12/30/06

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 4

Since Gil didn't return to the house until late, breakfast was late the next morning. It was also only marginally edible, since it was Greg's turn to cook. They had still not managed to replace Mrs. Dobbins and since it had been Greg and Warrick's fault the housekeeper had left, Sara flatly refused to do all the cooking, a chore she detested. So, the three young people had devised a rotating schedule for dividing up the housekeeper's usually assigned chores.

Gil had played no part in this arrangement, but he thought it was quite democratic and progressive-minded of the young people and he was quite proud of them. There hadn't even been any squabbling... well, not much anyway.

The family sat at the small, round table in the breakfast nook, set just off from the kitchen. Since the one culinary task Greg had mastered was making coffee, there was plenty of that being consumed, although everyone's plates were still fairly full. Grissom had just finished telling the young people about the second body that had been discovered and about the arrest of their suspect.

"You sound as if you're not sure this man is guilty," Warrick commented, leaning back in his chair and wrapping his long fingers around the warm ceramic of his coffee mug.

"I'm not sure," Gil admitted. "On the surface, he would seem to be our man. He certainly had intimate knowledge of the crimes, but then again, he claims to have been tracking the killer for several months, so I suppose he would have accumulated a fair amount of knowledge in that time. But the madam of the brothel made an interesting observation about the boy which makes me question his guilt even further."

"The madam of the brothel?" Sara repeated, incredulously.

"Yes, a 'Lady' Heather, fascinating woman. You know, I think I may need to speak with her again. She may have some other valuable insights to offer on the case. She's obviously quite intuitive."

Abruptly Sara dropped her fork onto her plate and stood up from the table. Before any of the startled men could also rise, as good manners dictated, she had already left the room. Gil watched her go in confusion. He turned to look at the two younger men for help.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

Greg and Warrick looked at each other and exchanged smiles, but neither said anything.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After breakfast, Gil went to his lecture, but then ducked quickly out of the building before he could be cornered by Ecklie and headed to the police station. Gil found Jim in his small cluttered office, working on reports for the case.

"Have you spoken to the boy yet?" Gil asked, taking the only other chair in the room.

"Not yet, I was waiting for you. I assumed you'd want to be there as well," the detective said.

"Oh, I do. I canceled my afternoon lectures for this."

"Oh, I'm sure your students will be devastated," Jim said dryly.

Gil ignored this. "So, have you learned anything about him?"

"Yes, when he was processed, before being put in his cell, the guards searched him. They found this tucked in his boot." The detective removed a small Derringer from a drawer of his desk and laid it in front of Gil.

"It was loaded, by the way," Jim continued. "They also found this on his belt."

He removed a large Bowie knife from the same drawer and laid it beside the gun.

"Didn't Doc Robbins say that the killer most likely used a very large, very sharp knife?" Jim asked.

"Yes, he did," Gil said, picking up the knife and examining it closely.

It was indeed very large and very sharp. There were no visible blood stains, but the knife appeared to be very well maintained. Stokes could easily have cleaned the blood off before he returned to the scene of the crime.

"Did you find anything else?" Gil asked.

"Oh, yes, I haven't shown you the best yet. First thing this morning, I got a search warrant and had my men search Stokes' room. He was staying at a cheap, little boarding house on the lower east side. There wasn't much there, but they did find some saddle bags, in which they found these."

The detective removed a plain folder from another drawer and handed it to the scientist. Opening the folder, Gil found several photographs of a dead woman. Judging from the clothing and surrounding scenery, it was the same woman in every photograph. This was difficult to tell from the body itself, as the woman's face had been peeled away, just like the two women they had found. Gil closed the folder and laid it on the desk with an expression of distaste.

"Do you have any idea who she is?" he asked.

"None, but I'm willing to bet that if we ask him, Mr. Stokes will be able to tell us who she is."

"You do realize, Jim, that there could be a perfectly legitimate reason for him to have these photographs."

"Like what?"

"Well, we had your men photograph the bodies..."

"That's different," Jim scoffed. "We did it for evidentiary purposes."

"Well, perhaps Mr. Stokes did it for the same reason. He does claim to be in law enforcement."

"Yeah, well, that has yet to be confirmed. I also sent a telegram to Austen, Texas early this morning. It'll probably be a day or two before I get a reply."

"Was there anything else of interest in the saddle bags?"

"There were mostly some clothes, a few personal items, but there was also this. I don't know if it's significant or not, but it doesn't seem to go with the rest of Stokes' wardrobe."

The detective dropped something small and gold onto Gil's open palm. It was a cufflink, with a single letter "D" engraved on it, in elaborate script. It was most definitely a high quality piece.

"Hmm, no, Stokes doesn't look like he wears cufflinks much," Gil commented. "And even if he did, I don't think someone named Nicholas Stokes would wear cufflinks with a 'D' on them. I think we can safely assume they don't belong to him. They appear to be something a gentleman would wear. Perhaps the same gentleman who smokes Hoja de Oro cigars...? You didn't find a box of cigars in Stokes' room, did you?"

"No," Jim admitted with a scowl. "But Stokes could have stolen both the cufflink and the cigar."

"Possibly, perhaps we should ask him?"

"Yes, I think we should."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim had Nick brought from his holding cell to one of the interrogation rooms and the detective and Gil met with him there. Sitting across the table from him, Jim laid the folder in front of the younger man and flipped it open.

"Care to explain these?" Jim asked, gesturing to the photos.

Watching the young man's reaction, Gil noted immediately the way Nick's hands balled into fists at the sight of the photos. He looked away from them quickly and closed the folder.

"Her name was Kristy Hopkins. She was a friend of mine. She was murdered by the same man who's been killing all these other women. That's why I want to catch him so badly. I want this butcher to pay for what he did to her."

"Don't you think it's a little... sick to be carrying around photographs of your 'friend's' dead, mutilated body?" Jim asked.

"If or when this bastard goes to trial, I want the jury to see what was done to these women. I don't want the jury to just hear about it. I want them to see it, so they can truly know just how sick this butcher is."

"And what made you think to do this, take photographs?" Gil asked, speaking for the first time in the young man's presence.

"My father is a judge in Dallas, Texas. He's always saying that he wishes that he could see the crime scenes, so he and the jury could have a better understanding of the crime or perhaps even of the criminal."

"Your father's a judge?" Jim asked.

"Yes. If you send a telegram to the sheriff of Dallas, he'll confirm that. His name is Ted Willoughby. Kristy was murdered in Dallas and, yes, I was in Dallas at the time of the murder. If you ask them, my family and my partner, John Preston, will vouch for my whereabouts."

"Don't worry, I'll do that," the detective said. "So, let me get this straight, you're telling me, that you tracked this killer all the way from Texas?"

"Yes."

"So, if I were to check, I would find that you've been in every city where a woman was killed and mutilated in this manner?"

"After the fact, yes..."

"How convenient," Jim said.

Nick sighed heavily. "Did you happen to find a shoeprint at one of the crime scenes?"

"Yes."

"It was a fairly large shoeprint, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Gil said, after exchanging glances with the detective.

Nick lifted one leg and planted it on the corner of the table. He gestured to the sole of his boot.

"Not particularly large, are they?" he asked.

"How did you know about the shoeprints?" Gil asked.

"I've found them at a few of the crime scenes as well," the young man said, lowering his leg again.

"Tell me about this." The scientist laid the cufflink on top of the folder.

"I found that at one of the crime scenes as well. It was somewhere in Tennessee. I don't remember where now."

The two older men exchanged glances again and Jim asked, "Do you have any more questions for Mr. Stokes?"

"Not at this time," Gil said.

"Mr. Stokes, I'll be sending those telegrams to confirm your story," Jim said. "In the meantime, you get to sit tight."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before leaving headquarters, Gil went with Jim to the morgue, to check in with Doc Robbins about the latest victim.

"This murder has all the same characteristics as the first," the coroner reported. "This woman was definitely killed by the same man."

"You're sure?" Jim asked.

"Oh, yes, the same weapon was used. It even left an identical mark the vertebrae, see?" The pathologist indicated this on the dissected body.

"I'll take your word for it," Jim said quickly.

"Were you able to determine if this girl was raped?" Gil asked.

"No, again, the damage to that area was too extensive."

"Yes, I'm beginning to think that may be the whole point," the scientist mused.

"You think that's why the killer slashes them there, to hide rape?" Jim asked.

"It's possible."

"I don't know... Catherine said it was only fifteen or twenty minutes between when she last saw Miss Watson alive and when she found the girl dead. That doesn't give our killer much time to rape, kill, and mutilate her. Besides, he didn't have any qualms about hiding the murders, why hide rape?"

"Who knows? Maybe he was ashamed. He may have his own set of morals that make sense only to him, that apply only to him."

"Is this more of that new psychology stuff you're always talking about?"

"Yes, Jim, it is."

"Oh, well, you lost me."

With an amused smile, Gil turned to the coroner.

"Thank you for your time, Albert," the entomologist said.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Since he'd canceled the rest of his lectures for the day, Gil found his afternoon free. Leaving police headquarters, he decided to return to the brothel where Mona Taylor had worked, instead of going straight home. Perhaps the owner, Lady Heather, would have some more useful insights for him.

It was around 4:00 when he arrived at the brick row house and a young woman in a very tightly-corsetted, black satin dress answered the door. The girl asked Gil to wait for a moment in the foyer, while she took one of his calling cards to the lady. The girl returned a few minutes later and led him to the sitting room, where he found the lady seated at a small, round table, pouring tea from an elaborate, antique, silver tea service. She gestured for him to join her at the table. The girl slipped quietly out of the room and closed the door behind her.

"Milk or sugar?" Heather asked, as she poured a cup of tea for Gil.

"Neither, thank you," he said and accepted the delicate china cup and saucer she handed him.

He glanced around the room while she poured another cup for herself. It was a cozy room, with a warm, cheerful fire burning in the fireplace beside them and a bright green and yellow parakeet chirped happily in an ornate, Oriental, wicker birdcage. It was all very homey and "normal". The tea was even excellent and he said as much.

"Thank you," Heather said, "I spent several years in England, where I learned how to make 'proper' tea."

"England, really? What were you doing there, if you don't mind my asking, of course?"

"I don't mind at all. I was married for a time to an English lord."

"Ah, so you really are a 'lady'? That title isn't just an affectation. So, what became of your husband?"

"I don't actually know. At the time that we married, he had a title, but no money. My family had money, but no sons and no title. It seemed like the perfect match. That is, until he spent all my money. Then he disappeared, leaving me and our young daughter with nothing. I had to sell our house in Grosvenor Square and all our possessions, in order to pay off his debts and to pay for the steamship fare for my daughter and I to return to the States.

"And even once we'd returned to New York, I needed to find some way for us to live. I sold the house my family had lived in for generations and bought this one. I decided to do the one thing that I'd been trained my whole life to do, be a good 'hostess'."

"I'm so sorry to hear about your troubles, but thank you for sharing them with me," Gil said sincerely.

"I didn't tell you all that in order to gain your sympathy," Heather said. "I told you, so that you would understand my situation. I don't feel any need to make apologies for my decisions, but I would like to be understood.

"Now, I assume that you're here to ask me more questions about Mona Taylor? Shouldn't your 'partner' be here as well?"

"I'm not actually a police officer," Gil said. "I'm simply a consultant."

"Yes, your calling card rather indicated that, Dr. Grissom," Heather said with a smile. "So, then, why are you here?"

"Well, to be honest, I was very impressed with the unique insight you provided about our suspect's behavior. You said you thought he was innocent. I'm beginning to think you may be right. So, I just thought you might be able to provide some additional insights into the real killer's mindset."

"I see and your partner isn't quite as convinced of my abilities, is he?"

"Well, he isn't much convinced about anything involving psychology, but I'm listening."

"Frankly, I'm not entirely sure what this 'psychology' is, but I admit, I enjoy observing people and in my 'profession', I see all kinds. So, if you're asking for my opinions, I'm quite willing to share them," she said, lifting the cup to her lips with an unconsciously elegant movement. "I read the article in The New York Chronicle about the first murder, or perhaps murders, so I know about some of the similarities between Mona's death and that of the Watson girl, but I assume there were things that were not printed in the article."

"Yes," Gil confirmed. He went on to tell her the rest of the details. He also told her about the cufflink and the cigar that were found near some of the bodies.

After digesting this information for a moment, Heather said, "Your first question should be, why does the killer only choose women? And why women of questionable morality? Tell me, the first young woman, was she also young and pretty?"

"Yes, she was, but she wasn't of 'questionable morality'. I knew her, she was a good girl," Gil said.

"That may very well be, but she was an actress and as such, most of society, particularly those at the higher end of it, would consider that a morally questionable career. To most of them, she'd be little more than a prostitute."

Gil was silent, but he nodded sadly, acknowledging this uncomfortable truth.

"You also need to ask why your killer slashes the women's genitals. Were they also raped?" Heather asked.

"The coroner couldn't confirm rape. That's very difficult to determine that at the best of times, but in both of these cases, there was so much damage..." Gil answered, impressed with the woman's composure. She was discussing the mutilation and possible rape of another woman with all the calm, clinical detachment of a scientist. Not even Sara remained so calm when the subject of rape came up.

"Personally, I think the killer slashes the genitals to deliberately hide all evidence of rape," Gil continued. "I think the killer is, in fact, deeply ashamed of this act. It could even be why he kills them in the first place, so they can't report him. I think he feels that murder is more acceptable than rape."

"I disagree. I don't think he raped them at all," Heather said. "In fact, I think he's a homosexual."

Gil was momentarily left speechless. Not only had that possibility not occurred to him, but he wasn't sure he knew of another woman who actually knew what that word meant, let alone, would dare to use it in a conversation during high tea. Not even Sara would have done that and Gil didn't think she would know what the word meant, although Catherine probably did and she could have told the younger woman...

"You know what homosexual means?" he asked, at last finding his voice.

The lady gave him a very mysterious smile. "I have a very diverse clientele, Dr. Grissom. It's entirely possible that your killer could even be one of my clients."

"Why do you say that?"

"Most of the houses which cater to men of such tastes are located on the lower east side, in some very unsavory parts of the city. Mine is one of the few establishments where a man of society could indulge in such tastes without having to go into those areas. My house is also known for discretion and I have some well placed connections, which afford my clients and me some protection."

"Uh, yes..." Gil said vaguely, choosing to avoid this last line of questioning. "So, you're convinced that the killer is a man of society?"

"Yes, as you've said yourself, the cufflink and the cigar would both seem to indicate this, but so does the choice of victims. Both of the women were young, attractive, and both, at least appeared, respectable. I think this is significant. If the killer had simply wanted to punish 'wanton' women, why not choose more obvious prostitutes? Why choose women who either weren't prostitutes or at least, didn't appear to be ones?"

"Good questions," Gil said musingly. "But getting back to the homosexuality angle, why are you so convinced he's homosexual?"

"Well, considering the level of violence of the attacks, as well as the slashing of the female organs, I'd say it's obvious that your man hates women. Now, I understand perfectly well that many heterosexual men also hate women, and most homosexual men have no quarrel with women, they're simply not attracted to them, but I sense something more at work here.

"Your killer chooses pretty, young women, which would be the average man's ideal, but your man defiles their faces, removes them all together. This tells me that it's their very youth and beauty that he resents, that he feels threatened by, as well as their promiscuity. I think, perhaps, he's jealous. He wants what they have, the ability to attract whatever man they desire."

"He could just as easily be in love with them and he takes their faces as something to remember them by, trophies, if you will," Gil pointed out.

"Yes, you are correct. It's just a theory. I admit that I could be entirely wrong," Heather said, with a delicate shrug.

"Well, you've certainly given me a great deal to think about. I thank you, very much. I'll take my leave now. I've taken up enough of your time."

"You're very welcome. I enjoy stimulating conversation. Please, feel free to come back any time. I serve high tea every day at 4:00."

"Thank you, I may do that. Good afternoon, My Lady," he said with a sly smile and bent to kiss the back of her outstretched hand.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There you are!"

These were the words Gil was greeted with, upon entering the house later that afternoon.

"And good afternoon to you, too, Catherine," Gil said.

"Sorry, but we've been waiting for you for nearly a half hour. Aren't you usually home by this time?" the red-head asked.

"Yes, but I, uh, had an errand to run before coming home," Gil said evasively, seeing that Sara was also standing in the foyer. He was a little hesitant to be too forthcoming about his actual destination after her odd behavior that morning.

"And who is 'we'?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I think I found you a new housekeeper, remember? She's in the sitting room with Greg and Warrick," Catherine said.

"Oh, yes, that's right. With all the recent distractions these past few days, I'd completely forgotten I'd asked you about that. Thank you."

"Yes, I'd figured as much. Well, come in and meet her."

In the sitting room, they found Greg and Warrick seated across from a tall, large woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. She had a pleasant, round face and her steel gray hair was swept up in a simple bun. She wore a plain calling suit of brown tweed and she seemed relaxed and entirely at her ease, sitting in front of the warm fire. By contrast, Greg and Warrick sat watching her, tense and wary, as if she was a bear that had somehow stumbled into their midst.

Leading the entomologist forward, Catherine made the introductions. "Gil, this is Constance McGregor. Mrs. McGregor, this is Gil Grissom."

The woman had risen to her feet when they'd approached and now she thrust out a large hand and spoke in a thick Scottish brogue, "Dr. Grissom, it's an honor to meet you, sir."

"Thank you, uh, I take it that you've already met the rest of the household?"

"Yes sir."

"And you have no issues with the unorthodox nature of this household?"

"None at all, sir," the woman said placidly.

"Excellent. Uh, what are your, uh, qualifications?" Gil asked. He didn't especially care about this, but he'd seen Catherine's encouraging little head-jerk toward the other woman and realized that he was expected to ask a few questions.

"I can provide references, of course, but as for qualifications... Well, I was married to a soldier for many years. When he was sent to the Crimean Peninsula to fight the Russians, I followed after, like any good wife. To make myself useful, I served as an army nurse."

"Did you work with Florence Nightingale?"

"Aye, that I did, sir," the woman said, a note of pride flavoring her words.

"Really?" Gil said, his full attention now focused on the woman. "What was she like?"

"Oh, she was a delight to work with, demanding, but very fair. She never asked us to do anything she didn't do herself."

"Uh, and your husband? What became of him? I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but this is a live-in situation..."

"Oh, my Andrew was in the 93rd Highland Regiment. He fought at the Battle of Balaclava."

"Ah, I see. He was part of the 'Thin Red Line'?"

"Yes sir, he was." The note of pride was much stronger now. "He was one of the lucky ones. But he passed away three years ago. My son and daughter-in-law brought me here to the States to live with them, but they have their own family to worry about and I've always believed in earning my own keep. When Mrs. Willows told me about your work, I thought this might be a good situation for me."

"So, you don't have an issue with bugs?"

"Well, after living in the appallingly unsanitary conditions at the hospital at Scutari, I don't like them, but keep them out of my kitchen and we should be fine," the woman said, throwing a side long look at the two young men, who quickly assumed appropriate attitudes of contrition.

"You're hired," Gil said. "When can you move in?"

"Right now, if you'd like. I have my things right here." She gestured to two large carpet bags that sat at her feet.

"That's it?"

"As a soldier's wife, you learn to travel light."

"Excellent."

"Well then, if someone could show me to my room. It'll only take me a minute or two to get unpacked and then I'll start dinner."

"Yes!" Greg cried out, jumping to his feet, thrilled at the prospect of not having to cook the evening meal, but when all eyes turned to him, he quickly sobered. "I mean, um, right this way, Mrs. McGregor."

To be continued...