably, he still was when Marvin Sandred was slain."

They all looked at each other for a long, stunned second. If their best suspect was in prison, how had his semen ended up on the back of a murdered man in North Las Vegas?

Probably not great trajectory,Catherine thought wryly.

"What next?" Brass said, his voice filled with exhaustion and exasperation. "What the hell next?"

Greg stepped forward with a weakly hopeful expression. "Maybe the epidermal cells will help us. Why don't I get back to work on them?"

"Why don't you, Greg?" Grissom said, without looking.

And Greg did.

Brass was shaking his head now, a vein throbbing in his forehead. Catherine was afraid he might stroke out right in front of them.

"It's hard to have the worst luck in Vegas," the detective said, "but we're special-we did it. The semen at the scene comes from a guy in prison, the skin cells on the rope will probably end up belonging to Bugsy Siegel."

Catherine was about to offer her own cynical comment, when her cell phone had the good sense to ring. As she withdrew it from her pocket, Nick's, Grissom's, Brass's, and Damon's cell phones all started chirping as well, a tiny technological chorale.

Suddenly thrust into the middle of six unsolved murders, over the course of a decade, Catherine Willows had only one thought as she punched the button on her phone, and it was even not her own voice, but that of Jim Brass, saying…

…What the hell next?

Four

T he second murder did not require the full team's attention.

Catherine and Nick remained behind at CSI HQ, to get digging into the old cases. Grissom, Sara, and Warrick took the ride out to the suburb of Coronado Ranch.

Unlike the crime scene at the Sandred house, where he'd worked the front yard, Warrick Brown spent his time indoors. The house on Buried Treasure Court belonged to Enrique Diaz-the recently deceased Enrique Diaz, that is-a successful TV producer for the Tourist Channel, a cable television network dedicated to travel, with a particular bent toward its home base of Las Vegas, which lent itself to local production.

The house was well-to-do but not ostentatious, revealing success without rubbing your nose in it. Stucco with a tile roof (like every other house in the neighborhood), the Diaz home was a long, lean two-story with an immaculate lawn despite the water shortage.

While Brass and Damon went off to canvass the neighbors, Grissom, Sara, and Warrick worked the scene. Sara took the outside, Grissom the inside but for the living room, which Warrick concentrated upon-where the murder had gone down.

Warrick had seen the Sandred crime scene firsthand, despite working the lawn, and also knew intimately the photos from the first victim's house; so he saw at once that this crime looked strikingly similar-difference being the surroundings were decidedly more upscale than Sandred's seedy bungalow.

Twice the size of Sandred's front room, this one gave off a strong Mexican vibe-serapes of red, green, and yellow stripes tossed on the furniture, carefully casual; a potted cactus in a sunny corner looking healthy; family photos in funky rough-wood frames dotting the walls and end tables. A matching rough-wood crucifix above the front door seemed more decorative than religious, and the floor consisted of inlaid Mexican tile, a far cry from the cheap carpeting on which the previous victim had earned numerous rug burns during the course of dying. The south wall was mostly windows and-dark as the crime might be that the CSIs were investigating-the death site itself seemed to swim in sunlight. A plasma television hung on one wall while a huge sofa, twin recliners, and a wing chair, all covered in the same beige leather, stood mute sentry over the corpse.

Centerstage, heavy-set Diaz-his dark curly hair held in place by wet-look hair product-lay nude, stomach-down, right hand outstretched, the index finger severed, the other hand tucked under his body. The murder weapon-a length of rope that Warrick estimated would measure a foot and a half or so-remained wound around the victim's neck, the reverse-eight noose pulled tight.

Again the killer had left a pool of semen on the victim's back above the buttocks. The producer's eyes bulged, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as if mocking Warrick, an effect grotesquely heightened by the sloppily applied garish red lipstick.

And again, the lack of blood spatter made Warrick believe the vic's finger had been separated only after the heart had stopped beating.

The cooly objective Warrick allowed himself a moment of subjectivity, by way of a disgusted half-smirk. He'd worked a lot of murder scenes, but the various and sometimes bizarre ways people got themselves killed was not nearly as surprising as the way their killers chose to live….

While Diaz was Hispanic, he was extremely light-skinned and could easily have passed for Caucasian, though these surroundings indicated pride in heritage. White victims had been the original CASt's preference, and Sandred had fit that bill as well; whether Diaz had been mistaken for Caucasian, or had simply been "close enough" for the killer, remained to be seen.

Maybe this was a copycat who hadn't picked up on that aspect of the original crimes, and who wasn't aware that most serial killers stayed with one ethnic group, usually their own….

Of course, that wasn't a hard and fast rule; homicidal maniacs had a way of making their own rules, and rewriting them as they went, on murderous whim. Still, anything as structured as the CASt murders, which seemed to follow some sick ritual within the perpetrator's psychology, indicated a deadly attention to detail that should prove helpful to crime scene analysis.

Certainly the similarities between this and the Sandred murder were striking, and Warrick had little doubt they were dealing with the same killer-either new or old CASt.

And, anyway, despite Grissom's surprising announcement of his own hunch that the killer was just getting started-which had already been born out by the body in this room-Warrick knew his supervisor would not tolerate assumptions, even in a situation like this. Warrick would follow the evidence to see where it led. Period.

Getting out his camera, Warrick started snapping pictures. He wasn't even through the first roll of film when Grissom seemed to materialize at his side.

"First pass," the CSI supervisor said, "rest of the house looks clean."

"Nothing jumped out?"

"Nothing except how undisturbed the place is-and how much like the Sandred scene it is, in that respect."

"Ah."

"I'll go over it more closely, but my guess is the murderer never went into any of the other rooms."

"A guess, Gris? What next? A vision?"

"A third corpse, if we don't do our jobs better than we have so far."

"I hear that." Warrick clicked another photo, then shook his head. "This guy is definitely out there. You realize the kinda gear he left behind? Televison alone is worth a couple G's."

"Sometimes a killer's pathology won't allow him to steal, even though he's committed murder. It would somehow desecrate the sacredness of the act."

"Yeah, yeah I know," Warrick said, "but the guy has to be really nuts to leave a nice TV like that behind."

They exchanged small, wry smiles, and went to work their separate ways.

After finishing the photos, Warrick took a sample of the semen. Then he carefully removed the rope, and turned the body over.

That was when Warrick saw something clutched in the fingers of the stiffening hand-something that had been out of sight beneath the body.

"Hey, Gris!…You better come get a load of this."

Moments later, at Warrick's side, Grissom was looking down at the hand. "You get a picture?"

The body was getting heavy, but Warrick made no complaint as he held it up. "Not yet."

Grissom picked up Warrick's camera and snapped off three quick photos.

"Go ahead and roll him all the way over," the supervisor said.

Warrick eased the body to the floor, pulled a forceps out of his crime-scene kit and knelt next to the victim. As he moved closer and studied the card, Warrick could see that the object was a magnetic key of the type used by virtually every hotel in town and many businesses. Typically, this one had a magnetic strip down one end, with standard directions.

Using his forceps carefully, Warrick got the card by its edge, doing his best not to disturb any fingerprints. After he eased it from the dead man's fingers, Warrick turned the card over: Five words were printed in blue letters on the white plastic…

…Property of Las Vegas Banner.

"Well, that's not good," Warrick said.

Holding the card up, Warrick remarked, "Usually I like finding clues, don't you?"

Grissom's eyes were tight.

Warrick expected a typically dry comment from his chief, but all he got was: "We better get Brass back over here-right away."

* * *

Nick Stokes searched the aquamarine halls of CSI for Catherine. The low-key lighting sometimes worked against the nightshift, encouraging sleepiness; but considering the harshness of what they were frequently up against, Nick didn't mind the soothing atmosphere.

When they had started looking into the old CASt cases, the first problem to crop up had been that they couldn't find addresses on two suspects (the ones not exiled to a mental hospital). Now, after hours of digging, he had an address for one, but right now it looked like Nick might be filling out a missing persons report on his coworker.

He had just pulled his cell phone off his belt when Catherine stepped out of a restroom, a heavy folder under one arm.

She saw him coming and gave him a chagrined grin and a chuckle. "Quietest place to read in the whole building."

Thinking about the men's room across the hall, Nick shook his head. With the heavy men-to-women ratio in the LVPD, he couldn't say the same.

"Find anything?" she asked.

Nick said, "How about an address for Phillip Carlson?"

"Our gay basher…where?"

"On Baltimore, near the Sphere."

"What are we waiting for?"

"Brass and Damon to get back, maybe? You know, the detectives aren't crazy about having CSIs outside of the lab, running loose…."

Catherine considered that, then shook her head. "Grissom put us on the old cases, and we'll look into the old cases. Anyway, Brass isn't a stickler on that policy. With the workload like it is, can you see hauling a detective off a current case while we run out the ground balls on the old ones?"

"Wow," Nick said. "You trying to convince me, or yourself?"

She smiled and shrugged. "I dunno-but I'm convinced."

"Me too," Nick grinned. "But let's call for a black-and-white to meet us there anyway."

Carlson's apartment was in a building that looked like a two-story stucco motel from the fifties that had gone to pot decades ago without anybody doing anything about it in the intervening years.

Nick, behind the wheel, said, "Nice digs our boy has for himself."

Nick parked the Tahoe on the street, hoping it would still be there when they got back; then the two CSIs made their way up the outside stairs and across the concrete walkway of the second floor.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, somebody had the bass on their car stereo turned up way too loud, and although Nick knew most of the new music on the street-prided himself on that-the distortion made it impossible for him to identify the rapper in question.

Catherine knocked on the door of apartment 2E and they waited for an answer that did not come.

Nick put his ear to the orange-paint-peeling door, but heard nothing. He stood back, shrugged at Cath, then knocked, louder this time.

And again, they waited.

Nick had just pounded on it the third time when the next door over swung open and a figure leaned out.

"What the hell do you want?" called a rail-thin white dude, a sixties flashback in a white tank-style undershirt and jeans that had faded not by fashion statement, threatening to slide down his narrow skeleton at any moment.

He was an eternal "kid" of maybe fifty, with graying, unkempt hippie-ish hair and green eyes so cloudy, it might have been raining inside his skull. He'd shaved sometime this month but not this week.

As they moved closer to apartment 2D, the aroma of marijuana wafted their way.

Gone to pot is right,Nick thought.

Nick displayed his credentials and a polite smile and said, "Stokes, Willows. We're from the Crime Lab."

The cloudy eyes widened. "Something bad go down around this place? I didn't hear about it!"

Catherine had a polite smile going, too. "Could you step out here, please?"

The skinny dude stepped out onto the walkway and Nick maneuvered himself so he was between the guy and Catherine.

The dude slowly pulled the door to 2D closed, probably hoping he could do so without them noticing.

"We're looking for Phillip Carlson," Catherine said over Nick's shoulder.

The guy reared back a little. "You found him. How can I help Vegas Five-oh? You protect, I serve."

"By answering a few questions," Catherine said.

Carlson turned his attention to her, appraising her with a kind of amused confusion, as if he couldn't make out why a good-looking woman like this would be a cop. "I got nothin' to hide, Sweetcheeks. Ask away."

"It's Willows. Could we talk somewhere more private?"

Eyes flicking uncomfortably toward his closed apartment door, he said, "We could do that."

When Carlson took no further action, Nick nodded toward 2D and said, "Private, as in there?"

Carlson shook his head so rapidly he might have been trying to clear the cobwebs. "That's not my place, man."

Nick gave him the friendly smile that wasn't really friendly. "Whose is it?"

"My lady friend. She's, uh…not decent."

That Nick could believe.

Carlson pointed a knobby finger. "You were at the right door, before. Let's go down to my crib."

They slid nearer the rusty metal rail, to allow Carlson room to edge by and lead the way, as an amused Nick raised an eyebrow at Catherine, whose eyes were large with skepticism.

"Sorry," Carlson said, as he unlocked the door and swung it open. "Maid's day off."

He entered the dark apartment, followed by Catherine and Nick.

The curtains were pulled tight and very little light seeped in other than through the open door. Carlson flipped a wall switch, and a two-bulb overhead fixture that apparently housed Carlson's dead-bug collection bathed the minuscule living room in odd gray-tinged illumination.

Looking around at this world-class mess, Nick figured the "crib" hadn't been cleaned since the Rat Pack had ruled the Strip. The CSI had entered the dwellings of obsessive-compulsives before, but taking in this prime example of the form, he fought the urge to pull on his latex gloves.

The only furnishings were a ratty sofa, two TV trays, and a twenty-five-inch television. The walls were bare, but everything else looked like the aftermath of an explosion at a landfill. Fast-food bags and cups littered the TV trays, the top of the television, and most of the pathways through the apartment. Beyond the living room, Nick could see a small dining table with a mountain of fast-food detritus and two chairs inside a tiny alcove that had once served as a dining room.

To Nick's left ran a short hallway that led to one or two bedrooms. The most striking feature of the dump, however, was the thigh-high piles of newspapers that lined the walls and took up much of the floor space.

Please God,Nick thought, don't let this ever be a crime scene….

"Sit anywhere" Carlson said, plopping onto the sofa on top of various fast-food sacks.

Nick and Catherine chose to stand-not as if there really were any seating options….

The apartment smelled of urine, dope, and puke. Nick had had less trouble keeping his eyes from watering at dead-body decomposition sites.

Forcing himself to focus, he asked, "Mr. Carlson, do you know a man named Marvin Sandred?"

Carlson's eyes narrowed as he riffled through the Rolodex of his alleged mind, his face otherwise as blank as the walls of his apartment. "Nope. Don't think so. That all? That was easy!"

"How about Enrique Diaz?" Catherine asked.

Something that might have been thought glimmered in Carlson's eyes. "Listen, uh…cooperating with the Five-oh, that was my New Year's resolution back in '99. So I'm trying to be…helpful."

Nick said, "We appreciate that."

"But before I say anything else, I thought it's, you know, fair for me to ask you what this is all about, anyway…."

"It's part of an ongoing investigation," Nick said meaninglessly. "It's not a trick question, Mr. Carlson-do you or don't you know someone named Enrique Diaz?"

"Greek to me-even if it is Spanish." Carlson smiled to himself, savoring his wit probably in much the way he had savored the former contents of the scattered fast-food bags. "Hey-what kind of investigation?"

Catherine said, "Murder."

"Whoa!" Holding up his hands, Carlson shook his head. "I didn't kill nobody."

"That's not what you've told the police over the years," Nick said. "You've confessed to what, twenty-one murders?"

"Hey, I was messed up when I was a kid, but I got help. I got medication."

Catherine's smile seemed cheerful. "Like the 'medication' we smelled next door?"

Carlson's hands went to his eyes, covering them, then slid slowly down his face, pulling the flesh in a melting effect; it did not go well with what he said: "I'm straight, I tell you. That was incense, not weed."

One look at the man's dilated pupils told Nick another story.

Nick said, "My guess is the last time you were straight, the Beatles were still together."

Carlson came up off the couch, his hands reaching up like claws, his eyes wide and wild.

Nick and Catherine both drew back in surprise at the sudden outburst. But only for a second-Nick gave Carlson a not-so-gentle push.

"Sit back down, Charlie Manson," Nick said, "and chill out."

The hands lowered, the shoulders slumped, the eyelids slipped to half-mast; he looked like a puppet hanging by a string or two. "You just…you got to me, man…. Hurts my feelings."

Nick said, "You have my sincerest apologies. Now, sit…back…down."

Carlson swallowed and nodded and did as Nick said. Slumping, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, their host said, "I…was…was just trying to tell you, I'm not that guy anymore. It…bums me out when people, you know…think that. I worked hard to straighten my ass out!"

Catherine said, "Well, since you're not 'that guy' anymore, you won't mind if we have a look around."

Shooting a quick look to the hallway, Carlson said, "Uh…I still got some rights, don't I? Or is this more of that Patriot Act b.s.?"

"I'll stay with him, Cath," Nick said. "You call for the search warrant."

Carlson looked stricken; he raised his hands. "You guys…come on…it's not what it looks like."

Catherine frowned. "What's not what it looks like?"

"Nothing…" Again, Carlson glanced toward the corridor, then grinned up at the CSIs, nervously. "I just got diarrhea of the mouth, is all…. There's no cure for that."

Nick gave Catherine a look and she nodded.

While Catherine stayed in the living room with Carlson, Nick-gun drawn in his right hand, Mini Maglite in his left-moved down the dark hallway, sweeping the flash back and forth.

Three doors.

Open ones on the left and right, and one closed one on the left side at the end.

Nick quickly checked the two open ones-bathroom on the left, a bedroom on the right, both filthy, both empty, of people anyway; Nick had a hunch Grissom could find plenty of bugs in both to make friends with. The last door, however, was locked.

"You got a key you want to give us, Mr. Carlson?" Nick called. "Hate to have to kick this in."

Seconds later, Catherine's voice pinged off the plaster walls: "He's got the key. And he's sharing it!"

Nick went back for the thing and glared at Carlson. "Why didn't you just give it to me? You don't get points for making this harder."

Staring at the floor, mouth hanging open, Carlson said nothing.

At the bedroom door, unsure what awaited behind it, Nick palmed his flashlight, the light extending between his index and middle fingers as he used his thumb and index finger to hold the key in his left hand and unlock the door. In his right hand, the gun came up as he swung the door in and stepped into the darkened bedroom.

Heavy drapes covered a window on the left wall, shadows dancing as Nick's Mini Mag swept over the room.

But for the beam of light, nothing moved.

He flipped the switch on the wall and another overhead dead-bug repository/light came on. The pistol slipped to his side and dangled there as Nick's amazed gaze arced around the room.

Newspaper articles, magazine articles, photos, and drawings covered the walls and even the ceiling, all sharing a common theme, in the way a teenage girl might devote her entire bedroom to some pop star. Only there was no bed, and this wasn't a shrine to a singing star or film actor…

…this was the Church of CASt.

A small dark wood table in the center served as an altar for the holy book-CASt Fear, the Perry Bell and David Paquette paperback about CASt; several scrapbooks were stacked on the table, as well. Ropes tied into reverse-eight nooses hung from the ceiling in varying heights.

When Nick came back into the living room, Catherine was standing near the hallway, eager for a report. Nick's wide eyes spoke volumes.

Carlson sat on the sofa, with the dejected expression of a thirteen-year-old whose parents had just found his porn stash.

"So, Mr. Carlson," Nick said cheerfully. "This effort you made to straighten yourself out-was that before or after you opened up the serial killer museum?"

Carlson sprang up, bolted toward the door.

Catherine whirled and Nick reacted right away, but still it was too late: Carlson had made it outside.

Nick took the lead, Catherine right behind him, as they chased the shirtless eternal hippie along the concrete walkway. The skinny figure took the stairs two at a time but by the time he made ground level, Nick was closing the distance. Carlson perhaps took speed, but he didn't have it: What the suspect had was the wind of an inveterate dope smoker, and with each step, Nick drew nearer.

Carlson had just made it across the parking lot when Nick hit him with a solid tackle.

Nick pulled down his prey, the two of them rolling across the sidewalk and into Baltimore Avenue, the pavement biting into the flesh of Nick's hands and elbows, but he hung on.

Catherine was right there, ready to deal with traffic, but the pair had wound up, fittingly enough for the suspect, in the gutter.

"Aw, maaan," Carlson moaned, under Nick, the suspect's stubbly face dripping blood where it had connected with the concrete. "Not cool! Not cool!"

"Resisting arrest," Nick said, "is not so hot, either, dude."

"I'm not under arrest! Am I…?"

"Oh yeah."

Nick heard a siren wail and he realized his partner had a cell phone in hand; she'd already called in backup, and a patrol car, luckily, had been nearby. The officers showed up moments later and loaded a hang-dog Carlson into the back.

"That's what I get for praying," Nick said gloomily.

Catherine frowned in amusement. "How so?"

"I asked the Supreme Being to spare us from that apartment turning out to be a crime scene. Now, while Carlson spends the afternoon cooling his jets in an air-conditioned cell, we'll be combing every square inch of his hellhole apartment."

"Maybe God has a sense of humor," Catherine said, laughing a little.

They were walking back toward the building.

"Oh God has a sense of humor, all right," Nick said. "Trouble is, seems about the same as Grissom's…."

And they returned to the apartment, to photograph, process, and dismantle the shrine to CASt; as they did so, they would try to figure out if Carlson had actually constructed a temple to himself….

Sara Sidle knocked on the frame of Gil Grissom's open office door.

The CSI supervisor sat behind his desk, glasses perched on his nose as he slowly scanned a page in a file. He looked up and said, "Hey."

"Hey," she said.

She strolled in, dropped an evidence bag containing the Las Vegas Banner magnetic key onto his desk and flopped into the chair across from him.

"Prints?" he asked.

"Couple of partials, but nothing that pops up on AFIS."

The Automated Fingerprint Identification System had been helpful to them on numerous cases, but the system contained only prints of bad guys that had been caught.

"So it's not easy," he said. "Are we surprised?"

She shook her head. "What's next?"

"I'll call Brass. Maybe we can identify the key through the newspaper."

"Really think the Banner big boys will make every employee who has one show it to us?"

Grissom considered that for a moment. "If it wasn't the Banner or some other media outlet, maybe. My guess is they won't do anything until they talk to their lawyers."

"And the lawyers will say?"

"That it's a Fourth Amendment issue," Grissom answered, "even though it really isn't."

"Kill all the lawyers."

Grissom said, "Actually, that quote's always taken out of context. In Henry VI, Shakespeare was in reality implying that lawyers are valuable to-"

"Fine, right. But the Banner's lawyers won't cooperate."

"No."

"And we'll try anyway."

"Yes."

An hour later, sitting in the office of Banner publisher James Holowell, with Grissom and Brass, Sara heard Holowell make the same argument, minus the typically Grissom-esque interpretation of the Bard of Avon.

A big window in the publisher's office overlooked a bustling warren of reporters' desks. Holowell's office was leanly furnished, a large mahogany desk taking up more than its fair share of space, the top neat but not bare, a computer monitor sitting at an angle on one corner. The evidence bag containing the magnetic key sat in the middle of the blotter like a three-dimensional ink stain.

Grissom, Brass, and Sara sat in three chairs fanned around the desk, opposite Holowell, a barrel-chested African-American with a bald (or possibly shaved) head and tortoise-shell glasses. He wore a gray dress shirt, the cuffs rolled up one turn and a blue-and-silver Frank Lloyd Wright-patterned tie.

Thus far he had been pleasant, professional, and not very helpful.

"How many employees have these?" Brass asked, pointing to the bagged key on the publisher's desk.

Holowell shrugged. "I wouldn't really know."

"Who would?" Grissom asked.

"I don't really know that, either."

"Could you find out?"

"I suppose I could."

Brass asked, "Will you?"

"Not this second, but of course I'll look into it. I have every intention of helping you, within the parameters of my responsibility to this paper."

In other words,Sara thought, no.

Grissom, who'd been studying the publisher, asked, "Approximately how many magnetic Banner keys are out there?"

"Maybe twenty," Holowell said. "Perhaps thirty."

That sounded low to Sara. Even at that, the Banner-the city's third largest daily paper-had a couple hundred employees, and now at least ten percent of them were possible suspects.

"Only twenty to thirty?" Brass asked. "Best guesstimate, who would they likely be dispersed to?"

"Myself, of course, all the editors and reporters," Holowell said with a shrug. "And a couple of supervisors in the press room."

They thanked Holowell for his time and rose; handshakes had already been passed around on entry, and no one bothered to repeat the ritual.

Grissom picked up and pocketed the evidence bag off the publisher's desk, then the two CSIs and the detective stepped out into the reporters' bullpen. The bustle and mild roar of the newsroom gave them a peculiar privacy.

Sara turned to Grissom and Brass. "How about, 'Kill all the reporters?"'

"Shakespeare was silent on that subject," Grissom said.

Sara said to the detective, "Are we in a better place than we were before that interview?"

Brass said, "Hell, I don't know."

"Of course we are," Grissom said. "Two steps forward, one step back, is still one step forward. When we arrived we had a pool of two hundred suspects who might have a card. Now, if the publisher can be taken at his word, we're down to thirty or less. And we may be able to get a list of names."

Sara made a face. "But the card could have been stolen.…"

Grissom nodded. "If in that case we can determine from whom it was stolen, we're at an advantage-we have a starting point."

"Okay," Sara said, seeing it.

"What we do know," Brass said, getting on board, "is…again, taking Holowell at his word…that about eighty-five to ninety percent of the employees don't have keys."

Grissom smiled. "Exactly, Jim…Sara, information is our currency, you know that. The account grows little by little, one tiny piece at a time. But it grows."

With a sucking-lemon expression, Brass said, "Sounds like my savings account."

The trio had moved only a short distance when David Paquette popped out of a side office that bordered the bullpen. He wore a blue shirt and blue-and-gold striped tie, sleeves rolled more than once; he seemed both more harried and less pristine than his publisher, the fluorescent lighting bouncing off his own balding pate.

"What brings the LVPD to the enemy camp?" he asked, kidding on the square.

"Appointment with Mr. Holowell," Grissom said.

Paquette waved for them to follow him back into his office, a third the size of Holowell's, barely bigger than a cubicle, his desk was a boxy metal job with a much smaller monitor and piles of papers.

After shutting the door, their host did not get behind the desk, nor did he invite his guests to sit down; they stood in a loose huddle.

"What did you see James about?" Paquette asked. His tone had a sense of betrayal in it.

"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

S ome 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 speeddial 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 Journal-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?

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?"

Grissom, filing away the conversation as the sociological oddity it was, thanked the roommate.

He didn't really get anywhere until contacting Sergeant O'Riley's old LA buddy Tavo Alvarez, who called back in half an hour with what he'd learned: It seemed Patty was using her mother's maiden name, Lang, on her UCLA registration. From there it was nothing to get her phone number.

He tried her apartment first, but the young woman didn't answer. Next, he tried her cell phone and she finally picked up on the third ring.

"Hello."

She had a sweet voice with a smile in it. Faint traffic sounds made it clear she was in a car.

"Patty Lang?"

"Yes. Who's this? I don't recognize the voice."

He identified himself and told her about trying to locate her father.

"Wish I could help, Mr. Grissom. Daddy called me, day before yesterday…to tell me he wouldn't be coming out after all?"

The girl's up-lilting sentence/questions reminded Grissom of Sara's cadence, a Valley Girlish lilt that he rather liked, for no objective reason.

"Did he say why he cancelled seeing you?" Grissom asked.

"Yes. He said he was about to break a big story. One as big as CASt-one that would 'put him on the map again?' "

"Did he tell you what that story was?"

She laughed once. "Do you know my father very well, Mr. Grissom?"

"Fairly well."

"Has he ever told you about a story before it appeared in print?"

"No. You make a good point, Patty."

Her tone turned serious. "Do you think there's something wrong? With my father, I mean? Is he in some kind of trouble, or danger?"

With a father who worked the crime beat, Patty having this reaction seemed natural to Grissom.

"We don't think so. We just wanted to talk to him about an ongoing investigation. Everyone seems to be under the impression he was in LA with you."

"Well, that had been the plan. But a 'big scoop' came up-of course, with my father, it could be ice cream!"

She laughed, and Grissom smiled, but he could hear a shade of worry in her voice.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Grissom?"

"No," Grissom said. "Thanks for your time."

"Would you…do me a favor?"

"Of course, Patty."

"When you do see Daddy, tell him he better call me. You've got me kinda worried."

"Sorry. Not my intention."

"But it's that kind of world, isn't it, Mr. Grissom?"

He didn't lie to her: "Yes it is, Patty. Thank you. Good-bye."

"Bye!"

He cut the connection and sat back in his chair.

If Bell wasn't in LA-if he was working on a "big scoop" here in Vegas-why hadn't the crime writer been into the office for two days?

Or was the "story" a fabrication to give him the opportunity to kill Enrique Diaz while the world thought he was out of town? But if Perry had been trying to assemble an alibi, why would somebody who knew his way around criminal matters create such a tissue-thin one? Call the daughter, and poof-bye-bye alibi.

The longer they were unable to locate Perry Bell, the more the questions mounted. As one of the few people on the planet who might actually gain from the resurgence of this vicious serial killer, Bell had no alibi for the first murder and had disappeared completely right before the second.

Then, a keycard from Bell's workplace turns up in the hand of the second victim. Had the victim managed to snag it from Bell, as a dying clue?

Grissom normally rejected such overly convenient and clever "clues" as something out of Ellery Queen or Agatha Christie. He was reminded of the old movie cliche-it's quiet out there…too quiet….

Perry Bell was looking like a good suspect.

Too good.

The ride through the Delamar Mountains up 93 had been even more boring than Brass had anticipated.

As scenery, mountains did not really do it for him; the fascination some people had for rock formations missed him. And for company, Damon was only half a notch above the mountains. The NLVPD detective had two subjects: shop and professional wrestling. Brass had about as much interest in what the North Las Vegas boys were up to as he did about a sport that had a script….

After what seemed like only one lifetime, they pulled up to the main gate of Ely State Prison. Eight buildings, broken down into four connected pairs, made up the maximum security penitentiary. Twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire formed the perimeter, along with four three-story concrete guard towers at each corner.

A guard with a clipboard came out of the air-conditioned shack next to the gate, his walk that distinctive combination of authority and indifference that characterized the breed. He wore dark glasses and a campaign hat pulled down low.

Brass rolled down the window as the guard approached.

"May I help you?" the guard asked, though the subtext was: Why did you bring me out into this heat?

Brass and Damon both showed their IDs.

"We're here to see a prisoner," Damon said.

The guard had a no kidding expression.

Brass said, "We're on the list."

The guard was already checking the clipboard. "Yeah, here you are. You guys know the drill?"

"I do," Brass said.

The guard ambled off.

Damon asked, "What is the drill?"

"Well, it starts with hurry-up-and-wait."

They boiled in the sun for close to five minutes before the guard finally came out of the shack again and waved them forward. As he did, the gate seemed to magically open, like Oz (whether Frank L. Baum's or HBO's version remained to be seen) and Brass guided the car on through.

The rest of the process took the better part of half an hour before the detectives were sitting at a metal picnic table in a small concrete-block room. Their guns locked in metal drawers near the guard's office, the two plainclothes police officers sat silently, sun streaming through the barred window to make abstractions on the table, as they waited for their guest.

After a somewhat shorter time than the ride to Ely, a key thunked in the lock and the door swung open. The young man who strolled in, followed by a guard, hardly looked like a killer; but Brass knew-too well-that killers came in many packages.

This one was a skinny, blond kid with wide-set, wide-open blue eyes, more pretty than handsome. His orange jumpsuit was immaculately pressed and-even though his hands were cuffed before him-Rudy Orloff moved with an easy grace, almost dancerlike…floating on air.

Without an invitation, Orloff sat opposite them at the picnic table.

His smile showed even, white teeth. "I remember you," he said to Brass. "But I don't remember your name. You and those CSI showboats rousted me on some murder, couple years back." Then he gazed at Damon, insolently. "You're cute, but I don't know you…. Not really fair, is it? You know who I am."

Brass and Damon both showed their IDs.

"Must be important, trading Vegas for Ely," Orloff said, "even for an afternoon. You may have noticed-this place is the devil's armpit."

Brass said, "Rudy, we came all this way just to see you. Talk to you."

"What a great big goddamn honor! Now who do you think I killed that I didn't kill?"

"Your DNA," Damon said, "was found at the scene of two murders."

Orloff didn't miss a beat. "My DNA. What, hair? Skin?"

Brass said, "Semen."

With an evil grin, Orloff said, "You boys are twisted, aren't you?"

"Heel, Sparky," Brass said. "Your spunk showed up on the bodies of two men murdered in Vegas-last week."

The prisoner reared back; his smile was more confused than insolent, this time. "Say what?"

Brass told him again.

Orloff now seemed amused, if interested. "With me in stir for most of the last year, how do you suppose I managed to accomplish that? Prison library fax? Good aim?"

Brass said, "We've already checked-you haven't been released for a funeral, or on work release, or anything else. Your ass has not been outside the prison yard."

"You are a detective, Captain Brass. What's your idea how it happened?"

The detectives said nothing for a long moment, then Brass said, "We were hoping you might enlighten us."

"Why should I help you?"

"I'll talk to the warden and write up a report that oughta put some gold stars on your good-behavior chart."

"Well…that's a start…."

Damon said, "This guy we're after is evil."

Orloff backed away, hands up like Al Jolson singing "Mammy." "Wow, evil! There's an oldie but goodie."

Brass said, "We're talking a serial killer. Remember CASt?"

"He's making a comeback? And here I was hoping for a Seinfeld reunion."

Brass's mouth smiled; his eyes didn't. "Your come-how come?"

Orloff shrugged. "All I know for sure is-I didn't kill your two dead men. Beyond that, hell…I'd just be speculating."

"Please do," Brass said.

The wise remark seemed to strike Orloff as a compliment, and he sat forward, folding his hands, and in a conspiratorial, one-expert-to-another fashion, asked, "You're sure it's my DNA?"

"CODIS matched it."

"Someone froze it, then."

"Gee, we hadn't thought of that. Did you sell your sperm to a clinic?"

"No. Or my blood, either, though there were times I tried. See, they make you pee in a cup, and I couldn't piss the physical."

"So comes the question," Brass said, "who would think freezing Rudy Orloff's semen sounds like fun?"

The kid sat back, not sullen-thinking.

Brass tried to prime the pump: "Look, we know you've been inside for a while. What we don't know is, when's the last time you were in Vegas?"

"Eighteen months ago, more or less. About right."

"You turned tricks. Anything kinky?"

Orloff grunted a laugh. "What, guys paying guys for sex? What kink could ever come up in that situation?"

"Anybody who…paid for…take out?"

Orloff smiled, crossed his arms. "You mean a collector?"

"Is there such a thing?"

Again Orloff sat forward and while he was pretty, his grin wasn't. "You name the bend, somebody out there's made that way."

"I believe you. Back to Vegas…"

The prisoner shrugged, resumed his leaning-back, folded-arms position. "I met a bunch of party people when I was there. But my memory's cloudy. Maybe if there was something in it for me, the sun might come out."

Brass tapped Damon on the shoulder and they both rose.

"What?"

"We're out of here," Brass said.

"What, you don't want to haggle?" Orloff asked, brows beettled. He was damn near pouting. "I thought you came to play!"

"We came to work," Brass said. "Anyway, I don't think you've got anything to sell."

"Sit down, sit down-don't get all huffy. If I give you something, would it be worth something in return?"

They sat.

Brass asked, "Like what?"

"Solitary confinement."

Damon asked, "You want solitary?"

"Listen, I been working on good behavior. I'm in on attempted murder, not murder, guys. There's light at the end of this tunnel, and helping you guys builds my file up, in a good way. But we get the TV here, we get the papers. If these animals find out I helped the heat…even if it is some messed-up serial killer-they'll think it's open season. I'll never survive, if I don't find a way out."

Brass nodded. "You give me something I can use, I'll get you solitary."

"And while I'm in solitary, you get me transferred out of here, too."

Brass reared back. "Rudy-I don't know if I can make that happen."

"There's plenty of places cushier than this. I have trouble breathing this thin mountain air."

Brass wondered if Orloff had made some enemies in here that he was trying to evade; maybe that would be helpful to the cause….

"I'll do what I can," Brass said.

Orloff studied him for a long time. "I believe you. I choose to believe you. But remember, if you need me as a witness, I gotta be alive! Corpses can't do shit on the witness stand."

"Understood."

"Okay. Okay, there were two guys. I don't know either of their names."

"Oh, great start, Rudy," Brass said.

"Hey, we weren't in the kind of place where you give names," Orloff said. "At least not right ones. Or do you want me to tell you, go look for Smith and Jones?…Anyway, there were these two guys. One was older."

"How old?"

Orloff shrugged. "Fifty maybe-that neighborhood."

"What did he look like?"

"Bald, glasses, dressed like he hadn't been shopping since he saw Saturday Night Fever."

"Bald?"

"Yeah, he had, you know…wispy stuff, but that was it. He wore lots of polyester. You know-nice jacket, who shot the couch?"

"Okay," Brass said. "He was a…collector?"

"Yeah. He used to love to watch me strangle the chicken. He'd hold the cup for me to do it in, and then…he'd take it home. What he did with it in the privacy of his pad was not my concern-the C note he gave me was. The other guy did the same thing, only he got a little more…involved. Helped me."

Brass said, "Tell me about this other guy."

"Thirtyish, dark hair. I liked him-nice build, kind eyes."

"Color?"

"Brown, I think. Kinda brown. You could dive in and get lost in those puppies."

"Scars or tattoos?"

Orloff shook his head. "Not that I could see. Neither one got naked-this was a kind of voyeuristic deal, mostly. I whack, john watches, here's your cup of fun, here's your hat, what's your hurry?"

Damon said, "These guys weren't…together?"

"No. They just had similar kinks. It's…unusual, but not unheard of."

Brass thought, Just write in with your question to Ask Dr. Orloff in the next issue of Bizarre Pen Pals Monthly.

Brass asked, "Anything else you can think of, Rudy?"

"Two come catchers isn't enough?"

Brass stood, waved to the guard. Then to the prisoner he said, "I'll get right on this-you'll be in solitary within twenty-four hours. Thanks, Rudy-this is valuable."

Orloff, minus any attitude, said, "Thanks. You want to tell me what it was I said that helped?"

"No."

They were back in the car before Damon finally asked. "I give up, what did he say?"

Brass started the car and backed out of the parking spot. "The two guys he described could have been almost anyone."

"Yeah," Damon said.

"Or…the older one could be Perry Bell, minus the rug."

"The what?" Damon said, then he got it. "Damn! I've never seen Perry without that toup-I damn near forgot he was bald underneath."

"Yeah, well he may also be a killer underneath. I'm phoning ahead to Vegas to get a faxed photo of Bell shown to our little helper, Rudy Orloff. If he makes Perry Bell, we have our man…or anyway, our copycat."

Six

C atherine Willows and Nick Stokes had worked all night to track down Dallas Hanson, going from one dead address to another, until finally, in the light of day, they honed in on a homeless shelter in North Las Vegas.

With Nick behind the wheel of the Tahoe, fighting hump-day morning rush hour, Catherine said, "Odd, isn't it?"

"What is?" Nick asked. He had a cup of fast-food coffee in one hand; they'd just had the kind of five-minute breakfast mother never made.

"The way this job combines the mundane with the extraordinary."

"You are tired…."

"No, really. I mean, are we cruising to another dead end, like Carlson? Or a confrontation with a homicidal maniac?"

"I get your point," he said. "But I really didn't find that serial-killer shrine particularly mundane."

She laughed once. "Maybe I'm jaded, at that."

Nick sipped his coffee, eyes on the road, as he said, gently, "Is it hard? Knowing that right now your daughter's getting ready for school, and you're not there with her?"

"For an unmarried guy with a little-black-book of a speed dial," she said with an affectionate grin, "you're deep, Mr. Stokes. Sensitive, even."

He flashed a Nicholson grin and gave her a Presleyesque "Thank you. Thank you vurry much…."

"…The answer is yes." She'd had to call from the fast-food joint to have the sitter cover with Lindsey. "One of these days…I gotta get on dayshift."

They rode in silence for a while, then Nick asked, "You really think we're gonna find a serial killer at a homeless shelter?"

"It does go against the grain."

"Now if his vics were homeless, transient types, that'd be different."

"Like Jack the Ripper," Catherine said. "Or Cleveland's Mad Butcher."

"But CASt's M.O. is middle-to-upper-middle-class white males."

"I know, I know. But we check this one out-and we take no chances."

"No argument, Cath."

They both knew that many serial killers preferred the privacy of their own out-of-the-way residences for their specialized activities. And Dallas Hanson would have zero privacy at the Find Salvation Mission and Shelter.

Then again, CASt wasn't like most other serial killers. He operated within the residences of his victims. He didn't pick up hitchhikers like Bundy did, or seduce young men into his home like Gacy had. Just because Hanson lived in a shelter didn't mean he wasn't a legitimate suspect.

In fact, hiding among the anonymous unfortunates of a city made imminent sense, from a madman's point of view….

Catherine hoped the rest of the team-and she didn't just mean her fellow CSIs, but Brass, Doc Robbins, and even Damon and the assorted detectives aiding the effort-were making some progress out there, on the current crimes. This case was spiraling out of control, and Sheriff Rory Atwater-a more savvy political beast than even former sheriff Brian Mobley-would be breathing down their necks every second.

Although she respected the new sheriff, she couldn't quite bring herself to like him-that might change, but she was put off by his style: He was a slicker politician than Mobley, who had bobbled his mayoral campaign badly. She had every reason to believe the new sheriff wouldn't hesitate to leave the CSIs, Brass, and company hanging out to dry to better his own career.

"You think we should go straight from here to the third guy?" Nick asked.

Catherine shrugged. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But if Hanson's a washout, we could think about going to see Dayton. We're approved for overtime on this thing. Are you up to it?"

"Up to it, up for it…you name it."

"Amazing what one cup of coffee can do for a strapping lad like you."

Nick just shrugged and grinned. But in a moment the grin had faded, as he said, "Do you really think we have a shot at solving a ten-, eleven-year-old series of murders? I mean, they do CASt on those unsolved-mystery-type shows. He's on the list with Judge Crater and JonBenét."

She thought about that briefly, then said, "Yeah, I do think we have a real shot. We're better equipped than Brass and Champlain were, when the original murders went down."

"Yeah, and lots of cold cases are getting cracked by new technology-but Cath, other than those DNA samples Champlain was smart enough to store, we got nothing but a cold, cold trail."

"I see your point, but then, remember, Nick, on the other hand-we're very, very good."

He chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, I almost forgot…."

On Miller Avenue, Nick parked the Tahoe at the curb in front of a low-slung stucco, which was a single story but for the west end, where a second story rose into a church-like steeple; the one-story portion had a window with the bold black-outlined-red words FIND SALVATION MISSION AND SHELTER, and the two-story portion had room for a mural of an idealized praying Jesus, amateur enough to have been done by one of the mission's tenants, sincere enough to give Catherine a momentary heart tug.

They walked through the front door into what might have been the lobby of a rundown hotel: a scattering of overstuffed hand-me-down chairs and sofas around a large open room, tables covered with magazines so old they might have been collectible, in less dog-eared shape; the occasional Bible mingled with the mags. Sunshine slanted in, film noir-style, thanks to partly drawn blinds on the front window, providing light and shadow. Off to the right yawned a wide wooden staircase with oak railings that would be about the only thing worth salvaging if a wrecking ball were ever scheduled here.

A thin, sixty-something silver-haired man, whose week-or-so-worth of stubble threatened to become a beard, was sunk deep in an armchair; immersed in the sports section of the morning paper, he wore a very faded, possibly original vintage Star Wars T-shirt and faded-to-white jeans, which were accidently in style, and apparently had not noticed their entry. Behind a hotel-like check-in desk, opposite the front door, a thin youngish woman with mousy brown hair and black-frame glasses looked up from a religious magazine she had been reading; her oval face, bearing no trace of makeup, was not unattractive. She wore a clean, crisp white men's dress shirt and black slacks; her manner was professional, and the simple gold-cross necklace spoke volumes.

"May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

Catherine had a necklace, too, and lifted the ID badge on its chain for the woman to get a better look. "Catherine Willows, Nick Stokes."

"Oh," the woman said. "Crime Lab? Well, we haven't had any crimes here in a long time. Haven't reported anything…untoward."

"Normally a detective would come around," Catherine said, "but the department is stretched a little thin right now, and we're on an important case."

"I see." Her hands were folded, appropriately enough, in a prayerlike fashion. "Well, the mission's policy is twofold. We of course help the authorities in any way we can. But we also respect the privacy and dignity of our guests."

"We're not here to arrest anyone," Catherine said. "We're doing background work, following up on an old case that may have a bearing on a new one."

Nick shrugged, smiled his easy smile, and said, "We just want to chat with one of your guests. Fill in some blanks."

Catherine's tap dance, and Nick's charm, merged to do the trick.

"Who would you like to chat with?"

Catherine said, "Dallas Hanson."

The woman's eyes flicked toward where the old-timer had been sitting with his sports page; however, when Catherine glanced back, the old man was gone.

"Where did Obi-Wan Kenobi go?" Catherine asked Nick.

He shrugged. "I don't know-we had our backs to him. Maybe he transported outta here."

"Wrong show," Catherine said. Turning back to the woman, she asked sternly, "Was that Dallas Hanson?"

"Some of our guests have-"

Catherine cut her off. "Privacy and dignity, I know. But this is a murder investigation. Was that him, or not?"

The woman sucked in breath through her nostrils, and tried to stand firm as the authority figure in charge of this desk; but in three seconds, she had withered under Catherine's stare. "No. No, that wasn't him."

The CSIs moved away from the woman's post.

"Outside," Catherine said to Nick, with a gesture toward the door. "If Obi-Wan's warning someone in here, we might have an early checkout, out a window."

"What about those stairs?"

"Mine."

Nick's expression said he didn't love her plan; but she was the senior officer, and he tore through the lobby and out the door.

Catherine ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time, easing her head out when she got to the second floor.

Nothing.