His first coherent thought was, 'Oh, hell, how much did I have to drink?'
Brass' head was throbbing and his gut spasmed raunchily. Then he remembered, and the detective struggled to raise himself to a sitting position. Two ice blue orbs observed him with what would Jim could only define as amusement.
"I guess you're probably wondering why you're still alive."
Brass found himself staring down the blue steel barrel of the .44 Magnum Redhawk. Dean Sturney was crouched on the floor just a few feet away. But far enough that Brass knew he'd be pumped full of lead before he had the chance to even attempt wrestling the gun from Sturney. The killer cocked his head at him, then grinning rose to his feet and stood staring down at the cop with derision.
So this was him. The monster who had killed all of those women. The one who had bested the unsupecting Martens, Keeth and Takei. His gauntness made him appear even shorter than five seven. The faded denim jeans and white t-shirt hung loosesly from his frame. His skin had an unhealthy grey pallor. A waxen sheen. And it was tight over his cheekbones and chin, though loose on his neck, like the wattles of an old man. The knuckles of both hands looked swollen...arthritic...though Jim didn't think that was the cause. There was a cold sore on the left corner of Sturney's upper lip. His pale eyes looked bright, feverish...although that could just be from excitement, Brass decided.
Jim closed his eyes for a moment. He had the mother of all headaches. This had to be worse than any migraine Gil Grissom had ever had to deal with. Gingerly, he reached to touch the back of his neck, feeling the dampness there. He pulled his hand away, observing the sticky, scarlet smear. He looked around, wondering what Sturney had hit him with. On the floor by the door was a cast iron frying pan. Simple, but Brass could attest to its effectiveness.
"Do you want to know why I didn't kill you right away?" Sturney asked, his voice light with a good humour that chilled the detective. When Brass didn't answer, Sturney's lips pressed together and the warmth slipped from his pale eyes. "Fine then. You'll find out soon enough."
Brass judged that the serial killer had just left him where he'd fallen. He glanced further into the livingroom, towards the chair that he now had a clear side view of. There was a body pillow propped up there, with a ball cap resting on the top, only the hat visible from behind. Jim heard himself suck in the air against his teeth in self-disgust.
"I have to say, I was kind of disappointed at your naivite," Sturney said mockingly. "After you'd come this far, it was just too easy. I had hoped you'd be a bit more of a challenge. Things were looking promising there for a while. When I followed you to the mall tonight, and saw you go into the pet store to talk with Phil, I have to say I was thrown for a loop."
The killer watched the detective's eyes widen. "You had no idea I was there, did you?" Sturney queried. "Neither did those incompetents who've been following you all day. I walked right by one of them, even looked at him, and he just stared right through me. I have to say that as a taxpayer I'm not very impressed with the quality of law enforcement my hard earned money has secured at the federal level."
Brass wasn't sure if he was better off trying to engage the killer, or by just keeping his mouth shut. Every minute that he stayed alive increased his chances of getting out of this predicament eventually. Not that the odds of that were looking too good either way. He had lost the element of surprise. He had lost his weapon. He was having a hard time just keeping his vision focused and trying to push back the black veil that kept threatening to settle over his consciousness again. And no one had any idea where he was, or even that he wasn't still settled in for the night at the loft.
Jim felt cold at the knowledge that Sturney had been there, at the mall. One step ahead of him, even as the detective had been closing the net. He wondered how long he had been unconscious, and tried to glance surrepitiously at his watch.
"You were only out for about twenty minutes," Sturney told him matter-of-factly. "I actually hit you a bit harder than I intended to. To be honest, I was a bit perturbed, you bothering me at home like this." The blue eyes narrowed, the pupils constricting then widening again. "But I'm willing to play things out this way, since that's what you wanted."
Dean Sturney stared down at the detective. "I guess that makes you special. Since with the other three I was in total control. I am willing to give credit where credit is due though. You have forced my hand. But it really doesn't matter anymore. Not now. Not at this point." Sturney sighed. "The game is at its end. I'm tired now. As you can probably see, my health is failing. Everything has come full circle, you're the last, and once you're dead, I can finally rest."
"The Videx just not doin' it for you any more?" Brass asked with mock sympathy of his own.
Sturney's face contorted first with shock, and then with rage. He let out a roar, drawing back his right leg and kicking out suddenly at the detective. The blow would have landed in Brass' face, but he pulled back, turning slightly, raising his arms to protect himself, and instead the killer's shoed foot connected with Jim's shoulder. The detective grunted in pain nevertheless.
The killer's hands trembled as he aimed the gun at Brass. "How!" he demanded, his voice quavering. "How did you know about the drug!" Sturney shrilled.
Brass held the stare unflinchingly, remaining mute.
Sturney cocked the trigger. "Answer me or you die now."
"There were traces of the powder on the letter you sent me," Brass replied quietly. "Forensic science has come a long way in the last ten years." It felt good to have gotten one of his own in, to have affected Sturney that way. So good in fact, that Jim had to bite down on the inner flesh of his mouth to stifle a smirk. The satisfaction was worth the ache in his shoulder.
The killer began to pace, short strides back and forth across the livingroom. He kept the gun on Brass at all times. Sturney was frustrated. He truly was willing to abandon the plans he had had for the Captain's demise. To just shoot him and be done with it. But he couldn't kill the other man. Not yet. Not until Brass gave him what he needed. Sturney couldn't understand why he hadn't yetIt had been so easy with the other three.
The killer stopped and regarded his prey. "After all this time," Dean said thoughtfully, "how did you find me? I mean, my identity. How did you know it was me?" His face was animated with his curiosity.
Brass decided that perhaps keeping Sturney talking really was in his best interests. "Among Beth Marchison's things was a receipt for the purchase of a Maltese puppy. You sold it to her the week before you killed her. I recognized the similarity in your signature, from the handwriting on the letters you'd sent."
Sturney stared at him agape. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "That's ingenious! Who would have thought a dead woman's nine year old sales receipt would have been preserved all of these years? Or that such an unremarkable detective as yourself would have been sharp enough to make the connection?" Dean moved to the chair, and picked up the baseball cap. Holding it in his left hand, the gun in his right, the dark-haired man made a sweeping bow. "My hat's off to you, Detective!" Then he bent over, chortling with delight at his own pun.
Brass didn't know what to make of Sturney. The detective just watched the other man warily.
Dean eventually stopped laughing and settled himself on the sofa. Motioning with his gun towards the chair, he said to Brass, "Why don't you have a seat, and we'll get comfortable. I'll tell you what. As a reward for your diligence, I'm going to let you ask me whatever you want to know. Because I'm sure you have questions, right Detective? Why? How? All of those little details that have escaped you.
"When I'm tired of them, I'll just shoot you. But until then, you just ask away. You might as well go to your grave having the satisfaction of clearing up all those unanswered questions."
"That's generous of you, Sturney," Brass answered sardonically, raising an eyebrow. The detective managed to get to his feet, gritting his teeth against the dizziness. He'd be damned if he was going to flop down on his face in front of this guy. The edges of his sight were dark, and his legs were wobbly, but Brass forced himself to walk the several steps to the chair, before collapsing into it.
"I'm surprised," Dean admitted then, ignoring the gibe, "that you haven't tried to convince me that killing you won't accomplish anything, and that hoardes of other cops will be beating down my door at any moment. Of course, we both know that would be a lie, and such an act would just reek of desperation. Still, I was sure it was the first thing you'd do."
Brass shrugged. "I think it 's fairly obvious by now that I came alone." His dark gaze held Sturney's. "But that doesn't mean that they aren't going to catch up to you eventually. It's inevitable now."
"I did wonder, at first, when I knew you'd be coming, what we were going to do about that added equation of the FBI agents. But you solved that beautifully on your own, Jim. Do you mind if I call you Jim?" Sturney asked facetiously. "Switching cars was brilliant. In fact, I almost didn't realize it was you out there. You might have caught me off guard after all. I expected you would be here, once you spoke to Phil Hayter, and once you went by my old apartment. Once I knew for sure that somehow you'd discovered my identity.
"I also knew you'd want to come alone though. Some macho Lone Ranger thing. Revenge for your fallen comrades."
The muscle in Brass' jaw twitched at the smugness in Sturney's tone.
The killer continued. "I figured you'd go for a little drive and give those agents the slip before stopping by to pay me a visit. But you went one step better. You drove right out under their noses. Pretty ballsy, Detective. Pretty smart too. Borrowing your neighbour's car. That is your neighbour's car, right?" Sturney smiled. "I recognize it, I've seen it going in and out of your building's parking before." Brass wondered how long Sturney had been watching him.
"Still, it took me a minute to make the connection, and to realize that it was you," Dean went on. "Kudos. You're probably right that they will catch up with me eventually. But as I already said, it won't matter by then. You'll be dead. Mission accomplished, and all that." For a moment, Sturney just looked sad and weary. Then he leaned back into the sofa, cradling the gun on his lap, and said, "Ask away."
"Okay," Jim said agreeably. He didn't have a hope in hell of getting out of this alive, he accepted that now. And he did want answers. Maybe the knowing would help soothe his spirit in the afterlife. "Why? Why did you kill all those people?"
"Because I could," Sturney said expressionlessly. "Because they deserved it." He tilted his head. "It's a two part answer, really. I killed the women for one reason. I killed the three detectives for another." His lips curved humourlessly. "You can ask about one or the other, but not both. Your choice."
Brass could imagine why Sturney had killed the women. For all of the reasons that the profilers had suggested. A traumatic childhood rampant with abuse. A love/hate relationship with his mother or other maternal figure. Confused or frustrated sexuality. But why had Sturney killed Martens, Keeth and Takei? Why did he want to kill Jim?
"Why did you kill the cops?" Brass asked. "Any why make their murders look like accidents?" He wasn't really convinced that Sturney would be straight with him. Or that the other man wouldn't just decide to put a bullet between Jim's eyes instead. But he had to ask.
"Because all of this is their fault! Your fault!" Sturney replied, and the sudden force of his petulance and condemnation confused Brass.
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"Okay, I think we've got something here," Archie told Catherine hopefully. "It looks like we've managed to unlock the password. And it seems that it was a variation of the first. Which is really lucky for us."
Catherine leaned in behind the A/V tech, over his shoulder, so that their heads were close. Hers fair, his dark. Both the sapphire eyes and the onyx ones were fixed on the screen. Catherine was sure that Archie must be able to hear her heart thumping against her ribcage.
"It's not going to be as easy to determine what parts of the system Captain Brass accessed under this sign-in, as it was with the first," Archie cautioned. "Because of the way it's coded. It was designed to avoid detection. But nothing can truly be invisible. We just have to be aware of what we're looking for, and now I am."
Catherine could only nod.
"I think I can get it, in a few more minutes," Archie predicted.
"Godspeed," she whispered.
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"You know about the Videx," Sturney went on agitatedly. "You know what it is. It's an antiviral drug defined as a nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor. Sounds pretty impressive, doesn't it? And you are well aware of what it's used for. To treat human immunodeficiency virus infection. HIV. The precursor to AIDS." Dean clenched his free hand into a fist. "The drug cocktails aren't working. My health has been visibly failing in the last several months. It's just a matter of time. You see, it doesn't matter if they apprehend me now. I've already been given the death sentence." His lips curled in a sneer.
Brass wasn't sure how exactly that had anything to do with the LVPD, but heck it just went to show you that everyone blamed everything on the cops these days.
Sturney could see that the detective was clueless. "It was one of those freaking skanky bitches who gave me this disease!" Dean shouted. "Probably that stupid black cow, the one who was a hooker! And she was the first...if I hadn't gotten started...if I'd never put her out of the miserable existence that passed as her life...then everything would have been different. I might not have killed anyone. I might be well and healthy with a long life ahead of me.
"If you stupid cops had just done your damned jobs..." Sturney accused, "if you'd picked her up, had her off the streets that night...maybe...maybe all of this could have been avoided!"
Brass was failing to see the logic in the killer's rant.
Sturney sighed. "Okay, so technically she wasn't the first person who got what they had coming to them after I helped Fate along a little," he relented. "That would have been the useless, pathetic whore who called herself my mother."
Jim could hear Phil Hayter's voice, discussing his former employee. "I don't know why he took a job here, really," Hayter continued. "He mentioned one time that he had some money. Some insurance settlement. His mom died in a fire or something."
"A patrol cop picked her up that night, you know," Sturney told Brass now. "The pro. Jada Miller. She was soliciting. I'd been watching her, waiting to make a move. When I saw him put her in the car, I figured that was a sign. That this was the wrong path to go down. That this was not my destiny. It could all have ended right then and there.
"But do you know what he did? Took her around the corner, got himself a little freebie, and let her go again!" Sturney's voice was rife with his indignation. "And don't tell me an officer of the law would never do something like that," he added derisively, waiting for the detective to defend the honour of the brotherhood.
In fact, Brass fully believed Sturney's version of events. No one knew better than he did, that there were good cops and bad cops. Just because someone strapped on a gun and a badge, it didn't make them any less imperfect than the rest of humanity they pledged to serve and protect. No one passed out halos and wings when the rookies took their oaths.
"When he let her out again, without enforcing justice...without making her have to answer for having broken the laws of the land...he set in motion everything that has happened since," Dean remarked quietly. "He condemned us all to death. Miller. The other women. Your fellow detectives." Sturney tilted his head and stared at Brass. "You. Me."
Okay, Brass thought, that's some pretty twisted logic. But he was dealing with a crazy man here. What did he expect?
"So because that patrol cop didn't take Jada Miller in and book her for solicitation, you killed Denny Martens, Elliott Keeth, Joe Takei, and you're going to kill me." Brass took some solace from saying aloud the men's full names. It was as though by doing so, he could in some way bring them all back now, to face their killer. And he drew a strange comfort from feeling that...somehow...their spirits were here with him.
Jim wasn't a big believer in ghosts, or any of that channeled souls hocus pocus or anything like that. But it was as though by holding onto their memories, a small piece of each of them was inside him. He drew a strength from that. One that allowed him to face the inevitability of his own death, curiously devoid of fear.
Sturney ran thin fingers back through his thick, dark hair. "Well, not exactly. I'm not surprised you're too stupid to understand. That your thought processes are that simplistic," he spoke disparagingly. "I gave you three chances to catch me. Miller. Hegel. Marchison. And not only did you fail miserably in the attempt...you morons killed an innocent man and then gave him all the credit that was rightfully mine."
"So that's the why," the killer announced. "Do you want to know the how? That's the really fun part." Dean Sturney smiled with remembered enjoyment.
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"Okay, here it is." Archie grinned triumphantly. "Captain Brass went into the DMV database. Department of Motor Vehicles."
Catherine expelled the breath she didn't even realize she had been holding. "And...do you know what he was looking for?"
The tech's long fingers flew over the keyboard. There was a certain grace in the movement, Catherine observed, and she wondered if Archie also played the piano. "Here you go."
Dean Allan Sturney, Catherine read silently. "Did Brass do anything else while signed in under that password?" she asked.
"No, that's it," Archie replied. "This was the only thing he searched."
Who was Sturney? Why was Brass interested in him? Catherine reached past the tech and hit the zoom button. Sturney's driver's license headshot filled the screen. His light-coloured eyes were striking, they seemed to bore through her.
According to his birthdate, Dean Sturney was only thirty-five, but he looked older than that. He was painfully thin, anorexic even. He looked ill. In fact...Catherine's blood ran cold...he looked like someone battling AIDS.
"Oh my God," she whispered, horror-struck.
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"I chose Detective Takei first, because he was the idiot who killed Todd Juneau. Effectively ending the investigation. Perhaps if there had been a trial, even a bunch of incompetents like the Las Vegas Police Department might have realized their mistake." Sturney pouted accusingly at Brass. "The first time I snuck into his home, and discovered his nasty little secret, I knew that it was the perfect death for him." Dean grinned slyly.
Brass tried to calculate the distance between the chair where he sat and the sofa where Sturney was. Gradually, the wooziness he had been feeling was dissipating. Unfortunately, the pain at the base of his skull was getting worse. But Jim figured he could put up with the pain. It was the dizziness that would have precluded his ever being able to make a move on the killer.
As long as he could see clearly, and as long as he felt he could even stand on his feet and move without keeling over, Brass thought there was a chance to get Sturney. A moment's distraction, Sturney letting down his guard for just a few seconds, might be all that the detective would need. He let Sturney talk, trying to appear weaker than he was, while in reality Jim sat coiled to seize any opportunity that should come.
"It was kind of pathetic really, how easy it was to get into Detective Takei's home," Sturney said with a shake of his dark head. "He actually had taken the time to get really good locks. Deadbolts. Security bars on the basement windows. But all I had to do was climb over a six foot fence into the dog pen, and then through the doggy door into the kitchen. That golden retriever Takei had wasn't much of a watchdog," Dean laughed. "I brought him a nice sirloin tip, and he stopped barking. I told him what a good dog he was, and petted him, and he just sat there with his tongue lolling out, when I crawled through into the house."
Brass didn't find the same humour in the recollection that Sturney seemed to.
"I found his little den of inequity in a windowless room in the basement. He had quite the little contraption rigged up. It took me a few minutes to even realize what the damned thing was," Sturney said with distaste. "When I came back the next time, it was simple enough to jam the device. I just waited in the laundry room until Takei got home from work. I guess he'd had a stressful day, and need a bit of a release.
"He didn't see me at first. I stood off to the side, watching as he flailed around. I could smell his panic, once he realized the failsafe was jammed. When I stepped out in front of him...ah...you should have seen the look on his face. It was priceless! For a split second, I think he forgot all about the shame of being caught naked, with a rope around his neck, pleasuring himself, because I believe that for that fraction in time he thought that I would be his salvation.
"Of course, then he understood. I could see it, in his eyes." The fear. How Dean had savoured that, drinking it in, watching the other man grapple with the realization of his mortality.
Brass's stomache rebelled, not because of his injuries this time, but because of the cold pleasure on Sturney's face and the light, anecdotal way he spoke of a human being's murder. The detective gritted his teeth and swallowed hard.
"It didn't take long, and well, you know what they say, time flies when you're having fun." The killer cackled at the queasy look on Brass' face. "But still, for that minute or so..." Dean winked. "Sometimes I dream about it."
You bastard, Jim thought.
"And then," Sturney said, his voice low and reverent, "and then there were three."
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Somehow Brass had identified the serial killer. Catherine couldn't begin to imagine how, but he had. She was as certain of that, as she had ever been sure of anything in her life.
And the reason Jim wasn't answering his phone was because he wasn't there. Knowing who the murderer was, there could be only one place Jim Brass would go. And, Catherine knew frantically, he would go alone.
The criminalist knew that she should report this to Special Agent Fontaine immediately. She also knew what would happen to Jim if they knew what he was doing. His career really would be over. But what if he encountered a problem trying to take Sturney into custody? Brass might need back-up.
Catherine would go to Sturney's. Take over from Jim. She would call P.D. for assistance once Sturney was apprehended, and after she had convinced Brass to get the hell away from there. And once everything had broken, and things had died down again, Sheriff Mobley might have cooled off enough to reinstate the detective.
Brass had been the one to uncover the murders of the detectives. The one to realize that the Holiday Murder cases never had been solved and that a serial killer was still on the loose. He had been the one to keep digging when no one else had thought there was anything to investigate. The one whose hard work and incredible instinct would save who knew how many women in the future?
If Catherine told Fontaine or Ecklie about Sturney right now, and especially if they found the detective there, it would be all over for Jim. She owed him more than that.
Catherine keyed the screen to zoom out, and then hit print, to get a hard copy of Sturney's address. 74 Prospect Avenue. Prospect was out near the airport. One of Lindsey's friends lived on Connaught, and Prospect was one street over. She could be there in less than fifteen minutes.
"Archie, you're the best," the strawberry blonde said, clasping his shoulder and giving a squeeze. "This is between you and I right now. In twenty minutes, if you don't hear from me, I want you to show this to Grissom."
Archie had a bad feeling about things, but he trusted Catherine Willows. And he could see that whatever this was about, it was vitally important to her. "You got it." Then, to assuage the butterflies in his stomache, "Good luck."
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"Detective Martens used to go to that coffee shop almost every day," Sturney commented to the detective. "He would order a large double double. Sometimes he'd have a glazed donut too. And he was all over that sleazy blonde that worked the counter."
Brass knew that Carina Horwath was far from sleazy, and that while Denny Martens might have engaged in some innocent flirting, that had been as far as it went.
"I'd go in sometimes. It got so that he started to notice me. He was such a friendly bastard, even if he was a stupid one, and by the end it got to the point that he'd even nod to me in passing. But he had no idea who I was. Not a clue. Even after I sent him the letter. He just went about his blissfully ignorant way, without a care in the world.
"When I heard him mention to the countergirl one day that he would be by a little later the following day, that he was off and going golfing, I decided that that should be the day. The last day of Detective Martens life. The morning rush would be over by then. The streets would be mostly empty. I knew it would be perfect.
"It wasn't hard to find a vehicle to, shall we say borrow, and the Durango was ideal. Tinted windows, so even if someone saw what happened, they wouldn't see me. It was a nice, big, solid hunk of metal, guaranteed to do the job right. A Mini Cooper just wouldn't have cut it. I didn't want Martens merely injured, I wanted him dead."
Brass could picture Denny's broken body laying in the street. And then Amy and Christian at the funeral, their arms around one another, touchingly brave in their grief. If I get that gun, Jim thought with murderous clarity, I'm not going to arrest the son-of-a-bitch, I'll just gut shoot him and watch him bleed out.
"When I saw him step into the street, I got overexcited for a moment, and stepped on the accelerator a bit too soon. I was worried at first that it might alert him, and he'd get out of the way before I got to him. But he was deep in whatever passed for a thought in his average little head. By the time he was aware that I was there, and turned to look, it was too late.
"I could see his face clearly through the window above the dash. His jaw dropped in stupification. Unlike Takei, I believe that Detective Martens knew. In that instant before his death, he made the connection to the letter. Realized all of the horrible mistakes he'd made and all of the mishandlings of the deaths of those three women. I like to think that he had a little time to regret his own ineptitude, before I smashed his body to smithereens." And to feel the fear. Dean had seen it in Denny Martens eyes. That beautiful, tortured look. The knowledge that he was about to die.
"And then, " Sturney said quietly, "and then there were two."