Binding Ties

'David, Jim Brass. I'm sending a car to pick you up.'

'Why in the world?'

'We're placing you in protective custody as a material witness.'

'The hell you are! I've got a paper to put out.'

'This is a serious matter, David. Overrides any work concerns.'

'Give me one good reason why.'

'Perry Bell's dead.'

Paquette said nothing, but halting breathing told Brass just how hard the news had hit the editor…unless that was a pose.

'Another CASt victim,' Brass said.

'Oh, my lord in heaven…'

For a moment Brass wondered if Paquette had started to cry. The editor and Bell had been friends, collaborators. And the murder related directly to the project they had done together that had put them both on the map.

Brass said, 'Look, Dave-don't give the officers any trouble; let them take you into custody. We can protect you. And maybe you can help us.'

'Oh…okay.'

'It's going to be all right.'

'I…I don't think so, Jim. We're…we're supposed to cover the news. Not…not be the news.'

'Well, cooperate with us and we'll keep you out of the headlines.'

Brass broke the connection.

'You do really think he did this?' Grissom asked.

Shaking his head, Brass said, 'His reaction has me wondering-I think he was weeping, Gil.'

'They were friends.'

'What do I think? I think I'm not going to think anything from now on about this goddamned case, until you tell me to.'

'Thinking is allowed. It's the guesswork we need to steer clear of.'

Brass's cell phone rang.

He answered; it was Sergeant O'Riley. He listened, thanked the sergeant, and said to Grissom, 'Just got word that Orloff at Ely State Prison says the photo of Bell we faxed over is not one of the two 'collectors' he dealt with…. Sounds like he wasn't the copycat….'

'Give us some time to work the crime scene,' Grissom said. 'We'll get something.'

Even for Vegas, their luck was lousy.

Everywhere they turned, the CASt case threw them a curve. Somehow, the killer was getting to them across the years-a madman who had stopped his vicious spree when Nick Stokes was still in college-had somehow found a way to travel through time to thwart their investigation today.

After their washout visit with Dallas Hanson at the mission, Nick and Catherine had stopped back at the lab long enough to drop off Hanson's swab and get the DNA test going. Nick believed it would turn out the same as Phillip Carlson's had-no match-but the job was about evidence, not belief.

Now, they were headed out on Blue Diamond Road toward Pahrump and the Sundown Continuing Care Facility. A sister facility of Sunny Day in Henderson-where Warrick and Catherine had recently stopped an angel-of- death killer-Sundown was more of a lockdown facility than its sibling across the valley.

Behind the wheel, Nick asked, 'So what have we missed?'

'Nothing that I can think of,' Catherine said. She went silent, and actually did think; then she added, 'We've worked the evidence. Possible Brass and Champlain were on only wrong trails, years ago, and the real CASt isn't on the original suspect list.'

'Yeah, but Brass and Champlain are first-rate guys-'

'Sure they are. But we've done it before, too-can happen easy enough, you start believing your theories before the evidence is in.'

'Happens,' Nick admitted. 'But if CASt isn't one of these three suspects, then what have we contributed?'

'We've ruled them out,' Catherine said. 'That's important, too.'

Nick's nod was grudging.

Following Amargosa Road out into the Last Chance Range, Nick couldn't help but mirthlessly smile at the hospital's location. 'Last chance' is right, he thought. Most of the patients at Sundown were dangerous either to themselves or others, and consequently spent most of their time under complete lockdown-served meals in rooms that were really cells, only getting out for exercise once a day, one-at-a-time, in a tiny yard to walk laps for fifteen minutes.

Nick pulled into the parking lot, home to maybe a dozen cars, most of which were parked at the far end, near the employees' entrance of the wide, one-story building. The facility was larger than it seemed from the front. This Nick knew, having once flown over in a helicopter, getting a view of the huge pentagon; and on a previous visit, Nick had seen the interior of the building, which had gone on forever, with endless wings, like something out of a bizarre bad dream.

If you weren't mentally ill when you came here, it would be easy to get with the program….

They climbed down from the SUV and walked toward the front entrance.

'When I have my breakdown,' Catherine said, 'promise to shoot me if they send me here.'

'No problem-same in my case?'

'Deal,' she said.

The glass double doors were chicken-wire woven. Nick tried to open one and it didn't budge.

Catherine pointed to a sign on the door that read: PLEASE USE SPEAKERBOX TO REQUEST ENTRY.

Nick said to her, 'Okay, so your attention to detail is better than mine.'

Catherine went to the box next to the door and pushed the button.

Several moments dragged by, and Catherine was frowning at Nick, as if asking for permission to try again, when a female voice asked, 'May I help you?'

'Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes to see Dr. Jennifer Royer. We're from the LVPD Crime Lab.'

'Do you have an appointment?'

'No. But I left a message on her machine.'

'…Just a moment.'

Another long pause followed, Nick and Catherine looking at each other, wondering if they had been ditched.

Finally, the woman's voice came back over the speaker: 'I'll buzz you in. Please have your credentials ready.'

The buzz that followed reminded Nick of the handshake gag you could buy at various casino magic shops. He opened the door for Catherine and they passed through. Behind him, Nick heard the thunk of an electronic lock.

'And we asked to come in here?' Nick said.

A wide-eyed Catherine said, 'This is not a happy place….'

The lobby was clean, walls a soft mint green, floors a lighter green tile, with the only decorative touch a starkly framed architectural drawing of the facility itself.

A thick patina of sadness seemed to cover everything, like emotional dust; despite the double glass doors letting sunshine seep in through the wire-mesh, the lobby remained shrouded in faint gray light, in part due to fluorescent tubes under discolored plastic tiles in the ceiling. A darker green sofa and a few matching unpadded chairs were scattered against the far walls, with a low-slung table littered with Psychology Today magazines. The scent of pine cleaner clung to the air, doing little to dissipate an aroma of sickness and death that seemed to emanate from the walls, the air ducts, even the furnishings.

These impressions were subjective to say the least, but Nick could see from Catherine's quietly appalled expression that she shared them.

She confirmed this by whispering to him: 'You're not a guest here, not even a resident-you're a