Binding Ties

Nothing but an open door about halfway down, on the left, the side of the hall whose rooms might have windows facing the back alley. Assuming this was the right room, Catherine hoped Nick was on his way around. Tough for one man to cover all four sides of a building….

She let the heel of her hand slide down until it touched the butt of her pistol, reassuring herself of its presence. Then she started down the corridor, the pungent smell of disinfectant tweaking her nostrils.

At the open door she ducked in and found the silver-haired near-codger from the lobby hovering over another man, who lay in the cot along the lefthand wall in the cell-like room. A small, square, endlessly scuffed wooden table and two mismatched kitchen chairs were by the only window, and a squat bureau took up a fair piece of the righthand wall.

To the man in the bed, the silver-haired man said, "You sure this is what you want, Dal?"

The bedridden man must have nodded, because the silver-haired man shrugged and said, "Your call, buddy," and stepped aside.

That gave Catherine her first look at the sunken-cheeked scarecrow on the cot. His hair was graying too, if less rapidly than his friend, and he had shaved recently, maybe even yesterday. But his skin was as gray as his hair, and his eyes were a plea for mercy-not from Catherine, but God.

"Dallas Hanson?" Catherine asked.

The man on the cot nodded. It took some effort.

"I'd like to talk to you."

He had sunken cheeks, high cheekbones, and a prominent forehead that made his narrow face look like a skewed metal framework full of sharp angles with skin thinly stretched over it.

"Pretty woman like you?" he said pleasantly, his voice surprisingly deep. "Sure. Don't get much company of your…caliber."

He looked small and bony beneath the blankets.

She got her radio out and pushed a button and said, "Nick, our man's not running. We're in…" She looked at the door, which was white and recently painted; a plastic card in a slot said: 218. She told Nick.

Nick said he was on his way.

She glanced at the silver-haired man, who looked embarrassed. "Gonna help your friend take the back way out, huh?"

"No law against stopping by a buddy's room," the old guy said, his voice midrange, quavery. "Or is this a fascist state already?"

"This is a murder investigation. Do you really think standing in its way is a good idea?"

He didn't answer, just put his head down, eyes not meeting hers, and started for the door.

As he passed, Catherine said, "A lot of people could have gotten hurt because of you."

The man paused, then looked at her; his eyes were bloodshot, rheumy. "Everybody in here, lady, is hurting already. You got a badge and real nice clothes. We got each other."

Catherine began to say something, then thought about what the woman at the desk had said about the privacy and dignity of the "guests"; and said nothing as the old boy, chin on his chest, walked out.

"Don't blame Bruce," Hanson said. He had worked himself up on his elbows, and he had a yellow smile going. "Most of us have had trouble with the law at one time or another-we kind of watch out for each other."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I do. Would you like to sit up?"

"I would love to sit up." He tossed off the blankets and Catherine got a good look at the blackened toothpicks he called legs. "But the cancer makes it pretty much impossible…without help."

She was giving it to him when Nick entered and got his own good look at their suspect.

"This is my associate," Catherine said, showing her credentials to Hanson, now propped up with a pillow behind him. "I'm Catherine and this is Nick. We're from the Crime Lab. We wanted to talk to you about-"

"CASt," Hanson said.

Nick frowned, hands on hips. "You know that?"

"Cancer's eatin' my body, boy, not my brain. I can still read the papers, and we got a couple TVs in this Jesus factory. Now that someone's resurrected ol' CASt, I figured Sin City's finest would come sniffin' around again."

"When was the last time you were out of that bed?" Catherine asked.

"Other than meals and to go to the john? I think it was my last chemo treatment. Three weeks ago maybe?"

"How do you get to chemo?"

"Lori, she's the girl downstairs, she took me. Look, I haven't been able to do anything on my own for six months, and I've got another six left if I'm lucky…make that unlucky. I don't have the time or energy for an ambitious hobby like killin' people."

Catherine nodded. "What about eleven years ago?"

Hanson shook his head. "I was innocent then, and I'm innocent now. That cop, Champlain, he was after my ass. He didn't have anything to go on except some circumstantial crap. I didn't kill Todd Henry or any of the others. That hardass cop just needed to nail somebody, probably gettin' pressure from upstairs, and he figured he'd serve me up."

Nick said, "Mr. Hanson, if you read the papers, you know there's speculation that the new CASt killings are the work of a copycat."

"Oh. So I'm still a suspect in the original crimes? What a crock!"

Holding up a buccal swab, Catherine asked, "How would you like not to be?"

Looking skeptically at the swab, Hanson asked, "How?"

"DNA."

"You want to clear me or set me up?" Hanson asked, only a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

She found his eyes and held them with hers. "I don't want to do anything but find the truth."

"I don't know…"

Nick said, "Respectfully, sir, let me point out that with what you're facing, with this illness? You might want to consider cooperating."

"Why in hell's that?"

Nick shrugged. "Right now your legacy, your place in posterity, is as a suspected infamous serial killer. You don't have to leave that blot on your memory."

Hanson grunted, "Huh. You make a hell of a point, son. I got a couple kids out there, somewhere. Maybe even some grandkids. I don't take pleasure in my descendants thinkin' I was some kinda homicidal lunatic. Okay, sold-what do I gotta do?"

"Open your mouth," she said. "You don't even have to say, 'Aaah….' "

Gil Grissom was still at his desk when his cell phone rang. Picking it up, he pressed the talk button. "Grissom."

"It's me," Brass said.

"Where?"

"Headed back to the city."

Grissom could hear the car's engine. No siren, but Brass was clearly not taking his time. "Learn anything?"

"Good chance Perry Bell's our copycat."

"Tell me why."

Brass outlined his theory, including a recap of the Orloff interview; it took a while.

"That all sounds good," Grissom said. "But where's the evidence?"

Testily, Brass said, "I thought it was your job to find the evidence."

"No-that would be your job. I process evidence."

"…Sorry."

"No problem. I located Bell's daughter."

"Good! See, you do find evidence!"

"In a way. I certainly got information."

Grissom filled Brass in on what Patty Lang had told him.

Brass asked, "Do we have enough for a search warrant?"

"Borderline. But I'll work on tracking down Bell before you get back."

"Bless your little evidence-processing heart."

"I'll see where everybody else is, right now. I've got Warrick and Sara working that Banner package, Catherine and Nick out in the field, chasing the original suspects. By the time you get here, we might be at warrant stage."

Grissom spent the next two hours searching for Perry Bell.

He called the reporter's friends and coworkers, put out an APB for the man's car, and sent a squad car to Bell's home. A uniformed officer went to Bell's house, got no answer at the front or back door, found curtains drawn on windows, looked in a garage window to see Bell's vehicle gone, and-on reporting back to Grissom-got posted out front till further notice.

No probable cause to break in. If Bell was inside, they would have to catch him when he came out. Anyway, if he was indeed the copycat, the threat of him having a potential victim in there was minimal-the copycat had struck twice so far, but (staying to the original CASt) always in the victim's home.

If Bell was outside the house, that was a different problem entirely. The reporter could be anywhere, doing anything, and unless they caught a break, Grissom and his crew wouldn't have any idea of what Bell had been up to until…well, possibly until the CSIs were summoned to the next crime scene.

A third troubling possibility occurred to Grissom: Bell might be innocent. The crime-beat columnist could, as the man had told his daughter, be out working on a big story; and that story wasn't even necessarily the CASt one. But if so, where was the reporter? Why couldn't anyone find him?

Deciding he'd done all the detective work possible from his desk, Grissom got out of there, and his first stop was the morgue, where Dr. Robbins was finishing up the autopsy on Enrique Diaz.

With a mildly puzzled frown, Grissom asked, "Two days to get to Diaz?"

Robbins shot a barely patient look toward Grissom, then continued his work. "I know you're focused on this serial killer, but in those two days, besides the late Mr. Diaz, nearly two dozen people have died under questionable circumstances in this city."

Grissom hadn't meant to antagonize Robbins; maybe this was one of those "people skills" instances everybody was always after him about.

The CSI asked, "Find anything?"

"Very preliminary. Diaz died of strangulation caused by the ligature you found around his neck. Everything else matches the Sandred murder…no carpet burns this time. Otherwise, identical."

"Nothing new?"

Robbins picked up a small envelope from a metal table beside the slab. "I did find these."

Grissom accepted the envelope and carefully lifted the flap. Strands of something dark lay in the bottom of the envelope, but he couldn't quite make them out. Closing the envelope, he asked, "And what do we have here?"

"Synthetic hairs…my guess? They're from a bad hairpiece."

"Bad?"

"Cheap…but Greg will tell you more than I can."

Interest piqued, Grissom asked, "Synthetic hairs from the killer?"

"Could be," Robbins said.

"You have doubts?"

The coroner shrugged. "Well, more like misgivings."

Grissom said, "Locard says two objects cannot come into contact without some kind of exchange."

Robbins stepped away from the body and looked around the morgue, as if unsure he and Grissom were alone-perhaps a corpse or two might be faking it.

"Gil, you and I both know Perry Bell. He's a nice enough guy; probably the most honest, helpful guy in the media, where our work is concerned. Certainly harmless."

"No argument."

"Synthetic hairs are going to send you in his direction as a suspect."

"Yes. We're already looking in that direction, Al."

Robbins was shaking his head. "Staging serial murders, to help himself make a career comeback? That would take a kind of genius, and a sociopath's world view. Gil, honestly-does that sound like Perry Bell to you?"

"No, it doesn't. But I remain a student of human psychology, not an expert. And right now, my concern is whether the evidence points to Perry Bell. Which it does. My next concern is to make sure that no one else is put in danger."

Robbins rested a hand on Grissom's arm. "I understand. But don't just listen to your head on this one. You have a good heart, Gil. Don't be afraid to listen to it, too."

"That's…generous, Al. But I listen to the evidence."

"No. You interpret it. And in any case where crimes are being staged, the evidence is as suspect as the suspects."

Grissom thought about that momentarily, and said, "I don't know about listening to my heart, Doc-but I won't ever make the mistake of not listening to you."

The two men exchanged smiles, and got back to their respective work.

The circumstantial evidence against Perry Bell was growing with every passing second, and Grissom felt he had enough to go to a judge for a search warrant. Though he couldn't directly tie Bell to the murders, what he did have pointed to the writer: synthetic hair that he might be able to match to Bell's hairpiece; the magnetic keycard from the Banner; and the semen that came from a "collector" whose description matched Bell's. Add to that the reporter being out of touch with friends, coworkers, and family since before the second murder, with no alibi for the first one, and the makings for a warrant were there.

No, not one of these things fell under the heading of compelling evidence; but as a whole they were puzzle pieces that added up to an image that, so far, resembled Perry Bell.

Judge Goshen's courtroom was busy, as usual, and, as usual, Goshen had to be completely convinced before he granted the warrant. The good thing about a warrant from this judge was that it would hold up under inspection if/when a case came to trial; the bad thing was, you damn near had to argue the case as if at trial….

Plus, like everybody else in the criminal justice system around town, Judge Goshen knew and liked Perry Bell. In the end, however, Grissom prevailed, although it took the CSI every bit of two hours to come out of the judge's chambers with that precious sheaf of papers.

Once outside, he called Brass's cell. "You close?"

"Yeah. What have you got?"

Grissom filled Brass in, and the two agreed to meet at Bell's home in half an hour. The CSI wanted to take Warrick and Sara with him, so he drove from the courthouse back to headquarters where he found the pair busy going over the CASt package they had gotten from the Banner earlier. At one table, Sara hunkered over the box itself while across the way, Warrick bent over the mummified finger.

Grissom approached Warrick first. "Point to anything?"

Granting his boss a smile, Warrick said, "Anywhere I want, actually…."

And held up his right hand to reveal the skin of the finger sheathing his own latex glove-encased forefinger. "I rehydrated the skin as much as I could, removed it from the digit, and then slipped it on."

"And got a nice clear print, I bet."

"Oh yeah. The finger belongs to the last original victim, Vincent Drake, the supervisor in the city garage."

Grissom felt his stomach tighten. "So the message is from CASt."

"Hard to read it any other way."

"Our first killer is still out there somewhere. Which means we need to find him before the copycat goads the real CASt into trying to compete. Stay with it and call me if you get anything else."

Warrick nodded grimly.

Grissom went to Sara's side, and she needed no prompt to report.

"The box is a generic white gift box available at any drugstore or gift shop or half a dozen other outlets in your average mall. Ditto on the ribbon-generic red, available anywhere. Envelope is common, but it's being fumed for prints now."

"What about the fabric?"

"Still working on that."

Grissom nodded. "Sara, put that on hold. Grab your kit-I need you with me."

She flashed her a grin; she loved the lab, but the field was her passion. "Where to?"

"We're serving a search warrant at Perry Bell's house."

Her smile faded. "Almost hope we're wrong about him. Almost kinda like the guy. Feel sorry for him."

"If he's our killer," Grissom said, "save the empathy for the victims."

Bell had a nice two-story stucco home on Beacon Point, just off Gilmore and not far from El Capitan Way. The Durango Hills Golf Course, a favorite of Bell's, sprawled just a few blocks south.

Winding up with the house when his wife moved to LA after their divorce, Bell had kept the place in good repair, removing the lawn in favor of the more drought-friendly Xeriscape desert plants that were replacing grass in many Vegas middle-class neighborhoods.

The squad car remained posted out front, the uniformed officer leaning against the front fender, his back to the house as he smoked a cigarette. When the Tahoe parked behind him, the officer stubbed the butt out under his shoe and walked briskly up to the driver's side window.

"House hasn't made a move," he said good-naturedly.

Grissom recognized Carl Carrack from numerous crime scenes and knew the ten-year vet to be a sharp, good patrolman. Maybe thirty-five, Carrack stood just under six feet and carried a well-distributed two hundred pounds on a compact frame.

"Anybody at all been around?" Grissom asked.

"No neighbors, no salesmen, not even a paper boy."

Grissom and Sara were still unloading when Brass's Taurus pulled up behind them.

Brass and Damon joined them at the rear of the SUV.

Brass looked toward the house. "Do we know if Bell is in there?"

"Doesn't appear so. Carrack's been here for the last two hours, reports no movement."

"And no word of Bell otherwise?"

Grissom shook his head. "Nobody's radioed in to that effect."

Damon asked, "What about the APB on his car?"

"Nothing yet," Grissom said. "He may be holed up writing, inside, or at a motel on a bender or…Why don't we stop speculating and break in?"

The front door was recessed, and hidden from the neighbors on the north by the protruding two-car garage, in the shadow of which Grissom pulled on latex gloves. So did Sara. The cops did not.

Then-Brass at his side, Damon and Carrack behind them, Sara bringing up the rear-Grissom knocked on the green steel door.

"You want to try the bell?" Damon asked.

Grissom shook his head. "No. Might disturb fingerprints."

The NLVPD detective frowned. "Why, is this a crime scene?"

"Do we know it isn't?"

Damon had no answer for Grissom, and the house had no answer for Grissom's knock.

The second time the CSI knocked harder, trying the knob as he did, finding the door locked, not surprisingly.

After a brief wait, Carrack and Grissom hit the door with a ram. The lock burst, the frame splintered, the door swung open and leaned drunkenly to one side. The foyer opened into a living room at right, a staircase along the left wall. Straight ahead, down a short hall, Grissom could see into the kitchen.

Brass was the first one through, but he did not get far.

The detective pointed to something dark on the floor and said, "Blood! Everybody freeze."

The house was dark and Grissom had to pull out his Maglite to shine it on the floor next to Brass to get a clear look: a small dot of dark blood on the hardwood floor.

Grissom said, "Good catch, Jim-looks dried."

Brass got his gun out with his right hand and turned on a small flashlight with his left. "Just the same, we're going to clear the house before you guys come in."

"Nobody's been in or out, Captain," Carrack insisted. "I swear."

"Let's clear the house, shall we?" Brass said to the patrolman, gun in both hands, snout up. "Plenty of time for you to cover your ass, later…."

Damon pulled his pistol as did Carrack, and soon the two of them were moving up the stairs, eyeing the second floor suspiciously.

Grissom and Sara stepped tentatively inside.

"Stay," Brass said them, then eased into the living room, and out of sight.

Grissom examined the blood under his flashlight beam again, moving closer, kneeling.

"This blood is indeed dried," he said.

Sara said, "Whatever happened here…? Happened some time ago…."

From upstairs came Carrack's and Damon's voices, alternating as they went from room to room, a word batted back and forth like a tennis ball:

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Brass emerged from the rear of the kitchen. "From the living room you run into the dining room at the back, then the kitchen on the left-all clear."

Top of the stairs, Damon said, "Upstairs, clear!"

Grissom moved the light from the original dot of blood toward the kitchen. He found another, then another, and so on, the trail-not of breadcrumbs, like Hansel and Gretel, but blood drops-leading back into the kitchen and off to the left.

"What's in that direction?" Grissom asked Brass.

"Closed door," Brass said. "Probably leads to a mudroom, and the garage."

"Let's have a look."

Brass looked unhappy. "Maybe I should take one of the guys with guns with me first…"

"It'll be fine," Grissom said.

"One condition," Brass said.

Grissom knew what that condition was: He transferred his flash to his left hand and got out his handgun; behind him, Sara did the same.

The kitchen was a big galley with the dining room visible through a doorless entry to the right. Going the other way, Grissom opened the door into a small room that held a washer, a dryer, and a small table for folding laundry on the opposite wall between two doors.

The far door, Grissom figured, would lead to the garage.

Carrack had looked through the garage window earlier, so they were fairly certain that was empty. The blood trail stopped at the nearer door, on the left.

Grissom hesitated to open the door.

Few things bothered him more than the possibility of being personally responsible for destroying evidence; but if someone was behind the door, and still alive, that concern was overridden.

Prints be damned, Gil Grissom's latex-gloved hand settled on the knob, and he opened the door to peer in at a tiny landing above a dozen descending plywood stairs, a two-by-four bannister on the right side. Without hesitation, Grissom flipped a switch that turned on a light overhead as well as several in the basement below.

Behind him, Brass said, "Damn it, Gil, that hasn't been cleared!"

Grissom turned to Sara and said, "Stay here."

Then, ignoring the detective's admonition, Grissom-gun in one hand, flash in the other-started down….

Very few homes in Vegas even had basements, and the CSI was surprised that Bell's house would be one of those that did. As he took the creaking steps a slow, careful one at a time, the CSI could see more blood on the stairs-not just drops-and a small puddle off to the left on the floor.

At the bottom, having already taken care not to step in any blood, Grissom took in a much bigger pool, running out from under the stairs like something leeching up from the earth.

But the earth wasn't the source of this coagulating fluid.

Shining his light back there, Gil Grissom ruled out Perry Bell as a suspect.

Seven

A fter positioning Officer Carrack and Detective Damon on the first floor, Jim Brass came down into the basement, his cop senses-honed by twenty-five years on the job-tingling, and (like Grissom) careful not to disturb blood evidence. His radar wasn't registering danger-this was the "something's wrong" tingle. Though his gun was in one hand, Brass strongly sensed he was not entering a fire zone, rather the aftermath of something…wrong.

On this case, with its ritualistic crime-scene fetishism, the detective knew before even reaching the last step, what he would see….

Brass came around the stairs and shone his flashlight into the open area beneath. The beam hit the large puddle of blood and followed its flow to the missing right index finger and then over the plump nude dead body. Seemingly with a will of its own, the flash found the face of Perry Bell.

That was when Brass realized he'd been at least a little mistaken-he had thought he had a fix on exactly what the crime scene would look like; but after the carefully staged murders of Sandred and Diaz, this tableau came as a shock…

…of recognition: The real CASt was back.

The reporter's lips were painted with lipstick that mingled with blood dried on his face from a broken nose. Beaten almost beyond recognition, Bell had suffered more than any other victim, past or present, of CASt (or the CASt copycat). Semen was splashed on his lower back. Blood was everywhere in the basement, not like the neat amputations of the copycat, but spattered and sprayed.

"God-damn-it!" Brass exploded.

He wound up to throw the flashlight, but caught himself just before he let it fly. Instead, he turned it off, and jammed it into his pocket.

"I didn't work the original crime scenes, Jim," Grissom said evenly. "But I take it…this is the real deal."

Shaking his head, breathing hard, Brass let out a few choice epithets, then said, "Well at least we know he's still out there-and in our jurisdiction. He didn't move away or get run over or…shit, Gil, this…"

Grissom, awkwardly, touched Brass's arm with a latexed hand. "Do the work, Jim. Shake off everything else."

Brass nodded, swallowed. "This is even more brutal than the crime scenes from years ago. It's like CASt nurtured a…special rage for Perry. Who was, after all, the reporter whose book chronicled the original spree. Making money off CASt, saying 'bad' things about him."

Grissom shrugged. "Everybody's a critic."

Brass had his cell phone in hand before he realized he'd even reached for it. He brought it up to his ear, his fingers somehow having figured out to hit the speed dial. "This is Captain Jim Brass-who's this?"

The voice on the other end was cool and female. "Laurel Thompson, Captain."

That sent a quick spike of relief through him. Nothing rattled Laurel-she was one of the best dispatchers in the city.

"Laurel, I need you to send a patrol car to the Banner. The officers're to take David Paquette into custody on the CASt case. If he's not there, send a car to his house."

"Yes, sir. Murder charge?"

Meeting and holding Grissom's eyes, Brass struggled with the urge to say yes.

The trouble was, he had no real proof, though logic seemed to say that if Bell wasn't the copycat, then Paquette had to be. Silently he willed Grissom to find some evidence to bust the editor; to speak that sentiment aloud, however, would only invite Grissom's disfavor.

To the dispatcher, Brass said, "Have them take him into protective custody."

"Pardon?"

"Laurel, tell the officers Paquette's a material witness, and that I'm concerned for his safety…. In the meantime, I'll call David and tell him what's going on myself."

"Car'll be dispatched immediately. Ten-four, Captain."

"Thanks, Laurel."

He clicked off.

"Material witness?" Grissom asked.

"Do we have enough to collar him?"

"No."

"Point is, get him off the streets until we know one way or the other. If Bell's not the copycat, Paquette is the next best guess."

"Here's a small suggestion," Grissom said. "Let's not guess."

"Then find me some goddamn evidence!" Brass snapped.

"Actually," Grissom said, "that shouldn't be hard…."

Grissom moved in for a closer look.

The differences between this crime scene and those generated by the copycat were subtle but plentiful.

Grissom, kneeling near the mutilated hand, said, "The finger was severed while the victim was still alive."

To Brass, this was obvious. Bell's heart had definitely been pumping when his finger got cut off.

"Tell me about it," Brass said. "More blood here than the other two scenes combined."

"The lipstick appears to be a darker shade than the one applied to Sandred and Diaz," Grissom said. "But I can't be sure without lab comparison if it is truly darker, or if the limited light, and this preponderance of blood, is playing tricks on my perception."

"I'd say darker," Brass said.

Grissom continued, gesturing to the corpse: "The broken nose was likely sustained when Bell opened the door for his killer. Doc Robbins will provide the details, but this beating is clearly more vicious than anything either CASt or the copycat has done before. For reasons unknown-despite what we might speculate about his feelings for the author of CASt Fear-CASt felt compelled to torture Bell more than the others."

Brass just chewed his lower lip.

Grissom turned toward Brass. "Can you see it, Jim? In your mind?"

Bell is home alone. He's in his study, going over his old files on CASt, excited that the ancient case has given his career a new lease on life. The doorbell rings and he comes downstairs. By the second ring he's gotten to the door to open it.

The front door is recessed, in a shady area, and it's hard for the neighbors to see what's happening. It's similarly difficult for Bell to see who's on his doorstep. Either the killer strikes immediately, or Bell knows the killer and invites him in, and then the killer strikes as soon as he's inside.

Capture.

Either way, Bell catches a blow in the face-a heavy blow, breaking the reporter's nose and causing blood flow that will eventually lead the police to the basement.

Blood dripping from his nose, Bell is dragged by the killer down to the basement. Bell is stripped.

Affliction.

The noose is slipped around his neck and pressure is slowly applied. As the noose is tightened, Bell starts to slip away. He's brought abruptly back by the first punch to his face, immediately followed by another and another, the blows raining down. He tries to roll into a fetal position, to avoid the savage attack, but the killer jerks on the rope, the noose tightens again and Bell is forced to comply.

The killer lifting Bell's head by the rope, turning the face to just the right angle, then delivering another powerful punch to the reporter's face. Eventually, he passes out, the pain simply too much. He awakens after he doesn't know how much time to the sensation of something closing around his index finger.

The killer has Bell's finger between the blades of a metal clipper. The steel feels cold against his skin until the killer tightens and the pain begins. The cold is replaced first by the warm rush of blood, then the blinding heat of pain as the killer snips off the finger. Bell watches what had once been his finger bounce on the floor before he closes his eyes, nerves screaming, but it does no good. The pain is like nothing he's ever felt before and he momentarily forgets the rope around his neck, but a quick jerk by the killer reminds him and again the noose tightens around his neck.

Strangulation.

He fights, but it's no use. There's no air. His chest burns, aches as his lungs battle for every last molecule of oxygen.

Then there is none, every fiber of his being on fire. Slowly, surprisingly, the pain begins to subside, the burning eases and a warm thick liquid blackness covers him. Bell is floating now in this thick black sea, the warmth calming him as it ebbs and flows each second, becoming elongated, enjoyable as he relents. The blackness is not just outside him now, it has entered him and Bell floats away, trouble and pain gone forever.

Everything gone forever.

Sara joined them. Her eyes tensed as she took it all in. "This…looks the same but different."

Still kneeling near the body, Grissom looked up, pleased with her, and said, "Yes."

"We'll need to pull his phone records," Brass said, a stray thought coming to him.

Grissom nodded. "We may be able to figure out whether the killer forced him to make the call to his daughter, cancelling his trip, or if he really did cancel to work on the story."

"Maybe the story was working on him."

Standing, Grissom said, "The killer spent a considerable time with Bell, to do this kind of damage. Once Al gives us time of death, we can cross-check it to the phone records and see how close the call to his daughter came to the attack."

"That was my thought."

Grissom said to Sara, "Check his bedroom-see if he was packing."

"Okay. Then…fingerprints?"

Nodding, Grissom said, "Anything on the first floor the killer might have touched-banister coming down these stairs, for example."

"I'll try the front door, too."

"Tell Carrack and Damon to stay put," he said, "and not to touch anything else. Let's not contaminate the crime scene any more than we already have."

Brass was on his cell phone again, making the call to David Paquette.

The editor picked up on the second ring.

"David, Jim Brass. I'm sending a car to pick you up."

"Why in the world?"

"We're placing you in protective custody as a material witness."

"The hell you are! I've got a paper to put out."

"This is a serious matter, David. Overrides any work concerns."

"Give me one good reason why."

"Perry Bell's dead."

Paquette said nothing, but halting breathing told Brass just how hard the news had hit the editor…unless that was a pose.

"Another CASt victim," Brass said.

"Oh, my lord in heaven…"

For a moment Brass wondered if Paquette had started to cry. The editor and Bell had been friends, collaborators. And the murder related directly to the project they had done together that had put them both on the map.

Brass said, "Look, Dave-don't give the officers any trouble; let them take you into custody. We can protect you. And maybe you can help us."

"Oh…okay."

"It's going to be all right."

"I…I don't think so, Jim. We're…we're supposed to cover the news. Not…not be the news."

"Well, cooperate with us and we'll keep you out of the headlines."

Brass broke the connection.

"You do really think he did this?" Grissom asked.

Shaking his head, Brass said, "His reaction has me wondering-I think he was weeping, Gil."

"They were friends."

"What do I think? I think I'm not going to think anything from now on about this goddamned case, until you tell me to."

"Thinking is allowed. It's the guesswork we need to steer clear of."

Brass's cell phone rang.

He answered; it was Sergeant O'Riley. He listened, thanked the sergeant, and said to Grissom, "Just got word that Orloff at Ely State Prison says the photo of Bell we faxed over is not one of the two 'collectors' he dealt with…. Sounds like he wasn't the copycat…."

"Give us some time to work the crime scene," Grissom said. "We'll get something."

Even for Vegas, their luck was lousy.

Everywhere they turned, the CASt case threw them a curve. Somehow, the killer was getting to them across the years-a madman who had stopped his vicious spree when Nick Stokes was still in college-had somehow found a way to travel through time to thwart their investigation today.

After their washout visit with Dallas Hanson at the mission, Nick and Catherine had stopped back at the lab long enough to drop off Hanson's swab and get the DNA test going. Nick believed it would turn out the same as Phillip Carlson's had-no match-but the job was about evidence, not belief.

Now, they were headed out on Blue Diamond Road toward Pahrump and the Sundown Continuing Care Facility. A sister facility of Sunny Day in Henderson-where Warrick and Catherine had recently stopped an angel-of-death killer-Sundown was more of a lockdown facility than its sibling across the valley.

Behind the wheel, Nick asked, "So what have we missed?"

"Nothing that I can think of," Catherine said. She went silent, and actually did think; then she added, "We've worked the evidence. Possible Brass and Champlain were on only wrong trails, years ago, and the real CASt isn't on the original suspect list."

"Yeah, but Brass and Champlain are first-rate guys-"

"Sure they are. But we've done it before, too-can happen easy enough, you start believing your theories before the evidence is in."

"Happens," Nick admitted. "But if CASt isn't one of these three suspects, then what have we contributed?"

"We've ruled them out," Catherine said. "That's important, too."

Nick's nod was grudging.

Following Amargosa Road out into the Last Chance Range, Nick couldn't help but mirthlessly smile at the hospital's location. "Last chance" is right, he thought. Most of the patients at Sundown were dangerous either to themselves or others, and consequently spent most of their time under complete lockdown-served meals in rooms that were really cells, only getting out for exercise once a day, one-at-a-time, in a tiny yard to walk laps for fifteen minutes.

Nick pulled into the parking lot, home to maybe a dozen cars, most of which were parked at the far end, near the employees' entrance of the wide, one-story building. The facility was larger than it seemed from the front. This Nick knew, having once flown over in a helicopter, getting a view of the huge pentagon; and on a previous visit, Nick had seen the interior of the building, which had gone on forever, with endless wings, like something out of a bizarre bad dream.

If you weren't mentally ill when you came here, it would be easy to get with the program….

They climbed down from the SUV and walked toward the front entrance.

"When I have my breakdown," Catherine said, "promise to shoot me if they send me here."

"No problem-same in my case?"

"Deal," she said.

The glass double doors were chicken-wire woven. Nick tried to open one and it didn't budge.

Catherine pointed to a sign on the door that read: PLEASE USE SPEAKERBOX TO REQUEST ENTRY.

Nick said to her, "Okay, so your attention to detail is better than mine."

Catherine went to the box next to the door and pushed the button.

Several moments dragged by, and Catherine was frowning at Nick, as if asking for permission to try again, when a female voice asked, "May I help you?"

"Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes to see Dr. Jennifer Royer. We're from the LVPD Crime Lab."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But I left a message on her machine."

"…Just a moment."

Another long pause followed, Nick and Catherine looking at each other, wondering if they had been ditched.

Finally, the woman's voice came back over the speaker: "I'll buzz you in. Please have your credentials ready."

The buzz that followed reminded Nick of the handshake gag you could buy at various casino magic shops. He opened the door for Catherine and they passed through. Behind him, Nick heard the thunk of an electronic lock.

"And we asked to come in here?" Nick said.

A wide-eyed Catherine said, "This is not a happy place…."

The lobby was clean, walls a soft mint green, floors a lighter green tile, with the only decorative touch a starkly framed architectural drawing of the facility itself.

A thick patina of sadness seemed to cover everything, like emotional dust; despite the double glass doors letting sunshine seep in through the wire-mesh, the lobby remained shrouded in faint gray light, in part due to fluorescent tubes under discolored plastic tiles in the ceiling. A darker green sofa and a few matching unpadded chairs were scattered against the far walls, with a low-slung table littered with Psychology Today magazines. The scent of pine cleaner clung to the air, doing little to dissipate an aroma of sickness and death that seemed to emanate from the walls, the air ducts, even the furnishings.

These impressions were subjective to say the least, but Nick could see from Catherine's quietly appalled expression that she shared them.

She confirmed this by whispering to him: "You're not a guest here, not even a resident-you're a hostage."

A heavyset woman in white was framed in the reception window. She had bottle red hair and a hard, dark glow about her, as if her displeasure with her lot in life had turned radioactive.

"May I help you?" she asked. It seemed more a warning than an invitation.

This was the intercom voice.

Catherine said, "We're the LVPD personnel to see Dr. Jennifer Royer?"

They stepped forward and held out the IDs on the necklaces.

The reception nurse leaned forward, read them. Looked up, blandly skeptical. "Do you have anything else?"

Dutifully, they showed the gatekeeper their wallet IDs, as well.

She gave them a smile that seemed to say, Congratulations for meeting the admission standards, but don't get cocky: You still have to get out….

Or maybe Nick was just feeling a little paranoid.

"Down the hall on the left," the nurse said, not looking at them any more, "third door."

The third door on the left was open and Nick knocked on the frame.

A woman of about forty, her red hair-not from a bottle, short but not mannish-looked up, seated behind a desk cluttered with files. She apparently did not avail herself of the Vegas sunshine much, though with her fair Irish complexion, that might have been self-protection. She had a narrow face with a long straight nose, blue almond-shaped eyes and a wide mouth-unusual but attractive features, the intelligence behind them apparent.

"Ah," she said, her voice carrying the hint of a Southern accent, "you're the Crime Lab people. I got your message, but haven't had the chance to return it. Glad you went ahead and came out anyway…. Sit, sit."

Two metal-frame chairs were waiting opposite the desk, and the CSIs took them.

The office was small and neat, except for the desktop, indicative of a perpetually busy occupant. The desk itself was metal as were the two file cabinets that ran along the left wall. The doctor's chair looked comfortable but not overly so. Nothing elaborate at Sundown-but sufficient. And not one thing more….

"I'm Catherine Willows and this is Nick Stokes."

The woman smiled and it seemed genuine, one professional to another. She had small, straight, white teeth. "I'm Dr. Jennifer Royer, the head doctor…. You can fill in your own joke."

"We'd like to talk to one of your patients," Catherine said.

"Congratulations," the doctor said, with just a faint trace of amusement. "That makes you part of an elite group."

Catherine frowned. "Excuse me?"

Dr. Royer's smile pursed. "The patients housed at Sundown generally don't receive visitors of any kind, not even from the LVPD."

"How about family?" Nick asked.

"That varies from case to case," Royer said. She sighed, and shook her head; her dry good humor was clearly her way of dealing with this depressing place. "Patients are sent here for diverse reasons, at least in the sense that there are countless but myriad ways the words are written down. But in reality? There's really only one reason our patients are within these walls: Someone, or perhaps everyone, wants them locked up."

"Warehoused," Catherine said.

The doctor-her frankness refreshing if surprising-nodded and said, "Exactly-shoved out of sight."

"But once they're here, you try to help them."

Royer's smile froze-it was almost a grimace now. "We try."

Nick asked, "How's your success rate?"

With a self-deprecating shrug, the doctor said, "We prefer not to share that information-this is, after all, a private facility."

Nick exchanged glances with Catherine-a success rate so low, it wasn't available to the public?

Catherine said, "Surely a significant percentage of your patients leave, and return to a normal life."

"Some do. Most of them go out in a way that I'm sure your crime lab is familiar with…Now how exactly may I be of help to Las Vegas law enforcement?"

Shifting in the hard chair, Catherine said, "As we indicated, we'd like to talk to one of your patients."

"Which one?"

"Jerome Dayton."

Dr. Royer didn't hesitate. "No Jerome Dayton here."

Catherine winced, perhaps thinking she'd mis-heard. "I'm…sorry?"

Shaking her head now, Dr. Royer said, "No one here by that name."

Nick said, "You're absolutely sure of that?"

"I should be-I'm the attending physician for every patient at Sundown."

Catherine glanced at Nick, who could see his partner was getting irritated. To Royer she said, "We had information Dayton was a patient here."

"Well, he's not a patient now."

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

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

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

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

Catherine pressed: "Could you check your records?"

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

"But if he's not a patient…"

"The privacy of former patients is also a concern."

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

The stony face remained such.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand…."

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

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

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

"No. That will be easily obtained."

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" Nick asked.

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

"Why?" Catherine asked.

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

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

"Yes. He was admitted as a paranoid schizophrenic."

"Meaning," Nick said, "he heard voices?"

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

"Was that the case," Catherine asked, "with Jerome Dayton?"

"Yes, he did have such delusions."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"And he was released?"

"He was," Royer said.

Nick shook his head, disbelievingly. "When was this?"

"Seven years ago."

Nick sat forward. "He was cured in three years?"

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

Catherine asked, "Is that normal?"

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

Catherine, alarmed, asked, "Could he have signed himself out?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Until recently," Catherine said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor then carefully read the order.

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

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

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

"Known history," Catherine amended.

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

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

"Well…maybe it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?"

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

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

"We do what we can."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah?"

"He isn't paranoid. We are after him."

Eight

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

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

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

"If you do, keep an eye out for hydrogen."

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

Finally, Sara thought.

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

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

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

"What doesn't?" Grissom asked, loping in.

"We know that the same person killed Sandred and Diaz."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He does."

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

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

"And I presume Greg is working on that."

"Yes. But DNA takes time."

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

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

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

"Any luck?" Grissom asked without preamble.

"Freakin' A," Jenny said, her voice too deep to come out of that tiny body. "Or do you prefer 'frickin' A'?"

"Either is better than the alternative," Grissom said, "but I prefer results."

"Results I got out the wazoo," Jenny said.

Sara covered her smile with a hand. Jenny was doing her best to fit in at the sometimes politically correct CSI workplace, but there were still occasional lapses.

Jenny was saying, "I compared the Banner letter to the ones from the original CASt investigation."

"Yes?" Grissom asked.

"The paper's different, though both are common bond, and the writing's in ballpoint. Small, precise but childlike-what you'd see from some damn prodigy."

Sara said, "I was the first to read the letter, and I was struck by the perfection of the handwritten spacing, the evenness of the lines."

"Damn straight! But it's unlined paper! There's a kind of…genius behind them."

Grissom said, "Surely you're overstating."

"Well I'm not overstating when I say this is as good a match as I've ever seen. This will hold up in any court, and a blind monkey could make this match."

"Just the same, Jenny," Grissom said, "I'm content to stick with you."

The handwriting expert was thinking about that as Grissom strode out, Sara falling in alongside him.

"You knew it was a match," Sara said.

"If not," Grissom said, "it would've been an expert forgery…and how many people had enough access to the original notes to pull that off?"

They went back to Grissom's office where they found Warrick waiting.

"I got Bell's phone records," he said.

Grissom said, "Al says the lack of rigor mortis shows Bell had been dead approximately forty-eight hours."

Warrick nodded. "Within an hour of when he made the call to his daughter."

"If he was forced to make the call," Sara said, "his nose was probably already broken. Didn't she notice that he sounded funny?"

Warrick said, "If Perry was talking to his daughter, knowing CASt was about to kill him…did he manage to give her a clue of some kind?"

Grissom said to Sara, "Give her a call and find out."

The supervisor took his pocket notebook out, flipped a couple of pages, tore one out and handed it to her.

"There," he said.

"Grissom," Sara said, leaning in. "I don't think it's appropriate, a CSI being the one who tells this poor kid that her-"

"She knows. Brass already made that call."

And Grissom went out.

Sara looked at Warrick, who had a wry half-smile going. "I can do it," he said, "if you're uneasy about it."

"No. Thanks, but no, I can do this. I should do this…."

Going back to the lab, Sara got out her phone and dialed the number.

Patty Lang picked up on the first ring; the voice was tired-and was that anger as well? "Hello?"

"Ms. Lang?"

"Yes."

"This is Sara Sidle. I'm a CSI with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I'm very sorry to bother you at a time like this."

"No, you're not bothering," Patty said, an edge in her voice. "You're working on my father's murder, aren't you? Well, that's what I want to hear."

Sara swallowed. "I'd like you to know I'm sorry for your loss. We all liked your dad around here. Not every reporter has a fan club around the police department, you know. But your dad was one of the good guys."

"Thanks for saying that. What can I do to help you find the son-of-a-bitch who killed my father?"

"Did your father sound normal on the phone, when he cancelled his visit?"

"I don't know if I understand the question. What do you mean by 'normal'?"

"His voice," Sara asked, "his mood. Was there anything about the call that seemed different than usual?"

Patty Lang took a moment before answering. At last, she said, "This isn't as easy to answer as it should be. You see, Ms. Sidle, I spoke to my father many times when he didn't sound 'normal.' He might be excited about a story he was working on, or depressed about the rut he was in or about losing Mom. And it wasn't unusual for him to call me after he'd had a few too many cocktails, either."

"Did he sound like he'd been drinking this time?"

"No," Patty said. "Not…exactly. But he was a little…odd, now that I think about it. Stiff. Even…stilted."

"As if he'd been prompted about what to say?"

"That's a strange thing to…Do you think his killer was there with him?"

Sara saw no reason not to be frank. "We think the person responsible saw that your father was about to leave on a trip, and figured out that you were expecting him."

"And forced him to call and cancel the trip?"

"Yes."

"But, why…?"

"To delay the discovery of his body, Ms. Lang. To make our job more difficult."

"You mean, I'd have been alarmed when Daddy didn't show up, and you might have gone looking for him, earlier than you did."

"Yes."

"Ms. Sidle, I've read my father's book about this…this bastard. I have a good idea of how he must have suffered before he died. And I'm…I'm only dealing with that thought right now by knowing that Daddy's at rest now…and that this creature will be caught."

"If anyone can stop CASt, it's us."

"That…that is very good to hear. But…oh my God. Now I understand…."

"Understand what, Ms. Lang?"

But the young woman was crying.

Sara swallowed; held onto the phone and waited.

Finally the voice returned: "When he said goodbye to me…at the end of the call? He called me Pat-Pat. That…that was my nickname, when I was a little girl. I thought it was so strange he'd call me that, after all these years."

"I see."

"Do you? Ms. Sidle, he was saying good-bye to me…forever."

The woman began to cry again and Sara said a few comforting things before they finally were able to say their own good-byes.

Catherine Willows sat at her desk, phone to her ear, hoping she didn't get Brass's machine.

Then Brass came on the line, and she blurted, "It's me."

"How did you and Nick do out at that facility? What is it…Sundown?"

"We found out Jerome Dayton is no longer a guest at that particular hotel."

"What?"

"Hasn't been for a while. Say, seven years?"

The long silence told her that this was news to Brass.

She continued: "Seems he got therapy and medication and returned to society, all better."

"Good for him," Brass said coldly. "I suppose his father got him out?"

"That would be a big bingo-Jerome was released into his parents' custody."

"Hell…Well, Tom Dayton had a lot of pull in this city. I'd like to say I'm surprised."

Catherine said, "Of course, as you know, his father's dead now. I assume Jerome's living with his mother."

"Not unless he's gone Norman Bates on us," Brass said. "She died six or seven months ago. Got some play in the papers. You didn't see it?"

Something cold ran through Catherine. "You mean…Jerome's got no supervision?"

"It doesn't sound like it." Brass's voice changed from outrage that Dayton could be on the street without him even knowing, to something more hopeful. "Cath, that means we have a suspect for the copycat. A good damn suspect…."

"Maybe. Or maybe you need to go back further." She drew a deep breath. "Jim-there's something else you need to know."

"I'm in no mood for twenty questions, Catherine."

"From the very moment Dayton was institutionalized, he was given day passes, weekend passes, to spend time with his folks."

"God damn it! Are you telling me he was-"

"Away from Sundown the day the last CASt kill went down…yes. He was in town when Vincent Drake was murdered."

Silence on the line. For a moment she thought Brass had hung up, or maybe hurled the phone across the room.

She asked, "Jim?"

"I'm here."

"Did Dayton have siblings?"

"No. Only child."

"Then he would have inherited everything. Like, say, the family home?"

Brass didn't miss a beat: "That's on Proud Eagle Lane."

A hint of a smile found its way across Catherine's face. "Of course it is. Where the hell is Proud Eagle Lane?"

"Inside the TPC at the Canyons golf course."

"Ah. I know the area. Round of golf costs more than a week's pay for a lowly CSI."

"Cath, imagine what kind of home might face onto a course like that."

"Jim, I'd like to find out."

"Good. Then grab Nick and meet me there-but don't bring your clubs. We'll play another game."

"What about a warrant?"

"There isn't a judge in the county that'll listen to us at this point." Brass's voice lightened, or pretended to. "Let's just go see how Jerry Dayton's doing, out on his own. Can be tough on a 'kid,' y'know-losing his mom and dad."

Catherine found Nick talking to Greg Sanders in the lab, gave her partner a nod from the doorway, and he joined her in the corridor.

"Strike two," he said by way of greeting.

"On?"

"DNA. Dallas Hanson is not the copycat, nor is he the original CASt."

"We knew that."

"We thought that. Greg proved it."

She reported her conversation with Brass.

"Hey, great," Nick grinned. "I been thinkin' about gettin' a membership to TPC. Maybe buy a home where I can walk right outta my back door onto the links."

"Sounds like a plan. You could start as a caddy."

They exchanged smiles and headed for the parking lot, spring in their step. Finally, maybe, catching a break on this damn case….

The guard shack that blocked their entry into TPC at the Canyons was not quite as big as Catherine's first apartment, if more nicely appointed. The air conditioner hummed quietly and the guard who came out to meet them wore pants with a crease you could slice bread with and a perfectly pressed shirt with a highly shined badge and absolutely no sign of perspiration. He was tall, muscular, and chisel-chin handsome, looking more like a golf pro than a security guard.

His mouth smiled but his eyes were hard and cold. "Beautiful day, huh? And how can I help you?"

Nick showed his credentials and introduced himself and Catherine.

As at Sundown, the guard asked to see further credentials and Nick looked privately toward Catherine, crossing his eyes, and she laughed as they both handed over their wallet IDs.

"Everything in order," the guard said. "Sorry to be a stickler-we have some very important people out here at TPC, club members and residents. Where is it you need to go?"

Nick gave him the Dayton address.

"Maybe I should call ahead for you," the guard said.

Brass seemed to appear from nowhere, standing next to the Tahoe and holding forward his own ID wallet. The guard took an involuntary step backward.

Brass said, "Don't call ahead."

"Well, uh…Captain Brass? I'm afraid that's our policy."

"It's not ours."

Glancing in the door rearview mirror, Catherine saw Brass's Taurus parked in the drive behind them.

The guard said, "Sir, we're not just a country club. We're a gated community, and our residents-"

"Call ahead, I come back and arrest you for obstruction. Is that policy clear enough?"

Nodding numbly, the guard retreated to his shack and his air conditioning, and raised the gate so they could enter the TPC at the Canyons.

Everything here shouted affluence-the houses, the lawns, the cars, even the mailboxes, everything bigger, nicer, costlier, showier. They passed the clubhouse, where the golf carts stickered for about as much as Catherine's car. Nick pulled over, allowed Brass to pass them, and they followed the detective's Taurus through the compound until they ended up on Proud Eagle Lane.

The expression "a man's home is his castle" is usually an exaggeration, but in Jerome Dayton's case, those words were the literal truth: The sprawling two-story stucco was twice as large as Catherine had seen in any other housing development in Vegas, a town that had more than its share of wealth and celebrity. Painted a light coral, the huge residence stood out among the other, slightly smaller mansions, which were uniformly a sand color.

With Brass in the lead, the trio approached the door. The detective had been working hard for days now to keep the anger and frustration in check, to view these CASt killings as homicides and not personal affronts. But now he felt angry, frustrated, with himself, as if it had been his responsibility to know that Jerry Dayton had been released from Sundown.

But such facilities were not required to inform law enforcement about the risks they were sending out into the world. And the Dayton family had somehow kept their son in check-to say Jerome Dayton had kept a low profile over these past years was a supreme understatement. Perhaps he'd been locked away in an upper room of this castle, like the Man in the Iron Mask, a medicated if pampered prisoner in his own home.

Only what had happened, lately? After both his jailers-that is, his parents-had shuffled off the ol' mortal coil?

The lunatic would be in charge of the asylum.

Of course, it might be a coincidence that Dayton had been on a weekend pass when Vincent Drake was murdered, but Brass-like Grissom-held no truck with coincidence.

Coincidence was God's way of telling a detective that he had screwed up, probably missing something, something important. That, as much as anything, was why Captain James Brass was so royally pissed off when he marched up the sloping, winding sidewalk to the massive double doors of the Dayton home.

Ignoring the bell, the detective pounded on the oak door with his fist. When no one answered immediately, he pounded again. He could feel Nick and Catherine behind him and he could also feel their mounting tension.

Were they wondering if he was losing it?

Well, maybe he was-and god damn it, maybe he had a right. Eight men were dead over the last eleven years, and what had Brass ever managed to do about it? It had been his job, his and Vince Champlain's, to catch CASt nearly a decade ago, and they had booted it big time.

Now the sick evil son of a bitch was running wild again; only, finally, Brass might be on the literal doorstep of the solution….

He was preparing to pound a third time when the door on his left suddenly opened, and framed there, leaning on the jamb, stood a tall, thin, dark-haired, hawkish-faced man with piercing green eyes, attired in a blue button-down shirt and black jeans.

Jerome Dayton.

Despite the years, little about Dayton had changed-the narrow face remained largely unlined, the hair untouched by gray; the only addition that Brass caught was an earring added to Dayton's left lobe, a "D" crafted out of small diamonds.

His eyes narrowing, upper lip curling in contempt, Dayton said, "Brass," the single word an epithet.

"Been a while, Jerry," Brass said, coolly, even as something burned in his stomach.

"How did you people get past the gate?" Dayton's voice was as glacial as the glare he tossed at Catherine and Nick, then fixed upon Brass.

"You know, Jerry," Brass said, "I'm flattered you remember me. Your lawyer liked to keep us apart, as I recall."

"Who are your flunkies?"

"These are crime scene analysts from the Crime Lab-Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes. I've been telling them all about you. We're anxious to sit and talk about…old times. And new."

Dayton said, "Not without my lawyer sitting in," and started to close the door in the detective's face.

Brass forced himself into the doorway, blocking the young man's attempt.

Dayton's eyes turned to slits; his sneer of a smile formed slowly but effectively as he took a long, deep breath. Then he exhaled and said, "And my lawyer, I think, is just who I should to talk to-in the case of a harassment suit."

Brass put on his patented rumpled smile. "Come on now, Jerry-you must see the papers, the TV. Certainly you know why we're here. You're going to have to talk to us at some point. We're just eliminating the old names from our list, and you can get that out of the way and-"

"Old suspects, you mean." The hawkish, sneering face looked at each of them, pausing for a derisive chuckle, again landing on Brass. "You think I don't know what you want? You're here about Cee Ay Ess Tee. Wasn't ruining my life once enough for you?"

Giving the man a tight smile, Brass said, "That earring's sure handsome, Jerry. Never knew you to go in for the bling bling."

Dayton's smile widened, lips parting to reveal perfect white wolfish teeth. "It was my mother's-a ring I had made into this. Normally I'm not ostentatious…you know that, Captain. But I loved my mother."

"How about your father?"

Dayton frowned. "This conversation is over."

Catherine eased forward a little. "Mr. Dayton, the crimes you were suspected of aren't what we're investigating. We're not after the real CASt-many believe him dead, or at least living far away from Las Vegas."

"Really," Dayton said, vaguely interested.

"We're after this new killer-this copycat."

Nick said, "Yeah-kind of the new, improved CASt?"

"But obviously," Catherine said, "we have to revisit and review the old files. It's really quite routine."

Brass realized what Catherine and Nick were up to: If Dayton was the real CASt, they'd been needling him pretty good….

Dayton was studying Catherine, stroking his chin with his right hand. A swollen, ugly purple bruise painted most of the back of it.

With a nod toward the man's hand, Brass said, "Quite a purple badge of honor you got yourself there, Jer."

Dayton lowered the hand, shrugged. "Shut it in the car door." He shrugged. "I get distracted sometimes. Do stupid things. Don't you, Captain?"

"Been known to. But why don't you let us do you a solid-I'll have one of the CSIs take a picture of that mitt of yours, we can be witnesses, and you can use it when you sue the car manufacturer."

"Lame," he said, shaking his head. "So lame. Are we done?"

Nick said, "We could be, if you'd let us take a DNA sample."

Catherine said, "Clear you once and for all."

The armor-piercing gaze shifted toward Catherine. "My name wouldn't need clearing, if Detective Brassballs here hadn't made a hobby out of me, when I was just a damn defenseless kid. This jerk harassed my family, during the original CASt case, and now he's trying to do it again. I'm almost glad my parents are gone, so they don't have to endure this humiliation a second time."

"Speaking of which," Brass said, "who is your caregiver now, Jerry? You are still on medication, I presume…."

"I'm a big boy, Captain. I take of myself, and yes, I am on medication, and have been since you railroaded me into that institution."

"If you feel railroaded," Catherine said, "why keep taking the meds?"

His chin, which was almost pointed, lifted. "I don't deny that I have certain medical problems. I have a chemical imbalance that manifests itself, on occasion, as what you cretins would call mental illness. I monitor my own condition now."

Nick asked, "How's that going?"

"Very well. It's working. I take my meds on schedule, every day-I even have a little pillbox with the days printed on, like the senior citizens."

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Nick said.

The green eyes flared and so did the hawkish nostrils. "Who in hell is ashamed?"

Holding up hands, half-smiling, Nick said, "Whoa-little touchy, aren't we?"

Their reluctant host swallowed. Summoning dignity, he said, "I have lost both my parents. They were never the same after the CASt debacle. I watched them both die, slowly, a process that began long before they actually ceased to breathe."

Dayton's glare returned to Brass.

"It started," the man said, "when they had to put me in that place, that…that home. Well, I'll tell you how much progress I've made, Captain, battling my illness. I used to blame you for their deaths." He pointed a purple finger at Brass. "But now I know…you were only doing your job. Trying to do your best for the community, however misguided and misinformed you were…. My psychiatrist almost got me convinced that it wasn't your fault."

Brass said, "So you're not mad at me, anymore, Jerry?"

Dayton shrugged. "Well…therapy is an ongoing process."

"Speaking of which, what's your doctor's name?"

"I don't have to share that with you."

If Brass's grin had been any tighter, his face would have split. "How about I get a court order, Jerry, and we try this again?"

"Want a name? I'll give you a name."

"Thank you." Brass got his notebook out, pen poised to write.

"Carlisle Deams-D-E-A-M-S. My attorney."

Brass put the notebook away.

Grinning his wide white grin, Dayton said, "And I guarantee you, Captain, he'll be at the courthouse before you. While you attempt to get your nontestimonial court order to get my DNA, my attorney will be filing an injunction to stop you from harassing me further."

"When'd you learn so much about the system, Jerry?"

"I started studying up in Sundown. I had plenty of time-and incentive."

Brass studied the man. "How about I get a patrol car to park outside here, until we get back with our nontestimonial court order?"

A flip phone came out of Dayton's pants pocket. He hit a button. While he waited for someone to answer, he said, "Captain, Captain…you make this too, too easy…."

Brass spun on his heel and pushed through a faintly startled Catherine and Nick and stalked off. They followed quietly.

As he went down the driveway, Brass could hear Dayton say, "Carlisle? Jerry Dayton." After a pause, he said, "Fine, fine. I'm just calling to remind you why I keep you on a such a healthy retainer…."

Brass, pleased he'd managed not to pop the guy, walked around the Tahoe and got out of earshot. To his surprise, Nick and Catherine were right behind him.

Nick said, "He doesn't seem delusional."

Catherine said, "He's smart."

Brass just shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it-we'll pick it up back at the lab, okay?"

He stomped off, got into his car and managed not to peel out as he gunned the gas and sped away. He was only a block away when he called dispatch and ordered a patrol car to come sit on Jerry Dayton's front door.

If Jerry Dayton thought Brass had been kidding, the guy really was delusional….

* * *

Warrick Brown found Grissom and Sara in the former's office, going over crime-scene photos from the Bell murder. Flopping down in a chair in front of Grissom's desk, he let out a long sigh.

"Good news," Warrick said, "bad news. Choose."

Grissom said, "Good?"

"Finally matched the fingerprints on the Banner keycard."

"They belong to Perry Bell."

All the air went out of Warrick's balloon. "How the heck did you know?"

"Same way I know the bad news is no one else's prints are on the card."

Warrick sat up straighter now. It drove him nuts when Grissom did this and the CSI supervisor did it a lot-to all of them. "Greg already gave you the report?"

Grissom shook his head.

That was the other thing that made Warrick mental: Grissom never told him how he knew these things.

Warrick went to the doorway, turned and pointed an accusatory finger at his boss. "If you're guessing again…"

Grissom cast a boyish smile Warrick's way. "No reason to get nasty."

Warrick trudged back to the lab, and immediately dug in to work on the remainder of the prints. His goal was to know who was who, and where they were, in proximity to the crimes. And he wanted to know before Grissom knew….

He dumped all the prints into the computer and let the software sort out what matched what. While he waited, he caught up on reports, starting with one Greg had sent that said the dried blood in the Bell home all came from Bell himself.

Another report showed that the synthetic hairs removed from Enrique Diaz matched the toupee of the late Perry Bell. If the late Bell really was the copycat-which was strongly suggested by his ersatz hair being on Diaz's body and his Banner keycard being found at the scene-did that mean they were now only looking for one killer?

Had CASt served as vigilante, showed the copycat who the real Bad Boy in Town was, and capped the cat?

Warrick wasn't sure what to think.

Thankfully, he had little time to worry about it. His phone rang and Grissom told him to grab his kit-an officer had found Perry Bell's missing car.

The parking garage for the Big Apple Casino and Hotel hid behind the main building, which was on the corner of Tropicana and Las Vegas Boulevard. The six-story concrete parking structure was the perfect place to ditch a ride. A cop on a routine drive-through had spotted the local wheels parked on the sixth level, almost by itself.

When the officer ran the car, Brass's APB came up, and the officer called in that he had found Bell's car.

The 2003 blue Cadillac hunkered in a corner, a lonely visitor to the Big Apple. While Grissom worked the trunk, Sara hit the backseat, and Warrick labored up front.

Warrick found several hairs lodged in the seams of the headrest, which he carefully caught with tweezers, then bagged. He dusted the ignition, the dash, the steering wheel, and the glove compartment for fingerprints, vacuumed the floor for stray fibers and detritus, then used the electrostatic print lifter to get footprints from the gas and brake pedals.

When he had finished all that, Warrick went over the seats (as they said in the Vegas lounges) one more time. Just on the front edge of the driver's seat, out of sight (unless you were on hands and knees), he found a maroon spot, the diameter of a pencil.

First he photographed it, then carefully scraped what appeared to be dried blood into an evidence envelope. He hoped the blood wasn't Bell's.

When he showed Grissom what he had found, the supervisor said, "Nice catch."

Warrick grinned at what, coming from Grissom, was an effusive response. "Just doing the job."

"Get back to the lab and keep up the good work. Find us something that can help us track down Perry Bell's murderer."

"You got it, Gris."

As they loaded their equipment back into the Tahoe, Sara cast a tiny crooked smile on him. "Suck-up," she said.

Warrick just grinned.

Nine

B ack at the Crime Lab, Warrick Brown catalogued the evidence from Perry Bell's car, sent it off to the appropriate labs, then dug in to try matching the footprints from Bell's brake pedal with the print he'd obtained in Marvin Sandred's yard.

Nothing.

He checked the pedal print against Bell's shoes.

Nothing.

He checked Bell's shoes against the print from Sandred's yard.

Nothing.

Longer it don't,he told himself, sooner it's gotta.

Hadn't Grissom himself said, "The essence of good police forensics is perseverance?" On the other hand, Warrick's supervisor was unlikely to accept what was known as "the gambler's fallacy," that piece of folk wisdom Warrick picked up before kicking his gambling habit: The longer you didn't win, the sooner you had to start.

For gamblers, a fallacy. For this CSI, a theory.

Sara came in, waving a report; she seemed chipper, which considering the double shifts they'd been pulling was either a miracle or hysteria.

"Got the results on the hairs you found in the headrest of Bell's car," she said, easing up next to where he sat.

He looked up, arching an eyebrow that asked for more info.

She gave it: "All but one strand matched Bell's toupee."

"What about the other hairy little devil?"

She offered a shrug. "A stranger."

"Could belong to our killer."

"We'll be closer to knowing when Greg gets through with that straggling strand-root was still attached."

"Nice."

She nodded brightly. "Greg's running a DNA test to match it to the blood spot you got off the seat."

"Which also may match our killer. Well-can you believe it? Getting somewhere." He shifted on his chair, frowned in thought. "Sara, is Greg also checking that DNA against the original CASt crimes?"

"Yes-but he won't have results for a while." She gave him a pleasant shrug of a smile and said, "Meanwhile, I'm back at it-just thought you'd wanna know."

"I appreciate it," he said, meaning it, knowing how easy it was for each CSI to get immersed in work and not take the time to bring the others up to speed. Tunnel vision, working in a vacuum, was an obvious but too frequent FUBAR in any CSI lab.

He got back to his own work, entering fingerprints from the Cadillac into AFIS. While those ran, he dropped by to see Greg Sanders himself-never hurt to apply a little pressure.

Greg leaned back in a desk chair, feet up on a table, Rolling Stone magazine open on his lap, listening to his iPod.

Warrick with both hands waved at the tech, as if bringing in an ailing plane for a landing, finally got his attention, and Greg smiled and tossed the magazine on the table, put his feet on the floor and detached himself from the iPod.

"And you want to give all this up," Warrick said, with an open-hand gesture, "to go out in the field with us?"

Arms folded, rocking back in the chair, Greg said, "Here's the thing, Warrick-when you excel in a profession and reach the top of your game, you need to walk away and try something else…. You know, before you stagnate."

"Right," Warrick nodded, leaning against a counter. "So is that what you're doing right now? Stagnating?"

"I'm working. Hard at it."

"Maybe you should take five. Wouldn't want you to sprain anything."

Greg cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. "What I'm doing is running your DNA tests."

"And what have you found?"

"Nothing yet. Perfection takes time."

"So I hear."

"Still replicating the DNA."

Warrick nodded, started out. "So I'll check back in an hour or so."

"Sure-drop by. We'll trade barbs and witticisms some more."

Warrick paused in the doorway. "Two hours, then?"

"Make it tomorrow-end of shift. Even that's pushing it."

Warrick smirked mirthlessly. "Well, what do you have for me today? Anything?"

"How about, the rope that strangled Perry Bell is different than the ones used at the previous two murders? Do anything for you?"

Drifting back in, Warrick said, "Yeah-consider me officially perked up…. Different how?"

"For one thing-it's older."

Warrick frowned. "Older rope?"

"Probably a good ten years. Same deal with the lipstick: It's Ile De France brand, all right; but it's a shade called Limerick Rose, which is what the original CASt used, back in the good old days."

"I thought that stuff was off the market."

Greg nodded. "At least seven years. Copycat's been using Bright Rose-a newer product, but similar shade."

Frowning, trying to wrap his head around this, Warrick said, "Are you telling me that lipstick from ten years ago is still usable?"

The tech shrugged. "All in the packaging. And if someone took care of it-kept it in climate-controlled conditions-almost anything's possible."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Why would anyone strip, torture, and strangle a victim, apply lipstick to the mouth and put a DNA cherry on the sundae?"

"I got a better one…. Why would two people do that?"

"That kind of question, I can't answer. What I can give you is: old rope and old lipstick, on the new killing…You think ol' Mackie's back in town? The original CASt, I mean?"

Warrick's shrug was elaborate. "It's looking that way. Can you imagine a scenario where the copycat suddenly shifts to old rope and ancient lipstick?"

"Just tell me this isn't Freddy versus Jason."

"Greg-it just might be."

The tech grinned. "You could always call in Ash to take 'em on."

"Huh?"

"Evil Dead?Chainsaw?…Warrick, you have absolutely no sense of great cinema."

"Riiight," Warrick said, and slipped out.

Back in the fingerprint lab, Warrick checked the results of the first batch of prints he'd put in. Paquette, Brower, and Mydalson's prints were, of course, on the CASt envelope from the Banner. Bell's prints were all over his house and on the keycard. No fingerprints inside the Diaz residence, other than those of the owner; same was true of Sandred's place. No surprises, there.

But then the computer slapped Warrick right in the face.

Fingerprints, from the doorbells of the two houses, matched.

And the truly shocking thing was the identity of who those fingerprints belonged to….

Warrick grabbed the report from the printer and hustled off to tell Grissom. The CSI didn't know what thrilled him more: the idea that the case was finally breaking; or that for once he had something that Grissom couldn't already know.

Gil Grissom and Jim Brass sat opposite David Paquette at the interview room table. The editor's gray suit looked rumpled and much the worse for wear; so did the editor, his red-rimmed eyes indicating sleep was a luxury he hadn't availed himself of since being taken into protective custody.

"What makes you think Perry wasn't a victim of the copycat?" Paquette was asking. "Why do you peg the real CASt for Perry's murder?"

Brass and Grissom exchanged looks; the latter nodded and handed a file to the former, who got up and handed it to Paquette.

Brass said, "I know crime scene photos are second-nature to an old police beat reporter like you…but these are rough. The first set is Sandred, then Diaz…and then Perry Bell. I know Perry was a good friend…."

Paquette opened the file, hunkered over the photos, his face turning as white as dead skin over a blister as he paged through. During the final set, he shook his head and said, "Perry…oh, God, Perry…"

The editor shut the file, passed it down to Brass, who took it and returned to his chair next to the CSI.

"I…I see what you mean," Paquette said. "The first two are…obviously staged. The final one…final one is all too fam…familiar."

The editor leaned on an elbow and covered his face with a hand. He wept.

Brass rose again, pushed a box of Kleenex toward him, and he and Grissom waited for several minutes.

The editor used two tissues, drying his eyes, blowing his nose, then he gathered himself and said, "What makes you think this…this maniac might be after me, too?"

Grissom said, "You were the coauthor of CASt Fear-with Perry a target, his collaborator seems likely a second one."

Brass made a casual gesture. "Of course, it's possible Perry was the copycat."

Paquette's bloodshot eyes popped wide. "Are you serious? You can't be serious. Perry? Perry Bell?"

Grissom said, "Perry was a good reporter past his prime, apparently with a drinking problem. Putting CASt back on the front page would revive his glory days. Desperate men do desperate things."

"Gil," Paquette said, "you knew Perry. He was a sweetheart. He just didn't have the sick twist of mind necessary, not to mention the stones, to carry off those first two killings."

Brass said, "John Wayne Gacy visited children in hospitals and did a clown routine. He was active with the Chamber of Commerce."

"Not Perry. No way."

"Dave, I tend to agree with you. I think Gil does, too. But it's an easy road to take."

The editor blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, that the real CASt-seeing that a copycat is stealing his thunder-might logically assume that you and or Perry were responsible."

"Perry the copycat? Me? Why, in hell?"

Grissom said, "With the exception of a small handful of police, you and Perry know more than anyone about the original crimes…including the digit removal and the semen signature."

Paquette had nothing to say to that. He rubbed his stubbly chin. "Then…you really think I'm next, on his list?"

Before either man could answer, Warrick slipped into the interview room.

Grissom gave him a sharp glance-this was a breach of not just procedure but etiquette-but Warrick leaned in and said, "I know, I know, I'm sorry…but this won't wait." He shot a look at Paquette, then handed his supervisor the printout.

Grissom read it fast, then passed the sheet to Brass, who also quickly absorbed its contents. Warrick slipped out.

Brass looked up at Paquette. "Tell me about Mark Brower."

"What about Mark?" Paquette asked.

"Is there any way he might have had access to the hold-back details on the original case?"

"Not that I know of-he wasn't even around during the first cycle of murders, or for that matter, when Perry and I were writing the book."

Grissom said, "Could Mark casually…wheedle something like that out of Bell…like when Perry was in his cups?"

Paquette thought about that. "Possibly. Perry reprinted the book-there was talk of revising it, which ultimately didn't happen, because it was a self-publishing deal, and expensive."

Grissom considered that momentarily, then asked, "So Perry and Mark, when the possibility of doing a revision was on the table, might have talked about the details that were omitted first time around?"

"I don't know that for a fact, Gil. But it's possible, yes. You're not looking at Mark as a suspect?"

Brass said, "Aren't we?"

"He's one of my best employees. He's a stand-up guy."

Grissom titled his head; an eyebrow raised. "Really. Maybe you can explain how his fingerprints got on Marvin Sandred's doorbell?"

Brass added, "And Enrique Diaz's doorbell?"

Paquette smiled disbelievingly and shook his head. "Oh that's just crazy…I don't buy that for a minute…."

"At least consider the sale," Brass said, and he handed the report across to the editor.

Leaning over, holding the sheet in both hands, close to his face, his expression shifting from incredulous to outraged, David Paquette read of the match between the prints on both doorbells and the ones Warrick took at the Banner office.

"Goddamn that little bastard!" Paquette said, shaking the sheet. "That psychotic little son of a bitch!"

Grissom and Brass traded glances, both thinking that the editor's warm assessment of Brower had not taken long to turn.

Brass said, "What do you make of it?"

Grissom said, "What would inspire Mark Brower to play CASt copycat?"

"Are you kidding?" the editor said. "It's painfully obvious! Mark figured to resurrect CASt, and frame Perry for it."

Brass said, "To what end?"

"Think about it! He immediately takes over the column, and he's in a perfect position to write the follow-up book himself…as the crime reporter who actually worked at Perry 'CASt Copycat' Bell's side."

Quietly aghast, Grissom said, "For something as fleeting…as meaningless, as fame? Brower would go to these…bizarre, malignant lengths?"

Paquette said, "You're not naive, Gil. Of course he would."

Brass's mouth twitched with disgust. To Grissom he muttered, "No wonder you prefer insects."

Paquette said, "I'd, uh…just as soon stay in protective custody, if you don't mind."

"Our pleasure," Brass said, just as his cell phone trilled. He left the room to answer it in private.

Grissom said, "Perry Bell's crime-beat column was at a dead end. Why would Mark Brower see it as a career opportunity worth killing for?"

Paquette was shaking his head, his smile a glazed thing. "Bell was at the end of his career, his life. For Brower, it's a stepping stone, but think of the context: It's a different world than back when Perry and I wrote CASt Fear. Now there's way more of a chance for movies, TV, and on top of the book sale, he'd have speaking fees, talk shows would pick this up, he'd maybe even wind up on Leno or Letterman. Mark Brower…if this plan worked…would've been a star."

"He may still be," Grissom said softly, "after we arrest him."

"Damn right," the editor said. "Look at Richard Ramirez, David Berkowitz, Aileen Wuornos. Between movies, documentaries, TV shows, books, hell-they have more exposure than some mega-stars."

Grissom-wondering if he'd somehow entered a Twilight Zone of infamy-glanced toward the door just as Brass came back in, his face a pissed-off mask.

"What now?" Grissom asked.

Rage barely in check, Brass said, "Patrol car I assigned to keep an eye on Dayton? They lost him. He came out of the house, drove off and our men got stopped at the gate long enough for Dayton to shake them. Shit!"

Paquette folded his hands; looked at the table.

Something about Paquette's manner-his attempt to turn invisible-triggered Brass. He turned on the editor. "You-you knew he was out! Didn't you, Dave?"

The editor shrugged once, stared at his hands.

"You fucking knew!" Brass yelled, his voice echoing off the walls.

Paquette turned away, then blurted, "All right! Yes." He threw his hands in the air. "Yes, damn it, I knew!"

Brass drew a deep breath; exhaled; said, "Did Perry Bell know a major CASt suspect was on the streets?"

"…No."

"Brower?"

"Not to my knowledge. Who knows with that bastard."

"How long have you known Dayton was out?"

Paquette hung his head. "I knew…knew not long after he got out. Maybe a month."

Grissom said, "Seven years."

The editor nodded.

"And it never occurred to you to tell us?"

"I didn't see it as your business."

Brass slapped his hand on the table and Paquette jumped.

The detective said, "Not even when murders started in again?"

"We all thought it was a copycat." The editor shrugged. "Look, the murders had stopped. Dayton got out of the nuthouse, and nothing bad happened. Anyway, you remember our book. You read it, right?"

Grissom said, "I just reread it. You didn't think Dayton was a valid suspect. You devoted a chapter to him and how the police were on the wrong track."

Brass leaned on his hands. "Oh…why, Dave, I almost forgot. You said Vince and I were on the…what was the phrase? 'Verge of persecuting Jerome Dayton, an innocent afflicted with mental problems?' "

Paquette sat up, his face red. "Damn it, Brass, Dayton was innocent! You know that. Hell, he was already committed out to Sundown, when Drake got killed."

Grissom had never seen Brass deliver a more terrible smile than the ghastly thing he cast upon David Paquette. "Really, Dave? You investigative journalists really dig, don't you? Only you failed to dig up one small fact: Jerome Dayton was on a weekend pass when Drake was killed."

"…what? Oh, no. Oh, hell no…"

"Hell yes, Dave."

Shaking now, Paquette fell back in his chair, tears glistening again. "Honest to Christ, Jim-I thought he was innocent."

Brass said nothing.

Grissom said, "Where's Brower right now, Dave? Is he at work?"

The editor sighed, shrugged. "Normally…but if he's working on a story, he could be out anywhere."

"Reporting news, you suppose?" Brass asked sarcastically. "Or making it?"

Brass sent an ashen Paquette back to protective custody.

As he and Grissom walked down the corridor, Brass got on his cell and dispatched Detective Sam Vega to try to locate Brower at the Banner; then he called for two patrol cars.

Grissom said, "You're picking up Brower?"

"Gonna try to. If he's our copycat, that makes his house par for the CSI course. Wanna round up Sara and Warrick and come with?"

"Try and stop me."

Mark Brower lived in Paradise, on Boca Grande, just off Hacienda Avenue. Boca Grande, Brass thought, "Big Mouth"…who the hell would name a street that?

The tiny bungalow with an attached one-car garage was what a Realtor would call cozy, talking up the proximity of Tomiyasu Elementary School, and a prospective buyer would call small. From the street, the place appeared empty, curtains drawn, doors closed. The postage-stamp lawn hadn't been mowed for some time-not that it mattered, brown as it had turned.

Brass blocked the driveway with the Taurus, while Warrick left the CSI Tahoe in front, he and Grissom getting out to join Brass next to his vehicle. The two squad cars were parked nearby, uniformed officers hustling over to huddle up with the others.

"Around back, you two," Brass told the officers, but before he got any further, his cell phone rang.

"Brass."

"Vega. Brower's not at the paper, and nobody here has seen him since around lunchtime yesterday."

Brass cursed, once. "All right, Sam-thanks. We'll hope he's in the house." He cut off the call and reported to the others.

"Next best chance is here," Warrick said.

The two patrolmen-Carl Carrack again and another vet, Ray Jalisco-had headed around opposite sides of the bungalow. Jalisco radioed that he'd looked through the window of the garage: Brower's car was gone.

Brass acknowledged that and waited for the two men to get around back and report in before he, Warrick, Sara, and Grissom approached the house.

Sara and Grissom hung back near the garage, to serve as backup, while Brass and Warrick went for the door. Warrick took the side near the knob, while Brass went wide to the far side.

Once in place, Brass knocked loudly on the door. "Mark Brower, open up! Police!"

The order was met with silence.

"Anything?" Brass asked into his walkie-talkie.

Carrack's voice came instantly. "Nothing, Cap-tumbleweed blowin' through, back here."

Brass pounded on the door again.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

Raising his chin and nodding toward the door, Warrick signaled Brass that he was going to try the knob.

Brass nodded permission; his pistol was in both hands, barrel pointed skyward. Leaning forward, Warrick had his gun in his left hand, to use his right to turn the knob.

To the surprise of both men, the door was unlocked.

The CSI gave the door a shove and it swung in out of Brass's way, and the detective entered the house, gun dropping down to chest level, both hands still gripping it.

Though the room was dark-only marginal light spilled through the open door and filtered around the drapes-Brass could nonetheless see the place was a shambles.

Oh, hell,he thought. Another damn crime scene…

Having come through on the detective's heels, Warrick hesitated just long enough to hit the light switch next to the door, prints be damned in a potentially dangerous situation like this.

An overhead light revealed a tight little living room of overturned and broken furniture, magazines, newspapers, framed pictures, and knickknacks, all scattered as if dropped from above, TV set on its side, frame cracked, picture tube shattered.

Brass listened, listened, listened, but heard no sound save a clock or two ticking. The living room led straight into a dining room, where three of four chairs at a round oak table were overturned. The fourth chair lay in splinters, possibly having been used as a weapon. The detective and the CSI remained silent as they moved across the living room, guns at the ready. Just inside the dining room, a hallway peeled off to the left, and another door at the back of the room led into the kitchen.

They tried not to disturb evidence, but first priority was clearing the house, and-if they ran across him-taking Brower into custody. Signaling to Warrick to watch the hallway, Brass moved to the kitchen. Warrick backed along with him, careful where he stepped, but keeping his eyes mostly on the hallway, having no desire to be attacked from that direction.

The kitchen-light streaming in through windows over the sink-was even messier than the other rooms; it was almost as if a tornado had swept through without touching walls or roof. Brass also noticed blood spatter here and there on the floor, and on the counters-more indicative of a brawl than the chopped-off fingers of this case. And it was easy to note the smell of food going bad in the refrigerator, standing ajar.

To the right was a closed door, the garage probably; to the left, a door that led to a bedroom, maybe. Jalisco had looked through the garage window, so Brass went to the unknown entry first.

With Warrick guarding his back, Brass found a neat spare bedroom, a single bed against one wall, a desk with a computer against the other wall, near the only window. He checked the closet, but found only some hanging clothes and a case of computer paper.

"Clear," Brass said for Warrick's benefit, backing out.

They proceeded with the garage, finding it deserted, as well. They went back to the dining room and into the hall, checking two bedrooms, the bathroom and all the closets. Mark Brower was not here, but it was abundantly clear that someone-two someones-had very much been here.

Back outside, Brass huddled again with the CSIs, saying, "There was a hell of a fight in there, but nobody's in the house now…and from the smell in the kitchen, there hasn't been anyone for some time."

"You think CASt found out Brower is the copycat?" Warrick asked.

Brass shrugged. "I dunno, but something went down here…either that, or this guy's a worse housekeeper than me. We'll keep searching for him. I'll talk to DMV and find out about his car, get an APB out."

Turning to Warrick and Sara, Grissom said, "We're here, we'll work the scene. Maybe there's something. Sara, bedrooms and bathroom. Warrick, dining room and living room. I'll be in to help you, soon as I do the kitchen."

Brass returned to his car as Grissom got his kit out of the Tahoe. As the three crime-scene analysts neared the house, Grissom said, "Warrick, you've already been in the house. Go through and open the garage door, so I can get to the kitchen that way."

"Will do."

Enough feet had tracked through the crime scene already, and Sara had no choice but to enter through the front door to get to her assignment. Still, no reason for Grissom to add his prints to the pile.

A minute or so later the garage door motored up slowly and Grissom ducked inside. The garage was clean-a bicycle hanging upside down on the right wall, a small workbench in back, a lawnmower at left next to a plastic garbage can. A fresh oil stain about the size of a softball marked the cement where a car usually sat.

Moving through to the kitchen, Grissom got his first look at the destruction inside.

A small table, just big enough for two, normally in a bay window, had been shoved off in a corner, one chair on its side, the other, its back broken off, near the door to the garage, broken back wedged under the refrigerator. The mess included mounds of spices and powders on both the floor and the counters, having spilled from several open cupboards; and a broken bottle of jelly looked like a purple fragmentation bomb had gone off.

The tiled kitchen floor provided prime opportunity for footprints, and inspired Grissom to get out the electrostatic print lifter. He rolled out the mylar sheet, applied the two electric leads and touched them to the sheet, taking five long mylar sheets to get the kitchen done.

Next, he photographed the room from various angles, before going through the kitchen on his hands and knees, investigating the various pieces of things that had ended up on the floor during the skirmish. He bagged shards of broken glass that might contain fingerprints, did the same with bits of broken furniture and the toaster. He took samples of blood, and carefully collected threads of fabric and various powders that were probably only spices.

Finished, he took one last look around. He had covered the floors, the counters, the small table, and chairs and even looked in the open cupboards and been careful to dust for prints. The CSI was packed up and ready to leave when he glanced over at the double well sink. He had looked in there, hadn't he? Retracing his investigation, Grissom realized that when he had gotten to that part of the kitchen, he'd been focused on several blood smears on the countertop, and the hope that one might hold a fingerprint.

Pulling his Mini Maglite out of his pocket, Grissom returned to the sink. The garbage disposal side had a plastic cover fitted tightly over the drain. The sink itself was empty. The one place where all the mess should have gone, it was completely avoided, just another anomaly in a lifetime of crime scene anomalies.

The well on the right held a microwave container of chicken noodle soup that had obviously been spilled there from the drainboard next to the sink. The strainer basket had wound up across the room, against a wall, possibly used as a weapon hurled by one opponent at another. Grissom had bagged that already.

Looking down into the mass of noodles leaking into the slotted drain, Grissom thought he saw something shiny wink at him.

Carefully moving the noodles aside, the CSI got his forceps and shone the beam of his flash on the object as he gingerly guided the tips of the tool around the object.

The last thing he wanted was for the thing to fall through the slotted drain, into the trap. He would take the drain apart if he had to, but would prefer not. Slowly, carefully, he got the object into the center and clamped down on the forceps, locking the object in the tool's grip. Lifting it out, Grissom saw that he held a tiny diamond encrusted "D."

Flipping it over, he saw a joint on the back where something had been broken off. This was, he thought, most likely an earring. If so, why did Brower have a "D" earring?

Bagging it, Grissom placed the earring in his kit. Jerome Dayton might be a probable candidate for the "D," but this seemed an unlikely piece of jewelry for a man.

He'd check with Brass later. But right now, Sara and Warrick needed help with the rest of the house.

Ten

O utside the Brower house, Jim Brass paced.

For the first time, in a case that stretched back to the beginning of his Vegas career, he sensed that the end might be in sight. The Brower house had been a blind alley in that neither the copycat suspect nor the real CASt had been found within; but the signs of struggle indicated that both had been present.

Would CASt once again slip away? Would this case still be consuming him if he worked on it another ten years? Every time they'd gotten close, the rug seemed to get pulled out from under…

And so Jim Brass paced, at once angry and gleeful, frustrated and gratified, apprehensive and hopeful. As the CSIs loaded their equipment, the detective finally planted himself on the sidewalk next to their SUV.

He watched as Grissom lifted an evidence bag out of his kit; then the thoughtful CSI approached him.

"You know Brower," Grissom said. "Does he have anyone in his life whose name starts with 'D'? Someone who might wear this?"

Brass looked at the bag: The glittering diamond earring was broken, but the detective recognized it at once.

Grissom was saying, "The only names I could come up with, in the CASt context, were David Paquette and Jerome Dayton. But this seems to be a woman's bauble."

"It once was," Brass said. "It belonged to Dayton's mother-sonny boy had it made into an earring…and I saw him wearing it, today."

The two men's eyes locked for a beat, and a pair of very faint smiles formed, and curt nods were exchanged…

…and then they were moving, Grissom slamming the rear doors on the Tahoe, Brass running for his Taurus, yelling to Carrack and Jalisco to follow him, leaving one squad behind to maintain the crime scene.

To Warrick and Sara, Grissom called, "Get in-CASt may be taking his curtain call!"

The parade of vehicles-Brass in front, followed by the CSI SUV and a patrol car-tore across the city, sirens screaming, Hacienda to Sandhill, then north to Tropicana, and back east to hook up with I-515. Calling for backup, Brass found himself flying up the on ramp at eighty, and nearing one hundred as he sped north.

Around Pecos Road and Stewart Avenue, the interstate curved to the west, and Brass wove through traffic as he raced toward Dayton's palatial digs. By now two more patrol cars had fallen in behind Grissom's Tahoe, joining the motorcade. Brass blew down the off ramp at Town Center Drive, still going over fifty, and sailed across Town Center before swinging into the TPC at the Canyons, the guard having the good sense to raise the flimsy barrier when he heard the sirens and realized the onslaught was not slowing down, let alone stopping at his shack.

As they approached the club's residential section, Brass cut his siren and Grissom behind him followed suit, the patrol cars, too. Brass squealed the vehicle to a halt in front of Dayton's driveway, where the garage doors were down, though a familiar black SUV roosted out front of the castlelike house.

As Brass raced across the lawn, not bothering with the winding sidewalk, Sara and Warrick practically jumped out of the Tahoe to fall in behind him. Grissom moved off on his own, edging toward the driveway. Already standing on the porch were Catherine and Nick, glancing back with puzzled expressions.

Rushing to the steps, Brass stopped and looked up at them, figuring they'd heard his call for backup on the radio. "How'd you guys beat me here?"

"We didn't know you were on the way," Catherine said, lifting her eyebrows. "We're here to serve the warrant for Dayton's DNA."

"You got a warrant?" Brass asked, amazed.

Catherine said, "Yeah, Judge Landry."

Brass, frowning, was shaking his head. "All we had was the bruised hand…"

"And the news that Dayton was on a weekend pass when Vincent Drake got killed."

Nick said, "Dayton's old man helped keep the judge off the federal bench, y'know…and that Dayton family lawyer, Carlisle Deams, took part."

Brass found himself grinning. "Shrewd choice of judges, Cath."

Her smile was wicked. "Gil may hate politics, Jim, but it can cut both ways."

"I been knocking and ringing the bell," Nick said, jerking a thumb at the double doors. "Our boy doesn't seem to be home. What brought you on the run?"

"We found signs of a big struggle at Brower's house," Brass said, "and Grissom just snagged Dayton's earring, processing the scene."

"What," Catherine said, "that diamond D?"

"Dee one and dee same," Brass said.

Nick hit the bell again, but no one seemed to be coming; while they waited, Brass called for Carrack and Jalisco to bring the ram.

From the street, Grissom called out, "Trail of fresh oil! Looks like Mark Brower's car hasn't been fixed yet."

Carrack and Jalisco hit the doors with the ram, right where they met, blowing them open with a satisfying crunch.

Then Grissom was in their midst, a referee with a flag on the play; he was slipping on latex gloves.

With quiet authority, the CSI supervisor said to Brass, "I want gloves on everybody-this may be a crime scene. We do not want to compromise anything that could put a serial killer away."

Brass said, "Same page," and gloves were snapped on before the entire group entered the house, guns drawn-even the notoriously gun-hating Gil Grissom.

Beyond a surprisingly small entry loomed a high-ceilinged living room, appointed in stark white with expensive yet oddly bland furnishings. An open doorway to the right revealed a huge kitchen, while a hallway to the left led to two stairways, one up, one down; a door on the left presumably opened into the attached garage, while at the end of the hall was a bathroom smaller than a ballroom, another hallway peeling off at right.

Sara and Nick moved into the kitchen. Jalisco and Catherine went upstairs; Warrick and Carrack took the living room, leaving Brass and Grissom to head downstairs into the basement.

* * *

As Sara Sidle followed Nick into the kitchen, he ducked slightly as he swept his pistol around the room; Sara stayed high, fanning in the opposite direction.

The large modern kitchen was empty-it seemed scrupulously scrubbed to Sara, even compared to her own much tinier but still tidy one. With all the gleaming polished chrome and steel, she was reminded more of an operating room than a kitchen-which was not a particularly comforting thought.

A pass-through on the left provided a window into the empty dining room. Next to that was a doorway between the two rooms.

The only thing out of place was a pink-tinged towel in the sink. Sara could hear Nick's breathing next to her, short quick bursts, the tension getting to him, too.

She nodded toward the towel. "Blood?"

"Could be," he said, his voice low. Then into his radio, he said, "Kitchen clear."

Going back the way they had come, Sara led Nick down the hall, toward the garage door.

Upstairs, Jalisco slipped into a bedroom to the left while Catherine Willows watched the two doors to the right-wouldn't do to have a demented serial killer spring at them from behind.

Or was there any other kind of serial killer, than demented?

"Guest room," Jalisco said. "Clear."

Catherine crossed past the stairwell to the first door on the right, heart pounding but her hands cool around the pistol grip. She always felt nervous in these situations-a little edge was a good thing-but never scared. Of all the nightshift CSIs, she had fired her weapon on the job most often, and had several kills to (what she did not like to think of as) her "credit." Trained well, and trusting of that training, she still felt completely in control-even though, like any cop in such a situation, she had no idea what might lay around the next corner or behind the nearest door…

…like the one on the right, which was open.

She stepped in quickly, swept the large bathroom with her handgun.

Everything was white, walls, towels, fixtures, rug, and of the highest quality, but nothing in this blizzard seemed out of place. She brushed back the white shower curtain to make sure no one was in the tub, then called to Jalisco: "Clear."

The last room upstairs, another bedroom, had been converted into an office. An L-shaped desk took up half the room, a huge desktop computer tucked underneath, an equally big monitor perched above.

Jalisco checked the closet while Catherine looked around the room. Walls were bare and white, desk was pale gray, the computer a pale gray as well, very little sign of use-a few books, the usual dictionary and thesaurus and so on, neatly between bookends, and a box of paper. The atmosphere was vaguely impersonal, even institutional, as if Dayton had become so used to Sundown, he'd brought that feel home with him.

Jalisco leaned back out the closet and said, "Clear."

The uniformed officer pushed the button on his walkie and reported in. "Clear upstairs."

Warrick Brown and Carrack circled like dancers with guns around the huge living room with its cathedral ceiling. Warrick spotted a formal dining room off to the right; at left, Carrack checked a fireplace that-instead of having a solid closed back-opened onto a bedroom. Moving to his right, around one end of a white leather couch, Warrick satisfied himself that the living room was empty.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been in such a monochromatic chamber: carpeting, furniture, walls, ceiling, everything was white, with the sole exception of the black face of the wall-hanging plasma screen and the blacks with red LEDs of shelved (and elaborate) stereo equipment.

The blankness of these surroundings chilled Warrick, and he did not chill easily. Could the Dayton family have lived this way? Or-as his instinct told him-had Jerome remodeled after their deaths, to make this castle his own?

That was when Warrick noticed something that wasn't there: family pictures. Nowhere in the entry room or this living room, typical places for framed family photos, either on a wall or gathered on a table, was there any sign of the father and mother who had raised this only child.

For all the money in this room, the leather, the expensive video/stereo gear, Warrick had seen hotel suites with more personality.

Either Jerome Dayton had no personality, or he kept it well concealed…even at home.

"Clear," Carrack reported.

The pair moved on.

Brass barreled down the stairs, Grissom struggling to keep up.

This was a finished basement, the stairs emptying into a small space with doors on the right and left. Brass turned the knob of the door on the left and Grissom waited as the detective entered, finding himself in a family room with thick brown carpeting and brown sectional furniture under a row of windows that looked out over the backyard.

A 32-inch TV on a pedestal sat against the wall on the right; the wall to the left of the door was filled with paperback-packed bookcases, while the far left wall held another door.

Hell, Brass thought, this place has more rooms than some hotels on the Strip….

And each one had to be cleared.

* * *

Sara opened the door to the garage and hit the light switch with the heel of her latexed palm-a fingerprint-preserving habit of hers.

Two cars were parked within: a new late-model white Lexus; and an older blue Dodge so filthy it was a wonder no prankish finger had written WASH ME in the grime. She and Nick moved carefully through, looking behind boxes and under a tool bench, making sure no one was hiding.

Finally Nick knelt to peer under the Dodge.

"Oil leak, all right," he said.

He rose and opened the passenger door, called back, "Keys in dash," then flicked the glove compartment open. He pulled out the registration and read aloud: "Mark Brower."

Sara pushed the talk button on her radio. "Garage clear. We have Brower's car, a very dirty Dodge."

Brass nodded when he heard Sara's voice come over the radio.

He checked over his shoulder, to see if Grissom had followed him into the family room, which he had; then Brass moved to the door at the back, grabbed a breath, hefted his pistol, and turned the knob.

Warrick and Carrack had gone down the hall, passing the door to the garage, taking a right into the bedroom that had been visible through the shared fireplace.

No one was in here, at least on first look.

This was obviously the master bedroom, and the stark white decorating theme persisted with a dresser, bureau, and four-poster bed.

Carrack checked the walk-in closet while Warrick entered another huge bathroom. Didn't take him long to find a pink-tinged wash cloth in the shower stall. Even without lab results, the CSI knew he was looking at a blood stain.

"Warrick!" Carrack called from the walk-in closet.

At the patrolman's side, Warrick followed Carrack's pointing finger to a pile of clothes next to the hamper: jeans with several dark spots on the legs and a blue T-shirt with a dark splotch on the front, which also appeared to be blood.

Into his walkie, Carrack said, "Bedroom clear."

Following up, Warrick said into his radio, "Gris-we have blood-stained clothing up here. Copy that?"

"Copy," came Grissom's voice.

In the basement, following Warrick's news of blood-stained clothing, Brass switched off his walkie-talkie.

Much as he liked keeping the flow of information alive between teams, he did not want the cross-talk giving away his and Grissom's position.

Beyond the family room, he found himself in a bedroom.

But not just a bedroom, and not another room in this largely featureless house, painting itself an innocent white.

"Gil," Brass said. "You're gonna love this…."

The "bedroom" was more like a dungeon; oh, there was indeed a bed in it, a simple black bed with black silk sheets, centered in the middle of the room; but there were no windows in here, and as both men got out their flashlights and flicked them on, the darkness of the room was only heightened by illumination.

The walls were painted a flat black; the carpet was black indoor-outdoor. Shackles hung from the ceiling at the four corners of the bed, and an amazing array of rough-trade instruments hung on the wall to the left, the tools of a sadist's workshop. Though the blackness made them difficult to discern, knobs gave away doors at left and right on the wall opposite.

Brass felt Grissom move up beside him.

"Door number one," Brass whispered, "or door number two?"

"Lady or the tiger?" the CSI supervisor replied with a terrible little smile.

But Brass never had to choose.

The door at left opened and a blood-drenched Jerry Dayton stepped into the room. Nude except for a flimsy pair of jockeys, the young man froze when he saw the pistols leveled at him, then raised his left hand against the glare of the flashlights.

His right hand remained behind his slightly turned body.

"Show me your hands, Jerry," Brass said tightly.

"Lower the light," Dayton countered. "I can't see a damn thing!"

Neither flashlight moved.

"Show me your goddamn hands," Brass said, taking a half-step toward his suspect.

The hand came up, but as it did, Dayton flung something…

…something warm and mushy that struck Brass in the cheek, the detective firing, the sound like a thunderclap in the enclosed space, Dayton ducking to his left, the object he'd tossed flopping to the floor.

Grissom's beam found what had hit his friend in the face, putting a small spotlight on a severed human forefinger that seemed to point back at the CSI; its ragged bloody end leeched red.

At the same time, Brass's beam caught Dayton darting through the door on the right, leaving it open.

Brass yelled, "Freeze!"

But the suspect was gone.

"Dayton is yours," Grissom said, and slipped past him to go in the lefthand door.

Alone now, Brass shone the flashlight through the ajar door at right, then went after the suspect.

Even before the blood-streaked, near-naked figure had emerged into the black room, Gil Grissom had heard someone moaning.

Though his weapon was in hand, Grissom hadn't fired when Dayton literally flipped a finger at Brass, the CSI hesitating for fear of striking his friend, who flinched into his line of fire.

"Grissom! Grissom!" The voice was Sara's in the walkie-talkie. "We heard a shot-are you all right? What's going on?"

"Stay put," Grissom said into the walkie. "Brass is in pursuit of Dayton-keep all possible exits blocked!"

He clicked off.

Grissom's ears still rang from the gun as he moved out of the black bedroom, but he could make out the moaning, despite his compromised hearing.

This room was not black.

It was red.

Bare cement walls, floor, and ceiling-some pipes exposed above but blending into the overall mono-color scheme-had been painted out by a bright glossy red. The only light was a red bulb, stuck in a high socket on the left wall and, like every other room in this house, had another door at the far end. In the center of the crimson chamber-above a drain in the floor, cloaked in shadow but not clothing-Mark Brower hung from a noose just tight enough to keep him from moving, but not constrictive enough to kill him.

His hands were behind him, obviously bound but by what Grissom could not yet see. Blood poured from behind Brower to pool almost invisibly on the scarlet floor, and even Gil Grissom needed no further evidence to know that the finger flung at Brass had been unwillingly contributed by Mark Brower, mouth agape in some sort of bawling that Grissom saw but could not quite hear with his ringing ears.

His eyes wild with fear, and pleading with his potential rescuer, Brower managed, "Help me," but the words came to Grissom only as a faint, far off whisper, though the CSI's lip-reading skills made the cry crystal clear.

The red chamber was empty but for Brower, but Grissom didn't know whether Dayton's dive through that other door might not bring him back here around through a back way. As such, he didn't want to holster his weapon; but he had to help Brower, even if the common palmar digital artery was too small for the copycat to exsanguinate.

With any major trauma, however, the victim might go into shock, and Brower was definitely bound (so to speak) to injure or kill himself, if he didn't quit bouncing around with the noose around his neck….

Switching his gun to his left hand, Grissom withdrew a pocket knife, got it open, and started to cut the rope just over Brower's head. The entire time, the CASt copycat kept moaning, "Help me, help me," like the human-headed fly in the old horror movie, and that was about how distant it sounded to Grissom, with his gunshot-ravaged hearing.

But the longer the CSI worked on the rope, the more the gunshot echo dissipated and the ringing in his ears dissipated too, Brower's appeals growing louder and more intense.

"Quiet," Grissom said, his own voice not much above a whisper. "We don't know where he is."

"You got a goddamn gun, Grissom!" Brower said, his features distorted with hysteria and pain. "Get me the hell out of here!"

Grissom kept at it and when he finally cut the last strand, Brower dropped to the floor, rolling into a fetal position.

"Gris!" came Warrick's voice from the walkie-talkie. "Please report! Do you need assistance?"

He pocketed his knife and pulled the walkie off his belt. "I have Brower down here. He's alive but short a finger."

"I'm coming down with Carrack and Jalisco-"

"No," Grissom interrupted, voice was low but emphatic. "Stay upstairs-it's dark down here, might wind up shooting each other. Set up a perimeter around the house, watch doors, windows, any possible exit. Brass remains in pursuit of Dayton, who is naked and bloody…and possibly armed and dangerous."

Nick came on then. "Gris, you sure you-"

"No," Grissom said, and shut off his radio.

Though the handcuffs served as a temporary tourniquet, Grissom thought it best to get direct pressure on Brower's wound. After returning his walkie-talkie to his belt, the CSI withdrew a standard handcuff key, and released the man…despite his own desire to leave him cuffed, and save time at the inevitable arrest.

"Sit up," Grissom said.

Brower just lay there, whimpering-probably, Grissom thought, much as Sandred and Diaz had, when this creature exercised his performance art upon them, at their expense….

With more urgency, Grissom said, "Sit up."

"Help me…"

Grissom did not want to touch Brower, who was, after all, evidence.

So it was not entirely a lack of compassion for the copycat that prompted Grissom to say, "No."

Reluctantly, Brower managed to sit up by himself. Grissom handed the man a handkerchief.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Brower asked numbly.

Grissom said, "Apply direct pressure to your finger."

"What finger? That maniac cut off my goddamn finger!"

"Apply direct pressure to the wound…and stay here."

Still agitated, Brower asked, "Where the hell else would I go?"

"Well, if it's upstairs, you'll probably be mistaken for Dayton and shot." Which would be a nice irony, considering that was who Brower had homicidally imitated.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whimpered.

"To jail, you are," Grissom said.

Grissom moved to the back door of the room, listened intently, hoped it was the last room in this fun house, and reached for the knob.

Following Dayton, Brass-his flashlight beam leading the way-plunged into darkness.

He wanted to move faster, sure that Dayton was getting away; but he also knew others were posted upstairs, and that a little caution might go a long way toward keeping himself alive, if Dayton happened to be lying in wait somewhere….

The detective swept the area with his beam.

Some kind of storage room-empty cartons stacked, shelves all around with smaller unmarked boxes; but no suspect.

Brass crossed the space, and found-yes-another damn door…open.

Doing his best to move silently, Brass eased through and swept the light over a workroom with bench, to his left; along the other walls, tools on pegboard, a drill press, a table saw, and a smaller bench with both a grinder and a vise. Beyond the bench on the left, at the far end of the room, naturally, waited yet another door. Smell of sawdust in his nostrils, Brass was almost past the bench when he felt a blow against his left leg, just below and to side of the knee, and then a blinding pain.

The gun and flashlight both fell from his hands, his weapon clattering to the floor somewhere at right, the flash bouncing off something before hitting the floor and spinning to a stop, the light now pointed at him.

He looked down at the knife sticking out of his pants leg, a dark circle spreading in the gray slacks. He started to lose his balance, but before he went down, Dayton rolled out from under the workbench and came up with a head butt that sent Brass tumbling backward, starbursts in his eyes, and he crashed into something hard, then fell to the floor.

He was trying to get back on his feet when a click preceded stark but limited illumination.

Very nearby, Dayton-red spattered on his face like he'd been eating barbecue, sloppily, eyes showing white all around, his wolfish white teeth exposed in an animal snarl-stood at the workbench, having just flipped on a switch for a single work light.

Brass had been looked at with displeasure by many a perp in his time, but never with such complete contempt and hatred.

"You-you meddling imbecile son of a bitch…you petty little civil servant scum of the earth…you've screwed my life over for the last goddamn time!"

Dayton lurched over and grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked it out of the detective's leg, like a demented dentist extracting a tooth.

Feeling white hot pain from head to toes, Brass nonetheless kicked with his good leg at the red-streaked naked figure, sending the killer sprawling back, and giving himself time to at least get to one knee before Dayton charged him again.

And when the attack came, Brass crouched low as Dayton raised the knife high.

When the blade arced down, Brass threw himself forward and left, the knife grazing his sportcoat and sending Dayton off balance, just as Brass smashed into the killer's knee with his shoulder.

Brass heard the satisfying crunch as Dayton's knee gave way and the killer toppled, twisting as he went. Then with a jungle cry, Dayton lunged at Brass, and the two of them rolled on the floor, fighting over the one knife they had between them.

Again Grissom found himself in a darkened room and flipped on the flashlight.

This room was small, rather like a fruit cellar, and indeed a set of shelves against the wall on the left recalled such a cubicle. Of the five shelves, three contained books and magazines and scrapbooks, including various editions of CASt Fear, including the recent one self-published by Perry Bell; Grissom allowed himself an educated guess that the other books and magazines contained chapters or articles about the murders, and the scrapbooks CASt clippings.

The next shelf held coils of rope and a dozen lipstick tubes: Limerick Rose.

And the top shelf was home to a row of small jars, the likes of which you would be unlikely to find in a typical fruit cellar, except perhaps at Ed Gein's farm.

In each jar sat a dried, shriveled index finger.

All but two, that is.

One jarred finger looked fairly fresh-very possibly, Perry Bell's.

And the fifth one from the left had no finger at all-likely the jar that had held Vincent Drake's finger before CASt sent it to the Banner, sacrificing it in defense of his good name.

This thought was still passing through his mind when he heard the sounds.

Grissom looked toward their source, yet another door, and what else was there to do but go through it? In such a small room it took only three quick steps, and he went in to see a yellow light on over a workbench and-their backs to him-the naked bloody Dayton and Brass struggling over a knife, locked in both their hands.

Brass had blood on him, too, perhaps not all of it Dayton's.

Grissom crossed the workroom just as Dayton, on top, hooked a left that caught Brass's chin and knocked the detective's head against the concrete floor. Brass didn't seem to be unconscious, but the fight appeared out of him, momentarily at least, and Dayton now had control of the knife. He grabbed onto Brass's left wrist and lay the hand on the cement. He was pressing the blade against the forefinger, just above the knuckle, when Grissom put the nose of the pistol against the back of Dayton's head.

"Drop the knife," Grissom said.

Dayton moved the knife to Brass's throat.

"Back away," CASt said, "or I cut it!"

"When I fire," Grissom said blandly, "your motor skills die with you."

Dayton froze.

"It's not a theory," Grissom said.

CASt cast the knife aside.

Grissom backed off slightly. "Stand up and fold your hands behind your head."

Coming up slowly, Dayton spread his arms wide, crucifixion style. Then with great care, the killer wove his fingers together behind his head, grinning defiantly at Grissom.

"Turn around," Grissom said.

Dayton did.

Then Grissom holstered the weapon and got out his handcuffs, about to secure the prisoner's hands behind him; but Dayton dipped, swept a leg around, and took the CSI's feet from under him.

Grissom went down hard on the cement.

Leg throbbing, Brass struggled to his feet, then slipped, his fingers nudging something cold…

…his pistol!

Grabbing the weapon, he wrapped his fingers around the grip and managed to get to a knee.

Dayton was punching a disoriented Grissom in the face, once, twice, then as the naked killer pulled back his fist for a third blow, Brass got his footing and once again Jerome Dayton had the mouth of a pistol kissing the back of his head.

"Case you were wondering," Brass said, "difference between me and Grissom? He did his best not to shoot you…. Jerry, Jerry, Jerry-please, please give me an excuse."

Dayton swallowed thickly.

Sanity got the better of the madman, and he put his hands up, and caused them no further trouble.

Eleven

A s he sat in the interview room, Jim Brass was constantly aware of the bandage under his pant leg, and the stitches pulling at his skin. On either side of him were Sara and Nick, who had worked the case from its two different angles: new and old.

For the first time since the discovery of Marvin Sandred's body, Brass was not struggling with rage and/or frustration. He felt good-cool and calm, and ready to enjoy his revenge as a dish best served cold.

Across the table, a sullen, silent Jerry Dayton-in jailhouse orange and handcuffs-stared at the detective with death daggers in his eyes, and Brass felt only amused. Next to Dayton sat attorney Carlisle Deams, looking as respectable and distinguished as a college dean, a ruddy study in gray (hair, mustache, three-piece suit), frequently referring to a small pile of papers, a man who seemed unable to stop talking in his effort to assure Brass that his client wasn't talking.

The "tell," as ex-gambler Warrick might say, was the attorney's eyes: dark dead orbs that might have been a shark's.

"My client has nothing to say to you people-do you understand? Nothing."

Dayton's cuffs were in front of him-not the standard, safer behind-his-back-since he was in the presence of his lawyer.

"He was fairly chatty before," Brass said, "when he was running around wearing nothing but Mark Brower's blood, and sticking a knife in my leg."

"Well, you'll just have to be content, Captain Brass," Deams said with a nasty smile, "with your memories."

Brass provided his own mirthless smile. "My take on your client is that he has a mind of his own. This meeting is a courtesy, really."

The lawyer's dead black eyes blinked. "A courtesy?"

"Yes-to provide Jerry an opportunity to explain himself, to express his unique point of view."

Warrick said, "Mr. Dayton obviously has a certain pride in his…hobby. We thought he might like to help us sort out his work from that of this…interloper."

Sara said, "Of course, Mr. Dayton, if you don't help clear things up? His efforts may be confused for yours, and vice versa."

Dayton was frowning, and the lawyer patted his client on the arm while saying to the adversaries across the table, "Very clever. But your attempts to play on my client's pride are not going to crack his resolve. He has nothing to say to you, nor are either of us interested in anything you might have to say."

Brass shrugged. "Well, then, we'll let the evidence do the talking…in court."

Deams chuckled dryly. "I'm more than happy to face the best the District Attorney can throw at us."

"Good." Brass beamed. "You're happy. I'm happy."

Deams smirked. "Let me tell you what you have-a charge against my client for simple assault."

Warrick said, "Not that simple-he kidnapped Mark Brower, and cut off his finger, and had him bound up in a torture chamber."

"Mark Brower came to my client's home and attacked him."

Sara gave up a smile. "Really-so Mr. Dayton cut off Brower's finger in self-defense? And put his head in a noose? That'll be fun to hear you argue in court."

Dayton frowned at his attorney, who then said to Brass and the CSIs, "Whatever you may have in the Brower matter is beside the point. You can't really think you're going to successfully prosecute my client for events that happened a decade ago?"

Brass said, "Mr. Dayton's DNA hasn't changed in ten years-and we have his DNA from then and now."

"Stored under what conditions?" Deams said, waving that off as if it were nothing more than a bothersome gnat.

Warrick said, "We have voluminous physical evidence, Mr. Deams, including the fingers your client harvested from his victims, which we removed from his little basement museum."

Deams even shrugged that off. "We believe Mark Brower planted that evidence in my client's home."

"Well, then Brower must've made your client help him out," Warrick replied, "because only Jerome Dayton's fingerprints are on those jars."

The attorney gestured with open hands. "Circumstantial evidence. You have surprisingly little. Is there anything else?"

"You mean, other than your client running around bare-ass with blood all over him," Brass said, "stabbing a police officer whose presence was backed up by a warrant?"

Deams twitched something that was not exactly a smile. "My client is…a troubled young man. He has a medical history, which includes medication that has been quite successful in curtailing his…problem."

"Not lately," Brass said.

"We will show that a physician recommended my client take a drug holiday-that's a common practice for patients suffering chemical imbalance, who have been medicated for many years. It would appear that this holiday was…ill-advised."

"Ill-advised?" Brass said. "Maybe we should prescribe your client's doctor a lethal injection, too?"

"No such barbaric thing will happen to my client, Captain Brass. In fact, I'm quite sure this particular case will never get to trial."

"Your 'troubled' client," Brass said, "was institutionalized before, and yet he was out within three years. And now that Mommy and Daddy aren't around to keep him in a druggy haze, he's reverted to his 'barbaric' nature. No-even if you manage to convince a judge and jury that Jerry here doesn't know the difference between right and wrong…and I grant you he's a homicidal sociopath…he'll be in a state institution that'll make Sundown look like Club Med."

Dayton finally spoke-three simple words, directed at Brass: "I hate you."

"Well, that can be your new hobby, Jerry," Brass said, "in your new padded pad."

That did it.

Despite the cuffed wrists, Dayton came scrambling over the table at Brass, but Brass was ready and simply slipped aside, the killer sliding over the edge of the table, accidentally kicking his lawyer in the head before he landed face-first on the floor in an upended pile. The kick had sent Deams off balance, and he'd tumbled off his chair onto the floor as well.

A uniformed officer rushed in, but Brass waved him away, grabbing Dayton by the scruff of the neck and picking him up like a big plastic bag full of trash; then Warrick was on the other side of the prisoner and together they dragged the dazed Dayton around and sat him down in his chair, hard.

Sara had come around to help the flustered attorney to his feet, and Deams growled a thanks at her and proceeded to slap away at his expensive gray suit as if it had gotten filthy from his trip to the carpet of the spotless interview room.

Both CSIs and the homicide captain seemed more amused than frightened or even flustered by this lame attack from a known serial killer.

"Jerry," Brass said, in a tone usually reserved for wayward children, "you really must watch that temper-someday you may do something really violent, and who knows what kind of trouble you'll get yourself in."

"I object," the lawyer squeaked. He had finally stopped brushing away imaginary dirt from his suit.

"You're not in court, counselor," Brass said. "Sit down!"

The attorney drew in a breath through clenched teeth; but he sat.

Deams turned to Dayton and, quietly, said, "You don't have to say anything. This interview is over when we say it's over."

Dayton was pouting; he might have been a six-year-old, stiffling tears. Stealing a glance at Brass, he said to the attorney, "I'm not afraid of him."

Deams shook his finger in Dayton's face. "You should be!"

Dayton lurched forward and bit down on the lawyer's finger, just under the middle knuckle, viciously.

Deams was screaming and both Warrick and Brass came around the table once more, the uniformed officer who'd been stationed outside sprang in again, this time with gun in hand.

With Warrick behind him, holding on to him, Dayton released his toothy grip and the attorney drew his hand away; the flesh was broken but the digit was still intact.

"You're not my father!"Dayton screamed.

The attorney, blinking fear and pain, said, "Jerry, you need to be quiet…just be quiet…."

"You are so fired!"

"Jerry, please-"

"I told you what he did to me, Deams, and you didn't do anything!" Dayton strained forward as a cool Warrick held him by the shoulders. "You could have helped me! You let me go back to that house. Well, you're lucky I didn't make an example of you, too, counselor! Get out of my sight."

Holding up his good hand, Deams said, "Slow down, Jerry-you don't know what you're doing or saying. Your emotions are running away with you. You need to calm down, and look at this rationally. So much is at stake…."

"You bleeding money out of me is at stake, you conniving asshole!" Looking across the table at Brass, Dayton said, "Get him out of here-now!"

Sara was at the attorney's side. "Let's get that finger looked at, shall we?"

Deams swallowed, nodded, and-after gathering up his briefcase and papers in his good arm-allowed Sara to take him by the elbow; but the attorney paused near the door to say pointedly to Brass, "If you continue this interview, outside of my presence, with my client in his current mental state, I will-"

"He's not your client," Brass said.

"Yeah!" Dayton yelled childishly, suddenly pals with Brass. "I'm not your client!"

The attorney, who was holding the hand with the damaged finger out in front of him, as if hailing a cab, said, "Tomorrow he'll come to his senses. Tomorrow he'll hire me back."

"Today," Brass said, "you're not representing him. Good luck with the finger."

Sara walked the lawyer out.

Brass gave the uniformed officer a nod, and he stepped out. Now it was just Brass, Dayton, and Warrick.

Dayton's breathing-which had accelerated to that of a sprinter crossing the finish line-began to slow; his shoulders relaxed under Warrick's grip, and suddenly it was like the CSI was giving the prisoner a massage.

"I'm okay," he said, looking back at Warrick.

Warrick let go of him.

Dayton sat docilely, cuffed hands before him on the table. He slumped a little. He seemed placid now, and a little tired.

To Brass he said, "You and I…we may be…antagonists, but…we do understand each other. Respect each other…right?"

Brass and Warrick exchanged tiny significant glances.

"Sure, Jerry," Brass said.

"I'll talk to you. Tell you whatever you want to know. Start to finish, okay?"

"I'd appreciate that."

"But just you, Captain. I don't…" Dayton looked back at Warrick and said, "No offense, but you aren't anything to me. The captain and me, we go way back."

"No offense," Warrick said.

Brass nodded and Warrick did, too, and went out. The CSI would be on the other side of the two-way mirror and the uniformed man would still be just outside. Dayton had no more fight in him.

He just wanted to talk.

"I hate that guy," Dayton said.

"Warrick?"

"What, that tall guy? No, no-that goddamn attorney of my dad's. He's the one who got me sent out to Sundown, and that place was a nightmare."

"Really."

"Locked up, doped up, no TV after ten, monitored everything you read-cancelled my Hustler subscription!"

Forcing any irony from his voice, Brass said, "Sounds like cruel and unusual punishment to me, Jerry."

"You know what the worst part was?"

"Tell me."

"Nobody there but crazy people. Everybody was a damn…loon! Do you know what it's like to deal with loons all day long?"

"I can imagine."

"I don't think you can."

"But your father and his attorney, they got you out. Why are you mad about that?"

Dayton was shaking his head, staring into nothing. "I told Deams what my father did to me, and he said he believed me, but I don't think he did. Otherwise he wouldn't have sent me back…there."

"Tell me about your father."

"Do I have to?"

"No. But it might help me understand you better." Brass sat forward. "We're connected, you and me, Jerry-you said so yourself. I think you understand me-I needed to stop someone who was very smart and clever, who was taking victims. It's my job to stop that kind of thing."

"Sure. I…I was only mad at you because…I don't mean to insult you, Captain."

"No, Jerry. We can be frank with each other."

"I don't do well with…authority figures."

"Like your dad?"

Dayton leaned his elbows on the table and put his hands on his face, looking out between his fingers, handcuffs jingling. He blew out a long breath. "Let's just say he was a hard man to please."

Brass nodded. "Yeah-I had one of those."

"Your father was mean to you?"

"Strict. And like you said, Jerry, hard to please."

"Not like mine, I bet!" He assumed a sterner posture, pointed across the table at Brass with the index fingers of his bound hands. " 'You're a disappointment, young man, a disappointment.' " His eyes glistened with tears. " 'We give you everything, and every opportunity, and you keep disappointing us! You're nothing but a weakling…a weak little girl. You know what weak little girls need, Jerry? Do you know what they need?' "

All the while the forefingers pointed and accused and waggled, and Jim Brass had no need for a court-appointed psychiatrist to explain the killer's fetish for taking his victim's forefingers as grisly souvenirs of his triumph over them.

The prisoner fell back in his chair, spent, the tears spilling, making wet ribbons down the narrow hawkish face.

"He beat you?" Brass asked. "On your…bare bottom?"

Dayton laughed bitterly. "Oh, is that what your 'hard' daddy did to you, Captain? You had it easy! Oh, but I had to bend over, all right…I bent over for Daddy, so many, many times…."

Brass frowned; Catherine and Nick had reported to him what the Sundown doctor had said about Dayton's stories of sexual abuse.

"Your father…violated you?"

"That's a nice word for it." He sat forward and screamed: "He made me his bitch!"

Brass shook his head.

Then he said something he never imagined to hear himself saying, much less truthfully: "Jerry, I'm sorry for what you suffered."

The killer's father, Thomas Dayton, had been a pillar of the community for decades, with nary a whiff of deviant behavior. Not that that was unusual-some of the most important people had kinks buried beneath their decent surfaces; bigger the secret, deeper the cover-up.

And as Brass recalled Tom Dayton, from the few times he'd met the man-once at the mayor's annual prayer breakfast-the detective suddenly realized that this heavyset white male had been the template for every one of CASt's victims.

"Your victims," Brass said. "They were your father."

"Yes…yes. Those bastards, I made every one of them my bitch."

"But you stopped. When you came back home, from Sundown. Did your father stop abusing you, was that it?"

"He did stop. I was too big. And, well…he knew what I'd done, after all; he was afraid of me, in a way…at least I had that much satisfaction. But they kept me on those meds, and I was like a dog with a shock collar, y'know?"

"Is that why you stopped, Jerry? The meds?"

"Maybe. And the doctors. I mean, I never came out and talked about what I'd done, not really. But like you said, I'm smart and I'm clever. I could find things out by just talking to them, hypothetically. And I came to learn something, from the therapy."

"What was that?"

"That I couldn't make it right, I couldn't make what my father did not have happened, even if I made a thousand of him my bitches."

"Did you ever think to do it to…him?"

"Captain, haven't you been listening? Every one of them was him!"

"I mean…the real 'him,' Jerry. You never thought of killing him?"

"Killing Daddy?" Dayton blinked; he seemed confused. "How could I do that? He was my daddy. Didn't you love your daddy, Captain?"

"I did, Jerry. I did. But even if killing a thousand pretend daddies didn't help you heal, maybe…talking about it will be a start."

"To you? You're not a doctor!"

"Is that who you want to talk to, Jerry?"

Dayton snorted. "Not hardly. I can make them jump through hoops."

"Then talk to me." Brass shrugged. "Can't hurt. Look, we both know you're going away for a long time. You want it to be a hospital or a prison? Maybe I can help you choose."

"Hospitals," Dayton said with a derisive laugh. "I've already been down that road…. Do they let you subscribe to what you want to subscribe to in prison?"

"Depends on the facility. Did you say your father knew what you'd done? That you were CASt?"

"Of course he did."

"How?"

"He was…bawling me out about something. He'd stopped doing the…act…with me, I was too big, too old, too much stronger than he was. But he still, you know…told me what to do, told me what a disappointment I was. So I'd had enough of that and said, 'You better watch it, old man,' but he just laughed at me. So I told him. Showed him."

"Showed him?"

"The fingers. In the jars? I had four, I think, when I told him."

"So he knew."

"He knew, all right."

"And he and your attorney made arrangements to have you put away, where the law couldn't touch you."

"Yeah. See, the old man thought you were getting too close. That you were going to catch me. He said you were a really good, smart detective, that you were from back east where cops were tough. And that's one thing I agree with him on-you're good. So is that guy Grissom."

"Thanks. Was your father…upset with you, for what CASt did?"

Dayton closed his eyes. "He knew what I was doing, I think he figured out why I was doing it, but the only thing he gave a damn about was the 'potential scandal.' You know-the shame? So, he put me in that…that hellhole till the heat blew over."

"Then he took you out again, quietly."

Rocking gently now, Dayton said, "Yes. It was voluntary committal, so that wasn't hard."

"Did anyone besides the doctors know you were getting day and weekend passes?"

Dayton thought about it. "Deams did, for sure; I mean, he helped the old man get me out-the doctors were against it."

"But they didn't know about your hobby?"

"Please don't demean what I do by calling it a hobby, Captain. It's a statement, and a kind of…catharsis."

"Sorry, Jerry."

"No, the doctors didn't know I was CASt. I did tell them about what my daddy did to me, but I don't think they believed me. Who would you believe? One of the biggest men in town, or his sick-in-the-head kid? Anyway, they just thought I was too ill to be outside yet-you know, until they had a better handle on what was wrong with me."

Brass was putting certain disturbing pieces together. "And of course your father wanted you out as soon as possible, because he didn't want the doctors to know the reason behind your illness."

Dayton finally opened his eyes. He had a slightly startled look. "Is that why?"

Brass sighed. "Jerry, I appreciate your frankness."

"I've been straight with you, haven't I?"

"I would say so."

"Have I earned the right to ask you a question, Captain?"

"Okay."

"Were you the one?"

"The one…what?"

"I mean, you're smart. Really good. But I always had trouble believing you were the, you know…one."

Brass sat up. "I don't know, Jerry. Honestly."

Dayton sighed. Smiled. "Good. I wouldn't have liked that."

"Jerry, please explain what you're talking about."

Rubbing a wrist where the cuffs were chaffing, Dayton said, "Some cop knew about me. I mean, must have known, because the old man? For years he bitched about having to contribute to what he called 'the widows and orphans fund.' "

Brass's belly tightened. "What did you think that meant?"

Dayton shrugged. "Somebody, one of you people, figured out I was CASt, hell, years ago…and the old man paid that person off. For years I thought it was you, Captain. And I'm glad it wasn't."

Brass felt something dying, deep inside.

"Anything else I can tell you, Captain?"

"Why did you come back? And kill Perry Bell?"

"You know why. Somebody was stealing something very precious to me-my identity. My…like Superman! Secret identity."

"Why choose Perry?"

"Well…I'm not a smart detective like you. I work the other side of the fence, I guess. But I thought I had it figured out. I thought Perry was the copycat."

"But he wasn't."

"My bad," Dayton said. "Want to hear about it?"

Brass wanted to say no, but said, "Yes."

"I can't feel too terrible about the mistake," Dayton said. "After all, Perry Bell was a fat old drunk with no pride. What little he had in life, I gave him…because he picked up the fame I spilled, with that book of his. He didn't have the strength to do what I do."

As CASt emerged and Jerry Dayton receded, the killer sat straighter, his eyes bright, and for the first time since entering this interview room, Brass felt he was facing the blood-streaked fiend who had stabbed him.

"He begged for his life, of course," CASt said, voice cold, detached. "Said he was innocent, someone else must have done it. Funny thing is, he knew who the copycat was, but the damn drunk didn't even know that he knew."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Well, he didn't suggest that the copycat might be Brower, until I helped him…focus."

"How did you do that?"

"How do you think? Cut his finger off. It's what I do."

"…Why did you continue, Jerry-when you knew Bell wasn't the copycat?"

"Captain, would you leave a job half-done? I hated Bell for the things he said about me in his trashy book. He made it sound like I was out of my mind."

"The book helped make you famous."

"True. And perhaps that's why I took it so easy on him…. You found a key card at a murder site, didn't you?"

This CASt introduced as blandly as if asking the detective to pass the salt.

"Yes," Brass said.

"Bell's, of course. It wasn't until he and I were discussing my problem that he realized that Brower must have been the one who'd taken it."

Brower had been Bell's assistant; the card would have been easy enough for him to swipe.

"Why did you suspect Bell, and not his collaborator, Paquette? He cowrote CASt Fear, after all."

CASt shook his head. "Bell was out stirring things up with speaking gigs and trying to peddle that old crap book. Paquette was successful, he'd moved on. Anyway, I always suspected my father had paid him off, too, like that cop."

"Your father never mentioned who it was, this cop."

"No. But we both know, don't we, Captain?"

Brass said nothing.

CASt slumped in the chair and became Jerome Dayton. He looked exhausted.

Brass could hardly blame him, feeling drained himself.

"I fill in everything you need?" Dayton asked.

"You did fine, Jerry."

"You're not disappointed?"

"No. I may want to talk again. There's a lot of ground to cover, so many old cases."

"No problem. I like talking to you."

Brass said, "Good. I'm glad."

"You know what I really like about you, Captain?"

"What's that, Jerry?"

"You never point your finger at me."

"And Jerry," Brass said, "I never will."

The attending physician reluctantly granted Grissom and Catherine access to his patient. Despite a considerable loss of blood, Brower could talk without endangering himself. The doctor did limit the visitors to two, so Nick remained in the hall with the uniformed officer stationed outside the private room.

As the two CSIs entered this typical hospital room-the white walls, white ceiling, and single fluorescent tube behind plastic just above the bed-it oddly recalled to Grissom the living environs of the real CASt.

The copycat CASt lay under a white blanket, on top of which his heavily bandaged left hand lay, like a giant gauze club. Other than that, Brower seemed physically unaffected from his visit to CASt's castle.

As they'd entered, Brower had turned toward the window, the blinds slightly open to give him a third-floor view south, toward the Strip.

Catherine said, "Really think looking the other way is going to do the trick, Mark?"

The patient said nothing, staring out the window in stony silence.

Catherine walked around the bed and across his field of vision, and closed the blinds.

Brower glared at her, then turned away only to be confronted by Grissom, standing with arms folded and a placid smile.

Then the patient looked straight ahead and raised his right hand, in which the television remote resided, and turned the high-riding TV on, volume way up.

Grissom plucked the remote from the killer's hand and switched the set off. Brower's eyes never left the black screen.

"You don't have to look at us, Mark," Grissom said. "In fact, I'm fine with that. But you do have to talk about this."

"Nothing to say."

Catherine leaned in. "Well, we have things to say."

"I don't have to listen. I'm the victim here, and you people are treating me like I did something wrong."

"You're the CASt copycat, Mark," Catherine said. "That's very wrong."

"I was investigating the original case," he said. "You should give me a reward for helping you nab the real CASt."

"Thanks," Grissom said, his inflection light. "But I'm afraid the understudy doesn't get to go back on stage and become a star. You see, Mark, we've been to your house. We found the tinsmith clippers-which test positive for blood-that you used to cut off the fingers of your victims; we've got the rope you used, lipstick, the entire makings of the road company CASt."

Brower's face fell, but then he managed to summon indignation. "What the hell good will that do without a warrant?"

"That's why we're here, Mark," Grissom said pleasantly, and lifted a hand that held the very document; he handed it toward Brower, who looked at the small sheaf of papers as if it were on fire.

"On what grounds?" he demanded.

Grissom tossed the warrant on the bed, while Catherine provided the patient with a soothing smile. "We matched your fingerprints to the door bells of Marvin Sandred and Enrique Diaz."

Brower said, "They…they must have been planted. I'm a crime beat reporter! I wouldn't do anything, so…so…"

"Dumb?" Grissom asked. "Want to tell us about it?"

"No."

"All right. Then I'll tell you…. Paquette wouldn't fire Bell and he wouldn't promote you while Perry was still there. If Mark Brower was ever going to get his own column, make a real name for himself, Perry Bell had to go. But why not just kill Bell?"

Brower said nothing.

So Catherine answered, "What, and make him a martyr? You needed to discredit him, Mark, and at the same time provide yourself the ringside seat for a major crime story, and do your own CASt book."

Suddenly Brower spoke, softly, very softly. "I was carrying that fat drunken bastard for the last five years. It was my turn to be someone…my turn to be the star reporter."

"Maybe you still can be," Grissom said brightly. "Ely Hard Times is always looking for a good scribe."

Brower clearly didn't know what Grissom was talking about.

Catherine patted the patient's bandaged hand, ever so gently, and explained: "Prison newspaper, Mark. You can be the Death Row correspondent…for a while."

How long he'd been driving around, Brass had no idea; darkness had settled over the city, and he still hadn't found his way home.

Things had sorted themselves out and Grissom had assembled the evidence in a manner that gave them a pretty good handle on the facts.

Mark Brower would likely receive a lethal injection, though he had cooperated, giving Grissom and Catherine a complete confession-which actually might buy the reporter a lifetime lease on a maximum security cell out in Ely. Might.

Jerry Dayton would likely not face the ultimate punishment, at least not the one this world provided. At least six men were dead, but Dayton would spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital, the kind that didn't hand out weekend passes like free samples at a supermarket.

Though he could hardly believe it himself, Jim Brass felt sorry for Dayton, and hoped within the walls where he would live out his troubled life, the man would get some real help, a measure of peace.

Not every day that a cop took two serial killers off the streets, but what should have been an evening for celebration had found the detective driving aimlessly around Henderson, avoiding the address he'd come to town seeking. Finally, he gave up and pulled in at the guard shack at Sunny Day Continuing Care Facility.

The guard rang ahead, and when Brass got to the building at the far end, his old partner was sitting on the front step of the building in a dark bathrobe and slippers, smoking a cigarette.

"Want one?" he asked Brass.

The detective shook his head. "I quit."

"I got a drink for you inside…?"

"Quit that, too."

"What a damn bore you've become, Jim."

Brass looked through the darkness at Vince Champlain. In the meager light seeping from neighboring apartments, Vince seemed very old, almost frail. Funny to have it come this-Champlain had always seemed so strong to Brass, back when they were partners, almost a father figure; but the man who had covered his back for years now seemed weak.

Brass sat next to his old friend.

Vince took a long drag; let it out; chuckled, coughed. "Margie won't let me smoke in the apartment. Makes me come out here. Treats me like a little kid."

"We put Dayton away today."

"I heard. All over the tube. And Mark Brower? Who'da thunk it?"

"Who'da thunk it."

With a sideways glance, Champlain said, "So I suppose you talked to that lunatic Dayton yourself?"

"I did."

"Never know what those crackpots are gonna claim, do you?"

"Is that your way of denying it?"

The retired cop shrugged. "If you think you know, you think you know. What can I do about it?"

"Until just now, I figured maybe I was wrong. We weren't the only ones on the case."

"Damn near. Well." Champlain took another deep drag. Let it slowly out. Did not look at Brass. "What are you going to do about it?"

Brass looked up at the stars. "Not sure yet."

"You could forget about it. Write it off as the ravings of a loon."

Brass lowered his vision and brought it in line with his ex-partner's, and the men locked eyes.

"Sorry," Champlain said, and looked away. "Shoulda known better."

"…Margie know?"

Champlain shook his head. "Why?…You gonna tell her?"

"Not my place."

"What are you going to do? I have a right to know."

"The rights you have are to remain silent and to have a lawyer appointed for you if you can't afford one, though with the money Tom Dayton gave you over the years, I'm pretty sure you can get a decent one. Maybe even Carlisle Deams."

The frown had anger in it, and disappointment; but also embarrassment. "So…you're taking me in? My own partner?"

"Maybe I'm just reminding you. I don't know how you verified Dayton was CASt, or how you did that without the press…or me…tipping to it. But you had enough to put the squeeze on Tom Dayton, despite all his power."

"When did you get so goddamn self-righteous?" Champlain said, stubbing out his smoke under a slipper. Without hesitation, he lit another one.

"Call it that if you want, Vince. I took an oath and they gave me a badge. I don't have a wife. I have precious few friends away from my job. So I don't have much but the ability to go to sleep, justified. It's enough."

"Go to hell, Jim. Just a little goddamn money, is all."

"If that's how you get to sleep, that's your business. But people died, Vince. Vincent Drake and Perry Bell were both killed by the real CASt, after you took Tom Dayton's money to look the other way. Those murders could have been prevented…. Why? So you could retire in comfort?"

Champlain tossed his cigarette into the night, trailing sparks. He gave Brass a long hard look. "Yes."

"That simple."

"Simple choice: retire on Dayton's money and have a little something, or retire after thirty years on a pension I could barely live on myself, let alone support my wife. See, I do have a wife. And life."

"A life that a couple of people had to die so you could maintain?"

Champlain stared into the dark. "I'm not proud of that. I thought the son of a bitch was just another vegetable on the funny farm, never to be heard from again."

"You were wrong."

"You think I don't know that? But it was too late to do anything about it!"

"Yeah? Or did you just ask for a bigger stipend from Daddy Dayton…? What do these apartments run for, anyway? You get full health treatment here, too, right?"

"Right. What are you going to do, Jim?"

Brass thought about it. "Give me a cigarette."

Champlain did. Lighted it up. "Thought you stopped."

"I did. But you're not worth losing my sobriety over."

The detective took several long drags.

Again Champlain asked: "What are you going to do, Jim?"

Brass turned and looked hard at his former partner. "I'm going to sleep on it. Who knows what the night will bring? You know the cop trade, Vince-never know what's coming next, when the next confession's gonna walk in the door, or when some poor bastard's gonna decide to eat his gun…. What are you going to do?"

Then Brass pitched the sparking cigarette into the night, rose, and began to walk away.

Champlain was on his feet, but Brass couldn't see it.

But he heard the man call out: "Is that how you're gonna leave it? After all these years? After I watched your back?"

But Brass did not reply, just kept walking.

And Vince Champlain watched his partner's back one last time, until Brass had been swallowed by the darkness.

A Tip of the Test Tube

My assistant Matthew Clemens helped me develop the plot of Binding Ties, and worked up a lengthy story treatment, which included all of his considerable forensic research, from which I could work. Matthew-an accomplished true-crime writer who has collaborated with me on numerous published short stories-does most of the on-site Vegas research, and is largely responsible for any sense of the real city that might be found herein.

We would once again like to acknowledge criminalist Lieutenant Chris Kauffman CLPE-the Gil Grissom of the Bettendorf Iowa Police Department-who provided comments, insights, and information; Chris has been an important member of our CSI team since the first novel, Double Dealer, and remains vital to our efforts. Thank you also to another major contributor to our research, Lieutenant Paul Van Steenhuyse, Scott County Sheriff's Office; as well as Sergeant Jeff Swanson, Scott County Sheriff's Office (for autopsy and crime scene assistance), and Lieutenant Steve Johnson CLPE, Certified Forensic Artist, Davenport, Iowa, Police Department.

Books consulted include two works by Vernon J. Gerberth: Practical Homicide Investigation Checklist and Field Guide (1997) and Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Investigation (1996). Also helpful were Crime Scene: The Ultimate Guide to Forensic Science, Richard Platt; and Scene of the Crime: A Writer's Guide to Crime-Scene Investigations (1992), Anne Wingate, Ph.D. We would also like to acknowledge BTK by David Lohr, www.crimelibrary.com. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own.

At Pocket Books, Ed Schlesinger, our gracious editor, provided solid support. The producers of C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigation sent along scripts, background material (including show bibles) and episode tapes. In particular, I'd like to thank Corinne Marrinan, the coauthor (with Mike Flaherty) of the indispensible Pocket Books publication, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation Companion. As I've told Corinne, how Matt and I wish we'd had her excellent book from day one.

Anthony E. Zuiker is gratefully acknowledged as the creator of this concept and these characters; and the cast must be applauded for vivid, memorable characterizations that influence every word we write. Our thanks, too, to the various C.S.I. writers for their inventive and well-documented scripts, which we draw upon for backstory.