Binding Ties Read Online Free Page A

house.”
    Catherine glanced down at the victim. “He’s all yours…. Wasn’t exactly in charge of his own destiny when he died, either.”
    â€œMight have something significant here,” Grissom said, as he swept with the mini-flash around the body, not wanting to disturb any evidence when he drew nearer.
    Catherine arched an eyebrow. “You think?”
    She turned toward the hallway as Detective Damon finally made his way inside the house. Pulling up short, he winced, nostrils flaring before he quickly covered them. “Whoa—well, isn’t
that
nasty?”
    â€œVictim evacuated at death,” Grissom said matter-of-factly.
    Between the man’s spread legs, feces pooled in urine. Grissom was long since used to this, but what bothered him most was that these strong odors could blot out other, subtler, more important ones.
    From the corridor, Catherine said, “I’ll start in the kitchen.” Her crime-scene case swinging at her side, Catherine disappeared through the doorway.
    Color had drained from the detective’s face; perhaps the word “kitchen” had in this context given him a bad moment.
    â€œYou need me here?” he asked with an audible gulp.
    â€œYou’ll just be in the way,” Grissom said.
    â€œI mean, it is
my
crime scene….”
    Grissom gave him a firm look. “No it’s not—it’s mine. Let me process it, then we’ll talk … outside.”
    The detective desired to take the argument no further; he practically sprinted out the front door.
    Returning his attention to the body on the floor, Grissom started by getting the big picture.
    A Caucasian man between forty-five and fifty, he estimated; the victim was nude, prone, on his stomach, a rope around his neck. The index finger of his right hand had been severed and—so far, indications were—taken away. The man’s head was to one side, giving Grissom a view of a telling touch by the murderer: the deceased’s lips had been painted with a garish red lipstick.
    A CSI always kept an eye out for
modus operandi;
but seldom was a signature so explicit. The normally detached Grissom felt a chill, but it had nothing to do with fear or even revulsion—he just knew he had to make a phone call on this one. A friend was affected by this.
    But, his nature being his nature, he decided to work the scene first.
    The vic had probably been asphyxiated, but Grissom knew better than to make that more than a working hypothesis, and would wait for the coroner, to make the final call on cause of death.
    Grissom got his camera from his stainless steel crime-scene kit, and started taking pictures. First he did the room, then the body, then close-ups of the body. It took a while, but he had long ago learned patience, and even though thoughts flooded his mind, Grissom held himself to the standard of quick-but-not-hurried. He forced the impending phone call to the back of his mind and continued his work.
    After a while, Sara came into the room. Unlike the detective, she reacted not at all to what a civilian would consider a stench, but which a professional crime scene analyst would consider par for the course. Nor did anything but the faintest trace of sadness—even pros were allowed compassion—cross her wide, pretty mouth.
    Then she said, “Got a partial off the bell, couple partials off the knob.”
    â€œIt’s a start,” Grissom said.
    â€œWhat’s Catherine up to?”
    Grissom glanced at her, a little mischief in his faint smile. “Woman’s place is in the kitchen.”
    She grinned, grunted a laugh. “You wish…. This one’s … specific, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt is that.”
    â€œDoesn’t ring any of my bells, though. How about yours, Grissom?”
    â€œThey toll for him,” he said, nodding toward the victim, but explained no further.
    Sara didn’t expect him to, and didn’t