… part 2, chapter 6 …
Grissom stood outside in the parking lot, leaning against his rental car, waiting for Sara to arrive. He had no desire to participate in another conversation with Dr. Nave, nor Tom the Overweight Assistant Coroner. The less time he spent with them, the better. So he was early, and he was waiting. At least the weather was acceptable. Fall was coming, and there was a slight chill in the September afternoon air. It was refreshing.
After five minutes or so, Sara's car pulled into the parking lot. She drove past him slowly, and parked two spots down.
"Hey," she called softly to him, "you're early."
"So are you. Are we all set to go?"
"I need to clock in, and check in with Mike. Give me five minutes, okay?"
"I'll be here," he said quietly.
She returned shortly, and he gestured to his car. "Mind if I drive this time?"
"Do you know where you're going?"
"No, but that's what the GPS is for."
Sara paused before saying, "Okay, just don't get us lost."
He smiled as she climbed into the car. She entered in the address, and they drove for about fifteen minutes, arriving in an urban sprawl area of connected row homes and small multi-family houses.
Their destination was modest, painted light blue with white trim. Diana Somers' parents lived on the first floor of the two-story home.
Sara knocked firmly as Grissom stood behind her. After two minutes, she knocked again. An elderly woman appeared a minute later, clad in a faded flowered housedress. Her husband stood behind her, thin and bald, sporting a faded shirt and 1970's polyester pants. Both shared that look of those who had lost someone they loved due to unexpected tragedy.
"Hello Mrs. Somers," Sara said politely in her professional voice. "I'm Sara Sidle from the crime lab, and this is my associate, Gil Grissom. We'd like to speak with you a little more about your daughter, Diana."
Mrs. Somers sighed heavily, her eyes moist. "Yes, you called earlier. Please come in." Mr. Somers scowled at Grissom as he entered. Hey, what did I do?
They settled in the living room, Mrs. Somers sitting on the old, faded velour sofa, with her husband possessively at her side. He continued to scowl.
"Thank you for seeing us," Grissom said. "We'd like to learn more about your daughter's friendship with Maria. Did they spend a lot of time together?"
"Yes," the woman replied, her hand reaching instinctively for her husband's. The elderly man took it and held it gently, supportively. The correspondence between the two was touching, but Grissom seemed to be the only one that noticed it. "Maria and Diana were friends from grade school. They both went their different ways after they graduated, but Maria returned to the area a few years ago, and she and Diana became close again."
"Did they spend a lot of their time at the Mohegan Sun?" Sara asked.
"Yes, they did. They both liked to go to the free shows in the Wolf Den, and they liked to get coffees from Starbucks and people-watch for a while. Diana loved the doughnuts there, too. Krispy Kremes. She probably ate more than she should, but they were a treat for her. Maria would gamble a lot; she was always lucky with the slots. Diana was never really lucky like that." Mrs. Somers' voice trailed off, her lower lip trembling. Mr. Somers' grip on his wife's hand increased slightly.
"Why are you asking us more questions?" he asked defensively. "We spoke with you folks before. Why aren't you out there arresting the creep who did this to our daughter?"
"Sir," Grissom replied calmly, "you can rest assured that we are doing everything we can. This is why we are here; we need a little more information."
"Well, quit beating around the bush and tell us what you need so you can be on your way. You're upsetting my wife."
Clearly it was him they were upsetting, and not his wife, but both Grissom and Sara had enough experience to realize they'd better wrap this up quickly.
"Mr. Somers, sir," Sara said calmly, "we're trying to determine why your daughter would rent a room at the Mohegan Sun, not even a week after her friend's death."
"Honestly," Mrs. Somers murmured, breaking her silence, "we don't know. Diana was a bank teller. She didn't make much money, and she wasn't the rowdy type. More of the quiet bookworm. When she and Maria got together, they would have a good time, but never anything wild. We liked them together because Maria got Diana out of the house; into the world."
"What did Maria do for a living?" Grissom asked.
"Oh, Maria did lots of things. She always had something going on. Her family has a lot more money than ours, so Maria could always count on them if things got tough. But she usually found a way to make ends meet on her own."
Mr. Somers interjected, "Recently she won it big at the Sun. Hence her comp'ed room and all. She hit one of those multi-million slot things, the ones with the numbers that are always changing. She won… what, $50,000?"
"She was always lucky like that," Mrs. Somers continued. "I can't begin to imagine what she did to cause her luck to change."
"Who will inherit Maria's winnings?" Sara asked pointedly. It was obvious she was thinking someone murdered Maria for the money.
"I don't know child, but her family was already loaded. And I don't think there was a man in her life."
"Wait, Celia…" Mr. Somers said, turning to his wife sharply. "Diana mentioned that boy they met. What was his name? Donald?"
"Oh," she replied softly, "I can't remember. Maybe it was Donald." Mrs. Somers turned and faced both Grissom and Sara. "Diana didn't talk much about what she and Maria did with regards to their men, I'm afraid."
Sara's cell phone chirped, interrupting the conversation. She looked down and frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "I have to take this call. We appreciate your time, and if you can think of any reason why Diana might have wanted a room at the Sun, please let us know." She handed them a small generic business card for her lab, with her name and work number written in pen beneath the printed text. Mr. Somers took the card from her and stared at the small black writing. Grissom wondered if he could read it, or if his eyes were too far gone.
Sara stepped towards the door as Grissom thanked the grief-laden couple for speaking with them, assuring them that they'd be the first to know if any new information was found. These things were always difficult, but he always tried his best to be properly sympathetic and professional.
The old wooden door shut behind them as Sara listened intently on the phone. She flipped it closed with a soft "dammit".
"What's up?" he asked her.
"I'll tell you in the car," she said, her voice strained.
He hurried to his rental, and turned the car over just as Sara opened the passenger side door. "We've got another one," she replied.
Grissom looked at her in surprise, "Another murder?"
"At the Best Western, right next to the Mohegan Sun."
Grissom sighed. "Do you want to go back to the lab first? Get your kit?"
"No, Mike is going to meet us there, and he'll bring my kit for me. It gets worse, Grissom."
"What?"
"The media's there; it isn't on the casino's property. And they know it's a serial, too. Some local cop on the scene was brilliant enough to say 'Another one' within media earshot."
Grissom scowled. The media was not his favorite entity, and he suspected that they'd be just as bad here as they were back home.
"Sooner or later," she said with a scowl, "they're going to find out about you, too. We'll be lucky if this doesn't hit the national news."
They both stared at one another, each scowling in dismay. If the media learned about Grissom working at the Vegas Crime Lab, they'd learn about Sara Sidle, who left said Crime Lab to come here, and how they were now working together again. This had interesting news side-story written all over it, and they both knew it. There would be requests for interviews, and questions of why she left, and how they both felt about working together again. They hadn't even discussed this with each other, and now the media was going to try to put their lives on the 11 o'clock news for everyone to see.
Sara stared out the window in silence while Grissom drove them back towards the casino.
oooooooooooooooooooooo
Multiple TV vans interspersed with police cruisers and rescue vehicles at the entrance to the Best Western. Various well-dressed media were hovering like the vultures they were. Grissom pulled around the side of the building, at Sara's request. Sara had removed her jacket, and Grissom his vest; both wishing to appear like normal hotel guests. They both had their IDs, so they could cross the crime scene line at the front door, but Sara was hoping to sneak in through the side.
"We're here," she said softly into her phone. She was talking with Nave again, having called him when they were close to the hotel. She listened for a moment before stating, "Okay, we'll see you there." She ended the call, and turned to Grissom. "Mike's going to let us in through the side door and lead us to the scene. He realizes that having you here is 'intriguing' and he wants to keep you out of the eyes of the press. He shares the same love for the media that we do."
"That's good to hear," Grissom replied sincerely as he parked the car.
"They were all over him years ago," she said as she climbed out of the car.
Grissom reached for his kit, keeping the LVFD label turned towards his leg. No need to advertise. "Oh?" he asked softly, curious as to why the media would be interested in a psychologist.
"I can tell you more about it later, but in short, his wife was attacked and murdered by some really violent criminal. She was on some special forensics team, and something went bad during an interrogation, and the guy went for her, cuffed and all. Somehow he got her, and snapped her neck, killing her instantly. It was over before the cops in the room could even blink." The two of them were walking side-by-side to a non-descript door. "Mike's never talked to me about it, but a couple of the other criminalists filled me in when I started. It's why he left counseling, and went into law enforcement. He understands why it happened, but he wants to make sure that it never happens again."
oooooooooooooooooooooo
Two hours later, they had finished processing the scene. Mike had instructed them on what he wanted, but only briefly. He left to contend with the media while the two of them did their job.
Tom had come to collect the body, and the three of them shared a 'Let's Be Baffled' moment as they examined their latest victim. She matched the others exactly except for the letter 'A' carved on their chest. This time, it was an 'L'. It was clearly a cursive L, and an elegant one at that.
On the drive back to the lab, Sara was agitated. "Who is this asshole? And what's with the damn 'L'? Is this guy ripping on Laverne and Shirley? He'd better not. I liked that show."
Uh... whatever. "The letter must mean something significant to our killer."
"Obviously," she snarled. "Anyways, we've got to run these prints first. I can't believe this woman's name is Mary Doe. That's the phoniest name I've ever heard."
Sara was obviously in her rant mode, and Grissom wasn't in the mood to listen to her griping. This scene was almost a mirror of the one back in Vegas, and the reality of human nature was depressing the hell out of him. It never left the back of his mind that any of his friends could one day be a victim. Sara's doppelganger and Nick's horrific experience were concrete evidence of that.
"How fast are your techs?" he asked, redirecting the subject as he turned down the back road to the station.
"One older woman, Janine, is a wiz. Really. She almost puts Greg to shame."
"Almost?"
"Almost. Greg is really very bright, Grissom. You should give him a little more credit."
"I give him plenty of credit. But he needs to focus. He gets distracted easily and misses things. He doesn't take the time to think about what needs to be done."
"He's new to being a CSI. Cut him some slack."
"He isn't that new, Sara."
"And he isn't that experienced, either. He tries, and he's good, at least when you aren't hovering over him like some CSI Emperor."
"I do not hover."
"You do. He wants nothing more than your acceptance, yet you constantly harp on him. Well, you did when I was there. I have no idea what you do now."
"He needs to learn, Sara."
"Then teach him."
"That was your job."
"No, it wasn't my job. I was a CSI: Level 3, and nothing more than that. I was not a supervisor, or a Lead CSI, or even your second in command."
This was interesting. "Did you want to be a supervisor?" Grissom asked.
"No."
He paused as her later words registered. "I don't have a 'second in command'."
Sara barked in laughter. "Oh, so then what did you call Catherine when she worked for you and what do you call Sofia now? Personal assistant?" Sara's voice was dripping venom again.
"What's this about? Is this about Nick and the promotion thing? That was over a year ago."
Sara growled angrily to herself in frustration. With a sigh she said, "You're right. It was a long time ago and I don't want to discuss this anymore. The point of this conversation is that there is a decent tech in my lab, and we'll hand off what we have to her. End of conversation."
This was fine by Grissom, as he was angry and confused. What was she getting at? Did she leave because he didn't promote her? He knew she was upset about it at the time, but she got over it. Or did she just want to fight with him, and make him miserable? That was certainly what it felt like right now; she'd been condescending to him since he'd arrived.
They both entered the lab in silence, each silently fuming at the other.
oooooooooooooooooooooo
Once inside the lab, the ever-cheerful Dr. Nave informed them that they had gotten full results back from trace from the night before. There was no residue for lambskin or latex on either Diana Somers or Maria Sanchez. This spiraled Sara's already foul mood downward, and Grissom knew enough to keep out of her way.
The tape results were better, but still inconclusive. Lab results had narrowed it down to four kinds of utility tape. Two were specific to electrical wiring, the third was more commonly used in newer HVAC ductwork, and the fourth was a general utility tape. The mysterious third criminalist who was working this case had ordered samples of all four, set to arrive tomorrow at noon via overnight express shipping.
Grissom wanted to investigate the tool used to deliver the fatal cut, and to carve the mysterious letters on the victims. Determining that might narrow down the field of potential suspects. He would work this, while Sara reviewed the list of Mohegan Sun employees with ties to Las Vegas. It was longer than expected, as Jon Northwind had been thorough. The list had employees who worked in Vegas, lived in Vegas, or had relatives in Vegas.
Grissom's research on the murder weapon was successful, but it took most of the evening, and he had to improvise. He missed the resources of his lab back home.
After close examination, he concluded the blade wasn't a scalpel or surgical tool. The actual cuts were too ragged. However, they were too smooth to be a kitchen knife or any other household knife. This, combined with the information about the wire, sent him on a quest for razor blades, specifically those used in utility knives. After experimenting with some ham hocks from the local grocery store, and a few common utility knives from the nearby Home Depot, he was almost positive the blade in question was a Stanley utility knife blade. Easily purchased at the local hardware store, and used by most of the blue collar staff at a casino. As well as by some artists; his mother had a utility knife meant for slicing through sheetrock, and she swore by it for cutting canvas. She claimed the artist knives dulled too easily, and were too expensive to replace.
He worked alone, and drove himself to the stores and back. He presented his findings to Sara at the end of shift. She was sitting in what appeared to be an interrogation room, staring morosely at papers scattered across the table in front of her. Her agitation from earlier had faded, as had his, and Grissom sensed it was safe to approach.
"The murder weapon was most likely a Stanley utility knife," he said simply, handing the preliminary documentation to her. "Our perp has access to utility tape and utility knives. Right now, I'm leaning towards electrician, but it could be any of the trades. Plumber, carpenter, tin-knocker, HVAC…"
"That narrows the field," she said sarcastically. "Well wait, maybe it does. We could check with Jon on which trades are most prevalent at the Sun. I don't see them having a real need for carpenters right now." She paused. "It could be a maintenance guy, too. Like a general handyman. I would assume they'd have access to most of the casino. Oh, our latest vic's name is not Mary Doe. It's Kathleen Umbridge. She came up right away in COTIS; she has priors." Sara paused. "She's been arrested for two separate counts of prostitution."
"So she was turning a trick when things got ugly," he replied with a grimace.
"Could be a copycat."
"I thought it was being kept quiet."
"True. That would make our copycat someone on the inside, and this doesn't have that type of feel. So we'll have to assume it's our killer again."
"Probable. Did you get the list of sub-contractors from Northwind yet?"
"Nope. I'm sure he was holding back, but now that the media is on to this, he might be a little more aggressive. I'll have him focus on the maintenance staff and those trades that have full access to the underbelly of the casino. Maybe that will turn up something." She frowned. "You know, this is going to be bad publicity for the Sun. The state requires the department to release information to the press, but only if they ask."
"Of course, they asked."
"Yup. They asked Mike earlier. And sure enough, on the 11 o'clock news, there was a lovely spread on the Mohegan Sun, and how two young women were found murdered there, along with footage of the Best Western and commentary on our third vic. However, luck is with us and they haven't mentioned anything about Vegas."
Grissom smiled for that small favor. "Are you finished for the evening?" he asked apprehensively. It was past 6 a.m. and he knew her shift was over.
"Yes, I was just… thinking when you walked in."
"Well, I'll see you tonight then."
"See you."
Grissom headed out the back door, walking straight into the remnants of what appeared to be a newscast. He tried to be discreet as he made his way to his car, but he didn't make it more than a few feet before a crewmember packing up the van noticed him.
Within minutes, he was cornered by the back door, the bright white light from atop the camera shining into his eyes. A cheery newswoman was holding a microphone under his nose, asking him if he was participating in the investigation of the 'Casino Killer'. Grissom mentally sighed. Giving the murderer a title only encouraged him to attack again. Someone should educate the media on criminal profiling. They'd be horrified if they knew how many deaths they could have prevented.
"I'm afraid I cannot comment on that," he said simply, and he reached for the doorknob to return to the lab and escape the press. He'd have to notify Nave or the dayshift supervisor of the media's lurking presence, and they could run interference while he escaped to his semi-comfortable bed at the Sun.
The door pushed open quickly, and Grissom jumped back to allow room for the door to open. He hoped, no prayed, that this wasn't Sara. His prayers were not answered. She opened the door and walked straight into the media, where they pushed past Grissom and stuck the microphone in her face, requesting her involvement in the investigation.
"I have no comment at this time," she told the newswoman in her professional tone. But she then made the mistake of saying, "Grissom, we're needed inside." She used his name, and the newswoman immediately began writing it down in a little yellow notepad she yanked from God-Knows-Where. Sara realized her mistake instantly.
Grissom walked in front of the camera as if nothing serious had just occurred, and guided her inside. He pulled the door closed and reached underneath to the lock he knew was there. Once it was locked, he turned to her. "It's okay. They might come after us later, but we can avoid them."
She looked devastated. "Grissom, I'm so sorry. I didn't think."
"It's okay. They can't use any of that footage – it's worthless. We aren't saying a thing that's useful."
"I was so worried about this; so afraid they'd come poking around after me, asking me questions. And I just led them right to us! They can find out about my past, you know. At a minimum, they'll ask me about why I left Las Vegas. And … I can't give them that answer."
Grissom was tempted, so tempted, to ask her why she left. But he could tell it wasn't the right time, so he let it go. It was an effort, an extreme effort, but he let it go.
"You won't have to answer anything. Let Dr. Nave or the other higher ups handle that."
"I'd better go and tell him what happened," she said, her head down.
He walked up to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the hallway towards Nave's office.
"We'll go together. It'll be all right."
…continued next chapter ->