The detective took a long moment, glancing at Warrick and Catherine for support they couldn't offer; then finally complied.
"Now you," she said to Warrick.
Warrick knelt, carefully placed his pistol on the concrete in front of him, and slowly stood.
Rene turned slightly, the hostage moving with her now, and faced Catherine, looking over the old woman's shoulder. "Now you, Nancy Drew. Drop it!"
Catherine knew her only advantage right now was having the late afternoon sun at her back. She must be a silhouette to Rene, little more….
"Make me ask again, bitch-and see what happens!"
Catherine held up her left hand in a "slow down" fashion, then began to bend to lay down her weapon, though she had no intention of doing so. It was well within Rene Fairmont's character to grab one of their weapons from the cement and shoot all three of them.
The CSI would have to shoot…
…though with precious little of Rene showing to aim at, and no margin at all for error. Catherine kept crouching lower, the shot ever more precarious.
Vega said, "Give it up, lady-you got no way outta here."
"I think I do," Rene said, and shook her hostage, who cried out in fear. "I have a senior travel discount…."
Catherine was hunkered down now, the gun barely inches off the pavement. "Say you do make it out of here," the CSI said, "by car or plane or magic carpet. You're still washed up."
"Shut up and put the gun down…."
"Y'see, we know where all your drop boxes are-all your fake charities. So much work, so much death-and you're never going to see a penny of it."
Something feral went off inside Rene.
The angel of mercy pulled the syringe back, incrementally, to gain momentum to drive the needle into the old woman's neck…
…but in the momentary window that provided, Catherine rolled to her left, nearly sweeping Warrick's feet out from under him, and on her stomach, with a better angle, she fired up, the sound of it like a whip crack as the shot shook Rene's shoulder, sending the syringe spinning through the air where it bounced onto the parking lot with a plastic clatter.
The other two rescuers snatched up their weapons even as Rene-with an animal cry of pain and rage-fell backward, taking the old woman with her. The hostage landed on top of Rene, then rolled off and scurried away with surprising spryness, leaving the killer prone on the ground with a wounded arm, the wind-and her future-knocked out of her.
Vega went to the hostage and swept her into his arms, getting her away, as Warrick stood over their suspect with his handgun aimed at Rene's face.
"Just try something, Nurse Fairmont," Warrick said, "and it'll be time for your shot."
Catherine felt bile rising within her and fought the urge to purge.
She wasn't upset about the shooting. It was righteous enough. But she would lose sleep over possibly endangering that suspect with such Annie Oakley nonsense. Still, she'd had less than a second to make her decision and knew she'd made the right one.
Oddly, she was relieved she hadn't had to kill the angel of mercy, much as the monster might deserve it. Catherine Willows already had two kills to live with, and that seemed sufficient to her.
Suddenly Warrick was at her side. "You okay, Cath?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Peachy. I was just thinking…"
"Yeah?"
"Wasn't Sunny Day supposed to be a normal call?"
11
GIL GRISSOM SAT in his darkened office at a desk piled left and right with paperwork, which he was ignoring in favor of staring into his thoughts.
Jim Brass poked his head in and said, "Brooding? Meditating? Saving the city on the electric bill?"
Grissom waved Brass in. The detective took the liberty of hitting the light switch, which caused the CSI supervisor to grimace.
Brass dropped himself into the chair opposite. "We have a good suspect, finally. Why are you troubled?"
"I'm not troubled," Grissom said. "I'm just not convinced."
"The evidence-"
"Not enough yet. And there are anomalies."
Brass winced. "I hate it when you use that word…."
"Such as…whoever murdered Kathy Dean also disposed of Rita Bennett's body. Where are those remains?"
"Who knows? But who better than a guy like Black to stage the disappearing act? Getting rid of corpses is his racket."
"Why, then-in a house of corpses-would our presumed guilty party, mortician Dustin Black, choose a high-profile local celebrity like the Bennett woman for the switch?"
"I have no idea," Brass admitted. "She must have been…handy."
"Handy? The choice of Rita is further compounded by the used-car queen having been a friend of our mortician."
Brass shrugged. "I have to tell you? People do wacked-out things"
"Granted." Grissom sat forward. "But doesn't it strike you as odd that Black, running a mortuary where dozens of bodies move through in a week, didn't pick a stranger for his shuffle?"
Brass ticked off on his fingers. "Motive points to Black. Opportunity points to Black…means to dispose of the body, possession of the murder weapon. Somebody told me once that the evidence doesn't lie."
"No. But you have to ask it the right questions."
Amusement twitched at Brass's lips. "You know what, Gil? I think you're a man with a hunch. Hey, happens to the best of us. Even atheists pray in foxholes."
Grissom arched an eyebrow. "Well, right now I'm praying for more evidence. At the moment, I'm waiting for lab results. Anything on your end?"
"Also waiting. Patrolmen are bringing in Grunick and Doyle from the Desert Haven staff-assistant morticians who helped with Rita Bennett's funeral."
"Makes sense," Grissom said, nodding. "If Black did switch the bodies, one of them may have seen something. Meaning no criticism, Jim-we should have interviewed them sooner."
Brass sighed. "Yeah, I know, and we would have, if Black hadn't kept us hopping, chasing down his lies."
"Let me know when the junior morticians arrive. I'd like to watch the interviews."
"Will do."
First to be led by a patrolman into HQ was Mark Grunick, in a conservative suit the color of a storm-bearing sky, his short dark hair fading north of his forehead, ears sticking out slightly.
In the observation booth adjacent to the interview room, through the one-way glass, Grissom watched and listened.
Seated at the table with its two chairs, a portable cassette recorder nearby, Grunick had a passive manner that may have reflected the fatalism of his chosen profession. If being interviewed by a police detective created any anxiety in this subject, Grissom would hate to see the assistant mortician bored.
Brass, seated across from Grunick, hit the RECORD button. "State your name, please."
"Mark Patrick Grunick." The young man looked at Brass with an unblinking expression that was not quite sullen. "I'd like to know why I was brought in."
Brass outlined the situation in very general terms, which were nonetheless startling, though you wouldn't know it by the assistant mortician's shrug.
"I don't think so," Grunick said.
"What don't you think?"
"That any kind of switch was made. Mix-up maybe-that's a long shot. But a switch? It's not a horror movie; it's a funeral home."
Brass cocked his head. "Mr. Grunick, I was there when the casket was exhumed. That wasn't Rita Bennett in the coffin. It was a young woman named Kathy Dean."
"Fine, if you say so-but I don't know how that could've happened. Before the service, Jimmy and I closed the coffin ourselves."