Sin City

He returned his attention to his machine. 'Let's see.'

Catherine and Sara sat down on either side of him, facing the Tektive monitor, Helpingstine stationed at the keyboard. He punched some keys and the screen came to life, the angle on the tape playing from high behind the bar.

'That looks just the same to me,' Sara said. 'No offense.'

'None taken,' Helpingstine said. 'Just wait.' He tapped some more keys and the picture improved, sharpening, the video garbage clearing somewhat.

But it was still disappointing, and Catherine groaned, 'Dan, I was hoping for better…'

'Hey hey hey,' the tech said, sounding mildly offended. 'A mini-miracle I can do on the spot. You want an act of God, it's gonna take some time.'

'Okay, show us a mini-miracle.'

With a few keystrokes, Helpingstine outlined Lipton in the frame. Then the screen went blackly blank, except for the figure of the killer center screen.

'Now that is interesting,' Sara said.

The murderer had no legs below the level of where the bar would have been, but was intact from the waist up except for a spot on his shoulder where a customer's head had been between him and the lens. They could barely make out the Las Vegas Stars logo on the ball cap, and the large dark glasses gave him the appearance of an oversized insect.

'Can you give us better detail on his face?' Catherine asked.

More work on the keys and the picture became slightly less blurry. 'Quick fix,' Helpingstine said, 'that's what you get.'

Catherine leaned forward in her chair. 'That is a fake beard, isn't it?'

'Yeah,' Sara said. She jabbed at the monitor screen. 'And a mustache too…. Could be what you found at Lipton's.'

Catherine asked the rep, 'Any other quick tricks for us?'

Using a mouse, Helpingstine moved the killer's image into a corner. Then, fingers flying over the keys, he brought up another still, this one showing the killer from behind as he towed Jenna Patrick down the hallway, toward the private dance room where she was killed. A few more clacks from the keyboard and everything in the bar disappeared except for Lipton and Jenna.

A few keystrokes later, the grainy image sharpened further, the Lipton Construction lettering on the back of the jacket springing into sharp relief. From this angle, just barely able to see one side of the killer's partially turned head, they could clearly discern the fake beard.

'Is that a shoe?' Catherine asked, pointing at a dark spot at the end of the killer's leg.

Helpingstine said, 'It would appear to be the toe of some kind of boot.'

Catherine and Sara traded looks.

The killer stood practically upright, bent only slightly as he extended his hands back to Jenna's. She seemed taller than he was, but then she was wearing those incredible spike heels.

'Did you monkey with the aspect ratio on this?' Sara asked. 'Is the picture squeezed or stretched in any way?'

'Not at all,' the rep said. 'That's reality, as seen by a cheap VHS security camera.'

'And cleaned up by an expensive electronic broom,' Catherine pointed out.

Sara pressed: 'What's wrong with this picture?'

They all studied the frozen image for a long time.

Finally, Helpingstine said, 'His head seems too big. Is that what you mean?'

The question was posed to Sara, but it was Catherine who said, 'That could be part of it…but there's something else.'

'What?' Sara asked. 'It's driving me crazy…it just looks…wrong to me.'

Catherine pointed. 'Look at the shoulders-doesn't Ray Lipton have broader shoulders than that?'

'You're saying that's not Ray Lipton,' Sara said.

'Call it a hunch,' Catherine said.

Sara gave her a wide-eyed look. 'You know what Grissom would say. Leave the hunches to the detectives-we follow the evidence.'

'Let's follow it, then,' Catherine said. To Helpingstine, she said, 'Can you stay at this a while?'

'Absolutely,' he said.

'Sometime today, call a cab, check yourself in to a hotel…there are a few in town…and save your receipts.'

'Hey, Catherine, I'm here to help-no charge.'

'You're here to make a pitch for your product; but we're not going to take advantage. You may have to stay over a night. We'll cover it.'

He shrugged. 'Fine.'

She explained that their shift started at eleven P.M., but gave him her phone and pager numbers, should he come up with something sooner.

'Are you clocking out now?' Helpingstine asked.

'No, Dan. I have a little more work to do, before I call it a night.'

'Or day,' Sara said, hands on hips. 'What do you have in mind?'

'I'm going to check Ray Lipton's alibi.'

Her eyes getting wider, Sara said, 'But he doesn't have one.'

Catherine shrugged, smiled. 'Let's follow the evidence, and see if you're right.'

9

NOT AS MANY LIGHTS WERE ON IN THE PIERCE CASTLE, tonight-a few in the downstairs, one upstairs. Distant traffic sounds were louder than those of this quietly slumbering neighborhood, the only voices the muffled ones of Jay Leno and David Letterman.

Out on bond on his possession charge, Owen Pierce opened the door on Brass's first knock-as if he'd been expecting them-the physical therapist's handsome features darkly clouded, the blue eyes trading their sparkle for a dull vacancy. He slouched there in a black Polo sweatshirt, gray sweat pants and Reeboks, like a runner too tired even to pant. His eyes travelled past the homicide captain to Grissom.

'What you found…' Pierce began. 'Is it…Lynn?'

But it was Brass who answered: 'Could we come in, Mr. Pierce? Sit and talk?'

He nodded, numbly, gestured them in, and soon Brass and their host sat on the couch with its rifles-and-flags upholstery, while Grissom took the liberty of pulling a maple Colonial arm chair around, so that he and Brass could casually double-team the suspect.

'It's Lynn, isn't it?' Pierce said, slumped, arms draped against his thighs, interlaced fingers dangling.

'We think so, Mr. Pierce,' Grissom said. 'We won't have the DNA results for a while, but the evidence strongly suggests that what we found was…part of your wife's body.'

Pierce stared at the carpet, shaking his head, slowly. Was he trying not to cry? Grissom wondered. Or trying to cry…

Grissom had a Polaroid in his hand; he held it out and up, for Pierce to see-a shot close enough to the torso to crop out everything but flesh. 'Your wife had a birthmark on her left hip-is this it?'

Swallowing, he looked at the photo, then dropped his head, his nod barely discernible but there. 'Is it… true?'

Brass asked, 'Is what true, Mr. Pierce?'

He looked up, eyes red. 'What…what they're saying on television…' Pierce's voice caught, and he gave a little hiccup of a sob; a tear sat on the rim of his left eye and threatened to fall. '…that Lynn was…cut up?'

Brass sat, angled toward the suspect. 'Yes, it's true…. I'd like you to listen to something, Mr. Pierce.' Pulling a small cassette player from his suitcoat pocket, already cued up, Brass pushed PLAY.

Pierce's angry voice came out of the tiny speaker: 'You do and I'll kill your holier-than-thou ass…'

Another voice, Lynn Pierce's terrified voice, said, 'Owen! No! Don't say-'