Grave Matters

Before anyone could take a step, tears began to trickle down Crystal Dean's cheeks. Her husband slipped an arm around her, and she said, her voice trembling, 'We've been waiting for over three months. Can't you just…tell us? Tell us now?'

'Darling,' Jason Dean said, 'let's go inside and talk to these nice people.'

He was gently trying to steer her toward the house, but she was having none of it.

Her unblinking eyes were frozen in something near rage. 'Tell us what you know- please!'

'We have found your daughter…' Brass began.

Sara edged closer to Mrs. Dean, without the woman noticing (she hoped).

'If Kathy was all right,' the mother said, 'you'd say so, wouldn't you? You'd be smiling! You wouldn't look like…like you were going to cry.'

'Your daughter is gone,' Sara said. 'I'm so sorry.'

'What…what right do you have to be sorry? You think we didn't know she was dead? After all this time? You think…you think…'

Crystal Dean started to fold in on herself, but both her husband and Sara were ready. They each caught her under an arm, then guided her toward and onto the front walk. Mr. Dean tossed his keys to Brass, who caught them with one hand. The detective moved out in front of the procession and somehow managed to pick out the right key on the first try; he flung the door open and stepped out of the way as Sara and the husband drunk-walked the distraught Crystal Dean inside the house.

The front door opened on the living room and Sara helped Dean get his wife to the couch, where he plopped down next to her.

He said to Sara, 'Thank you,' and seemed terribly composed as he slipped his arm around his wife's shoulder and drew the crying woman to him. Then he shattered into tears and Sara, though she had just met these people, felt her own eyes well up and she turned away.

She and Brass moved to the far side of the spacious living room, which was furnished in white leather, the tables and entertainment center a dark, polished cherry. Family pictures adorned the walls and end tables, like an audience for a prominent high school prom-dress portrait of Kathy that presided over the fireplace. To Sara, the room told the story of a fortunate family, successful, even affluent, blessed with closeness and everything an American household could hope for-except a happy ending.

Sara whispered, 'Are they up to this?'

Brass whispered, 'Give it a few seconds. We'll follow their lead.'

Perhaps two minutes later, Jason Dean called them over to the couch, where they stood before their host like defendants awaiting a jury's decision.

With his wife's face still buried in his shoulder, Jason Dean asked, 'Where is she?'

'In the coroner's care,' Brass said.

Sara could only admire the delicacy of the detective's phrase; how horrible it would have been for these parents to have to hear, At the morgue.

Pulling away a bit from her husband, her face slick with tears, Mrs. Dean asked, 'Can we go to her?'

'Of course,' Brass said. 'But it would be helpful if we could talk now, here, first.'

But both parents were shaking their heads.

Firmly, Dean said, 'We want to see our daughter-right now. This ordeal has lasted over three months-anything else…everything else…can wait.'

Brass glanced at Sara, who shrugged.

'Would you like us to drive you?' Brass asked.

In his office, Grissom sat at his computer going over Clark County records pertaining to Dustin Black and Desert Haven Mortuary. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was reasonably certain that he would know it if he saw it. He would seek the business's financial records next. Evidence wasn't always a fingerprint on the murder weapon or a tire track on the shoulder of the road. Sometimes, Grissom knew, evidence could be far more subtle-it wasn't always tangible….

A knock at his open door alerted Grissom.

Sheriff Rory Atwater leaned there, with a casualness that was as studied as his mild smile.

'Hope I'm interrupting some real progress you're making,' he said, his tone friendly, 'on the Bennett case.'

'Sheriff-actually, it's the Dean case.'

'That's the young woman in the casket?'

'Right. Kathy Dean.'

'Spare a second to talk?'

'No,' Grissom said.

Atwater chuckled, as if Grissom had been kidding, and ambled in, the closing of the door behind him signaling just how un-casual this meeting was. Then he dropped himself into the chair opposite Grissom, leaning back, tenting his long fingers.

'Have you found Rita Bennett?'

'Not yet.'

'Where are you with that?'

'She's not the priority, Sheriff.'

'Her body is missing, and she's not a priority?'

'I didn't say she wasn't 'a' priority-I said she wasn't 'the' priority. The murdered teenager we found in her casket is.'

Atwater nodded knowingly, then said, 'Rebecca Bennett is quite distraught over this.'

'Really. I didn't think she and her mother were close.'

'How close would somebody have to be to their mother, Gil, to be upset about having her body go missing?'

'That would probably vary.'

Atwater sighed. 'Look, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job-'

'Good.'

'But I don't know how long we can keep this from Peter.'

'Peter Thompson? Rita Bennett's husband?'

'Right.'

Grissom never failed to be surprised by the behavior of the human animal. 'You haven't told Mr. Thompson that his deceased wife is missing?'

Atwater sat for a long moment before shaking his head. 'When Brass told me Rita was missing, I hoped you and your crew would solve this quickly, and we could avoid telling Peter…you know, until we'd recovered Rita's body. I mean, why cause him any needless aggravation or grief?'

'Because he's a contributor to your campaign, you mean?' Grissom blurted. Immediately, he wished he could withdraw the words.

Surprisingly, Atwater took no offense. The smile was gone, and he merely seemed weary. 'Politics is a dirty word to you, Gil-I know that. You found my predecessor, Brian, far too political for your taste.'

'We worked well enough together. You know our arrest and conviction record.'

'I do. But your conflicts with Sheriff Mobley are frankly legendary. Let me explain something to you-in the kind of clinical, even scientific manner you should understand. Look around you-look at the technological wonders at your fingertips-look at a crime lab, a facility, that is among the finest in the nation.'

'I don't take that for granted,' Grissom said.

'With all due respect, Gil-I think you do. You disdain politics-but where do you think facilities like this come from, in a state where there's no damn income tax? Figure it out, man.'

Faintly chagrined, Grissom said, 'You have a point, Rory. Easy enough for me to criticize, while you're in the trenches, trying to get me my toys.'

'Thank you. Now, you may not like it, but the outcome of this case has political ramifications.'

'What are you asking me for, Rory?'

'Just your best.'