Chapter Thirteen – Cold Degradation
Brass rang the doorbell for a third time. From the sounds of things, namely the loud volume of the television coming from within the Glover residence, Wheel of Fortune was in full swing. Banging on the door, after the doorbell had consistently gone unheeded, the detective let out a series of expletives, cursing the elderly and their poor hearing.
Sara cast a weary gaze of wonder upon the detective. "Maybe they're not home?" she pursed her lips in a smile.
"Harold must be hard of hearing," Brass smirked as he noticed a shuffle just the other side of the door. "Las Vegas Police," he called out when there was an apparent hesitation to open the door.
Slowly the door eased back, a crack of light streaming through, casting the detective and CSI in a yellow glow.
"Detective Brass," Mrs. Glover smiled. "What a surprise. Please come in, come in. Hello Ms. Sidle. Harold!" she called toward the back of the house, with surprising force, "The police are here! Now, what can I do for you?" she asked pleasantly as she closed the door behind them. "You have some more questions?"
"Just one," the detective nodded glancing at Sara, giving her the go ahead.
"Oh, where are my manners? Please come on in," she motioned them into the living room.
The room was a cozy one warmly lit by two small tabletop lamps. The white walls reflected the warm lighting effectively adding to the room's inviting feel. A large picture window, much like in the Harris's home, looked out over the front yard. An intricately carved drop-leaf cherry table sat just under the window, the top of which was covered with dozens of framed photos. The wall opposite the window was occupied by a gaudy floral patterned sofa. Two matching upholstered chairs, flanking both ends of the sofa, were angled inward toward the room. A marble topped coffee table sat front and center to the sofa, a large print edition of the Holy Bible sat centered on the marble. The far back corner of the room was home to a massive armoire, used for housing an impressive collection of china and sterling silver flatware. The white wall-to-wall carpeting only added to the coziness of the room.
"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps?"
"Oh, no. Thank you," Sara managed a smile.
"Sit, sit," the old lady smiled taking a seat in the nearest chair. "You'll have to excuse the mess. I've been running around like crazy trying to straighten things up, but Harold keeps dirtying it up again."
Sara and Brass followed suit, taking up residence on the sofa, of which the detective was surprised not to find covered in plastic.
"Now what did you want to ask me?"
"Do you take evening walks Mrs. Glover?" Brass asked.
"The doctor has been on Harold to get some exercise. His cholesterol, you know."
"So, you and your husband take walks?"
"Well, yes," she answered with a nod. "But we normally go out each morning, you know before it gets hot."
"Uh huh. What kind of cross trainers do you wear?" the detective asked, his eyes involuntarily falling to take in the lady's slipper-clad feet.
"Cross trainers?" she asked confused.
"Walking shoes."
"Oh, well…" she hesitated. "I don't know the brand exactly. I could go get them and show them to you."
"Why don't you do that?" Brass nodded.
He and Sara watched as the elderly woman pushed up, with seemingly great effort, from her chair and shuffled off down the hall.
Coming from the back of the house they could still hear, with unbelievable clarity, the sounds of the household's favorite game show.
I'd like to buy a vowel…an O please.
The detective cast a gaze at the CSI beside him. She looked uncomfortable. Hell, she looked downright miserable. It took everything within him not to make a snide comment about the sheer volume of the television, though the sofa they were sitting on was material enough to come up with at least a dozen wise cracks. Thinking better of the situation, though, he kept his mouth shut.
Rising from his position on the couch the detective walked across to room to the table. "Looks like they've got over a dozen grandkids here," he said picking up a photo that caught his eye. "Hey, check this out," he motioned with his head for Sara to join him.
"Cynthia and Harold with the Harris kids," Sara took the frame from the man. "Looks like they were close."
"Yeah it does. Kind of beats our suspect theory all to hell," he offered a tight lipped grin.
"Now, these shoes," Mrs. Glover was saying as she shuffled back into the room, "were on sale down at The Athlete's Foot over on Sahara Avenue," she smiled handing the shoes to the detective, who handed them to the CSI.
"New Balance, size ten," she smiled holding a photo of the shoe print in hand.
"I've always had rather large feet," the lady said sheepishly. "My mother could never keep me in a pair of shoes. You can imagine the time she had, what during the depression and all."
Looking from the detective to Mrs. Glover Sara said, "We found a set of footprints outside the window to the Harris's garage. You were in their yard the night they were killed."
"Care to tell us what you were doing?" the detective asked with a raise of an eyebrow.
"Well," she started, her face blushing three shades of red, "around ten o'clock I called the Frank and Diane to see how little Emily was doing. I knew they had taken her to the doctor earlier that day. When they didn't answer the phone, I thought it odd and started to worry that maybe Emily had taken a turn for the worse. You know how it is, detective, a nosy old woman like myself. Plus, those children are so dear to me and Harold. Why, we're both beside ourselves with grief over this whole ordeal. Anyway, when they didn't answer their phone, I walked over to the side of their house. When I saw their cars were in the garage, well I just assumed they had just gone to bed early. I assumed they'd had a long day."
"So, what'd you do after that?" he asked.
"Well, I came back inside," she shrugged, her eyes suddenly becoming wide, a look of horror crossing her face. "Wait…you don't mean to say they were already…" she couldn't finish the sentence. Brass's quick reaction, his arm quickly latching on around the woman's small frame, was the only thing that kept her from crashing to the ground.
"Mrs. Glover, what did you do after you came back in?" he eased her into a chair, crouching in front of her.
"Well…I made myself a cup of tea, decaffeinated, and I went to bed," she shrugged.
"Why didn't you tell us this earlier?"
"Well, honestly it had slipped my mind."
"Is that so?"
"Harold got upset with me about it," she nodded. "He hates it when I go snooping. The ladies in my garden club always come to me for all the latest gossip. I can't imagine the talk there will be this week," she sighed placing a shriveled hand on her cheek.
"Mrs. Glover is there anything else that might have slipped your mind?" he asked as his cell phone rang. "Excuse me," he raised a hand in apology as he reached for his mobile. Stepping across the room he answered it on the third ring.
"We got a hit on the DNA off the cigarette."
"Who?"
"Jesse Overton."
"Well, that's different." Quickly he shot a glance toward Sara who was tucked firm in the grasp of Mrs. Glover and her hundred photos as they hovered over the table of family photos.
"Nick just handed me the report."
"It's what…almost eight," the detective looked at his watch. "Alright, Sara and I are just about done here. I'll meet you back at the lab and we'll pay the kid a late night visit."
"I've already put a call in to the warden."
Quickly he ended the call and turned back to his hostess. She was busy diving into a story of the latest antics of her youngest grandchild. Sara looked as if she was about to jump out of her skin.
"Sorry, about that," he smiled wryly as he rejoined them. "Where were we? Oh, right, was there anything else you wanted to add to your statement?"
"I don't think so detective," the little woman shook her head, her eyes wide with innocence and concern.
"Well, if you should think of anything," he nodded handing her a business card with his name and phone number emblazoned on the front, "give me a call."
Slowly he and Sara worked their way toward the front door.
"Detective," the little lady stopped them, "you will find the man that did this."
"We're doing everything we can, ma'am," he nodded stepping outside.
The evening air was refreshing, like a quick rush of adrenaline, after sitting in the near eighty degree heat inside the Glover home.
"Well," Sara offered a sardonic grin as she stepped off the front porch step, "that was helpful."
"Damn, I hate old people," the detective cringed as he walked alongside the CSI to his Taurus. "And why'd she keep telling me I know how it is? She's at least twice my age."
"You want I should drive?" Sara pursed her lips crossing her arms across her chest as she paused at the car. "I mean, you know how it is, right, old people behind the wheel?"
"Hey, you want to walk back to the lab?" he glared at her as they climbed into the car.
"Hey, I thought you'd heard. Crime rate's up in this neighborhood?" she fastened her seatbelt.
"You're packing. You're good to go," he started the ignition. "Hell, I'd feel sorry for anyone that tried to cross you without your piece."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Hey, I've seen the Sidle glare; it is not a pretty thing to be caught in. Plus you're trained in weaponless defense. No way I'm gonna cross you."
"Can we just get going?" she shook her head, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth. "I've got evidence to process."
"What's up bro?" Warrick asked sauntering into the layout room. It was half past eight. Nick had his head buried under stacks of papers as he busied himself going over the Harris adoption files.
"Hey, where have you been?" Nick nodded glancing up from the papers in front of him.
"Ah, I went home for a quick shower," he said leaning over the table, his arms supporting his weight. "Looks like a triple. Ecklie's gonna love all this overtime we're clockin'. What have you got here?"
"I'm just looking over the case files for Nathan and Hannah Harris."
"Their adoption files? I thought Brass went over all of this already.
"He did," Nick nodded his eyes back on the paper in his hand. "I just thought I'd look over them while I was waiting for Hodges to get with me on the cigarette Sara found."
"You finding anything?" he asked pulling a stool up to the backlit table.
"Nothing yet."
"Want some help?"
"You got the time?" Nick nodded handing a folder over.
"Hand me some," Warrick nodded reaching for a file and opening it. "So," he sighed skimming down the first page, "I heard you got a DNA hit off the cigarette."
"Yeah, Jesse Overton," Nick nodded. "You know, I don't get it. He's barely five years into his twenty-five. How does a cigarette with his DNA on it get placed at our crime scene?"
"Easy, it was planted. You remember the case we had a couple years ago, the planted evidence. Some guy took some cigarettes from a public ash tray, planted them on the scene."
"Yeah," he nodded, "I remember. The guy paid a couple kids to kill a couple."
"Sounds like the same thing here. The cigarette was planted," Warrick shrugged. "So that means…"
"That means someone had access to Jesse Overton and his cigarettes."
"He still smokin' those Bidis?"
"What's up guys? Having a little powwow? Talking scores from last night's game? What?" Hodges smiled as he entered the layout room.
Did he think this was the gossip corner?
Warrick, casting a perturbed look toward Nick, leaned forward resting his forearms on the table and turned his attention back to the lab tech. The man was a grade A, top class kiss ass. Ecklie's puppet. And damn, if he wasn't an expert at getting under everyone's skin as well. "Hodges, let me ask you something, professional to professional, man to man. Now, I want your expert opinion on this. You've been working here for what, three, four years? So you've got some skills as a CSI, right?"
"Why, thank you Warrick. It's about time you guys see the value of my employment. I was beginning to feel underappreciated. Yes, I'd like to think so," he nodded with a pleased smile as he laid the file in his hand on the table.
"Alright, check this. Two people, say me and Nicky here, are having a relatively intelligent conversation," he glanced at Nick, who returned an animated smile. "Now, what would it take, do you think, for us to seriously consider, telling, oh you, what we're talking about?"
The tech sneered at the CSIs, "Okay. I can take a hint. I just thought, since I was in this part of the lab, I'd let you know what I found on the cigarette."
"What'd you get?" Nick asked his interest perked.
"It's more like what I didn't get," he said handing over the file he'd carried with him into the room. "Wendy said DNA was minimal, right? Well, so was everything else. There was no evidence that this cigarette had been smoked within the past week, let alone within the last twenty four hours."
"What are you saying? This cigarette is over a week old?"
"At least," the surly tech nodded. "Based on the degradation of the filter, and the tobacco, I'd say it was smoked at least two weeks ago."
"Okay, thanks Hodges," Nick nodded looking over the report the tech had handed him. "Oh hey, Hodges," he called catching the tech before he'd gone out of earshot. "By the way, what were the scores last night?" he smiled reaching for his cell phone. "We've all been busy here."
"Ha-Ha, you think you're funny?"
"Oh, I think he is," Warrick laughed as the trace lab tech grimaced and walked away.
"Hey Griss, its Nick," the CSI spoke into his phone upon dialing up the supervising CSI. "We just got the report back from Hodges on the cigarette. It's a Bidi."
"Just like the one from the Collins case?" Grissom asked. He was seated in the front seat of Brass' Taurus. The detective had just dropped Sara back at the lab, and Grissom had jumped in for the ride to the men's correctional facility.
"Almost. This one hasn't been smoked recently."
"How long?"
"Based on the degradation, Hodges estimates two weeks."
"Brass and I are on our way to see Jesse Overton now."
"Hey Griss, chances are this kid doesn't have a clue how a cigarette with his DNA got on our scene. I mean, you remember how public the Collins case was. Anyone could know we found a cigarette at that scene."
"Yeah, well we've got a court order for all visitor logs within the past three months," Grissom said. "Maybe our killer paid a visit to our local state prison."
"Public areas are required to have ash trays, right?"
"Yeah. I'll check into it."
Nick ended the call, his attention falling back to the adoption case files.
"Did both of these cases have the same case worker?" Warrick asked flipping through several pages.
"I think so," Nick nodded. "Yeah."
"Who?"
"Uh…Ted Goggle," Nick rested his elbows on the backlit tabletop subsequently rubbing his tired eyes.
"Ted Goggle?"
"Yeah, why? You know him?"
"Of him. I had a run in with him around the same time as the Collins case," he shook his head."
"Hey guys," Sara smiled entering the room. "I heard you got the results on the cigarette?"
"Yeah, Grissom and Brass are following up," Nick nodded stifling a yawn. "What have you been up to?"
"Oh, I just got back from interviewing a witness. Made a match to the shoeprints Greg lifted from the scene."
"You guys talking about me?" Greg smiled entering the room upon hearing his name mentioned. The man looked worn down and tired.
"Sara was just telling us she made a match to the shoeprints you found," Warrick informed.
"Anyway," Sara nodded, "they belonged to the Harris's neighbor, Cynthia Glover. She's like a surrogate grandmother to the Harris kids. Said she got concerned when they didn't answer the phone when she called, was afraid maybe they'd taken Emily to the hospital."
"So, what? She walks out and takes a peep in the garage window?" Warrick asked his brow puckered.
"Nosey old women," Nick said raising his arms above his head working to stretch his back muscles.
"You guys up for a break?" Catherine asked poking her head in the layout room.
"You got something?" Sara turned at the sound of their colleague's voice.
"Try seven cups of coffee and about a dozen sandwiches," she nodded with a smile turning and heading to the break room.
"Food?" Greg smiled, his ears perking up at the word.
"I figured you guys have been working nonstop for the past eighteen hours," she shrugged as they entered the break room.
The smell of Starbucks coffee filled the air, tantalizing their senses.
"Where's Grissom?" she asked.
"On his way to prison," Warrick said handing out the coffee as he collapsed into a chair.
"He and Brass are paying a visit to Jesse Overton," Nick added.
"Jesse Overton?"
"Yeah, DNA on the cigarette matches the kid. He and Brass are going to question him," he nodded.
"Well, I guess one of us has to stay on the job," she shrugged taking a bite from her turkey on rye.
Outside, the hallways bustled with the usual shift change activity. It was just getting to be the start of regular graveyard hours.
Sitting back in his chair, Nick relished in the warmth of the black liquor as it warmed him from the inside out. He was just beginning to relax, to find his happy place, when his cell phone rang, startling him back to his sleepless reality. Checking the caller ID, he excused himself from the table to take the call privately.
"Stokes," he answered on the fourth ring as he exited the lab. The night air had a bite to it; the temperatures had dropped drastically since the last time he'd been out.
"Hey Nick, this is Sam," the charming sound of the nurse's voice rang in his ear, filling his every sense. "I've got the results from your blood test…" she trailed off.
Nick instantly felt his stomach tighten, taking an unrelenting grip on him from within, threatening to end him. Slowly he lowered himself, taking a seat on the curb facing the parking lot.
"You're not going to believe this," she continued. Was that a smile in her voice? "I…I can barely believe it. We, uh, we compared your blood to Emily's. You're a preliminary match."