III:

            The landscape of Las Vegas was a nebulous thing. It was always in flux. Size, shape and density were never static for long. Even the world famous strip seemed incapable of maintaining a constant state. Like the Sahara and Stardust things got replaced frequently in Vegas, it made construction a steady line of work for many.

            Walking with great care through the construction site of a new high-rise condominium complex, Warrick Brown lamented the fact that he hadn’t taken the time to change out of his court clothes. The heavy coat of dust covering his black, dress shoes had the man groaning as he rounded a flatbed truck delivering copper tubing. The guard at the gate had let him know the site foreman could be found at the office this late in the afternoon.

            The office was a sixteen by fifty tan and white trailer that housed a main office, a side office, and a medics station. The sign on the trailer matched the sign at the gate, Attaway-Brooks Construction in bold, blue letters. Knocking on the texture metal door, Warrick scanned the nearby area. He noted work vehicles, tools and machinery and some of the workers as they passed by as he waited for someone to answer his knock.

            Warrick was so engrossed watching the hustle and bustle of the workers as they tried to finish up their individual projects before quitting time, that he was startled when the door to the trailer swung open. A man in his mid-fifties with receding brown hair, cropped tightly and wearing a blue dress shirt and khakis waved Warrick into the trailer, closing the door behind him.

            The man pointed to a chair against the wall before pointing his index finger in the air, silently asking for Warrick to wait a minute. With a nod, Warrick made himself comfortable as he watched the man pace the small office while talking shop on his cell phone. From what Warrick could hear, the man was squabbling over the delivery of tile to be installed in the condominiums.

            “Sorry about that,” the man said pleasantly, snapping his cell phone shut and stuffing it in the right front pocket of his pants. “Jeremy Brooks,” he introduced himself, shaking Warrick’s hand as the other man stood.

            “Mr. Brooks, my name is Warrick Brown.” He produced his CSI credentials for the man, who read the badge quickly before gesturing for Warrick to retake his seat. “I understand that you had a Jesse Burdette working for you.”

            Brooks frowned as he perched atop the corner of one of the desks in the room. “At this site or…” He made a circular motion with his hand, questioning where it was that Warrick thought Burdette worked.

            “My information says this site,” Warrick informed him, opening the manila file that he had been given on the Burdette murder. “Do you have other construction sites?”

            Jeremy Brooks chuckled as if Warrick had just caught him in a clever joke. “Yes, Mr. Brown. I have three different construction sites in Clark County alone, two in Carson City and one in Utah. I also own a number of properties,” he listed with pride. “If you can give me a few minutes I can have my secretary locate where Mr. Burkett works, if you’d like.”

            Warrick raised a hand to slow the man down as Brooks reached for the cell phone in his pocket. “It’s Burdette, or was,” Warrick explained. “Jesse Burdette was murdered last night and we’re trying to gather information concerning his whereabouts for the last couple of days.”

            Brooks’ cordial smile dissolved slowly on his face as the seriousness of the moment caught him. “Umm, I’m sorry, I…” Brooks stammered as he smoothed down his red and blue tie with both hands. “Most of the time when we see police or what not it usually has to do with messy divorces or unpaid child support.”

            Warrick nodded in understanding, the man’s chagrin seemed genuine. Pulling a piece of paper from his file that contained Jesse’s I.D. photograph, Warrick handed it to Brooks. It was your typical driver’s license photo, complete with bad hair. Jesse’s sandy blonde hairdo had reminded Warrick of Sanders back in the day, before becoming a CSI, when he experimented with dangerous amounts of hair gel in an attempt to defy gravity.

            “Of course,” the man said, studying the picture in front of him, before handing it back to Warrick. “Burd, yes he was one of my laborers here. Good kid, never missed a day according to my foreman.”

            Warrick slipped the paper back into the file, making a mental note to ask to talk to the site foreman. “Do you know if he was at work yesterday?”

            “Let’s ask Art,” Brooks said, launching himself from the desk before opening the door. “Oh!”

            On the other side of the door, preparing to enter was a man in a yellow hard hat that seemed oddly out of place on his head. He was of average height with a slim, not quite delicate, build. His facial features were perfect, almost pretty, with dark, chestnut colored eyes. He looked like he needed to be on a runway wearing designer clothes, not in a hard hat on a construction site.

            “Hey kid,” Brooks said with a smile, patting the man on the shoulder as he stepped inside.

            The newcomer was approximately the same age as Warrick, which made the investigator smile at Brooks calling the other man “kid”. It’s all relative, Warrick thought, catching the half-hearted smile of the newcomer’s face.

            “Mr. Brown, my brother Garrison,” Brooks said by way of introduction. Garrison Brooks extended a hand, greeting Warrick with a curious look. “That boy that you hired a few months ago, Burd, was murdered.”

            A startled look broke out across the younger Brooks face, his eyes darting between his brother and Warrick, questioning the validity of his brother’s statement. “When? How?”

            Most people, when confronted with the death of someone they knew, wanted facts. Proof that the person they knew in life was truly dead. Some would question the facts, others would accept them. Warrick had been asked the same questions too many times for him to count, the people changed, the cases changed but Warrick’s preliminary answer staid relatively constant. “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he informed the brothers.

            Jeremy Brooks grabbed his hard hat from a nearby desk cluttered with files and invoices. “I’ll take you to see Art, he’s my foreman on this project. He’ll no if Burd was at work yesterday,” he informed Warrick, handing him a blue hard hat with the word “visitor” printed in white, block lettering across the front.

            Warrick slipped the hat on his head, preparing to leave the office in search of the foreman. The Brooks brothers were probably to far up the food chain to know much about the comings and goings of Jesse Burdette. If Warrick was lucky the foreman might be able to shine some light on the last day of the teenager, maybe point Warrick in the direction of someone that might know something useful or better yet, a suspect!

            * * * * * * * * * * * *

            There were over three hundred miles of open drainage tunnels servicing the greater Las Vegas area. During heavy rains the tunnels filled quickly, the hard compacted soil and rock simply not capable of dispersing the rain quickly enough. The tunnels all ran in the general direction of the Las Vegas wash, a topographical funnel that led the heavy rains from the metropolitan area towards Lake Mead.

            Because the tunnels were twelve feet below the surface their ambient temperature did not fluctuate as drastically as the open air above, making the underground warrens very appealing to the homeless on cool nights. Pilfered pallets and other discarded debris were used as makeshift beds and dividers between the watery labyrinth dwellers. Their hoarded piles of goods stuffed in plastic bags underneath spray-painted murals and tag symbols. It was a foolhardy soul that ventured into the concrete channels, day or night, that didn’t know where to go or what awaited them.

            Like any other environment, there were always expert guides to lead the less knowledgeable, in the case of the water ways running below the city’s surface, Grissom, Brass and Sara found themselves being led by a burly, mountain of man named Eldridge Jackson. Grissom found it rather ironic that a man the size of Jackson was placed in charge of the upkeep off the tunnels. At more than six and a half feet tall, the man could easily reach above his heads and touch the tunnel ceiling. In fact, the man looked much like a giant black bear, lumbering into the inner recesses of his cave.

            “We’re not far from the Flamingo Wash,” their guide said in a deep baritone voice.

            Brass looked to Grissom, his brows arched. “Didn’t a couple of homeless guys drown around here in ’99?”

            Before Grissom could answer, Jackson threw in, “Sure did. Always have trouble in this area during flooding. The Imperial’s parking ramp is one giant river when it gets bad.”

            The tunnel opened up into a large catch basin; a concrete vault the size of a small room, where several tunnels intersected. The rain from two nights ago was still evident in the shallow trickle of water on the floor of the tunnels and basins. The soft splash of their footfalls echoed quietly of the cement walls, mingling with the sounds of the Strip over head.

            Light from the world above flickered down in the catch basin through drain grates, reflecting of the water on to the walls and ceiling above. Along the walls, raised on pallets were several of the sewers residents. Their wary, dirty faces were hidden in partial shadows, as they watched the newcomers to their underground world.

            “Don’t worry about these poor folks,” Jackson told them. “The ones you need to worry about are down this way.” He pointed down another tunnel they would travel.

            Sister Liz had learned from one of the men at her shelter that Spider was often seen in the company of a homeless man named Gabriel. With some serious shoe leather burnt up, Brass had been able to find a general location on the man. Of course his general location was three hundred miles of sewer!

            “Is Gabriel dangerous,” Sara asked, worried about the safety of the young boy they were seeking. He’s homeless and is a known associate of denizens of the sewers, how safe could he be? Sara thought sarcastically.

            “Gabriel is okay,” Jackson told her. “His elevator doesn’t reach the top floor, if you know what I mean, but he’s not really violent. No…in this neighborhood you need to worry about Tartarus Rex,” he looked back at Sara and gave her a pointed stare.

            “Tartarus Rex?” Grissom twisted his lips. “The King of Hell,” he said, answering the unspoken question on Brass’ face.

            Brass rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted to deal with was an underground crazy, with delusions of greatness and a penchant for violence.
            “Here,” Jackson said as they entered another catch basin. “This is Gabriel’s nest over here.” He pointed to an area along the wall where a makeshift tent made out of plastic sheeting and discarded 2x4s was set up. Above the tent, a golden cross was painted. Nearby was a depiction of an angel carrying a sword, fighting what looked to Grissom to be a slot machine. Pointing his flashlight at the mural, Grissom glanced between Brass and Sara, a smirk covering his lips.

            “I take it Gabriel is in reference to the Archangel?” Grissom asked Jackson with a wry twist of his lips.

            Jackson just shrugged his large shoulders. “I suppose. He sure likes talking about the Bible and stuff.”

            Sara knelt, sitting on her heels as she pointed her flashlight into the improvised shelter. There were glass candles, religious ones with pictures of various saints and one of the Virgin Mary, a homemade cross made from scrap wood and a bed made from a pile of ratty blankets. Something within the folds of the blankets caught Sara’s eye. Reaching a gloved hand into the pile of molding covers, she pulled the hilt of an elaborate dagger out.

            Looking up to Grissom with raised brows, she handed him the weapon. “Might be our murder weapon,” Sara speculated.

            The dagger looked old. The handle elaborate, decorated in Celtic knot-work and accented with a twisted filigree of leaves. What caught all their attentions was the blonde tassel hanging from the cross-guard of the weapon, obviously made of human hair.

            “THAT’S MINE!” A voice screeched, the sound ricocheting all around them.

            Grissom noted the big black man that had guided them down into the concrete caverns was not without backup, a black collapsible baton appearing in his hand but held low. With raised brows, Grissom turned his attention to the man marching directly at them. Although he looked irate, he didn’t seem to be outwardly hostile but Grissom instinctively stepped back his right arm coming up protectively to keep Sara behind him.

            The disgruntled owner of the dagger was a man in his late fifties, with long, dirty salt and pepper hair that clung in greasy locks down past his shoulders. He had fashioned a pullover robe out of a well used painter’s drop cloth, accentuated by what looked to be a woman’s gold belt complete with plastic, faux diamonds and emeralds.

            Brass had come forward at the man’s outburst, his hand held up in a halting gesture. “Take it easy,” he kept his voice calm and his gestures to a minimum.

            “They just wanted to talk to you, Gabriel,” Eldridge Jackson explained, collapsing his baton. Apparently Gabriel doesn’t warrant his worry, Grissom thought, still not willing to bring his guard completely down.         

            “That’s mine,” Gabriel reiterated, his left hand pointing at the dagger in Grissom’s hand while his right scratched at the scraggly seaweed beard hanging from his chin.

            Grissom looked at the dagger Sara had discovered. “Yes, we were just admiring the details,” Grissom told the man who had taken up an air of annoyed superiority, like a king bothered by his vassals.

            “Grissom,” Sara whispered from behind him, already having produced a swab and the small bottle of phenolphthalein from her vest to test for blood.

            Grissom eyed Gabriel. “I’m going to check this for blood,” he explained, not wanting to set the man off.

            “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed,” Gabriel recited, his hands stretched out before him, his gleaming eyes searching Grissom’s face intensely.

            “For in the image of God made he man. Whoever takes a man’s life, by man will his life be taken…Genesis 9:6,” Grissom finished.

            Gabriel rolled his head to the side, a small smile gracing his lips as he continued to watch Grissom. His caution was slowly giving way to curiosity as he watched Sara swab the dagger, before applying a couple of drops of phenol. The tell tale red wash, letting them know that blood was present even if it wasn’t seen.

            “Blood,” Sara said her eyes going between Grissom and Gabriel, who was reciting another passage to himself.

            “Gabriel, can you tell us where the blood came from?” Grissom watched the man as he preached to an invisible congregation. The light seeping in from the world above, reflecting of the watery floor, made silver lines dance along the cement walls- a light show for Gabriel’s performance.

            “The agent of the Dark One hunts for me, seeks the souls of the innocent,” Gabriel spoke, his fingers tapping on his chest as he swayed slightly, his head swiveling, searching for real or imagined enemies.

            Grissom inclined his chin as if the man’s explanation was obvious. Schizophrenia? Grissom wondered. It was a sad fact among the homeless but many suffered from mental illness. Undiagnosed, unmonitored or without support, many were unable to hold down a job and eventually ended up on the streets.

            “Gabriel, what about this?” Grissom fingered the tassel of hair adorning the dagger’s hilt. 

            Gabriel turned from his imaginary pulpit to look at Grissom once again, his eyes falling on the blonde tassel. “That’s mine.” Gabriel pointed to the dagger once more, his movements becoming more animated, their presence beginning to have an effect on the man. “The angel gave it to me,” Gabriel smiled happily at the gift or giver, Grissom was not certain.

            Gabriel was lucid enough to follow the conversation but his cryptic answers were not helping the situation. If anything it was only making his situation worse. He had a dagger with blood trace on it and an adornment made out possible human hair. Brass decided to bring him in, the safety of an interrogation room seemed far more appealing to the police captain than the wet bowels of the Las Vegas sewer system.

            “Gabriel, we need your help,” Brass began, hoping to get the man out on his own power without a fight. “Someone has taken blood and we need to find out whom.” Brass didn’t have a problem going along with the man’s delusions if it made his job easier.

            Gabriel pawed his ratty beard in thought, his dark eyes catching the scarce light from above appeared to almost glow as he watched Brass. Even though the police captain knew the man was crazy, he did give off an unusual vibe that had Brass mentally shaking himself. He almost felt like Gabriel was trying to hypnotize him. Tunnel fever! Brass chided himself silently.

            “I know…God has told me and I am a good servant of the Almighty and protect the innocent,” Gabriel spoke as he began to walk in the direction that Brass and the others had come from.

            With wide eyes Brass looked to Grissom and Sara, wondering if it was going to be that simple. Realizing they needed to act quickly before Gabriel decided to change his mind, Brass followed after the man, Grissom and Sara not far behind while their original guide brought up the rear.

            Gabriel’s overly animated sermon echoed of the tunnel walls, punctuated only by the soft splash of their feet and the occasional distant voice or muted car horn from above. It seemed to take them half the time to get back to the culvert they had originally entered the labyrinths from. Seeing the setting sun, Brass heaved a small sigh of relief. There was no way in hell he wanted to be below the surface after dark, he was armed but by no means suicidal.

            * * * * * * * * * * * * *

            The Hunter sat in the lavish diningroom only half listening to the banal conversations of his family. Their chitter-chatter, like the drone of a fan, was not unpleasant but hardly worth paying much attention to. Still, like a good automaton, the Hunter smiled at all the appropriate moments and commented when needed to keep up the ruse of caring.

            The gong of the antique grandfather clock in the hall told him the time was getting near. The anticipation of the hunt was almost more than he could bear, the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a freight train out of control. His mind was on fire like a phoenix, ready to soar and set fire to the world. He felt omnipotent and more than anything he wanted to jump from his seat, smash the dinnerware, scream at them to ‘shut the fuck up!’ and storm into the night to find his next prey. But he smiled warmly at his mother’s charming story of his six year old daughter’s day.

            The Hunter glanced at the child, the faux warmth of his smile momentarily being replaced by genuine affection as he watched the little girl giggle at her grandmother’s story. Not for the first time did the man wonder what his life would have been like had he been born different. His predilections rarely caused him a moment’s pause, to him it was like questioning the need to breathe, there was no purpose. But on rare occasions he did ponder the ‘what ifs’ of his life before shrugging them of without much care.

             He was a hunter. It was what he did and what he wanted and he would have what he wanted regardless of the consequences. He enjoyed his hunts. His prey’s wishes or wants were not important. Their suffering was not what concerned him. He did not grieve for them or their loved ones. He barely noted them at all save for the delight they brought him. Like a fine wine they were meant for his pleasure and consumption.

            “Well, ladies,” he looked to his mother, sister-in-law and daughter, thankful his father had rushed off to his study earlier, “I must be off.”

            His daughter’s slight pout almost made him laugh. She would be a handful someday. Already she had his self-absorbed mother wrapped easily around her finger, the older woman happily doing the child’s bidding. Or commanding one of the help to do it, he thought cynically.

            Placating his daughter with a promise to check on her when he returned, the Hunter gave his mother and daughter a quick kiss on the cheek before heading into the night. He had been all around the world and there were few exceptions to the choice hunting that the city of Las Vegas had to offer. Like a watering hole in the hot savannah, his prey came and with masterful attention and immense patience he would wait for just the right one.

            It was still early, the promise of the nights pleasures still just an eager tingle in his veins. He would take care of some other business first before seeking his next victim. There was time. He may not find the right one for many nights or many weeks but his next kill was out there and he would eventually find him.

            A momentary flash of anger spread across his mind’s eye at his last kill. He had been interrupted, unable to finish his task and dispose of the body as he had done so many times before. There was a possible witness to concern himself with but every passing day made the likelihood of a witness coming forward seem less and less. In all probability it had been a rodent or cat that had startled him from his diversion, which made the man turn his momentary ire on himself.

            He had gotten complacent with Burd, delighting in the young man’s perfect cheekbones and flawless skin. The Hunter had watched his prey for months, trying to judge the best approach and then by pure happenstance his victim had almost been hand delivered to him, not once but twice. If he had believed in signs he would have taken it as such. Instead he manipulated a series of events that led the boy straight into his grasp.

            When he had thought his quarry well caught and subdued, the boy surprised him and while he was momentarily distracted had attempted to flee into the Las Vegas night. Burd had nearly succeeded and in the end he had had to kill the young man quickly, the chance at being noticed to great and he couldn’t have that. Prison was simply not an option.

            Slipping through the streets of Las Vegas, he thumbed the button to his hands-free cell phone. A moment passed before a familiar female voice answered.

            “Yes.” The voice said, all business and cold steel.

            “It’s me,” he informed the woman at the other end, his voice cutting through the silence of the car’s cabin. “Is Byron ready? Everything set for this evening?”

            “Yes, everyone is ready,” the cold voice spoke. “Nils will have our tracks neatly covered as well.”

            The Hunter grinned, a feral grin. The night held much promise and he was eager for it all to begin. He had been denied his pleasures and he wanted, no, needed to slake the insistent thrum in his blood. Even if his hunt came up fruitless, he could always enjoy a little sideshow fun, it wasn’t the same as his pursuits but it had its delicious moments.