Here is chapter nineteen.
Disclaimer: I would have forced Grissom to stay on the show if it was mine…
Hector Ibáñez sat at the table, nervously wringing his hands together. He kept looking up and across the room, waiting for someone to come in. Grissom and Brass watched him from the other side of the one-way window.
"What do you think is going through his head right now?" Brass asked. Ibáñez had begun tapping his fingernails on the table's surface, still looking around him. "He appears to be a little… skittish, if you know what I mean."
Grissom watched the man for another moment before answering. "Well, the Crime Lab and Police Department shows up at his work, asks him some questions about what he has been doing with the school play, and then tells him to come back to the station. No wonder he is nervous—he does not know what he did wrong."
"Unless, he did do something wrong, and now he is afraid that he got caught," Brass grumbled.
"True," Grissom replied lightly. "It is not as if we have not seen that before."
Brass grabbed hold of his knuckles and cracked them loudly. "Shall we go in?"
"We shall."
The moment the door opened, Ibáñez lifted his head up. He jumped out of his seat and stood there, in front of the table, looking lost and unsure of what was happening. Brass and Grissom sat down in the chairs opposite from him. Slowly, Ibáñez sunk down back into his. The small, cramped room filled with silence as the men stared at each other, waiting for someone besides themselves to talk first.
"Why am I here?" Ibáñez finally asked, his voice gruff. "I have things to do. We are still putting on the play, and opening night is next week. The kids need me to be there. Mrs. Baumgartner cannot do it alone."
"We understand that," Brass said, "but there are much more important matters that need attending too."
"Important matters? Like what?"
Your life, thought Grissom.
Jim pulled out photographs and placed them on the desk. One was of Roxanne Theseus, the other of Dorothea Friar, and the final was of Elliot Friar. Their ghostly white faces stared up from the shiny pictures, their eyes open, but never seeing.
Ibáñez pulled back as if he had been stung. "Who are those people? Are—are they dead?"
"Roxanne Theseus," said Brass, slapping the picture on the table. "Dorothea Friar." Slap. "And her husband Elliot." Slap. "All of these people were killed by the same person, Mr. Ibáñez."
Recognition filled the man's eyes. "You think that I killed these people, don't you! I do not even know who they are! I have never seen them before in my life…!" His voice trailed off at the last sentence. "No, no that is not true, he mumbled to himself. "I have seen her before."
"Which one?" Grissom asked, hope and worry filling him at the same time.
"Her." Ibáñez pointed to the picture of Roxanne. He made sure that he did not actually touch the picture, as if it would attack him if he did.
"Where?" Grissom asked, his tension rising.
Ibáñez held his hand over his mouth, trying to recall where it was. "Oh, yes, I remember! It was at the post office. I remember her because she was trying to send a package to someone—I think it was her parents—and the man at the desk would not take it for some reason. She was getting all flustered, and it was holding up the line. I remember, because I was right behind her. She kept saying that it was important that it be sent, 'cause her daughter made it or something like that. Anyway, it took me forever to get finally to the desk. By the time I got there, I had missed my lunch plans. The line at the post office is always long, but that was ridiculous…. So she is… dead?" He had a hard time getting the word out. "You really don't think that I killed all these people, do you?" Ibáñez's voice recovered from the falter quickly. He was back to defending himself.
"Actually," Grissom said calmly, "we do not believe that at all."
Ibáñez looked at him incredulously. "Really? I mean, that's great, but then why am I here? Why are you telling me all of this?"
Brass pulled out more photographs and placed them on the table, next to the pictures of the deceased. "You are putting on a play based off the Iliad, right? Then you must know a little Greek mythology."
"Yes," Ibáñez said, confusion filling his voice. "But not very much."
"These pictures," Brass continued, "are all clues that the killer left behind for us to find. The Chimera Killer, as he has been dubbed, bases his killings off Greek mythology. The clues are also from Greek mythology. The last clues that we have found came from the killing of the Friars. They brought us to the school you work at. We believe, Mr. Ibáñez, that you are the Chimera's next target."
The man stared at them, his mouth hanging open. "Me?" he said, poking himself in the chest. "I cannot even think of anything that I did wrong. It's not as if I have many enemies—and none of them would want to kill me!"
"The targets of the Chimera have not done anything wrong," Grissom said before Brass could explain. "They have been killed because of their unfortunate connections to Greek mythology. You are the same, Mr. Ibáñez. Your first name is Hector. There is a character named Hector in the Iliad."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Ibáñez gasped. "This is all happening because my name is Hector, and I happen to be directing the school's interpretation of the Iliad?" No one answered the question, rather letting silence fill the room like water in a glass. Suddenly, he said, "What about the killer? How are you going to catch him? How do you even know that it is a man—do you have any proof to work off of besides these clues? You have to catch him. I don't want to be killed!"
Brass pulled out another picture. This one showed Zoë sitting in the hospital, ice over her head, and bandages over the scratches over her arms. "We do have other evidence, sir. We also know that the Chimera Killer is a man. See this girl; her name is Zoë Theseus. She is Roxanne's daughter and she survived an encounter with the Chimer Killer." Brass pushed a photo across the table, showing a frozen moment of the video from Echo. "We also have a surveillance video of him in the act."
"We did get to you before the Chimera did," Grissom said bluntly.
Ibáñez opened his mouth to say something, but then thought the better of it. "That is true… But what are you going to do about the play? I cannot let the kids down, but I don't wanna be murdered."
"We have different ideas on how to do that," Brass replied.
A knock on the door stopped him from continuing. Warrick poked his head through the half open door.
"Excuse me," he said apologetically, and waved Grissom over. The man stared over his glasses at Warrick, annoyed that they had been interrupted.
"What is it, Warrick?"
Warrick pulled out a paper that confirmed his lab tests. "I found the type weapon that was used to kill the Friars. It was a letter opener."
Grissom pulled off his glasses and looked at Warrick questioningly. "A letter opener. I have never heard that before…. Ibáñez said something about seeing Roxanne Theseus at the post office one day. I wonder…" He started to walk back into the room, when he stopped and turned back around. "Good job, Warrick."
Warrick chuckled to himself, and murmured, "It is not big deal."
"Mr. Ibáñez," Grissom said after he sat back down. "I have one question to ask you. How often do you go to the post office?"
The Hispanic man furrowed his brows in confusion. "At least once a week. I am not that good with computers; I prefer written letters rather than email. Is there a reason why you are asking this?"
Grissom let a small smile spread across his face. "Oh, I just need to send someone a letter."
***
"You know that I could not get you a search warrant off the evidence you gave me, Grissom," Brass said gruffly as the car pulled into the post office that Hector Ibáñez had mentioned. "There are not enough specifics. The judge would not take it unless we got more information."
"Yes, but you did get a warrant that will give us video footage from the post office," said Grissom, as he held up the warrant.
"True. Maybe that will give us as much as necessary. Then we might be able to actually solve this case before anyone else is killed."
The office was full of people, some putting letters into slots, others placing packages on the counter. As he stood in the doorway, Grissom found it hard to believe that technology had lessened the amount of written letters; there were so many people there, sending things out. Brass had already gotten in the long line. It was obvious that they were going to have to wait until they could get to the front desk, which was crowded with people. Grissom checked his watch, and followed Brass into the line.
Finally, they got to the front desk. A man, middle-aged with graying hair, was waiting for them, a bored frown on his wrinkled face.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice monotone.
"We would like to see the adviser of this post office," said Brass.
The man raised an eyebrow questioningly. "That would be me… Is there a problem?"
"Why don't we talk in a quieter place, Mister…Peter McConnell," Grissom said, reading the man's nametag. "If you do not mind."
McConnell looked at them suspiciously, but agreed. He brought them into the back and into an office. Once there, the men explained their reason for being at the post office, showing him the police warrant. McConnell gazed at them, unbelieving, but Grissom and Brass were use to it. After a few flustered minutes, McConnell rushed out of the room, telling them to stay where they were, and ran down the hall. He came back later, carrying a box in his hand.
"This is all of the security footage of the last month and a half," McConnell sputtered, out of breath. "Take it."
"Oh, and if you do not mind, we would like a list of all the names of the people who work here," Brass said, though the warrant did not call for it.
McConnell's eyes narrowed, but he turned toward the door once again. "I'll be right back."
"You better be," Brass muttered as he watched McConnell scramble away.
To be continued…
We are nearing the end of the story. I hope that you have all enjoyed it.
R&R