Here is chapter eighteen.
Disclaimer: I could never think of all the sweet one-liners that this show has.
The second Sara's cell phone rang she picked it up. Catherine and she had been working on Roxanne's paperwork while they awaited the call. Maybe it was the slow, meticulous work that they were doing, but time seemed to pass at an extremely slow rate. The room was quiet—there was no noise except the ruffling of papers. Finally, when the phone did actually ring, Sara and
Catherine jumped in their seats. The buzz of the phone was enough to shock them.
"Hello?"
"Sara—this is Sofia."
"Hold on one moment." Sara placed the phone on the table and put it on speaker, that way Catherine could hear as well. "Okay."
"We are at Mr. Geoffrey Carrey's house." Sofia's voice filled the room. "And the police are searching through his shoes. I swear, he has more shoes than I do!" The sound of laughter in the background broke through.
Catherine leaned in toward the phone, though it did not do any good. "Are there any Giorgio Armani Men's Perforated Leather Oxfords in his house?"
The line was quiet. All that came through was a soft buzz.
"No."
The word hung in the air. Neither of the women wanted to move. How could it be that their suspect—their only suspect—was innocent? All they needed was one pair of Giorgio Armani Men's Perforated Leather Oxfords and they would be one step closer to the killer. Now, with that one lead gone, they were back where they started.
"Nothing?" Sara asked, her voice strained.
"I am sorry, but the man does not have anything of the sort. There are no shoes here that were even made by Giorgio Armani. Most of them are regular brand names that you could get at Wal-Mart. Sorry, but Geoffrey Carrey does not own what you are looking for."
"Thanks, Sofia," Sara sighed. She closed the cell phone with a click.
"There goes our lead." Catherine brushed her hair back from her face. "He could not have stepped on Roxanne Theseus' body."
"I wanted this guy," Sara blurted out. "I thought that it was him. He got on my nerves, he had the reason to do it, he just didn't sit right with me, you know. I wanted it to be him—I'll admit it—I wanted it to be him."
Catherine sat there quietly.
"What? Please say something, Catherine. It makes me feel worse when you are silent…"
"I know what you mean. There are times when I want, it too. You feel horrible for thinking it—it almost makes you as bad as the actual killer—but it happens. You work so hard to get them and then… they are not who you are looking for."
"Times like these make you feel like you failed your job."
"We have not failed," Catherine said. "We followed our lead and it ended somewhere else. It does not mean that we failed; it means that we searched everything in order to find a killer."
Sara stood up and put the phone back in her pocket. "Yeah. That's the thing about this job—you almost forget what you are doing and why."
Catherine smiled slightly. "As long as someone puts you back on the right track, then you are fine."
"Remember," Sara said suddenly, "whenever, we were in his office, how clean it was? He was always putting things into place and lining them perfectly? Well," continued Sara, "think about it. Someone as OCD as Carrey could not have dealt with all the blood and mess that took place in Roxanne's killing."
"That is true," mused Catherine. "So…Should we call Carrey and tell him that he is off the hook or should we let him sweat it out a little longer?"
***
"The next target?" Brass mumbled. "Well, that makes me job easier."
Nick pressed, "Who is it?" He glanced over his shoulder at the expecting people.
Grissom refrained himself from looking at the group. "Mr. Ibáñez."
"And how did you figure this out?" asked Brass. "It could be Mrs. Baumgartner or any of the children. The clues indicated the Judgment of Paris; any of the kids playing the three goddesses or Paris would be my logical choice. But I'm not the boss here…"
"Thank you for that input," Grissom said, indicating that he was growing impatient. "I listened to them. That is how I know who the target is." He did not continue.
"Are you gonna tell us why Mr. Ibáñez is the Chimera Killer's target?" Brass asked.
"Hector."
Nick suppressed his chuckle while Brass was trying not to become frustrated. "Explain, Grissom—we are not getting far with these one word answers."
"Hector is Mr. Ibáñez's first name; it is also a character in the play. Hector is a Trojan prince, the son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba. He kills Achilles' best friend. The man becomes so grief stricken and enraged that he kills Hector and pulled his body behind his chariot around the walls of Troy."
The men stared at Grissom for a long time. "You knew this the moment you heard Ibáñez's name," Nick stated. "Why did you wait until now to tell us about it?"
"Well, I wanted to be certain that their version of the Iliad include Hector, though I would be surprised if it did not. When he said that 'Devon plays Hector,' I knew that my hunch was right. There are two Hectors here and the real one is our target."
Brass held up his hands to stop Grissom from talking. "Great, but how would the Chimera know that Ibáñez is working on the play—and that his first name is Hector?"
"It is pretty easy," Nick put in. "You just have to type in the name of the school and the teacher's last name on the internet. Articles will come up with their full name."
"And," said Grissom, "Sampson told us that Mr. Ibáñez and Mrs. Baumgartner have been doing the plays for years."
Brass dug down into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "I think that this is enough for us to get a warrant. We're going to catch the Chimera before he catches us."
***
Warrick placed the kitchen knife on the lab table and picked up a piece of paper. On it was pictures of the puncture wounds and slash marks on Dorothea and Elliot Friar. He pulled over the marks he had just made with the kitchen knife and compared it to the pictures.
There was no match.
He had already gone through many knifes and various weapons that could have caused the wounds on the unlucky couple. As the Doc had said, they were long, thin marks that were not consistent to any ordinary kitchen knives or pocketknives.
Truthfully, Warrick was stumped on what type of weapon could have killed them.
"Hey, you have some mail."
"What?" Warrick turned around to see Greg standing in the doorway with a pile of mail in his hands. "You do realize that I am in the middle of testing weapons right now," Warrick said. "Now might not be the best time for me to read my postcards."
Greg shrugged. "Just thought that you might want to know that someone other than the tax collector sent you a letter. I'll leave them on the desk outside."
Warrick sighed and looked at his work on the table. He had been working for hours and was getting nowhere. Maybe a little break would do some good. He picked up the mail outside—there were two work related letters. He put his fingernail under the seam and tried to rip it across. It would not budge.
Where is someone with fingernails when you need them? Warrick thought.
He rummaged through the pencil holder on the desk. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a letter opener. He ripped it across the top and pulled out the letter.
I wonder, he thought, looking at the paper opener. He dropped the letter on the desk and turned back to the lab, the letter opener in hand.
To be continued…
I wonder too…
We are getting closer to the Chimera. What could happen next?
R&R