Here's part 4. See chapter 1 for disclaimers, unconditional guarantee of
happy ending, etc. Sorry for any typos, written down in a hurry half at
1:00 AM when I couldn't sleep for coughing, half in a rush to finish just
in the last hour. I'm off to work the rest of the day. Thanks for the
feedback.
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Pam, a graphologist with whom I shared a seat on a Greyhound bus ride from Minnesota to Missouri just before Thanksgiving five years ago. I don't know her last name and have never seen her before or since, but she provided the most interesting trip conversation I've ever had with a stranger. Once she figured out she wasn't boring me, she spent the rest of the trip talking about how much handwriting can reveal, and she did an analysis on my own signature that blew me away. She also did have a photocopy of Hitler's signature in a graphology textbook she had with her, and she showed it to me without first telling me whose signature it was (and it is illegible, so you wouldn't know). It is totally chilling. So thanks, Pam, for a 6 hour pocket course in graphology. Any errors in application here accrue to me, not to her.
***
"Tell him to go to hell."
General Zachary Taylor's reply to Santa Anna's demand for surrender, Buena Vista, New Mexico, February 23, 1847
***
Calleigh pulled into the police compound parking garage the next morning and carefully parked in full view of a security camera. She turned to Horatio. He was sitting in the passenger's seat, looking out at the cars or at least seeming to. He was so quiet this morning that she almost wondered if the drug had fully worn off yet. Surely it should be out of his system by now, though. She touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, Handsome." He turned to look at her. His eyes were perfectly clear, the drug-induced haziness from the night before gone, but there still wasn't any spark in them. "You're awfully quiet."
"Just thinking," he said.
"Think productively, okay? I'm going up to CSI to pick up the letters and get some time off. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll go see Tripp together. Meanwhile, you stay right here. We're parked right in front of a security camera, and that's your alibi at the moment." Taking Horatio with her up to CSI would only make things more awkward both for him and everyone there.
"Okay," he said.
She suddenly leaned across and kissed him deeply, prolonging it until she felt some faint response from him, providing some on-the-job entertainment for the security staff. She finally broke away and smiled at him with all the wattage she could put behind it. "Back in a few minutes." She sighed again as she crossed the garage to the elevator up to CSI. She wished she could give Horatio an IV infusion of hope somehow. He looked a lot better for getting some rest last night, but he still didn't seem anything like himself. He wasn't even annoyed at her for drugging him. She'd expected a mild disagreement on that subject this morning, but he hadn't mentioned it once. Thinking about it more, though, she realized the reason. She was his lifeline at the moment. He couldn't acknowledge anything that would put a barrier between them. Distance there would be unthinkable, with everything else falling apart around him. She hoped she wouldn't have to do it again tonight, though. Drugging him any more often than once a year would get too difficult.
She came sailing into CSI briskly and headed straight for the main lab, where she found Eric. "Copies of the letters," he said, handing her an envelope. "Hope H gets back soon. I've now officially tampered with evidence."
"Making copies of it isn't tampering with it. It's not like we're removing the originals."
Speed was on the other side of the layout table, cell phone to his ear. "Look, Breeze, it's me again. I'm sorry about last night. An emergency came up, but I should've remembered to call you anyway. Give me a call when you get this." He snapped the cell phone closed with a forlorn click.
"She's still not answering?" asked Calleigh.
"Nope. I've left five messages. How much do I have to grovel?"
Calleigh smiled sympathetically. "Her call, not mine. There aren't national feminine groveling standards to rank it by."
"And H was the only one who remembered it," said Eric. "How's he doing, Calleigh? Where is he, anyway?"
"He's down in the garage parked in front of a security camera. I thought it would just make things awkward to bring him up here."
"How is he?" Speed persisted.
She sighed. "He's still trying to get a grip on all this. It will help when we get some real evidence. Get a trail to put him on. He'll wake up then." I hope.
"We're finishing processing Marcella's apartment today," said Eric. "Really processing it, I mean. There's got to be real evidence there along with the planted stuff."
"I want to go over that plastic sheeting, too," said Speed. "There were several feet of it wrapped around the body. He was wearing gloves when he did that, but I'm going to fume it, try to develop latents anywhere on it. I think he might have handled it earlier. Have you ever tried to remove plastic sheeting from the packaging wearing gloves?"
She watched Speed fondly as he tried to work it out. He was a Labrador Retriever puppy, while Horatio was a panther, but for all that he lacked Horatio's lithe confidence and grace, he could remind her of Horatio at times. They both cared with every fiber of their beings, and Speed pursued justice through the trace lab with as much diligence as Horatio pursued it through the totality of the case.
"What's going on here? It isn't break time." Ah, that must be Wilson. Calleigh turned to face him.
"Just getting things together to go finish the apartment, sir," said Speed, managing to make the title sound like an insult instead of a term of respect.
"Don't forget your field kits." Eric and Speed shared a martyred look but said nothing. "You must be Calleigh. The ballistics lab is behind, so you need to get right over there and get to work."
"Actually, Mr. Wilson," (she refused to call him Lieutenant and rank this man equal with Horatio) "I came in to talk to you about getting some more time off. I'm going to help my husband confront the manufactured charges against him the next few days, so I'd like to take some personal time. I realize it won't be paid."
"Sorry, we just can't spare you," he said.
"Then I quit."
"You can't do that either. By contract, you're required to give two weeks notice."
She stared at him. Technically, yes, but Horatio had never held people to it. When someone's heart has left anyway, their body might as well be allowed to follow. She grasped at the only remaining option. "Then suspend me, too."
He assumed the posture of a parent instructing a toddler. "Mrs. Caine, I can't just suspend you. That is a disciplinary action that must be earned. You have to do something first. Like your husband did."
In the next instant, her fist struck him square on the jaw, and he staggered a few steps and would have fallen over if he hadn't caught the layout table. He stared at her in disbelief. One hand came up to massage the area as he worked his jaw, making sure all teeth were still attached. For the first time since coming to CSI, Wilson was speechless.
Calleigh took a few steps toward him, closing the distance again. "How many times do you have to assault a superior officer to get suspended? Is once enough, or does it take twice?" She clenched her fist meaningfully.
She saw the grudging flicker of respect in his eyes. "Mrs. Caine, you are suspended without pay until further notice."
"Thank you," she said. Shielded by Eric's body, Speed give her a thumbs up sign. She turned away and marched out of the lab, head held high. Mentally, she was thinking of adjectives to describe Wilson, and she hadn't run out by the time she reached the garage.
She opened the passenger's door of her car. "Come on, Horatio. Let's go see Tripp. I got the letters."
"Did you have to quit?" he asked.
"No, Wilson wouldn't let me quit. So now I'm suspended."
"For what?"
"I assaulted him."
Horatio stared at her for a moment, then slowly, like dawn breaking, started to smile. "Calleigh, you're too much. So now we're in the same boat. Maybe we'll wind up sharing a prison cell together. Do you suppose that's taking partnership too far?" He was shaking his head, laughing, as he got out of the car.
She was delighted. That was the most spark he'd shown since her return, and it was certainly the first time he'd been able to joke about it. She would happily assault everyone who crossed her path today if it would bring him back to life. "There's a big difference, Horatio. I'm guilty. So we probably won't wind up sharing a cell."
"Okay, I'll come visit you," he promised. She linked her arm through his and headed for the police headquarters feeling almost lighthearted.
***
Tripp was feeling uncomfortable and hating it. He wasn't used to being uncomfortable. He had to do his job, but he was thoroughly convinced himself now that Horatio was being framed. It was Horatio's reaction yesterday at CSI when confronted that had finished convincing him. A guilty man would have had a defense planned, would have had some explanation, but Horatio had been completely caught off balance by the evidence, and if he had faked that, he deserved an Oscar for his acting ability.
They sat around the table, and somehow, it felt more like a case discussion than an interrogation. Tripp's manner was as gruff as ever, but his eyes communicated his true feelings better than he realized, and both Horatio and Calleigh worked out his position within the first five minutes.
"We have copies of the letters that we're getting analyzed this afternoon," said Calleigh. "We'll have the graphologist send you a report."
"We've got to explain the hair, too, though," said Tripp.
"We will somehow. We think he may have stolen it from the house while we were down at the beach."
"About that alibi," Tripp started.
"He was with me 24/7, all week," said Calleigh. "No window of opportunity at all, April 4th or any other day." Tripp also thought that sounded odd, they could tell, but he was also relieved.
"There's one piece of objective evidence, too, supporting the alibi," offered Horatio. The other two looked at him eagerly. "The tracks in that field going to the grave had been raked over. But we know it wasn't the Hummer. The Hummer is wide." Tripp mentally tried to fit the Hummer in that path and nodded. "And about Calleigh's car. She had the oil changed on the way home Friday night before the week we were on vacation. They have one of those mileage stickers they put on. Then she didn't drive anywhere all week. Sunday night, she drove up to the conference, and yesterday she drove back. Then to headquarters this morning. We can verify mileage to the conference, and there just isn't enough extra mileage there to drive out to that field. It was a bit of a trip, way out on the outskirts of the city."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Calleigh. "You need to come down and note the mileage, Tripp, before we leave."
"Right," he said. "How long do you think it would take, Horatio, to dig that grave and put the body in?"
He considered it, head tilted slightly. "No less than four hours." And thinking about the grave, his mind suddenly skittered off to the death of his mother again, and he flinched. Calleigh squeezed his arm tightly, and he looked at her, trying to refocus.
"Okay, I guess that's it for now," said Tripp. "Let me know about the graphologist. I'll walk down to the garage with you to record the mileage." He offered them as close to a sympathetic look as Frank Tripp was capable of. "We'll get this guy," he said.
"Yes," said Calleigh, "we will." Horatio didn't say anything.
***
"Okay," said Calleigh, "what do we want to eat? We've got time to grab lunch before the appointment." She looked over at Horatio, trying not to let him slip back into that mental maze now that he had started to show signs of coming out of it. "Come on, Horatio. You're picking."
He glanced at his watch but didn't disagree with the idea of lunch. "Chinese," he said finally.
"Good choice." She headed for the nearest Chinese place. "I hadn't thought of that about the mileage. Nice CSI work. By the way, Speed is going to try to develop latent prints on the plastic. He thinks the perp couldn't have worn gloves taking it out of the original packaging, even if he did while setting up the body."
"Good idea," said Horatio. "We need to track her contacts, too. Karen might be able to tell us something."
"Who's Karen?"
He explained about the note found on the body. "It just establishes the date, I think. But Karen had to be a good friend. She might know some of Marcella's other friends."
They arrived at the restaurant but decided to eat out in the car. Their table conversation might make other patrons of the restaurant nervous. So they went in together to order, then went back out to the parking lot. "Horatio," asked Calleigh, "Marcella lived in that house too, right? She would know you didn't usually lock the door just going down to the beach?"
"Right. I've lived there 15 years. She could even tell him when I usually went down to the beach and for how long." He grinned at her. "We have got to start locking that door. Stupid of us, really."
"Yes, it was." She chewed a bite thoughtfully. "You said she wasn't gullible, though."
"No, she wasn't. Or vindictive. I imagine she talked about me as little as I talked about her. Whoever this man is, he's skillful at manipulating people." Calleigh carefully kept her eyes on her fried rice. "He would have had to earn her trust slowly. Maybe he still has the gun. He was setting me up. Maybe he wouldn't think of covering his own tracks."
"Or the acid bottle, maybe," she said and instantly regretted it. He immediately thought of Marcella's destroyed face again and automatically jumped to Rosalind's face instead. He closed his eyes, picturing his mother alive, trying to replace the image of her dead. It worked after a few seconds. He opened his eyes and met Calleigh's.
"You're still seeing it?"
He nodded. "I've got them so tied together now, as soon as I get started on Marcella, it jumps over. The reimaging usually works, though. Eventually." He shuddered slightly. "I think this man is deliberately trying to drive me crazy, Cal."
"I think so, too." She reached out and squeezed his arm. "Just who the hell does he think he is?"
He looked at her, and she saw the sense of violation in his eyes slowly supplanted by anger. "Right. Who the hell does he think he is?" His eyes rested on her warmly. "He didn't count on you."
"I'm your secret weapon. For the alibi last week, and for this week, too."
He smiled at her. "I used to think that job was the only thing in my life that was stable."
"You were wrong."
"I'm glad I was wrong," he said. She leaned over and kissed him, and this time, he responded, providing some live entertainment for the patrons of Master Tang's Chinese.
"Come on," she said, breaking away finally. "Let's go prove that these letters are fakes."
***
"Hmmm." The graphologist carefully studied the four samples spread out on his desk, the three letters and the signature that Horatio had written for him on a blank sheet of paper. He got out a magnifying glass and pondered them again, point by point. "Fascinating." Calleigh had a sudden image of Spock, from Star Trek, and had to fight not to dissolve into giggles in front of his desk. Horatio looked at her curiously. The man studied the signatures for at least 10 minutes, while Calleigh and Horatio waited in respectful silence. "Well," he said finally, looking up. "It isn't forgery."
"What?" Horatio and Calleigh objected simultaneously.
"Take it easy. You've got quite a bit to work with for your investigation here. But that is unquestionably your signature. However, it's traced."
"Traced? How can you tell?"
"Look at these three letters. The signatures are identical on them. Absolutely identical in every point. And that proves that they are all traced from a real sample of your signature. The paper's thin enough to do it. It's impossible to sign your name completely identically three times. Or even twice." He saw their dubious looks and shoved a pad of paper over. "Try it. Sign your name, then sign below that and make it identical in every respect. You can't do it." They tried and quickly discovered he was right. "There are slight variations in the signature each time. The personality and style are what make the analysis possible. Any time you have multiple identical signatures, they are traced. Or mass reproduced, like some politicians do for their letters. A rubber stamp signature."
"So if he'd just left one letter, it might not have been caught," said Horatio.
"It would be much harder. There's another thing that's quite interesting here, though. The signature he was tracing for the letters is several years old."
"You can tell that from it?" Calleigh was impressed.
"Yes. Look at two signatures separated by several years, and you can see how the person has developed. All people keep developing over time. It's still identifiable, but the growth, positive or negative, is there. These two," he indicated the signature on the letters and the one Horatio had written for him a few minutes ago, "are several years apart."
"Probably eight," said Horatio. Calleigh looked at him. "I'm wondering if it's a copy of the signature on the divorce decree. That would be eight years ago, but I bet she still had it in a file somewhere."
"Quite possibly. Several years, anyway."
"Can you tell what mood the person was in when they wrote it?" asked Calleigh. "That might show up on a divorce decree."
"I wasn't mad," said Horatio. "Resigned more than anything."
"Mood sometimes shows up in pen pressure, but of course, that won't be apparent on a tracing. Writing shows more your overall, long-term state rather than your mood of the moment, though. Like the changes I was talking about. Look here." They leaned forward over his desk. He held a ruler against the two signatures. "See how the recent one is very slightly angled up, while the other is straight. That's optimism. You've got a much brighter outlook on life now than you did then. Not that it was pessimistic then - that would be slanting down - but the absolutely straight signature is more restricted, controlled almost. Refusing to be pessimistic, but not optimistic either. Insisting on life on an even keel. Now the loops. Look at the loops there on the current one, relaxed but closed. That's fulfillment. Now on the one from years ago, your loops are tighter, and even a few left open. That's control, secretiveness, but lack of fulfillment. You're really much happier now than you were then."
This was fascinating, Calleigh decided. "What else can you tell about him?"
"He has a very precise mind and wants everything in order. That hasn't changed. He has an unusually balanced personal and family identity. Personal is a bit stronger, but on most people, one will be quite stronger than the other. You get that from the first letter of the first and last names. The first name is your personal identity, the last your family. See how firm and strong the H is, a bit bigger than the C but not that much. Now on yours, Mrs. Caine," he indicated the sheet where Calleigh had been trying to sign her name identically, "see how large the second C is proportionally. I would guess that you haven't been married long, and you're still reveling in the new name." She nodded. "One other thing that stands out, Mr. Caine. You've been injured very badly at some point in the last year or so."
"You can tell that?" Horatio was impressed.
"Oh, yes. Severe physical injury or illness, over months, not just acutely, has an effect on the writing. Overall, though, you're a much happier, more fulfilled person than you were. You feel better about yourself and life in general. Even in spite of this present problem. But like I said, writing shows more long-term development than acute individual situations." He read the letters and shook his head. "You know, even without the tracing evidence, I'd question this signature attached to this letter. The personality of the signature doesn't match the content of the letter at all. Whoever wrote these is seriously disturbed."
"But intelligent and manipulative," said Calleigh. "That's even worse."
"Yes. Morally bankrupt. The signatures of famous people fascinate me. Trying to assess their signatures knowing the personality and deeds. Abraham Lincoln, now, had a quite interesting one. It literally had a three step level going up. The baseline was stairstepped slightly. Not slanted, like yours is, Mr. Caine. Stairstepped. Very odd. That's something almost no forger catches. Intelligent, orderly, but optimistic. And that's amazing, looking at his life. You could almost excuse pessimism, but it just isn't there. Then, there's another one I just acquired a copy of. I'd like your opinion on this one, and then I'll tell you whose it is." He fished in the bookcase behind his desk, then pulled out a book, turning it to the inside flap, and offered it to them.
The signature was totally illegible. A tight, black scrawl, with the lines so compressed that they ran on top of each other. It was one of the smallest signatures either of them had seen, and somehow, it gave them both chills. Too tight, too compressed, but busy, scheming. "Whoever he is, I imagine he was a criminal," said Horatio.
"Adolph Hitler." They studied it with new interest. "The signature of a man with a shrunken soul. But intelligent, decisive. It gives me chills to look at it. Pure evil."
Horatio's cell phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, standing up and going over to the window.
Calleigh leaned forward. "Thank you so much for your help on this. Would you be willing to give a statement to the police about these letters?"
"Of course. I frequently testify in court. Here's my card. I hope you get this man. The signature tells me nothing about him, since it's traced, but the content is something else."
Calleigh nodded. "Even though it's staged, it takes something to be capable of writing it."
Horatio rejoined them. "That was Eric. They found Marcella's address book, and he has a name and address for Karen. I asked him to look for the divorce decree, too. Could you tell if it had been traced from that signature?"
"Absolutely." They all shook hands. "Thank you for an interesting challenge, and good luck in your quest."
"We'll find him," said Calleigh, and this time, Horatio echoed her a minute later.
They left the graphologist's office with renewed hope and a specific destination. As they came up to her car, Horatio went to the driver's side. "I'll drive," he said. Her heart singing, Calleigh gave him the keys willingly.
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Pam, a graphologist with whom I shared a seat on a Greyhound bus ride from Minnesota to Missouri just before Thanksgiving five years ago. I don't know her last name and have never seen her before or since, but she provided the most interesting trip conversation I've ever had with a stranger. Once she figured out she wasn't boring me, she spent the rest of the trip talking about how much handwriting can reveal, and she did an analysis on my own signature that blew me away. She also did have a photocopy of Hitler's signature in a graphology textbook she had with her, and she showed it to me without first telling me whose signature it was (and it is illegible, so you wouldn't know). It is totally chilling. So thanks, Pam, for a 6 hour pocket course in graphology. Any errors in application here accrue to me, not to her.
***
"Tell him to go to hell."
General Zachary Taylor's reply to Santa Anna's demand for surrender, Buena Vista, New Mexico, February 23, 1847
***
Calleigh pulled into the police compound parking garage the next morning and carefully parked in full view of a security camera. She turned to Horatio. He was sitting in the passenger's seat, looking out at the cars or at least seeming to. He was so quiet this morning that she almost wondered if the drug had fully worn off yet. Surely it should be out of his system by now, though. She touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, Handsome." He turned to look at her. His eyes were perfectly clear, the drug-induced haziness from the night before gone, but there still wasn't any spark in them. "You're awfully quiet."
"Just thinking," he said.
"Think productively, okay? I'm going up to CSI to pick up the letters and get some time off. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll go see Tripp together. Meanwhile, you stay right here. We're parked right in front of a security camera, and that's your alibi at the moment." Taking Horatio with her up to CSI would only make things more awkward both for him and everyone there.
"Okay," he said.
She suddenly leaned across and kissed him deeply, prolonging it until she felt some faint response from him, providing some on-the-job entertainment for the security staff. She finally broke away and smiled at him with all the wattage she could put behind it. "Back in a few minutes." She sighed again as she crossed the garage to the elevator up to CSI. She wished she could give Horatio an IV infusion of hope somehow. He looked a lot better for getting some rest last night, but he still didn't seem anything like himself. He wasn't even annoyed at her for drugging him. She'd expected a mild disagreement on that subject this morning, but he hadn't mentioned it once. Thinking about it more, though, she realized the reason. She was his lifeline at the moment. He couldn't acknowledge anything that would put a barrier between them. Distance there would be unthinkable, with everything else falling apart around him. She hoped she wouldn't have to do it again tonight, though. Drugging him any more often than once a year would get too difficult.
She came sailing into CSI briskly and headed straight for the main lab, where she found Eric. "Copies of the letters," he said, handing her an envelope. "Hope H gets back soon. I've now officially tampered with evidence."
"Making copies of it isn't tampering with it. It's not like we're removing the originals."
Speed was on the other side of the layout table, cell phone to his ear. "Look, Breeze, it's me again. I'm sorry about last night. An emergency came up, but I should've remembered to call you anyway. Give me a call when you get this." He snapped the cell phone closed with a forlorn click.
"She's still not answering?" asked Calleigh.
"Nope. I've left five messages. How much do I have to grovel?"
Calleigh smiled sympathetically. "Her call, not mine. There aren't national feminine groveling standards to rank it by."
"And H was the only one who remembered it," said Eric. "How's he doing, Calleigh? Where is he, anyway?"
"He's down in the garage parked in front of a security camera. I thought it would just make things awkward to bring him up here."
"How is he?" Speed persisted.
She sighed. "He's still trying to get a grip on all this. It will help when we get some real evidence. Get a trail to put him on. He'll wake up then." I hope.
"We're finishing processing Marcella's apartment today," said Eric. "Really processing it, I mean. There's got to be real evidence there along with the planted stuff."
"I want to go over that plastic sheeting, too," said Speed. "There were several feet of it wrapped around the body. He was wearing gloves when he did that, but I'm going to fume it, try to develop latents anywhere on it. I think he might have handled it earlier. Have you ever tried to remove plastic sheeting from the packaging wearing gloves?"
She watched Speed fondly as he tried to work it out. He was a Labrador Retriever puppy, while Horatio was a panther, but for all that he lacked Horatio's lithe confidence and grace, he could remind her of Horatio at times. They both cared with every fiber of their beings, and Speed pursued justice through the trace lab with as much diligence as Horatio pursued it through the totality of the case.
"What's going on here? It isn't break time." Ah, that must be Wilson. Calleigh turned to face him.
"Just getting things together to go finish the apartment, sir," said Speed, managing to make the title sound like an insult instead of a term of respect.
"Don't forget your field kits." Eric and Speed shared a martyred look but said nothing. "You must be Calleigh. The ballistics lab is behind, so you need to get right over there and get to work."
"Actually, Mr. Wilson," (she refused to call him Lieutenant and rank this man equal with Horatio) "I came in to talk to you about getting some more time off. I'm going to help my husband confront the manufactured charges against him the next few days, so I'd like to take some personal time. I realize it won't be paid."
"Sorry, we just can't spare you," he said.
"Then I quit."
"You can't do that either. By contract, you're required to give two weeks notice."
She stared at him. Technically, yes, but Horatio had never held people to it. When someone's heart has left anyway, their body might as well be allowed to follow. She grasped at the only remaining option. "Then suspend me, too."
He assumed the posture of a parent instructing a toddler. "Mrs. Caine, I can't just suspend you. That is a disciplinary action that must be earned. You have to do something first. Like your husband did."
In the next instant, her fist struck him square on the jaw, and he staggered a few steps and would have fallen over if he hadn't caught the layout table. He stared at her in disbelief. One hand came up to massage the area as he worked his jaw, making sure all teeth were still attached. For the first time since coming to CSI, Wilson was speechless.
Calleigh took a few steps toward him, closing the distance again. "How many times do you have to assault a superior officer to get suspended? Is once enough, or does it take twice?" She clenched her fist meaningfully.
She saw the grudging flicker of respect in his eyes. "Mrs. Caine, you are suspended without pay until further notice."
"Thank you," she said. Shielded by Eric's body, Speed give her a thumbs up sign. She turned away and marched out of the lab, head held high. Mentally, she was thinking of adjectives to describe Wilson, and she hadn't run out by the time she reached the garage.
She opened the passenger's door of her car. "Come on, Horatio. Let's go see Tripp. I got the letters."
"Did you have to quit?" he asked.
"No, Wilson wouldn't let me quit. So now I'm suspended."
"For what?"
"I assaulted him."
Horatio stared at her for a moment, then slowly, like dawn breaking, started to smile. "Calleigh, you're too much. So now we're in the same boat. Maybe we'll wind up sharing a prison cell together. Do you suppose that's taking partnership too far?" He was shaking his head, laughing, as he got out of the car.
She was delighted. That was the most spark he'd shown since her return, and it was certainly the first time he'd been able to joke about it. She would happily assault everyone who crossed her path today if it would bring him back to life. "There's a big difference, Horatio. I'm guilty. So we probably won't wind up sharing a cell."
"Okay, I'll come visit you," he promised. She linked her arm through his and headed for the police headquarters feeling almost lighthearted.
***
Tripp was feeling uncomfortable and hating it. He wasn't used to being uncomfortable. He had to do his job, but he was thoroughly convinced himself now that Horatio was being framed. It was Horatio's reaction yesterday at CSI when confronted that had finished convincing him. A guilty man would have had a defense planned, would have had some explanation, but Horatio had been completely caught off balance by the evidence, and if he had faked that, he deserved an Oscar for his acting ability.
They sat around the table, and somehow, it felt more like a case discussion than an interrogation. Tripp's manner was as gruff as ever, but his eyes communicated his true feelings better than he realized, and both Horatio and Calleigh worked out his position within the first five minutes.
"We have copies of the letters that we're getting analyzed this afternoon," said Calleigh. "We'll have the graphologist send you a report."
"We've got to explain the hair, too, though," said Tripp.
"We will somehow. We think he may have stolen it from the house while we were down at the beach."
"About that alibi," Tripp started.
"He was with me 24/7, all week," said Calleigh. "No window of opportunity at all, April 4th or any other day." Tripp also thought that sounded odd, they could tell, but he was also relieved.
"There's one piece of objective evidence, too, supporting the alibi," offered Horatio. The other two looked at him eagerly. "The tracks in that field going to the grave had been raked over. But we know it wasn't the Hummer. The Hummer is wide." Tripp mentally tried to fit the Hummer in that path and nodded. "And about Calleigh's car. She had the oil changed on the way home Friday night before the week we were on vacation. They have one of those mileage stickers they put on. Then she didn't drive anywhere all week. Sunday night, she drove up to the conference, and yesterday she drove back. Then to headquarters this morning. We can verify mileage to the conference, and there just isn't enough extra mileage there to drive out to that field. It was a bit of a trip, way out on the outskirts of the city."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Calleigh. "You need to come down and note the mileage, Tripp, before we leave."
"Right," he said. "How long do you think it would take, Horatio, to dig that grave and put the body in?"
He considered it, head tilted slightly. "No less than four hours." And thinking about the grave, his mind suddenly skittered off to the death of his mother again, and he flinched. Calleigh squeezed his arm tightly, and he looked at her, trying to refocus.
"Okay, I guess that's it for now," said Tripp. "Let me know about the graphologist. I'll walk down to the garage with you to record the mileage." He offered them as close to a sympathetic look as Frank Tripp was capable of. "We'll get this guy," he said.
"Yes," said Calleigh, "we will." Horatio didn't say anything.
***
"Okay," said Calleigh, "what do we want to eat? We've got time to grab lunch before the appointment." She looked over at Horatio, trying not to let him slip back into that mental maze now that he had started to show signs of coming out of it. "Come on, Horatio. You're picking."
He glanced at his watch but didn't disagree with the idea of lunch. "Chinese," he said finally.
"Good choice." She headed for the nearest Chinese place. "I hadn't thought of that about the mileage. Nice CSI work. By the way, Speed is going to try to develop latent prints on the plastic. He thinks the perp couldn't have worn gloves taking it out of the original packaging, even if he did while setting up the body."
"Good idea," said Horatio. "We need to track her contacts, too. Karen might be able to tell us something."
"Who's Karen?"
He explained about the note found on the body. "It just establishes the date, I think. But Karen had to be a good friend. She might know some of Marcella's other friends."
They arrived at the restaurant but decided to eat out in the car. Their table conversation might make other patrons of the restaurant nervous. So they went in together to order, then went back out to the parking lot. "Horatio," asked Calleigh, "Marcella lived in that house too, right? She would know you didn't usually lock the door just going down to the beach?"
"Right. I've lived there 15 years. She could even tell him when I usually went down to the beach and for how long." He grinned at her. "We have got to start locking that door. Stupid of us, really."
"Yes, it was." She chewed a bite thoughtfully. "You said she wasn't gullible, though."
"No, she wasn't. Or vindictive. I imagine she talked about me as little as I talked about her. Whoever this man is, he's skillful at manipulating people." Calleigh carefully kept her eyes on her fried rice. "He would have had to earn her trust slowly. Maybe he still has the gun. He was setting me up. Maybe he wouldn't think of covering his own tracks."
"Or the acid bottle, maybe," she said and instantly regretted it. He immediately thought of Marcella's destroyed face again and automatically jumped to Rosalind's face instead. He closed his eyes, picturing his mother alive, trying to replace the image of her dead. It worked after a few seconds. He opened his eyes and met Calleigh's.
"You're still seeing it?"
He nodded. "I've got them so tied together now, as soon as I get started on Marcella, it jumps over. The reimaging usually works, though. Eventually." He shuddered slightly. "I think this man is deliberately trying to drive me crazy, Cal."
"I think so, too." She reached out and squeezed his arm. "Just who the hell does he think he is?"
He looked at her, and she saw the sense of violation in his eyes slowly supplanted by anger. "Right. Who the hell does he think he is?" His eyes rested on her warmly. "He didn't count on you."
"I'm your secret weapon. For the alibi last week, and for this week, too."
He smiled at her. "I used to think that job was the only thing in my life that was stable."
"You were wrong."
"I'm glad I was wrong," he said. She leaned over and kissed him, and this time, he responded, providing some live entertainment for the patrons of Master Tang's Chinese.
"Come on," she said, breaking away finally. "Let's go prove that these letters are fakes."
***
"Hmmm." The graphologist carefully studied the four samples spread out on his desk, the three letters and the signature that Horatio had written for him on a blank sheet of paper. He got out a magnifying glass and pondered them again, point by point. "Fascinating." Calleigh had a sudden image of Spock, from Star Trek, and had to fight not to dissolve into giggles in front of his desk. Horatio looked at her curiously. The man studied the signatures for at least 10 minutes, while Calleigh and Horatio waited in respectful silence. "Well," he said finally, looking up. "It isn't forgery."
"What?" Horatio and Calleigh objected simultaneously.
"Take it easy. You've got quite a bit to work with for your investigation here. But that is unquestionably your signature. However, it's traced."
"Traced? How can you tell?"
"Look at these three letters. The signatures are identical on them. Absolutely identical in every point. And that proves that they are all traced from a real sample of your signature. The paper's thin enough to do it. It's impossible to sign your name completely identically three times. Or even twice." He saw their dubious looks and shoved a pad of paper over. "Try it. Sign your name, then sign below that and make it identical in every respect. You can't do it." They tried and quickly discovered he was right. "There are slight variations in the signature each time. The personality and style are what make the analysis possible. Any time you have multiple identical signatures, they are traced. Or mass reproduced, like some politicians do for their letters. A rubber stamp signature."
"So if he'd just left one letter, it might not have been caught," said Horatio.
"It would be much harder. There's another thing that's quite interesting here, though. The signature he was tracing for the letters is several years old."
"You can tell that from it?" Calleigh was impressed.
"Yes. Look at two signatures separated by several years, and you can see how the person has developed. All people keep developing over time. It's still identifiable, but the growth, positive or negative, is there. These two," he indicated the signature on the letters and the one Horatio had written for him a few minutes ago, "are several years apart."
"Probably eight," said Horatio. Calleigh looked at him. "I'm wondering if it's a copy of the signature on the divorce decree. That would be eight years ago, but I bet she still had it in a file somewhere."
"Quite possibly. Several years, anyway."
"Can you tell what mood the person was in when they wrote it?" asked Calleigh. "That might show up on a divorce decree."
"I wasn't mad," said Horatio. "Resigned more than anything."
"Mood sometimes shows up in pen pressure, but of course, that won't be apparent on a tracing. Writing shows more your overall, long-term state rather than your mood of the moment, though. Like the changes I was talking about. Look here." They leaned forward over his desk. He held a ruler against the two signatures. "See how the recent one is very slightly angled up, while the other is straight. That's optimism. You've got a much brighter outlook on life now than you did then. Not that it was pessimistic then - that would be slanting down - but the absolutely straight signature is more restricted, controlled almost. Refusing to be pessimistic, but not optimistic either. Insisting on life on an even keel. Now the loops. Look at the loops there on the current one, relaxed but closed. That's fulfillment. Now on the one from years ago, your loops are tighter, and even a few left open. That's control, secretiveness, but lack of fulfillment. You're really much happier now than you were then."
This was fascinating, Calleigh decided. "What else can you tell about him?"
"He has a very precise mind and wants everything in order. That hasn't changed. He has an unusually balanced personal and family identity. Personal is a bit stronger, but on most people, one will be quite stronger than the other. You get that from the first letter of the first and last names. The first name is your personal identity, the last your family. See how firm and strong the H is, a bit bigger than the C but not that much. Now on yours, Mrs. Caine," he indicated the sheet where Calleigh had been trying to sign her name identically, "see how large the second C is proportionally. I would guess that you haven't been married long, and you're still reveling in the new name." She nodded. "One other thing that stands out, Mr. Caine. You've been injured very badly at some point in the last year or so."
"You can tell that?" Horatio was impressed.
"Oh, yes. Severe physical injury or illness, over months, not just acutely, has an effect on the writing. Overall, though, you're a much happier, more fulfilled person than you were. You feel better about yourself and life in general. Even in spite of this present problem. But like I said, writing shows more long-term development than acute individual situations." He read the letters and shook his head. "You know, even without the tracing evidence, I'd question this signature attached to this letter. The personality of the signature doesn't match the content of the letter at all. Whoever wrote these is seriously disturbed."
"But intelligent and manipulative," said Calleigh. "That's even worse."
"Yes. Morally bankrupt. The signatures of famous people fascinate me. Trying to assess their signatures knowing the personality and deeds. Abraham Lincoln, now, had a quite interesting one. It literally had a three step level going up. The baseline was stairstepped slightly. Not slanted, like yours is, Mr. Caine. Stairstepped. Very odd. That's something almost no forger catches. Intelligent, orderly, but optimistic. And that's amazing, looking at his life. You could almost excuse pessimism, but it just isn't there. Then, there's another one I just acquired a copy of. I'd like your opinion on this one, and then I'll tell you whose it is." He fished in the bookcase behind his desk, then pulled out a book, turning it to the inside flap, and offered it to them.
The signature was totally illegible. A tight, black scrawl, with the lines so compressed that they ran on top of each other. It was one of the smallest signatures either of them had seen, and somehow, it gave them both chills. Too tight, too compressed, but busy, scheming. "Whoever he is, I imagine he was a criminal," said Horatio.
"Adolph Hitler." They studied it with new interest. "The signature of a man with a shrunken soul. But intelligent, decisive. It gives me chills to look at it. Pure evil."
Horatio's cell phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, standing up and going over to the window.
Calleigh leaned forward. "Thank you so much for your help on this. Would you be willing to give a statement to the police about these letters?"
"Of course. I frequently testify in court. Here's my card. I hope you get this man. The signature tells me nothing about him, since it's traced, but the content is something else."
Calleigh nodded. "Even though it's staged, it takes something to be capable of writing it."
Horatio rejoined them. "That was Eric. They found Marcella's address book, and he has a name and address for Karen. I asked him to look for the divorce decree, too. Could you tell if it had been traced from that signature?"
"Absolutely." They all shook hands. "Thank you for an interesting challenge, and good luck in your quest."
"We'll find him," said Calleigh, and this time, Horatio echoed her a minute later.
They left the graphologist's office with renewed hope and a specific destination. As they came up to her car, Horatio went to the driver's side. "I'll drive," he said. Her heart singing, Calleigh gave him the keys willingly.