Thank you for continuing to read and review. I appreciate it, and it pleases me to know that others besides myself are enjoying this story. And how nice to pick up another new reader. I hope that the story continues to hold everyone's attention. Cathy.
"Take a seat and get comfortable," Brass said wryly with a tired smile, as he passed out large, styrofoam cups of coffee to Grissom, Catherine and Cecilia.
Catherine glanced questioningly at Gil, whose expressionless features gave no indication as to why the supervisor had paged her and asked her to meet him at Brass's office. Then she looked back at the detective who stood leaning against his desk, looking at the trio reflectively. There was a subtle tension in the room that made Catherine uneasy.
Cecilia had never been in Jim's office before, and she gazed around curiously. She was struck by the number of commendations, plaques and awards that were grouped on the walls, and placed on the shelves of the wall unit behind the desk. Cecilia felt a surge of pride in Jim's accomplishments. She would have liked to have gotten up and studied them more closely, asking the detective the stories behind each one. Her eyes moved back to his, and she noted the fatigue that deepened the crevices in his brow and tightened the set of his mouth.
Jim had been gone from the apartment when Cecilia had wakened at half past seven that morning. She had found a brief, apologetic note letting her know that he had had to go down to the precinct. He had indicated that he would call her later in the day, but she had not heard from him. She had assumed the job had just kept him very busy. Cecilia had been surprised when Catherine had told her about Grissom's page. The writer had expected that Jim would have been home and in bed hours ago. Looking at him now, at the puffiness beneath his dark eyes, and the redness that tinged the corners of their whites, she wondered just how early he had been up and out of the house that morning. Then she wondered why he had assembled them here.
Brass took a long swallow of his coffee, seeming to consider his words before beginning. "When Denny Martens was killed, I just had this hunch that something was not right. And then when Elliott Keeth died, the feeling got stronger."
Catherine's eyebrows arched in surprise. Brass had not indicated to her at the time of Denny's funeral that he felt something was off, and he had not said anything when he had brought them news of Elliott's death about thinking the two might in some way be related. That he believed that there might be something more to the deaths came as a complete shock to her. Catherine felt a chill run down her spine. She looked quickly from Grissom to Cecilia and from their expressions she knew that this was not the first time they were hearing of Jim's intuitions, not for either of them. Catherine had a moment of feeling like an outsider and she wondered why Jim had not brought her into his confidences as well.
Brass read the hurt in Catherine's sapphire eyes. He addressed her directly. "I had nothing to go on. There wasn't a single valid reason for feeling the way I did. I couldn't see upsetting everyone without cause." He looked at her imploringly, hoping she would understand. The fact that a former colleague might have been murdered was not the kind of suspicion to be tossed around lightly. Not when people were grieving and saying their good-byes. Not without something more to go on than a hunch.
"And now you have reason to think there is some connection?" Grissom asked. "To question whether or not the two deaths really were accidents?" Gil trusted Brass, and knew that there would have to be something pretty compelling to have made him decide to have them gather here. But he had seen the report of Elliott Keeth's death and there had been nothing whatsoever to indicate foul play.
What was Brass conjecturing? A suicide pact of some sort, perhaps? That maybe Martens' and Keeth's deaths hadn't been as accidental as they appeared? That perhaps the two men had had a hand in their own demise? Was it possible, however unthinkable it might be, that Denny Martens had deliberately walked out in front of a speeding SUV? That Elliott Keeth had purposely drugged himself with Dalmane and whiskey before setting his apartment on fire? What could possibly prompt such extreme acts?
"I think they were murdered," Brass said, putting it out in the open, unknowingly putting any end to Grissom's speculations. He watched Gil frown, and Catherine's eyes widen. Cecilia, of course, already knew of his theory. But she leaned forward expectantly in her seat, clearly curious as to why he could finally make such a momentous claim. "Not just Denny and Elliott. Another cop too, another detective, Joe Takei."
Grissom and Catherine were stunned by these announcements. Brass recounted for them his discovery that Takei had died several months previously, including his own trip to L.A. and what he had learned there. Wordlessly, they took in the information.
"Nine years ago," Brass continued, "Martens, Keeth and Takei all worked out of this station. They investigated a serial case together...referred to it at the time as the Holiday Murders." He watched for recognition from Catherine and Gil, but there was nothing. He was not surprised. It was a long time ago, and it had been a dayshift case. The lead CSI had been Conrad Ecklie.
"The first victim was found in early September. She'd been sexually assaulted and then bludgeoned. The coroner placed the time of death at around Labor Day. The body of the next victim was discovered the first week of November. Coroner said she'd died around the end of October, likely the 31st. Hallowe'en. A third victim turned up three weeks later, the day after Thanksgiving. She'd only been dead twenty-four hours at the most. Labor Day, Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving...hence the Holiday Murders." Brass paused, reaching to rub the back of his neck, and letting them absorb that information.
"Why am I not remembering this?" Catherine questioned with a frown. "Even if it was a dayshift case, seems like it would be pretty big news. And serial killers are few and far between...thank God."
"Nine years ago this fall," Grissom mused consideringly. Then he raised his silvered head. "That was about the time the Johannsen girl went missing," he said with understanding.
"Yeah," Brass nodded. "Made the national headlines for weeks. Even though the Holiday Murders was a local story, it pushed it off the front pages."
Catherine remembered the Johannsen case. An eight-year-old girl in Dallas, Texas, had been abducted from the bedroom of her family's sprawling ranch home. The father, Erik Johannsen, was a wealthy, successful developer. A self-made millionaire. His wife Laurel, a beautiful Dallas socialite, was old money, and heiress to the Stanhope Oil fortunes. Their only child, daughter Kendra, a pretty, pixie-faced red-head, had been tucked into bed one night by her doting parents, and discovered missing the next morning when her mother went to wake her for school. There were signs of forced entry, and a struggle.
There was no ransom note, no contact by the child's abductors. While the nation waited and worried about the little girl's fate, her parents' private lives were exposed and splashed all over the news. There was just the right mix of money and scandal to capture the attention of Americans across the nation. Drug use, shady business deals, and marital infidelities were all the talk around office water coolers. For two weeks Kendra Johannsen's school portrait would flash across television screens nightly, until there wasn't anyone in the country who wouldn't recognize her. Her devestated parents made public pleas for their daughter's return.
Then one day Kendra's strangled body was found in a dumpster in a seedy area of downtown Dallas, and a nation mourned. Now the headlines asked 'Who killed Kendra?'. A week later police arrested a man in a San Antonia motel room and charged him with the child's murder. There ensued a media circus of huge proportions, when it was discovered the man had ties to one of Erik Johannsen's former mistresses. The trial date was set with unusual promptness and eventually both the man and the ex-mistress were convicted of orchestrating the kidnapping and of murdering the little girl as an act of revenge. The day after the sentencing, police received a 911 call to the Johannsen home. They found two bodies in the kitchen. Laurel Johannsen had shot her husband to death before turning the gun on herself.
"Kendra Johannsen," Catherine murmured.
"I remember that as well," Cecilia remarked sadly. She recalled the worried discussions she had had with other teachers in the staff room, the prayers that the little girl would be returned unharmed. And then their shock and sorrow when the child's body had been found.
"The Holiday vics were nobodies," Brass continued. All understood that this was not his personal feeling, but that he was speaking from the point of view of the media. "A hooker, a supermarket cashier, and a cocktail waitress. They didn't even realize, initially, that the second murder was connected to the first, so there was no big warning put out by the Sheriff's office, and it wasn't exactly the talk of the town."
"You think those murders nine years ago have something to do with these deaths now?" Catherine asked incredulously, wondering what the connection could possibly be.
"I'm certain of it," Brass responded, though there was no triumph in his pronouncement, only a dull acceptance. He wanted to give some background first, before he explained how he had reached that conclusion. He reached for a thick file on the desk and slid it towards himself. He picked it up and opened it, slowly paging through the contents before looking up at them again.
"The first murder, the pro, didn't fit the same victim profile as the second, which was one of the reasons the two murders weren't linked at first. She was single, no kids. Twenty, black, and new to the city. Jada Miller. The other girls on the street knew her, but she didn't even have a rap sheet in Vegas yet. There were signs of sexual activity, though no semen, but the coroner couldn't substantiate sexual assault. There were indications of rough sex, but whether or not it was consensual was hard to say. Apparently she'd had multiple abortions, and there was a lot of internal scarring. The cause of death was head trauma. A single blow to the back of the skull fractured the bone and drove a chunk into the brain. Her body was discovered in an alley off the Strip.
"The next vic was thirty years old. Caucasian. Blonde. Married mother of two. Worked as a cashier in a grocery store. Marilyn Hegel. Her car was found in the desert, her body in the trunk. She'd been beaten with a tire iron, also in the trunk. There were signs of rape. Bruising, and a vaginal tear. No ejaculate.
"The third vic was forty-two. Caucasian. Brunette. Divorced. Mother of a teen boy who lived with his dad in Reno. Cocktail waitress at the MGM Grand. Beth Marchison. Found at home by a friend and co-worker who was supposed to give her a ride in to work. Raped. This time there was pre-ejaculate but no semen, nothing for a DNA match. She had bruising about the face, someone had taken his fists to her. She'd received blows to the head with a blunt object, one to the temple being fatal."
Earlier in the day, Brass had studied the crime scene photos of the three deceased women and their images were fresh in his mind's eye. Almost a decade had passed since their murders. He wondered how the family and friends left behind to cope with the tragedies, were doing, and for a moment he closed his eyes.
Brass stood up then and began to slowly walk the room. "Martens and Takei pulled the first murder. Keeth the second. By the time the third body showed up, they knew they were working the same case and had combined their efforts.
"They had a suspect, someone they'd been watching after they started investigating the second victim's death. The cashier. There was a co-worker, a grocery clerk, and her husband said that the guy had been inappropriate on a couple of occasions. Cornering her at work in the stock room. Making suggestive comments. She observed that he often switched his shifts in a way that coincided with her schedule. The was never anything substantial enough that she went to her boss, or the police. But she told her husband and a couple of the other cashiers she worked with. The husband had decided to go in and have a little talk with the guy, but before he could the wife turned up dead. The grocery clerk's name was Todd Juneau."
The three listened attentively while Brass paced restlessly. His dark eyes took on a glazed look as he went back in history.
"Ecklie recovered a print from Hegel's car, on the roof above the driver's side door. He ran it through AFIS but didn't get a match. After Keeth questioned other employees at the supermarket, one of the women from the deli department gave a statement that she had seen Hegel and Juneau in the parking lot together the day that Hegel had gone missing. They appeared to be arguing, and though she wasn't absolutely certain, she thought that she overheard Hegel yell, 'I'm telling you for the last time, stay away from me!'"
Catherine envisioned the scene. The woman angry and probably frightened. The man persistent. She'd been in a similar situation herself, years ago. Having to fend off a guy's persistent, unwanted attentions. Having her personal space invaded. She remembered the predatory look in the man's eyes. And then one of the bouncers at the strip club had convinced the guy he had better leave Catherine alone. She could empathize with Hegel, even though the other woman had been dead for almost a decade.
Brass went on. "Juneau was picked up and brought to the precinct where he allowed himself to be fingerprinted. He was questioned, and denied knowing any of the vics except Hegel, who he claimed was a friend. There wasn't enough to hold him, so he was released. The fingerprint from the car came back a match to Juneau's. On the strength of that and the deli clerk's statement, a judge issued a search warrant for Juneau's locker at the supermarket, and for his home and vehicle."
Brass stopped moving about the room and perched on the edge of his desk again, facing them. "In addition to a big collection of porno mags and videos...real violent triple X stuff," Brass said distastefully, "they found multiple photographs of Marilyn Hegel. Not posed shots, but taken from a distance. Many at work. Coming in and out of the supermarket. Outside on her break. There were close ups of her chest and bottom. More disturbing, there were photos taken outside Hegel's home, her doing yardwork, or at a nearby park with her kids. The guy had obviously been stalking her for a while.
"Apparently Juneau pulled into the end of his street and saw the cruiser parked in his driveway, and the detectives taking boxes of stuff out as evidence. He panicked and took off. Didn't show up at home or work again. There was a warrant out for his arrest. Two days later, cops got a call from a buddy of Juneau's, one of the guys he worked with. Juneau swore to the other clerk that he hadn't hurt Hegel and didn't know anything about the other women. Said the cops were framing him." Jim rolled his eyes at that. "He wanted to borrow some money, and arranged to come in after the store had closed. The guy knew that Juneau was wanted by the cops, and he phoned it in. So, they were there to arrest him.
"Juneau broke free and started to run. There was a pursuit through the parking lot. Juneau suddenly whirled and reached for his pocket and withdrew a gun. Takei shot him twice in the chest, rapid succession and Juneau went down without getting off a shot. He was killed instantly. Turned out he had a toy gun. No idea what the guy was thinking. Internal Affairs investigated, and the detectives' statements were confirmed by the grocery clerk who witnessed what happened. It was determined to be a clean shoot."
Jim arched his neck, rolling his head tiredly to release the tension and fatigue. "The suspect was dead. The killings stopped. The living went on with their lives."
"Except that nine years later, the three detectives who investigated the murders all die within several months of one another," Catherine interjected. "There must have been more than just one case that the three worked on together," she insisted. "Cases that never even got solved. Why are you focusing on this one?" Her blue eyes were direct.
"This is where it gets interesting," Brass continued. "Juneau mailed a letter to the cops after each of the murders. More or less taunting them to catch him. I've got copies here, I'll show you in a minute. There was a recurrent theme in those letters. Insisting the cops do their jobs, and contain the evil. Saying that the murders were their responsibility, because it was their ineptitude that allowed the wicked to stay free."
Cecilia's eyes widened.
Jim looked at her briefly, and gave a barely perceptible nod. "Amy Martens found a letter in Denny's safe. She brought it to me. It is very reminiscent in style and wording to the Holiday Murder letters. But she had no idea how long it had been there. She'd never seen it before. Though it seems unlikely, Denny could have had it for years, and received it way back at the time of the Holiday Murders. But I don't buy that, because he would have turned it over as evidence. We need to determine how long ago that letter from Denny's safe was written. I sent it to the lab for handwriting analysis, when I suspected that it might have something to do with Denny's death. Ronnie hasn't gotten around to looking at it yet.
"Then this afternoon, I got a call from Captain Kramer in L.A. She'd worked with Takei, and is the one who told me about the circumstances of his death."
Jim had almost refused to answer the strident, insistent ringing of his phone, engrossed as he was in going over the old file. Finally he had picked it up, speaking a curt, "Brass."
"Jimmy, it's Annie." There was an edge to her voice.. "I think you really are on to something." Brass's pulse rate increased. "I was talking to Ray Fender, he was Takei's partner at the time Joe died. Ray remembers that about a month before Joe's death, Joe showed him this letter he'd gotten. It stuck with him, he says, because Joe was always such a loner, and never talked about anything outside of work.
"But he had this letter. Ray could see Joe was bothered by it, and Joe wanted Ray's opinion. Ray didn't think too much about the letter itself. You know how cops get threats all the time, and this wasn't even an overt threat, Ray says. Just kind of weird. Something about asking how well Takei slept at night. And about making mistakes and being too stupid to know it. Ray didn't think it was anything to worry about, and Joe ended up throwing it out." Annie paused. "Jimmy, what the hell could possibly be going on here?"
"I don't know," Brass had admitted. "But I'm going to find out."
"I want in on this," Annie insisted. "If Takei was a victim of foul play, then this is my case too."
He had agreed to keep her apprised of things, not yet sharing that he was revisiting the old Holiday Murders case. Wanting to wait until he had something more definitive to tell her.
Brass relayed his conservation with Annie Kramer.
"The partner couldn't remember the exact wording, but the letter sounds just like the one Denny Martens got. So I'm betting that Denny received his letter about a month before his accidentAnd even though there is no proof of it yet, and might never be, I'd wager that Elliott Keeth got a similar, if not identical, letter as well.
"I'm no handwriting expert, but these all look pretty similar to me." Brass handed Gil copies of the original letters police had received following the Holiday Murders. "Now, I'm not a big believer in re-incarnation or in ghosts..."
"So if these were all written by the same person," Catherine continued, leaning over Gil's shoulder, to get a look at the letters, "either Juneau had a partner..."
"Or he wasn't responsible for the Holiday Murders," Grissom finished.
Brass nodded. "I need Ronnie to verify whether or not these were all written by the same person."
"This doesn't make sense though," Catherine mused. "Why start the killings again nine years later? And why the detectives who'd worked the case? Why make the deaths look like accidents? Is that even possible?" she wondered aloud. "Denny, okay, someone could have run him down deliberately, but Elliott Keeth and Joe Takei...those were determined to be accidental deaths, weren't they?"
"I don't know why," Brass admitted. "It's a big missing piece of the puzzle. But it is possible that Elliott's and Joe's deaths weren't what they seemed to be. Someone could have tampered with the failed release mechanism. And someone could have drugged Keeth and started that fire."
"I thought that the tests they did in Trace failed to detect anything other than whiskey in that bottle you took from Elliott Keeth's apartment," Cecilia expressed with surprise.
Catherine remembered Jim removing the Crown Royal bottle from Keeth's apartment the day of Elliott's memorial service. She hadn't realized that he had sent it for testing and frowned now.
Jim sighed. "Yeah, it did. I can't explain it."
"It could never be entered as evidence, even if you had found something," Catherine said flatly.
"Yeah, I know," Jim agreed. "But it would have given me some proof that there was something more going on. It would have been suspicious and pointed to possible foul play."
Grissom studied the sheets of paper. "Assuming this letter Amy Martens gave you is recent, someone, either involved in the original crimes, or with knowledge of them, created this letter that came from Detective Martens' safe. Obviously it wasn't Juneau. But it would mean that someone out there has resurrected the spirit of the Holiday Murder case. Revenge seems the most likely motive. But why now? Why after all this time?" He reread the words. "This passage...it could be interpreted to mean that the cops got the wrong guy. That the real killer is still free."
Gil read it aloud, the words that Brass had memorized. "But sometimes, you fail. And the wicked go free. Sometimes, there is a pivotal moment...where one is on the brink...where the future hangs in the balance of one choice, one decision. Where your error demonizes the innocent and unleashes the devil. But sometimes, too stupid to recognize the mistake, the inferior pat themselves on the back and go on and others must pay the price of their failure." Grissom handed the letters to Catherine, who bent her red-gold head to read them.
"Yeah, I thought that too," Brass agreed. "But the killings stopped after Juneau's death. The fingerprint on Hegel's car was his. He didn't have an alibi for any of the other murders. A psychiatrist who reveiwed the materials taken from Juneau's home profiled him as a likely suspect. The hooker, Miller, was a trial run. Hegel was the intended victim. Then the perp got a taste for blood and went after Marchison." He shrugged his shoulders uncertainly.
"Each of the detectives involved in the Holiday Murders is dead. And these letters, the originals and the one Denny got, look, at least on the surface, like they were written by the same person," Catherine said consideringly.
"Or by someone who was familiar enough with them to try to copy them," Gil suggested quietly.
"We have to reopen the case," Catherine said with finality.
Brass nodded. "I already have. And I'd like you and Gil to be the CSIs on this one. I'm asking, as a favour."
Grissom and Catherine exchanged a quick glance. Gil was attentive, the mind behind his blue eyes already working on the mystery. Catherine's own eyes glinted with interest and excitement at the thought of a puzzle to solve. For the moment, they looked at the case dispassionately, with the clinical curiosity of forensic scientists.
"There's one last thing," Brass told them with an off-handed casualness. Only Cecilia picked up on the shadow that flickered across his dark eyes, and the way that his hands clenched the edge of the desk. "There were four detectives working the Holiday Murders. The fourth one is still alive."
"And who is the fourth cop?" Catherine asked with quiet forboding.
Jim gave a thin smile. "You're looking at him."