Disclaimer: CSI and its characters are not mine. The Mohegan Sun is real, but all descriptions, characters and events described within should be considered as completely fictional. Nothing like this would ever happen at the Sun.
Warning: This fic is rated 'M' for a very real reason, and now we've come to it. I hope all readers respect this rating – and I'm warning you now, Part 3 is not for everyone. "Squicky" is an adequate description. So is "disturbing". You've been warned.
Beta Props: I have to again worship the ground that Cybrokat and Jennie walk on. They are both very encouraging and supportive, and without them I'd be lost.
… part 3, chapter 1 …
The bluish flickering glow of the television reflected through the small bare window of the one bedroom house. A naked man was lying in his bed on his stomach, spread-eagled with his knees bent and feet dangling in the air. Through the window, he was clearly visible to anyone who'd care to look. However, the lack of neighbors prevented any unexpected snooping. The dirt road off Rte. 32 was marked as a residence only by the rusted black mailbox hanging half-bent from its wooden post. The nearest building was the run-down and abandoned gas station about 1500 yards away.
The man on the bed preferred his isolation and was delighted to have found this small cottage (it really shouldn't be classified as a house) available for rent. The uncharacteristically large shed in the backyard was a bonus, and after a solid month of extensive cleaning and self-made repairs, it now served as an excellent workshop.
Inside the television, a reporter, her hair not quite perfectly styled, spoke solemnly into her microphone about the latest 'atrocity' at the casino. With the backdrop of an unsettled crowd hovering over uncomfortable chairs that faced an empty podium within a conference room, the woman spoke of the recent crime spree of the 'Casino Killer'.
The man chuckled softly. They were all so primitive, so blinded by their own stupidity. Titles meant nothing. His cause was driven by a higher power, and he wouldn't stop until he'd completed his mission of mercy. He was a missionary.
Really, they should all just relax. He only had three left. It wasn't like he planned to continue after their redemptions; at least, not in this area. Missionaries traveled. And his contract here at the Sun was almost complete. The soft shores and sinners of Atlantic City were calling to him, but he must finish his work here first.
The woman on television continued to ramble haphazardly, stalling for time until the press conference began. It was this event that the man was eager to see. He hefted himself up and turned, reaching for the small green canister of Bag Balm on the nightstand. He looked down at himself, red and chafed. The Bag Balm helped, it sped up the healing process. So did his numerous vitamins and herbal supplements. His pain and discomfort was a small price to pay for the ultimate redemption of the sin-laden souls.
He scooped a glob of the strong-smelling ointment and spread it gently. His body stirred slightly at the sensation, but this wasn't about pleasure. This was treatment.
The drone of the reporter ceased, and the man shifted himself backwards to lean against the wall. A small procession was shuffling its way towards the podium. So, these were the men and… ah yes… women who were going to attempt to thwart him. These were the faces of the enemy.
The apparent leader, a distinguished looking official type approached the podium, followed by the entourage of others. On his left, a middle-aged balding and thin man, a tall, much younger man whose aura radiated cop, and a shorter, stout man with graying temples. On his right, a bearded older man stood before the single woman, both somber and stone-faced.
The leader spoke in the stereotypical authoritative tone, after tapping the microphone softly as a sound check. "Ladies and gentlemen, the senseless murders of four women within our community have brought me before you today. We are here to reassure the general public that everything possible is being done to bring this monster to justice."
Monster? He was no monster; he was a redeemer. He cleansed the souls of sinners, baptizing them before releasing them to the glories of Heaven. The sinners were the evil here. They were the monsters.
"The tragic loss of Angela Hardling, the wife of the North Stonington First Selectman, Thomas Hardling, represents the fourth victim of this crazed killer. We are here to assure you that this violence will not be tolerated and all resources of the state are at our disposal. Here to speak on behalf of the investigative team, I present to you the head of the Southeastern Connecticut Crime Lab, Dr. Michael Nave."
Minor applause as the balding man switched places with Mr. Official. Baldy spoke with similar authority, but a lighter voice. "My organization has been working to solve these crimes and to bring the person or persons involved to justice. We are encouraging all of the members of our community to not live in fear – we will catch this killer. Do not feel as if you must stay in your homes, Troop E and local police departments are on twenty-four hour alert, and forces have been brought in from other areas within the state. Security at both casinos has been enhanced as well. Our only recommendation is for all women to be cautious, as they always should be, and take precautions if they must travel alone."
More chuckling. Didn't they realize that his choices were not random? Did they not see how he'd marked them, labeling them as the sinners they were? A part of him relaxed; his enemies were not appearing to be a threat to his plans.
Baldy shifted his weight hesitantly at the podium before stating, "We are willing to take questions at this time."
A sea of hands appeared, and Official Guy pointed at one. One of the reporters from the local ABC affiliate spoke. "Dr. Nave, is it true that the majority of these crimes have occurred at the Mohegan Sun casino? And given that the casino rests on sovereign land, what is the involvement of the Mohegan Tribe with this case?"
Baldy gestured for Young Punk Cop to respond, stating that he'd let a "Detective Northwind speak on behalf of the tribe." Young Punk Cop spoke well for his apparent age, stating that the tribe was working in collaboration with the state and local police departments, and that all resources within the tribe were focused on the resolution of this case. Young Punk Cop stepped back as more hands waved in the air.
Official Guy selected another, and the question/answer routine continued. He was growing bored; politics and money were not of any interest to him. His mind wandered drowsily, thinking of the women he knew and who best fit the standards he was searching for. His criteria were written on the paper taped to the wall above his head, directly beneath his yellow-stained crucifix.
The woman behind the hotel's desk was a candidate; so was the head housekeeper who worked second shift. He was running low on time, and his ability to socialize with women was limited. He already selected the last of his remaining three, but logistics would make her redemption difficult. Plus she smelled of moldy cheese. She fit the criteria to a tee, but that didn't make his task pleasant. His time with her would be short, and he again debated whether or not he should baptize her with his essence. She deserved it; she was a sinner as much as the others. Perhaps he would bleach her first, and then commence the baptism.
The sound of a deep woman's voice raised in question re-focused the man's attention back to the press conference. "… enlisted the help of a forensics specialist named Gil Grissom from Las Vegas?"
Vegas? A tremor of worry caused the man's brow to furrow as Baldy answered in the affirmative and introduced another doctor. It must take a PhD to solve crimes nowadays. He watched in frightened anticipation as the bearded man approached the podium. The man introduced himself as Doctor Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He stated he was brought in onto the case as it connected to a similar unsolved crime within his jurisdiction.
The man sat ramrod straight on his bed and stared at his television in horror. That guy knew about his angel, his inspiration. This was not good. No, not good at all. Vegas was not the backwoods of Connecticut. And Bearded Doc looked and sounded pretty damn serious.
Questions were being asked of the bearded man, questions regarding the crime in Vegas and how it tied in here. He answered in his deep voice, his words highly technical. While he answered, the woman standing to his side watched him attentively, with a forced air of indifference. The man studied her for a moment, noticing her intensity. Now she would make a nice candidate for his final three. But accessing her would be extraordinarily difficult. Perhaps later, a year or so from now, he could return and release her from her anger. The thought sent a tremble down his spine and he reached for the Bag Balm again. Like he had with his first Mary, he would baptize that one many times.
Bearded Doc turned to his right towards Baldy and Official Guy, and the hint of a purplish bruise could be seen on his cheek.
Holy fuck! The man dropped the canister onto the floor. Bearded Doc was the guy from the elevator – the guy who'd taken a solid one to the chops. That was two days ago, the same day… oh FUCK.
That morning he had redeemed his latest Mary, the politician's wife, in her complementary hotel room. The opportunity had practically pounded on his door. She was staying with her husband, who conveniently had an all-day meeting with other local politicians in a conference rooms at the other end of the casino.
It was no accident that she'd called the front desk requesting the lights in her bathroom to be fixed. He'd waited in the lobby for the call, and he'd been inside her room and had her subdued before the regular maintenance guy even arrived. The note on the door was enough to send him away without even a knock. Subduing her required a deviation from his normal methods, and he had been pleased with the results of his homemade taser. Violence was so messy; but electricity was clean. Final release to the Savior required carnality by design, but he was always quick about it. And he always cleaned them afterwards. He prided himself on his considerate treatment of his sinners; he kept them calm so that they were unafraid. When his latest Mary had regained consciousness, he'd offered her the wine and waited. It only was a matter of time until she was receptive and the baptism commenced.
Still, his consideration towards his Marys was irrelevant. This man on TV, this Bearded Doc, he had seen him and his bucket that morning in the elevator. Why weren't the police breaking down his door already? His breathing quickened as panic ensued. He shut off the television quickly and tread lightly to the bedroom window. His eyes met inky darkness, the faint glow of the streetlight in the distance the only light. He listened, but heard nothing but the faint whir of passing traffic and the typical sounds of a forest at night.
He was undiscovered. Bearded Doc from Vegas had not figured out his secret. Yet it was only a matter of time before he did. The man stared into the darkness, wracking his brain for the memory of that night. What floor had been pressed other than 12? A realization slammed him. It didn't matter which floor Bearded Doc was on. He was staying at the Sun. He parked at the Sun.
But, what should he do with him? The naked man plodded into his small kitchenette, flicking on the light. The Doc was not a sinner; he did not deserve to be killed. And killing a police officer, or 'forensics investigator', or whatever he was – that was not a wise maneuver in any regard. What to do… He looked out the tiny window over his sink into the darkness, and as the shed's new brass handle reflected the light from the window, the formation of a plan started to take shape.
Twenty minutes later, the man picked up the phone and called for a taxi to pick him up at five in the morning.
ooooooooooooooooo
Daylight was brimming on the horizon as Gil drove slowly through the Sun's parking garage. He'd been here for almost a week, and they still were no closer to solving this case than they'd been when he arrived. The only change was the addition of two more bodies in the local morgue. He needed to solve this, and solve it soon. They'd narrowed down the listing Northwind provided, but they were left with sixty suspects, the sixty maintenance men who worked the casino. Thirty for each shift. But no DNA evidence meant no search warrant; no reason to bring the men in for questioning. Until they could prove which of the men had committed the crime, none would be brought in. The district judge was tough, but fair. They needed more.
And while they had been pouring through names, reanalyzing evidence, and staring at hours of meaningless videotape, the body for Angela Hardling, the pretty wife of the North Stonington First Selectman, was lying on a cold slab in the morgue. The only difference between her and the others was two strange red marks on her neck. They'd been obscured by the dramatic slice across her jugular, but Tom had seen them during autopsy. Gil and Charlie had puzzled half the night over what could make that type of mark. It resembled a burn more than trauma, but it was like nothing that any of them had ever seen. They'd measured all known brands of tasers, but the marks were too close together. None matched.
The tapes from the casino had provided little in the way of additional evidence. Charlie had been reviewing them for days and had found nothing relevant. For each of the three murders that occurred at the Sun, a maintenance man in a jumpsuit would carry the standard issue utility bucket to the victim's door. Their killer would knock, and the victim would let the man in willingly. Usually around the 24 hour timeframe, the man would leave. He knew the layout, and the camera never caught his face.
Grissom recalled the man he saw in the elevator, but could not remember the name on his uniform. After a frantic trip to the casino, involving conversations with the front desk and the maintenance supervisor on at the time, they had come close to a legitimate suspect. The log showed a call had come in from the Hardling's room, requesting the bathroom lights be changed, as both were blown out. Dominic Ortiz was the man assigned to the task, and he was immediately cuffed and brought in for questioning.
Northwind had proved cunning and resourceful as an interrogations officer, and Gil had seen the resemblance to Brass within minutes. However, their suspect turned out to be a dud. He had never entered the room. A note had been taped to the door stating that the lights seemed to be working now. Further questioning by Northwind revealed that a twenty had been taped to the note. Dominic had proceeded to spend the twenty at the bar in front of the waterfall, after his shift had ended.
The note was still valid evidence, and a scramble had ensued to find it and test it for prints. Dominic thought he threw it away, and the threat of dumpster diving looked imminent. Sara had scowled at that thought. But after they and half of the casino's security staff had checked Dominic's locker, the note was found stuffed into the pocket of his overalls. "I meant to bring them home, really. I do wash them," Dominic had told Sara directly, his face flush with embarrassment. Grissom's heart had flared in jealousy at the sight of Sara's amused grin. Must every man in this casino flirt with her?
Evidence in hand, he and Sara had sped back to the lab, ready to fumigate the crumpled paper for prints. An hour went by as they sat in the kitchen area, waiting patiently. A very timid and regretful Jeanine shook her head slightly in the doorway, and that was the end to their evening.
Tonight, he and Charlie had returned to the drawing board, scanning the tapes again, reviewing the evidence over and over. They needed to move forward. They needed to find the evidence that they'd missed. And they needed to find a meaning for those cryptic letters.
Angela Hardling had sported an 'S' on her chest. They had two 'A's, an 'L', and an 'S'. No question that the letters meant something, but what? Evidence out of context meant nothing.
Sara had been working on that puzzle when he, Charlie, and Nave had interrupted her to inform her of the press conference. The remainder of tonight's shift was spent at the Best Western, all of them eventually answering one question or another. Grissom's ties to Vegas were now public knowledge, but Sara was still free of the media's eye. Perhaps her side-story was not as interesting as they'd both assumed.
Gil parked the rental car in its normal spot next to the concrete pillar in the corner of the parking garage. It was an ideal location, providing protection from other cars and door dings which he was not willing to pay for when the car was returned. He closed the car door slowly; his mind awhirl with thoughts of the case, of Sara, of Sara's newfound competence in her handling of the case, and of three letters and four victims that did not fit any pattern.
Five minutes after Gil parked his car, a man stood slowly from his hiding place between a minivan and a full-sized pickup. He let out a slow sigh of relief as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head. He walked slowly towards Grissom's car, his eyes focused on the license plate. Then he followed the path Grissom took, entering the casino through sliding glass doors.
oooooooooooooooooo
Footfalls echoed in the parking garage. Raindrops pattered to the pavement outside, and the air was damp with humidity. A fluorescent light hummed and flickered overhead as pooled water leaking from the story above dripped onto the concrete. There was a slight scrape as Daniel shifted his weight behind the pickup truck, his fingers idly caressing the 'taser' in his hands in mental reassurance. He fretted silently about unwanted brutality, and how he did not want to kill the Bearded Doc. Killing an innocent was a true and horrible sin. And this man was a savior of sorts, a champion for justice in his own right. But his mission contradicted with Daniel's, so he must be disabled – temporarily. When he was finished, when he had found and redeemed the other three women, then he would release the Bearded Doc.
Daniel glanced again at the cameras. The angle was such that he would be seen walking towards the car, but the actual process of subduing the Doc would be behind the concrete pillar. Even if the camera caught him, he would not be easily identified. The grey hooded sweatshirt and grey sweatpants were nondescript. If he kept the hood tight, the view of his face would be minimal.
The footfalls passed close by. It was time. Daniel's pulse pounded loudly in his ears as he rose quietly and tried to step lightly around the pillar. The Doc must have heard his approach, as he turned abruptly to face him. Bright blue eyes registered the familiar appearance of fear as Daniel raced forward. The man raised his arm in defense, and Daniel struck against it with the taser. The man jerked back, stunned, so Daniel hit him again, this time pressing the prongs to the man's neck.
Bearded Doc dropped like a stone. Daniel had to hurry – the parking lot would not be empty forever, and the Doc might wake up. He picked up the man's keys from underneath the car. He opened the back door of the car and bent down, reaching under the man's arms. Bearded Doc was extremely heavy, so Daniel lifted, pushed, and eventually pulled from the other side to get the man into the backseat. He closed both doors and got into the driver's seat, starting the car and sighing audibly at the sound of the engine. Now that the car was running, people would be less suspicious. He was panting from the exertion, and doubt was thundering in his mind. With a shake of his head, he tried to remove the negative thoughts. He had to do this. Otherwise the man in the back seat would capture him. They'd send him to prison despite his good intentions. They wouldn't understand his mission. He had to do this to the Bearded Doc.
Squeamish, he reached into his right pocket and retrieved the pill. This part was an unknown – would the man swallow it, even if he was unconscious? He only had experience with women, and they had taken their medication willingly, mixed with Merlot. Squinting in disgust, he turned and faced his captive. Panic welled within him as the man did not stir. Had he killed him? No, the man still breathed – a little.
He was stalling, he told himself. The Roofie did not belong in his palm; it belonged in the man. Awake and enraged, Bearded Doc would be formidable, and Daniel was not a fighter. Bearded Doc needed to be drugged until properly secured. Squinting in revulsion, he reached forward and opened the man's slack mouth. A bit of drool oozed out and Daniel shuddered. Bleach. He would need bleach after this ordeal.
He shoved the pill deep within the man's mouth and the man instinctively gagged, drooling all over Daniel's hand before finally swallowing the pill. Daniel wiped his hand aggressively on the leather seats, on his sweatpants, everywhere he could. If he ever did this again, he would bring disinfectant wipes. Many, many disinfectant wipes. After the nausea passed, Daniel let out a long sigh of relief. The Doc had swallowed the medication. He would be drugged and complacent when they arrived at his home. Daniel had the entire evening to bring him into the shed and secure him. All would be well; the hard part was over.
He went to put the car into reverse, and panicked at what he saw. What kind of car was this? He did his best to move the gearshift towards the R, and after a moderate clunk, the car started backwards. He could smell the stink of his own fear, noticing for the first time that his sweatshirt and sweatpants were rather damp with sweat. Ugh. The sooner he finished this, the better.
... continued next chapter ->