"Just in time," Catherine said, looking up as Brass entered the room. "Ronnie's just about to go over these letters with me. Grissom's on a four-nineteen in Henderson, with Nick. He said we should just go ahead."
Catherine was pulling a double, and though she knew she should be tired, she was too pumped up on adrenaline to feel that way just yet. Ever since she had learned that Jim was likely to be the next target of some maniac who had killed Denny Martens, Elliott Keeth and Joe Takei, Catherine had felt an overwhelming sense of urgency to delve into the case. She could almost imagine an hourglass, flipped over so that the first, fine grains of pale sand slipped through the narrow opening, setting a deadline for her. They had to solve this thing fast, to break it open before any harm came to Brass.
She had downed several cups of coffee throughout the night. Conversation between she and Cecilia had been scarce, both women too preoccupied, too worried to make a pretense of normalacy. They had nothing, no evidence at all for Catherine to process in the deaths of the detectives, so all that she could do was go back to the original Juneau case. She had spent the night reading old forensic reports, the bulk of them signed with Conrad Ecklie's familiar scrawl.
Catherine hadn't even gotten around to signing out the physical evidence yet. As the criminalist had worked, Cecilia had hung in the background. Sometimes pacing, her movements fraught with apprehension. Catherine could understand the novelist's worry and she felt compassion for her. Clearly, Cecilia cared a great deal about Jim. Finally, as morning had come, stating that she would stay and keep working on some things, Catherine had encouraged the other woman to leave. She had thought that Cecilia would go directly to Jim's, and return to the lab with him later, and Catherine was suprised to see him here now without her.
"Where's Cecilia?" Catherine queried, raising a brow. Brass just shook his head, a quick, tight motion, his expression morose. He looked rough. Tired. His eyes were bloodshot. And when he had shaved that morning, he had missed a small spot on the left side of his chin.
Brass watched as Ronnie centred the first note under the projector. The one that had been received at the station following Jada Miller's murder. The beefy scientist, with the curly, dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses gave the detective a welcoming smile. Not realizing just how personal this case was for Jim.
There had been handwriting analysis done nine years ago, as part of a profile of the killer. That was before Ronnie's time though. Truth was that Brass hadn't really paid too much attention to all of the details of it at the time, or been too interested in the process itself. All that had mattered to him then was the bottom line. What could they give him, so that he could do his job better? How would they profile the perp? The hows and whys of the arriving there were the domain of the CSIs.
Now, however, Brass found himself wanting to know everything. To follow the entire process. To see just how Ronnie would reach his conclusions. He had read the condensed findings from the lab's prior analyst, dry and technical, filed in the stacks of pages of the Juneau files. Brass wanted more than that though. He needed to understand every nuance. The detective would need every edge he could get, to catch this killer.
"I know that some people dispute the science of handwriting analysis," Ronnie began clearning his throat. "The fact is that most of us learn to write by imitating a certain style, usually the Palmer or Zaner-Blosser method. But what makes our handwriting distinct and personal, is that over time, idiosyncracies develop in the way that we form our letters.
"That comes from different factors such as education, artistic ability, preference and even our physiological development. Continuing to write, again and again, over years, defines a certain style that will only show a slight variation, if any, over that time. You can pretty much say that no two people write alike." Ronnie pushed the glasses up on the bridge of his nose, then pressed a button and the first note shone up on the big screen along the back wall of the room.
Dear Officers of the LVPD,
To serve and protect. That's the motto. But it would appear that you failed, a young lady is dead, and the wicked one is still free. She was nothing, noboby, and snuffing out the candle of her existence did not even cause a ripple in the ebb and flow of human life. Still, your creed extends to all human creatures, no matter how insignificant.
If you had done your jobs and arrested the whore for solicitation she would have been off the streets, behind bars and safe. So really, who is to blame here? You erred and she died.
Just so you know that I really am the one you seek, I'll share some things with you. The whore wasn't wearing a bra, and her panties, if you could call that brief scrap of cheap polyester such, were pink. Not the hot pink of the fuschia flower, or the pale pink of cotton candy, but the tacky pink of bubblegum. She was chewing bubblegum actually, like a cow with its cud. Disgusting. It fell out of her mouth when I hit her for the first time. I know that you found it, stuck in her hair. Who do you think put it there?
I await you.
Catherine reread the letter. It gave her the creeps, now that she knew that whoever had written it, might well be the same person who had written the letter to Denny Martens. A person who might be planning to kill Jim Brass. When she had looked at it the first time, in Jim's office, Catherine had considered it more a curiosity. A piece of history. Seeing it again now, the words solid and immutable, caused the tiny hairs at the back of her neck to stand on end. This time, she saw in the words a twisted and taunting fiend, behind the paper and ink. She waited to hear what Ronnie saw.
"What I'm looking at," he continued, "are class characteristics and individual characteristics. The first come from the writing sytem the person used. The second, from features that are not common to any group. The primary factors for analysis get divided into four categories."
Jim listened with interest. He wanted to know everything he could about this foe that he would be up against. His adversary had the advantage of knowing everything about him. Whatever Jim could learn, would help tip the scales of that imbalance.
"They are form, line quality, arrangement and content." Ronnie counted them off on his pudgy fingers. "Form refers to the elements that comprise the shape of the letters, their proportion, slant, angles, lines, retracing, connections and curves. Line quality involves the type of writing instrument used, the pressure that is exerted, and the flow and continuity of the script. Arrangement is about the spacing, alignment, formatting and punctuation that might be distinctive to the writer. Finally, content encompasses your spelling, phrasing, punctuation and grammar." He waited, glancing at the detective to see if he understood.
"Yeah, okay, I think I've got that," Brass told him. "So what can you tell me about our guy?" He stood with his arms crossed, his left thumb and forefinger rubbing his chin.
"The first and most glaring thing I see," the analyst began animatedly, "is the pronounced icicle writing." He tapped the paper with his gloved finger.
"Come again?" Brass frowned.
"It refers to the ductosity, the thickness and shading of the letter forms and penstrokes. I'm not talking about the thickness caused by the writing implement itself, or the actual pressure the writer used, but the quality of the penstrokes themselves. Thin stokes are called icicles, or refered to as sharp. Heavy and thick strokes denote pastosity. Most people fall somewhere in the middle, and ductose writing traits don't apply to them. But murderers are often either very sharp, or very pastose. Yours is an icicle writer."
"Like Ted Bundy," Catherine commented, recalling a seminar she had been to last year.
"Right," Ronnie agreed. "Charles Manson and Jack the Ripper were very pastose," he contributed.
"So what would this icicle writer be like," Brass wanted to know.
"If someone writes with sharpness and icicles, they are emotionally cold. Likely callous and unfeeling. You can see the writing itself looks mean and cold." Ronnie traced some of the words.
Brass wouldn't have thought of it in quite those terms himself, but he saw what the analyst was getting at and nodded perfunctorily.
"This is the kind of person who would be sarcastic and could have a sharp tongue."
"Hey, sounds like my ex-wife," Brass joked. Catherine chuckled.
"We're talking about someone who is very cold, and very insensitive. This here," Ronnie pointed to the word Officers in the salutation, "this upright slant is indicative of that. These people are emotionally numb and ascerbic. Bundy was a cold and calculating killer. The pastose writers, Manson and the Ripper were highly passionate and excited about watching their victims suffer."
"Yeah, real nice guys either way," Brass sighed.
"I have to tell you, honestly, that icicle writers can be harder to catch," Ronnie told him sympathetically. "They are equipped to withstand the harshness and coldness of life. They're not intimidated by obstacles, but relish the challenge. Pastose killers, on the other hand, like to take the easy way. They are more prone to vices, and highly passionate and excitable, which means they tend to make more mistakes. Conversely, the icicle or sharp writer has the expectation that life will be hard, and he cuts through obstacles well. He's more controlled."
"Just my luck," Brass mumbled. He paused for a moment then continued. "I remember they had determined the letters were written by a man, and that the guy was right-handed." The other man nodded. "They said he might be confused about his sexuality?"
"This here," Ronnie replied, underlining with the pointer several words in the body of the letter, "this leftward tendency, and the weak nature of the lower zone...the lowercase letters...escpecially the loops that extend to the left, is a clue that he is unsure of his sexual identity."
"What else can you tell me?" Brass encouraged.
"Well, these tremulous formations, here, where he describes what the woman was wearing, that combined with the low form level, points to feelings of guilt for wrongdoing."
"So he's a cold bastard, but he knows what he was doing was wrong and feels badly about it?" the detective asked skeptically.
Ronnie removed the first letter, and put up the second, the one that had been received after Marilyn Hegel was murdered.
Dear Officers of the LVPD,
Oh my. How embarassing for you. You've failed again. I waited for you to come knocking, to put an end to this, but you didn't. You let another one die. Again, I ask, who then is to blame?
She was another nobody. You know, she wasn't even a natural blonde. And there was a scar, low across her belly. I think the bitch had whelped at one point in the past. She was wearing white, cotton panties. How very pedestrian.
How did she look when you found her? I'm afraid I lost my temper a bit. A temper is the bane of the wicked.
I await you.
"The guy didn't have a very high opinion of women," Catherine commented distastefully. "The way he deems the first vic as insignificant. Calling the second a bitch and childbirth whelping." She shook her head.
"Residual anger at Mommy?" Brass guessed.
"We'll get the department shrink to take a look at these later," Catherine remarked, "but I'd bet you're on the money."
"Back to your earlier question, Captain, at the beginning here, he says that he was waiting to be arrested, for the police to put an end to the killing. He admits to losing his temper. Refers to himself again as wicked. All things that also indicate guilt," the analyst confirmed.
"But he keeps blaming the cops," Brass returned, his voice tinged with anger.
Ronnie shrugged his beefy shoulders beneath the white lab coat. "Because while he might know intellectually that it's wrong, he doesn't really feel that it is emotionally, not the way a normal person would. And he's having fun with the game." He looked at the projected words for a moment. "In regards to intellect, your guy is bright. Above average in intelligence. Likely well-educated, but not necessarily. You can see that in the spelling, vocabulary and grammatical composition of the three letters.
"And we can see it in the handwriting itself, as well. Based on the limited number of lead-in strokes, the numeric formations, and the speed of the writing. Another thing you'll notice," he went on, "is the gaps between the words. This tells us that your killer does not mix well with others."
"I think that's a bit of an understatement," Brass bit out sarcastically.
Ronnie blushed, and Catherine beamed him a smile, to let him know that the detective's words were more a frustration with the case, than a reaction to the analyst himself. There was a soft rustling as the larger man removed the second letter and replaced it with the third.
Dear Officers of the LVPD,
A quartet now! I'm flattered. Are four heads really better than one? That remains to be seen. Speaking of remains, how do you like my most recent work?
This town is full of nobodies. I bet another has already taken her place. Still, you had a job to do. She was under your protection and once more you have f a i l e d.
I was waiting and waiting for you to come. To put an end to this. Before I had to put an end to her. How can you let the wicked go free?
She was wearing black panties and a green, silky nightgown. On the dresser in her bedroom there was a framed photograph of a young man, wearing a baseball shirt. She was looking at it, crying, when she died.
I await you.
"By the third letter, there is more tension in the writing. Handwriting is controlled by our brains, not our fingers. The brain sends the messages, and depending on our mood, those messages can deviate somewhat from one example of expression to another. There is a lot of barely controlled anger in this piece of writing. One thing that I note immediately, is the extreme right slant, especially on this word here."
Ronnie circled the printed word failed. "Together with the increased pressure of the pen on the page, we can draw the conclusion that there is increased anger, a cold fury, and that the writer is seeking flight from the past."
Brass looked at the other man skeptically. "You can get all of that, just from the guy's handwriting?" While much of what the scientist was saying made sense, and while the detective knew that handwriting analysis often showed to be eerily accurate following the apprehension of a suspect, there was a lot that really seemed to him to be reaching. The whole idea of confused sexuality and now the concept of flight from the past, for instance. How could they really determine that from someone's cursive scrawl? Was that really there, or were they projecting, based on some of the similarities that had been shown to surface time and again in particularly violent and predatory killers?
"Handwriting analysis is a science, Captain Brass, with years of research and cross-reference to back it up. All of the major law enforcement agencies in the nation rely on handwriting analysis as part of criminal profiling. It is, in fact, very strongly peer-reviewed and certified by forensic groups such as the American Society of Questioned Document Examiners." Ronnie bristled at the perceived offense.
"Hey, I'm not knocking it," Brass soothed, giving the other man an easy grin. "It's just kinda out of my realm."
"This final letter, Ronnie," Catherine spoke up, deftly turning the conversation again, "the one that Detective Martens received. Is that written by the same person as the first three?" She tilted her head in deference, giving him her most charming smile.
Ronnie relaxed as he returned the smile, reaching for the last letter. The one that Brass had memorized. The one that the detective anticipated receiving himself at any time, with only the name changed. Brass tensed, waiting to learn if the note from Denny's safe was a clever copy of the orginal Holiday Murder letters, or if it had indeed been written by the same person.
Dear Detective Martens,
Do you ever lay awake at night and think about the things you've done wrong? The mistakes you've made? Wishing you could go back and rectify them? Or do you lay in bed, sleeping the slumber of the perpetually oblivious?
To serve and protect. That's the creed. 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.
Do you sleep well, Detective? Or do you ever lay awake at night? Thinking. Remembering.
"Yes, it was," Ronnie was saying, and Brass exhaled deeply. "Let me bring up the original letters, side by side." He touched the keyboard of the computer to his left, and a split screen showed the three letters. I circled the areas that stand out as the most distinctive, and as you can see, they are identical in each one. The first letter, the D in the salutation, is crisp, thin, with no observable lead-in stroke."
Brass and Catherine gathered closer to the computer next to him.
"We find that again in the personal pronoun I. In each and every representation. Protect in the first letter, and protection in the third. Do you see the way the r abutts the p?" He paused while the detective and criminalist each nodded. "The words themselves, both exhibit those tremulous formations and low form levels that I mentioned before."
Ronnie moved away from the computer and to the large screen against the wall. With an erasable marker, he circled different points on the projected image of the letter that Denny Martens had received. "The paper used for the letters is different. In the first three, it's standard printer paper. In the fourth, it's parchment, more formal, but still common and unremarkable. It doesn't affect the quality of the writing or our ability to do a match though.
"There are points from the others that are exactly the same in this letter. The Ds in dear and detective. The word protect, again written in a way that indicates guilt and an awareness of wrongdoing. There are other consistencies. Taking the originals as exemplars, I can state with confidence that whoever wrote the first three letters, also wrote the last one."
So there it was. Brass' proof that the letter Denny had received had been written by someone involved with the Holiday Murders. If not the actual killer, then a partner. Brass had been mulling over one other theory. That perhaps Juneau, while still their killer, might not have written the taunting letters at all. Might not even have been aware of their existence. Maybe, as crazy and impossible as it might sound, it had been someone on the inside, someone on the force, who had composed the letters, attributing them to the killer. Who else, aside from the real killer or an accomplice, would have access to the details of the case? But why? What possible motive would another cop have for doing that? Professional jealousy? Or just the game of some sick, warped mind? If he hadn't known better, being the last of the four detectives still alive, Brass would have been his own prime suspect in such a scenario.
One last thing remained to be determined, Brass knew. When had the letter from Martens' safe been written? While every indication was that Denny had received it only recently, especially with confirmation from Annie that Takei had gotten an eerily similar letter just this past year, Brass needed more than assumptions.
"Can your analysis tell us if these were all composed at the same time, or how long ago this letter to Detective Martens was written?" Brass queried. He wasn't aware that he had balled his hands into fists at his side, or that the lines of his forehead had deepened, the muscles there knotting.
"If the ink used on all four was identical, then we could venture to conjecture that they had all been created within a specific, limited time frame. Visually, the ink on all four appears as the same colour, standard blue, and possibly from the same pen. I ran it through an infrared spectroscope, which gives each colour a different cipher. The first three all share the same source. The ink on the last letter came from a similar, but different source."
"The just means he could have used a different pen though, right?" Brass asked in frustration. "But still written them at the same time? Just misplaced the first pen, or run out of ink or something."
"That's true," Ronnie agreed amiably, not understanding how crucial all of this was to the detective.
Catherine could see how stressful this was for Jim, realizing how much might ride on the answers Ronnie was giving them this morning. She put a hand on Brass' arm, giving a comforting squeeze.
"When you first left me this letter, the one addressed to Detective Martens, and mentioned dating it, I sent it to the lab to see if there was some way they could date the ink," Ronnie was saying to Brass. "They couldn't, not with the kind of accuracy you were looking for. I also took the liberty of having them dust it for prints, and suction it for trace. There was nothing in the way of prints, except for those matched to Denny Martens, and the wife, which was to be expected. But I don't know yet if Trace found anything.
"Interestingly enough, though they couldn't date the ink, they did manage to find out something about the paper. When viewed under special illumination, in this case ultraviolet light, modern optical brighteners were detected in the paper. These particular brighteners have only begun to be added to papers in the last three years. They identified the brand of paper, from that and its lignin value...it's in the notes...but it's just a commonly used, mass-produced type, found in any Wal-Mart, Target, or Staples across the country. I faxed you over a...Captain, are you all right?" Ronnie asked with concern.
...only begun to be added to papers in the last three years... This was the corroboration that Brass had been seeking. It didn't really matter if he could prove that the letter from Martens' safe had been written in the month or so before the detective's fatal hit-and-run. They had substantiated that it had been written after Todd Juneau's death. At least six years after the last of the Holiday Murders had occured. By the same person that had written the original letters. Jim had his proof that someone had resurrected the spectre of the old case. A case that he had thought...that all four of them had thought...to be solved, and which he had put behind him.
Validation. Jim had followed his hunch and hit one out of the ballpark. There should be satisfaction in that, but all that he felt was a tightness in his chest, and hot bile in the back of his throat.
Catherine could see how pale Brass had become, saw the perspiration that dotted his upper lip, and the dazed look in his dark eyes. "Jim, you okay?" she echoed Ronnie's worried query, clutching his arm. She understood what the findings meant.
"Yeah, yeah...sure...fine," Brass assured her. "Great work there, Ronnie," he complimented, extending a hand and giving the other man a lopsided grin. "I owe you one."
Brass then stared at the words on the screen. "He doesn't write 'I await you', this time," the detective observed somberly. "He's not playing the waiting game any more. He's not expecting Denny to come to him. He's on the offensive now."
And I'm one step closer. You're not so clever you son-of-a-bitch. I'll get to you before you get to me. You can count on it, Jim vowed silently to himself.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
"Jim, come in," Amy Martens invited warmly. "It's good to see you."
"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Brass asked, stepping into the cozy foyer of the Martens home.
"Not at all. Can I get you something? Cup of tea?" She smiled at him, calm on the surface, though her heart pumped a wild beat. The detective looked weary, older somehow than he had appeared in his office the other day. His eyes were bloodshot, the flesh around them puffy. He was here because of Denny. Because of that letter. She just knew it. And something was terribly wrong.
"Thanks, no, I'm good," Brass replied.
At that moment a small brown form scampered around the corner from the kitchen, and skidded down the front hall, amidst an excited yapping, coming to a halt as it slid into Jim's shoe. Smiling, the detective bent down to pet the chocolate lab puppy. "Hey there, fella," he said softly. The pup whimpered with excitement, licking his hand, its small tongue pink and warm against his skin. Its tail thumped the wood floor.
"That's Hershey," Amy laughed, her apprehension temporarily suspended. "We just got him last week. We foster pups as service dogs, I don't know if you knew that. They come to live with us for a year, and we do basic obedience training and socializing. It was something that was very important to Denny. It's always so hard though, when we have to say good bye to them at the end of that time. When they go off to really begin their training. I think it's hardest on Christian though, he gets so attached to them.
"I brought it up to Denny one time, whether or not it was fair. But he believed that it was important for Chris to learn to put the needs of others before his own sometimes. To appreciate how much he had and how fortunate he was, compared to some others. He wanted to teach our son to follow the teachings of our Lord. To really live them." There was a wistfulness in her voice, a quiet pride as she spoke of her late husband. "We have an album, pictures of the dogs they send to us, after they've finished their training and are placed with their new owners. Some of them go on to be guide dogs for the visually impaired. A couple of them turned out not to be cut out for service work after all, and went on to be adopted as pets.
"The most recent dog we had, a Golden, her name was Mindy. Christian and I said good bye to her just a couple of weeks ago. She's gone to a place outside of Reno, where they train dogs to be companions for autistic children. I know she'll be perfect for that. I had such a hard time letting her go. Mindy will be the last dog that Denny got to work with." She paused, and Brass knew that if he looked up, he would see tears in her eyes. "He was the one with the special touch with animals," Amy admitted. "When they said they had another pup for us, I wasn't sure at first that Chris and I could do it on our own. I almost said no. Then I prayed about it, and the answer came. Not only could we still do this, but Denny would want us to. I think he's taught Chris enough at this point, that his son can carry on for him."
Brass felt a familiar sense of inferiority, that he had sometimes used to feel around Denny Martens, back when they had worked together. An understanding that while he himself was a decent enough person, one who did his best to impact with as little negativity on the lives of others as possible, that there were just some people who did so much more. Who found that little bit extra to give. People who made a difference.
It wasn't that Denny Martens had been pompous or a braggart either, far from it. He rarely made mention of the generous or selfless things he did, never seeking recognition or praise for them. There had been, in fact, a humbleness in Denny, a quiet humility that made people search their own souls honestly. And every now and then back in those days, there had been a moment, like this, when Brass would admire the other man, while at the same time understanding uncomfortably that if they were to appear at the Pearly Gates on the same date and time, Denny would be wearing a halo of the purest gold, while his own would be battered and tarnished. They were just such genuinely good people, the Martens. Brass felt bitter at the unfairness that someone like Denny had been taken that way.
The detective scratched that special spot behind the pup's ears, and Hershey closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the ecstasy. "Is Chris here?" Brass asked casually.
"No, he's at school," Amy replied. He looked up at her with surpise. "Summer school. He's working on earning extra credits." Her green eyes regarded him frankly. "This isn't just a social call, is it Captain?" she asked softly. "You've learned something." Brass nodded. "Let's go sit down."
She led him into the livingroom, seating herself on an upholstered chair, while giving him the larger loveseat. It was a stylish room, decorated in creams and burgundies, but there was a warmth in the many personal touches, such as plants and florals and family photographs.
"You found something out about that letter," Amy stated. "It does mean something, doesn't it?"
Now that he was here, Jim found this much harder than he had rehearsed. "I don't think the hit-and-run was an accident." As much as she might have been expecting that, Amy Martens still looked stunned. "I think Denny was murdered."
"Who? Why?" she asked hoarsely. There were tears in her emerald eyes.
"I don't have the answers to that yet," Jim admitted. "But we've re-opened an investigation."
"Please," she implored, "I swear to you that nothing you say will leave this room. I won't speak to you of this again, until when and if you have something more that you want to tell me. But please, I have to know how you've reached that conclusion. Why you think Denny's death was deliberate."
He hadn't planned to give her any of the details. Not in an active case. But looking at Denny's widow now, hearing the plea in her soft voice, seeing the determination on her lovely features, Brass felt compelled to give her something more. Protocol or not. If it hadn't been for Amy Martens, they wouldn't even have a case. If she had simply thrown away that letter she had found, or if she had taken it to the other station, to the cops there, it would have been set aside and forgotten. It wouldn't have meant anything to any of them.
And then Brass would still have nothing but suspicions about the coincidence of Denny's and Elliott's deaths. He very likely would not have learned about Takei. And he would not have any idea that in all likelihood he was being targeted as the killer's next victim. He would not be able to take the steps that he could now, to safeguard his own life, while searching for the truth about what had really happened. Not just to the three detectives, but nine years ago as well. He would not have recognized a potential threat to Cecilia and been able to pre-empt the danger that their relationship might have put her in. For that alone, he owed Amy Martens so much. And he believed he could trust her not to compromise the case in any way.
"I don't know how much Denny would share with you about cases he was working," Brass began. He knew that some guys kept work and home life totally separated. Never discussing details of cases in progress, and only giving very rudimentary information about those solved or shelved. Other guys liked to pillow talk, they needed to share with their wives, and to talk through their stresses, frustrations and worries.
"It would depend," she replied. "Sometimes very little, sometimes just enough so that I could understand."
"Did he ever talk about the Holiday Murders?" He watched her brow furrow as she searched her memory. "It was nine years ago. Three women, sexually assaulted and murdered." He gave her a brief run down on the case.
"Yes, of course," she told him. "I remember now. Denny's partner Joe shot the killer. He was trying to escape arrest, and brandishing a toy gun."
Brass nodded. "After each of those murders, letters arrived at the precinct. Supposedly from the killer. Taunting police. They contained information that only those working the case, or the killer himself, could know. The letter that Denny had in his safe, it was written by the same guy."
Amy Martens frowned. "He kept it all this time? Why would Denny do that? Why not enter it into evidence? And why do you think a letter written nine years ago has something to do with Denny's death?" Clearly she was puzzled.
"The letter Denny got wasn't written nine years ago," Brass replied. He forged ahead. "It was written within the last three years. Six years after Joe Takei killed Todd Juneau."
She blanched. "Juneau had a partner? You think he murdered Denny...as an act of revenge?"
"I don't know that for sure. But I think that whoever wrote those original letters, and also the one to Denny, killed him. And not just Denny, but other detectives on the case, Elliot Keeth and Joe Takei as well." Brass waited for her to absorb that information.
"Oh my...I...I can't believe it. All three are dead? Hit-and-run?" Amy looked as though she was going to be sick.
Brass shook his head. "They all died different ways. But all appeared to be accidents. Takei by accidental strangulation, Keeth in a fire originally thought to have been caused by careless smoking. I can't verify it for Keeth, but Takei got a letter just like the one Denny did, a month before his death. That letter is long gone. But I believe Denny received his letter shortly before the hit-and-run."
"Why didn't he say anything to me?" she wondered. "Why didn't he say anything to the police?"
"The Holiday Murders were a long time ago," Brass told her. "And it was a solved case. Denny would have forgotten about a lot of it. A lot of the details. As intensive as things are at the time, when it's over you have to move on, put it behind you. I don't think Denny connected the letter with the old case. It didn't make any mention of it. It was very vague. But I think that subconsciously, Denny knew there was something familiar about it...so he set it aside. It wasn't enough to alarm him, just enough to get him thinking. If there'd been more time...if he'd known there was something to worry about...he probably would have made the connection eventually."
Amy Martens bowed her head and stared down at her clasped hands. "This changes everything." She looked up. "Thank you, for figuring it out. And thank you for telling me."
"If you hadn't brought me the letter," Brass admitted, "we'd still be in the dark. As it is, we're just starting the investigation. Back at square one."
"When Denny was working that case, I remember that you came here a time or two, with Joe and Elliott. The four of you were working it together." Brass neither admitted nor denied it. "Now the three of them are gone." She looked at him intently. "I'll be praying for you, Jim."
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
Coopers was at the height of its midday rush, and waiters and waitresses bustled around the restaurant, delivering hot orders and cleaning away the detritus of completed meals. Sheriff Brian Mobley bit into the spicy chicken wing, enjoying the burning sensation that skated around his tastebuds. Across from him, Conrad Ecklie set down his burger and took another forkful of fries.
"I've got a couple of tickets for Cirque tomorrow night," Mobley mentioned, wiping his sticky fingers on a paper napkin. "Great seats. I thought I'd see if Cecilia Laval would like to join me. We were going to hook up for a cruise on the mayor's yacht not too long ago, but she was sick," he told the other man with regret. "Their latest extravaganza is the talk of the town, and tickets are hard to come by," the sheriff boasted. "Have you and the wife seen it yet?" He looked expectantly at the CSI supervisor.
Ecklie shook his head to indicate they had not. Then he chuckled, regarding the other man with a barely concealed smirk.
"Something funny?" Mobley asked coolly.
"I guess you haven't heard," Ecklie said pityingly. "The writer is Jim Brass' squeeze these days." He tried to force his lips together, to fight back the smile. As amusing as he found the situation, it wouldn't pay to take too obvious a glee in the sheriff's discomfiture. He couldn't keep his dark eyes from shining with mirth, however. "Pretty much joined at the hip, from what I understand."
Mobley coloured pink, right up to his scalp. Brass knew he was interested in the writer. He had made that clear the night he'd stopped off at the precinct to look for Cecilia Laval's number. Prior to that, Mobley had established a rapport with the pretty novelist at the Kellerman's dinner party. Brass had been there, he must have noticed that. Brian had been busy of late, he hadn't been able to devote as much time to getting to know Cecilia as he might have liked. But he had staked out his territory and the lower-ranking Brass had ignored the boundaries.
The sheriff was furious. He hated to be embarassed and to look the fool. Especially in front of someone who worked for him. He gritted his teeth at the mocking laughter he saw in Ecklie's eyes. "I wouldn't be so smug if I was you, Conrad," Mobley hissed hotly. "Brass has been horning in on your territory too. He's re-opened Denny Martens' hit-and-run, as part of a larger and potentially high-profile, headline grabbing case. A career case.
"Seems three detectives who all used to be LVPD have died under questionable circumstances recently. And Brass has by-passed you altogether, even though you pulled the initial hit-and-run. He's working the case with Grissom." The sheriff was rewarded by the slack-jawed expression on the criminalist's face, and the narrowed glittering of his dark eyes. "So laugh all you want, but I'm not the only one cuckolded by our good detective." Mobley smiled icily and raised his glass of cola in a cheer.