Binding Ties

Brass pounded on the door again.

They waited.

Nothing happened.

Raising his chin and nodding toward the door, Warrick signaled Brass that he was going to try the knob.

Brass nodded permission; his pistol was in both hands, barrel pointed skyward. Leaning forward, Warrick had his gun in his left hand, to use his right to turn the knob.

To the surprise of both men, the door was unlocked.

The CSI gave the door a shove and it swung in out of Brass's way, and the detective entered the house, gun dropping down to chest level, both hands still gripping it.

Though the room was dark-only marginal light spilled through the open door and filtered around the drapes- Brass could nonetheless see the place was a shambles.

Oh, hell,he thought. Another damn crime scene…

Having come through on the detective's heels, Warrick hesitated just long enough to hit the light switch next to the door, prints be damned in a potentially dangerous situation like this.

An overhead light revealed a tight little living room of overturned and broken furniture, magazines, newspapers, framed pictures, and knickknacks, all scattered as if dropped from above, TV set on its side, frame cracked, picture tube shattered.

Brass listened, listened, listened, but heard no sound save a clock or two ticking. The living room led straight into a dining room, where three of four chairs at a round oak table were overturned. The fourth chair lay in splinters, possibly having been used as a weapon. The detective and the CSI remained silent as they moved across the living room, guns at the ready. Just inside the dining room, a hallway peeled off to the left, and another door at the back of the room led into the kitchen.

They tried not to disturb evidence, but first priority was clearing the house, and-if they ran across him-taking Brower into custody. Signaling to Warrick to watch the hallway, Brass moved to the kitchen. Warrick backed along with him, careful where he stepped, but keeping his eyes mostly on the hallway, having no desire to be attacked from that direction.

The kitchen-light streaming in through windows over the sink-was even messier than the other rooms; it was almost as if a tornado had swept through without touching walls or roof. Brass also noticed blood spatter here and there on the floor, and on the counters-more indicative of a brawl than the chopped-off fingers of this case. And it was easy to note the smell of food going bad in the refrigerator, standing ajar.

To the right was a closed door, the garage probably; to the left, a door that led to a bedroom, maybe. Jalisco had looked through the garage window, so Brass went to the unknown entry first.

With Warrick guarding his back, Brass found a neat spare bedroom, a single bed against one wall, a desk with a computer against the other wall, near the only window. He checked the closet, but found only some hanging clothes and a case of computer paper.

'Clear,' Brass said for Warrick's benefit, backing out.

They proceeded with the garage, finding it deserted, as well. They went back to the dining room and into the hall, checking two bedrooms, the bathroom and all the closets. Mark Brower was not here, but it was abundantly clear that someone-two someones-had very much been here.

Back outside, Brass huddled again with the CSIs, saying, 'There was a hell of a fight in there, but nobody's in the house now…and from the smell in the kitchen, there hasn't been anyone for some time.'

'You think CASt found out Brower is the copycat?' Warrick asked.

Brass shrugged. 'I dunno, but something went down here…either that, or this guy's a worse housekeeper than me. We'll keep searching for him. I'll talk to DMV and find out about his car, get an APB out.'

Turning to Warrick and Sara, Grissom said, 'We're here, we'll work the scene. Maybe there's something. Sara, bedrooms and bathroom. Warrick, dining room and living room. I'll be in to help you, soon as I do the kitchen.'

Brass returned to his car as Grissom got his kit out of the Tahoe. As the three crime-scene analysts neared the house, Grissom said, 'Warrick, you've already been in the house. Go through and open the garage door, so I can get to the kitchen that way.'

'Will do.'

Enough feet had tracked through the crime scene already, and Sara had no choice but to enter through the front door to get to her assignment. Still, no reason for Grissom to add his prints to the pile.

A minute or so later the garage door motored up slowly and Grissom ducked inside. The garage was clean-a bicycle hanging upside down on the right wall, a small workbench in back, a lawnmower at left next to a plastic garbage can. A fresh oil stain about the size of a softball marked the cement where a car usually sat.

Moving through to the kitchen, Grissom got his first look at the destruction inside.

A small table, just big enough for two, normally in a bay window, had been shoved off in a corner, one chair on its side, the other, its back broken off, near the door to the garage, broken back wedged under the refrigerator. The mess included mounds of spices and powders on both the floor and the counters, having spilled from several open cupboards; and a broken bottle of jelly looked like a purple fragmentation bomb had gone off.

The tiled kitchen floor provided prime opportunity for footprints, and inspired Grissom to get out the electrostatic print lifter. He rolled out the mylar sheet, applied the two electric leads and touched them to the sheet, taking five long mylar sheets to get the kitchen done.

Next, he photographed the room from various angles, before going through the kitchen on his hands and knees, investigating the various pieces of things that had ended up on the floor during the skirmish. He bagged shards of broken glass that might contain fingerprints, did the same with bits of broken furniture and the toaster. He took samples of blood, and carefully collected threads of fabric and various powders that were probably only spices.

Finished, he took one last look around. He had covered the floors, the counters, the small table, and chairs and even looked in the open cupboards and been careful to dust for prints. The CSI was packed up and ready to leave when he glanced over at the double well sink. He had looked in there, hadn't he? Retracing his investigation, Grissom realized that when he had gotten to that part of the kitchen, he'd been focused on several blood smears on the countertop, and the hope that one might hold a fingerprint.

Pulling his Mini Maglite out of his pocket, Grissom returned to the sink. The garbage disposal side had a plastic cover fitted tightly over the drain. The sink itself was empty. The one place where all the mess should have gone, it was completely avoided, just another anomaly in a lifetime of crime scene anomalies.

The well on the right held a microwave container of chicken noodle soup that had obviously been spilled there from the drainboard next to the sink. The strainer basket had wound up across the room, against a wall, possibly used as a weapon hurled by one opponent at another. Grissom had bagged that already.

Looking down into the mass of noodles leaking into the slotted drain, Grissom thought he saw something shiny wink at him.

Carefully moving the noodles aside, the CSI got his forceps and shone the beam of his flash on the object as he gingerly guided the tips of the tool around the object.

The last thing he wanted was for the thing to fall through the slotted drain, into the trap. He would take the drain apart if he had to, but would prefer not. Slowly, carefully, he got the object into the center and clamped down on the forceps, locking the object in the tool's grip. Lifting it out, Grissom saw that he held a tiny diamond encrusted 'D.'

Flipping it over, he saw a joint on the back where something had been broken off. This was, he thought, most likely an earring. If so, why did Brower have a 'D' earring?

Bagging it, Grissom placed the earring in his kit. Jerome Dayton might be a probable candidate for the 'D,' but this seemed an unlikely piece of jewelry for a man.

He'd check with Brass later. But right now, Sara and Warrick needed help with the rest of the house.

Ten

O utside the Brower house, Jim Brass paced.

For the first time, in a case that stretched back to the beginning of his Vegas career, he sensed that the end might be in sight. The Brower house had been a blind alley in that neither the copycat suspect nor the real CASt had been found within; but the signs of struggle indicated that both had been present.