Fork paused halfway to his mouth, syrup dripping from the bite of pancake, Nick Stokes said to the table in general, "I thought Gris said he couldn't come to breakfast with us because Eckly went ballistic about some overdue paperwork."
Glancing the direction Nick was looking, as did the others having breakfast with him - Sarah, Catherine, and Warrick - Jim Brass spotted Gil Grissom at another table in the diner, and just as quickly dismissed the identification despite the incredible resemblance.
At almost the same instant Warrick said, "That's not Gris."
"Come on," Nick said. "I've got eyes."
"No, he's right." Brass lifted his own fork, studying the bit of chocolate chip pancake as if it were the best thing since donuts. "Doesn't move right, see?" He smiled, as much at the prospect of his next mouthful as at the five CSI's sudden intent interest in their plates to hide their stealthy perusal of the man sitting a few aisles away, kitty-corner to their own round table. He probably had the worse view, since his back was to the man, but the wall opposite was mirrored, one reason he liked this diner so much.
Popping his morsel in his mouth with relish, Brass decided it *was* the best thing since donuts, and did his own once over of the Grissom clone. The description, he decided thoughtfully, wasn't far wrong; the similarity was that strong. The stranger was sitting with another man, signing to him with quick easy movements, clearly enjoying his own meal, or perhaps his company, with far more enthusiasm that Gil ever showed. Both men were dressed casually and had a relaxed demeanor that just screamed 'vacation.' A good one at that, he thought, to judge by the easy laughter and smiles between them. The clone's friend was about the same age as his companion: mid to late forties, taller by several noticeable inches, with the strong, sturdy build and looks of a man who had spent most of his life in outdoor work. He had lots of squint lines, darkly tanned skin, and sun bleached highlights in the mostly chestnut close-cut curls.
"Grissom's signs are much more economical, almost choppy," Catherine murmured, pulling Brass back to their conversation. "This guy's movements are graceful, elegant even."
"He's wearing a wedding ring," Sarah piped up, surprise clear in her voice.
"Which matches the one the man he's with is wearing," Warrick put in dryly.
With a hint of teasing laced with bite, Catherine said, "Doesn't eliminate our Grissom; unexpected marriages do happen."
Warrick shot her a tolerant, vaguely amused look. "They do."
"Gris married to another man," Nick broke in. "No way."
Before they could sidetrack themselves, all the CSI's were startled into silence when a waitress dropped a plate on the floor with a loud crash. Brass, who had seen it slipping from the corner of his eye, kept his gaze on the clone, nodding to himself. When the nervous laughter from the unexpected noise blended into the normal buzz of conversation said, "Our boy is deaf. No jump from the racket there, but his spouse turned to look, alerting him to it."
"Huh!" Catherine accepted Brass' word as the final one, but turned to Warrick. "Why were you so sure?"
Head down, as if giving his food his undivided attention, Warrick shrugged, but Brass knew he wasn't going to get away with it.
With a nudge, Sarah coaxed, "Come on, what gave it up to you?"
"Yeah, man," Nick chimed in. "I halfway feel like going over and introducing myself, just to be sure, it's such a close all."
Giving up his pretense, Warrick picked up his coffee cup and stared through the steam at the couple. "I've been with Gris since I started as a CSI, and I've seen him worried, angry, frustrated, annoyed, sick, in pain, and plain old bored. I have *never* seen him lit up the way that man is; wonder if they're on their honeymoon."
Laughing, Nick said, "Got a little transference going on there? You're in love so the whole world is too?"
"Think about it," Brass said, finishing off his meal and picking up his own mug. "They're not bothering to hide that they're together. Matching rings might be subtle to some, but they way they keep reaching out to each other for little touches and taps? Even if they were straight and it's part of the whole deaf thing, that would get them in hot water in too many places."
"Point," Sara said slowly, head nodding. "Which is another argument it's not Gris. He's not a toucher, even with people he likes."
"So, do we go over and tell him we've met his twin?" Nick grinned, clearly anticipating telling his boss about their run-in with his clone.
"Could he?"Catherine said, unexpectedly serious. "Be related, I mean. Not necessarily his twin."
Warrick shook his head. "Gris is an only child, mother had no family, father had more, but all female cousins and what not, I think."
"They say everyone has a double somewhere," Sara put in thoughtfully.
"As a cop, I have to tell you it happens more often than you'd think. Maybe not as close a match, but I've seen some people in line-ups that were dead ringers for the bad guy when he was eventually caught. Usually it's just a strong resemblance, but once in a while, whooooey."
"Some of the coincidences though...." Catherine trailed off, toying with her napkin and staring at the couple. "The sign language, what he's eating - Gil's favorite breakfast, as we all know - how he's wearing his hair, the beard, even the same shape eyeglasses."
Before anyone could start the argument about how much a person's features determined things like that, Brass' phone went off. Throwing down his napkin, he muttered, "What part of off-duty don't you understand?"
He tossed out the money to cover his tab and rose to leave. At the commiserating looks he got from the others, he gave a half-hearted smile, but was determined to get the last word in, or at least one they wouldn't have time for a comeback for. "If this were the movies, he'd be Gris' evil twin, plotting with his buddy to rob one of the casinos, taking Gris' place during the investigation to ruin the forensic evidence."
They all laughed as he left for quieter place to find out what Dispatch wanted, but in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder how much of coincidence it was that the man would be eating in Gris' favorite diner.
By the time he'd straightened out the snafu with Dispatch, made it home in the god-awful traffic, and gotten some sleep, Brass had almost forgotten the man. His shift was busy, frantically so for some damned reason, and by the time he got the call for a homicide on Sweets Lane, he had to think for a moment to pinpoint why he wanted to smile at the possibility of Grissom being called as CSI to the part of town that accommodated Las Vegas' less heterosexual visitors.
He got out of his car and headed for the knot of uniforms and activity that spelled out the location of the homicide to him, and pulled up short when one of them broke away to intercept him. Recognizing him as Booth, a ten-year vet who was so good at training rookies they didn't want to let him off the street, Brass nodded acknowledgement. "From your expression, I'd have to say it was a bad one. By now I'd think there wouldn't be much that could get to you."
"Brass," the burly man said quietly, hand running through his seriously thinning blond hair, "Maybe you'd better step back from this one. You know the vic. Hell, we all do, but you spend time with him off duty."
Cop hunch or something stronger kicked Brass into pushing Booth aside and trotting for the body. For the life of him, he couldn't stop himself from hoping it was the twin, not Gris, and he hated himself when he recognized the clothes the man in the diner that morning had been wearing. Sucking in a breath to kill a surge of bile, he braced his hands on his knees, chin on chest.
"Not Grissom," he panted.
"Brass..."
"Oh, my, God."
Brass' head shot up. "Rick, look at the clothes, the clothes!"
Warrick stumbled back a step, dropping his kit. "Man. For a second..."
Booth broke in. "You two are saying that's not Grissom? Look, I know you work with him more than I do, but I know him when I see him."
Not letting himself get angry, Brass said tiredly, "As you pointed out, I spend free time with the man."
Regaining his composure, Warrick went to the body lying on its back, stepping gingerly to avoid contaminating the blood splatter. He bent low, snapping a shot of the left hand, flung over the victim's head. "Pale line for a ring, same for watch." Using a pen as a prod, he checked pants pocket. "Empty, even of pocket change. Probably going to find the wallet missing."
"Robbery gone wrong?" Brass said skeptically, though he wasn't sure why.
"At least supposed to look like it. Check out the other hand." It was lying on the vic's stomach, lightly curled, as if it had fallen there after he had reached for something. "Knuckles are bruised, possibly peri-mortem, what could be defensive cuts running up the forearms. He put up a fight. Not many people would risk this kind of violence over the contents of a wallet and a cheap watch. For that fact, no thief would take the time to do this kind of damage; they want to be in and out, fast."
Interested in where Warrick's mind was going, Brass said, "He was deaf; if he didn't hear the first 'give me your money,' he might have been startled into an attack. Or the doer could have been so wired up that when the vic didn't understand him, he went off."
"Yeah, all that's reasonable. Just something about the blood pools and splatter, man." Warrick moved methodically along the length of the body, taking his shoots, and dropping numbered tags. "Look, there's a void here. And the position the body is in - I think he fell face forward initially, then was rolled over. But there's a lot of entry wounds on his midsection - why a void and not a pool?"
"Something under him that was the real prize in the robbery?" Brass didn't think so. What would a tourist be carrying that was valuable enough to die for, especially something that would absorb blood, but not stop a knife from punching past it to skin?
"Maybe, maybe. Any sign of a weapon?"
Brass looked at Booth, who was staring at both of them as if they'd lost their minds. "Weapon?" he asked sharply.
Shaking himself all over, Booth said, "Got men looking up and down the alley, canvassing for witnesses, too. This neighborhood, though, it's not likely we'll find anyone. Residents have high walls to this street because of the night-time activities, and the guys who cruise here are long gone to keep their own names and faces out of the public eye. You two looking at this as a bashing disguised as a robbery?"
"Too soon to say much of anything," Warrick said distractedly. "Have to wait to see what the evidence says."
To everyone's surprise, Booth snorted a short, genuinely amused laugh. "Can always count on you CSI's to pop out something like that." He clapped Brass on the arm. "Glad it wasn't Grissom. If you don't need me, I'm going to work the crowd."
Meeting his eyes to show his honest gratitude, Brass said, "Me, too, and thanks. Do me a favor, when the M.E. shows up, warn him, too, will you?"
"Got it."
"Hey, Brass?"
At Warrick's call, Brass went to squat down beside him. Warrick lifted a chain from inside the man's shirt until a medical alert tag was dangling free from the fabric. "Think we might have an i.d."
Pulling on gloves, Brass took it from him to read. "Walter Chathom, Hearing Impaired, blood type B+, and there's a contact number here."
Taking out his cell phone, he dialed, stepping aside to give Warrick room to keep working.
After two rings, a man briskly answered, "Paulson County Sheriff's office, Sheriff Sawyer speaking."
Eyebrows going up in surprise, Brass said, "Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas PD. Do you know a gentleman named Walter Chathom, height about..."
Before he could finish giving a description, Sawyer broke in. "Walt's my brother-in-law; he lists this number on his med alert because there's always somebody here, and we all know him. What's wrong?"
For a moment Brass didn't know what to say. First there was the assumption that Walt had been married to his companion of the morning, then there was the problem of telling a fellow cop - no matter where his jurisdiction - that his brother-in-law had been found in the local gay lover's lane.
Before he could regain his composure, Sawyer barked, "Is Walt hurt? Or John-Thomas? Are you making this call for Walt?"
"John Thomas?" Brass repeated, feeling stupid.
"My brother. Walt's partner." At Brass' continued silence, he snapped, "Same-sex unions are legal in Vermont. While that might not carry over to the wonderful state of Nevada, it doesn't make Walt any less a member of my family. Now are you going to tell me what's going on?"
With rush of emotion, and for the life of him Brass couldn't say exactly what was in the mix, he said gently, "I'm sorry for your loss, Sheriff Sawyer."
"My, god, my, god, my, god...."
It took tremendous will for Brass to keep his voice level at the degree of pain and sorrow in those words, but he did. "At the moment I have no information on your brother's whereabouts, but a man wearing Walter Chathom's medalert has been the victim of a fatal assault."
"My, god, my, god." With an almost audible effort, Sawyer silenced himself, took a deep breath, and said with complete professionalism, "John Thomas and Walt are...were doing a driving tour of the country; they've been on road for nearly a month. They've checked in with me once in a while, but I've lost track of where they're supposed to be. Their itinerary, such as it was, is back at my house. I'll have to go there to get where they planned on staying in Vegas. In the meantime I'll fax photos of the both of them, if you'll give me a number. If John's not with Walt, he might be out driving a cherry red '65 mustang ragtop, license plate Victor Charlie Able Niner Niner Zed. He'll go cruising on a nice night if he can't sleep."
"Thank you, Sheriff. I'll keep you abreast, I promise."
"You'll do more than that. I'll be on the first flight I can get to Vegas."
"Sheriff."
"Look, I started my career at the 207th in New York City; I'm not some country hick with no idea of procedure or process. I'm not going to be stepping on your toes or making demands or getting in your way." Sawyer stayed professional, though Brass could tell it cost him.
"If I were in your shoes I wouldn't be able to stay put, either, though that might be right thing to do, just in case your brother tries to contact you." Brass didn't think the argument would work, and at Sawyer's snort, he admitted, "Yeah, yeah, I know, a dozen better reasons to be here in case you're needed. Fax over those photos and any other information you think we might could use, and I'll have someone meet you at the airport."
"Done."
Sawyer hung up, and Brass folded his phone to put it away. He turned and found Warrick staring at him, mouth set. "What?"
"The sheriff's related to the vic?"
"Brother-in-law."
"Damn, that puts a whole new spin on things. Anytime a member of a cop's family gets brought down, you have to look at his cases."
Scrubbing at his face, Brass leaned against the tall wooden fence behind him, suddenly too tired to stand without a little support. "Or Grissom's. We can't ignore the chance that the perps went after this poor guy thinking they were getting the CSI that they had a grudge against."
"Or whose testimony is needed for a conviction. "Warrick studied the crime scene, fingertips tapping on the camera frame. "Going to have to tell the sheriff that when he gets here. Not a conversation I'd want to have with anybody."
"Did you guys tell Gris when you came on shift tonight about seeing his clone?"
"Yeah, razzed him about it good - or as much as anybody razzes Grissom, anyway. You know how it is."
"Zinger here, one liner there - yeah, I know. When this gets old enough that I can see the funny in it again, I'll have to ask you to tell me the best ones." Brass kicked his ass in gear and straightened up, mind racing ahead to what had to be done. "In the meantime, I'd better see Gris personally and let him know how complicated this case just got."
He walked away, muttering to himself, "And how much more complicated it can get."
***
Walking as fast as he could without breaking into a run, Gil Grissom rounded the corner to the coroner's lab and immediately slowed so that Doc Robbins would have a chance to compose himself before Gil reached him. Head averted, slumped into one of the chairs left by the lab door for inexperienced visitors who needed an opportunity to recoup from the realities of an autopsy, Robbins glanced at Gil from the corner of his eye, but did nothing to hide the state he was in. Alarmed at the lack in such a dignified man, Gil sat beside him, and dared a touch to his shoulder.
Not turning, Robbins said, "Warrick called you?"
"The moment he could. Please tell me you didn't hurt yourself when you tumbled at the crime scene," Gil said quietly.
Robbins managed a snort of near-humor. "Balance is always a precarious thing for a man with a mis-matched pair of legs; I'm good at falling. Nothing damaged, not even my pride."
"I'm sorry you walked into that without warning. Brass asked the uniforms to alert whoever came from the M.E's office about the similarity between the victim and myself, but they were distracted when the crowd got restless." Gil gave a final squeeze and dropped his hand, hoping the contact would be enough for Albert to replace that moment of stunned recognition with the reality of who was truly on the table.
After a moment's silence, Robbins said, "The weirdest part of it is that my first reaction was complete and total denial. No way was that you, dead on the ground in front of me." He half-turned, putting his good leg square against Gil's, his mouth a thin slash of determination daring Gil to shift away. "The second was just as shocking, since there's no way on this earth it could ever happen."
Surprised, both at the move and the words, Gil waited for him to continue, somehow sure that was the right thing to do.
Nodding to himself as if he'd expected that from him, Albert said very quietly, "My next clear thought was, 'if he wanted what can be found on Sweet Lane, why didn't he come to me?' Not that you would have, or that I would have, my wife and family being an absolute obstacle for both of us, but a time or two I've wondered if you'd wondered about me, about if you might like to find out about the things that happen on Sweet Lane."
"I...." Gil looked down at his hands, disturbed to find his fingers locked together, as if he were restraining himself. A dozen different quotes flew to the front of his mind, poised to deflect, unacknowledged, the emotion rising between them, but honesty compelled him to painfully respond in kind. "... have wondered a time or two. And thought that you did, too. It was... not comforting, exactly, but perhaps comfortable to have that potential there."
Candor seemed to be what Albert needed. He pulled himself together, almost visibly fitting his 'Doc Robbins' persona on. "Not that I could see you cruising Sweet Lane even if your feet were firmly as far on the opposite side of straight as Ru Paul."
"Please. I have much better taste in hairstyles." They both smiled, to Gil's relief, and he turned to the official matter at hand. "I've recused myself from the case. While I don't think there's any possibility that I'm related to the victim, I do think it'll be easier on my team if they have some distance between him and myself."
"You'll make yourself highly visible and accessible to them?" Robbins asked sharply.
"And I'm cooperating with the police escort, just in case the assailants were after me and not a tourist from Vermont." Gil nodded at the lab entrance. "Is David okay with doing the autopsy?"
Painfully getting to his feet, Robbins said, "Some qualms, but I was able to convince him that bringing in one of the day shift would be an inappropriate delay at this time. There's some concern because the domestic partner hasn't been located. Apparently family members are convinced that it was unlikely that he'd be out of touch for very long, and they couldn't find the address of where he and the vic were planning to stay. If evidence on the body can give us some clue as to the whereabouts of the missing spouse, it behooves us to find it as soon as possible."
Standing with him, Gil said, "It does beg the question why they weren't together to begin with. Not that I think that married couples are joined at the hip, but given where we found one, perhaps the other is out looking for a change as well?"
"Or they had a fight," Robbins pointed out. "They could have been at one of the gay friendly clubs at the end of the Lane, and the victim left in a huff on foot. Given the nature of the pedestrians in the area, he might have felt more comfortable walking off his mad there than on a main street."
Hit by a sudden memory, Gil reached for his cell phone. "Or walking back to his room. There are a number of extremely discreet Bed & Breakfasts catering to people with alternative lifestyles whose backyards abuts Sweet Lane."
"Dare I ask how you know that?" Robbins asked, his normal good humor apparently restored.
"Would you believe a passing comment from Lady Heather?" Relieved - on several different levels - Gil walked away, uncharacteristically glancing back once to make sure Robbins was on his way to his office.
***
"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," Warrick said as warmly as he could. "I know this is an imposition, getting up so early just to answer some questions on two of your guests."
"No trouble at all, sweetie," said the heavily made-up man who insisted as being addressed as Mrs. Levinson as he set down a coffee tray, skirts swaying prettily. "We're up and around about this time to get breakfast for our guests, anyway. I just can't imagine why you need to talk to us about that lovely couple. Dr. Chathom and Mr. Sawyer are not the sort of vulgar riff-raff that promotes the common opinion of gay couples. Cream or sugar?"
Catching his spouse's hand, Mr. Levinson, broad-chested and sturdy looking for all the gray hair and carefully manicured appearance, said, "We're very selective about who stays with us, gentlemen, and most of our clientele come to us from word of mouth. Whatever's happened, I'm sure they were involved unintentionally."
Thinking no one sane intentionally got themselves murdered, Warrick murmured, "Black," to the Mrs.
"Well," Catherine said with a smile, gracefully following up the conversational lead, "People do come to Vegas to let down their hair, at least a little."
"This is true," 'Mrs.' Levinson said with a sly smile, giving Warrick a cup. "Even a math teacher and landscaper from back east. In this case, however, I do believe the worse those two had in mind was attending the Follies Review and over-indulging at one of the better casino buffets. Let me guess, Ms. Willow, sweet and light?"
"Yes, thank, you."
"You know their plans, then?" Warrick asked carefully.
"We chatted about it when they arrived the night before," Mr. Levinson said, taking a cup from his spouse. "Mr. Chathom had a dozen of those brochures touting all the tourist traps and night sites. I do admit it was very entertaining watching his hands fly all over the place, teasing Mr. Sawyer about reaffirming their vows at the Elvis Chapel or perhaps the Little White Church."
"They wanted a late start, yesterday, after the kitchen was closed for the day," 'Mrs.' Levinson put in. "So I recommended that wonderful diner on Fulsom. I'm sure you know the one; great prices, good food, a marvelously retro fifties feel?"
"As a matter of fact, we do," Catherine said, and Warrick couldn't help but meet her gaze, sharing the weirdness of the moment. "And after that?"
"Lake Mead for sun and relaxation; apparently Mr. Sawyer is a great fan of boating and Dr. Chathom is fascinated by the effects the man-made lake has had on the local terrain - something about chaos theory in stone." Guests taken care of, 'Mrs.' Levinson perched on the edge of the couch, close to his spouse.
"Have you seen them at all since yesterday?" Warrick asked.
"No, but our wing of the house is quite isolated from the common areas," Mr. Levinson said. "I must say, though, I wasn't particularly surprised to find their room empty. You know how easy it is to lose track of time in Vegas, especially when you first get here."
Putting down his cup with care, Warrick said, "Mr. And Mrs. Levinson, I hate to ask, but may I see their room?"
"I should say not!" 'Mrs.' Levinson said firmly. "No matter what trouble they're in, they are entitled to their privacy. Unless you have a warrant, and then it had better be an extremely specific one; this is, after all, a place of business as well as our home."
With a sigh, Catherine took the hard job. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we have a murder victim, tentatively identified as Dr. Chathom. Mr. Sawyer is missing, and we're hoping that we can find some indication of where they've been for the past twenty-four hours in hopes of finding him as quickly as possible."
Looking positively grim, Mr. Levinson said, "That fuss down the street from us earlier. The lights and sirens woke me up. The Mrs, god love her, can sleep through anything, but I got up and watched out the bathroom window for a while. My, God. How sure are you?"
Exchanging another look, Catherine asked very carefully, "We're waiting for Mr. Sawyer's brother, now. Are you aware of the reputation of that street, Mr. Levinson?"
"Of course, and I warn our guests about it," he answered immediately, almost primly. "There, there, Mrs." He put an arm around his partner, who looked ready to cry. "It's too well known to the locals for the safety of out-of-towners; too easy to get rolled or bashed. The public parking we recommend is straight across from us on the lane, but it's too brightly lit for the street boys and cruisers, and we make sure it stays that way."
"Can you access your home from there?"
"Same keycard as for the bedroom door, as well as a code to punch-in. Again, we keep that part of our property well-lit. And to anticipate your next question, yes, they were parking there."
"Thank you, that does explain a lot." Warrick leaned forward. "Please, may we look at their room? We won't have any trouble getting that warrant, not with a body, but it takes time, time that Mr. Sawyer may not have."
To Warrick's sudden amusement, they exchanged a complex, expansive series of looks and gestures, and he couldn't help but think, 'long-time marriage at its best.' Standing and smoothing wrinkles from his dress, 'Mrs.' Levenson said, "Under the circumstances - of course."
Twenty minutes later Warrick finished looking through the very ordinary, very practical belongings of two men on a long trip. Here and there were souvenirs from the various places they had visited, and he was willing to bet the two of them had searched long and hard for the tackiest ones they could find, just for the humor inherent in having them. At least, that was the best explanation he could come up with for the schlock mixed in with everyday stuff.
The only class item, so to speak, was photograph in an expensive silver frame, showing the happy couple, both bare-foot and dressed in loose, white clothing, sitting on rocky ledges at a seashore. Sawyer was behind Chathom, one arm crossed over his chest, and Chathom was between his legs, leaning back on him. They looked tousled, relaxed, and very much in love.
Peering over his shoulder, Catherine said, "Better times, better places."
Warrick put down the picture with painstaking precision. "Better times?"
"Come on, Rick. You know as well as I do that most of the time the spouse is the logical suspect. I'll say this much for this one, he waited for the right time and place, even staged it just right, and had the good sense not to come back too fast." Catherine picked up a garbage container and sifted through the sparse contents as she spoke.
Going back to the job, Warrick opened the first of the suitcases he'd taken out of the closet. "Doesn't play for me. Why go on a long driving vacation, spend the time and the cash, not to mention the close contact, with someone you're planning on killing?"
"You've obviously never gone on a road trip with family," Catherine muttered. "Talk about a sure-fired way to strengthen your determination for a little marital homicide. All I'm saying is that it's likely. Method adds up, too. Knives are close and personal, and the multiple wounds indicate long-held anger."
"Then why none to the face? Usually that's a rage attack's first target." Closing one suitcase, Warrick reached for another.
Catherine paused mid-sweep of contents back into the can. "I have to admit, that one's got me, too. Cutters usually love carving up a good-looking face, too." She grinned, and finished what she had been doing. "Don't you dare tell Grissom I said that."
Staring at the contents of the small bag he'd just opened, Warrick mmmm'd an acknowledgement of the comment, and picked up a bottle at random to read the label. "I can't decide if this is another argument for or against your theory." He held up the prescription bottle so she could see it. "Heavy duty meds, here, all in Sawyer's name. I'm thinking, from the 'scripts, that he's being treated for something major."
"Huh!" Catherine took the bottle from him, then helped him sort through the contents of the bag.
In the end it was the only thing of importance that they found, and they left after apologizing yet again to the Levinson's for disturbing them, and promising that they would get in contact with them as soon as they had more information. They exited by the back door to check out the access to Sweet Lane and the parking lot, but didn't find the Mustang that Brass had said belonged to the vic. The lot was several blocks from the crime scene, leaving the question of why he hadn't been closer to his room or where his car should have been.
"Cherry red '65 Mustang ragtop," Catherine said, standing in the middle of the deserted street, studying both directions. "Could it have been as simple as a carjacking? Foot traffic is heavy, they would be going slow, maybe someone just reached in and pulled Chathom out, doing some damage on the way, then piled in and held the knife to Sawyer."
"You know, usually after we've gotten this far, we've at least got a theory about what happened," Warrick said slowly. "This case, every step we take just raises more possibilities. Come on, let's get back to the lab. I want to look at the crime scene photos. All along there's been something about the blood splatters that bothers me."
"Bet anything you find just complicates things more."
Leading the way back to the car, Warrick said, "I don't take sucker bets."
***
"Want to tell me again how we got nominated to pick this sheriff up?" Sara said, not quite complaining.
"Cause the P.D. didn't have the manpower to spare; they are way under staffed right now." Nick turned the little sign he carried so that he could see the name, then turned it back so that people disembarking from the plane could read it. "Besides, aren't you curious? This'll give us the perfect chance to pump Sheriff Sawyer for a little more information on his brother-in-law, find some more similarities between him and Gris."
"Just because they look alike, doesn't mean they'll have much in common," Sara argued, but Nick was willing to bet that she was just going through the motions.
"Both have Ph.D's," Nick pointed out.
"One in math, the other in bugs. Not much of match there."
"You need to be meticulous with attention to detail for both."
"He's a teacher."
Nick glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and decided to go honest on her. "So's Gris. You came to us with your credentials in place, so maybe it's not as obvious to you. He's good at it; gets you to think, not just regurgitate facts back at him. Come to think of it, you've been on the receiving end of at least one of his 'lessons,' haven't you?"
"You're thinking about that spontaneous combustion thing, aren't you?" At Nick's nod of agreement, Sara admitted, "Got me on that one. But it still feels like you're reaching here. To me, from what we've learned so far, Chathom was more opposite from Grissom than like him."
"Because of the gay thing? That one I'll give you, no problem." Nick would have kept up the debate, but a tall, lanky man with the same short, curly hair and dark eyes as the missing landscaper walked toward Sara and him. The grief and worry in his expression pricked sharply at Nick's conscience, reminding him that Dr. Chathom was more than just an interesting puzzle. To this tired cop, he was family, giving Nick a human face to put on the loss that had been abstract to him because he hadn't seen the body, hadn't wanted to see it for fear of seeing Grissom in it far too clearly.
"I'm Mark Sawyer," he said, shifting his carry-on from one hand to another to offer a shake. "I was expecting uniforms."
Taking it and not surprised to find a working man's calloused palm and fingers, Nick said, "Brass wanted to be here, but another case pulled him away. I'm Nick Stokes, CSI, and this is my colleague, Sara Sidle. We had court today, but it was dismissed early, so Brass asked us to be here, as a favor. I'm so sorry about Dr. Chathom."
"I've been out of touch since I sent that fax, what with all the traveling it took to get here. Can you fill me in? Have they found my brother? Any suspects for Walt's murder?"
Nick didn't know how much to tell him, if anything, and he caught Sara's eye, tossing the lead to her to see if she had a clue how to handle the questions.
She said, "I'm sorry, Sheriff; we're not working the case and haven't been briefed. I do know from locker room conversation that they did find the B&B where Mr. Sawyer and Dr. Chathom were staying; they haven't been back there since the morning after they arrived."
Dragging his fingers through his hair in exasperation, Sawyer said, "I tore my place apart looking for the list of places they planned to stop, and where they were staying at each of them. Finally had to give up if I wanted to catch my plane. Given the number of hotels in this town, that's good work."
"We've got our best people working on finding him. Brass is taking the lead himself."
"Then you can take me to him. Don't worry if I have to wait until he's free; it's not a problem."
"I don't," Nick started.
Breaking in impatiently, Sawyer said, "Look, like I told Brass, I've done my time. I know the system, and I'm not going to buck it. I am going to save you running down dead ends by giving you some info you need about John-Thomas and Walt. Just take me to the station and let me give my statement."
"You don't want to identify the body, first?" Nick asked, surprised, "and make arrangements for him?"
Sawyer's face turned very grim. "I'm not ready for that yet. If your department is satisfied with the photo and prints I sent, that's enough for me, for now. Please, the station?"
Giving in, Nick asked, "Any other luggage?"
"Just this."
"Our car is this way." Sara took the lead, clearly not happy about the turn of events.
Nick couldn't blame her. He had no idea of anyone had told Sheriff Sawyer about his brother-in-law's ersatz twin, didn't know if it was even really an issue since Grissom had recused himself. On the other hand, since they were looking at the mistaken identity angle, among too many others, it could come up unexpectedly, blind-siding Sawyer. Deciding it was really Brass' call, Nick brought up the rear, abandoning all ideas of small talk with Sawyer about his brother.
That proved to be a wise move. Sawyer was silent and withdrawn, returning their tentative conversational gambits with monosyllabic responses and staring blindly out the passenger window. It wasn't until they arrived at the station that it occurred to Nick that he should have called ahead to let Brass know they were coming. He barely had time to register the alarm on Brass' face before Grissom walked down the corridor, head over the clipboard in his hand.
Before any of the cops or CSI's could react, Sawyer ran to Grissom, sweeping him into a hug. In a voice filled with amazed relief, he said, "Walt!, my god, Walt, they told me....they told me...."
Schooling away the instant pity and pain that flashed across his features, Grissom said with incredible gentleness, hands hovering near Sawyer's shoulders, "I'm so, so very sorry..."
Hastily releasing him and stumbling back, Sawyer covered his mouth with one hand, but the other tightened into a fist that had Nick inching closer to tackle him if necessary.
With the same atypical softness, Gris added, "My name is Dr. Gil Grissom, I'm a CSI here in Vegas, night shift supervisor. Frankly, I have no idea what to say to you that would help just now."
Sawyer visibly pulled himself together, slumping against the wall. Aiming an irate look at Nick, Sara and Brass, he snapped, "You couldn't mention this?"
"It's not the sort of thing to discuss over the phone," Brass said without a trace of defensiveness. "And because Gil normally works nights, I didn't expect the two of you to bump into each other quite so soon."
"We didn't think it was our place," Nick put in quietly.
Pulling himself upright, Sawyer said, "CSI - that means that you have to be looking at your cases to see if anyone might have mistaken Walt for you."
"Just as we're looking at yours." Brass held up an assortment of folders. "Not many, which surprises me." He went to Sawyer's side, and gestured toward an open interrogation room. "Twenty years in NYPD, you'd think you'd have a few hard asses looking for you."
Letting himself be ushered away, Sawyer said, "Been a sheriff for a while. Old grudges are likely lifers or gone already. Torryton doesn't have ten thousand people. Got a few people annoyed with me, but nothing serious enough to warrant going after my family to get even. The deaf school where Walt teaches the big industry there; not much in the way of crime."
"Vegas isn't as bad as you'd think," Brass said conversationally. "Bad for tourism."
Sawyer looked back over his shoulder at Grissom with an odd sort of weary curiosity. "I always wondered what Walt would sound like if he spoke. Man wouldn't utter a peep, even when he was hurt, so I've never had a clue about his voice." He went through the door and sat down in the nearest chair, deliberately putting his back to everyone.
Fighting the urge to hug Grissom himself, as if that would erase the slightly baffled, slightly sad look from him, Nick left for home, sure that sleep would be a long time coming today.
***
After shutting the door and making the standard offer for coffee and food, Brass sent a uniform after what Sawyer wanted, then sat down, briskly opening the top file. "Since you know the drill here, want to get down to it and get it over with?"
"Yeah, let's do it." Sawyer clasped his hands on the table in front of him, but met Brass' eyes squarely. "Look, we both know how this hand usually plays out. You look first at the domestic partner because of the usual things - money, rage, abuse, infidelity, or divorce .38 special style.
"The money angle is looking good," Brass admitted. "First check on financials on both men came through, and while they're both better than comfortable, greed does happen."
Not at all bothered by the suggestion, Sawyer said, "As the executor of their wills, I can tell you they're way past comfortable. Besides, I've got the trump card for money or any other motive you think Jon might have - cancer."
Surprised, despite the hint from the drugs Catherine and Warrick had found, Brass sat back in his chair. "Bad?"
"Pancreatic, already metastasized; he has about four months, not much more of them good, if you know what I mean." Sawyer tapped his finger on the table for emphasis as he hit the high point of his argument. "John-Thomas has a phobia about dying alone, like our mom did, reinforced when his first partner died of AIDS back when even tolerant people worried that they could get the disease by being in the same room with a patient. Jon nursed him, practically by himself, until the end. No way would he do *anything* that might separate him from Walt."
"No chemo?" Brass asked, more to keep the conversation going than because he needed to know.
"It couldn't save him, and he didn't want to spend his last weeks weak and sick. He and Walt had been planning the driving tour for years, meaning to go on their twenty-fifth for reasons he never talks about but always makes him grin." Sawyer's chin dropped to his chest. "They made it just past twenty, though. Me, I've been married twice, never gotten past the third anniversary."
As much to pull him out of his misery as anything else, Brass said, "So to cover all the highlights for me, just so my ass isn't hanging in the wind. Is there somebody who might be jealous of Walt because they want John-Thomas? Is his illness common knowledge, so it's somebody out to hurt Jon by taking Walt? Come on, work with me here." He said the last with something resembling a smile, and to his surprise, Sheriff Sawyer responded to it, though a bit twisted at the edges.
"By the book then." Sawyer got comfortable in his seat, and answered the usual questions quickly and thoroughly, giving Brass a good idea of just how good a cop the man probably was. By the end of it he had what he thought was a fairly decent picture of the victim's life, and not a single idea of why anybody except a random killer would want to take it. When they were done, he stood, offering his hand. "If there's anything else that comes up, you know I'll be in touch. Do you want a ride to the morgue, now? Get that part over with."
"Might as well."
Brass led the way out, and by the time they reached their destination, he couldn't help but wonder if deep silences were the norm for the Sawyer family. Certainly could explain why the younger one would be comfortable with a man who refused to make noise. The sheriff didn't speak again, nodding once or twice at Brass' attempts at small talk, until they were in Doc Robbin's office.
"You're here late," Brass said by way of hello, then gestured to the sheriff. "Mark Sawyer, here for the Chathom case."
Standing awkwardly, Robbins offered his hand. "Wife's out of town, and I couldn't sleep, so I decided to clear away some of the ever-present paper work. My condolences, Sheriff. Did Dr. Chathom have any other family that we need to notify?"
"No, only child, mother died in childbirth, father gone in a car crash when Walt was about seventeen. No aunts or uncles as far as he knew. I've already spoken to the headmaster of the school; she's heartbroken. Most of the other staff and students will be, too. He was well liked." Looking around uneasily, Sawyer ran his hand over his face again in what Brass was beginning to recognize as a habitual gesture. "I have a favor to ask. I'd like to actually see the body, not just a picture or a video. It's not that I don't trust the cops or labs here, but I *know* Walt. That can make a difference, sometimes."
Trading a look with Brass, Robbins said, "I can't argue with that, since you're trained in what to look for."
He didn't move, despite Sawyer's clear expectation of it, and Brass stepped to his side to say quietly, "You want me to take him in?"
Obviously relieved, Robbins said, "Please? Drawer 7A."
With a nod, Brass took Sawyer across the hall, hesitating before opening the door to make sure he was ready. Not so sure he was ready himself, he said by way of explanation, "Robbins and Grissom go way back. I've read the autopsy report and can answer your questions if you have any. If I can't, we can stop back by the doc's office. He'll wait to make sure."
"I can't even see doing this for a living, let alone working on someone I know personally," Sawyer muttered.
"Doc Robbins treats them with respect, even when some of the stuff he has to do is pretty rotten on the surface." As assurances went, it wasn't the best Brass had ever offered, but Sawyer seemed to take it to heart.
Opening the drawer, not able to look at the body in it himself, Brass waited for Sawyer's verdict.
"Hey, Teach," Sawyer murmured. "This is the last place I thought I'd ever see you." He smoothed a knuckle over the corpse's cheek. "I'll take you home in a bit; put you next to your dad, just like you wanted. First I gotta check some things out, okay?"
He lifted the sheet and studied what he found, suddenly looking very much like the twenty-year veteran NYC cop he was. "Those knife wounds - whoever did them, they know how to use a blade. That's not a hack and chop job; smooth, easy slashes and stabs. Area around them looks different, though."
Matching his tone, Brass said, "Report says it's bruising from the force of the stabbing, almost a punch with a knife embedded in it. Another argument for bashing, and someone who's done it before. We're looking at that angle, too."
"Number of wounds goes to that, too, as does the fact that none of them look particularly fatal. Punch, huh? Why does that sound familiar?" He lifted Chathom's arm, gentleness returning. "Hey, you fought back really hard, didn't you? Gotta admit, that's kind of a surprise, Teach." Looking up at Brass, he asked, "Was he cornered? Disabled in some way so he couldn't escape?"
"Not that we could see," Brass admitted. "And you're right. He died from blood loss, no one hit."
"So why didn't you run?" Sawyer asked the dead man in front of him. "You stood your ground, and I know you believed there were times and places to do that. Why then, why there? Jon's counting on you...." He sucked in a harsh breath, eyes suddenly bright. "That's it, isn't it? Jon was counting on you. He was there, too, wasn't he? You were protecting him."
Sawyer looked up at Brass, pinning him with a hard look. "Is that possible? That whoever did it took one body, maybe was planning on coming back for the second?"
"I...." Brass remembered Warrick's comment about the blood spatter, and the void where Chathom had been. "...need to talk to one of my CSI's."
Slow tears bled down Sawyer's cheeks, but he said calmly, "I brought DNA samples with me, if you need them."
"We just might. In the meantime, let me take you to a hotel so you can catch some rest. You know how it is in this business; ninety percent of what you do is wait. No reason you can't wait comfortably."
Tears still silently flowing, Sawyer tenderly covered the body and shut the drawer. "Might as well."
***
When Brass got up for the night's work, he went straight to the CSI labs, not surprised to see Warrick and Catherine in the middle of a photographic mock-up of the scene. "Got my message, I see."
It's a good call," Catherine said, the grinned cheerfully. "Want to be the Chathom or Sawyer?"
"Closer in size to Chathom. Besides, I get to stay on my feet, mostly."
"Why is it I always wind up on the ground in these re-enactments," Warrick grumbled, getting down on the floor. "Face down or face up?"
"In most situations, people fall face forward when the go down, soooo." Catherine gave Brass a weird looking vest. "This is experimental, so I don't know how well it'll hold up in court, but I wanted to give it a try. At the least, it might send us in the right direction."
Holding it up, Brass asked, "What's the trick here?"
"Padded with the same kind of gel we use for bullet tests for penetration into human flesh, with dye bags to simulate blood, including a few under more pressure than others to indicate arteries." Catherine mimed putting it on backwards, then helped him fasten it in place. "You're going to get poked, but the Kevlar in the last layer will stop penetration."
"Nifty idea. Let me guess. Grissom's right?"
"Since it was a stabbing death," Warrick said, resting his head on his crossed forearms, "And because of the excessive force, he thought it would be, 'instructional,' I think his words were."
"Let's do it." Brass put his fists up and bent over slightly, holding them close to his chest so his arms protected his underbelly, like a prize fighter might. "From the cuts on his arms, I'd say he was holding himself like this."
"And astride another vic," Warrick said. "Sorry about that, man. But from the splatter, he either couldn't or wouldn't move very far from where he finally fell. Makes the most sense that he was standing over Sawyer."
Brass took the position they wanted. "Let's go for it."
"One quarter time," Catherine said, and telegraphed her first swing.
"Wait, wait! You're holding the knife wrong." Brass took it from her and demonstrated the right way to hold it. "The guy is into blades and cutting, old school style. Curl your fingers around the hilt from the underside and punch with it, not slash."
"Like this?"
"Good, remember, he left bruising, which is unusual for knife-fighter. Most times one reason they like the blade is the control and precision; they aren't heavy handed." Brass huddled back into himself again, and the battle began.
Twenty minutes later he was sweaty, tired, and had red dye leaking in the same number of spots as Chathom did, in as close to the same locations as Catherine could make them. She had a few splats on her face from his 'blows' in self-defense, but most of the color was on her hand, arm, and belly. He stood patiently while she took photographs, but could see for himself that his idea was carrying some weight.
"I think these are going to be a good approximation. Surprised me how tidy this kind of cut is," she said.
"The splatter didn't go far at all," Warrick agreed, sounding a little sleepy from being on his stomach for so long. "That's what was nagging at me."
"Okay, almost done. Brace yourself, Rick," Catherine said. "Down you go, Brass."
As gingerly as possible, Brass sprawled over Warrick, but before he could feel weird about it, Catherine gave him a push to send him over to his back on the same side as Chathom was found. "That's nearly a perfect match," she said.
Without waiting for her directions, Warrick carefully got up after she finished her camera routine. "No drag marks. Only way that could have been done is either one heck of a strong man, or more than one, each taking an arm and hauling straight up and back. From there, over the shoulder of one, maybe?"
"We're missing something," Catherine said, finishing her shots of Brass and giving him her hand so he could get to his feet. She helped him out of the vest, carefully putting it aside, then turned to the photographs surrounding them to compare them to their 'crime scene.'
"Besides one cherry red Mustang," Brass said facetiously. When Warrick and Catherine exchanged a thoughtful look, he repeated himself slowly, then tagged on, "Hauled him straight back so that he fell into the trunk. No tire tracks found, but the street's in pretty good shape, no rain that night, and if these guys were cool enough to take their time killing a man in full view of anyone coming by, they'd be cool enough to just drive off, not peel out."
"Trunk of a car that size - could you fit two bodies in it?" Warrick asked, stepping back to look at both scenes again. "Definitely could have been a car here, behind Chathom, not enough blood made it back here to leave a void."
"But there *is* another one, here. And here, "Catherine said. "Barely discernable, again because of the small amount the method of attack scattered."
"Just about the size of a man's footsteps. More proof there was at least one more," Brass said.
Warrick shook his head in disgust. "Who just stood back and cheered his buddy on. I'm liking these two men less and less."
"Looks like finding that car is the key," Brass said, heading for the door.
"Later," Catherine said distractedly. To Warrick she said, "I want to run this one more time, with someone standing where the other assailant was. What's Sara and Nick doing right now?"
Brass shot Warrick a commiserating look, and left before she could rope him into staying longer.
***
Near the end of the shift, Brass got a call from Dispatch telling him that a black and white had spotted the Mustang tucked into a dark corner of a parking garage for one of the smaller casinos on the edge of the strip. He stood staring at it, not at all eager to open the trunk, as discouraged by the idea of what he might find as by the liquid dripping slowly onto the concrete. A piece of rubbish caught in the puddle showed that liquid wasn't blood tinged, but that didn't reassure him much.
When Nick and Sara arrived, he sighed in relief, more than willing to turn it over to them. "Thought this was 'Rick's and Catherine's case?"
"They're up to the neck in a domestic gone bad," Sara said. "Didn't seem like a good idea to wait for them, so we volunteered to cover it with their okay."
Accepting the explanation with a wave of his hand, Brass said, "I've already got uniforms grabbing the tapes from the video cameras, and checked the vin number myself to make sure it was the same Mustang, not a different one with the wrong plates on it. I'm having trouble believing they'd steal this and then stay in town instead of heading out and holing up somewhere until things cooled off some."
"Maybe they thought a parked car wouldn't merit enough attention for the plate to be noticed," Sara offered. "This is a good place to hide in plain sight."
"Then why put something in the trunk to cause a puddle? That's what caught the patrol's eye." Brass shone his flashlight on the water.
"You don't think," Nick started uneasily.
"After not leaving enough evidence behind to convince a gnat, let alone a jury?" Sara broke in. "No way they wouldn't have dumped the body someplace by now."
"One way to find out." Brass waited until Sara hastily took her shots, then motioned for a uniform to pop the trunk. There, nestled in a bed of ice, was a garbage bag wrapped human shape, the odd position of it all they really needed to know about the possibility of the victim still being alive.
"I can't believe this," Nick breathed, already reaching for his phone to call for buckets to put the ice in.
"I have to ask myself is this the first mistake they've made or is it a mistake at all?" Brass said, and he walked away to question the parking garage attendant.
***
Grissom let himself into the interrogation viewing room, sealed envelope in hand, and gave himself a moment to adjust to the darkness. Brass never took his eyes off the two men on the other side of the two-way glass, but said, "I'd like you to meet Todd and Lowell Winters, 33 and 31 respectively, of Torryton, Vermont, and two of the less savory claims to being a human being I have ever met."
He joined Brass at the window, but kept his eyes on him, tapping the envelope on a forefinger. "Based on forensic evidence, and I'm strictly the delivery boy, you can see Warrick's signature over the seal, I'd say they're responsible for the death of Chathom and Sawyer. Apparently the sheriff was a factor all along."
"Maybe, maybe not, but not directly in any case." Brass turned away and leaned on the frame of the mirror. "Those two have been in and out of trouble since junior high, moving from juvie to minimum to maximum without any thought to going straight as far as I can see. Thing is, they never played in their own back yard, so they've served time all over New England. No warrants or arrests in Vermont."
"Which is how they missed the three strikes laws." Grissom frowned, taking in the appearance of the two men.
There was no mistaking they were brothers, sharing the same lanky to scrawny frame, bad complexions and greasy black hair, giving the impression of being on just this side of suffering from malnutrition. The older had darker hazel eyes than the younger, and the younger had a beak of nose that looked sharp enough to cut. Both slumped in their chair, somehow being defiant and sullen at the same time, an impression emphasized by the faint bruises on the face of the older.
"Somehow I can't see them being clever enough to use their location to their advantage."
"I don't know; most animals know not to shit where they eat." Brass hung his head and rubbed his eyes. "Thing is, they've got this routine going where they do fairly well for a couple of years, maintain decent work records, are suspected of being involved in crimes, but no direct evidence links them. All the jobs are well-thought out and planned, then whammo, they do something incredibly stupid during the execution of one. The last time they went down it was because they took objection to the skin color of a store clerk they were robbing, and after slicing him up nicely, spit on him as a parting expression of their opinion. DNA nailed them."
"Not unlike what happened here. If they had just left the car where it was, or disposed of it and the body, it's doubtful we'd ever find a connection between the murders and them. But the older kept the murder weapon, and the younger never noticed the traces of blood on his boots."
Grissom studied Brass, taking in a melancholy that didn't fit for a cop solving a nasty murder. "You have something else."
"A hunch, based on three things, including the successful hits followed by the dumbass moves," Brass admitted. "They lawyered up, won't talk at all, not even to their public defender. Waving the Nevada death penalty at them, which we can get if we can convince the jury it was a hate crime, didn't even get us a blink. Why not spout the usual garbage, since they *know* they're going down?"
"They've been beating the system for a while, and if they have so little respect for anybody who isn't a straight, white, male, they might believe that they won't get a murder one for killing two gay men." The argument was for the sake of debate. Grissom had a hunch of his own going on, telling him Brass needed to sound off a little.
"I can't imagine a defense attorney pitting two career criminals against the sympathy any jury would have for a very successful, well-respected business owner and an award-winning mathematician teacher, devoted to each other for decades." At Grissom's raised eyebrows, Brass grinned mirthlessly. "Yeah, Dr. Chathom had a nice sideline in cryptology that gave him a great deal of disposable income. Apparently he liked puzzles as much as you do."
"And reason number three?" Grissom asked quietly, bringing them back on topic before Brass could convince himself to clam up.
"The suspects have one living relative, a sister, Lilly, who has been dating Sheriff Sawyer for four years, living him the past one. Who would maybe have had access to the missing itinerary for the happy couple."
Letting out his breath in a sigh of pure sympathy, Grissom summed it up. "You think she's the mastermind behind their crimes? And they keep quiet about her involvement either because of family loyalty or to preserve their best asset for when they get out again."
"Or they give their takings to her for laundrying, since she owns her own beauty shop, and they talk, they lose their cash. So, rather than be tricked into saying more than they should, they just shut up. Probably her idea, too." Brass turned to look back at the suspects. "Sawyer wasn't happy when he volunteered the connection, but blaming himself, not her. Apparently she's been playing angle of being the long-suffering good girl climbing out of poverty, just trying to keep her criminal brothers from dragging her down. Been keeping her own nose sparkling clean, too."
"Are you going to try to implicate her for conspiracy?"
"I would if I could find a motive. Money doesn't play into it since the sheriff doesn't inherit anything from either estate, which she would know since he's the executor. A cookie cool enough to handle those two wouldn't do it for anything less." Brass swung toward him. "What?"
"I'm that obvious?" Grissom asked with a small smile.
"To me. Give."
"Hypothetical question for you - if the brother went missing, what would happen to his inheritance and personal holdings?" Grissom waited a beat and saw understanding dawn in Brass' expression.
Suddenly much more cheerful, Brass said, "It would go into probate until the brother was declared dead - and the sheriff would have full control over the funds until that was done. Plenty of time for a cool, smart cookie to siphon off a nice little nest egg."
"It would explain why they left one body, face carefully unmarked, but took the other and the car. Robbing him, then muddying it with the hate crime angle by *where* it was done." Grissom stared at the two murderers, for a moment. "Men like that, the last thing they would have expected from Chathom was a fight. Their prejudices would have gotten in the way of ever imagining it."
Again seeing where he was going, Brass said, "Which would pissed them off, I'm guessing. Enough to lose sight of their orders, maybe figure they deserved a reward."
"It's a theory."
"A good one." Brass drummed his fingers on the frame of the mirror. "Question is, how to play it with them." Grinning unexpectedly, he slanted Grissom an odd look. "Maybe we should take you in there and see how they react. That might give us a crack in their dummy act that we can use."
Despite himself, a small smile played at the corner of Grissom's lips. "I wonder what a jury would think of that little trick."
"Ah, well, better not to find out, I guess."
Brass turned to leave, opened the door to the interrogation room, then hastily stepped back, bumping solidly into Grissom. Startled, Grissom reached out to steady him, and saw past him to the corridor outside. Sheriff Sawyer was sitting on a bench down the hall from them on the opposite side with a woman in her late thirties, whose profile was a perfect match for the two prisoners in the room a few feet away. In contrast to her brothers, she looked sleek and well-kept. Her nails and hair were perfectly done, and she had one talon-tipped hand wrapped possessively around the sheriff's upper arm. It was obvious she would have preferred to be holding his hand in a far more wifely manner, but he had his elbows on his knees, head bowed, fingers loosely entwined.
"There, there," she crooned softly. "I'm sure the boys didn't mean to hurt your brother and his... friend. They probably bumped into each other, and well, you know that Todd has a bit of temper. John-Thomas must have said or done something to set him off. They'll be so, so sorry, you see, more than willing to do whatever it takes to make things right for you."
Unlike Brass, Grissom had no problem holding in a snort of disgust. There was something in the bow of Sawyer's back, or the way his shoulders slumped so completely that worried him. To his experienced eye, however, it was obvious that Lilly Winter's words were being dismissed, if not ignored completely.
Apparently she was oblivious to that - or perhaps believed that if she kept chattering, she would find the right words to bring him around to the world view she wanted him to have. "I mean, John-Thomas was so ill, it would have only taken a good shove to put him down. That poor deaf man wouldn't have understood what was going on, and attacked Todd thinking he was protecting John-Thomas. Todd and Lowell probably just panicked, I'm sure of it. After all, neither of my brothers are all that bright."
"Dumb as rocks, both of 'em," Sawyer said in a voice rough with grief.
Lilly smiled approvingly, as if getting a response was all the proof she needed that he would go along with whatever theory she came up with. "I'm afraid so. No wonder they're always getting themselves in trouble like this. How bad do you think it is, this time? Ten years or so?"
Burying his face in his hands, Sawyer didn't reply, but after a moment he visibly pulled himself together and sat back, patting her hand comfortingly. It was patently false to Grissom, ratcheting up his worry another notch. He quickly considered, then dismissed, showing himself or perhaps shoving Brass out to disrupt their conversation.
"Hon, this is Vegas," Sawyer said tiredly. "Here it looks good to come down hard on murders that look like hate crimes. I've already been told that they're looking for the death penalty and likely won't have any trouble getting it. Not with your brothers' record."
"That's just not right!"
Grissom thought her automatic protest sounded as if she were genuinely shocked, as though hadn't occurred to Lilly Winters that not everyone shared her bigotry.
Exhaustion coloring every word, perhaps deliberately, Grissom noted, Sawyer said, "Right, wrong - you know at times the law hasn't got as much to do with justice as it does with politics."
"Isn't there anything you can do?" At his slow shake of 'no,' Lilly pulled away in agitation. "You're a law man; you got medals when you worked in The Apple. Surely if you spoke up, they'd listen."
Sawyer put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "That was a long time ago, and doesn't count for much here, any more than being the sheriff for a one-stoplight town in the middle of nowhere does."
"They're my brothers!"
"And I just lost mine! Look, hon, all I want to do is get the cremation over with and take them home to scatter their ashes on that beach where they got married. The sooner I can get that done, the sooner I can figure out how I'm going to live with such a hole in my life."
"Cremation?" Lilly asked, switching from outrage to sharp interest so fast that Grissom couldn't help but wonder if she had snake in her genetic background. "Aren't you going to put Walt next to his dad, like he wanted?"
"They changed their minds about some stuff like that when Jon was diagnosed," Sawyer said too, too casually. "Am I ever glad they changed the will. I can't even imagine dealing with more than I already am."
Lilly didn't notice. "You're not the executor any more?"
Suddenly Sawyer became the cop who had earned medals and the trust of an entire small town, impressing Grissom with the ease and speed in which he did it. "Lilly, how did you know that I'm the boys' executor?"
Pulling up short, Lilly nevertheless waved off the question with a languid hand. "John-Thomas must have said something along the way." In what Grissom saw as a blatant attempt to divert the topic, she added, "You know he was worried about how losing him was going to affect you, sweetheart."
Snorting, Sawyer said, "Yes, he was, but he wouldn't have said anything to you about it; too personal. And I *know* Walt never told you where he wanted to be buried; you never even bothered to try to learn sign. How long have you been sneaking into my office at home? The one place I asked you not to go into? I knew it wouldn't be hard to get in past the lock if you really wanted, but it was a test of trust."
"Don't be angry with me," Lilly said softly, sweetly. "Curiosity is a woman's curse. You're always locking yourself in there for hours at a time. And I couldn't help but read the copy of the will you had on your desk." Her voice grew grim. "I wanted to make sure your brother did right by you, but he didn't, did he? Either that man or that stupid town festival would get it all. You should have fought that."
"They offered it all to me," Mark said blandly. "I didn't want it. Thanks to the payback Jon set aside for me for backing his business when he first got started, and Walt's knack with the stock market, I've got all I need. Part of the files I keep in a hidden safe, just in case you didn't pass the test. Should have kept the will in there, too, I see now, but at the time, I didn't see any harm could come in leaving it out. Stupid. It makes me as responsible for what happened to them as you."
"Me!"
"Didn't have a chance to put the itinerary back after you made a copy to give to your brothers, did you? Probably didn't think you needed to worry about it; didn't expect your brothers to mess up your tidy little plan this time." Strangely, there wasn't an ounce of accusation in Sawyer's tone; just sure knowledge that resonated with Grissom's own theories.
"Why... I mean. Really, Mark! I know you're mourning right now, hurt and maybe needing to lash out. But, to accuse *me!*"
Patiently, calmly, Sawyer said, "Dumb as rocks, like I said. Thought all along that they had someone helping them, maybe their fence. Never occurred to me to look at you, but I should have. God help me, I was lonely and tired of being lonely, and thought I'd take a chance despite Jon's and Walt's reservations about you."
His tone suddenly turned sharp. "Not that they ever said a word against you, not that it would have mattered. You would have still told your murdering brothers where to find them, gave them the money, cause I know damn good and well they didn't have enough to get here on their own, let alone stay in town until Jon and Walt arrived, probably even told them how to do it right down to leaving Walt's face unmarked so he could be easily identified."
Tightly, suddenly looking much more like her brothers, Lilly said, "Wild accusations with no proof, made by a man crazy with grief. I'll forgive you for it, eventually, but not if you go to the police with this, this, this...."
"There have been some good people with some good skills after the brains behind your brothers for a while," Sawyer broke in. "Todd and Lowell never turned over, no matter what the threat, and I don't expect them to now. Probably think you'll save them right up to the moment the needle goes in their arms. So, no, I'm not expecting any more evidence than the missing itinerary and your access to it. Maybe a major withdrawal from a bank account, if I can sweet talk a judge into a warrant, but nothing you can't explain away. Your brothers, after all. So, no, no cops, Lilly."
Without warning he stood, taking her with him with what had to be a brutal grip on her arm. "Just you and me and your family."
Before Grissom or Brass could react, Sawyer quickly took the three steps across the hallway to the interrogation room where Todd and Lowell were, startling the officer on guard so much that he didn't make a move to stop them. Brass rushed out, but Grissom impulsively turned to look through the mirror in time to see Sawyer do something to the lock. Whatever it was kept out Brass and the guard.
With equally swift and smooth action, Sawyer drew his weapon and killed both prisoners, shooting them both between the eyes before either of them could do more than half-rise from their seats in shock. Lilly screamed with each shot, and ripped herself away from Sawyer to rush to her brothers where they lay on the floor, wailing wordlessly as she went. It only took her a second to determine there was nothing she could do, and she rose to her knees, murderous rage already coloring her expression.
"I'll shoot you, too, Lilly," Sawyer said with utter calm, gun aimed at her head. "Makes no never mind to me whether it's two counts or three of murder."
"How could you, how could you!" she shouted, wisely staying where she was.
For the life of him Grissom couldn't move from the mirror, but pressed both hands flat against the glass as if to touch Sawyer that way and draw his homicidal intents away from Lilly. Not sensing that, or perhaps ignoring it the same way he ignored the banging and commotion on the other side of the door, Sawyer cocked a hip against the table, gun barrel never wavering. He waited out her barely articulated yells and threats until she was panting heavily, makeup gouged by tear tracks, showing that her age was much closer to Sawyer's than Grissom had first supposed.
"Well, what do you know?" Sawyer said softly, with just a trace of surprise. "You really did love them. They were more than a source of income for you."
His voice hardened completely. "Good! How does it feel, Lilly? Do you understand, do you have the slightest idea now, what you cost me? What you've done to my life? And not just me. How about all the good people in the school who were so kind to Walt that he left them his fortune so it could stay competitive in a world where most deaf kids get mainstreamed? Or the people of Torryton, that accepted my gay brother so completely, that he could have been mayor if he wanted. That's why he left his money in trust to sponsor the Spring and Fall festivals; so the people could have a fighting chance at tourist dollars to help keep the town alive."
What she saw that he couldn't, Grissom had no idea, but Lilly suddenly marshaled her emotions, fighting for, then capturing a winsome smile. "You could be, too, hon. My shop, I hear what people really think, and they've always said that you're honest, hard-working, got everybody's best interests at heart. The way you handled Stu Mason's hitting around on his wife - why, I'd never believed a man could turn around so completely."
"That's it," Grissom whispered to himself, aware that the commotion on the other side of the interrogation room door had stopped, which meant Brass was planning something. "Remind him of who he is, what he stands for."
With a bitter, dark laugh, Sawyer shifted to make himself more comfortable on his perch, leaning down toward her. "Believe it or not, Lilly, you have to chalk that up to Walt and Jon, too. They're the ones who talked me into running the first time, pointing out that my opponent was a complete idiot who would make my life and everyone else's miserable in the long run if he wasn't stopped. Still took some persuading. When I left the force in NYC, I was so burned out - all I wanted to do was hide from the world and try to create beauty with my wood carvings."
"You did, you did," Lilly breathed. "That's when I noticed you. Saw what you could pull from plain old wood, and wondered what else those hands could do."
"Bet you noticed the pricey tag on them first. And that's nothing compared to what I get for the pieces in the big, fancy galleries in Boston and The Apple. Walt's idea, Jon's doing." He laughed again at her expression. "You're getting it now, aren't you? What you could have had if you'd only been able to hold on a while longer. Now, you've lost it all, every bit of it. Family, the cash they brought you, the good name and reputation I could have given you, the comfortable future you always wanted... Got nothing left but a business no one will frequent when they learned what you've done and some bank accounts you're going to have to drain dry with lawyer's fees for the wrongful death suit I'm bringing on you."
Keening with grief even more desolate than the one she'd uttered when she'd realized her brothers were dead, Lilly collapsed on in herself, hammering at the floor with both fists. Sawyer stood up, all emotions draining from his face. Grissom slapped the light switch to make it possible to see through the two way mirror, then knocked hard on the glass to get Sawyer's attention. It startled him enough that he glanced at Grissom.
*No, it's wrong. It's not what Jon would want,* Grissom signed frantically. *Please, don't do it.*
"It's a mercy," Sawyer whispered. "A mercy for both of us. I do love her, you know."
With no more warning than that, he fired a round into the back of her skull, and lifted the gun to tuck the barrel under his chin.
*Mark. No. Please.*
"I told Lilly that sometimes the law isn't about justice. This is the best that can be done." Sawyer pulled the trigger.
Screwing his eyes shut, Grissom whirled around so that he wouldn't have to see, a fist going to his mouth, not to shut down nausea. He'd seen far worse than blood and brains as a CSI. But in sudden realization that his vain attempt to stop Sawyer may well have been the last blow the man's heart and soul could take. Sawyer would have seen his brother's evil twin, the man whose solitary, sterile life of intellectual dispassion was such a stark contrast to the vibrant, joyous man Sawyer loved.
In the background he heard Brass roar a warning, then the door was broken down with a crash, SWAT men swarming in on the wake. Silence reined again almost immediately, then Brass was beside him, Albert on the other, as if to prop him up with their presence.
How long they stood there, he didn't know, but finally Grissom whispered brokenly, "There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, - in the cold grave...." finis