Just another short one. This part of the story seems to be lending itself to shorter chapters, I hope that's okay. I'll just post them as they come in their entirity, no matter the length. Thank you again for the awesome encouragement. Cathy.
Chapter 50
"Okay, I can tell that Captain Brass tried to access the system, because they flagged his password," Archie explained to Catherine, sitting in front of the screen and pointing to a log-in entry. "But I have no idea what section it was he was planning to enter, or what he was going to search for, because he never got past the sign-in stage. Since the password had been canceled from this end, access was denied. There is no history to research. Sorry, Catherine," the audio-visual tech said with sincere regret.
Catherine sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her strawberry blonde hair. "Okay, what about before that? Can you find out what he had used the system for prior to that?" Perhaps that might give Catherine an idea what angle Jim was working.
"Yeah, I can do that," Archie assured her, eager to try to help.
She waited while his fingers danced over the keyboard. Catherine's anxiety was growing by the minute. Her inability to reach Brass had opened a floodgate to her worst fears. She couldn't recall the last time she had felt so driven.
"Okay, he was on the system last night," Archie told her and the criminalist held her breath. "He used two databases. The DMV, and the Clark County criminal records division. He ran a search on these four names. Ian Gracie. Abe Harrison. Adrian Cortez. Ron Kizinski."
Four men who had worked at the Sunrise Centre Mall Wells Fargo location at the time of the Holiday Murders. The current bank manager, the teller, the loans officer and the retired security guard. It was this search that had uncovered Harrison's prior arrest for domestic assault, and which had caused them to turn their spotlights on the teller. She and Cecilia had discussed all of this in Jim's office last night with he and Annie Kramer.
That was the last time Brass had accessed the system? What from among the information he had retrieved then, had caused the detective to focus again on the mall? What had drawn him to the costume shop and the pet store? "Can you recreate those searches and bring up exactly whatever it was Brass found last night?" Catherine urged.
Archie nodded and set to work. It took only moments for him to find and split screen for her the results of the searches the detective had made the previous evening.
Catherine studied the limited information. There was nothing there that jumped out at her. Other than Harrison's dropped assault charge, and a plethora of speeding infractions against Gracie, there was nothing of particular interest. If Brass was running a new lead, it hadn't come from the information he had accessed last night.
Another possibility occured to the blonde. It was a stretch, but it was worth checking out. Perhaps, upon discovering that his own password was now inactive, Jim had used another one to get into the system. That of a colleague. Even though passwords were supposed to be kept secret, known only to the user, the reality was that sometimes when you were working closely with someone else, you either accidentally learned theirs, or in the atmosphere of trust and comaraderie that developed, there simply came an occasion where they happened to share it with you.
There was nothing terribly clandestine about what the passwords were used for, and nothing really nefarious that someone could do even if they knew a co-worker's sign-on. She knew Warrick Brown's password, after all, Catherine rationalized. He had shared it with her one time when he had called in and needed her to access a file he had created for a case he was working on. And she was pretty sure that Sara had unintentionally observed her entering her own one night. Technically, you were supposed to change your password if you felt it might have been compromised. But the truth was that Catherine didn't know anyone who actually did.
Maybe Brass was privy to another detective's password, and finding himself shut out of the system, had decided that the potential pros of using it outweighed the violation.
"Is there a way for you to tell if Brass got into the system using someone else's password, that was still active?" Catherine asked hopefully.
Archie smiled. "Yeah, actually there might be. If I can backtrack and find out the IP address of the computer that he was using when he tried to enter his own password, if he subsequently entered another valid password using the same computer, theoretically I can trace that." He grinned. Archie loved a challenge.
"Do it," Catherine instructed, hearing the nervous quaver in her voice.
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Grissom's stare made Hodges uneasy.
"So, uh, quite a lot happening lately, huh?" David mumbled, looking away from the supervisor's sky blue gaze. "I, uh, heard about what happened to Captain Brass. The suspension and all. Gee, that's pretty heavy." He tugged self-consciously at the hem of his blue lab coat.
Grissom continued to look at him wordlessly.
"And, uh, I see that the sheriff has put Conrad Ecklie in charge of the investigation," Hodges continued, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. "I'm sure that's no reflection on you or anything. You know? I mean, I can sort of see why Sheriff Mobley might think...with his history on the original murder cases...why Conrad might be, uh...might have a different, you know, perspective to contribute." He felt as if the heat was stifling even though the lab room was climate controlled.
Hodges had been wallowing in guilt ever since he had come into the building this evening and discovered the events that had unfolded since that morning. The correlation between his conversation with Ecklie last night and what had ensued since, could not be denied. Hodges knew it wasn't simply a coincidence. He honestly hadn't realized that he had said anything to the dayshift supervisor that the other man hadn't already known. He realized now how Ecklie had played him. Hodges felt like an idiot.
The lab tech could see the knowledge of his unwitting betrayal on Gil Grissom's face. Would the nightshift supervisor think Hodges' slip had been deliberate? Did it matter, really? Or would the damage be severe enough that motive would be irrelevent?
"Well, hopefully now we can all just work together and get this thing solved. Huh? That's what really matters. Right?" Hodges knew that his smile came out more as a grimace, and he was unable to meet Grissom's eyes. He thought longingly of the forensic scientist's obvious approval the other night, after Hodges had isolated and identified the traces of didanosine from the letter Captain Brass had received. He had hoped that, for the first time, real respect and an honest working relationship might be beginning to develop between he and his co-workers. How he had savoured that with pride.
And now everything was ruined. He might as well look for another job, Hodges thought miserably. The ostracism that was sure to follow would certainly be worse than anything he had ever encountered before. He only realized after Grissom had left the room again, that the other man had never uttered a sound.
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Dean Sturney was listed as the registered owner of a white, newer model VW bug. There was no car in the driveway, but it could be parked in the small, cement block garage. Easing up to the garage door, and praying that Sturney didn't have outdoor security lights triggered by motion detection, Brass peered through the small glass window into the shadowed interior. There was a car there, he could make out it's form. It had the unique domed shape of the Beetle.
Everything pointed to Sturney being home. Brass' heart jackhammered in his chest as he crept closer to the bungalow's front door. Standing on the small porch, he could look through the livingroom window. Light flickered, creating odd shadows. There was a television on. Some kind of nature programme. Discovery channel, or maybe Animal Planet. Jim found himself thinking about Nick Stokes. The dark-haired CSI loved those kinds of shows.
Concentrate. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted, not for a moment. Edging nearer the wrought iron rail that encircled the porch, and leaning over it, Brass got a better look into the home's interior. There was a blue, three-seater sofa set against a wall, facing the window, currently unoccupied. A matching armchair was angled so that the detective could only see it's high back and part of an upholstered arm. He could just make out the back of a head. Someone wearing a baseball cap was sitting in the chair, watching the tube. Sturney?
Brass prayed that Sturney wouldn't get up just then and look out. He hoped that there was no Gladys living on the street. No over zealous block captain from Neighbourhood Watch. No one wondering why that strange man was skulking around Mr. Sturney's place. His mouth felt dry, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.
He swallowed hard, detaching it, and trying to work up some saliva. Jim unholstered the Magnum. He took off the safety and let the gun hang at the end of his right arm. It felt so heavy. Had he loaded it? Of course he had, there was no reason to second guess himself. He had done this hundreds of times before. Apprehended a suspect. This time was no different. Except that he knew it was.
For a moment Brass reconsidered calling for back-up. By the time anyone arrived, it would all be over. He could get a waiting black and white to haul Sturney down to the station. But what if there was a patrol in the area, the next street over? What if they got here too soon? With lights flashing and sirens piercing the night. Alerting Sturney before Brass had a chance to make an arrest. Tipping the balance and removing the element of surprise that the detective had on his side. He couldn't take the risk. There was no choice, he had to go this one alone.
Should he try to enter through the front, or go around back? He wasn't familiar with the layout of Sturney's abode. The killer had the advantage of being on home turf. To come in the back way and try to navigate up to the front of the house left too many unknown variables. Better to enter through the front, if he could.
There was no screen door. Just the heavy steel entrance door. A multi-paned window insert was mercifully uncovered by blinds or curtains. Brass pressed his forehead against it, and peered into the house. There was a small foyer and then immediately to the right...no walls or partitions...was the livingroom area.
He certainly didn't intend to knock and announce his prescence. In the inside pocket of his jacket, were the tools that would allow him to jimmy the lock, if need be. Brass had picked up a few tricks from the criminal elements over the years. His left hand reached out with mesmerizing slowness, for the brass knob. As his fingers closed around it, he gave it a slight turn and felt it yield beneath his grip. It was unlocked.
Lady Luck, it seemed, had decided to alight on his shoulder tonight. How long, Brass wondered, would she rest there? Could he cajole her into accompanying him inside and blanketing him with her prescence until he had Sturney in custody?
Does Sturney have a dog? Jim's knees felt weak. The guy seemed to have a thing for animals. For dogs especially. Millions of American households had a furry, four-legged, canine companion and protector. Would a sociopath seek out a relationship with an animal that he was incapable of forming with a human being? And even if Sturney would just as soon string up and torture a pet as allow one to curl up on his lap, he might still see the wisdom in having that kind of live-in security system for the bargain price of four bucks worth of dog chow a week.
The last thing Brass needed was Cujo rushing up to greet him, barking and snarling, faithfully alerting his master to the prescence of an intruder.
There was a soft click as the door opened, one that Jim knew would be inaudible over the sounds of the television. Then he was stepping over the threshold. And finally, Brass was inside Dean Sturney's house.
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"Okay, this is weird," Archie commented thoughtfully, frowning at the screen. "There was activity from that IP address. But I can't seem to isolate it. If Captain Brass got into the department's system, he didn't do it using a registered password." He swivelled his head to look up at Catherine.
"What do you mean?" she pressed.
"Nothing matches any known password on file. But it looks like someone did get into the system, and they came in through Captain Brass' computer. But I don't know what they accessed. I have to try to figure out how they did it first." Archie rubbed his chin. "I didn't know he was some kind of techno geek," he continued, admiration in his tone.
"Brass?" Catherine voiced her surprise. "He's not," she stated firmly. Was their serial killer? she wondered worriedly. "Archie, is it possible for you to isolate it? Is there a way to do it at all?"
The tech shrugged. "Yeah, probably. I think I could figure it out eventually. It could take hours though," he replied honestly. Days even, he thought, but he kept that to himself.
Catherine gritted her teeth, glancing towards the door, watching for Special Agent Fontaine. "We don't have hours," she told him soberly.
Archie could sense the gravity of the situation. "I'll do my best," he promised. "There is one thing I can try first. If there was a secondary password, somehow piggybacking onto the one registered to the Captain...and it looks like there was...it could be a variation of the first. People tend to be creatures of habit, we like the familiar, and a similar password would be easier to remember. We know Captain Brass' cancelled password. I'll have the computer run every possible sequence recombining the numbers and letters of the original." He began to type into the keyboard. "That might save us some time."
"Thanks, Archie," Catherine said gratefully.
While the computer tech worked, the criminalist tried to call Brass at home once more. As before, she got the answering machine. Listening to the recorded message yet again, Catherine felt as though she could scream. Oh hell, Jim! Where are you? What are you doing?
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Brass listened for the sound of padded feet and clipped nails scurrying over the linoleum, and he tensed for the charge. But there was nothing. Evidently Sturney didn't have a dog. One more small break in Jim's favour.
The detective noted the shiny, brown flooring underneath, inexpensive and easy to maintain. He observed the pale walls, builder's beige, nothing to inidicate the personality of the man who lived here. There was nothing boring or ordinary about Dean Sturney though, Jim knew. He didn't need to see blood red walls and dismembered corpses as artwork, to understand what kind of maniac dwelt beneath this roof.
Jim left the door opened, not wanting to risk the distraction of the act of closing it. Additonally, he was afraid that while it had been quiet upon opening, the hinges might squeak when it was shut again.
Brass held his gun at waist height, his finger on the trigger. He could hear the narrator of the t.v. programme, cultured British tones explaining about the plight of beached Pilot whales and the mystery of the carnage. He could see right through to the livingroom. Sturney, engrossed in the show, was unaware that anyone had entered his home. He didn't realize that Jim was less than a dozen feet away now.
The detective wanted to be closer before calling out Sturney's name. He wanted a better view of the man, to be able to see Sturney's hands, to be able to watch the man's movements and to anticipate any possible counter attack.
The soft soles of his leather shoes were soundless as Brass began to move away from the door, keeping his line of vision on the baseball cap that peeked above the back of the blue chair. Keeping his gun trained on the same spot. Raising it now to chest height, he crossed his hands at the wrists, and laid his right over his left, for support. The blood drummed through his veins, pounding in his ears. Perspiration dotted the craggy folds of his forehead.
Jim felt, more than heard the movement of the door behind him. Too late he sensed that someone had been behind it. Tucked against the corner of the wall. Hidden from sight. Before his brain could even send the commands to his body to turn, there was a sharp crack, an explosion of pain at the base of his skull, and then Brass was spiralling to meet the blackness.