The Siena Campus, the second St. Rose Dominican facility, was mission-style-like the Sherman and Mortenson homes-white stucco with a red tile roof. O'Riley slid to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance and was out of the car and through the doors before Brass even had his car stopped.
A crew dressed in scrubs came running out with a gurney, and Catherine handed Regan over into their care; they wheeled the woman inside, with Brass, O'Riley and Brian Mortenson in hot pursuit. Catherine remained behind, sitting in the backseat for several long moments, letting the adrenaline rush subside.
She was quite sure Regan Mortenson had killed Missy Sherman and Sharon Pope-cold-bloodedly, for reasons as yet undetermined. There could be little doubt that Regan was a sociopathic monster. And yet Catherine had just tried her best to save the woman's life.
If a cop asked her why, she might have said, to make sure that bitch didn't have an easy out, so that a murderer would live to face justice. But Catherine knew it was something else that had driven her. Let the sociopaths take life lightly. She would choose to save a life, if she could.
And if Regan Mortenson lived today, to die via lethal injection tomorrow, that would be another's judgment, not Catherine's.
She went inside to join her colleagues.
Better than an hour went by before a young doctor came out to tell Catherine and Mortenson that 'it had been touch and go,' but Regan would be fine. While the woman was still unconscious, Catherine got her DNA swab and she already had Regan's fingerprints on the Ambien bottle.
Catherine Willows went home to spend some of what remained of her Sunday with her daughter, and to sleep a few hours, before going in to CSI HQ to process her new evidence. And toward the end of shift, not long before sunup, Catherine found herself back at the hospital with Brass, Nick and Warrick.
They stood at the foot of the bed where Regan Mortenson lay like a tiny broken doll; tubes ran in and out of her, and she looked frail, and had as yet said nothing. But she was not in a coma. The doctor assured them of that.
Brian Mortenson stood next to his wife, two hands holding her limp one. No explaining love, Catherine thought. This woman had killed two people, tried to frame her husband for the crimes, and still, several times he had mentioned that he was convinced his wife was suffering from a mental condition; that these things, if she did them, Regan could only have done if she were not in her right mind.
Brass said, 'Mr. Mortenson, we've matched Regan's fingerprints to the freezer and Missy's Lexus. Her DNA was inside the freezer, in the car and on Missy's clothes.'
'No way,' Mortenson said.
The detective shrugged. 'Believe what you like, but the facts tell us your wife killed her best friend.'
'It's a lie,' Regan said.
Her voice was small and cold. Her eyes, finally open, were big and cold.
Her husband beamed at her. 'Baby…darling…you're going to be fine.'
'Welcome back to the world, Mrs. Mortenson,' Brass said, and read her her rights.
Regan stared at the ceiling, the icy blues unreadable; her husband, grasping her hand, might well have not been there, for all she seemed to care.
'Do you understand these rights, Mrs. Mortenson?'
'I understand.'
'Would you like to tell us anything?'
She turned toward Brass. 'I'd like you to tell me something, Detective.'
'What?'
'When are visiting hours over?'
'Why did you do all this, Regan? Why did you kill a woman who was supposedly your best friend?'
'Is that Old Spice, Captain Brass? Tell me you don't wear Old Spice.'
'Why Sharon Pope?'
'Have you ever seen a performance artist?'
'Why did you freeze Missy Sherman's body?'
'How do you like my responses so far?'
Brass looked toward Catherine, who shrugged. Mortenson, at his wife's side, continued to hold her hand; but he was looking at her oddly now, as if this were a person he'd never seen before, as if perhaps his wife had been replaced in the night by a pod person.
'Brian!'
Everyone looked at the man who'd just appeared in the doorway: Alex Sherman.
The late Missy Sherman's husband-unshaven, in slept-in-looking dark-green sweater and brown slacks-looked distraught. 'Brian, I got here as soon as I could.' He went to his friend, seated at Regan's bedside, and put a consoling hand on the man's shoulder.
'Thanks,' Mortenson managed, but didn't look at his friend.
Regan, however, was staring at Alex Sherman. 'You…you came.'
'Of course I came,' he said, and smiled, reassuringly. 'Worried about you two.'
Catherine went to Sherman and drew him away from Mortenson. She whispered harshly, 'What in the hell are you doing here?'
Confused, perhaps even a little hurt by her question, Sherman said, 'Well…Brian called and told me that Regan had overdosed on sleeping pills…. So of course I came right away.'
Catherine's eyes flicked to Mortenson, then back to Sherman. 'Well, that's sweet all around…. Did Brian tell you why Regan took those pills?'
'No…It's not like her-she's always so 'up.' I didn't even know she was depressed. What is going on?'
Catherine arched an eyebrow and gave it to him straight. 'Regan OD'd because she knew we had evidence proving she killed your wife…as well as that woman, the performance artist-Sharon Pope?'
Sherman looked as if the switch on his brain had been shut off-nothing was processing, eyes open, mouth open, but no movement. Finally, the gears started to work again, and he looked toward Regan, searchingly, then accusingly…and she looked away.
'She did this?' Sherman asked. 'Really did this?'
Catherine said, 'We have her cold.'
'But…why?' Sherman asked.
'She won't tell us.'
'I'll tell you,' a voice said.
Regan's voice.
Her eyes were on Alex Sherman.
'I didn't do it for myself,' she said. 'I did it for you…Alex.'
Dumbfound, Sherman staggered to the bedside opposite the seated husband, who wore a similarly poleaxed expression. With the tension in the air, Warrick moved into position, nearby.
Sherman said, 'What…what do you mean…? For…you killed Missy for…'
'You. That's how much I care.'
'You care? About me?'
Regan shook her head and looked lovingly up at him. 'She wasn't good enough for you, Alex. She was never good enough for you. Not smart enough, not funny enough, not sexy enough, not pretty enough. Don't you know who you should have been with, all along?…Me, of course. Because I love you, Alex-I've always loved you.'
Brian Mortenson dropped his wife's hand.
Regan glanced at him. The loving expression she'd shown Sherman fell away. And she laughed.
Her husband's face reddened and he drew back a big fist.
Brass shouted, 'No!'
Warrick threw himself over the woman as Mortenson's fist arced down, but at the last moment, the big man caught himself, punch glancing off Warrick's shoulder as Nick sprang around and grabbed Mortenson from behind, in weight-lifter's arms. The big man struggled for only a second, then settled down-all the air, all the fight, all the life, out of him-as Nick dragged him out of the room. Regan's husband didn't start crying till he got out in the hall, but it echoed in.
Regan was still laughing, lightly, but laughing.
