Binding Ties

Grissom said, 'What would inspire Mark Brower to play CASt copycat?'

'Are you kidding?' the editor said. 'It's painfully obvious! Mark figured to resurrect CASt, and frame Perry for it.'

Brass said, 'To what end?'

'Think about it! He immediately takes over the column, and he's in a perfect position to write the follow-up book himself…as the crime reporter who actually worked at Perry 'CASt Copycat' Bell's side.'

Quietly aghast, Grissom said, 'For something as fleeting…as meaningless, as fame? Brower would go to these…bizarre, malignant lengths?'

Paquette said, 'You're not naive, Gil. Of course he would.'

Brass's mouth twitched with disgust. To Grissom he muttered, 'No wonder you prefer insects.'

Paquette said, 'I'd, uh…just as soon stay in protective custody, if you don't mind.'

'Our pleasure,' Brass said, just as his cell phone trilled. He left the room to answer it in private.

Grissom said, 'Perry Bell's crime-beat column was at a dead end. Why would Mark Brower see it as a career opportunity worth killing for?'

Paquette was shaking his head, his smile a glazed thing. 'Bell was at the end of his career, his life. For Brower, it's a stepping stone, but think of the context: It's a different world than back when Perry and I wrote CASt Fear. Now there's way more of a chance for movies, TV, and on top of the book sale, he'd have speaking fees, talk shows would pick this up, he'd maybe even wind up on Leno or Letterman. Mark Brower…if this plan worked…would've been a star.'

'He may still be,' Grissom said softly, 'after we arrest him.'

'Damn right,' the editor said. 'Look at Richard Ramirez, David Berkowitz, Aileen Wuornos. Between movies, documentaries, TV shows, books, hell-they have more exposure than some mega-stars.'

Grissom-wondering if he'd somehow entered a Twilight Zone of infamy-glanced toward the door just as Brass came back in, his face a pissed-off mask.

'What now?' Grissom asked.

Rage barely in check, Brass said, 'Patrol car I assigned to keep an eye on Dayton? They lost him. He came out of the house, drove off and our men got stopped at the gate long enough for Dayton to shake them. Shit!'

Paquette folded his hands; looked at the table.

Something about Paquette's manner-his attempt to turn invisible-triggered Brass. He turned on the editor. 'You-you knew he was out! Didn't you, Dave?'

The editor shrugged once, stared at his hands.

'You fucking knew!' Brass yelled, his voice echoing off the walls.

Paquette turned away, then blurted, 'All right! Yes.' He threw his hands in the air. 'Yes, damn it, I knew!'

Brass drew a deep breath; exhaled; said, 'Did Perry Bell know a major CASt suspect was on the streets?'

'…No.'

'Brower?'

'Not to my knowledge. Who knows with that bastard.'

'How long have you known Dayton was out?'

Paquette hung his head. 'I knew…knew not long after he got out. Maybe a month.'

Grissom said, 'Seven years.'

The editor nodded.

'And it never occurred to you to tell us?'

'I didn't see it as your business.'

Brass slapped his hand on the table and Paquette jumped.

The detective said, 'Not even when murders started in again?'

'We all thought it was a copycat.' The editor shrugged. 'Look, the murders had stopped. Dayton got out of the nuthouse, and nothing bad happened. Anyway, you remember our book. You read it, right?'

Grissom said, 'I just reread it. You didn't think Dayton was a valid suspect. You devoted a chapter to him and how the police were on the wrong track.'

Brass leaned on his hands. 'Oh…why, Dave, I almost forgot. You said Vince and I were on the…what was the phrase? 'Verge of persecuting Jerome Dayton, an innocent afflicted with mental problems?' '

Paquette sat up, his face red. 'Damn it, Brass, Dayton was innocent! You know that. Hell, he was already committed out to Sundown, when Drake got killed.'

Grissom had never seen Brass deliver a more terrible smile than the ghastly thing he cast upon David Paquette. 'Really, Dave? You investigative journalists really dig, don't you? Only you failed to dig up one small fact: Jerome Dayton was on a weekend pass when Drake was killed.'

'…what? Oh, no. Oh, hell no…'

'Hell yes, Dave.'

Shaking now, Paquette fell back in his chair, tears glistening again. 'Honest to Christ, Jim-I thought he was innocent.'

Brass said nothing.

Grissom said, 'Where's Brower right now, Dave? Is he at work?'

The editor sighed, shrugged. 'Normally…but if he's working on a story, he could be out anywhere.'

'Reporting news, you suppose?' Brass asked sarcastically. 'Or making it?'

Brass sent an ashen Paquette back to protective custody.

As he and Grissom walked down the corridor, Brass got on his cell and dispatched Detective Sam Vega to try to locate Brower at the Banner; then he called for two patrol cars.

Grissom said, 'You're picking up Brower?'

'Gonna try to. If he's our copycat, that makes his house par for the CSI course. Wanna round up Sara and Warrick and come with?'

'Try and stop me.'

Mark Brower lived in Paradise, on Boca Grande, just off Hacienda Avenue. Boca Grande, Brass thought, 'Big Mouth'…who the hell would name a street that?

The tiny bungalow with an attached one-car garage was what a Realtor would call cozy, talking up the proximity of Tomiyasu Elementary School, and a prospective buyer would call small. From the street, the place appeared empty, curtains drawn, doors closed. The postage-stamp lawn hadn't been mowed for some time-not that it mattered, brown as it had turned.

Brass blocked the driveway with the Taurus, while Warrick left the CSI Tahoe in front, he and Grissom getting out to join Brass next to his vehicle. The two squad cars were parked nearby, uniformed officers hustling over to huddle up with the others.

'Around back, you two,' Brass told the officers, but before he got any further, his cell phone rang.

'Brass.'

'Vega. Brower's not at the paper, and nobody here has seen him since around lunchtime yesterday.'

Brass cursed, once. 'All right, Sam-thanks. We'll hope he's in the house.' He cut off the call and reported to the others.

'Next best chance is here,' Warrick said.

The two patrolmen-Carl Carrack again and another vet, Ray Jalisco-had headed around opposite sides of the bungalow. Jalisco radioed that he'd looked through the window of the garage: Brower's car was gone.

Brass acknowledged that and waited for the two men to get around back and report in before he, Warrick, Sara, and Grissom approached the house.

Sara and Grissom hung back near the garage, to serve as backup, while Brass and Warrick went for the door. Warrick took the side near the knob, while Brass went wide to the far side.

Once in place, Brass knocked loudly on the door. 'Mark Brower, open up! Police!'

The order was met with silence.

'Anything?' Brass asked into his walkie-talkie.

Carrack's voice came instantly. 'Nothing, Cap-tumbleweed blowin' through, back here.'