Chapter 10
Carlie's nose wrinkled as she walked down the corridor – she hated the disinfectant smell of hospitals. Finding the door she wanted, she knocked gently, not at all sure what she was expecting.
"Come in."
Opening the door, Carlie stepped into the room and looked around. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Pratchett. - um, I'm Carlie. The CSIs said you wanted to talk to me?"
"Just Derek and Linnea is fine," Derek grinned, rightly guessing that his daughter had referred to them simply as 'Mommy and Daddy' and Carlie probably didn't even know their first names. "We just wanted to properly say thank you for helping our kids."
Carlie blushed. "You're welcome, of course," she said, a smile which had often been described as 'infectious' coming to her face. But I don't know that I'm a hero or anything."
"Millie would say otherwise," Linnea chuckled. "As would we. You saw two cold and frightened children, and made sure they were safe – sounds pretty heroic to me."
"I'd like to think I was just doing what any decent person would have done," Carlie laughed.
"Perhaps, but decent people can be hard to come by in this world," Derek observed. "So – thank you. Thank you for being a friend when Millie and Max most needed one." He grinned. "Have a seat, if you want – tell us about yourself."
As Carlie left the hospital, she found her mind was wandering a path all its own. She had entered that hospital room a total stranger and left some two hours later as family – the Pratchetts were some of the warmest, most wonderful people she'd ever met. Who could possibly have wanted to do this to this family?
At last coming out of her reverie, she looked up and found that she'd arrived at, not the bus stop she'd been heading for, but a large book retailer. She grinned. Well. She was already off campus, and the next bus back wouldn't arrive for another 45 minutes. Millie had a birthday coming up in the next couple of weeks. And, as Derek and Linnea had observed, the bright and inquisitive little girl had quickly become a friend. Heading inside, she made her way to the audiovisual section and the kids' DVDs, where she quickly found just what she was looking for. Purchasing the DVD along with a birthday card, she whistled as she headed off to the bus stop.
"Catherine."
Catherine had been headed back to her desk, but turned around. "What have you got, Jacqui?"
"AFIS kicked out a match to one set of prints from the Pratchett residence – Dominic Hale. He's got priors for vandalism, petty theft, and meth possession."
"Thanks – I'll see if O'Riley can put out a BOLO."
"Good evening, Dominic," Catherine said as she stepped into the interrogation room with Greg, wearing the expression of a cat eagerly anticipating a date with the neighborhood canary.
"Man, I already told that cop," Dominic said, scowling at O'Riley. "I don't even know why I'm here!"
"Well, maybe my associate and I can clear that up for you," Greg said, his tone friendly as he took a seat across the table from the young man with the seemingly permanent scowl. "Is Sassafrass Lane familiar to you at all? Been there recently?"
"Never heard of the place," Dominic said icily. "Why, there any good clubs there?" His fingertips tapped at the table nervously... or possibly compulsively.
"No," Catherine replied, a dangerous note creeping into her voice. "No clubs. But two nights ago, there was a break-in there. Two men broke into a house at about 11:00 at night, threatening to kidnap two very specific children. Know anything about that, Dominic?" Inwardly, she sighed – she had seen entirely too many real thugs in this job, and this kid didn't come close. The 'tough guy' was an act, and beneath the facade, he was probably about to wet his pants.
"I already told you - I ain't never heard of this Sassyass Lane, or whatever the hell it's called, and I don't know jack shit about anything that happened there."
"Well, it's funny you should say that, Dominic," Greg said conversationally, his tone still the friendly Good Cop to Catherine's Bad Cop. "Because, you see, we found your fingerprints at the crime scene."
"So, let's try this again, Dominic," Catherine said, the dangerous note in her tone growing stronger. "Do you know anything about the attempt to kidnap Max and Millie?"
"I want a lawyer."
Catherine smirked dangerously. "Yes, Dominic, I think that would be a very good idea."
"Nick, Sara?"
Sara turned. "Yeah, Brass?"
"Marcus Wagner's parents are here - the University had incorrect home contact info on file, so I wound up calling in a favor with the Carson City police department to look them up by property tax records."
"Thanks, Brass - we'll be right there," Nick nodded.
The two CSIs stepped into a quiet interrogation room a few minutes later to find a middle-aged couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, we're very sorry for your loss," Sara began as she and Nick sat down. Given the hour, Martha and Zachary Wagner had likely made the drive straight from Carson City as soon as they'd heard the news. "I'm Sara Sidle, and this is Nick Stokes."
Martha nodded. "Thank you. Please, the police in Carson City didn't have a lot of details - can you tell us what happened to our son?"
Nick sighed. "I'm afraid there's no easy way to say this, Mrs. Wagner - Marcus died of an overdose of a methamphetamine-derived drug."
"That's a stimulant, isn't it?" Zach shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "I wish... I wish I could say that we were surprised."
Sara cringed inwardly. "Could you tell us more about Marcus?"
"He's always been very bright, and a gifted artist, but ever since he was a baby, he's craved stimulation," Martha said. "Some mothers run the vacuum cleaner or the drier to get their babies to stop crying - I had to put him in the swing as fast as it would go, turn the television on at full volume, and THEN run the vacuum. And I wound up with the cleanest floors on the block. As he got older, he'd drink as many caffeinated sodas as we would let him have as a preschooler, and then sneak some more, or our coffee mugs, when we weren't looking. He liked his chili even spicier than his Dad, and ate jalapenos like apples. And all that was mostly fine," she sighed.
"But then we learned that our youngest, Darius, has severe ADD - he's been on Adderall for over a decade now," Zach continued. "We're not sure when Marcus first got a hold of Darius's medication. But it became a nonstop battle to keep him out of it - the Adderall was an instant source of the stimulus he craved. At one point, it was so bad that Darius offered to go off his meds to get them out of the house and away from his brother, but we couldn't ask that of him - he simply does not have the attention span to succeed academically without meds, and we couldn't ask a thriving child to sacrifice all the progress he'd made. Instead, we only filled a week's worth of Adderall at a time and kept it locked up, but Marcus still occasionally found a way. We tried therapy, counseling..."
Martha wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "We had hoped that when he went away to school, away from the Adderall sitting there, that all the activity of college life would give him the stimulation he needed." She shook her head. "We should have known better."
"Unfortunately, we have evidence that Marcus was dealing as well as using, most likely to support his habit."
Zach shook his head. "Marcus, how could someone as bright as you also be so stupid?" he wondered aloud. "You knew better."
Martha paused. "Can we... Would it be possible for us to see our boy?"
Sara nodded. "Of course - I'll show you down to the morgue."
"Warrick - Kessler's next of kin is here."
"Thanks, Gris," Warrick nodded, getting up from his desk. "I'm surprised it took a couple of days."
Grissom shook his head. "He's very lucky he could get here this fast. Theodore Kessler is a naval captain - he was at sea, and couldn't leave until naval command was able to send a helicopter to intercept his submarine," he explained as the two CSIs headed down the hall.
"Gotcha," Warrick nodded. They stepped into an interview room to find the officer waiting.
Captain Kessler was a tall man, easily 6'7", with sandy blond hair. A tattoo of a dolphin just above his right wrist peaked out beneath the sleeve of his khaki uniform. He stood as the two CSIs entered. "Gentlemen," he nodded.
"Captain Kessler," Grissom nodded. "I'm Gil Grissom, and this is Warrick Brown - we're very sorry about your brother."
"Please, it's just Ted," the younger Kessler brother nodded. "And thank you. What happened to Tony, if I may ask?"
"We're still assembling all of the details," Warrick said. "But he was found hanging in his office on Friday night."
"Murder or suicide?" Ted asked.
"Murder," Grissom replied. "We've found evidence that he struggled with his attacker."
Ted shook his head. "Tony, Tony, Tony - I wouldn't have thought that even youwould manage to piss someone off that bad..."
"Could you tell us about your brother?" Warrick asked. "We're having trouble finding anyone in the Vegas area who was close to him."
"I'm sure you are - I would be very surprised if there were anyone for you to find," Ted said, raising an eyebrow. "Make no mistake, I loved my brother - there's not a whole lot I wouldn't do right now for one more night knocking back a beer and watching the baseball game, or one more camping trip, or getting my ass kicked in one more chess match. But my love for Tony didn't blind me to the fact that he was an ass, nor did it stay me from telling him so on more than one occasion - if your brother can't tell you when you've gone and screwed the pooch, who can? We've had some pretty good arguments over the years, but we've always hugged and made up afterward. My wife, on the other hand, with the exception of a couple of funerals, hasn't been in the same room with him since about a year after we were married, and, considering how he spoke to her, I can't say that I blame her any - when I went to visit Tony, Laura'd go on a girls' weekend with her sisters. Tony had never met our three small children, and Laura and I had no intentions of changing that any time soon. I loved Tony enough to put up with a certain amount of his bullshit - more of it than I probably should have - but I wasn't going to expose Zanni, Patrick, and Reggie to it, or make Laura feel obligated to be in a situation she wasn't comfortable with."
"When you say he was an ass, what do you mean?" Grissom asked.
"I mean that he had a hard time forming healthy relationships of any kind with people, and he did not typically treat others with respect. He was rude, demanding, demeaning, and often came across as egotistical. And, quite frankly, he was blatantly prejudiced - against anyone with more melanin than him, or more X chromosomes than him, or of different sexual preference than him. And I told him, more than once, that all of that was assinine, and that he was too intelligent for that sort of idiocy."
"Why did he treat others that way?"
"Bearing in mind that I'm a skipper, not a shrink? My guess is childhood trauma. But that's a reason, not an excuse - Tony was more than old enough to take responsibility for his actions. He was a man, not a boy. But when we were growing up, our father was abusive, both physically and emotionally, to our mother. He never hit us kids, but he did tell us how worthless we were early and often. As you can imagine, that isn't a healthy environment for a child. As I grew up, I vowed that I would never be that man. But Tony... I think he internalized a lot of it. He developed a very deep need to be dominant over others. I never saw him inflict violence on so much as a fly - indeed, even cartoon violence in the media was quite traumatic for him; he seldom watched any television aside from ball games and science documentaries even as an adult - but he had to be... psychologically above others, to strike the first verbal blow before he could become a victim. The only two women I ever saw him treat with respect and dignity were our mother and our sister, his twin, Victoria. Mom died of cancer four years ago, and Tori died in a car accident when she was only 25. I was just about all Tony had left."
"Were you aware that your brother was in the habit of using small doses of methamphetamine and related drugs?"
"I was not, but I can't say that I'm terribly surprised," Ted said, shaking his head. "Tony's life was his research, he felt most... alive, most whole, when he was in the lab. Even in grad school, he'd use caffeine to stay up until dawn, and then sleep until noon, only to do it all all over again that night. He drank more Red Bull than an angsty teenage goth. I doubt he was looking for a high from the meth, so much as for an energy spike." He shrugged. "Some people try to drink their troubles away - my brother tried to work his troubles away. It was just about exactly as effective."
"When did you last speak to Tony?" Warrick asked.
"Some time ago, just before I left port - I'm not at liberty to tell you precisely where our sub has been or what we have been doing there, but, suffice to say, our mission parameters required strict radio silence. We just got back into nonclassified waters on Thursday, and even then, we weren't able to get to periscope depth to use the comms. Until today in an airport, I hadn't spoken to my wife in two months. I last spoke to Tony... UNLV's term was just beginning, so maybe 12 weeks ago now? We shot the breeze for a couple of hours, talking about nothing and everything."
"Did he seem normal then?"
Ted nodded. "Normal for Tony, at any rate." He paused. "Would it be possible for me to see him?"
Grissom nodded. "Yes. Right this way."
As Grissom stepped out of the morgue to give the two brothers some privacy, he heard a quiet sniffle.
"Well, bro... it isn't a chess board, but it will have to do..."
