She gave him an odd, sideways look. Her response turned one syllable into at least three: "No."
"But you did? See them argue?"
"I…I don't know if I should be talking about stuff like that…. That's personal. Family shit."
"It's all right, Lori. I'm a…public servant. I'm just trying to help you…help your family get through this."
She drew back. "That's bullshit."
He froze, then laughed. "Yeah…I guess it is, sort of. Lori, this is a crime. I have to find out what happened to your mom. If you don't talk to me, you'll have to talk to somebody, sometime. Why not get it out of the way?"
Lori considered that for a moment before answering. "Yeah, well. They fought sometimes. All parents do. All married people do, right?"
"Right."
"I don't think they fought any more than anybody else. I mean, I never saw Gary's parents fight, but they're such…pod people. My other friends' parents fight, at least the ones that are still together do."
Out in the large, tidy garage, Pierce stood on the periphery, arms folded, while a latex-gloved Grissom poked around.
One of the two parking places stood empty, the therapist's blue Lincoln Navigator occupying the other. A workbench made out of two-by-fours and plywood ran most of the length of the far wall, tools arrayed on the pegboard above it, larger power tools stored on the shelf below. Three bikes and two sets of golf clubs in expensive bags lined the nearest wall. A plywood ceiling held a pull-down door with stairs that gave access to the crawlspace up there.
"Do you own a chain saw?" Grissom asked affably.
"A chain saw!" Pierce's eyes and nostrils flared. "I resent this harassment! I'm trying to-"
Holding up a traffic-cop palm, Grissom interrupted. "I'm not harassing you, Mr. Pierce."
"That's how it looks to me."
"I'm sorry you see it that way. I'm doing my job, which is to find and eliminate suspects based upon the evidence."
"I'm automatically a suspect, I suppose, because I'm the husband."
"Based on that tape you heard Captain Brass play, it's fair to say you had argued with your wife, threatening her with violence…and when she turns up dead in just the manner you described, you tell me? Are you a reasonable candidate for the crime?"
The therapist looked dumbfounded. "Well…"
"Your cooperation helps me eliminate you as a suspect. Remember that."
Pierce turned conciliatory, sighing as he walked over to the criminalist. "I'm sorry, Mr. Grissom. I guess I lost my head, because I do know how it looks."
The question,the CSI thought, is how did your wife lose her head? But Grissom had enough sense and tact not to blurt as much.
Instead, Grissom said only, "Understandable, sir. Understandable."
"Lynn and I had some really good times, before she was…born again. I'm telling you, it's like she joined a cult. Do you know that she told me, once, that she felt it was so sad that good people like Gandhi and Mother Teresa had to go to hell, 'cause they hadn't been saved, like she had? I can't lie to you, Mr. Grissom-we were definitely in the divorce express lane."
"The chain saw?"
Pierce sighed, pointed. "Under the workbench…. Want me to…?"
Grissom nodded, followed him over and watched as Pierce pulled out two chain saws and hauled them, one at a time, up on the bench. One, a brand new STIHL, was still in the box.
"This box is sealed," Grissom said, giving it a close, thorough look.
"Yeah, just bought it yesterday. Got the receipt."
The other, an old Poulan, was so rusty that Grissom could tell just by looking that the saw wouldn't even start, let alone cut through a human body.
"What do you generally use a chain saw for, Mr. Pierce?"
"Cutting firewood, mostly. Pile out back."
Grissom nodded at the door leading outside. "May I?"
"Be my guest."
Behind the house, in the moonlight, Pierce showed Grissom to the woodpile. Using a pocket flash, the CSI knelt and inspected several of the cords.
"These are freshly cut, Mr. Pierce." He stood. "You've got one saw that's inoperable, and another still in the box. How is it you have fresh cut firewood?"
Pierce didn't miss a beat. "Next door neighbor. Mel Charles, he loaned me his chain saw."
"When?"
"Couple of days ago. I like to watch a fireplace fire…helps me think, relax. So, I cut some wood. That's relaxing, too-use some muscles I don't, in my work."
Grissom nodded; he'd have Brass check with the neighbor.
They went back into the garage, Pierce saying, "Is that all, Mr. Grissom?"
"Crawlspace?"
Pierce pulled the steps down, and Grissom and his Maglite went up for a look-nothing. He would send Warrick and Nick in for the fine-tooth comb tour, later.
The physical therapist ushered Grissom back into the house, where Brass and Lori were just wrapping up their interview. Brass glanced up as they came in, but continued the interview.
"Lori, you've gone through some pretty big changes," Brass said. "The dyed hair, the pierced eyebrow, weren't you worried about what your mom would say when she came home?"
Lori's eyes shot to her father's, but she said nothing.
Pierce, sitting next to his daughter, putting a hand on her shoulder, said, "Lori was so upset when we thought Lynn had abandoned us, well…I thought a few changes wouldn't hurt anything, and would help Lori's state of mind."
"But wouldn't her mother have been furious?" Brass asked.
Pierce waved that off. "Lori had every right to be angry. At least, she thought so at the time."
Brass's eyes moved to Grissom. The CSI supervisor shook his head: nothing in the garage. Rising, Brass said, "Thank you, Lori-I really appreciate your cooperation."
The girl shrugged-but a tiny one-sided smile indicated the slight but significant rapport Brass had established.
To Pierce, Brass said, "I'm sure we'll have more questions for Lori, as the investigation continues. But I promise you we'll keep her best interests in mind."
"I'm sure," Pierce said dryly.
"We'll also have more questions for you."
"Then you're not arresting me?"
"No," Brass said, a "not at this time" lilt in his voice, "but you may wish to consult with your attorney."
Pierce's reply was quietly sardonic: "Because you have my best interests in mind."
The investigators moved to the door and Pierce shut it wordlessly behind them.
Out in the yard, Grissom gestured to the sprawling stucco ranch-style house next door. "We need to stop by the neighbor's house."
"Kinda late."
Grissom explained what Pierce had told him about the chain saw. "I want that chain saw, now."
"Are you saying Owen Pierce borrowed his neighbor's chain saw to cut up his wife?"
"He could have. Any way you look at it, I want that chain saw."
They crossed the well-manicured yard, a dwarf fruit tree perched in the middle of a brick circle surrounded by a moat of mulch. Brass rang the bell.
"They're gonna love us," Brass said.
But it was only a moment before an auburn-haired woman of about thirty answered the door. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with the "Race for the Cure" logo splashed across the front. Green-eyed with milky skin, she had a small rabbit-twich nose and an inquisitive expression-but she didn't look annoyed.
The muffled sound of Conan O'Brien came from the living room. Good, Brass thought. We didn't wake anyone.
"I don't normally open the door at this time of night," she said, and her voice, though quiet, carried a backbone of authority. "But I've seen you before, stopping next door, and on TV, too-you're the police officers on the Lynn Pierce case, aren't you?