Binding Ties

bullpen.

'What do you think, Gil?'

'I think,' Grissom said, 'we have work to do, too.'

Five

S ome sleep, a shower, and a change of clothes had done nothing to improve Gil Grissom's mood. Sheriff Atwater-in a patronizing, pseudo-friendly way that made Grissom's eyes glaze over-was putting the squeeze on about the need to catch this killer before panic settled over the city and, worse, national attention started scaring tourists away.

Interesting concept, really: Atwater wanted Grissom to 'get off' his 'duff' and do something about this case, but at the same time thought Grissom had nothing better to do than sit at his desk on the phone listening to a by- the-numbers lecture that, had it been any more predictable, Grissom could have mouthed along with.

Grissom hung up the phone, then glared at the thing, as if the instrument were responsible for Atwater's latest harangue, and for the sheriff's speeddial now seeming to hold but one number…Grissom's.

The TV stations were already pulling out file video of the old CASt murders and the CSI supervisor knew the morning editions of the papers would all have stories. The Enrique Diaz case had been tied in as well, and Grissom wondered if their two small conversations at the Banner had somehow added up to one big leak.

Grissom abhored the media-not the concept of the media, he believed in the abstract idea of a free press-but its bothersome reality in his work-life annoyed him; and similarly he hated politics-not the government or even any particular political party, but the self-interested backstabbing and gladhanding of those who-like the media- pretended to be interested in and aiding his work while only hindering it.

Brass trudged in and dropped copies of the three daily papers onto Grissom's desk.

'Extry extry,' the detective said dryly.

The Sun and Journal-Review both ran CASt headlines, and front page stories on the new crimes with continued coverage of the old ones on the inside. The Banner, to its credit, covered only the current crimes with just a perfunctory CASt mention, so as not to look wholly out of step, apparently; their headline story read: Romanov Sold In Billion Dollar Deal. Grissom did not resent what coverage they did give the murders, as they had a responsibility to their readers (and their stockholders).

'Looks like the Banner's doing its best to honor our agreement,' Grissom said, 'considering.'

'Yeah, for what good it's doing us,' Brass said, 'with all this other CASt coverage…and you don't even wanna turn on the tube. And Dave Paquette's been calling me, like, every damn half hour since we left his office yesterday.'

'Why?'

'Oh, I don't know-maybe to see if we've come up with something that will save his job?'

'We have to have something,' Grissom said, 'to share something.'

Falling into the chair opposite Grissom, Brass said, 'Along those lines? Never did get a hold of Bell. I've called the college-age daughter he's supposed to be visiting, but I get the machine, and the tape is full.'

'Technology has its limitations.'

Brass shrugged. 'One way or another, I'll track down the daughter today, and see if I can get to Perry through her.'

'All right. In the meantime, don't get too comfortable in that chair….'

'Gil, I've never sat in a harder chair. It's almost like you don't want visitors….'

Grissom smiled a little. 'On your feet, then-let's see how the rest of our world is faring.'

Brass rose, wincing as if he could feel every aching bone and muscle. 'Yeah…let's.'

They found Catherine and Nick in the break room, looking like they'd had maybe six hours of sleep between them in the past several days. Nick leaned at the counter against the back wall, waiting for the microwave. Catherine sat at a table, a paper cup of coffee in her hands, gazing into the dark liquid as if seeking a happier future; her best prospect was the raspberry Danish on a napkin nearby.

'Anything?' Grissom asked.

'Yes and no,' Catherine said, holding the cup of coffee near her lips now. She blew steam off.

'I was hoping for a little more detail,' Brass said.

Nick said, 'How's this for a detail? Phillip Carlson is a total freak.'

Grissom said, 'Freak as in possessing a physical oddity? Or as in, sexually promiscuous? Be precise, Nick.'

'Freak as in he's built a freaking shrine to a certain digit-snipping, semen-sharing serial killer.'

Grissom and Brass sat at the table with Catherine, as Nick came over with coffee and a warmed-up bagel- and-egg sandwich, and the two of them told their story.

'Oh,' Grissom said, after five minutes. 'That kind of freak.'

Catherine smirked humorlessly and shook her head. 'Yes, but unfortunately, not looking like the right freak….'

Brass didn't like hearing that. 'Sounds to me like he's plastering his walls with his own press clippings!'

Nick said, 'He's not looking right for it, Jim, at least not these new killings.'

'Because?' Grissom asked.

'DNA didn't match either crime scene.'

Catherine added, 'His DNA didn't match anything from any of the original CASt cases either.'

'And we had plenty of DNA samples to check,' Nick said, momentarily putting his food down.

Grissom asked, 'How so?'

Catherine said, 'We ran RUVIS over the carpet in Carlson's CASt shrine room…'

She referred to the gadget known as a Reflective Ultra-Violet Imaging System.

'…and white flowers blossomed all over the place.'

Grissom frowned. 'He's been masturbating to this CASt material?'

Brass was shaking his head. 'Damn it, it does make sense…. He's a chronic confessor. He identifies with the sick bastard.'

'But he's not the sick bastard,' Nick said.

'Not the one we're looking for,' Catherine said.

'Is all the evidence processed?' Grissom asked.

'No,' Catherine said. 'We've got other lab results we're waiting on, but, Gil-it's no hunch when I say Carlson's a dead end.'

Nick nodded. 'We're moving on to the other two suspects-Dallas Hanson and Jerome Dayton.'

'As well you should,' Grissom said.

Greg Sanders came in, poured himself a cup of coffee and stood smiling in front of Grissom.

'You have something,' the CSI supervisor said.

Greg's eyebrows flicked up. 'Our killer? Is…a…copycat.'

Grissom's mood lightened. 'You know? This isn't a guess, educated or otherwise?'

'I know,' Greg said.

'How?'

All business now, Greg said, 'I located the DNA evidence from the original cases, the stored semen samples-thanks to Detective Champlain, now retired but still our M. V. P. Anyway, none of it matches Rudy Orloff's deposit from the victims' backs…or the DNA from the epidermal cells on the rope.'

'Rudy Orloff,' Brass said, and sighed. 'Damn, I almost forgot about him, in all the hubbub of the Diaz killing.'

'Hubbub can be distracting,' Greg said.

'Greg,' Grissom warned.