Warrick Brown jumped down and headed to the rear of the vehicle. The sun loomed high now-dry and hot and not at all like spring-and those not at work in the neighborhood peeked from windows and occasionally came out, to see what all the fuss was about.
A compelling case for a search warrant for Benson's house and car had been made based on the discovery of a hole in the apartment wall, through which Benson-the witness who had "found" the body-had apparently snaked a camera to spy upon, and surreptitiously videotape, showering neighbor Candace Lewis.
Benson's two-story home was typical of middle-class, upper-middle-class Vegas, reminiscent of Kyle Hamilton's residence a couple miles to the west-stucco with a tile roof, red this time-except where Kyle's lawn was well-tended, Benson's lawn was a scruffy brown whose little green bumps were like grassy pimples on the desert's face.
And, like Hamilton's, the house appeared to be empty, though everyone on this trip was well aware that last time they'd been wrong. Warrick, Sara and Grissom approached the house, their crime scene kits in hand, Brass leading the way.
On the cement front stoop, Brass withdrew his nine millimeter. No one questioned that: if David Benson was the homicidal necrophiliac the evidence was indicating him to be, such a precaution seemed prudent. On the other hand, no backup had been called: this was one suspect, and the CSIs were, after all, armed.
The doorbell went unanswered, and the peculiar sensation of tension and tedium, common working cases like this one, permeated the atmosphere.
Brass said, "Warrick, let's check out the back. Gil, take out your handgun, would you?"
Grissom's expression turned sour, but he complied, shifting the field kit to his left hand.
Warrick and Brass went around the house from opposite sides, Brass to the right, Warrick around the garage, the double door of which had no windows. A side window was covered by a cream-color curtain you could almost see through-almost. The CSI made his way around back, where he found Brass had climbed a few stairs to a small deck. After checking curtained windows as best he could, the detective shook his head and they headed back to join the others.
"I don't think our man is home," Brass announced.
"Doesn't look like he's been here for a few days," Warrick added, pointing to the overflowing mailbox next to the front door. "This guy's not in bed with a cold."
Sara scowled darkly. "I'd rather not think about who or what he's in bed with."
"Time," Grissom said, "to serve the warrant."
Brass needed no convincing: he was the one who'd gone to the judge with their evidence. "Warrick, get the ram, would you?…Trunk."
The detective tossed Warrick his car keys.
"Gil," Brass said, "you cover us."
"Cover you?"
"Cover us."
"With the gun."
"That's right."
In moments, Warrick returned to the stoop with the battering ram from the Taurus. The ram was a black metal pipe with an enlarged flat head and a handle about halfway up on either side, providing an easy grip. The heft of it felt good to Warrick, natural-this baby had never failed him once.
Warrick took one side of the ram and Brass the other, as Grissom and Sara backed to the edge of the porch. Then, lining it up with the deadbolt, Warrick glanced at Brass and they swung the ram away from the door, straight back, then propelled it forcefully forward….
The head hit with a satisfying, explosive crunch, the jolt shooting up Warrick's arms through his whole body as the door burst inward, the jamb splintering into kindling.
Brass allowed Warrick to return the ram to the Taurus while he stood in the doorway, nine millimeter in hand again, and peered carefully inside.
When Warrick returned, Grissom was saying, "I'm putting my gun away."
"You do that," Brass said. Then he turned to the CSIs with a tiny rumpled grin. "Open house, gang. Refreshments later."
Brass again drafted Warrick, who drew his own sidearm, as they went through every room of the house, making sure the suspect really wasn't home.
After the detective pronounced the house clear, the CSIs went from room to room, checking drawers, closets, drains, carpeting, everything. For the next two hours and then some, they turned the house upside down and inside out, and when they were finished, they met in the foyer amid the detritus of the broken front door.
"What have we got?" Grissom asked.
Sara said wryly, "The only evidence of a crime? Looks like some people broke in here."
Grissom was not amused.
Warrick said, "If anything this place is cleaner than the mayor's place or Hamilton's"
"No blood, no hair, nothing," Sara said, then she addressed Grissom and Brass: "What about videotapes? Did you find any?"
Grissom picked up an evidence bag from his open crime scene suitcase. "Only three home-recorded: labeled NYPD Blue, Without a Trace, and Lexx. Everything else is prerecorded DVD, horror movies mostly."
"Porn?" Warrick asked.
Grissom shook his head. "Nothing rated NC-17, let alone triple X…We'll check them when we get back to the lab, but it doesn't look promising."
They loaded their gear inside and hauled it out to the Tahoe. An aura of dejection and confusion hung over them, and few words were exchanged. Sara, Brass and Grissom gathered near the vehicles while Warrick went back and put crime scene tape up across the broken door.
Nearing them, Warrick heard Brass saying, "I'll take the heat for this-Mobley's gonna be very pissed if we broke down the wrong door and the department gets sued."
"I think this is one case," Grissom said, "where Brian will cut us some slack."
Feeling movement more than hearing it, Warrick turned to see a forty-something couple sauntering over from the house next door.
In shorts and Miller Beer T-shirt, the man was tall, balding and trimly bearded, with the look of a one-time football player whose paunch said most of his sports were conducted in front of the tube, these days; his wife was a petite brunette with a ready smile and bright brown eyes, wearing a yellow sundress. They approached with a confidence that was a relief, considering how many neighbors and witnesses were wary of the police.
"Are you looking for our neighbor?" the man asked. "David Benson?"
Grissom met them halfway. "We are. Do you know where he is?"
"He works a lot," the woman said. "Very dedicated. Gone at all hours. He's in the security business."
"I'm Gil Grissom with the crime lab. And you are?"
"Judy and Gary Meyers," the wife said, as her husband slipped an arm around her shoulders. "We've lived next door for the last five years. Of course, David has only been here a couple of years…. He prefers 'David,' doesn't care for 'Dave.' "
"And you think David's at work?"
Gary shook his head and said, "I don't think so. We haven't seen him for a couple days. He's probably out at that cabin of his." He checked with his wife: "Don't you think, honey?"
"He calls it a cabin," Judy said, nodding, "but it's really a second home. Very nice."
Her husband picked up on that: "He's got all sorts of high-tech gear out there."
Warrick glanced at Gris, but the man's attention was fully on the couple.
Brass stepped up to Grissom's side, introduced himself and told the couple he'd be making a few notes; they said they wouldn't mind.
"Sounds like you've been there," Grissom said, meaning the cabin.
"Yeah, just once, though," Gary said. "He invited us out, 'cause Jude's a photographer, and David found that interesting-said he was a camera buff, himself. Told us there were some desert birds and rodents around out there, if she wanted to take some interesting shots."