Brass couldn't help but smile when she opened the door while the echo of his knock was still reverberating in the halls. He imagined that she had heard the elevator as it had rumbled up to the floor, and that she had been aware of the heavy thud of the doors as they had slid open, allowing him to disembark. He could picture her, with her eye pressed to the peephole, satisfying her curiosity. Surprised when he continued down the carpeted hall to her own door.
"Yes?" the warbly voice inquired, as one eye and a halo of silver hair evidenced behind the partially opened door.
"Good day, Ma'am," Brass smiled congenially. "I don't know if you remember me. A friend and I stopped by Mr. Keeth's apartment on the day of his funeral. We had the pleasure of speaking with you briefly then. I'm Detective Jim Brass."
"Well of course I remember," Gladys said somewhat indignantly. "I've got all my faculties you know!" Jim nodded his affirmation of the statement. "You were with that lovely blonde woman." He was pleased that she had identified Catherine. So far everything boded well. "They're done fixing up the apartment now, you know. There's a new couple moving in there next week."
Brass had noticed that the caution tape had been removed from the door, the door itself replaced. There was still a faint, acrid smell in the hall, where smoke had settled deep into the carpet fibres. "I was wondering if you might have time to maybe answer a few questions for me," the detective said casually, "in regards to an open investigation. It's about the burglary that occured at Mr. Keeth's a few weeks before he died."
The elderly woman regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then she closed the door, and Brass heard the sound of the security chain being slipped off. A moment later she opened the door wide. Gladys stood there similarly attired to the way he had first seen her. A shapeless, faded floral house dress, and a thin, cotton housecoat. "Come on in," she welcomed, her head tilted curiously.
The apartment was an eclectic mix of clutter that spanned the last century. Everywhere the eye travelled, there was something to take in. It took him a moment to discern the colour of the walls...mint green...since it at first appeared that every available inch of space was occupied. There were family photographs going back several generations, from dour-faced men and women in stiff-collared formal clothes, to the laughing modern day portraits of what Brass assumed were Gladys' grandchildren. They jockeyed for position among needlework samplers, oil paintings and Walmart prints.
The furniture was a mix of antiques and Ikea specials. Knick knacks spilled from those spots on the walls where shelves had managed to elbow in, and graced every available bit of table space. There were crocheted throws everywhere, and next to a gliding rocker there was a large basket of different sized needles, and balls of coloured yarn.
Everything was clean and well cared for though, there was a pleasant scent of pine cleaner, and none of the proverbial 'dust collectors' were actually the repository of any dust. Despite the initial claustrophobic feel to the room there was a certain charm, and Brass could sense the love and personality with which the older woman had infused her surroundings.
"You have some lovely things," Jim told her honestly.
"Thank you." She smiled at the compliment. "Would you like some tea? I have some Earl Grey, my sister-in-law sends me from England."
"No, thank you," Brass declined. "I just had a couple of questions about the break-and-enter that occured at Mr. Keeth's apartment. I recall that you mentioned that there hadn't been any other units in the building that were burgled. I was wondering if...perhaps...you might have seen the person who broke into Mr. Keeth's place?"
"Why would I have seen anyone?" Gladys asked evasively. "It's not like I'm some busybody can't mind her own business, who doesn't have enough of her own to do."
"No, of course not," Jim reassured her. "I just thought...being so close... maybe there was an off-chance that you got a glimpse of someone." He waited until she sat down on the rocker, then sat on a chintz covered loveseat across from her.
"Well, I had no way of knowing that he wasn't a friend of Mr. Keeth's," Gladys began defensively, "or I would have called the police. Most definitely I would have. He walked right in, so naturally I thought Mr. Keeth had let him in, or that he had a key or something. I mean, he wasn't smashing the door in or anything." The elderly woman hugged her arms around herself.
Brass tried not to let his excitement show. Gladys had seen the intruder. Only she hadn't realized what was occuring, and hadn't phoned the cops, and she was worried that someone might think she had done something wrong.
"I can understand that," the detective nodded. "These guys...pros...can be in and out in a few minutes before anyone realizes what's really up." He waited until she had visibly relaxed. "So this guy you saw. Did you happen to notice what he looked like?" Brass could hear the strain in his voice, and wondered if she would notice it. There was potentially so much riding on her response.
"He didn't look like a criminal or anything," Gladys began. "Not tough looking or dangerous or anything. And he was wearing regular clothes, not dressed all dark or with one of those ski masks or anything. He was a smallish man. Short. And quite thin, really."
"How short?" Brass probed. "Shorter than me?"
"Yes, somewhat," she said with assurance. "About as tall as the blonde woman you were with."
Catherine was five six, Brass knew, and had been wearing a low heel the day of Elliott's memorial service. "How old would you say this man was?"
She frowned. "Hard to say really. I mean...he looked kind of...worn...but not particularly old." She sighed and shook her head. "I don't know how to put it. He didn't look like an older man. He had a full head of hair. Dark and thick looking. A young man's hair. But his face was very thin, and kind of pale. Sort of like he was ill, or was getting over an illness. Do you know what I mean?"
Brass could hear Gil's voice on his inner ear. "There were traces of an anti-viral drug, didanosine, on the letter. It's prescribed to HIV patients." Doc Robbins had said that one of the side effects of the precription medication Videx might be weight loss. And someone with advanced HIV might also be similarly underweight. "Yeah, I think I do," he replied to the older woman. "Could you identify him if you saw him again?" Jim asked.
"I sure could, nothing wrong with these eyes!" Gladys replied, the dark depths sparkling.
The detective thought for a moment. "Do you know what a police composite artist does?" he asked her. "Someone who asks a witness questions about a suspect, and then recreates a drawing of them?"
"Well sure I do," Gladys told him.
"Did you get a good enough look at him that you think that maybe...with the help of that kind of artist...if you described the man, it would be possible to put together a drawing of the suspect?" Brass could feel the blood rushing through his veins. Could Gladys be the witness they needed who would give them their first glimpse of their suspect?
She looked nervous. "Oh dear. I can see him, but I don't know if I could tell that well enough to someone else."
"I know, it's hard to imagine how they could do it, but those artists are pretty amazing at asking the right questions, and putting a composite together," the detective told her. "Would you be willing to try at least?"
Gladys nodded. "I don't understand though. At the time of the burglary, no one even came to ask any questions. It didn't seem that important to anyone. Did someone just realize he stole something really valuable?"
"Ma'am, what this guy took is priceless," Jim replied somberly.
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"Do you recognize these women?" O'Reilly slid the three morgue headshots across the table towards Abe Harrison. Special Agent Arthur Fontaine sat quietly in the seat next to him, letting the detective take the lead.
The teller blanched. "Sure. Marilyn Hegel. And the two other women who were murdered. I don't remember their names."
"Jada Miller. Beth Marchison. Ringing any bells?" the detective asked, leaning forward on his beefy forearms.
"Yeah, I remember now," Harrison said. He shook his head. "Heck, that was five years ago, or so."
Almost nine, actually, O'Reilly thought. He was still stunned by all that he had learned today. Sheriff Mobley had called him into his office and told him everything that Brass had uncovered so far. O'Reilly had listened without a word, trying to absord everything. He had been heartsick to learn of the murders of the three detectives. Shocked to learn that Jim Brass was apparently the next intended target of some maniac who had been killing for the last decade. Dumbfounded to hear that Brass had been suspended and was under investigation by IA.
Still reeling, he had been introduced to Special Agent Fontaine, and informed that he would in essence be working for the FBI on this case. A case that spread across several years and several states and had already claimed several lives.
O'Reilly tried to concentrate on the situation at hand. If Harrison was their killer, he doubted the man would have forgotten the dates. He might just be playing dumb. Or, it could be that he wasn't involved in any way. People often had a hard time recalling the time lines of past events.
"You didn't have any problem remembering Marilyn Hegel's name," the detective mused.
"She was a customer at our bank," Harrison told him. "She used to come to my window some weeks. Nice lady."
"Beth Marchison banked at your branch too. Wasn't she a nice lady?"
"I don't remember her," Harrison said uncertainly. "Was she a regular? Mrs. Hegel was. It was a horrible shock when we learned she'd been murdered."
"Yeah? Really?" O'Reilly asked, his gaze piercing. "It's okay to hit a woman, but you draw the line there?"
Harrison's brow knitted in anger, and his cheeks coloured.
"You've been arrested for domestic assault, isn't that right, Abe?" O'Reilly leaned back in his chair and stared at the other man.
"What the hell are you getting at?" Harrison demanded. "Yeah, there was an incident a few years back. My ex-girlfriend, Carla. But I didn't abuse her. She abused me. I'd been out late with the guys, and had had a few drinks. She was always crazy jealous. Accused me of cheating on her. Went ballistic. I tried to hold her off, grabbed her wrists. There was lots of yelling, and a neighbour called the cops. I had to hold her tight, and she had sensitive skin, and her wrists got bruised. Luckily for her I'm not that fragile, and there were no bruises on my chest and face where she hit me. So guess who got hauled in?"
"You were actually the victim then," O'Reilly commented dryly. "That's why you agreed to take those anger management courses."
"Yeah, actually I was the victim," Harrison returned. "That's why they dropped the charges. I agreed to take the stupid classes, but not because I had a problem. My lawyer said if it went to trial and Carla lied or got some friends to lie about me being some big abuser, that I could end up with jail time. We might be in Vegas, but I'm not much of a gambler. At that point I just wanted to get her out of my life and put the whole thing behind me. That broad was bad news." He shook his head morosely. "And what does that have to do with those murders anyways?"
"I don't know," O'Reilly returned quietly, "that's what I'm trying to find out." He paused. "Do you remember Claire Delsordo?" the detective asked causally.
"Who?" Harrison said tightly.
"She worked for Wells Fargo. She wound up dead too."
Harrison sighed in frustration. "I don't know any Claire Delsordo. Was she at our branch? I want to know what this is all about!"
"Do you take a yearly vacation, Abe?" O'Reilly inquired.
"Not every year, but yeah sometimes I do," he replied. "I went to Mexico last year. Cancun." Harrison gritted his teeth. "How about you? Are we just getting to know one another, or are you going somewhere with this?"
O'Reilly ignored the sarcasm. "Have you been to California in the last few years? Washington state? I think you went to college there, didn't you? You have friends or family there?"
"Yeah, I have a buddy from college who lives outside Spokane," Harrison answered.
"Have you been to visit him in the last few years at all?" the detective wanted to know. "And there's no point lying about it, we're going to run your credit cards."
"You do what you have to do," Harrison said. "Look, if you don't tell me what this about, I'm getting up and walking out of here. Unless you're planning to arrest me for God-knows-what."
O'Reilly knew that despite the outward bravado, there was an uncertainty underneath the teller's words. He could see it in the man's dark eyes. The detective knew that Harrison was their only real suspect so far, but in his gut he didn't think the guy was their serial killer.
Special Agent Fontaine entered the discussion for the first time. "Mr. Harrison, we now know that Todd Juneau, the man believed to have murdered Jada Miller, Marilyn Hegel and Beth Marchison nine years ago was either not involved in their deaths, or was not acting alone. We have reason to believe that the killer might have come into contact with the murdered women at the Wells Fargo Sunrise Centre Mall location. It is plausible to think that someone working at the bank at that time, might be involved in some way.
"There are certain reasons that we looking into you, Mr. Harrison, and that's why we were hoping we could have this little chat and get the chance to clear those things up. To give you an opportunity to exonerate yourself."
Harrison had paled significantly. "Oh God, you think...you think I could have...that I could ever..." He gripped the edge of the table and shook his head vehemently.
"Do I need a lawyer? I swear, I'd never hurt a woman. I never hurt Carla, swear to God, I just tried to keep her from hitting me. I did know Mrs. Hegel, she banked with us all the time, every couple of weeks she was in. I used to ask her about work and talk about the weather and stuff. I was just sick about it when I heard what had happened. I knew she had a couple of little kids. Two boys, I think."
Harrison closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they shone brightly with emotion. "Just tell me what I can do to clear this up," he pleaded.
"Well, we can't legally compel a DNA sample at this point in time," O'Reilly mentioned. "But if you were to volunteer one, that would be helpful."
"Also, if you give us a handwriting sample, that too would go a long way towards exonerating you," Fontaine explained coolly.
"Yeah, sure, whatever it takes," Harrison said compliantly. "I don't need a lawyer for that, right? I mean...you couldn't...wouldn't...use that kind of sample to frame me or anything?"
"We are only interested in seeing justice served, Mr. Harrison, not in corrupting it," Fontaine assured him. He knew that the DNA sample would take longer to compare than a handwriting sample. The agent nodded to the mirrored window, behind which he knew Catherine Willows waited. "On behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigations and the Las Vegas Police Department...we appreciate your co-operation."
Catherine entered the room. She could feel her frustration mounting. The suspect was complying too readily with their requests. And he didn't seem like a cool, calculating serial killer. Harrison seemed genuinely shocked to be considered a suspect in such heinous crimes. Of course, he could just be a great actor.
The fact was that while there were several coincidences that made Harrison look like a good suspect on paper, the reality was that none of them were even sure if the bank was the connection between the victims. Or, if there really was a connection at all. Perhaps the victims had truly been chosen at random, selected because of opportunity, and it was only a coincidence that both Hegel and Marchison had done banking at the Sunrise Centre Mall.
Were they just grasping at straws? Desperate to find their killer before he claimed yet another victim...a victim that they knew personally? While there might be an element of that, Catherine knew that Harrison had been a good suspect. And the only way to either eliminate him or decide that he was the one to concentrate on, was to take the plunge the way they were doing.
She set out a sheet of paper for Abe Harrison, then handed him a ballpoint pen, and read several short sentences for him to record. After slipping the page into an evidence bag, she broke the seal on a new swab, and pressed it into the interior of Harrison's mouth. Nick was waiting to courier the DNA sample to Greg back at the lab, and Ronnie was waiting in another room of the station to do the handwriting analysis.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," the criminalist said. Then to the detective and FBI agent. "I should be back soon."
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"Well, I did it," Sara said, sauntering into the breakroom, flashing her gap-toothed grin. "I'm Agent Sara Sidle now, more or less." She had come in to work hours early. Not really expecting to find anyone from shift here and working. But thinking that perhaps she might run into Grissom. And curious about what had been hinted at back at Quantico.
"Hey, that's great," Warrick said, crossing the room to clasp a hand on her shoulder.
Nick rose from his chair, and went to Sara, giving her a quick hug. "Congratulations, Sara," he said.
Even though Sara knew they were both happy for her, she could sense that they were preoccupied. She had anticipated more enthusiasm about her accomplishment. Perhaps more poignancy that she was really and truly leaving. She couldn't help but feel disappointed.
"You know, we'll have to go out and have a drink or something before I go," she suggested, trying to maintain her smile.
"That sounds great, Sara, but we're kind of swamped with something right now," Warrick told her hesitantly.
Nick glanced towards the DNA lab where Greg sat with his streaked head bent over a microscope. "We're all pulling doubles right now. There's not much time for a social life," he told her tiredly.
"What's up guys?" Sara wanted to know. "Big case? I'm not gone yet, just put me to work." She crossed her arms and jutted one slim hip, and waited expectantly.
"Look, I don't know where to begin, and I'm really pressed for time right now," Nick said regretfully. "You'd better talk to Grissom."
"Yeah, a lot has gone down the past couple of days while you were away," Warrick agreed tiredly. He fixed a half-hearted smile on his handsome mocha features. "That is awesome though, about you getting in with the Feds. Our loss is their gain. Congratulations."
Sara stood there alone, after the two men left the room, hurrying off in different directions, for whatever important tasks occupied them that evening. Physically she was still here in Las Vegas...but she could feel that emotionally her co-workers...her friends...had already said their farewells. In their minds, Sara was already as good as gone. She probably had been the moment she had tendered her resignation. It wasn't that she thought they didn't care about her, or that they wouldn't miss her as much as she would miss them. But it was painfully obvious to Sara that Nick and Warrick, at least, had already made the break.
There was a pall about the lab that the brunette had sensed when she had first come in. She knew that there was something major that they were all working on. Something that involved the FBI. It had been suggested to her that one of her colleagues had handled things badly, in the eyes of the Feds.
Where did she fit into things now? Not really a federal agent yet. On her way out as a CSI. Would either group consider her one of them?
Both Nick and Warrick seemed to agree that she should talk to Grissom. Was he at the heart of what was happening now, as she had suspected?
Sara found Grissom in his office. The lights were low, he was leaning back in his chair, and his eyes were closed. She wondered if he was fighting a migraine. Sara knocked softly on the door.
Gil opened his eyes and leaned forward. He reached for the gold-rimmed glasses on his desk and slipped them on. He regarded her impassively for a moment, then gave a smile that seemed weighted with sorrow. "Sara," he said simply.
"Headache?" she asked.
"No. You can get the lights," he replied.
Sara hit the switch near the door and the bright flourescents chased back the shadows. She came further into the room, finally standing next to the desk.
"So... did you get it?" Grissom asked quietly.
"I did," Sara told him.
Gil inclined his head slightly. "Good." He had believed from the start that she would.
"When I was still back in Quantico, I heard that something was up. The Feds were here for some big case. There's been nothing on the news, I've been checking. I don't think I've ever seen Nick and Warrick so serious. Grissom...what's going on?"
Gil sighed heavily, and leaned his elbows on the desk. "Have a seat, Sara."
Afterwards, Sara sat silently, her body coiled with tension. She could hardly believe everything that Grissom had told her. The entire situation seemed so surreal. When he had told her about Jim Brass being in danger, Sara had been struck by the force and depth of her concern. And then by a deep sorrow. She had always considered Brass a friend. And yet...he hadn't once called her to let her know what was going on. Even after being suspended. It was as though everyone she knew had simply cut her out of their lives as soon as she had spoken of her intention to leave the CSI unit.
"What can I do?" she asked solemnly.
Gil shrugged. "You'll have to go talk to Ecklie. He's probably in the conference room. Like I said, he's in charge of things on our end now."
Sara rose and moved towards the door.
"Congratulations, Sara," he called after her. "You'll shine there, I know," Grissom said with quiet surety.
She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. Taking in the puffy shadows beneath his intelligent, blue eyes. Noting the way the light reflected from the silver threads in his salt and pepper hair. Remembering what his skin had felt like, the night she informed him she was brushing drywall chalk from his cheek. Oh God, she thought, I'm going to miss him. "Thanks," she answered.
Gil watched the slim set of her shoulders and the gentle sway of her black denim clad hips as Sara exited down the hall. Soon, very soon, he would watch her walk away from him for the very last time. Alone now, he allowed the mask to drop. And his features crumpled with the acknowledgement of his impending loss.
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When Brass returned home from Laughlin early that evening, driving the teal-coloured Sunfire back undergound, beneath the noses of the unsuspecting federal agents, there was a message on his answering machine. Maybe it'll be Mobley, wanting to reinstate me and begging me to come back, he thought acerbically.
It was Tony Scrivo, the owner of the Poseidon restaurant. "Hello my friend. It was good to see you the other night. Sorry we didn't get to really talk. Maria and I were both hoping you could come over for a barbecue next week. Monday or Tuesday would be good. You're most welcome to bring your pretty lady friend. We can grill up a couple of steaks...I'm getting a bit tired of seafood..." Tony's hearty laugh boomed over the receiver, "and open a couple of bottles of wine. Or, I've got some cold beer and the bar stocked with your favourite scotch. Let us know. Hope life's being good to you! Ciao."
What he wouldn't give, to be able to accept that invitation. To be able to take Cecilia to Tony and Maria's. To let them get to know her and see how wonderful she was. His disappointment was a physical ache.
Brass left the message without deleting it. There was something comforting in the normalacy of the words and sentiments expressed. Tony could have had no idea, when he had called, just how very good life wasn't being to Jim these days.
But perhaps things were getting better. Gladys had given him a description of the killer. It wasn't perfect, but it was something to go on. The sticky thing was what was Jim going to do with that information now. He couldn't march into the station and up to the office now commandeered by Special Agent Fontaine, let them know he had slipped surveillance, gone off to Laughlin to pursue a lead, ask them to follow up with Gladys and expect them to just let him walk back out again.
Maybe Jim could get in touch with Catherine somehow. He had to tell someone what he had learned. It was imperative that someone other than he knew about Gladys and what she had seen. Just in case the killer got to the detective before Jim got to him. Brass didn't want to do anything to compromise Catherine's job though.
Finally, he decided to email her at her home computer. He knew he had the address on file. Years ago, when they had both first gotten online, in the early days when the novelty of the internet had enamoured them both, they had exchanged those forwarded jokes that were always going around. They had ceased that years ago, tiring of the fad, and neither of them having the time to maintain that form of communication. He could email Catherine there now though. And even if she didn't check the email immediately, she would check it eventually, and the things Brass had learned would be safe somewhere other than inside his head.
He had just finished sending the email and had cracked open a beer, when his phone rang. "Brass," he said brusquely, answering it the way he would answer his work phone.
"Hi, Jim. It's Cecilia."
Did she really think that she would have to identify herself? That he wouldn't recognize her voice? How could he ever forget those husky, sultry tones? "Hey," he said simply. Jim closed his eyes, savouring the knowledge that she was on the other end of the line. Picturing the dark waves of her hair. Imagining the bronzed softness of her skin.
"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, about everything that's happened. I think what Sheriff Mobley has done is incredibly unfair, and just plain stupid. I think this investigation needs you. I...I can imagine how upsetting this must be. How frustrating. I'm sorry, Jim."
He could hear the empathy in her voice. Even after everything he had done, and the things she only thought he had done. "I appreciate that," he said huskily.
"Ecklie has moved me to swingshift now, and dayshift and grave are working the case," Cecilia told him. "But I do know that they brought that teller, Abe Harrison in. They did a swab and are working on comparing DNA. But he's not the guy. He volunteered for that and for a handwriting sample. Ronnie is sure he isn't the one who wrote the letters." She was silent for a moment. "I thought you deserved to know."
He didn't ask her how she knew all of this. Catherine would have found a way to tell her. "Thank you."
"I hope that...if there's anything I can do..." she seemed at a loss for words. "Take care." Then, tremulously, "Be careful, Jim."
He realized that he couldn't let her hang up, thinking what he knew she was thinking about Annie Kramer. He couldn't let her be near him, but he didn't want Cecilia to think that badly of him. To be hurt by an imagined betrayal. "Cecilia," he said desperately. "I want you to know...there's nothing between Annie and I. There hasn't been since New Jersey. There wasn't when I went to L.A., and she only came here as a friend." Jim sighed raggedly. "It's important to me that you know that. That you believe it." He waited, his intestines knotted.
"I believe you, Jim," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, yet resolute.
He wanted to tell her why he had to keep her at a distance. He wanted to tell her that he loved her as he had never loved a woman before. "Thanks again. Bye." He struggled against the longing.
"You're welcome. Bye." Was that longing he heard in her words as well?
And then there was only the buzz of the dialtone in his ear. Jim gripped it in his hand, reluctant to put it down, as though as long as he held it, his connection to Cecilia could not be broken. He wanted her. Needed her. And once this was all over...he was going to tell her how he felt. And he was going to get her back.
So, Abe Harrison was not their killer. Another dead end. Brass didn't know what Harrison looked like, but he would bet that he wasn't about five foot seven, thin and gaunt, with thick, dark hair. Somewhere out there though...somewhere close...was a man who fit that description. Jim could sense it.
There wasn't much that he could do with that information right now though. Mobley had effectively tied his hands. There was one thing that he could do, however. Brass decided to open another of the boxes of papers that had used to belong to Beth Marchison. It would keep him busy, and even though it probably wouldn't lead anywhere, it was important to be thorough.
An hour later, with the sun beginning its descent in the desert sky, Jim stared, mouth agape, at the paper he held in his hand. His throat was dry, and the blood pounded in his head. Incredibly...unbelievably...but undeniably...this was it. Here, at last, was the evidence that would give him the identity of a serial killer.