Maxwell Sharpe was in his late twenties. He wore a green baseball cap with the logo for Prestige Drivers, the company he worked for, embroidered on the front. He also wore khaki pants, dark shoes, and a Prestige Drivers green polo shirt. As Sara and Grissom entered the interrogation room, he twisted his baseball cap in his hands. "What's this about?" he asked. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"No, Mr. Sharpe, you don't need one, but you are entitled to one, if you so desire," Sara informed him.

Maxwell looked from Sara to Grissom, started to speak but decided against it, and set his baseball cap on the table.

"Good," Grissom said. "Now, Mr. Sharpe, as a driver for Prestige Drivers, you drive out to the Gate of Heaven complex on Klordaalva Highway twice a week?"

"That is correct."

"And what do you do there?"

"I deliver bread and meat from Weston Groceries, which is located on Sherman Street."

"Who do you see at the complex?"

"There's just one man. The leader. Robert Reilly. I drop off the bread and the meat, and he takes it inside the room where they eat. I never see anybody else, except maybe one or two of the guys."

"Do you know their names?"

"Hmm… One is named Marcus, I think, and the other is David. But I never see any of the women or the kids."

"Does anyone else ever drive the truck?"

"Jim. Jim Bernhard. Sometimes he drives the truck when I'm sick or I get the Summit Road route. But Jim up and quit last week."

"When was the last time you were at the complex?"

"Last Friday. I made my regular delivery at 10:30 a.m., as usual. Robert Reilly and the man he calls David were standing out front."

"Did anything seem off to you?"

"No, sir."

"Was there anything suspicious in their behavior?"

"No, sir. We made the usual polite chit-chat with each other. They don't really like to talk to me because I'm not on the inside of their cult, but they'll talk about the weather and stuff."

"This leader… Robert Reilly. Could you describe him?"

"Yes, sir," Maxwell answered. "I most certainly could."

"So you could identify him, if we showed you a picture of him?"

"That's right."

Grissom opened a large black vinyl binder, flipped to a page, and shoved it towards Maxwell Sharpe. Held between two sheets of plastic was an article from The Las Vegas Sun, a local tabloid. The article's bold headline read "Cult Leader Embroiled in Custody Scandal." Robert Reilly's picture was printed next to the second column of type. "Is this him?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, do you think you could identify him here?" Grissom asked, closing the first binder and opening a second. Inside were pictures of the dead cult members as Dr. Robbins had taken them at the morgue. "Which one is Robert Reilly?"

Maxwell Sharpe recoiled in horror. "What is the meaning of this, Detective Grissom?"

Grissom either didn't hear the title or didn't feel it was worth correcting Maxwell. "These are pictures taken yesterday, Mr. Sharpe. Is Robert Reilly among them?"

His eyes as wide as saucers, Maxwell began to page through the binder. Ten minutes later, he looked up and said, "No. Robert Reilly isn't here."

"You haven't seen him in any of those pictures?"

"No, sir."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully. "Well, then I'd say there are only two things we need from you, Mr. Sharpe."

"What's that, sir?"

"A carpet sample from your truck and a DNA sample from you."