6
The picture of Bobbitt from the University could have been the real Kelly Clarkson; for all they know, it could have been. Grissom eyed the pic and compared it with a known picture of the actual Idol sweetheart printed from the Internet. The similarities were intense, but there were subtle differences in the space and shape of their features. The Clarkson clone seemed older despite her appearance. Sitting at his desk, Grissom measured the sizes between their eyes, the width of their nasal features and the breadth of their skulls. They were almost exact once he settled the size ratios.
"We got her." Brass had appeared at his door and looked at him.
"Who? Bobbitt?"
"She tried snatching a kid from a day care off Decatur." Brass gave him the file. "Officers have her in custody."
Grissom skimmed the arrest report quickly. According to the file, Bobbitt had covered three blocks with five-year-old Moira Cassidy with her and then a mile and a half before she was finally stopped and pinned to the ground kicking and screaming to be cuffed. Her chase had involved rooftops, fire escapes, the back door of the Golden Nugget Restaurant and a brief ride on a bus before ending up on the Strip watched by several hundred by-standers and twenty-two officers baring arms. It was quite obvious she was not afraid of being shot. Wearing a black leather jacket zipped up to her cleavage and faded and torn blue jeans, she sat silently leaning back in her seat. Her long brown locks draped over the back of her jacket, her hazel eyes peered up with masked innocence from her doll-like face.
"So." Brass entered with Grissom behind him and took a seat. "I guess looking like a major pop star has got to be a bitch, huh? You know, we've been looking for you."
"First off," Grissom started. He really did feel he was looking at the dubbed America's Sweetheart. Bobbitt was the exact image of the American Idol the night she won the over-hyped televised singing contest. Her face was perfect, her eyes were as innocent as a child and her body was spectacular. "We need your real name. All of your aliases have been eliminated as coming from other missing persons or deceased individuals."
Lisa tilted her head to one side as if she was bored. It did not look as if she was going to talk.
"Okay, I know where this is going now…" Jim took the lead. "Listen, pudding, that little cocktail you've been leaving behind has been connected to seventy-three disappearances in the last three years across two continents, five alone just here in Las Vegas that we know about." He looked back at her. "Now, if you work with us, the district attorney might go easy and get you whatever medical attention you need, but first, what'd you do with the bodies? You couldn't have done all this by yourself."
Lisa pulled out the front of her jacket and blew air into her cleavage trying to cool herself off. She pulled the front of it back and forth like a bellows to pump air in and out. Sitting back again, she annoyingly shifted in her seat and lifted her head back up to Brass and Grissom full of contempt for them and for what they stood.
"Are we boring you?" Brass observed her demeanor.
"We have your prints at each of the crime scenes where you've left your mark." Grissom played a more analytical and logical approach. "You know, the pool of sludge. We're going to want a blood sample from you for a medical analysis for hereditary diseases."
Lisa chuckled under breath at that one.
"What's so funny?" Grissom didn't like that response. Neither did Jim. Bobbitt just stared back at them, leaning back into her chair and taking a deep breath without a single word. She acted as if this was all a minor annoyance, just another minor obstacle in this life.
"Princess," Jim looked at her. "We've got just enough to put you in the electric chair."
The Clarkson clone defiantly extended her arms, daring them to put her in handcuffs.