Note: okay...so here's the REAL chapter Eleven! Forgot to make a few page breaks in the text...so without further adue...ENJOY!
Chapter Eleven – Waterproof Spectacles
"Frank and Diane Harris are a featured family on the Forever God's Family website," Brass held up a short stack of papers as he entered the dimly lit office of Gil Grissom.
The entomologist sat behind his desk, leaning into the monitor of his laptop computer. It was the same position he'd been in for the past three hours. Now nearing the five o'clock hour, he was beginning to feel the effects of his work. His back muscles were tired, his eyes burning from the iridescent glow of the computer screen.
"I'm looking at it now," Grissom nodded his chin resting in the palm of his hand. "Nothing about this is adding up. There's nothing unusual about this agency," he shrugged leaning back in his chair, taking the time to rest his worn body.
"Have you read their profile?" The detective resigned to a chair in front of the CSI supervisor's desk.
The man offered a silent nod in return.
"I talked to one of the ladies that head up the agency. They screen all of their families seeking to adopt. They stand on strong moral ground, never turning a child away kind of thing. Hannah and Nathan's adoptions are both legit as far as I can tell. I even got the name of the social worker that worked their cases."
"Who would that be?" Grissom asked his attention shifting from his computer to the detective.
"Ted Goggle. A few years back this guy quit his job with Child Protective Services and started working for this agency."
"A change of heart, perhaps?" Grissom asked.
"A change in paycheck is more like it," Brass smirked. "The guy was pushing five figures with CPS. With this agency he can easily get six a year."
"That much of an increase, really?" Grissom asked slightly astonished.
"Adoption pays," the detective shrugged. "Anyway, from what I can tell it's all clean. The adoptions are legal beyond legal."
"So where does that leave us?"
"With a whole heap of nothing," Brass sighed in resignation. "But get this; I looked into Emily's background. You know Nick and Warrick found papers on the teenagers, but none on the little girl. Turns out there are no papers on her…at least in any local hospital."
"So, maybe she wasn't born here?"
"I don't know, yet. I'm looking into it."
"It could be nothing," Grissom shrugged.
"Well, my gut's telling me it's something. I trust it before I trust nothing," he stood from his chair. "Well, I've got a date with Mrs. Glover," he stood from his chair.
"Mrs. Glover?"
"The Harris's next door neighbor," he nodded with a shrug. "It may be worthwhile."
Grissom watched as the detective exited his office, a hollow feeling sweeping over him. He hated the feeling, like he was digging himself into a hole. What's worse, he hated that it seemed to be ever-so-slowly becoming deeper with each new turn in the case and the inability to dig himself out was becoming greater with each new piece of evidence.
Why wouldn't there be any record of Emily Harris's birth?
Why wouldn't her parents have her papers?
So many questions were burning behind his eyes, so many seemingly unanswerable questions.
"Grissom," Greg bounded in now, a grin lighting his eyes. "I got a make on the shoeprint from the yard."
"Good."
"Not really," he shook his head as he handed over his report in the midst of receiving a questioning glance from his boss. He watched as Grissom read over the findings. The look the man shot him wasn't unexpected.
A mixture of surprise, confusion, and bewilderment clouded the man's face.
"From these photos…" Grissom trailed off.
"I know," Greg nodded. "It doesn't make sense."
"For starters, I thought you said you were looking at a male size twelve?"
"Well, after the molds dried, I re-measured," the CSI started, "Turns out they're a woman's size ten."
"And the type of shoe?" Grissom asked.
"A New Balance cross trainer, manufactured and distributed nation wide in mass quantities. I called the manufacturer in Boston. Turns out they send out shipments to Vegas about three times a month. I got a list of local distributors and called them up. There are four major chains that stock and sell this brand of trainer."
"Dick's, Foot Locker, AllSports, and…" the supervisor read down the list.
"And Finish Line," Greg finished with a nod. "That's not including the dozen or so small family-owned shoe stores that sell New Balance. Get this," he smiled sitting straighter in his chair. "I did find something interesting. Turns out the West Coast prison system offers this line of cross trainer for sell in their commissaries. Inmates can buy them for around forty bucks."
"Well," Grissom shook his head, "Give this to Brass. Let him follow up on it. The Harris cars just came into the garage. I need you to start processing."
"By myself?" he asked, a little more excited than confused by the prospect of working alone.
"Warrick's still backed up on phone records and Nick's still at the hospital. Sara is with Brass talking to possible witnesses, and Catherine is busy with blood spatter. You're all I've got."
"Okay," he smiled with a nod turning on his heels.
Despite the fact that he was the man's last option, the last of Grissom's go-to men, Greg relished the thought of running something on his own. He'd processed cars before, but always with someone. He knew he was capable of doing the job on his own, but as a Level One he knew it to be procedure that he have someone with him.
Still, the chance to do this was a rush.
Alone in Greg's wake, Grissom was again left to his own thoughts. He sat there in his increasingly dark office for what seemed like hours. Left to the vices of his own mind, and the case at hand, he feared the onset of a mental breakdown.
The silence alone was enough to make him crack.
The sound of his cell phone, vibrating to life atop his desk, was a sweet reprieve from the circular motions chasing his own thoughts.
"Grissom," he answered working to keep his nerves in check.
"Griss," Warrick responded on the other end, "Check this; I've looked through every record I could get from Frank Harris's bank."
"Anything?"
"Well, there's nothing jumping up and biting me in the ass, if that's what you mean. There is a gargantuan payout back in January, though."
"How much?"
"A hundred and fifty thou. And before you ask, I don't know who it went to. I'm still working on it. There are a couple more anomalies, though."
"Such as…"
"Well, each month the Harris's paid out over fifty thousand for Emily's medical care. But, I've got a couple payments made here to Child Protective Services for almost a hundred thousand each."
"Could be adoption fees. Brass hasn't been able to track down papers for Emily Harris. Maybe she's out of the system?"
"I'll look into it," Warrick responded.
"Anything on phone records?"
"Not yet. Phone Company wouldn't comply, sent me in for a damn court order. So, now I'm waiting for their lawyers to review and then send over the records. I'll let you know," he clicked off.
"Harold and I always eat an early dinner. He likes to be finished in time for Wheel of Fortune," Cynthia Glover was telling the detective. She sat across the table from him and Sara in an interview room at PD. Outside the halls were bustling. Now almost six o'clock, shifts were changing. Uniformed officers rushed through the halls, called out into the field or simply out on patrol.
Sitting across the table from the detective and CSI, Cynthiana Glover was the epitome of elderly women. Her silver gray hair was long, but pinned back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in a very vibrant pink jogging suit, her well manicured nails painted a matching, though slightly lighter shade of the same color. "When you called me Detective, I knew exactly who you were talking about. When I saw that young man standing outside in the cold, I just knew something was wrong."
"So he was a young man?"
"Well, relatively speaking. You know how it is Detective," she spoke sweetly, a blush rising in her cheeks. "When you get to be my age… I'm no spring chick."
Brass smiled coyly as he worked to loosen his tie. This was going to be an incredibly painful interview. For the life of him, he hated old people.
"Anyway, I was washing the dishes when I noticed this gentleman standing out on the sidewalk."
"This struck you as odd?" Brass asked now leaning forward, his arms resting atop the table.
"Well, he stood there for nearly ten minutes just staring at their house, and it was so cold last night. And that rain? I remember thinking, he didn't have enough clothes on, his coat looked so thin, and well…he was sure to get pneumonia."
"The Harris's house?" Sara asked from beside the detective.
"So you saw him go in?" Brass added, trying to direct the conversation. This lady was really beginning to add to his already pounding headache.
"Well…" she started slowly, thinking back the twenty four hours, "As I said I was doing the dishes. The window was rather fogged over, but I did see him head to their front door. Yes."
"Okay, Mrs. Glover," Sara started, "did you happen to see what he looked like?
"It was awful dark, Ms. Sidle," she hesitated, thinking hard. "Come to think of it, I did see he wore eye glasses," she nodded. "I saw the street light reflect off of them as he turned."
"Turned?" Brass asked.
She nodded her eyes now on the detective. There was a look to her deep gray eyes, a look of determination, of sheer will power. Maybe it was the onslaught of early dementia. He couldn't be sure. "It was the oddest thing. He was standing there, in the cold, still as a statue. And all of a sudden, I saw his head turn toward my house, toward the window where I was washing the dishes. It was as if he could feel me watching him. I got the coldest feeling. I had Harold lock all the doors and windows."
"So he wore glasses," Sara said casting a sideways glance toward Brass. "Is that it?"
"Well…come to think of it he had brown hair, too. He was starting to go bald on top."
"Could you see the light reflecting off that too?" Brass asked dryly.
"You never saw him leave?" Sara asked.
"No, honey, I sure didn't," the lady shook her head apologetically. "I did give the Harris's a call later that evening. When they didn't answer the phone I just assumed they'd gone on to bed. I'm sorry I can't be of more help. I think what you do in law enforcement is so important."
"About what time did you call them?" Brass asked, slightly intrigued now.
"Oh, around ten o'clock I guess. It was right before the early news. Harold and I always watch the news before we go to bed."
"Well, thank you for coming in Mrs. Glover," Brass stood to escort the lady to reception. "We'll let you know if we have any further questions."
Together, Brass and Sara watched as a uniformed officer escorted their, quite possibly, only viable witness to her car. In involuntary shiver traveled the detective's spine at the thought of that old woman driving.
"Well, I'd say that was a bust," Sara threw her hands up in frustration. "She just described half of the city population."
"Yeah, glasses and brown hair isn't exactly enough to paint a Michelangelo," Brass grimaced as the two started the trek back to CSI.
"So, did you get an interview with Tina Collins?"
"Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock," he nodded. "She's got a year left on her sentence."
"Five years for accessory to murder?" Sara asked. "She got off easy."
"Yeah, well I guess they took pity on her, being a minor and well…" He didn't want to finish the sentence. The whole situation facing Tina and Brenda Collins was atrocious, and quite frankly it made him sick to think a father would do something to harm his own daughters. It just went against every grain in his body.
Together the two weaved their way through the crowded halls to CSI. After spending nearly an hour with Cynthia Glover, with no real ground covered, they both felt the pangs of the onset of heightened frustration.
"Hey, what's Greg doing in the garage?" the detective pointed as they pasted the trace lab.
"I dunno," she shrugged separating their paths to find out.
"Anyway, they made about a dozen calls to this lawyer guy," Warrick was saying. He stood now in front of Grissom's desk, his right hand massaging the back of his neck. Grissom was just as Brass had left him, hunkered behind his desk.
"Howard Lawson?"
"Yeah, and get this," he took a seat in front of his boss's desk. "Checking their bank accounts, right? I found a substantial amount of money deposited in their checking account about a week ago."
"How substantial?"
"A hundred and fifty thou., but this is where it gets interesting. Frank Harris wrote a check in that same amount the day before he and his family were murdered? Turns out the money went to Chandler and Kao. Guess who works for the firm?"
"Howard Lawson?"
"So I gave them a call," he nodded, "and things just keep getting weirder. As it turns out, the family was investigated in the case of a missing girl from Reno."
"I remember that case," Brass said from the doorway of the office. "A little girl went missing about six months ago. Police thought they had a lead here in Vegas. They questioned the Harris's a few months back. The case is still unsolved."
"Lawson won't be in till eight o'clock in the morning," the CSI shrugged.
"What'd you find out?" Grissom addressed the detective removing his glasses and placing them on his desk.
"A little old lady saw a man with brown hair and glasses standing outside the Harris home last night," the detective leaned in the doorway.
"So basically you got nothin'?" Warrick asked.
"Yeah, basically. What'd Nicky get from the little girl?"
"I don't know yet. He hasn't gotten back," the shift supervisor cast a glance at the clock on his desk as he leaned back in his chair exhuming a puff of air as his back hit the leather. Nick had been gone longer than he'd expected him to be.
"Well, I put Vartann in charge of pulling the records and case files for me on this Howard Lawson guy. Turns out Lawson's worked several adoption cases. I'm headed to PD now," Warrick stood stretching his back muscles.
"Take Vartann when you follow up with this law firm…Chandler and Kao?" Grissom added as he watched his CSI stand and head toward the exit. "They may be our only link."
"I'm all over it," Warrick nodded.
"So, this Howard Lawson…" Brass started digging for information as the CSI left the two older men.
"Howard Lawson was the lawyer working the adoptions for the Frank and Diane Harris."
"And the Harris's paid him…"
"Looks like standard law fees," Grissom shrugged, leaning his elbows on the top of his desk as he massaged his temples.
"Adoptions sure aren't cheap these days," the detective sighed.
"I don't know Jim. This case is raising so many questions, and…"
"And answers aren't coming fast enough? It's not like you to want to rush the evidence Gil," he offered a slight grin.
"That's just it. The evidence is leading us in twenty different directions."
"It's a cruel world. Ain't it great?"
"Yeah, well we're chasing our tails on this one. Evidence is multiplying like a rabbit in heat and I'm running thin on CSIs."
"Aw, my little Greg is growing up," Sara pursed her lips in a grin as she entered the garage. "Looks like you've got your hands full. Are you processing these cars or did Grissom and Ecklie just need their oil changed?"
Greg was busy in the front seat of a Chevy Tahoe, the stereo on the work bench tuned to a local metal station.
"This is Frank Harris's car, that one's the wife's. Everyone was busy, so…Grissom asked me to process," he released a long breath as he exited from the driver's side of the large SUV.
"Finding anything?"
"I've been over ever square inch of this car. I've fumed it for prints, I've ALSed for blood. There's nothing. A few prints on the gear shift, and steering wheel, I sent them to Jacqui in the print lab. But other than a couple jelly stains on the back seat… There's nothing probative."
"What about the Jetta?" Sara pointed to the second vehicle in the garage.
"Was just about to get to it."
"Need some help?"
"Sure," he nodded with a smile. "You take the back?"
"You're the boss," she smiled pulling on a pair of black heavy duty gloves and opening the back passenger side door. "Hey, so what'd you find out on the shoeprints?"
Greg quickly made his way across the garage, turning the volume down on the radio. Diving into his search of the front seat of the car he responded, "Oh turns out they belong to a female, size ten."
"What?" Sara asked bolting upright subsequently hitting her head on the roof of the car. "The shoes belong to a female?" There was a hint of surprise and shock just behind the look of pain as she sat rubbing the top of her head, her eyes now on the man beside her.
"Yeah," Greg laughed, "from the width of the shoe it was easy to think it was male. But, it's definitely a female shoe."
"What make were they?" Her brain was turning, stumbling across possibilities.
"New Balance cross trainers," he shrugged. "Why?" But Sara was out the door before he could finish the question.
She had to talk to Brass.