Chapter Four

The Suspects

Part Two

The flash blinded the armature detective from Minnesota, and he blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes. Greg took the camera away from his own eye and cocked his head "Sorry 'bout that." Letting the camera rest against his chest, Greg took a step closer to the man. "Your name please?"

"Van Der Well – Cameron Van Der Well," said the man from Minnesota. "I just came to the show, if I'd have known someone was really gonna die, I wouldn't have come."

Greg did his best to hide a small grin. "I'm sure the victim wouldn't have come tonight either if he'd known."

Van Der Well shifted his feet, embarrassed by his own statement. "I only came to the show 'cause of Dicky Burton. I'm a huge Dicky Burton fan…" he smiled at the mention of his idols name.

Greg nodded, not really agreeing, he actually had no idea who Dicky Burton was, but didn't want to admit it. "You solved the murder – the fake murder?"

Van Der Well nodded. "I was a little disappointed that Dicky wasn't the, ah, how do you people say it, 'perp'?"

"No, actually, we don't say that." Greg corrected him.

"Oh, well, Professor Plum did it, the fake murder I mean, although I suppose he could have been the real one too…"

Greg held up a hand, "One thing at a time, ok?"

Van Der Well nodded and licked his lips. "Yeah. Ok."

"What do you remember seeing?"

The armature detective stared off, his eyes unfocused as he replayed the evening in his head. Greg glanced around, wondering if anyone was watching. After a moment Cameron spoke up. "Dicky was wonderful! He accused Scarlet of the murder"

"The fake murder, right?"

"Right, but she didn't do it. Mrs. Peacock was her alibi."

"For the fake murder." Greg clarified.

"Right. Have you ever noticed how Dicky holds his martini glass?" Cameron began to gush. "He holds the base, I've always found that very elegant-"

Greg cut him off. "What can you remember that pertains to the actual murder sir?"

Cameron blinked. "Um…" He shook his head "Nothing, really."

--

"Look," said Corky Miller as she tugged at the sleeve of the maid's uniform costume "if I'd known there was going to be a real murder, I'd have paid attention."

Brass sighed tiredly as he lifted his pen off his notebook and his hands fell to his sides. "You didn't see anything out of the ordinary?"

"I've got a commercial in LA, one of those ones that tells a story, ya know? It's five spots, I've been in this business a long time, and long ago gave up the dream of the A list, but this commercial was my ticket away from crap like this. Tonight was my last performance, and I was just going through the motions, ya know?" She pulled at her skit "Besides, there's to much damn starch in this thing, and it's itching the hell outa me."

"Ok," Brass said patiently "tell me about your co-workers."

She cocked her head, giving him a look that said 'you've got to be kidding me'. When Brass didn't acquiesce, she took a deep sigh of her own. "Fine. Angela –Scarlet- is a drunken slut. A real party girl, ya know? She'd fancy herself an ingénue, if she knew the word. She sleeps with any man she thinks can move her up the food chain, and even some that can't."

"She sleep with Fred?"

Corky shrugged. "From what I hear, she tried. Fred let himself into his room one night to find her naked on his bed."

Brass cocked an eyebrow at the image.

"Freddie made her leave."

"Was he was gay?" Brass asked the most obvious question.

Corky shrugged. "Dunno. But boy, was Angela pissed. No man had ever said no to her before."

That caught Brass' attention. "What else can you tell me?"

She looked around the room, looking for her next subject. "Patty's ok, she's a normal person, got a husband and a couple kids, boys I think. Not a professional, really, just does this as a hobby, something to do."

"Patty?" Brass asked for clarification.

"Mrs. Peacock."

Both their gazes traveled to the woman in the blue green dress. Done with her fingerprinting and interview, Patty had nestled herself back into the group of her fellow actors, standing near Dicky Burton who absently fingered his mustache. As they watched, Burton again brushed away the feathers attached to Patty's hat, and cast an irritated glance toward the woman before he moved away. Patty began to giggle; hiding her smile behind her gloved hand, until a uniformed officer walked in front of her and she remembered one of her co-workers was dead. The giggle died in her throat, the smile slipping away from her face. She took the hat off her head and held it in her hands near her stomach, the only sign of respect she could think of.

Corky turned back to the captain. "What about Dicky Burton?" Brass asked.

She blushed slightly. "I've known Dicky a long time. Well…we're not close friends or anything, but I was in Bikini Bingo with him. He didn't remember me…." Corky frowned, the creases around her eyes giving Brass an indication of her true age. She glanced up, her tone changed to one of defending her fellow actor. "I've changed a lot since then, I was much younger in those days," she ran her hands over her slightly plump middle.

"Weren't we all?" Brass offered with a reassuring smile.

She smiled gratefully back at him. "Dicky wants back in. He's had some problems, but he's cleaned himself up, he keeps talking about some TV drama he wants to read for, some procedural crime thing, but Fred wouldn't let him out of his contract, he wanted a star name for this piece of crap, even a faded star."

Brass took notes as she spoke, jotting down his ideas as well as what she was telling him. So far she'd given him to good suspects. He finished a thought and looked up at her. "What about Professor Plumb?"

"Ah, Teddy," she glanced over, finding the man with Catherine, being fingerprinted.

"Teddy..." Brass fished for his last name.

"Simpson, Theodore Simpson." Corky shrugged. "He keeps to himself, he's very bookish, likes to quote Shakespeare, ya know?"

"Yeah," Brass gave her half a smile, "I know the kind of guy you mean."

--

"Could you relax your hand please sir?" Catherine asked Teddy Simpson for the second time.

His head was turned away from her, and he blinked at the sound of her voice, moving his eyes toward her, focusing in like he hadn't seen her before. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

Catherine repeated herself yet again, and was a little surprised when he actually reacted to her request, pulling his hand free from her grasp and shaking it out before offering it back to her relaxed and ready for her to roll each finger over the inkpad.

His eyes and attention drifted away again, his gaze finding something deep within himself, and he mumbled something softly. Catherine was concentrating, and didn't catch it. "I'm sorry" she said, "what was that?"

Without looking at her, Simpson repeated, "'Murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul, strange, and unnatural.'" He looked at her, misunderstood her expression for one of confusion. "Hamlet"

"Un huh," she handed him a tissue to wipe the ink off his fingertips. "I have another famous quote for you."

"Yes?" He asked, very interested.

She lifted the camera up to her eye, "Say cheese," she said as she snapped the picture.

"Very funny." Simpson said, but at least she had his attention.

"So, tell me," Catherine began, grabbing his attention before she lost it again "who would want to kill Fred?"

"That's the thing, isn't it? I've been thinking about it, and I just don't know."

"You have no idea?" Catherine asked surprised, usually a suspect was all for giving up other people's secrets if it meant taking the CSI's eyes off them. She held up a swab and he somehow understood he was to open his mouth for her.

After she'd scraped the inside of his mouth, he made a face as if he smelled something bad and shook his head. "No. No idea actually. I don't," he flicked his fingers as if ridding himself of a distasteful substance, "get involved in others matters. I keep to myself."

Catherine cocked an eyebrow at him. "Surely you must have some -pardon the pun- clue, as to who might have motive to kill Fred."

Simpson gave it some more thought, even going as far as to curl the fingertips of one hand under his chin.

Catherine smiled wryly, oh this guy's good.

After what he thought was enough time, he shook his head. "No, not to overtax the pun, but, not a clue."

--

"Wayne," the butler said.

"And your last name please?" Nick asked.

"Wayne," he repeated, a small smile on his face.

"Ok," Nick was tired and irritated. "Your first name please."

Wayne's grin widened. "Wayne."

"Look-" Nick held his pen like a pointer, ready to bounce it off the butler's chest.

"My name;" he paused dramatically for effect "Is Wayne Wayne."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope. My father had a strange sense of humor."

"Ok, Mr.…Wayne. Can you tell me your roll in the play please?"

From his change in body language, it was obvious to Nick that Wayne Wayne didn't like his roll. He put his hands on his hips before he spoke. "I'm the butler."

Nick waited a moment, thinking there would be more, but when there wasn't any forthcoming, he prodded the actor. "I ah, I don't remember there being a butler in the game."

"That's true, there isn't one." Nick cocked an eyebrow, tiring quickly of this little game. Wayne took the hint and continued. "In my roll as the butler, I escort the guests in, advise them on the setting, who John Boddy - that was Fred's character- is and why the other characters are here. Then I just fade into the background, serving drinks once in a while."

"Sounds like you don't like your role much."

His hands came off his hips as Wayne squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I'm a better actor than the role requires."

"I've heard that there are no small roles, only small actors." Nick offered.

Wayne's face fell into a blank slate, and he seemed to recoil at the words. "Yes," he deadpanned, obviously finding the thought distasteful, "I've heard that too."