This story is incredibly enoyable to be creating at this point. I am glad that the tension and expectation I am hoping to impart has not failed to translate to the screen. I really appreciate knowing that others are able to accept the characters I have created and the situations they find themselves in. Sharing 'my' CSI world with others is very rewarding. Thanks so much. Cathy.
Chapter 49
"Captain Brass tried to access the LVPD computer system about ten minutes ago," the young, blonde female agent reported to Fontaine.
He looked up from a blueprint of the Sunrise Centre Mall that was spread out on the conference table. He had marked the bank and the lingerie store that Willows and Brass had been investigating, and now the costume shop and the pet store that the detective had recently been at. So far, the only connection between any of the victims had been the Wells Fargo bank. Two of the Las Vegas women, Hegel and Marchison had dealt with them. Claire Delsordo in Chicago had worked for Wells Fargo.
Fontaine had been impressed that Willows and Brass had been pursuing the angle. So far, the FBI's investigation had found nothing to link the other four women. It had stunned Fontaine to realize that the serial killer he had been seeking had had a start a couple of years earlier in an entirely different state. Going over the old case files, he had understood why Todd Juneau had been a suspect. And why, despite what was actually very sketchy forensic evidence, the LVPD had put the case to bed with Juneau's death following the attempt to take him into custody. His actions had screamed guilt. And the killings had ceased. In Nevada, at least.
On paper, the teller, Abe Harrison had looked like a good suspect. His connection to Washington state, potentially putting him in the paths of the two women murdered there, had further excited the agent, and he had considered Harrison his first real potential break. When it had become evident that the teller was not the killer they sought, Fontaine's disappointment had been deep.
He could understand why Sheriff Mobley had taken disciplinary action against Captain Jim Brass. The man had made a serious breach of protocol. And part of Fontaine was incredibly irritated about the length of time that had passed between Brass' realization that this was a bigger case than originally thought...and one under FBI perview...and his notification. He would have liked to have worked with the seasoned detective. The other man seemed to instill respect and admiration in his colleagues...excepting the sheriff of course...and Fontaine believed that Brass would have been an incredible asset to the investigation.
That Brass had uncovered the fact that the deaths of those three detectives who had worked the original holiday murders...Martens, Keeth and Takei...were not the accidents they appeared to be, gave Fontaine a deep respect for the officer. The detective had acted solely on instinct, and had continued to pursue his hunch despite dead end after dead end. And what Brass had finally uncovered had turned out to be more involved than anyone could have imagined. His discoveries had given them the big break that they needed.
Fontaine knew it was unreasonable to just expect Brass to sit back twiddling his thumbs and turn the case over to someone else, and then forget about it. Not even taking into consideration the personal aspect...that Brass was the killer's next intended target...to expect a cop like that to just walk away and be hands off was very unrealistic. But as much as he respected the man, as grateful as Fontaine was for the work Jim Brass had done so far, he could not allow the detective to do anything that might compromise the investigation here on out.
So what the hell was the Captain up to now? What was it he had been trying to do? They had flagged Brass' de-activated password, to keep tabs on him and alert them if he tried anything like this. The Captain was making it very hard for Fontaine to allow him his freedom. On the one hand, the agent believed that there was a good chance that when the killer made a move on Brass they could intercept him and put an end to all of this that way. So in a way they needed Brass out there. But if the detective was continuing to try to be involved in the case, alone and without support, he risked jeopardizing it.
"Thank you, Jeannie," Fontaine told the young woman, and she nodded from the doorway and continued on.
Fontaine looked sideways at Catherine Willows, perched on the chair next to him. "He's not going to let it go, is he?" he asked wryly.
Catherine looked away for a moment, and then back at Fontaine. "Would you?" she asked simply.
Sighing deeply, the agent quickly looked up Jim Brass' home phone number and dialed the other man's apartment. It rang five times, before switching over to an answering machine. "This is 555-1411. I'm not available right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you." Fontaine hung up without doing so, waited a few minutes, and then tried again. Once more, he got the answering machine.
It wasn't that late yet, and he didn't think the detective had turned in and fallen into a deep slumber in the ten minutes since he'd tried to access the computer database. Hell, he didn't think the other man would be sleeping much at all these days. He dialed the agents on stake out. "This is Fontaine. Has Brass made any attempt to leave the building since we last spoke?"
"No, Sir. He's still inside."
Fontaine knew that Brass would have realized by now that he was under surveillance. There was no rear exit to the building, Fontaine knew, not even a service entrance and exit. Everything and everyone either came through the front lobby, or through the underground parking. So it was impossible for Brass to have snuck out a back way on foot.
"Let me know if there's any change."
"Yes, Sir."
Once more, Fontaine dialed Brass' apartment. It could just be that the other man had call display, didn't recognize the number, and didn't feel the need to pick up. This time, the agent left a message. "Captain Brass, this is Special Agent Art Fontaine. I'd like to speak with you, please. It's important. Please call me as soon as you get this message." He left his cell number.
While he waited, Catherine got up and left the room. She returned with two coffees, setting one down on the table next to the agent. He smiled at her gratefully and murmured his thanks.
Catherine's mind had been racing since she had learned that Brass had gone back to the Sunrise Centre Mall. Despite her initial flippancy with Fontaine, she believed that the detective's return there had signaled something very important. Jim was on to something. Somehow, he'd found a trail. Was pursuing some lead.
He'd gone to the costume shop. That was on the second level, she had recalled, they had passed it when they had done their walk through of the mall. Why there? And what kind of lead could Jim even be pursuing? Catherine knew Mobley had taken everything. Jim's case files. His laptop. Even if he had had duplicates of any paperwork, he wouldn't have anything that they didn't have. What could Brass have found that the combined efforts of two CSI shifts, and several federal agents, might have missed?
He had spent even more time, Fontaine had told Catherine, at the pet store. It was located on the main level, the second business on the left hand side, next to the dental office. Who had he gone to talk to there? And why? Was the pet shop the link somehow? It was too late now to visit the place and talk to anyone, the mall had been closed up for a while. Catherine imagined that first thing tomorrow Fontaine would want to take a little trip to the costume shop and pet store himself. To see if he could find out just what it was Jim had been doing.
And now Brass had tried to link into the LVPDs computer system, from home. Why? What was he looking for? Catherine wondered, if she called him, if Jim might talk to her. Confide in her. Maybe he had something that would help them. Something that would ultimately help him. Ecklie would have her head on a platter if he knew she had attempted to contact Brass. But Ecklie could go stuff it.
After the interview with Abe Harrison, Catherine had sought out Cecilia back at the lab. She had filled her in on what had taken place. Ecklie would have a fit about that too, if he knew about it. But Catherine believed that Cecilia had a right to know. She had been a part of this thing from the beginning. And she cared about Jim.
Once Catherine had had time to think about what she had witnessed in Jim's office between he and Annie Kramer, she had come to realize that perhaps she had judged him too hastily. The scientist in her acknowledged that she had taken limited information and then made a giant leap with it. Jaded by her recent experience with Chris, by Sara's experience with Hank not too long ago, and by her own failed marriage and its painful history of betrayal, Catherine had been quick to accept that what she and Cecilia had walked in on had been an intimate expression of a clandestine romantic, sexual relationship.
But there was no proof that that was so. If they were old friends, brought together again in such a serious, life-endangering situation, it wasn't so hard to imagine that Annie might have sought to give solace with a bit of innocent physical comfort. In fact, Catherine could imagine herself in that same scenario with Jim. A comforting hand on his shoulder. Jim taking her hand in a wordless exchange of thanks. Hell the man was being stalked by a cold-blooded serial killer. If that wasn't a situation that called for a little warmth, kindness and human contact, then what was?
And even though Jim had seemed to turn his back on his relationship with Cecilia, Catherine still believed that he cared for the writer. She had witnessed a change in the detective recently, ever since he had begun to spend time with Cecilia. For the first time since she had known him, Jim Brass had seemed truly happy. Deep down, Catherine didn't believe that he could just forget what he had with Cecilia so easily, in favour of a roll in the hay with another woman.
Catherine knew she'd been very abrupt with Brass last evening. She felt badly, knowing that she could have been...should have been...more supportive. Even if Jim did have a thing with Annie Kramer, it was nothing to do with her. His love life was essentially no business of hers, even if Cecilia was her friend now too. Catherine owed the detective a lot more compassion and support than she had shown, she realized shamefully. The enormity of what he was dealing with now was something that none of them could truly comprehend. She should have let him know she was there for him...no matter what. It was imperative that she speak to Jim, Catherine decided, even if only to reiterate that.
"I think I'm going to take a bit of a break now," Catherine told Art Fontaine.
The cool grey eyes assessed her, and the criminalist was sure the agent could read her thoughts.
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"It's pretty impossible to concentrate on anything else, with what's going on right now, isn't it?" Helen Chang asked sympathetically.
Cecilia looked guiltily away from the corridor and the labs beyond, and back at the swingshift supervisor, who had been explaining the details of a supermarket armed robbery that she was currently working on. "I'm sorry," Cecilia apologized. Helen had been generous enough to agree to sharing her time and her expertise with the writer, and Cecilia knew that she wasn't being appreciative enough of that.
"I'm having a hard enough time keeping my mind on things myself," Helen admitted, reaching to tuck her jet black hair behind her ear. "Everyone knows what's going on, of course. Everyone is a bit on edge, with the Feds here. And of course, everyone is worried about Captain Brass."
The look in Helen's dark, almond-shaped eyes let Cecilia know that the other woman had heard the rumours about a romantic relationship between the writer and the detective.
Time seemed to stretch inexorably tonight, Cecilia thought. The tension and the worry had been heightened enough when she had known what was going on. When she had still been privy to the details of the investigation. The not knowing the status of the case now, increased her anxiety tenfold. Watching from the outside, while others bustled around, their actions pivotal perhaps in the eventual apprehension of the serial killer, was excrutiating. Knowing that even as they raced to find the murderer, he might be closing in on Jim, was a more anguishing plotline than any nocturnal nightmare Cecilia's slumbering subconscious had ever conjured.
She had wondered about Jim's state of mind, after learning of the actions that Sheriff Mobley had taken. Cecilia's disgust at the loathesome sheriff had continued to grow by the hour.
Hearing Jim's voice earlier had been bittersweet. Just having him answer the phone, knowing that, for that moment at least, he was alive and safe, had sent a giant wave of relief washing over her. Cecilia hadn't been sure of how her attempt to reach out to the detective would be received. She had wondered breathlessly, as the phone had begun to ring, whether Annie Kramer would answer it. Cecilia wasn't sure she could handle that. She had thought that there was a good chance, however, that the other woman would be there, with Jim. Giving him the sounding board and the comfort that Cecilia longed to give. Wrapping her arms around him and distracting him from his tribulations with shared passion.
Cecilia had wondered vaguely in the back of her mind, whether her sharing with Jim the details that Catherine had shared with her, would land all three of them in trouble. But she hadn't really cared. The detective deserved to know what was going on, whether he was allowed to be an official part of the investigation or not.
When he had told her hoarsely that there was nothing between he and Annie Kramer, Cecilia had been caught off guard.
"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 had sighed raggedly. "It's important to me that you know that. That you believe it."
Tears had sprang to Cecilia's eyes then. Not so much at the words themselves, not so much at the knowledge that Jim was not really involved with Annie Kramer...but because she heard the depth of the emotion the profession contained. Jim did care. He wanted her to trust him. To believe him. To believe in him. Cecilia could hear that message clearly in his voice. It mattered to him, what she thought about him. Jim cared about how she would feel thinking that he was in a romantic relationship again with a woman Cecilia knew had been such a big part of his past. He cared.
In spite of his strange and dismissive behaviour, when Jim had summarily turned her out of his life, as though what had been developing between them was inconsequential to him.
But if that had been true, if what had grown between them had meant nothing to Jim, the detective would not have cared what Cecilia thought about he and Annie. Or how she felt. If she was as irrelevent to him as he had lead her to believe that day at his apartment...her prescence in his life nothing more than a temporary distraction, and now a potentially dangerous one...then it wouldn't have mattered to Jim what Cecilia believed about he and Annie. He wouldn't have felt it necessary to try to clear up her misconceptions. "It's important to me that you know that. That you believe it."
Cecilia hadn't been able to stop thinking about their conversation. Perhaps Jim hadn't distanced himself from her because he didn't really care about her. Perhaps...he had done it because he really did care. The more she considered that possibility, the more it made sense to her. Everything she had come to learn about Jim Brass had revealed that he defined himself in the role of protector. It was a responsibility that he took seriously. The safety of others was of paramount importance to him. Jim had made that his life's work.
Maybe it hadn't been concern for his own safety that had caused the detective to react so strongly and uncharacteristically that morning. Maybe...maybe he had been worried about her.
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Once again, it was no problem for Brass to slip past the surveillance team, seated behind the wheel of Glen Roarke's teal Sunfire. He had knocked on Glen's door, knowing that the man often kept late nights when he was in the middle of a new creation, and found his neighbour in the early stages of inebriation. Glen had been in a locquacious mood, insisting that Jim listen to his tale of misery. The artist was convinced that the painting he had been working on stunk. His muse had fled him, his talent had waned. His career was surely over.
Brass had commiserated, tried to give reassurance, and then asked to borrow the car again. Admitting woefully that he was in no condition to be driving tonight anyways, and therefore in no need of it himself, Roarke had pressed the keys into the detective's outstretched hand. The artist had commented that it was kind of cheap of the LVPD, if they were going to keep his sedan in the shop all day, not to have given the Captain a loaner. Brass had agreed, thanked his neighbour for his generosity for the second time that day, and hastened away.
The night had cooled considerably, and Jim left the air conditioning off, unrolling the windows and allowing the breeze to circulate through the vehicle. He left the radio off as well, too focused on what he was about to do to be able to take any pleasure from music right now. In another ten minutes, he would be pulling onto Dean Sturney's street. Ten more minutes, and he would finally face his adversary.
It would be ironic, Brass thought, if while he was enroute to Sturney's, the other man was on his way to his place, ready now to put into action whatever plan he had contrived to end Jim's life under the guise of an accident. If Sturney had happened to be observing Brass' place, as the FBI agents were doing at this moment, he would be watching for the familiar sedan...not the teal green Sunfire. It would be the stuff that a dark comedy would be made of, and Jim was surprised to feel his lips curl in a smile.
The smile quickly faded. His gut churned with ice water. The next quarter of an hour, could be the most important of his life.
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"Jim, it's me. Are you there? If you are, pick up. Please." Catherine waited expectantly, her apprehension increasing with each passing moment.
She thought of Denny Martens, mowed down by the stolen SUV, his neck snapped, his body crushed, his intestines spilling into the quiet side street. She thought of Elliott Keeth, his big frame consumed by crimson flames, the skin and flesh peeling off his body as the intensity of the heat reduced them to ash. She thought of Joe Takei, his face purple, tongue lolling, while the garrotte around his neck dug mercilessly into his windpipe. Each vision was horrifically realistic, even though Catherine hadn't actually witnessed the aftermath of each detective's death.
Not just their deaths...their murders. Cunningly designed to look like accidents. That was the kind of demon they were up against. That was the threat that Jim Brass faced now. Where was Jim? He had to be there? Why wasn't he answering?
Despite her valiant efforts to shift her thoughts, Catherine couldn't help but imagine Jim alone in his loft with the killer. What if somehow the maniac they sought had found a way to enter Brass' apartment, undetected? He had clearly done it elsewhere before. First with Joe Takei, and then later with Elliott Keeth. Jim might have more forewarning than the others had had, but what if, despite all of his precautions, the killer had found a way in?
What would he have planned for Brass? Catherine frightened herself with the realization of the deviousness of her own mind. If it was her stalking Jim, she realized with a chill, she would stage his death as a suicide. A rogue cop, disgraced, being investigated by his peers. Facing not only the loss of his job, but potentially the loss of his freedom with criminal charges pending. Would people question it too deeply, if facing such a bleak future...that cop decided to eat the business end of a revolver?
Catherine felt physically ill for a moment, battling back the nauseau that threatened her. There had to be a logical explanation for why Jim wasn't answering his phone. There could be any number of reasons. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he'd turned off the ringer, simply seeking his solitude.
There was an extended beep, indicating that her time to leave a message had expired. Brass still hadn't answered. For one of two reasons. He didn't want to. Or he couldn't. Catherine disconnected. She stood there, gripping her cell phone in her hand, not knowing what to do next.
The agents on surveillance outside Jim's apartment hadn't called in to alert Fontaine that the detective had tried to leave the apartment again. Was it possible that Jim had found a way to get around them? Catherine knew that Brass could be incredibly resourceful. Motivated by whatever lead he seemed to be chasing, could he have somehow slipped out past the surveillance team?
She needed to know what angle Jim was working. What had he tried to access the department's computer system for? There was one person in the lab who might be able to help her answer that question.
Catherine strode determinedly down the hall, and into the AV lab. "Archie," she said earnestly, her gentian blue eyes bright, "I really, really need you."
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Brass parked down the street, cutting the engine and sitting in darkness. The neighbourhood was quiet. There were lights on inside Dean Sturney's small bungalow, in at least two of the rooms that he could see from the front of the house. One was on at the far end, a whitish glow behind a small, frosted pane that the detective assumed was a bathroom. The other had a more subdued yellow cast, shining from the large, main window that would be the livingroom. That illumination probably came from a table lamp.
By all appearances someone was home. Did Sturney live alone? Jim wondered. According to the profile, it was probable that he did. Sociopaths didn't tend to form permanent relationships with other people. It wasn't likely that there would be a girlfriend or a roommate. He would have to proceed with caution though. It would be inexcusable to allow an innocent bystander to be harmed during his capture of Sturney.
Brass could hear the heaviness of his breathing in the enclosed interior of the car. Christ, he sounded like he'd just done a couple of fast laps around the department's one mile track. His palms were slick with sweat, he realized, as he released them from the steering wheel. He touched the .44 Magnum at his side, reassuring himself that it was there.
Now or never. Brass stepped out of the Sunfire, and began the short walk to Sturney's front door.