Chapter Tres
Brass and Grissom met up in the Interrogation Room later on, to talk with the Stevens. Grissom didn't usually help with interrogations, but he had taken a shine to this particular case, and was convinced the parents had something to do with it. The murder, not the shine.
"Mr and Mrs Stevens," Brass greeted them. "You say you were out of the house at the time of the murder?"
"We just went to the corner shop." Mrs Stevens looked devastated, clutching a sad ball of tissues and holding them now and again to her reddened eyes. "We needed to get some milk - we thought they'd be OK..."
"Why go together?" asked Grissom suddenly. "Why not one adult go down to the shops, and the other stay home to watch the girls?"
"Jim wanted to buy some gardening spray," Mrs Stevens said quickly. "I never know the right one to get. He said he may as well come too. And he never buys the right type of milk..."
"Then why not write it down?"
Brass gave Grissom a harsh look. He saw how distressed the poor woman was, and yet Grissom kept persisting. What was wrong with him?
"I-I don't know..." the woman stuttered, just as Brass butted in -"Was there anybody else in the house with the girls at the time?"
"We told you, no," Mr Stevens said. "The only people in the house were Minnie and Tara."
At the sound of her lost daughter's name, Mrs Stevens burst into sobs, falling into her husband. Disgusted, Grissom left the room.
* * * * * * *
After Brass finished the interrogation, he met Grissom in the hall. Stopping, he asked, "Why were you so harsh on those people? You know they only just lost their daughter."
"Brass, don't you see what it all points to?" Grissom sighed. "Sara told me Greg found three blood types on that knife - that means someone outside of the family was probably Tara's killer."
"What's your point?" Brass said.
"No signs of forced entry - it points to one thing. Somebody let the killer in. The parents told us on the night of the murder that they were the only ones with a key, inadvertently giving us the clue we needed: they set that murderer on those kids. It was calculated murder."
He began to walk away, but Brass stopped him.
"Hang on a second - how can you say it was calculated? They might have left the kids with someone they deemed as trustworthy."
Grissom looked him directly in the eye.
"Then why hide it?"
* * * * * * *
Greg had decided to go with the platinum blond, and was admiring his new look, using the shiny work surface as a mirror. The spikes just looked more defined, he thought, with a whitish surrounding. But perhaps he'd overdone it with the gel this morning. His hair looked a little like he'd swum to work.
Sara came in, snapping him immediately out of it. He'd begun to notice, recently, how effortlessly good her own hair looked. So dark and alluring. Perhaps he should have gone with gothic black.
"Listen, Greg, I've just been over at the Stevens place and got these fingerprints off the door handle - I need you to tell me who they belong to. Oh, and also tell me what sort of a shoe makes this footprint." She dumped a picture in front of him, of a muddy footprint with a marker next to it to tell what size it was. Just as Greg was smiling at how perfectly she had placed the marker, Sara looked up at him and said, "What is up with your hair? Did you swim in toxic waste or something?"
Greg blushed but smiled. She notices, he thought.
"Thought I'd go for the Art Alexakis look," he joked.
"Well, if you ask me," said Sara as she left the look, "I prefer Good Charlotte."
The lab door slammed beside her, and Greg kicked a nearby bench.
Dammit, he thought. I knew I should've gone with black.
Brass and Grissom met up in the Interrogation Room later on, to talk with the Stevens. Grissom didn't usually help with interrogations, but he had taken a shine to this particular case, and was convinced the parents had something to do with it. The murder, not the shine.
"Mr and Mrs Stevens," Brass greeted them. "You say you were out of the house at the time of the murder?"
"We just went to the corner shop." Mrs Stevens looked devastated, clutching a sad ball of tissues and holding them now and again to her reddened eyes. "We needed to get some milk - we thought they'd be OK..."
"Why go together?" asked Grissom suddenly. "Why not one adult go down to the shops, and the other stay home to watch the girls?"
"Jim wanted to buy some gardening spray," Mrs Stevens said quickly. "I never know the right one to get. He said he may as well come too. And he never buys the right type of milk..."
"Then why not write it down?"
Brass gave Grissom a harsh look. He saw how distressed the poor woman was, and yet Grissom kept persisting. What was wrong with him?
"I-I don't know..." the woman stuttered, just as Brass butted in -"Was there anybody else in the house with the girls at the time?"
"We told you, no," Mr Stevens said. "The only people in the house were Minnie and Tara."
At the sound of her lost daughter's name, Mrs Stevens burst into sobs, falling into her husband. Disgusted, Grissom left the room.
* * * * * * *
After Brass finished the interrogation, he met Grissom in the hall. Stopping, he asked, "Why were you so harsh on those people? You know they only just lost their daughter."
"Brass, don't you see what it all points to?" Grissom sighed. "Sara told me Greg found three blood types on that knife - that means someone outside of the family was probably Tara's killer."
"What's your point?" Brass said.
"No signs of forced entry - it points to one thing. Somebody let the killer in. The parents told us on the night of the murder that they were the only ones with a key, inadvertently giving us the clue we needed: they set that murderer on those kids. It was calculated murder."
He began to walk away, but Brass stopped him.
"Hang on a second - how can you say it was calculated? They might have left the kids with someone they deemed as trustworthy."
Grissom looked him directly in the eye.
"Then why hide it?"
* * * * * * *
Greg had decided to go with the platinum blond, and was admiring his new look, using the shiny work surface as a mirror. The spikes just looked more defined, he thought, with a whitish surrounding. But perhaps he'd overdone it with the gel this morning. His hair looked a little like he'd swum to work.
Sara came in, snapping him immediately out of it. He'd begun to notice, recently, how effortlessly good her own hair looked. So dark and alluring. Perhaps he should have gone with gothic black.
"Listen, Greg, I've just been over at the Stevens place and got these fingerprints off the door handle - I need you to tell me who they belong to. Oh, and also tell me what sort of a shoe makes this footprint." She dumped a picture in front of him, of a muddy footprint with a marker next to it to tell what size it was. Just as Greg was smiling at how perfectly she had placed the marker, Sara looked up at him and said, "What is up with your hair? Did you swim in toxic waste or something?"
Greg blushed but smiled. She notices, he thought.
"Thought I'd go for the Art Alexakis look," he joked.
"Well, if you ask me," said Sara as she left the look, "I prefer Good Charlotte."
The lab door slammed beside her, and Greg kicked a nearby bench.
Dammit, he thought. I knew I should've gone with black.