Binding Ties

'Bad?'

'Cheap…but Greg will tell you more than I can.'

Interest piqued, Grissom asked, 'Synthetic hairs from the killer?'

'Could be,' Robbins said.

'You have doubts?'

The coroner shrugged. 'Well, more like misgivings.'

Grissom said, 'Locard says two objects cannot come into contact without some kind of exchange.'

Robbins stepped away from the body and looked around the morgue, as if unsure he and Grissom were alone-perhaps a corpse or two might be faking it.

'Gil, you and I both know Perry Bell. He's a nice enough guy; probably the most honest, helpful guy in the media, where our work is concerned. Certainly harmless.'

'No argument.'

'Synthetic hairs are going to send you in his direction as a suspect.'

'Yes. We're already looking in that direction, Al.'

Robbins was shaking his head. 'Staging serial murders, to help himself make a career comeback? That would take a kind of genius, and a sociopath's world view. Gil, honestly-does that sound like Perry Bell to you?'

'No, it doesn't. But I remain a student of human psychology, not an expert. And right now, my concern is whether the evidence points to Perry Bell. Which it does. My next concern is to make sure that no one else is put in danger.'

Robbins rested a hand on Grissom's arm. 'I understand. But don't just listen to your head on this one. You have a good heart, Gil. Don't be afraid to listen to it, too.'

'That's…generous, Al. But I listen to the evidence.'

'No. You interpret it. And in any case where crimes are being staged, the evidence is as suspect as the suspects.'

Grissom thought about that momentarily, and said, 'I don't know about listening to my heart, Doc-but I won't ever make the mistake of not listening to you.'

The two men exchanged smiles, and got back to their respective work.

The circumstantial evidence against Perry Bell was growing with every passing second, and Grissom felt he had enough to go to a judge for a search warrant. Though he couldn't directly tie Bell to the murders, what he did have pointed to the writer: synthetic hair that he might be able to match to Bell's hairpiece; the magnetic keycard from the Banner; and the semen that came from a 'collector' whose description matched Bell's. Add to that the reporter being out of touch with friends, coworkers, and family since before the second murder, with no alibi for the first one, and the makings for a warrant were there.

No, not one of these things fell under the heading of compelling evidence; but as a whole they were puzzle pieces that added up to an image that, so far, resembled Perry Bell.

Judge Goshen's courtroom was busy, as usual, and, as usual, Goshen had to be completely convinced before he granted the warrant. The good thing about a warrant from this judge was that it would hold up under inspection if/when a case came to trial; the bad thing was, you damn near had to argue the case as if at trial….

Plus, like everybody else in the criminal justice system around town, Judge Goshen knew and liked Perry Bell. In the end, however, Grissom prevailed, although it took the CSI every bit of two hours to come out of the judge's chambers with that precious sheaf of papers.

Once outside, he called Brass's cell. 'You close?'

'Yeah. What have you got?'

Grissom filled Brass in, and the two agreed to meet at Bell's home in half an hour. The CSI wanted to take Warrick and Sara with him, so he drove from the courthouse back to headquarters where he found the pair busy going over the CASt package they had gotten from the Banner earlier. At one table, Sara hunkered over the box itself while across the way, Warrick bent over the mummified finger.

Grissom approached Warrick first. 'Point to anything?'

Granting his boss a smile, Warrick said, 'Anywhere I want, actually….'

And held up his right hand to reveal the skin of the finger sheathing his own latex glove-encased forefinger. 'I rehydrated the skin as much as I could, removed it from the digit, and then slipped it on.'

'And got a nice clear print, I bet.'

'Oh yeah. The finger belongs to the last original victim, Vincent Drake, the supervisor in the city garage.'

Grissom felt his stomach tighten. 'So the message is from CASt.'

'Hard to read it any other way.'

'Our first killer is still out there somewhere. Which means we need to find him before the copycat goads the real CASt into trying to compete. Stay with it and call me if you get anything else.'

Warrick nodded grimly.

Grissom went to Sara's side, and she needed no prompt to report.

'The box is a generic white gift box available at any drugstore or gift shop or half a dozen other outlets in your average mall. Ditto on the ribbon-generic red, available anywhere. Envelope is common, but it's being fumed for prints now.'

'What about the fabric?'

'Still working on that.'

Grissom nodded. 'Sara, put that on hold. Grab your kit-I need you with me.'

She flashed her a grin; she loved the lab, but the field was her passion. 'Where to?'

'We're serving a search warrant at Perry Bell's house.'

Her smile faded. 'Almost hope we're wrong about him. Almost kinda like the guy. Feel sorry for him.'

'If he's our killer,' Grissom said, 'save the empathy for the victims.'

Bell had a nice two-story stucco home on Beacon Point, just off Gilmore and not far from El Capitan Way. The Durango Hills Golf Course, a favorite of Bell's, sprawled just a few blocks south.

Winding up with the house when his wife moved to LA after their divorce, Bell had kept the place in good repair, removing the lawn in favor of the more drought-friendly Xeriscape desert plants that were replacing grass in many Vegas middle-class neighborhoods.

The squad car remained posted out front, the uniformed officer leaning against the front fender, his back to the house as he smoked a cigarette. When the Tahoe parked behind him, the officer stubbed the butt out under his shoe and walked briskly up to the driver's side window.

'House hasn't made a move,' he said good-naturedly.

Grissom recognized Carl Carrack from numerous crime scenes and knew the ten-year vet to be a sharp, good patrolman. Maybe thirty-five, Carrack stood just under six feet and carried a well-distributed two hundred pounds on a compact frame.

'Anybody at all been around?' Grissom asked.

'No neighbors, no salesmen, not even a paper boy.'

Grissom and Sara were still unloading when Brass's Taurus pulled up behind them.

Brass and Damon joined them at the rear of the SUV.

Brass looked toward the house. 'Do we know if Bell is in there?'

'Doesn't appear so. Carrack's been here for the last two hours, reports no movement.'

'And no word of Bell otherwise?'

Grissom shook his head. 'Nobody's radioed in to that effect.'

Damon asked, 'What about the APB on his car?'

'Nothing yet,' Grissom said. 'He may be holed up writing, inside, or at a motel on a bender or…Why don't we stop speculating and break in?'

The front door was recessed, and hidden from the neighbors on the north by the protruding two-car garage, in the shadow of which Grissom pulled on latex gloves. So did Sara. The cops did not.

Then-Brass at his side, Damon and Carrack behind them, Sara bringing up the rear-Grissom knocked on the green steel door.