AN: a million apologizes for the delay! This was supposed to be the last chapter but it didn't work out that way. One more... probably. Thanks for the reviews!

Chapter Twenty Two: Shoeprints
"Well, I guess we've got our guy," Warrick said, looking at the marriage license.

"But in some ways, it doesn't make any sense at all," Catherine said. "I mean, the guy doesn't look much over forty, but he would have to be seventy! And why would he change his first name and not his last? This killer is smart, remember? It might be a coincidence."

"Heck of a coincidence," Nick said.

"Conner was at the scene last time. He was the only one there from the hotel," Sara said.

"If you had just been caught murdering someone, would you stick around?" Catherine asked.

"If I wanted to see how the investigation was going, sure," Warrick replied.

"Whatever," Catherine said, annoyed. "Can we prove anything?"

"Not really," Sara said. "We've got a couple prints, but nothing at one of the murder scenes. He can deny everything."

"What about the black hair?" Nick asked. "Conner has black hair, right?"

"Yeah, but there's no DNA."

"We have a shoe print from the latest scene, right?" Warrick asked.

"Yeah, but it's only a partial and there's no treads. It's worthless," Catherine sighed.

"Not entirely. We could ask the hotel staff for their shoes - to clear their names. Blaine would be more than eager to cooperate, I'm sure."

"So?" Sara asked, urging him on.

"Well, if we get Conner to come here, maybe we can ask some casual questions. Or someone could come by and mention something about the Fieldings. Whatever. See where I'm going with this?"

"Basically we're going to try and trick him into letting something slip?"

"Sure thing. Maybe we can pull some more dirt on Conner and innocently mention something. You never know," Warrick said.

"This'll never work," Catherine muttered, as Grissom went to call Blaine.
"Well," Sara announced, "all I've found is that Conner had plastic surgery about five years ago. Major plastic surgery. I tried to call the surgeon, but he's been out of business for three years or so. Oh, and Conner went to night school for a while."

"Plastic surgery to make him look younger?" Nick suggested.

No one had time to answer him because just then Conner walked in, holding a large bag of shoes. Grissom had convinced Blaine that Conner should bring in the shoes because they needed to talk to him about what he had seen the night of the latest murder.

"Mr. Conner," Brass said, "right this way." Brass led Conner to an interrogation room where Grissom and Warrick were waiting to print the shoes. Conner placed the bag of shoes on the table silently. Warrick opened a bag and began to remove the shoes and put them in a line across the table. Each pair was neatly marked with the name of the owner, and Warrick checked these names off on a clipboard. No one spoke while he was doing this.

Finally, Warrick broke the silence. "I don't see your shoes here, Mr. Conner."

Conner motioned to his feet. "I'm wearing them. I only have one pair of shoes for work, and I was supposed to be working today."

"I see." Warrick moved back to the table and began to print the shoes that were lined up.

"Mr. Conner," Grissom said, "I understand you were guarding the hotel the night of the latest murder?"

"Yes sir."

"Did you see or hear anything unusual, Mr. Conner?"

"No sir. A woman came up and asked me for help with her parking meter around the corner. I went to help her, and when I returned, the police had arrived."

"How long were you away from the hotel, Mr. Conner?"

"No more than ten minutes, sir."

Warrick leaned over and whispered something into Grissom's ear. Grissom nodded slowly, then turned back to Blaine. Warrick left the room and a few seconds later, Sara came in. She also whispered something to Grissom.

"Mr. Conner," Grissom said. "We're going to need your shoes."

Sara bent down and took the shoes off Conner. Instead of printing his shoes at the table like Warrick had done, she took them and left the room with them.

"Where is she going with my shoes?" Conner asked, beginning to feel a bit anxious.

"We ran out of ink. She had to take your shoes to the lab. Don't worry, she won't hurt them, Mr. Conner," Grissom said. "Now, are you sure you didn't see anything unusual that night? Why were you working if the hotel was closed?"

"Blaine wanted someone to watch for vandals."

"And you volunteered?"

"It's my job," Conner answered.

"Grissom, Brass?" Nick said poking his head in the door. "We've got a situation."
The CSIs watched Conner through the one-way mirror.

"Do you think it's working?" Nick asked.

"Well, he looks a little uneasy, but he's not going to break down and admit anything," Grissom replied.

"We should make him sweat it a bit longer," Warrick suggested. "Did you compare the shoeprint from the scene?"

"Yeah," Sara said, holding Conner's shoeprint up. "It matches, I guess. These shoes are so old there are no treads, but the shape matches. They're fairly common shoes. I'm sure he can make up all kinds of excuses."

"Is there blood on his shoes?" Catherine asked.

"I'm on my way to check," Sara said, walking to the door. "I just wanted to see how it was going."

On the other side of the glass, Conner fidgeted in his seat.

"What's the plan?" Warrick asked.

"I think we should ask him about the hotel again - let him know we are suspicious," Nick said.

"Then we mention the prints - the one in the security box and the one on the floorboard. But don't mention the things we found under the floorboards yet. Let him wonder what we know."

"Right," Warrick agreed. "You and Brass want to go in? We can watch from here."

"Sounds good," Brass said, and he and Grissom slipped back into the interrogation room.
"Mr. Conner," Brass began, "are you sure you didn't see anything the night of the murder?"

"I told you! I was helping a lady with her parking meter! I know I should have seen something or heard something, but I didn't! Mr. Blaine is already mad at me for abandoning my post!"

"We found you fingerprints in the security camera box. Were you tampering with the cameras in the hotel?"

"I'm a security guard. I was trying to fix the cameras."

"And what about your fingerprint on a floorboard on the first floor?"

Conner looked perplexed. "Maybe I bent down to pick something up. I don't know!"

"It was on the edge of the board. Why were you taking up floorboards?"

"Oh! Mr. Blaine asked me to help take up the floorboards one night. For the renovations, you see. The hotel was behind schedule already, so he asked me to help. Turns out, our delivery didn't come in, so I had to put the floorboards back in case we got a handicapped guest."

"Why didn't you use another room on the first floor for the guests and leave that one? It just created more work for the hotel."

Conner thought for a moment. "I guess you're right. Doesn't make sense now that I think about it. But Mr. Blaine was pretty stressed about it. He probably wasn't thinking straight."

"Alright," Brass said slowly. There was a knock at the door, and Sara poked her head in.

"Guys?" She held up a folder.

"If you'll excuse us," Brass said to Conner. Conner fidgeted in his seat and nodded silently.
"His shoes don't have blood on them," Sara said, as soon as the door to the interrogation room had closed. "But I noticed something else." She took out a picture of the bloody shoeprint from the crime scene. "See how the toe and sides of the shoe are barely there? It's like they weren't pressed down all the way. The shoe was probably too big for whoever was wearing it. Then their feet wouldn't press the edges down for a good print."

"What are you saying?"

"Why don't we have Conner walk in his shoes to make a print? Then we'll see if the prints are the same."

"It's worth a shot," Brass said, taking the shoes from Sara.
"You want my shoeprints? Why can't you just do the same thing you did with those?" Conner asked, gesturing in the direction of the bag containing his co-worker's shoes.

"This way we'll have a...better comparison," Sara replied, inking the bottom of his shoes.

"So why doesn't everybody else do it?" Conner said stubbornly.

"You're the only one here," Sara snipped at him.

"But...Oh, whatever. You're the expert," Conner grumped, walking carefully on the paper Sara had set out. "Is that good?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Conner." Sara looked carefully at the prints, but saw immediately that they were pressed down firmly the whole width of the shoe. "No one else was at the hotel when the last murder took place?"

"No. I already told you that."

"You're sure? No one was there, even for a minute?"

Conner thought a moment, his brow furrowed. "Wait a second...Mr. Blaine came by early in the evening. He said he needed some papers from his office."

"Did you see him leave?"

"Um...you know, come to think of it, I didn't. He must've gone out the back entrance. It's closer to the parking lot."

"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Conner. We'll be in touch."