Archie Johnson had his work cut out for him. Now that there were two Vegas victims, Grissom was ready to see the files that had been sent from Atlanta and Denver. It was Archie's job to organize the data, and it was a tall order. He had downloaded three disks of information from Atlanta and two from Denver. As Grissom had requested, he began to rearrange the information on the disks, not in chronological order as they were now, but by merging the Denver and Atlanta information together. All of the photos of the first Atlanta victim he juxtaposed with the photos of the first Denver victim and the first Las Vegas victim. He put together all the dumpsite shots of these victims as well as the shots of the homes and apartments of the victims. All the reports--autopsy, lab, and field--he also arranged to correspond with the first victims in each city. He did the same with the second Atlanta and Denver vics and the Vegas vic that had been found that morning. He had the photos of the vic and the dumpsite, but the residence photos had not yet been logged into evidence, and as far as he knew Ecklie and his day guys were still processing it, pulling a double.
The AV tech had been at it for four hours, and if he closed his eyes, he could still see the images. Bloody, lopsided chests, white cords around necks, dead cats with matching white cords around theirs. He breathed a sigh of relief when he was on the last Atlanta victim and the last Denver victim. He had come in early to have this done by the time Grissom and his team came in, and he almost made it. He looked at his watch and grinned in satisfaction. Twelve-ten. Damn, he was good. He pulled all the photos relating to the Atlanta vic first. He made a mental checklist as the information appeared on his screen: dumpsite photos, check; shots of woman with missing right breast, check; there's the dead cat, a calico this time, check; photos of the woman's home, nice place, check. And then a photo of a shoe-box-sized package addressed to Dr. Caroline Brighton at the Atlanta crime lab. Followed by several photos of the contents of that package.
Archie drew in his breath sharply and inserted the second Denver disk. All the photos of the last victim he had expected were there, but there was no photo of a cat placed on the victim's body. There was, however, a photo of a package, same size as the one in Atlanta, this one addressed to Dr. Caroline Brighton in care of the Denver lab. He knew what the contents of the package would be before he saw the image. He made printouts of these package photos and of the ones from Atlanta and then picked up the phone.
Grissom was in his office, going over the lab reports for the second time. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, or even why he was still looking at them. Certainly there was nothing unexpected. Like Jenna Scott, Ruth Murphy had ketamine in her system and showed evidence of postmortem sexual assault. The cat had ketamine in its system as well and had been strangled while alive. Nick and Warrick had begun to process the residence. It was a nice home, an expensive terracotta-tiled split-level that the vic had won in her divorce settlement three years ago. Per their supervisor's instructions, they had left when their shift ended, but not before finding the can of tuna on the kitchen floor. They had also lifted some tire treads from the drive and front of the house, only three this time, but they hadn't yet compared them to any of the lifts taken from the Scott apartment complex. Of greatest interest were the wheelchair tracks that cut across the grass from the sidewalk to the driveway. Grissom was anxious to view the photos of the tracks from the other cities and compare them. He was about to pick up the phone to ask Archie where things stood when Archie called him instead.
"Grissom? I think you'd better come in here. There's something you're going to want to see."
There was a nervous edge to Archie's usually calm tone, and Grissom hurried to the AV lab. When he got there, Archie wordlessly handed him the photos he had printed. Grissom took them and looked at them carefully. An index finger pushed his glasses further up on his nose and he pursed his lips.
"Can you call up the photo of the last Denver victim?" he asked Archie.
"Sure." Archie got it up on screen.
"Print it out," Grissom said, poising his hand over the printer, ready to receive it.
He put it in the stack with the others and picked up the phone. "Jim? Is Dr. Brighton with you? Good. I need both of you to come over here. We'll be in the layout room."
Grissom took out his cell and sent everyone on his team the same text message: Layout room. Now.
Archie got his attention before he left the room. "I have all the information organized onto new disks whenever you're ready for them. Made copies for Captain Brass, too."
"Thanks, Archie. Good job. I'll deal with this first, and then I'll take a look."
He sighed heavily as he entered the hallway. He wasn't sure exactly how he was going to "deal with this," but what he knew for sure was that Caroline Brighton had some explaining to do.
His team was only fifteen minutes into the shift and they were easily rounded up. They were in the layout room even before he got there, quizzing each other as to the reason they had been summoned. Five pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly when he came into the room.
Nick spoke for all of them. "What's up?" He hoped whatever it was they could make this quick. He was anxious to compare the tire tread impressions they had gotten from the Murphy place to the stray ones they had from the Scott complex.
Grissom did not reply, but he turned on the light to the layout table and deliberately arranged the photos onto the surface. His team gathered around the table, inspecting the photos. They looked from the photos to each other to their boss, not sure how to process what they were looking at.
Sara finally spoke. "The killer sent these to her?"
"So it would seem," Grissom replied, his voice revealing no emotion.
Greg leaned over and looked closely at the photos of the package contents. The strangled cat that had been placed in the Atlanta box was white, the one in the Denver box a brown tabby. "But all the cats were accounted for," he said.
"No, they weren't." Grissom picked up the last photo Archie had printed out and set it back down again in front of Greg. This was the oldest of the victims, a woman who appeared to be in her early fifties. There was no cat positioned on the nude body.
"Dr. Brighton said it was found separately," Warrick said. "I guess this is what she meant."
Catherine shook her head, puzzled. "I don't understand. Why send them to her?"
Grissom looked out the door into the hallway, where Brass and Caroline Brighton were approaching. "I guess you'll have to ask her that."
Only Nick had remained silent, his eyes fixed on the photos, studying the addresses on the boxes, his face paling when he saw the content photos. He looked now at Carrie as she entered the room, as did the others. She could feel herself the center of eyes and she hesitated in the doorway, not approaching the group gathered around the table. But Brass came in and went straight to the table, looking at the photos spread out upon it.
"What the hell? What is this, Gil?"
"They were in with the information sent from the Atlanta and Denver labs. Maybe Dr. Brighton would be so kind as to enlighten us."
Carrie could hear the sarcasm in his voice, the veiled accusation that she had been withholding information, and she approached the table cautiously. She took a step back when she saw the images. She hadn't given much thought to the information that had been sent from the other labs, not since she had told Grissom that it had been sent quickly and she wasn't sure how it was organized. She hadn't stopped to think that the package photos would be there. But of course they were there. They were a part of this thing, and like it or not, so was she. She looked up from the photos and faced Grissom.
"It's exactly what it looks like it is. He sent me dead cats."
"Yeah, now tell us something we don't know," said Brass impatiently.
"That's all there is," said Carrie matter-of-factly. "I don't know who he is; I don't know why he sent them; I don't know why he sent them to me." She answered each question she knew they would ask. She had answered them in Atlanta and again in Denver.
Grissom wasn't ready to let her off the hook so easily. She had some sort of connection to the killer, and if not, it was obvious the killer had some sort of connection to her. It irked him that she had been here almost five days and had said nothing about this.
"Dr. Brighton, a serial killer has deliberately sought you out. You must have some connection to him."
So many people had grilled her like this, and she was frankly tired of it. So many nights she had stayed awake, anguishing over why the killer had, as Dr. Gissom said, "sought her out." She had come up with nothing, and when she spoke, her voice reflected her frustration.
"Dr. Grissom. I'm a court-appointed psychologist for those who are convicted of sex crimes and are required to seek treatment. Some of my clientele I visit within prison walls, some I don't. I maintain a private practice in which most of my appointments are for those being treated for paraphilia-related disorders. Most of my clients are male, and most have what society considers aberrant sexual behaviors. Yes, it is possible that I have some connection to the killer. And even though the list of who that may be is quite extensive, I can assure you that I have examined it thoroughly and those on it have been eliminated as suspects. I could go over the list with you, if you wish, but it would take many hours."
Greg smiled. She was feisty, and he liked that. A pretty pink flushed her cheeks and the brown and green flecks in her eyes seemed to spark as her emotions rose. He wondered if it would be intimidating to sleep with a woman who made a living ferreting out "aberrant sexual behaviors." He sighed, knowing that he'd never find out. Hell, so far he couldn't even get her to go out for a cup of coffee. But it was fun to wonder just the same.
The others didn't seem as amused. There was an awkward silence in the room, finally broken by Catherine. "It's just as possible that Dr. Brighton has never made contact with the killer," she said. "He may have just picked her out at a scene or from the news and become infatuated with her."
Carrie nodded. "That's not unusual. Criminals, especially serials, sometimes form one-way attachments to a person involved with the case. It could be a news reporter, an investigator, a profiler. They contact those persons, seeking approval, respect. It happens."
Warrick drew in a breath. "Like Nigel Crane."
There were slow nods of dawning understanding from all except Nick, who was suddenly very interested in inspecting his shoes. He had never told anyone in his family about Nigel Crane, and he would have been just as happy if Carrie never knew. Already he had caught her looking at him with too much concern at times, and this wasn't going to help.
"Nigel Crane?"
"Yeah," Greg offered. "He was this weirdo who stalked Nick. Pretended that Nick was his best friend and Nick didn't even remember who he was when he saw him. Right, Nick?"
Nick remained silent and Carrie glanced carefully at him and then back at the others. "Well, there you go. Like I said, it happens."
"But Nick became Nigel's victim," Grissom pointed out, and Nick continued to avert his gaze, afraid of seeing the sympathy in Carrie's eyes if he were to meet them.
"And, I suspect," Grissom continued, "that this killer isn't entirely benevolent toward you, either." He looked harshly at Carrie. "Dr. Brighton, whose cat was in the package sent to you in Atlanta?"
Carrie looked at him straight on and her voice was firm when she spoke. "Mine."
She had gotten it when it was a kitten, just eight weeks old. It was a house-warming present to herself, and she brought it home the day she moved to her new property, a small ranch house outside of the city with a barn and enough land to pasture a few horses. She called it Cirrus because it was white and fluffy, like a cloud. It spent its days outside catching mice in the fields or in the barn and spent its nights with her, curled on her lap when she sat in a chair and sprawled across her feet as she lay in bed. She'd had it for five years, and she had cried hard when she had opened the box and seen it lying inside, a white cord wrapped around its snowy neck.
Nick looked up sharply and his voice was louder than he intended it to be. "He killed your cat? He was at your house, knew where you lived?"
"He didn't go inside," Carrie said weakly, knowing when she said it that it was of little consequence.
Nick reeled on her. "What the hell difference does that make? He knew where you lived, knew you had a cat, knew where to find it. Damn, Carrie. He was stalking you. The cat was a message to let you know that he was watching you. Were you planning on saying anything about this?"
Now attention had shifted away from Carrie to Nick. Half the group--Grissom, Brass, and Greg--were taken aback by his emotion and by the too-familiar way he addressed her. The other half--Warrick, Sara, and Catherine--had been waiting for it.
But Nick's attention was entirely on Carrie and he ignored the rest of the room. He had a sick feeling in his stomach when he asked his next question, and he braced himself for the answer.
"He found out you were in Denver, sent you a package there. That wasn't your cat. Whose was it?"
This time it took her a while to respond and they could see the tears in her eyes. Grissom answered for her.
"The last victim," he said. And then he added, not asking, "You knew her."
Carrie nodded and spoke carefully, determined not to let the tears fall or the voice shake. "She was a mentor, a friend. I went to grad school in Colorado and I did some of my internship under her. Her name was Margaret Jacobsen. She was a good woman, a brilliant psychologist. When the killings started up in Denver, I went there. The same as I came here. To share what I know, to try to help. I stayed with Maggie, at her house."
"And the killer knew that," Brass concluded. "He was stalking you there, too, sent the dead cat as a message that he had gotten to your friend."
"We tried to get to her, to warn her," Carrie said. "But he had already killed her by the time I got the package. We found her body the next morning. It was…well, you can see the photo. It was in the same condition as the others."
This time a tear did escape and she brushed it away impatiently. Nick quickly moved to stand next to her and without thinking he put his arm around her. She leaned into him gratefully, drawing the comfort. At the same time they both seemed to remember themselves, and he withdrew his arm and she moved a step away from him.
Greg was watching with interest. He had been crushing big time on the attractive psychologist ever since he had picked her up at the airport, but from the looks of things, Nick had it just as bad. He shook his head in sympathy as Dr. Brighton drew away from him. Poor bastard. Well, they could commiserate together over a few stacks of pancakes when they got off shift.
Catherine had been watching, too, and felt a pang of pity for her. But she also felt concern. "He may know you're here in Vegas," she said.
Carrie had collected herself and spoke without emotion. "Yes, he might," she agreed.
Nick shook his head. He had a sudden flash of Carrie in the parking lot of the strip mall, standing so still, exposed by herself in the center of the asphalt. Realization hit him, and his dark eyes were accusing when he looked at her.
"You're trying to draw him out."
She didn't deny it. "Look, I don't know what he wants with me, or why he's contacted me. He's going to kill whether I'm here or not. His interest in me is just…I don't know. Maybe just an amusement. But for whatever reason he is interested in me, and I suspect he's going to want to know whether I'm here or not. Or maybe he already knows, and wants to see me again. In either case, he's revisiting scenes, hanging around dumpsites, watching. If we know that, then let's put the knowledge to use."
Nick felt his heart jump in his chest, and his stomach lurched when he saw Brass, first and foremost a detective, nodding his head.
"You're right. We need to use what we've got. If he's looking for you, we can use that. Take you back to the scenes, have someone take photos of anyone in the area. Increase the patrols at the previous scenes when you're there. We might get a lucky break."
Nick had heard enough. He directed his anger toward Brass. "She's not bait, Jim. And she's not equipped to do this. She's not a cop. What do you want, to catch your lucky break by turning her into his next victim? You want a picture of her sliced up to add to the collection?"
Brass, like the others, looked stunned. He glanced at Grissom as if for support, and then back at Nick. "Jesus. We'd have her covered. We'd have a tail on her, and we sure as hell wouldn't let anything happen to her. Damn, Nicky, what the hell do you think I am?"
Nick ignored the question. He, too, looked at Grissom. "She needs to go back to Atlanta. She's confirmed his presence, given us his profile. We don't need her anymore."
Grissom kept his voice low. He could hear the emotion and anger in Nick's, and he knew he had to be careful not to match it. He'd dealt with Nick before when he was like this, when Nick's emotions bested his judgment, and he knew now was not the time to reprimand him but rather to try to reason with him.
"We do need her here, Nick. In two days the FBI is sending an investigator, and the only reason they're not sending a profiler too is because they know Dr. Brighton is here."
"We have our own profilers," Nick argued.
"We have our own investigators, too, but that's not going to stop them from sending one of their own. Besides, we don't have anyone who's as familiar with this as Dr. Brighton is, and you know that."
Carrie had been watching in silence, but she could hold back no longer. Nick and Dr. Grissom were having a conversation as if no one else, including her, was in the room.
"You're talking about me as if I'm not standing right here. Dr. Grissom's right. I'm not going back to Atlanta. You need a profiler here, and I'm the one you need. If I can help get this bastard off the street, then I'll do it. Captain Brass, whatever you need me to do, I'll do. I trust you."
At those words, Brass looked at Nick, the hurt still in his tired eyes. He smiled wanly at Carrie. "Okay. I'll get back to the station, work a few things out. We done here, Gil?"
Grissom nodded, then turned off the light on the table as a signal that their meeting was concluded. Nick wasn't quite ready for it to be over. He made no attempt to hide the anger in his voice.
"Neither one of you gives a damn about anything but solving this case, even if you put someone else at risk to do it."
Brass started to argue, but Grissom held up his hand and shook his head. Nick left the room. He was pissed at both Grissom and Brass, so pissed his head was pounding and he could hear a thundering in his ears. He headed to the locker room and stood there a minute, trying to calm down. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He knew the anger was a smokescreen. He did this more often than he cared to admit; he got pissed when really he was just plain scared. And he was scared for Carrie. That son of a bitch wasn't just waiting for her to appear at his scenes; he was stalking her. He knew where she lived in Atlanta, knew where she had been staying in Denver. Was he stalking her here, too? Did he know her hotel, know what car she had rented? The thought of it made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than for her to be back in Atlanta, safe. And when he couldn't have that, he had taken it out on Grissom and Brass, especially Brass. He already regretted what he had said to him. As soon as he felt a little more even-keeled, he'd go over to the station and apologize.
For now, he just needed a little more time. He opened his locker and stood in front of it, not really sure that he wanted anything out of it. But being here gave him someplace to be away from the others, and he needed that for just a while longer, could still feel the anger hot within him.
He wasn't alone for long.
"You know you were out of line in there."
He figured someone was going to follow him in here. He was betting on Warrick, but he wasn't too surprised to see Sara.
"You don't want to pick a fight with me right now, Sara. You'll lose." His accent was thick and she knew enough to take that as a warning.
"I didn't come here to fight."
He still had not turned around to look at her. "No? You came here to lecture me, then."
"I didn't. I'm sorry. I didn't start off very well." She touched his shoulder and instantly withdrew her hand when she felt him stiffen.
"Can you turn around, please? Please, Nick."
He sighed audibly and turned to face her.
"I'm just worried about you, that's all. Look, I know you and Dr. Brighton…Carrie…had a relationship once and…"
Nick slammed his locker shut. "Damnit! I used to be able to trust Warrick not to spread stuff I tell him all around the lab."
Sara held up her hand. "Hold on. Warrick only said that you and Carrie knew each other back in Texas. He didn't say anything about a relationship."
"Then how…"
"Carrie gave it away."
Nick looked at her questioningly.
"She cried once," Sara explained, "when she was watching you. Catherine and I saw it."
He digested that. He had been so distracted these past few days thinking of how hard it was on him to have Carrie here that he hadn't considered that it would be just as difficult for her to be here. Had he forgotten already how she had fled, in tears, from him when she had seen him in the print lab?
"Who else knows?" He wasn't sure why he had been trying so hard to conceal his past with Carrie, but he knew it was important to him to do so. Although, given the way he had just acted in the layout room, he supposed he was raising suspicions.
Sara considered thoughtfully. "Well, Warrick, obviously, since you told him. And Carrie talked to Catherine and me a little."
He arched an eyebrow and Sara touched his shoulder again, this time not removing her hand. "She needed someone, Nick. Someone to talk to about this. Maybe...maybe you do, too."
Nick shook his head. "Look, Sara, I know you mean well. But I'm fine. I'll admit I was having a hard time with her here for a few days, but it's okay now."
"You didn't sound okay a few minutes ago. In fact, Grissom was right behind me, looking for you, I'd bet. If you don't want to talk to me, you'd better at least figure out fast what you're going to say to him."
Grissom. It always came down to Grissom. "Does he know? About me and Carrie, I mean."
Sara shrugged. "When it comes to other people's emotions, Grissom has a way of not seeing the evidence unless he's looking for it. And I truly believe he makes a concerted effort not to look for it."
Nick smiled. She called that one right. "Thanks, Sara. For being a friend."
She patted his shoulder. "You have lots of them, you know. Friends, I mean."
Before he could respond she quickly withdrew her hand and took a step away from him. She turned to the doorway. "Hey, Grissom."
Grissom nodded to her. "Can you give us a minute, Sara?"
Sara smiled reassuringly at Nick. "Sure. See you later, Nick."
"Sit down, Nick," Grissom ordered without preamble.
Nick sat on the bench in front of the lockers and Grissom sat next to him. Nick watched him warily, determined not to look at the floor like a kid who was being reprimanded for backtalking a parent.
"Do you want to talk about what happened back there?" It was posed as a question, even though they both knew it wasn't. But Nick wasn't going to make this easy on Grissom. Sometimes he'd let Grissom question his emotions and he'd remain silent. And sometimes, maybe not often enough, he wouldn't.
"Would it make a difference if I said no?"
"No. Not this time. What you said to Brass was completely off base."
Nick knew he was right and was man enough to admit it. "I know. I'm going to apologize to him."
"Good. But that's not really the issue here." He paused, trying to find the most inoffensive way to phrase his words. He suspected Nick had formed some sort of attachment to Dr. Brighton since she had been here, and it was a lot easier to reprimand him for his treatment of Brass than it was about this. The psychologist was attractive and personable, and he supposed it was natural that Nick would be drawn to her. But when that caused Nick to become overly emotional and lose perspective, then it was his job to step in and say something.
"Nick…Nicky, I don't know what's going on between you and Dr. Brighton, but…"
Grissom never got a chance to finish his sentence. Nick felt his face grow warm, the anger rise. He couldn't explain it, not even to himself. He just knew that what he had with Carrie, or what he used to have, anyway, was his. His, and he didn't want Grissom to have it. Grissom had so much of him. Grissom knew so much of him. Grissom knew what was on the tapes Nigel Crane had made of him in his most private moments; Grissom knew about his freak-out when he first realized he was in that fucking box; shit, Grissom even knew his childhood nickname. But Grissom wasn't going to have any part of this.
"You're right," Nick said bluntly. "You don't." He got up and turned his back to Grissom and headed for the door.
"We're not done here," Grissom said, his voice a warning.
Nick didn't heed it. "Yeah, we are."
Grissom shook his head, more to himself than to Nick. He knew what he had to say, hated to say it. There were times, and this was one of them, when he really hated his supervisory role.
"When you head out that door, Nick, keep on going. You're going home."
That was enough to get Nick to stop and turn around. "You can't do that. I've got those tread lifts to compare and…"
"Yes, Nick, I can. Go home. If you don't want to talk to me about whatever it is that's eating away at you right now, fine. Go home and figure it out on your own. You've got ten long hours to think about it. When you come back, you can help Ecklie and his guys with the evidence that was collected at the Murphy house."
Nick stared at him incredulously, waiting for him to change his mind. But Grissom said nothing else, and Nick was left with no choice but to comply. It was cold outside and his jacket was in his locker, but he didn't stop to get it. He hurried from the room, eager to put as much distance between him and his supervisor as he could, as fast as he could. But even as he hurried down the hall, he could see again the hurt in Brass's eyes. Yeah, he'd go home as ordered. But first, he had an apology to make.
