Chapter Eight

On route to Miles R. Dwyer's apartment, Wednesday, June 21


It was strange being in the driver's seat.

Goren had always been happy to relinquish driving duties to Eames. And while they never discussed it specifically, he gathered that she seemed to enjoy driving. Hell, she was pretty good at it too. Just try backing an SUV into a parking spot on the left hand side of a one-way street in the middle of Friday afternoon rush hour in Manhattan. A spot, mind you, that looked like it was reserved for a Vespa. Eames would squint her eyes and say, "watch this, I'll do it with my eyes closed," in the most deadpan of tones. So over the years, they got use to climbing into the driver and passenger seat sides, falling comfortably into their particular roles.

But now, in the Impala and an alien environment with near traffic-free straightaways, Goren was rather enjoying sitting behind the wheel.

And Eames, well Eames was going full steam ahead from the passenger side.

"That's right," Eames assured Captain Hannah via long distance, "we're on route. Hopefully, Dwyer's last place of residence will prove to be a field day for CSI."

Then, without so much as a hitch, Eames pressed the mute button on her cell and turned towards him, "first left after the light, then a right on Pine."

Ever since they'd left South Lowell High, Eames was in serious multi-task mode: she made calls to both MCS and their Indiana police contacts to bring them up to date on their new person of interest. In the end, sharing and receiving key information about Dwyer could make or break their case. As usual, timing was everything.

"Nothing official from the DMV," Eames typed the updates on her laptop during her brief with Hannah, "no surprise there, who registers their car after a month? I thought we'd nab Dwyer with financials or find him on the electronic grid for sure," Eames muttered, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Goren wondered at Eames ability to keep everything in order. Earpiece in her right ear, laptop on her lap, "alright, yep, that sounds good. If nothing else, we'll be flying back late tonight. Thank you, captain. Okay, bye."

"Cash only?" Goren mused, "being single with a big secret, cash sounds like the right MO. H-he probably withdrew a healthy sum from his account before he made his trek northeast."

Eames nodded before pulling out her earpiece, "True. Within the hour, Bank of America should email me a pdf of his checking and savings activities over the past two years. We all know that New York can eat up your money fast, so Dwyer is going to need replenish his cash flow soon, I mean, that, or he's getting assistance from friends or family."

"Hmmm, I-I don't know Eames, his type is uh, well they are usually loners, you know, b-because they are lead by their compulsions, uh, i-it's just not conducive to friendships or family."

"Pull up over there," Eames pointed towards an olive green one-level ranch style home, "1483 Pine."

For a few minutes, they sat in the Impala, getting a general feel and layout of the environment.

"It's not what I was expecting," Eames frowned, "it doesn't look like a rental."

Eames did a quick one-eighty scan, "the whole neighborhood for that matter, doesn't suggest that any of these homes are rentals."

"Well, could be a local thing," Goren straightened up and gathered his essentials, "a lot of these places have larger plots of land, so some people rent out a granny house, or uh, their basements."

"A granny house?"

Goren chuckled, "you're such a Manhattan girl. It's, uh, it's cheaper to build a small unit on your own property. Uh, and because it's within the property line, and they're not full-size, uh kinda like a studio, or like our hotel suite with the kitchenette."

When they got to the stoop of 1483 Pine and rang the doorbell, a man in his mid-thirties opened the door. The man, who introduced himself as Hal, was in what could be called a disheveled state at best - like he'd only recently crawled out of bed.

"Detectives Goren and Eames," Eames held up her shield, "we have this house listed as Miles Dwyer's last known address."

The man at the door looked slightly taken aback, "Hmmmmm, yes. Miles, uh, hang on just a minute."

Goren wedged his foot between the screen and the heavy wooden exterior door, giving himself some leverage if he needed it.

"You smell that?" Eames whispered.

Goren nodded his head towards the right side of the house. Along his line of sight, one could see that all of the basement storm windows had been conveniently blackened out with either a film or possibly spray paint, "yeah, either they have about ten cats or I'm guessing there's a different reason we're smelling ammonia."

Eames sighed, "he's taking his time, should we go in?"

Before they needed to make that decision, the door cracked open maybe two inches, "Uh, yeah, sorry. It took me a while to find the right set of keys, Miles has, heh heh," the man paused again before continuing, "Miles hasn't returned his set of keys."

Well he certainly wasn't quick on his feet, but drugs will do that to you.

Hal continued to flip through his key ring and Goren couldn't help but notice several Sentry brand keys on the ring, "Miles is on some trek, ya know? He left like a month ago, but heh heh, I haven't you know, cleaned up the place yet."

"I'll bet," Eames smirked.

"He in trouble?" Hal queried, moving his skinny ashen frame from out the front door and towards the back yard through a side gate.

"What makes you say that?" Goren followed close behind Hal, keeping the side gate open for Eames, shaking his head as he pointed out the No Trespassing sign.

"You don't look like the local variety," Hal laughed.

"This is quite the setup," Eames noted as they walked towards the separate house addition, "is that access for a car behind the addition?"

"Yeah, the gate slides out near the rear," Hal gestured with his left hand while approaching the front entry way, "and opens up to the back alley."

Hal knocked on the door.

"Back away from the door," Goren shook his head in irritation, "is there someone in there that we should know about?" Goren opened his hand suggestively so that Hal would have no doubts regarding what actions he should take: hand over the keys and split fast.

Hal grinned nervously, relinquishing the keys, "no man, no, I just, you know, common courtesy to knock before you enter."

"Really?" Eames shook her head in mock disbelief before placing her hand on her firearm.

"This one?" Goren looked for confirmation, edging his left shoulder into Hal's personal space for emphasis.

"Y-yeah," Hal nodded, "look, If you need anything, I'll be back, you know, grabbing something to eat or something."

"I think we should call in," Eames muttered under her breath as soon as Hal was out of hearing range.

Goren bit on the inside of his bottom lip, quickly trying to assess the situation. He crept slowly around the side of the side house, "Eames. Someone's been by recently," Goren spoke just above a whisper, noting the gravel pattern and the position of the back gate, "uh, Roberts? Maybe there was contact?"

Goren quietly returned to the front entrance, placed and turned the key before slowly depressing the handle. Eames nodded her head to indicate she was ready, her weapon in full view.

When Goren pushed the door open, Eames bounded through first.

"Clear!"

Goren followed close behind, his heartbeat racing slightly, his weapon also positioned in textbook procedural precaution. Eames motioned her head to the only adjoining room, placed her hand on the door and waited for him to position himself.

Eames positioned herself near the side entrance as Goren barreled through checking all necessary points, his senses on high alert for any movement, "Clear!"

Eames moved in behind him as he toed under the bed. He nodded his eyes towards the closet door and approached the single unit bathroom, eyes still roving, "Clear."

Meanwhile, Eames closed in on what appeared to be the bedroom closet, wedging her foot through the thin opening of a glass sliding door, Eames pushed it open with the weight of her right leg, the barrel of her gun leading the way, "Goren."

The way she said his name, he knew she'd found something important.

Lowering his gun, he moved out of the cramped bathroom only to find Eames pushing hangers of clothing to one side in order to reveal a Sentry brand vault.

"It's bigger than I thought," Eames mused, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her back pocket so she could handle the key and vault without risk of contaminating the possible crime scene.

She put the key from the evidence bag in her right front pocket. Inserting the key in the lock, she smiled when the key turned.

Eames lifted the lid to discover multiple ziplock bags piled one on top of the next. A leather pouch was also tucked neatly to the side of the main compartment.

"Jesus," Eames paused and looked him straight in the eyes, "I don't think I want to look inside."

Goren crouched down to lean in and get a better look, "open the first one, uh that one on top – I, uh, I think I know what's inside."

"I hope this isn't what I think it is," Eames groaned, carefully pulling apart the seam of the first sealed package.

The contents looked a lot like dried, shriveled-up beef jerky. But one might caution, beef jerky with what appeared to be human hair still morbidly attached. Upon closer inspection, Goren was pretty sure that this was a collection of all his preserved trophies.

Eames deftly removed the seal and held the bag open. The aroma made his nostrils flare.

"Oh god," Eames exhaled sharply, holding the bag up for him to get a closer look.

He kneeled over on one knee to lean in; getting as close as he could without touching.

Much like images of a scalping he'd seen from an historic photograph, the skin here had been carefully dried and stretched, with none of what appeared to be pubic hairs, removed.

"This is our boy," Goren barely spoke above a whisper.

What happened next was a blur.

"Bobby look out!"

With the second he had to look into her face, read her expression and turn towards the threat, he managed to take the bulk of the hit with his right arm. Years of training taught him to protect his head first, using the edge of his ulna bone to absorb the brunt of the force from a large stick like object.

Pain exploded from the force of the impact, such that Goren couldn't prevent the cry that escaped his mouth. But even in the confusion that transpired, Goren could feel Eames scrambling behind him, heard her shout, "stop, or I'll shoot."

As the pain from the original blow sent shockwaves through his system, adrenaline coursed through his veins, Eames had given him a small window of time to react. In that second that passed, Goren threw the left side of his body into the attacker, like a fucking linebacker, or better yet, a defenseman in the NHL, using his hip to pin the attacker up against the wall.

He was lucky he couldn't see Eames' expression; it really wasn't that different from the time they'd locked guns at one another during that awful six month period he spent on suspension.

Struggling to maintain pressure and his balance, Goren could hear Eames breath heavy and labored - and could only imagine that she was having a hard time getting a shot off with the bulk of his body in the way.

While applying more pressure to the assailant, Goren suddenly felt the attacker's muscles tense. Goren knew from instinct and past experience that the attacker was going for his final move. Using every ounce of intuition in his arsenal, Goren suddenly released his weight and rolled forward to give his partner the line of sight she needed.

The truth is, there are people that I trust . . . my partner, she always has my back.

Before he hit the ground, Goren heard one shot fired, followed by the sound of someone screaming in pain. Goren had only just avoided landing on his injured arm, but in the process tensed all of his muscles in such a way that another blinding shot of pain ripped through his system. He howled out loud before edging himself into a sitting position so he could see what transpired.

"Don't move!" Eames growled.

And there was Eames, standing over the writhing man, her arms formed a triangle, hands wrapped tightly around her firearm.

"Are you okay to call for backup?" Eames called out calmly, kicking a baseball bat just out of range of the wounded assailant while never taking her eyes off of her target.

"Yes," Goren managed, thankful that his dominant hand remained in working order, "This is detective Goren with NYPD," he spoke into his cell, "shots fired, officer down, please send back-up and an ambulance to 1483 Pine street. Yes," he nodded, "that's the correct address and zip."

"You need to hold still or you are going to lose more blood," Eames advised the attacker.

As soon as he hung up with dispatch, Goren was finally afforded an angle where he could see the shot, a clean clip to the right shoulder. He always knew she was dead accurate, Eames had proven it time and again at the range.

Meanwhile, the pain in his arm, combined with the seriousness of the situation made him feel a little nauseous.

It's just the adrenaline, Goren, it's okay, she's fine, you're fine.

Thirty minutes later, suspect in custody, Eames was released after she finished recounting the incident to several local detectives.

Buckley and Turnbull stood on the sidelines. Buckley's eyes drifting to Eames on more than one occasion.

For fuck's sake, leave her be.

Goren winced as the paramedics placed the temporary cast around his right forearm. The pain meds had been administered, but he still was in a great deal of pain. He was going to need an x-ray to confirm, but it was a pretty good bet that he was dealing with a clean fracture.

As soon as she could, Eames came to his side, Buckley and Turbull not far behind.

"You guys sure didn't waste any time. Serial killer and crack house, two for one," Turnbull noted, turning slightly to let two more CSI workers through, "you took a bit of a beating though."

Goren shook his head, "it's not bad," he lied.

Eames notably frowned at his remark, "Dwyer became enraged when we found his stash."

"It's been confirmed? That was Dwyer?" Goren sputtered, "I thought it might be, but - "

"I'll catch you up," Eames tried to smile, but worry lines creased her forehead as she spoke to Turnbull and Buckley, "look, um, I'm going to ride with him to the hospital, is everything under control?"

"Thanks to you," Buckley fawned, "you know detective, you've really got a sharp shot."

Eames concealed a blush by looking down at her shoes, "well, thank you, but all this excitement is going to mess with the evening plans you outlined earlier."

"Will you still be heading back tonight?"

"It depends on my partner's health and our captain's instructions. The most important fact being that Dwyer is in custody."

Goren watched the entire conversation like an extra appendage. He was appreciative when the paramedics finally closed the doors in front of him, obscuring the bustling crime scene from his view. Eames sat down next to him on the gurney.

"Your poor arm," she sighed, tentatively touching the edge of the makeshift cast.

"I was lucky to be in good hands."

"God," Eames said, "I think I lost about five years off my life, I mean, after he hit you, you know, when you had him pinned, your right arm was just dangling by your side. I thought I was going to lose breakfast."

He groaned, "I'm tired."

"I bet," Eames turned in towards him, "I'm sure Hannah will want us to come back tonight. I hope so. I mean, I think we could both use a day or two off."

He closed his eyes, fatigue was setting in and thank god, so were the pain meds.

"Now my dad and my partner are off trekking to the hospital," Eames ran her right hand across her forehead, a deep crease was beginning to settle between her brows.

"I'm tired of feeling like this."

Eames looked confused, "do you need more meds?"

"No," he shook his head, "I just need," he grimaced in frustration, "maybe Gyson can help me sort this out."

Eames squinted, trying hard to read him, "about today?"

"I don't know," he mumbled, "but, uh, how long do you think we can do this?"

Eames cocked her head slightly.

"A-all I know is that I don't want either of us to be in a life or death situation like this for a long time," he paused, "or better yet, maybe never."

Eames tried to smile, her eyes never leaving his, "you're in shock.

"You are too," he spoke softly, looking back down at his fucked up arm.

I would do anything for you - but you already know that, don't you?

And the only positive thing he could think of, was that he was glad he took the brutal blow, and not Eames.


TBC