Thank you for continuing to read and renew. And again, how nice to see new 'faces', to join those who have been such faithful and encouraging readers. All of the kind words and support add to the fun of writing this story, which I am so pleased to be able to share. Cathy
Chapter 36
After the interview with Barry Foss, and the elimination of him as the writer of the Holiday Murder letters and the note to Denny Martens, Catherine and Cecilia had returned to the lab, where Grissom waited, continuing to peruse the old files. One look at Catherine's tight-lipped frown and Gil had known that Foss had been another dead end. Briefly, Catherine had explained that Ronnie had determined Foss's handwriting was not in any way a match to their mysterious letter writer's. And she informed Grissom that Brass had believed Foss' version of what had happened, and the explanation for his involvement with Juneau.
Cecilia had not had a chance to speak with Jim at the station. He had left the interrogation room before she could navigate the hall around to the other side. She had looked for him in his office, but found it dark, the door locked. Even if she couldn't offer him the kind of comfort she longed to give, and even if their relationship had changed now, Cecilia had still hoped to be able to commiserate with the detective. She didn't believe that Jim bore her any animosity or that there was any reason they couldn't still talk civilly, even if their romance had broken down. She had hoped to share their mutual disappointment and to offer some kind of hope or encouragement. But he was gone. Perhaps he had left for home and some much needed sleep.
Back at the lab, Cecilia had offered to make a pot of coffee, while Catherine had joined Grissom in attacking the boxes of files connected with the Juneau case, with a renewed determination. Catherine had said little on the return, though her frustration had been apparent in the speed with which she drove, the way she cut in and out of traffic, and the heavy hand she had finally laid on the horn when the car in front of her was not quick enough to turn on the advance green. The case was weighing heavily on everyone, Cecilia knew, because it was so personal.
Cecilia returned with styrofoam cups of coffee, wordlessly setting one on the desk next to Grissom's elbow, before handing another to Catherine who offered the pretense of a smile in gratitude. Cecilia felt helpless, no longer content to just observe the CSIs doing their jobs, but wanting desperately to do something to help. But because her status there was unofficial, she couldn't go near anything that was evidence. And though she would sometimes pick up one of the reports, they were often written in a way that there was too much that she didn't understand. There were abbreviations, numerical codes and lingo that were still not clear to the writer, despite how much she had picked up in the time she had been in Vegas. And no one had the time now to explain things to her. So Cecilia would do what she could to assist, running errands, helping to search for files, bringing the hot brew whose caffeine helped to fuel the investigators.
"Catherine," Grissom questioned lightly as he read one of the old forensics reports, "what was Todd Juneau's blood type?" He raised his silvered head, and the blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were more intense than the ease of his tone might have suggested.
"I don't recall, off hand," Catherine admitted, looking at the supervisor speculatively. "Let me check the autopsy report." She set down the file that she had been reviewing, and reached across the table for one of the square, corrugated cardboard boxes that lined it. Lifting the lid, she pulled out a handful of reports. "What have you got?" she asked curiously, head bent, strawberry blonde hair falling over her right shoulder, while her fingers danced over the corners of the sheaf of papers.
"This is one of the reports from the Marchison murder." Beth Marchison was the forty-two year old, divorced cocktail waitress who had been found dead at her home by a friend and co-worker, the day after Thanksgiving. She had been the last of the serial killer's three victims. Grissom shuffled aside photographs of the woman's battered face, and naked body. "Ecklie collected scrapings from under the victim's fingernails. Epithelials that were possibly transfered during a struggle."
Catherine knew that nine years previously, they had not had the technology to extract DNA from such a minute sample. But they would have been able to type the blood. Her heart quickened as her eyes skimmed the files, finally resting on the one she sought. Catherine glanced at the box on the autopsy report that indicated the decedent's blood type. "Juneau was A positive," she announced.
There was an expectant pause in the room, a silence that stretched already taut nerves almost beyond their capacity. "That's what I thought. Which is interesting," Grissom said quietly. "Because whoever's epithelials ended up underneath Beth Marchison's fingernails, was an O positive blood type."
Cecilia's dark eyes darted back and forth between the two criminalists.
Catherine stared at him. Her mouth felt dry. "Okay, I'm not doubting the coroner. If there was a mistake made...if...then my money would be on Ecklie. Maybe it was just a typo. Maybe it was lab error." Maybe. Except in all of her years, she had never actually witnessed such a crucial mistake. And even though she had little respect for Conrad Ecklie personally, Catherine believed that he was competent at his job. She couldn't imagine that he could ever be that sloppy. Still...a high pressure case. An overworked CSI. No one was infallible.
"We need to get that sample out of evidence storage, and test it again," Grissom told her. "Because if there is a discrepancy..."
"...then we have our physical proof that Juneau might not have killed the three women, or at least not Marchison," Catherine finished.
"And we have our first concrete lead to whoever might have killed Martens, Keeth and Takei," Grissom stated.
And to whoever might be coming after Jim Brass next, Cecilia thought with a flare of hope.
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When Jim returned home, and found the crisp, cream-coloured envelope addressed to Detective James Brass, he was surprised to find that its arrival was almost anti-climactic. He extracted it from his box, using a tissue to hold it to preserve as much trace as there might still be. As he stood in the lobby, he swivelled his head to look out at the darkness of night beyond. Wondering if perhaps whoever was stalking him now, might be out there. Watching. Enjoying the game. Strangely, Brass felt no fear, only a simmering anger.
Upstairs in the apartment, despite knowing that he should wait to open the letter at the lab...that it was evidence now more than personal correspondence...Jim took a pewter letter opener from a catch all basket on the fridge and slit the envelope. There was no return address. A Las Vegas postmark cancelled the stamp, which was just common variety first class letter postage. Even if it hadn't been for the fact that his personal mail was never addressed to Detective Brass, Jim would have recognized the looping swirls of the now familiar handwriting. Icicle writing.
Donning a pair of latex gloves, Jim extracted the letter. He read it with curious detachment.
Dear Detective Brass,
How are you sleeping these nights, Detective? Does your conscience plague you? Are you bothered in the least by your own ineptitude? Or do you fall into bed and forget the world around you, so narcissistically wrapped up in your own feelings of moral and professional superiority?
To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. You demonize the innocent, and allow the wicked to go free. While others pay the price for your failure. In the end, Detective, we all have to pay a price for our mistakes. Our sins. Have you recognized yours yet?
Do you sleep well, Detective? Or are your dreams ever haunted with the repercussions of crossroads where you chose the wrong path?
There was nothing on the surface that Jim could glean from the letter, no new evidence, nothing to point him in the direction of the killer. It was as vague as the letter Denny Martens had received, though slightly more ominous and threatening. Only now, forearmed unlike the unfortunate Denny, Elliott and Joe before him, Jim knew what it meant. It was the killer's calling card. It meant that he was coming. For Jim this time.
Taking a glass out of the cupboard, and carrying the letter into his office, Jim set both on his desk, before unlocking the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and extracting the bottle of whiskey. Knowing there had been no way for anyone to tamper with it, he poured a generous measure of the liquor. Taking a seat in the high-backed, leather office chair, and holding the glass of whiskey in his right hand, the detective picked up the letter in his still gloved left, and read it again.
He supposed he should probably take it to the lab right now. But, Jim reasoned sullenly, he was just too damned tired. He didn't believe there was anything they could get from the letter that couldn't wait a few hours until he'd had a chance to shower, and at least lay down and close his eyes for a while. And maybe the killer waited for him in the lightless void, expecting him to do just that, expecting him to rush the note back to the forensics lab. Ready in the underground parking to orchestrate a death made to look like a late night mugging gone bad. And one of Jim's neighbour's would find him in the morning, crumpled on the ground next to the sedan, his throat slit, or his guts pooled around a crimson tear in his otherwise clean, white shirt, his wallet missing.
Unless he was here already, crouching in one of Jim's closets, hatching up a nefarious scheme to deprive the detective of his earthly existence, between now and the first pale fingers of dawn...the killer would just have to wait.
Jim tossed the letter on his desk. "Who are you, you son-of-a-bitch?" he whispered.
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"Well at least it's been in cold storage," Catherine remarked gratefully to Cecilia, while she carried the evidence vial into the DNA lab. "Sometimes with old evidence, especially in a solved case, there isn't as much attention to detail as there could be." Catherine called to Greg Sanders who sat across the room, his head bent over a microscope. "Hey handsome!"
Greg failed to look up, and Cecilia noticed that he was wearing a minature set of earphones, his spiked head bopping in time to a tune that only he could hear. Catherine rolled her eyes and shook her head and Cecilia was surprised to find herself actually chuckling. It was amazing really, the resiliency of the human spirit. In spite of the severity of the task that had brought them here, in spite of the fact that her heart was inexorably broken over the break up with Jim, Cecilia realized that a part of her could still function on another level, able to react with some normalacy to the world.
When Catherine tapped the shoulder of his blue lab coat, Greg whirled, his surprise spreading to a wide grin when he saw who his visitors were. Pulling the earphones down around his neck, where a strange cacophony continued to stream out, Greg nodded his welcome. "Hello lovely ladies," he said cheerily.
Cecilia had come to really like the young scientist. Greg Sanders was always upbeat, seemed always to be in a good mood; genial and personable. He had his own distinct style, for which he was engagingly unapologetic. Behind the streaked hair and bold clothes, was a sharp mind and an inquisitive, caring soul, Cecilia had found.
"I need you to do something for me. Please," Catherine asked ingratiatingly, holding out the clear baggie that contained the vial.
"You know, no one ever comes to see me unless they want something," Greg pouted, switching off the MP3 player. "I feel so used."
"Aw, Greggo, it's not like that," Catherine protested with a wry grin.
"I'd love to help you," Greg said seriously, "but it'll be a while. There's a backlog from dayshift, and they've got this case that goes to prelim in two days." He shrugged helplessly. "Maybe tomorrow."
Catherine felt her frustration rise. "That's not good enough," she bit out in exasperation. "Really, I know what you're working on is important. Maybe there's something I can do to help out, something I can do for you that's just grunt work, so you can just do this one little thing..."
"I dunno," Greg said with reservation.
"This is really, really important," Catherine insisted.
Greg observed the sheen in her blue eyes. They almost look like tears, he mused to himself. "Is this for that hush-hush case you and Grissom are working?" he wanted to know, spreading his hands and wiggling his fingers in conjunction with the words hush-hush. Catherine frowned her irritation. "Nick and Warrick said you guys are working something that seems to be some big secret," he explained with a shrug.
"It's not a secret," Catherine sighed. "Just...delicate." Greg looked at her expectantly. "It's the ghost of an old case, and it's connected to three recent murders," she allowed. "Cops."
Greg was taken aback. "Wow. I never heard anything about that."
"It's out of the papers for now, and we're trying to keep it low key," Catherine explained. "We're racing the clock though. Before...before another cop's life might be in danger."
Cecilia's earlier good humour dissipated and she paled. She knew how much rested on whatever Greg might determine from the scrapings that had come from Beth Marchison's nails almost a decade ago. Perhaps a clue left behind by a malevolent killer.
"I just need you to type this," Catherine cajoled. "See if there's enough in these epithelials for DNA extraction. Anything you get, I'll run myself. I promise." Her voice was tight with controlled emotion.
Greg sighed. "Okay," he relented. "Sit down and I'll tell you how to finish up this sample under the scope, while I see what you've got here."
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The phone rang several times before a groggy voice answered. "Hello?"
"Yeah, Nancy, it's Jim," he said uneasily.
There was a long pause followed by a hissed expletive. "Christ, Jim, it's five a.m. What the hell do you want?" she asked perturbed, her voice heavy with sleep. Then, more clearly, an edge in her tone. "Is it Ellie? Is something wrong?"
"No, it's not Ellie. I mean, there's nothing wrong. Not that I know of. I was wondering...do you have a number for her? An address or anything?" He tried to keep his voice level. As always, just hearing his ex-wife's voice was enough to catapult him back to those years of raw pain and misery. He hadn't really considered what time it was, when he'd called directory assistance and gotten Nancy's number. It was after two in Vegas, sunrise soon on the east coast. He'd woken her, of course, he should have waited to make the call. But time wasn't something he had on his side right now, and since she was already up, he might as well forge ahead.
"Are you kidding me?" she asked querulously. "Are you drunk?"
"No," Jim replied with a sigh. He'd had a couple of glasses of the whiskey, but he was far from drunk. He wasn't even really feeling the effects of the alcohol, it seemed to burn off as fast as he consumed it, his metabolism on overdrive. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was so late, and I forgot about the time difference."
"Imagine that, you being so wrapped up in yourself and what you want, that you don't give a damn about anyone else or spare a second thought to its effect on them." The bitter sarcasm travelled the miles.
"Look, I can call back later and we can swap happy stories then," Jim interjected stonily, "or we can get this over with now and you can go back to bed." Nancy had always been one of those people who drifted off to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow anyhow, he reasoned. The interruption might be unwelcomed, but he knew the minute she hung up the phone, she'd be back in blissful dreamland.
There was another pause, and for a moment Jim thought she had hung up on him. "I don't know how to get in touch with Ellie," she admitted at last. "Last time I spoke to her was over a month ago. She was heading west with some new guy she'd hooked up with." Jim heard the maternal worry in her voice. Whatever else Nancy was or wasn't, she had always been a good mother to Ellie, despite how difficult the girl had made that at times.
"Okay. I'm sorry I woke you," Jim offered a tired apology.
"Is there some reason you need to reach her?" Nancy asked, more alert now, and most of the initial reactionary anger faded. "It's not your mom or anything?"
Nancy knew Ellie's paternal grandmother's health was delicate and had been for years. Her concern sounded genuine, and Jim felt himself soften. Nancy wasn't always a Class A Bitch. They just hadn't been good for one another. And there was a lot of hurt on both sides. "Naw, nothing like that," he said softly.
"If I hear from her, I'll tell her you called for her," Nancy conceded.
"Thanks," Jim said. "And really, sorry I called so early." They hung up without the formality of farewells.
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"This is definitely type O positive," Greg said, completing the test. "Is that good news or bad news?"
"Good. I think," Catherine replied.
"I can get DNA, but it's going to take some time," the young man cautioned. "There's nothing more you can do here. If Grissom is willing to authorize some overtime, I can probably have it for you midday tomorrow. Today. However you want to look at it."
Catherine buzzed Gil in his office, explained what she needed, then handed the phone to Greg.
"Yes, Sir, you got it," Greg spoke. He hung up and passed the phone back to Catherine. "Are you going home after shift, or are you going to be here still?" he queried.
"Probably here," Catherine responded. "Lindsey is away at summer camp for two weeks, so I've got some flexibility. Just page me when you have something. And Greg, I really do appreciate this, more than you can know." Her voice was deep with a quiet sincerity.
"Aw, shucks," he said, hanging his head and giving her a wink. "Just don't forget, Cecilia still owes me dinner and dancing from the last favour I did for you," he quipped. "Or was it drinks and dancing?"
"I know a nice place where there's an intimate dance floor and a piano player who has a fondness for Neil Diamond," Cecilia smiled at him.
Greg shuddered, appalled. "Neil Diamond! That's the thanks I get!" He shook his head and looked at Cecilia reproachfully. "You ladies are always taking advantage of me." He gave a long suffering sigh. "Out of my lab!"
"Page me," Catherine repeated seriously. "The minute you have anything. Thanks, Greg."
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At first, he had begun to compose the letter on his laptop, but then Jim decided that that was too impersonal. So he'd gone the old-fashioned route. Laid out a sheet of paper and picked up a pen. It was even more difficult than he had anticipated. He wasn't much of a writer, words weren't his forte, and he wasn't sure how to communicate everything that he wanted to say.
He finally decided to just put down the words the way he would speak them, if she was here with him now. The daughter of his heart. His Ellie. Angry. Rebellious. Beautiful. She had so much to offer, yet so little confidence in herself. And Jim knew, at heart, that a lot of that was his fault. He couldn't change the past. He couldn't erase the mistakes. But maybe he could explain. And at the very least, he could tell her how much he loved her. His face contorted with pain and self-recrimination, as Jim tried to remember the last time he had said those words to her. It had been far too long.
When he was done, he reread it critically. Eventually, it had grown to three pages long. It wouldn't earn him any marks for composition, but Jim thought that he had pretty much covered what he wanted to say. It had drained Jim, having to relieve the past. Having to own up to his own failures, and to ask forgiveness. He hadn't said anything about Mike O'Toole. It was irrelevant, he had decided, to his relationship with his daughter. This was about he and Ellie.
He found an envelope and slipped the folded sheets inside. Licking the edges, he sealed it, before writing her name on the outside. Ellie Rebecca Brass. He opened the top drawer of the desk, and set it over the scattering of paper clips, pencils, and other paraphernalia. If anything was to happen to him...someone would find the letter. They would see that Ellie got it. Not that he was throwing in the towel, it was just insurance. Something he should have done long ago. And once this was over...if Jim triumphed in the end...when he did...then he would find his daughter and give her the letter in person. And finally, they could begin to resolve all of those issues from their past.
There was another letter to write. This one just as difficult, only for different reasons. What words could he use to properly impart to her the depth and magnitude of his feelings? How could he explain why he had to turn her away, to protect her? How could a spattering of cursive letters possibly let her know how Jim felt when he had held her in his arms, and for the first time in his life he had felt at peace? What words could define the beauty of the soul that shone in her dark velvet eyes? There was an ache in him now, an emptiness that only Cecilia could ever fill. How could he put the words together so that they didn't sound phoney or cliched? He was doubly conscious of the fact that words were her strength.
At last, once more, Jim just wrote from his heart, setting the words down as he would speak them. Somewhere in there, surely, she would see how very much he loved her. And she would know the value of all that she had brought to his life. When he finished it, Jim held it for a moment in his hands. If something happened to him...when they found the letter and gave it to Cecilia...what would it really bring her? Having made peace with their separation, to learn after his death that more than anything Jim had wanted to be with her, had loved her, would that bring her any closure? Or would it only cause renewed sorrow and perhaps a heightened sense of loss, if indeed she still had feelings for him? Wouldn't it be better for her, to just continue to believe that he had been nothing more than a selfish, self-centred jerk, and to go on with her life? While what had happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas.
Finally, he reached across the deak, slid the letter through the slot, and flicked a button. The shredder roared to life, clawing and tearing the carefully chosen words into tiny, unreadable strips. Until finally, Jim's heart was reduced to a pile of recyclable refuse. His love for Cecilia a secret that might well go with him to his grave.