Jim Brass had been chomping at his bit ever since Grissom had told him about Nick's involvement in the murder of Mari Pacheco, as she was now known to be. His lack of fluency in Spanish and the murder taking place smack in the middle of Sam Vega's turf meant he had been confined to the sidelines; his only contribution for the most part was the running of phone numbers.
When he had found out about the abuse Nick had suffered under the hands of that asshole from Beantown, he had relished the thought of active participation. This was something he could do. He knew how to deal with shit cops. But the righteous fire of his anger had been snuffed barely before it began, IAB stepping in and handling things "the right way". Paperwork. Documentation. Forms. It left him feeling like a frustrated high schooler who made the mistake of bringing the class tease to the Prom. Lots of buildup. No payoff.
When Warrick had told him that they had tracked down an irrefutable link between the dead girl and the Orozcos he was momentarily elated, and simultaneously frustrated that he wouldn't be involved. When Sam had called him personally to ask him to pick up Orozco Senior he had hesitated. It was the opening he'd been looking for to get his hands dirty, but his Spanish was barely enough to get him through the drive-thru at the local Taco Hut. Sam had quickly assured him that their suspect spoke English fluently and all bets were off. So now he paced in the interrogation room like a thoroughbred in his stall before the race.
Carlos Orozco, one of the most financially powerful men in Vegas, at least in his little corner of the city, sat slumped down in a plastic seat in front of the same table his nephew had sat in the night before. He didn't look like much. An old man with salt and pepper hair and matching mustache in a worn brown cardigan, the color of the fabric almost the same shade as his darkly tanned skin so that he seemed to blend in to the fake wood of the table top.
Vega was right. The man spoke fluent English, though his accent was strong. Brass smiled to himself. Made the man sound like Ricardo Montalban. Was waiting for him to talk about rich Corinthian leather or welcome him to Fantasy Island. The smile quickly faded when his gaze returned to the man's face. He had never seen a more sour expression on what should have been a handsome face.
They had already gone round one. Daddy doesn't know where Sonny Boy is. Doesn't believe that his son had anything to do with a dead girl. It was just a coincidence that she died outside his warehouse. It was almost verbatim from the notes Vega had given him of the first two interviews.
But now it was round two and he was going to his corner man. And here he was now. Gil Grissom's timing was almost preternatural. He wondered if the CSI had been watching through the two-way glass.
"Mr. Orozco, I'd like you to meet Gil Grissom. He's the supervisor of our crime lab. He's the man who has in his hot little hands the reason we are here tonight."
He made a show of waving Gil further in to the room. Grissom was probably one of the least threatening men Brass had ever laid eyes on. The old fashioned glasses, the gray beard, and the slight slouch he had all cried nerdy college professor or maybe a frustrated naturalist forced inside away from his beloved trees. Actually, the more Brass thought about it, he looked like an entomologist. Go figure.
"Mr. Orozco," Grissom began. "I have a few things I'd like to ask you about, and then I believe Detective Brass will have some follow up questions. To begin with I'd like to show you a report our lab ran on the blood found on Mari Pacheco's shirt."
Grissom slowly opened a manila folder and took out what appeared to be the first in a series of evidence he had prepped as part of the show.
"Mr. Orozco, this is Mari Pacheco's DNA. And this is the DNA from an unknown male whose blood was found on her blouse. As you can see here," he said, tracing the statistics with a well-manicured nail, "the two of them have quite a bit in common. Science tells us that to have that much in common at a genetic level, it would be nearly impossible for them not to be related. In fact, they would be related at a first generation level. That would mean a cousin… or an uncle."
Grissom sat back and waited for Orozco's response but the man sat silently, glowering at the two of them.
"This," he said, moving on to the next piece of paper, "is a court order for your DNA. I'll need to take a swab of your inner cheek cells with this," he said, pulling out a plastic-capped cotton-topped stick.
Still no response, and the glower deepened.
Brass took the opportunity to play Bad Cop to Grissom's…well, Nerd Cop.
"So, Orozco. The police have been to see you twice now. They showed you pictures of the girl and each time you denied knowing her. Care to change your story?"
Orozco's head turned away from them, his chin dipping a bit lower.
"No response, huh? You know, you can sit there like a cigar store wooden Indian all night if you like. We already know the girl was your niece. What I can't figure out is why you would deny knowing her? Why you would deny her? She's family. Your blood."
That got a reaction finally. The man's head whipped forward and he stared defiantly at Brass.
"You have no idea, Detective, how I feel about family. Do not judge what you do not know. What you do not know of my family. Of my people."
"Oh. 'Your people', huh? She was 'your people', Orozco! Now the blood is either yours, or it's your son's. Which is it? …… You know what? It doesn't matter if you answer. Because by the time that this man," he said shoving a thumb in Grissom's direction, "runs your cells through his little science machines, we'll know whose it is. My money is on your son. Nice little record he's got himself."
He got a small amount of satisfaction from the wince he saw the man make. And like a dog with a bone, he worried at it.
"Yup. Old Ramon is looking at a third strike. Means life in prison most likely. Away from Daddy's watchful eye. No more prison camp either. Nope, he'll be playing with the big boys up at NLV Correctional."
He leaned back against the wall of the interrogation room and relished watching Orozco squirm in his seat. The man was a pot about to boil over and he was barely keeping the lid on.
He nodded at Grissom, Gil's cue to resume his part. He took out a series of photos of Mari Pacheco's post-mortem exam. A light blue sheet covered her breasts and genitals, but it couldn't cover all the bruises, and the damage done to her face was brightly lit by the camera's flash. Mashed lips, broken teeth, contused jaws and cheeks. All were there in Kodak color. He began to lay them out side by side on the table in front of their suspect.
"These were taken of your niece after she was found laying on a pile of boxes outside your warehouse. The warehouse your son manages. Outside a door to an office that only your son had keys to. Our officers had to break down the door to gain access."
He continued laying photos out while he kept up his litany of descriptions and accusations.
"This is the aforementioned office. Our chemicals picked up a large pool of blood in the middle of your son's office. The one that only your son had the keys to. And this is a chair from your son's desk. The chemicals show more blood, covering the chair."
Brass watched as the man's eyes grew wider with each photo, his frown growing even more deeply set, his anger lessening, replaced by an air of despair.
"By the way, Orozco," Brass broke in, carefully watching the man's face as he leaned over the table towards him, hands planted firmly on the fake wooden top, "the blood in your son's office wasn't that of your niece. It was blood from one of our guys."
Another small burst of satisfaction at the sight of the man's eyes closing briefly as if feeling a flash of pain.
"He was tied to that chair and tortured. By your son, Orozco. He had a letter opener shoved in his arm and twisted over and over again! He sat in that chair and nearly bled to death."
Brass could feel his own anger taking control and pushed up off the table, plastering a fake smile on his face.
"Our guy is in the hospital right now, Orozco. He's fighting for his life. He loses that fight? All bets are off. Your son killed a cop. You know what that means, here in Nevada."
The man's eyes rose to meet his, regaining some of his former sternness.
"You don't know my son did anything, Detective. And your little tirade only makes me more satisfied that you cannot find him. Have you ever been to Mexico, Detective?"
"Cozumel. A lifetime ago. Why?"
"Cozumel," the man snorted. "A resort, right? Mexico is much more than beaches and drinks with little umbrellas, Detective. It is a beautiful country saddled with horrendous poverty. And Jalisco? More than its share of troubles. When my Rosalita gave birth to Ramon, she lost some blood and developed an infection. We had no fancy antibiotics like you have here. She died a slow agonizing death by blood poisoning. She couldn't even feed our son because her milk was tainted. She never even got to hold him to her breast. And I promised her, as she lay dying, that I would watch over Ramon, and never let anything happen to him. And as he grew up, I did the best I could. But a child needs a mother. So I told Ramon, every day, that his mami was watching over him from Heaven, while I watched over him from down here. I mean to keep that promise to my Rosie, and to Ramon. So let Mr. Grissom take his 'cells' from me. I will not help you put my son in jail, or stick a needle in his arm."
And with that the man sat back, deflated, in his chair, his arms now crossed resolutely in front of his chest, the only sign of his previous emotional outburst the shining tears that hung unspent in his eyes.