Warrick sighed, sourly. 'Trussed up like that, woman never had a chance. Killer ties a bag over the victim's head, sits back and just watches while she dies.'
'Smoke 'em if you got him,' Nick said.
'We have one cold killer here, Nick. We been up against our share of evil ones, but this…'
'Let's see if we can't hold this to two kills. I don't want to do any more crime scenes where women die like this.'
'Good plan.'
Catherine and Brass arrived at the Palms apartment complex after a ride during which the detective had continually pissed and moaned about not being able to use the siren because it wasn't an 'emergency.'
'What's the point of being a cop if you can't use the siren once in a while?' he griped.
'Life just isn't fair,' Catherine said, and he looked at her, searching for sarcasm, but apparently wasn't a good enough detective to find it.
Catherine, in latex gloves, her own silver field kit in hand, entered the apartment, took in the empty landscape, then went into the bedroom to help Nick and Warrick secure the freezer. They bagged and packed the squirt bottle, the cinch-top bags, the duct tape, the extension cord, the old padlock and the boutique bags with the clothes, all of which Nick hauled down to the Tahoe.
Catherine slapped a new combination padlock onto the freezer, saying to Warrick, 'We don't want this popping open on the ride back to HQ.'
Waiting for the truck to arrive and haul the freezer away, the CSIs and the two detectives stood outside in the early morning sunshine. Bone-tired from the extended shift, they were nonetheless basking in the overtime they were squeezing out of Sheriff Mobley, as well as enjoying the thought of the progress they'd made on what had been until now a stubborn, frustrating investigation.
They were still waiting for the PD truck when Alex Sherman rolled in, in his Jaguar. Dressed business-casual, the dark-haired Sherman looked as though he'd taken his time getting ready.
'Captain Brass,' Sherman said. 'I'm surprised to see you-I spoke to a Detective O'Riley, on the phone. He said we had some kind of crime scene here….'
'Mr. Sherman,' Brass said, 'we believe we've found the place where your wife may have been murdered.'
Understandably, Sherman paled at the mention of his wife in those terms, but quickly he asked, 'You did? Where?'
'Here.' Brass pointed up toward the second-floor apartments.
'Oh, my God! Right in one of our own apartments?'
Brass nodded. '217H.'
Sherman's eyes flicked to Ortiz, who shrugged. Then Sherman said, 'I don't even know what to say…. Can I see…?'
'No. It's a crime scene. I will tell you that the apartment was in the name of a woman named Lavien Rose.'
'Never heard of her.'
Brass arched an eyebrow. 'She was your tenant.'
'That's Mr. Ortiz' job. What does she have to say?'
'Nothing. The apartment is empty except for a chest freezer.'
'Oh, Christ…'
'And as for Ms. Rose, she and your wife actually have something in common.'
'What's that?'
'They're both murder victims.'
'Oh…oh hell…'
'Both suffocated with a plastic bag over the head.'
Sherman stumbled over to the cement steps and sat heavily. He looked dejected, haunted; but he did not cry.
'I didn't kill my wife,' he said. 'I didn't even know this…Rose person.'
Brass went to him. 'Mr. Sherman, we need to move this talk to the station.'
'…police station?'
'Yes, sir.'
Sherman took a long breath and let it out slowly. Then his face turned to stone, the color draining out of it. Was he going to throw up? Catherine wondered. Clearly the man was fighting hard to maintain control.
His voice hard, Sherman asked, 'Do I need a lawyer?'
The detective shrugged. 'That's your decision. You don't have to make it now. We'll provide you with a phone.'
'Oh, is that right?' he asked bitterly. 'My 'one phone call'?'
'You can make all the calls you want, Mr. Sherman. But you need to come with us.'
'Should I…leave my car?'
'Why don't you? We'll give you a ride back.'
Brass and Catherine accompanied Sherman, while Warrick and Nick piled their tools into the Tahoe. O'Riley and the super were left to wait for the truck that would carry the freezer back to CSI. O'Riley would bring Ortiz in, too, though the super was clearly not as strong a suspect as Sherman now seemed.
When they got back to HQ, the first thing the CSIs did was fingerprint Sherman. The computer-whiz-cum- landlord had been reluctant to allow them to do it, but once Catherine assured him it was the fastest way to prove his innocence, and get them back on the trail of the real killer, he'd complied. Ortiz, on the other hand, allowed his prints to be taken without question, with the air of a man accepting his role in a system vastly larger than himself.
In the Trace lab, as Warrick and Catherine tested the prints of the men-she through AFIS, he using the comparison microscope on prints lifted from the apartment-Warrick said, 'That was smooth in there with Sherman, Cath.'
'Thanks.'
'You really think he's innocent?'
She shrugged, laughed humorlessly. 'I can't seem to tell, anymore. I used to think I had good instincts with people, and you'd think that would only sharpen and improve, after years on the job…but the longer I stay at this, the less I feel I know anything about people. They are always a surprise.'
'And so seldom a good surprise.' Warrick got back to his work, then added, 'Ortiz seems like a dead end.'
'I agree. A harmless nobody. And next thing you know, we'll find a freezer in every Palms apartment with a dead plastic-bagged-suffocated girl in it and his fingerprints all over.'
Warrick let out a nasty laugh. 'Gacy the Chamber of Commerce guy, Ed Gein the shy, quiet farmer, Bundy the nice helpful dude wantin' to give you a lift…'
Catherine grunted a sigh. 'There's only one thing that keeps me going.'
'Which is?'
'The victims.'
They kept at it.
Finally, Catherine said, 'Nothing from AFIS. Far as it goes, Sherman's clean.' A minute later, she said, 'Ortiz is clean too.'
She pitched in to help Warrick as he went through every print they'd gathered in the apartment, doorknobs, appliances, toilet handle and most significantly, the freezer. Not a single print matched Sherman and only the front doorknob had a print from Ortiz.
They were just sitting there, a long way away from the euphoria they'd felt a short time ago, and were just wondering if they should call it a shift, when Nick entered, bright-eyed as a puppy.
'Freezer's here,' he said. 'I'm going to work on it. Anybody want to give me a hand?'
'I'm in,' Warrick said, sighing, standing. 'Not doing any good in here, anyway.'
Catherine rose. 'I'm gonna go eavesdrop on Brass and Sherman.'
And she did, watching through the two-way glass as the short detective managed to loom over a
