Catherine and Sara traded looks.
The killer stood practically upright, bent only slightly as he extended his hands back to Jenna's. She seemed taller than he was, but then she was wearing those incredible spike heels.
"Did you monkey with the aspect ratio on this?" Sara asked. "Is the picture squeezed or stretched in any way?"
"Not at all," the rep said. "That's reality, as seen by a cheap VHS security camera."
"And cleaned up by an expensive electronic broom," Catherine pointed out.
Sara pressed: "What's wrong with this picture?"
They all studied the frozen image for a long time.
Finally, Helpingstine said, "His head seems too big. Is that what you mean?"
The question was posed to Sara, but it was Catherine who said, "That could be part of it…but there's something else."
"What?" Sara asked. "It's driving me crazy…it just looks…wrong to me."
Catherine pointed. "Look at the shoulders-doesn't Ray Lipton have broader shoulders than that?"
"You're saying that's not Ray Lipton," Sara said.
"Call it a hunch," Catherine said.
Sara gave her a wide-eyed look. "You know what Grissom would say. Leave the hunches to the detectives-we follow the evidence."
"Let's follow it, then," Catherine said. To Helpingstine, she said, "Can you stay at this a while?"
"Absolutely," he said.
"Sometime today, call a cab, check yourself in to a hotel…there are a few in town…and save your receipts."
"Hey, Catherine, I'm here to help-no charge."
"You're here to make a pitch for your product; but we're not going to take advantage. You may have to stay over a night. We'll cover it."
He shrugged. "Fine."
She explained that their shift started at eleven P.M., but gave him her phone and pager numbers, should he come up with something sooner.
"Are you clocking out now?" Helpingstine asked.
"No, Dan. I have a little more work to do, before I call it a night."
"Or day," Sara said, hands on hips. "What do you have in mind?"
"I'm going to check Ray Lipton's alibi."
Her eyes getting wider, Sara said, "But he doesn't have one."
Catherine shrugged, smiled. "Let's follow the evidence, and see if you're right."
9
NOT AS MANY LIGHTS WERE ON IN THE PIERCE CASTLE, tonight-a few in the downstairs, one upstairs. Distant traffic sounds were louder than those of this quietly slumbering neighborhood, the only voices the muffled ones of Jay Leno and David Letterman.
Out on bond on his possession charge, Owen Pierce opened the door on Brass's first knock-as if he'd been expecting them-the physical therapist's handsome features darkly clouded, the blue eyes trading their sparkle for a dull vacancy. He slouched there in a black Polo sweatshirt, gray sweat pants and Reeboks, like a runner too tired even to pant. His eyes travelled past the homicide captain to Grissom.
"What you found…" Pierce began. "Is it…Lynn?"
But it was Brass who answered: "Could we come in, Mr. Pierce? Sit and talk?"
He nodded, numbly, gestured them in, and soon Brass and their host sat on the couch with its rifles-and-flags upholstery, while Grissom took the liberty of pulling a maple Colonial arm chair around, so that he and Brass could casually double-team the suspect.
"It's Lynn, isn't it?" Pierce said, slumped, arms draped against his thighs, interlaced fingers dangling.
"We think so, Mr. Pierce," Grissom said. "We won't have the DNA results for a while, but the evidence strongly suggests that what we found was…part of your wife's body."
Pierce stared at the carpet, shaking his head, slowly. Was he trying not to cry? Grissom wondered. Or trying to cry…
Grissom had a Polaroid in his hand; he held it out and up, for Pierce to see-a shot close enough to the torso to crop out everything but flesh. "Your wife had a birthmark on her left hip-is this it?"
Swallowing, he looked at the photo, then dropped his head, his nod barely discernible but there. "Is it…true?"
Brass asked, "Is what true, Mr. Pierce?"
He looked up, eyes red. "What…what they're saying on television…" Pierce's voice caught, and he gave a little hiccup of a sob; a tear sat on the rim of his left eye and threatened to fall. "…that Lynn was…cut up?"
Brass sat, angled toward the suspect. "Yes, it's true…. I'd like you to listen to something, Mr. Pierce." Pulling a small cassette player from his suitcoat pocket, already cued up, Brass pushed PLAY.
Pierce's angry voice came out of the tiny speaker: "You do and I'll kill your holier-than-thou ass…"
Another voice, Lynn Pierce's terrified voice, said, "Owen! No! Don't say-"
"And then I'll cut you up in little pieces."
Brass twitched half a humorless smile. "Gets a little ugly after that…. Wouldn't want to disturb you in your time of sorrow."
Pierce had a pole axed expression. "Where did you get that?"
Brass ignored the question. "Maybe now would be a good time to advise you of your rights, Mr. Pierce."
The therapist's dull eyes suddenly flared bright, as he rose to loom over the detective and the criminalist, and the sorrow-possibly fabricated-turned to unmistakably real rage. "You're arresting me? What for? Having an argument with my wife?"
"You threatened to cut her into pieces," Brass said, "and shortly thereafter…she was in pieces. We don't view that as a coincidence."
"That tape probably isn't even admissible. Who gave it to you? What, the Blairs? Those religious fanatics? Probably doctored that tape…edited it…."
"We've had the tape closely examined," Grissom said. "It's your voice, and the tape is undoctored."
A half-sigh, half-grunt emanated from the therapist's chest, and he sat back down, hard, shaking the couch, jostling Brass a little.
Pierce fixed his red-rimmed blue eyes onto Grissom. "Are you a married man?"
"No."
Then Pierce turned to Brass. "How about you, detective? Married?"
Brass said, "My marital status isn't-"
"Ha!" Pierce pointed at homicide captain. "Divorced!…And I suppose you never threatened your wife? You never said, I could just kill you for that? One of these days, Alice, pow!, zoom!, straight to the moon?"
"Ralph Kramden," Grissom pointed out, "never threatened to dismember his wife."
Brass glanced at the criminalist, surprised by the cultural reference.
Backing down now, Pierce ran a hand over his forehead, removing sweat that wasn't there. "I see your point, guys, I really do…I have a nasty temper, but it's strictly…verbal. I'm telling you, those words were just me losing it."
"Your temper," Brass said.
"Yes. No question."
"Lost your temper, killed your wife, dismembered her. You're a physical therapist-you have some knowledge about anatomy."
"I didn't kill her. It was just an argument-we had them all the time, since her…conversion, that Born-Again crapola. But do you honestly think I would kill my wife over religious differences?"
Brass was about to respond when the front door opened and a teenage girl stepped into the foyer.
Grissom didn't recognize the girl-she had short, lank black hair, a pierced eyebrow, enough black mascara to offend Elvira, black form-fitting jeans, and a black Slipknot T-shirt. He wondered if this was a friend of Pierce's daughter, Lori, come to visit.
"Daddy, what is it?" the girl asked in a mousy voice that didn't go with her punky Goth look.
Pierce's eyes went from Brass to Grissom to the girl. "Lori," he said slowly. "These officers have some information about Mom."