Free Binding Ties by Max Allan Collins

passive, any tension from the sheriff and media a distant memory now, “what do we know about the victim?”
    Without referring to the report before her, Catherine said, “Marvin Sandred, forty-seven, lived in Vegas a little over a year. Worked for a welding supply company where he’d been for six months.”
    She glanced at Brass to pick up her thread, which he did: “I talked to Sandred’s boss, and half a dozen coworkers, too. Nobody had anything bad to say about him. No one had much good to say about him, either—he was still the newbie, never really integrated with his coworkers. They thought of him as kind of a sad guy, oddly distracted, likework was something he was just putting up with till he could get back to … what really interested him.”
    Taking over again, Catherine said, “He was originally from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Ex-wife back there. Her name’s Andrea Dean, Annie for short, remarried after Marvin moved to Vegas.”
    Grissom winced in thought. “You found this out how?”
    But it was Brass who explained: “I asked Catherine to make the call for me—I know it’s not really CSI work, but I felt, woman to woman we’d get more.”
    Catherine picked up: “She really broke down big-time when I told her … cried so much, she asked me to call back in five minutes. I did, and she had composed herself, and answered all my questions. But she couldn’t help us much, either.”
    â€œHad she kept in touch with her ex?” Grissom asked. “Ever visited him here?”
    â€œThey talked on the phone a few times. They were a childless couple, who broke up acrimoniously, over his cashing in his retirement and moving here … to be closer to his gambling habit.”
    Warrick said, “So that’s what he was preoccupied about at work.”
    Both Catherine and Brass nodded.
    â€œBy the way,” Brass said, “the neighborhood canvass was a bust—what few people were home didn’t notice anybody strange in the area, much less actually see our killer go to the front door.”
    â€œSo much for talk,” Grissom said. “What about actual evidence?”
    â€œThe partial footprint is from a current Stasis M658 running shoe,” Warrick said. “There weren’t any of those in Sandred’s closet, or anywhere on his property for that matter … and the next door neighbors don’t own any either. Could belong to the killer.”
    â€œGood, Warrick,” Grissom said.
    Sara said, “Partial prints on the bell and front doorknob? Didn’t belong to Sandred.”
    â€œDo we know whose they are?” Grissom asked.
    Nick said, “I ran them through AFIS and got a goose egg.”
    Sara added, “I went through the Gaming Commission, the military … came up empty.”
    â€œAny trace?” Grissom asked.
    â€œJust those black threads you found,” Nick said. “Polyester.”
    Grissom turned to the coroner.
    Dr. Robbins said, “Victim died of asphyxiation due to the ligature around his neck. Quite a bit of struggle. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot more than that to offer.”
    â€œYou’ve gone over the original CASt files?”
    â€œYes—this death is consistent with those.”
    Grissom nodded and the coroner did the same, then rose, slipped the cuff of his crutch over his arm, and headed out, but then paused at the doorway, file of photos under one arm.
    â€œIt wasn’t a pleasant death,” Robbins said. “It’d be nice not to have to add any more pictures to my collection.”
    Catherine said, “See what we can do, Doc.”
    Robbins nodded somberly, then exited.
    â€œTakes one sick perp,” Nick said, “to bum out a coroner.”
    Grissom turned to Nick. “You were working the lipstick database …”
    â€œYes—this one’s called Bright Rose, made by Ile De France.