Binding Ties

He entered the dark apartment, followed by Catherine and Nick.

The curtains were pulled tight and very little light seeped in other than through the open door. Carlson flipped a wall switch, and a two-bulb overhead fixture that apparently housed Carlson's dead-bug collection bathed the minuscule living room in odd gray-tinged illumination.

Looking around at this world-class mess, Nick figured the 'crib' hadn't been cleaned since the Rat Pack had ruled the Strip. The CSI had entered the dwellings of obsessive-compulsives before, but taking in this prime example of the form, he fought the urge to pull on his latex gloves.

The only furnishings were a ratty sofa, two TV trays, and a twenty-five-inch television. The walls were bare, but everything else looked like the aftermath of an explosion at a landfill. Fast-food bags and cups littered the TV trays, the top of the television, and most of the pathways through the apartment. Beyond the living room, Nick could see a small dining table with a mountain of fast-food detritus and two chairs inside a tiny alcove that had once served as a dining room.

To Nick's left ran a short hallway that led to one or two bedrooms. The most striking feature of the dump, however, was the thigh-high piles of newspapers that lined the walls and took up much of the floor space.

Please God,Nick thought, don't let this ever be a crime scene….

'Sit anywhere' Carlson said, plopping onto the sofa on top of various fast-food sacks.

Nick and Catherine chose to stand-not as if there really were any seating options….

The apartment smelled of urine, dope, and puke. Nick had had less trouble keeping his eyes from watering at dead-body decomposition sites.

Forcing himself to focus, he asked, 'Mr. Carlson, do you know a man named Marvin Sandred?'

Carlson's eyes narrowed as he riffled through the Rolodex of his alleged mind, his face otherwise as blank as the walls of his apartment. 'Nope. Don't think so. That all? That was easy!'

'How about Enrique Diaz?' Catherine asked.

Something that might have been thought glimmered in Carlson's eyes. 'Listen, uh…cooperating with the Five-oh, that was my New Year's resolution back in '99. So I'm trying to be…helpful.'

Nick said, 'We appreciate that.'

'But before I say anything else, I thought it's, you know, fair for me to ask you what this is all about, anyway….'

'It's part of an ongoing investigation,' Nick said meaninglessly. 'It's not a trick question, Mr. Carlson-do you or don't you know someone named Enrique Diaz?'

'Greek to me-even if it is Spanish.' Carlson smiled to himself, savoring his wit probably in much the way he had savored the former contents of the scattered fast-food bags. 'Hey-what kind of investigation?'

Catherine said, 'Murder.'

'Whoa!' Holding up his hands, Carlson shook his head. 'I didn't kill nobody.'

'That's not what you've told the police over the years,' Nick said. 'You've confessed to what, twenty-one murders?'

'Hey, I was messed up when I was a kid, but I got help. I got medication.'

Catherine's smile seemed cheerful. 'Like the 'medication' we smelled next door?'

Carlson's hands went to his eyes, covering them, then slid slowly down his face, pulling the flesh in a melting effect; it did not go well with what he said: 'I'm straight, I tell you. That was incense, not weed.'

One look at the man's dilated pupils told Nick another story.

Nick said, 'My guess is the last time you were straight, the Beatles were still together.'

Carlson came up off the couch, his hands reaching up like claws, his eyes wide and wild.

Nick and Catherine both drew back in surprise at the sudden outburst. But only for a second-Nick gave Carlson a not-so-gentle push.

'Sit back down, Charlie Manson,' Nick said, 'and chill out.'

The hands lowered, the shoulders slumped, the eyelids slipped to half-mast; he looked like a puppet hanging by a string or two. 'You just…you got to me, man…. Hurts my feelings.'

Nick said, 'You have my sincerest apologies. Now, sit…back…down.'

Carlson swallowed and nodded and did as Nick said. Slumping, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, their host said, 'I…was…was just trying to tell you, I'm not that guy anymore. It…bums me out when people, you know…think that. I worked hard to straighten my ass out!'

Catherine said, 'Well, since you're not 'that guy' anymore, you won't mind if we have a look around.'

Shooting a quick look to the hallway, Carlson said, 'Uh…I still got some rights, don't I? Or is this more of that Patriot Act b.s.?'

'I'll stay with him, Cath,' Nick said. 'You call for the search warrant.'

Carlson looked stricken; he raised his hands. 'You guys…come on…it's not what it looks like.'

Catherine frowned. 'What's not what it looks like?'

'Nothing…' Again, Carlson glanced toward the corridor, then grinned up at the CSIs, nervously. 'I just got diarrhea of the mouth, is all…. There's no cure for that.'

Nick gave Catherine a look and she nodded.

While Catherine stayed in the living room with Carlson, Nick-gun drawn in his right hand, Mini Maglite in his left-moved down the dark hallway, sweeping the flash back and forth.

Three doors.

Open ones on the left and right, and one closed one on the left side at the end.

Nick quickly checked the two open ones-bathroom on the left, a bedroom on the right, both filthy, both empty, of people anyway; Nick had a hunch Grissom could find plenty of bugs in both to make friends with. The last door, however, was locked.

'You got a key you want to give us, Mr. Carlson?' Nick called. 'Hate to have to kick this in.'

Seconds later, Catherine's voice pinged off the plaster walls: 'He's got the key. And he's sharing it!'

Nick went back for the thing and glared at Carlson. 'Why didn't you just give it to me? You don't get points for making this harder.'

Staring at the floor, mouth hanging open, Carlson said nothing.

At the bedroom door, unsure what awaited behind it, Nick palmed his flashlight, the light extending between his index and middle fingers as he used his thumb and index finger to hold the key in his left hand and unlock the door. In his right hand, the gun came up as he swung the door in and stepped into the darkened bedroom.

Heavy drapes covered a window on the left wall, shadows dancing as Nick's Mini Mag swept over the room.

But for the beam of light, nothing moved.

He flipped the switch on the wall and another overhead dead-bug repository/light came on. The pistol slipped to his side and dangled there as Nick's amazed gaze arced around the room.

Newspaper articles, magazine articles, photos, and drawings covered the walls and even the ceiling, all sharing a common theme, in the way a teenage girl might devote her entire bedroom to some pop star. Only there was no bed, and this wasn't a shrine to a singing star or film actor…

…this was the Church of CASt.

A small dark wood table in the center served as an altar for the holy book-CASt Fear, the Perry Bell and David Paquette paperback about CASt; several scrapbooks were stacked on the table, as well. Ropes tied into reverse-eight nooses hung from the ceiling in varying heights.

When Nick came back into the living room, Catherine was standing near the hallway, eager for a report. Nick's wide eyes spoke volumes.

Carlson sat on the sofa, with the dejected expression of a thirteen-year-old whose parents had just found his porn stash.

'So, Mr. Carlson,' Nick said cheerfully. 'This effort you made to straighten yourself out-was that before or after you opened up the serial killer museum?'

Carlson sprang up, bolted toward the door.

Catherine whirled and Nick reacted right away, but still it was too late: Carlson had made it outside.