Lex Talionis

Chapter 29

Waking slowly, Grissom blindly reached over to the other side of the bed, feeling around for Sara's familiar form. Encountering nothing but the bedspread he had fallen asleep on top of, he opened one eye before shutting it quickly against the light that was streaming in through the open curtains. He carefully turned over onto his back and winced at the pain in his ankle as well as the headache that seemed to have taken up residence above his right eye.

Raising one arm and using it to block the glare, he squinted at his watch, amazed to see it was just past 9am. If everything went according to plan, he could finish up with Sam Mercer and be on the road to Fernley before lunch.

It was as he was pushing himself up that he realized how long he'd actually slept. His body had become so accustomed to four-hourly meds that he automatically woke around about the times they were due but last night he'd obviously been so exhausted he'd slept right through. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled his backpack up from the floor and searched through the pockets until he located his pills.

Shaking out the prescribed dosages, he swallowed the antibiotic then studied the two Vicodin tablets in his palm. Grissom had hoped to use his time away to cut down on his use of the painkiller but it certainly didn't look like he was going to be able to start that today. Downing the pills, he sat for a further five minutes in order to give them a chance to start working before he got up.

He grabbed some fresh clothes from the bag and was about to put it down again when he remembered Heather's package. Reaching down to the bottom of the bag, he pulled out the large padded envelope and upended it on the bed. He picked up the Smith & Wesson 9mm and the box of ammunition and carefully loaded the magazine before sliding the pistol back into its holster. He placed it on the bedside cabinet then turned his attention to the remaining box.

When he'd made the list of his requirements, he'd been unsure of Heather's ability to locate this particular piece of equipment but she'd assured him that, with her contacts, getting hold of it wouldn't be a problem. He scanned the instructions and was pleased to see that Heather had also included an ample supply of fresh batteries. Although he'd told her that he only wanted the item on the off-chance, he actually planned to put it to use as soon as he could arrange it. However, first he had to find out exactly who it was he was after and, in order to do that, he had to get moving.

After showering, he dressed and then experimented with the holster, finally coming to the conclusion that the only way he could have quick and easy access to the 9mm was to wear it on his left-hand side with the butt of the pistol to the front. Cross-drawing the weapon was awkward and would require practice to master but, at least this way, neither crutch got in the way.

After stowing the backpack in the Lexus, he grabbed his jacket off the backseat and shrugged into it, making sure the gun was well hidden by the material. He decided to pass on breakfast and ten minutes later, he'd settled the bill, entered the required address in the vehicle's GPS and was on his way. His destination was just on the northern outskirts of Ely.

Fifteen minutes later, Grissom pulled up outside a large industrial shed and made his way inside. The noise was enough to make him wish he'd stayed out by the car. Between the sound coming from the gas-fired forge and the metallic clanging of hammer on iron; he had no idea how anyone could think in here let alone concentrate enough to work.

The only occupant of the premises was bent over a large anvil in one corner of the building, his back to the entrance. Dressed in worn jeans and an old chambray shirt, he appeared to be in his mid to late sixties; he was currently supporting one end of a metal rod whilst shaping the other into a graceful curl. Grissom watched as the piece was thrust into a large barrel of water before being extracted and the cooling metal thoroughly examined. Appearing satisfied with his work; the artisan placed it down and had just reached for another rod when Gil decided to take advantage of the lowered noise level. He cleared his throat to announce his presence and watched in amazement as the man instantly spun to face him, the iron bar held menacingly above his head.

Slowly the arm holding the metal began to lower as the man took in his visitor's appearance and, obviously ironic judged him non-threatening. However, anger and tension were evident in his voice as he addressed the intruder.

"Good God, Almighty! What the hell do you think you're doing sneaking up on people like that?"

Gil smile at the irony; in his current condition, he didn't think he'd be able to sneak up on anyone.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you." He felt his pockets for identification, annoyed to realize he'd left it in the SUV. "I'm looking for Sam Mercer."

Calmer now, the older man placed the bar down on the anvil. "That would be me." He looked Gil up and down before gesturing towards the far side of the building. "You look like you could do with a seat; come on back to the office."

Following Mercer into the small partitioned room, Grissom refused the offer of coffee as he took a seat then waited while Mercer filled a cup for himself and sat opposite, fixing Gil with a stare.

"I get the feeling you're not here to order a gate."

"No, I'm not." Grissom returned the man's gaze. "I'm from the Las Vegas Crime Lab; I'm hoping you'll be able to help me with a case we're working on at the moment."

Mercer's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I don't see what good I'd be to you; I haven't been anywhere near Vegas in years."

"You wouldn't have had to be." Grissom told him. "I've been trying to find the maker of a particular branding iron. I made enquiries with a couple of different places and two of them advised me to speak to you."

Mercer sat quietly sipping his coffee as Gil spoke.

"Most of the brands they make are machine manufactured; I emailed them photographs of the one I'm interested in and, according to them, that level of intricacy would require it to be made by hand. They both said that if you didn't make it you'd certainly be able to tell me who did."

Mercer put down his cup. "Let me guess; it's a butterfly."

Grissom tried to stop the smile but couldn't quite manage it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tracing he'd made of the butterfly shape.

Mercer took the proffered picture and, putting on a pair of glasses, studied it. "Yep, that's it alright. I tried to get the fellow to simplify it some but he wasn't budging. I told him I couldn't guarantee how clearly the brand would actually show up but he knew exactly what he wanted and I couldn't talk him round." He got up from the desk and headed for the door. "Give me a minute."

Returning seconds later, he handed Grissom a 6 inch square piece of wood. Taking it, Gil found himself looking at a burnt outline of the same butterfly picture.

"That's my initial test of the brand." Mercer told him. "I hadn't put any of the detail in yet but you can see it's the same one. I was sure that when all the smaller pieces were added he'd end up with a lot of blurring but, as I said, I couldn't get him to change it any."

The pleasure Grissom had felt moments earlier at finding the right blacksmith disintegrated as he looked at the wood he held. Staring at the image, he suddenly felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the small office. He vaguely heard Mercer continuing to talk and, after quickly pushing the wooden block onto the man's desk, forced himself to concentrate on what he was saying.

"He never did say what he wanted it for; I just assumed it was going to be an ornamental piece." Mercer said.

"No, it's been used as a brand." Gil pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it out to Mercer. "As you'll see, there's almost no blurring at all."

Taking the photo, Mercer glanced at it then pulled open a drawer and removed a pair of glasses. After putting them on, he examined the print carefully. Suddenly his eyes shot up to meet Grissom's.

"That's not animal flesh, is it?"

"No." Gil replied, feeling uncomfortable under the other man's gaze. He shifted restlessly in his seat. "No it's not."

Mercer looked down at the photo then back up at his visitor. Seeing a brief flash of white at the collar of Grissom's polo shirt, he put the pieces together.

"It's you!" Amazement was clear in the blacksmith's voice. "He used the damn thing on you, didn't he?"

Without saying a word, Gil reached up and unbuttoned his shirt. Pulling the dressing from his chest, he held the collar open for Mercer to see.

"Holy shit!" Mercer was out of his chair and crouched in front of Grissom in seconds. Careful not to touch the wound, he examined the partially-healed burn that was now exposed. "He did that to you?"

"To me and at least one other person that I know of." Self-conscious now, Grissom carefully buttoned his shirt over the wound; a fresh dressing would have to wait. "Believe it or not, I'm the lucky one; he killed the other guy."

Standing back up, Mercer got a closer look at Gil's face and the film of perspiration that covered it. "Are you alright? You're as white a sheet."

Grissom shrugged of the man's question. "I'm fine; it's just a little warm in here."

Mercer nodded slowly, not entirely convinced that that was the problem. "Let me get you a cold drink; I won't be long."

As he left the room, Grissom leant forward resting his head in his hands. He needed to get himself under control; there was no way he was going to be able to do this if he freaked out at every little piece of evidence he came across. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing and began counting. He made it to eighteen before he heard Mercer return but kept going until he reached twenty-five.

Feeling somewhat better, Gil raised his head and sat upright. Noticing a glass of water on the desk in front of him, he reached for it and took a drink.

"Sorry about that." He gave Mercer an embarrassed smile.

"Don't apologize to me." Mercer shrugged. "I'm only sorry I made the damn thing."

Grissom placed the now empty glass back down.

"None of it's your fault." He noticed the wooden block was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, that only made him feel worse.

"Are they going to be able to fix that up for you?" Mercer gestured towards Gil's chest as he leaned back in his seat.

"They were talking about skin grafts." Grissom told him. "I wasn't comfortable with the doctor that was handling things so I refused treatment. I'll find a surgeon I trust and get it done eventually but the leg's my priority at the moment."

"Well, the bastard may not have killed you but it looks like he gave it a good shot." Mercer commented as he kept an eye on his visitor.

"Yeah, he did." Grissom ran his hand over his face, wiping the last of the sweat away. It was as he lowered the hand that he realized it was shaking. Mercer noticed it too.

Without saying a word, he opened his bottom drawer and removed a bottle of bourbon, pouring and inch or so into Gil's glass as well as his own cup.

"Get that down you." He ordered as he picked up the glass and held it out to his visitor.

Grissom shook his head in refusal. "Thanks for the thought but I can't; I'm on medication."

"I'm not advising you to drink the whole bottle." Mercer was persistent. "You need something to settle your nerves; this'll do it."

Already mortified by his own behavior, Gil didn't want to make things worse by arguing with a witness. Taking the glass, he took a sip then attempted to get things back on track.

"You remember the man who placed the order then?"

"Oh yeah, couldn't forget him." Mercer said as he opened one of the desk drawers and removed an order book. "He phoned me first of all to see if I could do it for him; as you said, he'd been turned down by the other places he'd tried."

Mercer flicked through the book until he reached the page he was after.

"Most branding irons nowadays are made by those bigger concerns; all electric tools and a quick turnaround. Sure they can do it quicker for you but, more often than not, they can't afford to take the time to do, what could be considered, a 'fussy' piece; which is why your boy was sent to me."

Draining the contents of his cup, Mercer leaned back in his chair, obviously settling in for the rest of the day.

"Now, I mostly do large decorative pieces; gates and the like but it's nice to work on smaller things every so often and I like to know that I can still beat those big guys at something."

"So, he placed the order over the phone?" Grissom asked, placing his glass back on the desk and hoping Mercer wouldn't notice how much liquor was left in it.

Sam checked the book "Yep, four months ago. He faxed through the butterfly picture and at the same time I had him send me written confirmation of the order."

"What was the name?" Reaching into his pocket, Gil pulled out a small notebook and pen.

Mercer smiled. "Well, he told me when he called that his name was Sullivan and that was the name he used on the letter he sent too."

Casually Sam poured another couple of fingers of bourbon into his cup, frowning when he saw Grissom's almost untouched glass.

"When we discussed the price, I'd told him that I was going to need a deposit before I could start but, when the fax came through he hadn't put down a credit card number so I had to call him back. I should have known then that he was trouble." Mercer shook his head ruefully. "Anyway, he says he wants to pay cash but he's too far away to drop by and pay me just now and he doesn't have a checkbook. It wasn't until I told he was going to have to find someone else to deal with that he gave me the card number. Name on the card was Tate; Sean Tate"

"And the payment went through?" Grissom asked. "It was a valid number?"

"Oh yeah." Mercer nodded. "When he and his friend turned up here to pick up the iron, he paid the balance with that card too; there was no problem with it."

"He could have just been using someone else's card?" Gil suggested as he wrote down both names.

"Oh, no." Mercer was adamant. "Apart from the fact that he signed the authorization as Tate, I also heard his friend call him Sean a couple of times when the pair of them were here."

"What about this friend?" Grissom was feeling better now that they were finally down to business. "Did you get a name for him? Description?"

Mercer closed his eyes and tipped his head back as he tried to remember. "He was around the same age as Tate; I'd put him around 32, maybe a year or two older. White, solid build, his hair was that sort of dirty blonde color."

Gil was quite certain he knew who Mercer was describing.

"Height?"

"Um... 6 foot max; no taller." Sam opened his eyes and looked over at Grissom. "If I remember correctly Tate called him Jason. Nasty piece of work if you ask me; had a real attitude about him."

Grissom squeezed his eyes shut as memories flooded back; being unable to dodge the fist that greeted him as he opened his front door, having his head slammed repeatedly into the granite bench top, breaking free and running for the door only to be met by an unmasked Jason Beck and the beating that followed.

"It doesn't matter now; he's dead." To Gil the voice he heard sounded strange, almost detached and it took a moment before he registered that it was his own. Opening his eyes again, he met the concerned ones of Sam Mercer.

"I'm no expert but I really don't think you should be doing this." The blacksmith stood and picked up Gil's glass. He held it out to his guest as he took a seat on the corner of the desk. "Finish that."

Automatically taking the glass, Grissom swallowed the contents; breathing out slowly as he felt the burn of the alcohol going down. Putting the empty glass back on the desk, he picked up his notebook and read over his notes, deliberately ignoring Mercer's continued scrutiny.

Keeping his head down, he addressed the blacksmith. "I think I've got everything I need now." Feeling the sweat begin to run down his face again, he closed the book and put it and the pen back in his pocket. "I'm going to arrange for someone to drop by and take a statement from you, they'll also need copies of any paperwork you have regarding the branding iron. If you could have that ready for them it'll make things go a lot quicker."

Desperate to get away from the building, Grissom reached for his crutches. Mercer grabbed them first.

"Why are you putting yourself through this? What in God's name do you think you're going to accomplish?"

"Please, give me the crutches." Grissom tried to keep his voice even. "I really have to get out of here."

"Are you alone up here?' Mercer asked, his concern growing. "Is there someone I can call?"

"No, there's no one." Gil took a deep breath, trying to quell his frustration. "Look, I appreciate your help, I really do but I've got to go now!"

Reluctantly, Mercer handed over the crutches. With a relieved sigh, Grissom stood and then held out his hand.

"Thank you, you've been more help than you'll ever know." After shaking the blacksmith's hand, Gil headed for the door, desperate for fresh air. Mercer followed behind him.

Getting in the driver's seat of the Lexus, Grissom opened the console and pulled out his wallet; removing a business card, he held it out to Mercer. "Someone will call to arrange a time to take your statement but, in the meantime, if you remember anything else that might be important, call this number and ask for either Catherine or Nick."

"I'll do that." Mercer took the card and put it in his shirt pocket. "You take care of yourself, okay? And, whatever it is that you're really searching for; I hope you find it." With a final smile, he turned and headed back to the building. He stood in the open doorway and watched as Grissom turned the large SUV and drove back out to the road.

Heading back towards the exit for US-50, Grissom couldn't get there fast enough. He was disgusted with his performance and vowed to himself that nothing like that was ever going to happen again. As if things weren't bad enough, he'd run out of there with a complete description of a dead man but none whatsoever for the person he was really after; still, at least now he had a name and that was a start.

Seeing his exit up ahead, Gil heaved a sigh of relief. Turning west onto the highway, he put his foot down and sped up. The sooner he put Ely behind him the better.


Back in his office, Sam poured himself another bourbon then sat in the same seat Grissom had occupied. Pulling the business card from his pocket, he turned the telephone on his desk around so that he could dial. It only took seconds for the phone to be answered and, after discovering that neither Catherine nor Nick were available, Sam briefly told the receptionist what he was calling about and left it up to her to find him someone suitable to talk to.

The next voice he heard belonged to Conrad Ecklie.

TBC