Grave Matters

waiting over there?'

'Not at all.'

They stood off to one side as the boy disappeared down a hall and an older man, with hair as gray as his suit, met incoming guests, and led them to the correct viewing room.

Three greeters moved in and out of the action like a well-oiled machine. People came and went, and always the three men-all of a certain age and bearing-were friendly, courteous, and helpful. One approached Brass and Grissom to make sure they'd been helped; they said they had.

Grissom was impressed-he'd seen casinos with less traffic. He knew the studies showed four million visitors a year, five thousand new residents a month…but how many deaths per month? How many funerals? How many cremations? Of course, Grissom knew better than most the certainty of death. The Black business was thriving, a dying business only in the literal sense, never in the financial.

Soon the young greeter delivered a tall man in his forties with an oval, pleasant face and a monk-like bald pate.

Probably at least six-five, almost heavyset, the man-distinguished in a well-cut gray suit with a blue-and- white-striped tie-moved with confidence and grace where many his size might seem oafish; a wreath of brown circled the back of his head and he had a full but well-trimmed mustache under a slightly crooked nose and wide- set, sympathetic dark eyes.

The tall man automatically stuck out his hand. His voice was mellow and he spoke softly, almost whispering. 'Dustin Black-you gentlemen are with the police?'

Brass shook Black's hand, making short work of it. 'I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is Doctor Gil Grissom, our top criminalist.'

'That sounds impressive,' Black said with a ready smile. 'Nice to meet you, gentlemen.' The mortician turned to Grissom and shook his hand also. 'I'm a big supporter of you guys. I'm a member of the sheriff's auxiliary.'

'Great,' Grissom said with a forced smile, wondering why morticians always reminded him of ministers-or politicians. This one-both.

'I hope Jimmy wasn't too awkward with you, gentlemen.'

Brass said, 'Jimmy's your young greeter?' The boy had long since disappeared.

'Yes. It's his first time up front, but we have four showings right now. Kind of…bumper-to-bumper here today.'

Grissom asked, 'Jimmy's last name is?'

'His name is James Doyle. Why?'

The CSI shrugged. 'I'm just curious by nature, Mr. Black.'

'Ah. Well, Jimmy's been with me for years.'

'Years?'

'Starting in high school, then as an intern during mortician's school, and since his graduation. But I have a big staff, Mr. Grissom, over a dozen employees…. How may I help you, gentlemen?'

Brass glanced around at the people milling in the foyer, some on their way out, others on their way in. 'Is there some place we can talk in private?'

'Concerning?'

'Concerning,' Brass said, 'something you won't want us talking about in the lobby.'

Black led them into a spacious room that was obviously his office.

As Grissom had expected, the mortician's inner sanctum was as tasteful and staid as the rest of Desert Haven-a large gleaming mahogany desk, a wall of beautifully bound, probably unread books, lithographs of wintry scenes of cabins and barns in New England. Behind Black's desk were three framed diplomas and a window whose wooden blinds were shut. A banker's lamp threw a warm yellow pool of light.

Two visitor's chairs in front of the desk looked freshly delivered and the whole office had a mild patchouli aroma to it. Black gestured for Brass and Grissom to sit as he circled his desk and dropped into his high-back leather chair.

This, Grissom thought, had to be the fake office, this sterile, impersonal room out of a furniture ad, a place where Black met with the grieving to offer support and advice in a blandly soothing surrounding; somewhere else in this building, an office with clutter and real work had to exist.

'How can I help the LVPD?' Black asked as he steepled his fingers under his chin and rested his elbows on the desk.

'Did you handle the Rita Bennett funeral?' Brass asked.

A confident nod. 'Yes, her husband-Peter Thompson-is a close personal friend of mine.'

Grissom found that people who claimed many 'close personal friends' seldom had anything but acquaintances.

'Losing Rita,' the mortician was saying, 'was a tragedy-such a vibrant woman. She was a two-time president of the Chamber of Commerce, you know.'

Brass asked, 'Which of this large staff of yours was in charge of the arrangements?'

Confusion creased Black's face. 'Why are you asking me about this particular funeral?'

'It's come up in the course of an investigation. We'd like to know who was in charge.'

He shook his head, eyes wide, half in thought, half in surprise. 'I can't imagine what type of investigation would involve Rita Bennett's funeral.'

'Bear with us,' the detective said. 'Who was in charge?'

'I was,' Black said. 'I oversaw Rita's arrangements personally…. As I said, Peter is a close personal friend. Rita was as well.'

Grissom said, 'Must be painful.'

Black blinked. 'What?'

'We recuse ourselves in cases involving friends or family. Must be painful, preparing a close personal friend at a mortuary.'

'That presumes, Doctor, uh…Grissom? Doctor Grissom. That presumes a negative aspect to what we do.'

Grissom's head tilted to one side. 'Not at all. A physician does not operate on family, healing art or not.'

'You're correct,' Black said, his voice spiking with defensiveness. 'But I consider it an honor, a privilege, to use my art where friends are concerned. I would stop short of family, I grant you.'

'The Bennett arrangements,' Brass said, trying to get back on track. 'Everything go as planned?'

Black clearly was working to hold back irritation. 'I'm sorry, Captain. Unless you can give me some idea about why you're here, I won't be answering any more of your questions today.'

'Then I'll give you an idea, Mr. Black-at the request of her daughter, Rita Bennett's casket was exhumed this morning.'

The mortician frowned. 'Why was that considered necessary?'

Grissom said, 'Actually, that fact is not pertinent.'

Black grunted a non-laugh. 'How could the reason for an exhumation not be pertinent?'

'When the body in the vault is the wrong one.'

Black blinked. 'What?'

Brass said, 'The body in the coffin was not Rita Bennett.'

Black froze, then recovered quickly. 'Gentlemen, I'm sure you mean well, but there's clearly been a mistake. That's just not possible.'

Grissom said, 'You're right…'

The mortician gestured, giving Brass a look that said, You see?

'…there has been a mistake.'

'Well, the mistake was not ours,' the mortician insisted, and folded his arms, rocking back.

Brass leaned forward a little. 'Rita Bennett was how old?'

'Late fifties. But she looked younger.'

'Did she look twenty?'