Binding Ties

Two other men were crowded into Paquette's office. One looked to be little more than a kid with stringy blonde hair and wide blue eyes, wearing jeans (in the front pockets of which his hands were wedged) and a black Slipknot T-shirt. The other one was Perry Bell's research assistant, Mark Brower, in a white dress shirt with blue pinstripes and a blue-and-red tie with navy slacks.

'I think you know Mark,' Paquette said to Warrick.

'We've met,' Warrick said, nodding, then shaking Brower's hand.

'And Sara's an old friend,' Brower said, shaking her hand too.

From Sara's expression, that seemed to be overstating it. But that was the atmosphere-oddly tense, forced….

Finally deciding the villagers were not a threat, the editor left his post at the door and approached his desk, gesturing to the blonde kid. 'Jimmy, here, found the letter first. Jimmy Mydalson, works in the mailroom.'

The kid nodded but left his hands in his pockets; so much for the handshake ritual here, the mailroom guy too preoccupied, flicking his eyes toward the manila envelope on Paquette's desk, as if keeping track of a coiled snake that might suddenly bite him.

'This is the item?' Sara asked, taking a step nearer the envelope.

'Part of it,' Paquette said.

'Where,' Sara said, with a sideways smile, 'is the…rest of it?'

Paquette summoned a grotesque smile. 'What, what's in the envelope is, uh, only part of the…uh…package. We haven't touched that. The package.'

'Oooh-kay,' Sara said.

'The letter, that's underneath the envelope. Right there. All three of us have touched that, and the envelope itself.'

'Let's slow down,' Warrick said. 'Tell us what happened. Take your time.'

Paquette and Brower turned to Mydalson.

The kid looked like he wanted to bolt or barf or both. Finally, he took a deep breath, pointed a shaky finger toward the package and said, 'That came into the mailroom this morning. I opened it, I read it, then I ran up to Mr. Brower, ran like hell.'

'Mark's not even a reporter,' Sara said. 'Why didn't you go to one of the editors, or someone else higher up the food chain?'

Mydalson shrugged. 'I trust Mark. He's always friendly.'

'Okay, Mark,' Warrick said. 'Over to you…'

The mailroom kid heaved a big relieved sigh, and turned to Brower, to listen to him pick up the story.

Which he did: 'Jimmy brought me the letter, I read it, then we both hotfooted it up here…so David could see it.'

Sara said, 'Why not take it to your boss, Mark? You're Perry Bell's assistant, right?'

Brower shrugged. 'Perry's in California, seeing his daughter. David's the editor Perry reports to, so that makes David my boss in this case…and I took the package to him.'

Warrick said, 'Did anyone else handle the letter besides you three?'

Head shakes all around.

'Okay-nobody panic, but we're gonna have to print you. Got to eliminate you to hone in our bad guy. Okay?'

Head nods all around.

The two CSIs put on latex gloves. While Warrick printed first Paquette, then Mydalson, Sara moved the envelope, carefully spreading open the letter, using a forceps to smooth it and not damage the evidence any further. The paper was bond, with small precise handwriting in blue pen in perfect rows.

She read the letter once, silently, then for Warrick's benefit, began again, aloud: ' 'Captain Brass-so many years have passed, and yet you have not advanced in rank. It is as if you were frozen in time and remain unchanged. In that we are alike-I too am the same. I too am frozen in time.' '

Warrick had finished with Mydalson and was about to do Brower.

'Guys, is this really necessary?' Brower asked. 'I barely touched that thing, and I got a deadline to make.'

Warrick gave the man an easy smile. 'Relax, Mark-anyway, it'll just take a few seconds, and it'll help us zero in the perp's prints.'

'What the hell,' Brower chuckled, stepping forward. 'I'll just look at it as research.' He held out his right hand.

Sara returned to her reading: ' 'They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But I am not flattered. I feel violated, and so I turn to you, Captain, for justice. I want you to know, Captain James Brass, that I had nothing to do with these reckless, witless crimes. As a token of my sincerity, I am parting with a treasured souvenir.' '

Frowning in thought, Sara stopped reading and returned her attention to the manila envelope itself, which was at least eight and a half by eleven; obviously something square still took up a good portion of the bottom half of the envelope.

Warrick finished printing Brower and moved to Sara's side.

Bending to look into the open envelope, he could see a white box maybe four inches square, a festive red ribbon wrapped around it. Sara was at his side, getting a peek herself; she glanced at Warrick, who took that as a hint.

Using his thumb and middle latexed fingers, he lifted the box out of the envelope, then studied it. After taking pictures of both the box and the letter, Warrick dusted the ribbon for prints, found none, and carefully cut it.

Then, Christmas: Warrick lifted off the top.

Inside the box, on a bed of cotton, lay a mummified human finger.

Paquette and Brower recoiled, and the mailroom clerk, Mydalson, jerked a hand to his mouth and ran to the door, opened it, sprinted out, knocking onlookers aside like bowling pins-all in about two seconds.

Good luck to you, kid,Warrick thought.

The white index finger was so seriously dried out, Warrick immediately wondered if they'd be able to get a print.

While Warrick took more pictures, Sara picked up the letter's narrative:

' 'You will find that I am who I say I am-that I am indeed the one and only, the genuine article, no cheap imitation-once you identify my possession. I have had no part in the two murders committed recently in our city. The person behind these acts is a sad imposter trying to feel important through my power. I will not allow that. My reputation is at stake and must be protected. If you cannot protect my good name, I will.' ' And it's signed, ' 'Capture, Afflict, Strangle.' '

Warrick shook his head. He and Sara exchanged telling glances-in front of these citizens, neither would comment, but both were wondering just how CASt intended to 'protect' his good name.

'He's an egotistical maniac,' Paquette said.

Warrick offered up the tiniest of smiles. 'That may be the most accurately that phrase has ever been put to use, Mr. Paquette.'

The conversation with Jill Ganine went about the way Grissom figured it would.

'Ms. Ganine,' Grissom said to the phone, the image of the attractive brunette newscaster in his mind not an unpleasant one, 'with a murder case like this, when confidential information finds its way into the media, we are concerned for a multitude of reasons.'

'Like, who you can trust, Gil? For God's sake, call me Jill. How many times have I interviewed you? Have I ever misrepresented anything you told me? Ever betrayed a confidence?'

'No, Jill, you haven't, and I respect that.'

'Good. Then you'll respect me for not divulging a source.'

Grissom sighed, but didn't let the phone hear it. 'You're compromising a case that involves a vicious killer, who is still at large-'

'You mean 'CASt,' or maybe you mean a copycat?'

'Jill, the person or persons who are providing you with information may very well be suspects themselves!'