• 1-Brass

Brass

by library_lady61

A/N: Minor
spoilers and references to: Caged, PNN, Stalker, Fight Night, and possibly a
few other episodes.

Summary: [GSR] Grissom, Brass and Sara investigate the
death of a tourist. Something really nice happens to Brass.

WARNING: There are disturbing elements in this story.
The “bad guy” seriously invades a woman’s privacy, with disastrous results.

Many thanks and huge kudos to my two ace betas - JCR
and LordPanzer369. You two rock! And a special thank you to a certain colleague
of mine who recently visited Las Vegas and brought me back some very useful
information about that fascinating city.

Disclaimer: I
do not own anything to do with CSI, nor do I have any connection to the
individuals and companies that play a role in its production. I just like to
write stories about CSI and it’s wonderful characters. Lynne Whitney is my own
original character; and believe me, she really is a character. I hope you like
her.

Rating: R

~~~~~

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I was sitting in the office
of Captain James Brass, answering questions regarding the mysterious and
untimely demise of an old acquaintance of mine. An acquaintance I had not seen
in many years, until today when I saw him in the morgue.

“Of course, Captain Brass, I could tell you a great many things. But,
regarding our present conversation; I have told you everything I know.” I
wasn’t trying to be a smart ass, really I wasn’t; stress always made me take
things far too literally. It’s a flaw.

I had arrived in Vegas the previous day; it was my first visit to Sin
City - better known among my friends and co-workers as “Lost Wages.” I had no
interest in gambling, none at all. Rather, I had come to experience the desert,
and to learn a little local culture and history. I had taken a room at a small
off-the-Strip hotel, and I planned to alternate checking out the city’s
libraries, museums, universities, and historical landmarks with day trips to
Lake Mead, Hoover Dam, and Mount Charleston. I even hoped to get in a hike or
two. These plans now seemed hopelessly derailed.

I had just returned to my hotel room following an afternoon at the
Western States Historical Society when I saw that the message light on the
phone was blinking. I called in for the message and was shocked to find it was
from the Las Vegas Coroner’s Office, requesting a call-back ASAP.

I hesitantly called the number, and made arrangements to meet the
coroner at the morgue. Apparently, he had a dead body, and wanted me to confirm
the identity. I was frightened and confused because I had no idea whose body I
was about to see. I had several friends who vacationed in Vegas once or twice a
year, but none had done so recently. Who could it possibly be? And, how had the
coroner known to call me?

After presenting myself to the coroner’s receptionist, I had a brief
wait before a bearded, rotund older man approached me. He greeted me politely,
and introduced himself, Dr. Albert Robbins. He ushered me into a small room,
where a human form lay on a gurney, hidden beneath a white sheet.

“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

I replied, “I’m quite willing to cooperate, but since I don’t know
anybody in Vegas, I’m not at all certain how much help I can give. Yes, I’m
ready.” In truth, I was dreading this, but had decided to suck it up and get it
over with as quickly as possible. He carefully folded the sheet back, revealing
only the man’s face. At first, I didn’t recognize the person, although he did
seem somehow familiar. Then, with sudden clarity I knew who it was, and said
so, “It’s Ian Johnstone. I knew him years ago; at one time, we both lived in a
small town in Northwestern Ontario. He was a special constable with the OPP.
Sorry, that’s the Ontario Provincial Police.”

Dr. Robbins covered Ian’s face again while nodding. “Thank you, Ms.
Whitney. If I may ask, when did you last see him?”

I thought for a moment, “In July, 1985.”

Moving towards the door, the coroner stated, “Again, thank you. You
bee been very helpful.” He opened the door, there were two men standing in the
corridor; Dr. Robbins’ next words were for them, “We have a positive ID, Ian
Johnstone, like we thought. I’ll let you take it from here.” He excused
himself, and walked away.

I was left standing there, alone with two strange men who were looking
at me with frank curiosity. It is a decided understatement to say I was
unnerved. One of them spoke to me, “You’re Lynne Whitney?”

“Yes, I am.”

He pointed to his badge, “I’m Captain Jim Brass, homicide. This is Gil
Grissom from the Las Vegas crime lab. We have some questions for you. Please
come with us.”

Thus, I soon found myself seated in the handsome captain’s office,
numbly reciting everything I could recall about Ian, painfully aware that my
knowledge was nearly 20 years out-of-date.

“You have nothing more to add?” Captain Brass pressed me.

“That’s correct; I have nothing more to add.” I paused, then spoke
again, “I do have a question, though.”

Brass exchanged a glance with Grissom before granting me permission to
ask, “As I told you, I barely knew Ian, and it was so long ago. What led Dr.
Robbins to me? I mean, how on earth did he even get my name?”

Grissom spoke then the the first time. He opened a file folder, took
out a plastic bag that was sealed with wide, red tape, and held it out to me.
“Read this,” he said. Seeing my reluctance to take the bag, he added, “It’s
okay; you may touch the bag, just don’t break the seal.” I took it from him.

The bag contained a laminated card, like a business card. The words
printed upon it floored me.

“In the event of an emergency, please contact Lynne Whitney,” followed
by my current address and phone number, both for my home and my office.

“We found that in his wallet,” Gri was was speaking to me, “Are the
addresses and phone numbers correct?”

I nodded, too upset to speak.

“What we are trying to figure out is why a man you haven’t seen or
heard from in two decades would name you as an emergency contact. Any ideas?”
Grissom’s vivid blue eyes studied me intently.

Finding my voice again, I looked him in the eye and replied, “Mr.
Grissom, I assure you I have no idea why Ian had this. Why he named me.” I
handed the bag back to him. He returned it to the folder, and then showed me a
second evidence bag; this time containing a small square of white paper, with a
hand written message upon it. Again, he asked me to read it.

It was my name, Lynne, and the name and room number of my hotel here in
Vegas.

Grissom pressured me, “This was in his motel room. Did you tell him
where you are staying? Did you see him here in Vegas?”

I gave him back the note, and re-established eye contact with him. I
needed ho kno know that I was telling the truth. “No, I did not tell Ian where
I’m staying. And, no, I did not see Ian here in Vegas. Today, in the morgue,
was the first time I have seen or heard from him since 1985.” I couldn’t tell
if Grissom was convinced; his expression was unreadable.

Captain Brass rejoined the discussion, “Ms. Whitney, where were you
last night between the hours of 9:30 PM and 4 AM?”

Startled by the implications of his question, I was slow to respond.
“Well, I had a late dinner in my room, room service. It was delivered about 9.
I paid cash, including a generous tip. I’m sure the young man who brought me my
meal will remember me. After that, I watched TV. Would you like a list of the
programs I watched?” I knew that he would likely check out everything I said.

“Maybe later. Did you leave your room at any time?” Brass was very
serious.

12.0pt'>“Um, yeah. Around midnight, I ran down to the vending machines for a
chocolate bar and a pop. I’m sorry, that’s Canadian for a candy bar and a
soda.”

Brass grunted, “Yeah, we know. But, other than that, you stayed in your
room all night?”

“Yes, I did. I went to bed around 2, and slept until about 7 this
morning.”

“Did you have any guests, or make any phone calls? I mean using the
room phone, not a cell phone.”

“No guestsd ond one call. I called my daughter, like I do every night.
We talked for about 35 minutes, ending just before I ordered my dinner. I don’t
have a cell phone.”

Grissom opened the large case he had brought with him, and removed a
few items. “I would like to collect a sample of your hair and your DNA, and
take your fingerprints. I don’t have a warrant, so it’s voluntary. It will be
very helpful for our investigation.”

This was going from bad to worse. Why did these people need samples
from me? What exactly was going on here? Still, I knew that I had done nothing
wrong, certainly nothing criminal, so there was probably no harm in
cooperating. “For the record, Mr. Grissom, I’m not a criminal, but I will
cooperate with you. You may take your samples.”

Grissom did just that; he swabbed the inside of my cheek, collected a
few strands of hair, and printed me, all 10 fingers. I tried not to notice how
gentle his big hands were on my fingers, how pleasant his touch was - even
through his gloves. When he was finished, he offered me a moist towelette, to
remove the ink from my skin. Then, he politely thanked me.

Brass made some notes, and looked up at me. “Okay, we have enough for
now. You’re free to go, but don’t leave Vegas without clearing it with me
first. Not even for day trips.” He handed me his card, “If you think of
anything else, here’s how to reach me.”

I needed to know, “Am I a suspect?”

The captain paused, carefully choosing his words, “Not at the moment,”
he finally admitted.

As I stood up, Grissom opened the door, “I’ll walk you out.” He glanced
over his shoulder at Brass, “Be right back, Jim.”

~~~~~

15 hours earlier:an>

Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows
are standing in a motel room. Jim Brass has briefed them, and left them to
their work. They have just entered the room, and are familiarizing themselves
with the scene. A man lies dead on the floor, with a gunshot wound in his
chest, and a pool of blood under and around him. There is a little blood
spatter on the walls, the bed, and the other furniture. The shy, bespectacled
coroner’s assistant is crouching nearby, examining the deceased man; he pauses
in his work and smiles a greeting to them. A gun rests on the floor a short
distance away from the decedent’s outstretched right hand. Looking beyond the
corpse, they see that every flat surface is buried under piles of photographs;
there are at least two hundred in total. Some of the photos are also speckled
with blood, and closer inspection reveals all all the photos are of the same
subject - a brunette, grey-eyed, somewhat overweight, middle-aged woman. A
wallet is hidden under a scattered stack of the photos; Grissom gingerly opens
it and removes an ID card. The man apparently had been a Mountie. He passes
this information onto his co-worker asbagsbags the card, and again picks up the
wallet. He finds another card that lists the man’s emergency contact
information. This card and the wallet are also bagged.

Catherine, meanwhile, has
found a slip of plain white notepaper. Written upon it arwomawoman’s name, and
the name and room number of a nearby hotel. “Grissom, look at this. It seems he
had a friend here.”

Grissom reads the note;
it’s the same name as the emergency contact card. “Bag that. It could be
important,” he says unnecessarily. “I’ll process the bathroom. When David’s
done, you can continue here.”

The bathroom contains
personal items that could belong to any man:
shampoo, hairbrush and comb, men’s deodorant and shaving supplies,
toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. Nothing uniquely feminine, nothing that
showed a second person had been in the room. Discarded clothing occupies one
corner; it also is entirely masculine. In the bathtub are a few soggy towels.
The small trash can contains a used enema kit. Grissom expertly photographs
everything, then he methodically bags and tags each item. There is no blood
evidence here; Grissom checks everywhere. He finds several fingerprints, and a
few stray hairs. In all likelihood, they belong to the victim, or a previous
occupant, or even a maid. But, they just might belong to a murderer.

Working around David,
Catherine continues her examination of the main room; like Grissom, she
carefully documents her work with photographs. She discovers an inuminum
carrying case in the closet, very similar in size and shape to her own field
kit. She cannot open it, though; it has a combination lock - examination of the
contents will have to wait until later. The one large suitcase, however, has
been left unzipped. Inside is a man’s typical vacation wardrobe. Nothing
unusual, nothing unexpected. On the desk, under an array of photos, is a laptop
computer, with a small, high-quality printer attached; these, too, she collects
as evidence. She wants to check the bedding for biological stains, but she
pauses. The bedspread was hit with blood spatter; she must deal with this
before she can do anything else with the bedding. David has removed the body;
she can now start the blood spatter analysis.

Sometime later, Grissom
emerges from the bathroom to find Catherine looking out the window, her arms
crossed and her eyes focused on something in the parking lot. Knowing that he
is now beside her, she speaks without looking at him, “Do you see it, Gil, the
car with Saskatchewan plates? Kinda stands out, doesn’t it. I’m going to ask
the manager who it belongs to. Odds are it’s the vic’s.” Finally, she turns her
head and looks at him.

He nods, and smiles at
her. Precious little gets past her, and he tells her so. Together, they finish
processing the crime scene.

~~~~~

Later, I soaked in a bubble bath and tried to make sense of it all. Ian
Johnstone. I hadn’t even thought about him in years, but somehow we had both
ended up in Vegas at the same time. And now he was dead. He must have been
murdered, for why else would Captain Brass be investigating it? I realized that
I didn’t even know how he had died. I guess I could have asked, but the
“conversation” (interrogation?) in the captain’s office had been so difficult
that the question had simply not occurred to me. It was appalling that I could
even be considered a suspect. Oh well, they would soon figure out that I was
completely innocent. Innocent? Oh, that’s a good one, Lynne, I laughed to
myself. What I mean is, they will know I haven’t committed any crimes.

Upon leaving the captain’s office, I asked Mr. Grissom to direct me to
the ladies’ room. He complied, and waited as I used the facilities; then he
walked me back to my rental car. I thought it unnecessary, but he had his own
agenda.

“Ms. Whitney, may I ask you something? It’s not officially part of the
investigation, just something I’m curious about.” I consented to the question,
so he continued, “You identify yourself as a library technician, but not a
librarian. What’s the difference?”

“Basically, it’s the difference between a university degree and a
college diploma. You see, to be a librarian requires an MLS, a Masters of
Library Science degree; whereas to be a library technician requires a diploma
from a college or institute of technology. I have the latter, but not the
former. I’m trained to do the technical tasks required in a library, such as
acquisitions and cataloguing. Of course, a more complete answer would also be
more complex, but I’ve given you a fairly accurate summary.”

He seemed satisfied with my explanation.

Slowly, my thoughts settled down, anfeltfelt calmer. I sank deeper into
the bath and allowed my thoughts to freely wander. After a while, I found I was
thinking about Jim Brass. Oh, shame on me!

~~~~~

“Gil, we already know who he is. We don’t need her to
make the ID.” Doc Robbins had just completed his post-mortem exam of Ian
Johnstone. He didn’t understand what Grissom was suggesting.

“Al, you’re right. Technically, we already have a
positive ID. What I’m thinking is that this Lynne Whitney has some connection
to the vic. We don’t yet know the exact nature of that connection. So, we bring
her in here, have her make the ID, and watch her reaction. Use a room with an
observation booth and I’ll be with Jim behind the mirror. When she’s done, Jim
and I will ask her our questions. All you have to do is proceed exactly like
you do every time someID’sID’s a body. Just give us time to get out into the
hall before she leaves the room. She can’t know we’re observing her.”

Al gave it some thought, and agreed to do it.
“Alright, give me her number.”

~~~~~

“So, Gil, what’ve we got, besides two Canadian istsists, one of them a
dead Mountie, who knew each other 20 years ago?” Jim Brass was tired, and
frustration was starting to build in his soul. That bottle of booze in his desk
drawer was callto hto him; he ignored it. “We know the guy was shot through the
heart, and her name is not only in his wallet, but pictures of her - recent
pictures, some of them - are all over his motel room. He knew precisely where
she’s staying. But, she insists that she hasn’t heard from him since ‘85.
What’s your take?”

Grissom gathered his thoughts; he had come straight back to Jim’s
office after walking Lynne to her car. “She may be telling the truth. I’ll have
my people process her hair, DNA, and prints, but I don’t believe we’ll find any
matches. Otherwise, there’s no reason to think that she went anywhere near him
or his room during thee the they’ve both been in Vegas. We saw her ID the body,
we witnessed her reaction. It took her a minute to even know who he was. Then,
she spoke of him in the past tense. She said he was OPP, when we’ve already
confirmed he was an RCMP officer; she apparently didn’t know he’d made the
switch. We can, and will, verify everything she told us about what she’s done
in Vegas since her arrival, including her room service and hotel phone records.
Of course, we also need to trace the vic’s activities, for at least the last 48
hours. You can help with that, and check both of them for priors.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I gotta call Johnstone’s CO anyway, let him or her
know what’s happened here.” He paused, frowning and shaking his head, “Damn, I
hate making these calls. And when it’s a dead cop, well, that’s even worse.” He
looked at Gil, who was deep in thought.

“Oh, I know that look. You have something. So, you gonna share?” Brass
asked, not really expecting an answo:p>o:p>

Grissom surprised him by actually speaking, “I just might. Have
something, that is. I’ll get back to you.” He was gone before Brass even took
his next breath.

~~~~~

Catherine logged in all the evidence from the Johnstone case. Some of
it, like the gun, the photos, the clothing, and bedding, she would deliver to
various lab techs for analysis, but the rest of it would be stored in the
evidence vault until she had a chance to process it. Grissom should have been
helping her, but he had been called away. No matter, eventually she’d get
payback. In any case, by the time she was done, her shift would be over. She
planned to take Lindsey out for breakfast - a rare treat on a school day -
before dropping her off at school. Then, Cath was out of here. She was going to
a major-league forensics conference; her next few days would be filled with
fun, friends, free food - and, of course, the workshops. This year’s line-up of
speakers and presenters was the best yet. She was stoked, couldn’t wait to get
there.

~~~~~

Grissom strode down the CSI building hallways peering into the various
labs and rooms as he passed them. He had dropped off Lynne’s specimens with the
people who would analyze them and was now looking for, but not finding,
something - or someone.

“Hey, Griss, need something?” Nick Stokes emerged from the break room
as his supervisor swept past the door.

“Nick, where’s Sara? I need her.” It was a sign of Grissom’s intense
preoccupation that he failed to notice the double entendre he had just spoken;
Nick caught it but wisely let it pass without comment.

“She’s probably not back yet.” Seeing Grissom’s unspoken question, he
added, “From the scene you sent her to process.”

Grissom blinked. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Anything I can do?” Nick made the offer expecting to be refused. He
wasn’t disappointed.

“Thanks, Nick, but no. Where’re you at with your own case?” Grissom had
a way of keeping everyone on task, but it wasn’t always appreciated. Getting
the point, Nick succinctly gave Grissom an update, then he quickly got back to
work.

~~~~~

Arriving back at the lab, Sara Sidle desperately wanted - no, make that
desperately needed - a shower. With lemons, a whole bushel of them. As much as
she loved her work, sometimes she despised it. Tonight, she loathed it. She and
Warrick Brown had been sent to investigate a brawl at an upscale restaurant. It
should have been easy enough, but the trail of evidence had lead directly to
the back alley - and the dumpster. She lost the coin toss, and had therefore
spent an hour digging through putrid, nauseating kitchen trash. She had found a
bloody knife - potentially a key piece of evidence - but at the moment, all she
cared about was getting the smell of decomposing food scrubbed off of her body.
Leaving Warrick to log in the evidence, she made a beeline for the lockoom.oom.
She had just reached the door when Grissom caught up with her.

“Sara, there you are. I was just about to page you. I need your help
with something.”

“Can it wait a few minutes? I really need a shower.”

“You do? Right now?” He gave no sign that he smelled anything
unpleasant.

She wondered, not for the first time, how this extraordinarily
brilliant scientist could sometimes be so dense. “Grissom, in case you haven’t
noticed, I stink. Actually, I reek. I got the privilege of going
dumpster-diving, and now I’m going to have a shower. I’ll be in your office in
15 minutes.”

Grissom watched her enter the locker room, shaking his head. “She
didn’t smell that bad,” he muttered to himself.

~~~~~

Looking up at her, trying not to see how very sexy she looked with damp
curls framing her face, he told her, “I need you to do some research for me. I
need to know where someone has been for the last 20 years. Actually, two
someones.”

“Two specific someones, or should I just choose at random?” she teased
him.

She got a trademark “Grissom Glare” in reply. “The two people are Lynne
Whitney and Ian Johnstone. Both are Canadian, and I made some notes to get you
started.”

She took the paper he was holding out for her, and inquired, “This is
the case you and Cath were working. So, she’s gone to her conference, and now I
get to help you?”

“Yeah, you do. I guess I got lucky, in a manner of speaking,” he
flirted.

“Are you going to tell me anything else?” She, too, was capable of
uttering double entendres.

‘No. Read the notes, and take it from there. I’m curious to see what
you find, but I don’t want to influence your research.” She was making it very
hard for him to stay focused on the case.

“Piece of cake,” she grinned at him.

~~~~~

As Sara made her way to her computer workstation, Warrick called to
her. He was about to begin processing the evidence from restrestaurant brawl
and he asked her if she wanted to help.

“Sorry, Warrick, Grissom put me on something else.”

“So, you’re ditching me?” His eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Looks like it. Gotta do what the boss wants. I’ll help you later if I
have time,” she replied lightly.

“That’s cool; I’m the primary anyway. See ya lateo:p>o:p>

“Yeah, later.” She gave him a little smile.

~~~~~

Several hours and many cups of coffee later, Sara got up and stretched.
Her excellent computer skills had given her access to a mother lod
in
information. “People would die if they knew just how little privacy they really
have,” she thought. “A person’s whole
life is right out there on the Internet. You just have to know where to look.”

The pattern was crystal clear:
Lynne Whitney had left Ontario in July 1985, and had never been back.
She and her husband had returned to Calgary, their hometown, and had lived
there ever since. Their daughter had been born in 1990, and their divorce had
been granted in 1998. Ian Johnstone, on the other hand, had remained in
Ontario, until joining the RCMP in 1993. Since then, his postings had taken him
all over Canada, except for Alberta. She could find no record of him ever
setting foot in Alberta. So, it seemed that Lynne Whitney and Ian Johnstone
literally had not been in the same province, let alone the same town, since
1985.

She sorted a stack of printouts, making one pile for Lynne and another
for Ian. She then arranged each stack in chronological order. Satisfied, she
went to tell Grissom, hoping he would tell her what it all meant.

~~~~~

“I have all this evidence. College records, employment records, utility
company records; its all here. What do you mean, I missed something?” Sara was
on the verge of anger; she had worked damn hard to get all this, and now he
seemed to be dismissing it.

“I’m sorry, Sara, I didn’t mean you missed something, I meant you
didn’t find anything to show that they saw each other af19851985. Unless they had
secret trysts - unlikely since it seems that Ms. Whitney only rarely traveled
outside of Calgary after the birth of her daughter - they truly never connected
after she left Ontario. This evidence is consistent with her verbal account, at
least to a certain degree.” He handed her the file folder containing all the
case notes and documents. “Here, I can let you see this now.” She rapidly
scanned the contents, expertly gleaning the facts.

Feeling calmer - in her fatigue, she had simply misunderstood him - she
queried, “What about keeping in touch through letters, or email? They might
have done that.”

“It’s possible. But, I don’t know how we could investigate that. We’re
in Vegas, how could we identify letters sent that may have been sent at any
time in the last 20 years, and within Canada at that? And as for email, without
access to every computer they each may have used, how would we ever know? Ms.
Whitney said that there was no contact at all. At this point, we cannot
entirely prove or disprove that statement. The best we can say is that we’ve
found no evidence to the contrary.” Grissom sighed, and ran his hand through
his curly hair, “And none of this even begins to explain why Johnstone had her
name in his wallet.”

“Or her photos all over his room.” She hesitated, thinking. “But, you
know, I did miss something, and so did you. He was a cop, right?”

“Actually, a Mountie, but yeah. So?”

“So, he probably had access to all her information.” She took a breath
and continued, the idea crystallizing as she talked it out, “I mean, I got all
this, he could have done the same. I don’t know *why* he had her listed as an
emergency contact, but I do know *where* he got her current information. He
just looked it up on the Internet.”

She paused, and collected herself. Suddenly, a look of horror appeared
on her face; another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place for her. “Sara,
what is it?” Grissom asked with alarm.

Without consciously deciding to do so, she reached out and grasped his
arm, “Grissom, he was stalking her.”

Grissom, looking into Sara’s eyes, considered her words, “Okay, maybe -
just maybe - he was surveilling her, but stalking? That’s a pretty big leap.”

She insisted, “No, he was stalking her. I just need to prove it.” She
was still holding his arm; he made no move to pull away.

“But, Sara, the evidence doesn’t support that conclusion.”

“Not yet, it doesn’t. I gotta go do some more research.” She whirled
away from him, and was gone.

~~~~~

“Ms. Whitney, I’m Sara Sidle, Las Vegas crime lab. I’d like to ask you
some questions regarding your relationship with Ian Johnstone.”

I was in my hotel room, reading a local newspaper, when Ms. Sidle
knocked; I invited her in and offered her a chair.

“I’ll answer your questions, but I already told Captain Brass and Mr.
Grissom everything I can remember.” I also sat down. “Would you like some
coffee? There’s some left from my breakfast, it’s still fresh.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine. Now, when did you first meet Corporal
Johnstone?”

“Corporal? I guess he earned a promotion or two, good for him; when I
knew him, he was a special constable. But, I first met him in March 1984. It
was the day we - my ex-husband and I - arrived in Lansdowne House. Ian was
there to meet the plane. It was customary for the OPP to have personnel meet
all flights. Ian was among the first people we met there; he just walked over
and introduced himself while we waited for our luggage to be unloaded.”

“You seem very sure of your dates.”

“I have a near-photographic memory. And, I have been thinking about Ian
a lot recently, remembering. Ever since I realized it was him in the morgue.”

“Why did you fly into the town, why not just drive in?”

“Well, there were two reasons. First of all, we didn’t own a vehicle.
But, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because that town is in a remote part of
Ontario. It’s the Canadian Shield, all rocks, trees, and water. It’s actually
very beautiful. But, that far north, there are no roads or highways connecting
the towns; access is either by air, or by water. Driving in simply isn’t an
option.”

“That’s interesting. How well did you know Ian?”

“He became a friend. My husband’s and mine. We saw each other socially,
visited each other at home, that kind of thing. We enjoyed each other’s
company; we respected each other. I guess you could even say we liked each
other. But, Ian always kept a certain distance; he never let anyone get too
close to him.”

“Why was that, do you think?”

“I just assumed it was a small town thing. And maybe a cop thing. That
town had a population of just over 400 people when we lived there. Most of them
had been born and raised there, they had extended families there, and of course
they knew *everybody*. But some of us - my husband, me, the school teachers,
and Ian - were outsiders. We weren’t related to anyone, we didn’t know
everyone, and we stood out. I don’t mean we were treated badly, we weren’t; I
only mean that we weren’t part of the inner circle. Also, it was like living in
a goldfish bowl in some ways, the smallest, most innocent thing could rapidly
become the biggest, nastiest rumour. On top of that, Ian was a police officer;
he was the law, the authority. He was isolated to a degree, out of necessity.
Yee, ee, he was highly visible. He had to be very careful with what he did, the
choices he made. He could never appear to play favourites, and he could never
compromise himself. It was a very precarious position; his behaviour had to be
completely beyond reproach, no matter what the situation. Unfortunately, the
people may have respected his unifobut but a lot of them never really accepted
him, and most never completely trusted him.”

“So, was crime a problem there?”

“No, not really. I’m not certain, but I think there were a lot of
misdemeanors, but very few serious crimes. I didn’t mean to imply that the town
was full of criminals. It’s just that nobody likes being told their behaviour
is inappropriate, especially when the person doing the telling is both a law
enforcement officer, and an outsider.”

“Okay, what about you? Did you trust him?”

“Me? Yeah, I guess I did trust him. I mean, I had no reason not to. I
never broke any laws, so he wasn’t going to arrest me. He was a nice guy, doing
a difficult and thankless job.”

She looked into my eyes, picking up on clues I didn’t even know I was
giving her, “Did you love him?”

The question caught me off guard, I hesitated a shade too long before
answering, “You did love him, didn’t you?” she pressed.

I decided to come clean. “I
haven’t talked about this in years, but yes, I did love him, and yes, he knew
it. So did my husband. However, there was no affair. Ian wouldn’t admit that he
loved me, only that he was attracted to me, but I was married. He and I talked
it over and decided that the best thing - rather, the least destructive thing -
was to simply walk away from each other. We both had too much to risk - my
marriage, his careend bnd both our reputations. It was hard, and very painful,
but we did it. We stopped calling and visiting each other, and we never again
allowed ourselves to be alone together. Luckily, my husband soon found a new
job, and we moved back to Calgary.” I shifted a little in my chair, and
repressed the urge to fidget.

“Is your relationship with Ian why you and your husband moved away?”

“It was a factor, but we had other reasons for wanting to move back to
the city. Actually, we had been talking about it for a few months. It can be
extremely difficult psychologically for a city-bred person to live in a remote,
isolated area like that, and we had been doing it for years. My near-miss with
Ian made us realize that we needed to get back to the city, the sooner the
better. The hardships of the North had lost their charm for us; and we wanted
to save our marriage.”

“Did you ever have sexual relations with Ian Johnstone. Sorry, but I
have to ask.”

“No, I did not. I never had sexual relations with Ian.” My voice was
unsteady; this was an incredibly hard thing to say out loud.

“But you wanted to?” leanleaned slightly forward, her eyes showing
professional curiosity, and perhaps something more. Something personal.

“I admit I was tempted. But, I behaved myself, and so did Ian. We never
even kissed each other.” This conversation was becoming very difficult for me;
I wasn’t in the habit of sharing such private information with anyone, let
alone a total stranger. I started to fidget in spite of myself; I picked at a
hangnail.

“What can you remember about the last time you saw Ian alive? Your last
conversation with him.”

I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down again as I
answered, “It was at the airport. I mean the airstrip; it’s too small to be
called an airport. He had to be there whenever a plane was coming in or going
out, like I mentioned earlier. It was very windy that day, and we wondered if
the plane would even make it in. Not even bush planes can fly though
everything. We, my husband and I, ann wan waited in the small shelter at the
edge of the landing strip. None of us had much to say; it was difficult for all
of us. Very awkward. Finally, we heard the plane approaching. It landed, we
checked in with the co-pilot, and stowed our luggage. We said good-bye to Ian,
and we probably both shook hands with him, just to be polite. We boarded the
plane, it took off, and that was that. It was a horrid, extremely turbulent flight
south to Thunder Bay, where we spent the night. We continued on to Calgary the
following morning.” I paused to catch my breath, “That’s it. That’s the whole
sad story. But, if I may ask, what does all this have to with Ian’s death? I
didn’t kill him, so how does your knowing all this help to find out who did?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss that with you. However, I do have
permission to tell you that Ian was with the RCMP; since 1993.”

“He always wanted to be a Mountie; I’m glad it worked out for him.” I
stood up again, wanting to end the discussion.

 
p>

“Yeah, me too.” Sara’s smile was sincere.

~~~~~

“So, she admits she was in love with Johnstone. Do you really believe
that they never had sex?” Grissom was reviewing Sara’s interview notes.

“What, you don’t think that people can be in love and never consummate
it?” Sara knew she was on dangerous ground, but she spoke her mind anyway. “It
happens, Grissom. Being in love doesn’t always mean getting physical. So, yes,
I believe her.” She turned away from his intense blue gaze. This conversation
was hitting far too close to home.

Grissom also felt the discomfort; he knew exactly what Sara was both
saying and not saying. But, he had to stay focused on the c He He tried again,
“She didn’t tell Brass, or me, about being in love with him. In fact, she
implied that they were casual acquaintances at best. She withheld information
from us.”

“Maybe she was stressed out that day; you and Brass were pretty hard on
her, you know. Maybe you guys didn’t ask the right questions, or maybe she just
felt more comfortable talking to a woman. Whatever. Does it really matter now
that she loved him then? Does it help us find out who shot him?”

Relieved to be back in neutral territory, she rallied, “Doc Robbins
retrieved the bullet. Bobby checked it out, and it’s a match for the gun found
in Ian’s motel room. Speaking of which, it was his service piece; Bobby has
confirmed that. I have no idea how he got it across the border, but he did. The
man was killed with his own weapon.” She shuddered slightly, gathered her
thoughts, and took a breath before continuing, “Jacquie pulled a couple partial
prints from the gun, she’s running them now.” She flipped through the case
file, seeking any new additions. “Oh, and the results are back from Lynne’s
hair, DNA and prints. They don’t match anything found in the motel room, and
they aren’t in any of the databases. At least the American ones. Haven’t
checked any Canadian law enforcement databases yet - access issues.”

“Never mind, she’s not a suspect. Nothing links her to the crime scene;
she was never there. Anything else?”

“Archie confirms that many of the photos of Lynne were taken here in
Vegas. He has identified several venues. Ian was following her - note, I did
not say stalking - and Archie says Johnstone probably used a few different
telephoto lenses. He watched her from a distance, and took the photos probablithoithout her ever knowing about it. Creepy.”

Grissom was lost in thought. He felt he was missing something.
Something important. Something obvious. “Sara, has Jim found anything? He was
going to do background checks on them.”

“No, not yet. What is it? You look like something’s bothering you.”

He shrugged, “I’m okay.” Suddenly, it hit him, “How did he get here?
Did he fly in, or take the bus, maybe?”

hinghing his thought, and looking in the case file again, she
responded, “That’s what we’ve been missing. He drove himself here. Remember,
his motel registration listed his car. Saskatchewan plates, because his last
posting was in town called Estevan.”

“Yeah, Catherine and I processed the car after we processed the room.
It was clean.”

“So, you already knew he drove here.”

He smiled at her, “Busted. Yeah, I knew. Let’s think about it, Sara.
Where’s a map? How far is it from Estevan, Saskatchewan to Calgary, Alberta?”

Sara didn’t need a paper map; she immediately logged on to the Internet
and pulled up a map of Western Canada. A few more clicks and she had the
answer. “It looks like an easy day’s drive. At least, in good weather.”

She did the math. “The guy was obsessed with Lynne Whitney. He liked
road trips, liked to drive. And, when you drive, there’s no record of where you
are or when you arrive, like there is when you fly somewhere. Well, there are
credit card and ATM records, but that takes a while to trace. Assuming anyone
even bothers to try. You know, Johnstone could have been in Calgary any number
of times, without anyone realizing it. Still think he wasn’t stalking her?” She
grinned at him. She had spoken his exact thoughts, and she knew it.

“Perhaps you can convince me. You know what I want, Sara. Show me the
evidence.” He beamed back at her. In tmomemoment of synchronicity, he could
barely keep himself from kissing her. He knew he loved her, and he knew that he
would have to do something about it, and soon. Yes, soon, but not right now. He
would await the opportune moment.

~~~~~

Sara Sidle knew what her next step would be. She quickly made her way
to the evidence vault; all this time on the case, and she had yet to look at
the actual evidence. She signed out the entire package, and took it into an
empty layout room.

Greg Sanders was on his way to the break room for yet another cup of
coffee when he noticed Sara hard at work. He paused in the doorway, not wanting
to disturb her but rather just enjoying the view. His crush on Sara was a local
legend, but he primarily wanted to be her friend. He decided to bring her a cup
of his latest gourmet coffee - he’d make a fresh pot, just for her - when she
looked up and saw him there.

“Hey, Greg. Can I do something for you?”

He wanted to say yes, she could run away with him to a tropical island
and bear him beautiful, long-legged children - but somehow he didn’t think she
would go for it. Instead, he just said, “Not tonight. As luck would have it,
however, I can do something for you. I’ll bring you the best cup of coffee
you’ve ever had.”

“Okay, you’re on. But, I’ll have to drink it in the break room. You
know we’re not allowed to eat or drink anywhere near evidence. Too much risk of
contamination.”

Greg blushed, “Yeah, I forgot, sorry. Damn, I’ll never become a CSI
forgetting basic stuff like that. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

He was rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles, and he floated on air
the rest of the night.

~~~~~

“Sara, are you aware that the shift ended two hours ago?” Grissom had
just returned from a breakfast meeting, and had found her still in the layout
room. She had just managed to open the combination lock on the vic’s metal
case.

“Yeah, I know, I’ll go home soon.”
She lifted the lid, and exclaimed, “Blam! Look at all this!” The case
contained what appeared to be very expensive photographic equipment. There was
a camera body and also several telephoto lenses, along with all the usual
photographer’s gadgets. “Archie’s gonna wet himself when I let him look at this
stuff.”

“Well, yes, it is rather impressive. Want some help?” Grissom knew that
trying to convince Sara to go home when she was this excited was a lost causIf sIf she was staying, he was staying, too. “When we’re done, maybe we can grab
something to eat.”

“Yeah, maybe we can. And, yes, I would appreciate some help.” Anything
to spend time with hime the thought. Both looked down at the open case, which
lay flat on the table in front of them.

Greg, who had been walking past the layout room, doubled back when he
realized what he had just glimpsed. He entered the room, saying, “Hey guys,
that’s a Canon EOS 10D digital camera body you have there. Very pricey, but
excellent quality; the guy really knew his stuff. And, huge wow, that big lens
is a 500 mm. Another hefty price tag.”

12.0pt'>Sara, feeling his embarrassment, simply told him, “Greg, maybe you
should take Nicky’s advice, ‘If you find yourself in a hole, the best thing to
do is stop digging’.”

Grissom spoke up, “Greg, thank you telling us about this equipment, but
the shift is over. Why are you still here?”

Greg, reacting to the thanks from his mentor, was dancing - literally. Grissom’s
question - when it registered with him - caught him off guard, and he made
himself stand still.

“I stayed late, waiting for some tests to run - but they’re done now,
my reports are filed, and I was just on my way out when I spotted this stuff. The
rest you know.”

“Well then, Greg, we won’t keep you here.”

Knowing that he had been dismissed, Greg cheerfully bid Sara and
Grissom a fond farewell, and went home.

Grissom turned to Sara, asking, “Shall we?” Together, they carefully
photographed the contents before removing anything from the case. Then, they
methodically removed and catalogued every item the case held; a detailed
examination of each piece would be done later. When the camera case wmptympty,
Sara closed it - without relocking it - and was about to set sideside; but as
she picked it up, she heard and felt something shift around inside it. Setting
it down again, she opened it again to take a closer look. Using a magnifying
glass, she noticed that the molded foam rubber padding was slightly worn in one
corner. She felt it with her gloved fingers, and told Grissom, “There seems to
be a small latch just under the edge of the padding.” She released the latch,
and lifted up the padded lining - the hidden compartment opened to reveal a
red-covered coil-bound notebook, three CDRW disks, and a pair of panties which
were both very worn, and rather large. She looked at Grissom, neither of them
had a good feeling about this.

~~~~~

I was starting to feel restless; and homesick - I missed my daughter.
My trip to Vegas, my first real vacation in 10 years, was turning out to be a
whole lot more stressful than a vacation had any right to be. I wanted to call - o - oops, I mean Captain Brass - and ask for permission to go home, but
something held me back. I couldn’t leave yet; I first needed to know about Ian.
I needed to know who killed him, and who was going to look after him now. Did
he have anyone to give him a proper funeral? Would his family - his brother,
perhaps - do anything? I didn’t know if he had ever gotten married, or fathered
any children. Surely the Mounties would honour one of their own - even if he
hadn’t died in the line of duty - but what if they didn’t, or couldn’t? These
thoughts distressed me greatly.

My life since leaving Ian had been a good one, at least for the most
part. True, it had taken me a while to get over him, but eventually I did
recover. My husband and I had gone into marriage counseling, from which we
reaped huge benefits, both as individuals and as a couple. My pregnancy and the
birth of our daughter were unexpected - though entirely welcome - miracles. We
both treasured her. Our eventual divorce, while devastating, had nothing at all
to do with Ian. Instead, it happened because my husband grew tired of having us
for his family - for whatever reason - and abandoned us, effectively
disappearing. His whereabouts have been unknown to me for about five years -
assuming he is even still alive.

Ian Johnstone, I did love you, once. Now you are dead, do I love you
still? I amrninrning you, grieving for you, that much I know. Did I ever really
stop loving you, or did I just learn to live without you?

~~~~~

“Brass.” He had answered the phone on the second ring.

“Hello, Captain Brass. It’s Lynne Whitney. I wonder if I might ask you
a question regarding Ian Johnstone.”

“Yeah, ask. I’ll answer if I can.” He sounded curious.

“I wanted to know if anyone, any of his relatives, have offered to
escort his remains back to Canada. I’m wondering if anyone is planning a
funeral for him.” This was difficult for me.

The line was silent for a few seconds. “I don’t have that information.
It’s Dr. Robbins you need to talk to. But ... let me call him and get back to
you.” He paused, “May I ask why you want to know?” His voice was soft and kind.

“I was his friend, at least at one time I was. Now, I just want to make
sure that somebody looks after him. If there is no one else willing to do it,
then I will.”

“That’s a pretty big responsibility.”

“I know. A mountain of paperwork, too, I imagine.”

He chuckled, “You got that right. Okay, I’ll talk to Al, and let you
know.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and one more thing; we know you had nothing to do
with Johnstone’s death, the evidence definitely excludes you as a suspect.
Sorry if Gil and I were a little hard on you.”

“That’s okay. I understand that you two were just doing your jobs. And,
it’s really good to know that I’m not a suspect. Thanksin, in, and I’ll let you
go now. Bye.”

“Bye, Lynne.” He replied warmly.

~~~~~

As they had agreed, Grissom and Sara went to a nearby coffee shop for a
quick meal after finishing their work with the camera equipment. Sara felt
slightly awkward, but kept reminding herself that there was nothing wrong - or
even exceptional - with her being here with Grissom. After all, she had eaten
countless meals with Nick and Warrick, and even a few with Greg. It was just
two friends sitting at the same table, eating their food. Not a big deal. They
talked about the case. Still, it was nice to pass some time with Grissom away
from the lab. He was in one of his “be nice to Sara” phases, and while she
could never tell when he would start ignoring her again, she decided to enjoy
it while it lasted.

Grissom drained his coffee cup, and looked at Sara. sunlsunlight
flowing through the window beside them brought out deep amber highlights in her
hair. She was so very beautiful, yet she didn’t always seem to know it. There
was so much he wanted to tell her; but it seemed he never could. Would the
opportune moment ever arrive? He sincerely hoped so. He decided to never ignore
her again.

12.0pt'>During the next shift, Archie didn’t exactly wet himself when shown the
digital camera, but he nevertheless was very impressed by it. “Wow, Sara, this
is really high-end. The guy spent huge bucks on it.”

“That’s what Greg said. Please have a look; see if the memory card
still has any photos. If so, I want 8x10 prints ASAP.”

“Yes, ma’am.” he said teasingly. He was very eager to get to work.

While Archie checked out the camera, Sara examined the laptop. She had
already dropped off the panties with Greg so he could determine if they had
belonged to Lynne.

She plugged in the laptop and turned it on. Just as she had suspected,
it was password-protected. This, while challenging, was basically not a
problem. She knew how to hack the password, and soon she had full access to all
of Johnstone’s files. Opening “Windows Explorer”, she began a systematic search
of the hard drive. She checked each and every folder, tracing all file paths to
their ends. and documenting each step with a screen print. For the most part,
there was nothat aat all unusual in any of the folders. Then, about 8 levels
down, in a sub-folder called “Financial Documents”, she found something very
probative, very interesting, and very disturbing. It was Ian’s diary.

~~~~~

The sudden, shrill ringing of the phone startled me. I answered right
away. “Lynne Whitney speaking,” I said in my professional voice.

“Hi, Lynne. Jim Brass here. I just got off the phone with Al Robbins,
and he says to tell you that Johnstone’s brother is on his way here. He’s going
to look after your friend,” he kindly reported.

“That would be Josiah; and I’m very glad that he’s doing it,” then,
worried how that might sound, I added, “I mean, it’s better for Ian’s family if
they look after him themselves.”

“It’s okay, Lynne, I understand what you mean. Um, did you ever meet
this Josiah?”

“No, but Ian talked about him a lot, and once he showed me some
pictures. Ian was very proud of his little brother.”

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but ...”

“I know, you gotta go. Thanks, Captain Brass; I really appreciate your
help.”

“Hey, no problem. And, call me Jim.”

“Alright, Jim. Bye now.”

“Good bye.”

~~~~~

“Grissom, you need to see this.” Sara stood in the doorway of her
supervisor’s office.

Grissom finished signing the report he had just read, and looked up.
“What is it, Sara?”

She handed him a thick stack of printouts. “I found Johnstone’s diary
on his laptop and, believe me, it was hard to find. He had it buried real good.
I haven’t read all of it yet, but these are some of the entries. Please read
them, and tell me what you think. I’m taking my break now.”

“So, I’ll look for you in the break room.” They shared a moment of eye
contact, and a smile.

&;

~~~~~

Stepping through the break room door, Sara could hear the sounds of a
video game, and she saw that Nick and Warrick were once again engaged in a
virtual battle with each other. She retrieved her lunch from the fridge and sat
down at the table, thinking, “Hey, it’s the ‘N and and Ricky Show’.”

“Blam! I got you good, man. You are *so* dead. Game! Over!” Nick
gloated as he “killed” Warrick. “Hey, Sara. Haven’t seen much of you lately.”
He joined her at the table.

12.0pt'>“Later, bro. I’m talking to Sara now.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Hey, Sara. How’s your new case coming?” He
turned off the game and joined the other two at the table.

“It’s weird. Dead Mountie stalking a woman who once loved him. As much
as I hate to badmouth any law enforcement officer, this guy was a creep. He
tracked her for more than two years. Followed her, took pictures.” She suddenly
stopped talking, and looked alarmed,
“Nicky, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t discuss this with you.” She knew that
this case was probably dredging up painful memories of Nigel Crane in Nick’s
mind; she reached out and squeezed his hand.

Before Nick could respond, Greg came striding into the room, “Sara, I
have your results. It’s what you thought. That certain item of intimate apparel
did in fact belong to Lynne Whitney. The DNA was a perfect match. But, there’s
more, and it’s kinda gross. The dude was a total freakazoid ...”, his voice
trailed off; he was unsure how much he should sa fro front of Nick and Warrick.

“It’s okay, Greg. Just let me read the report.” He handed it to her;
she read it and looked disgusted.

“Every time I think I’ve seen the worst, something else comes along.
Johnstone, the dead Mountie, had somehow acquired a pair of his victim’s
underwear. Greg’s report indicates that Johnstone’s semen was also there. He
must have used the underwear when he ...”

Nick interrupted her, “Whoa, Sara, you don’t have to paint a picture
for us. We get it. And, you’re right. It’s very wrong, what he did. All of what
he did.” Now he was holding Sara’s hand. Warrick and Greg exchanged concerned
looks with each other. All three of these men wanted to protect and comfort
Sara; they all caabouabout her, each in his own way.

“Thanks, guys, but I’m okay.” Sara had seen the looks of worry on all
her friends’ faces, and smiled at them. “You guys are the best.”

“Is this a private party, or can anyone come in?” Grissom stood in the
doorway; he did not look or sound amused.

Sara stood up, still holding Greg’s report in one hand. “Greg just
brought me this. You told me to show you the evidence - well, here it is.” She
gave him the report.

“Just to be clear about this, do any of you guys actually work here, or
is this merely a social club?” He was looking daggers at the men. They all
hurried out of the room, mumbling apologies.

“You know, Grissom, jealousy doesn’t become you. Those three are my
friends, and that’s all they eve ever be. You don’t need to be so
territorial.” o:p>

He shot her an icy glare, retorted, “I have no idea what you’re talking
about,” and walked away from her; Greg’s report hanging from his hand, unread.

“You do so know what I’m talking about, Mr. Alpha-Male,” she murmured
to herself. Then she shook her head, finished eating her lunch, and went back
to work.

~~~~~

< !su !supportEmptyParas]> 

Grissom retreated to his office feeling humiliated and extremely
foolish. Every time he started making progress with Sara, he blew it. He never
meant to, but somehow he just did. “Yeah, I know those guys are just her
friends,” he thought, “I know she cares about them, as friends. She has
something special with each of them. That’s Sara; she finds the good in people.
She has every right to make friends with people - even other guys. I know all
this - and I know none of them are really a threat to me. So, why the hell does
it make me so crazy to see her with them? She never looks at them the way she sometimes
looks at me, and I don’t think she ever will. Why can’t I just get over it? Why
do I have to be so damn jealous?” The
thoughts ran through his head. “And, what’s worse, she called me on it. She
hates it when I do this. One of these times, she’ll decide she’s had enough -
and then where will I be?” Then, a new thought occurred to him - maybe the
opportune moment wouldn’t just spontaneously appear, maybe he needed to help it
along. Maybe, if Sara knew how he really felt about her, he would stop feeling
so insecure. And jealous. So, the thing was to tell her. But, when? And, how?
He really needed to think about this.

~~~~~

Back at her computer workstation, Sara knew she could no longer avoid
the inevitable; she had to look at the CDRW’s she’d found in Johnstone’s camera
case. Taking a deep breath, she got the first one loaded, and started scrolling
through the files. It was every bit as bad as she had thought it would be. The
disk was full of photos of Lynne, but with a very big difference. The photos
found scattered around the motel room all showed Lynne in public settings -
outdoors, shopping malls, etc. - and, of course, fully clothed. These new
pictures, however, portrayed Lynne inside what could only to be Lynne’s own
bedroom and bathroom; and in various degrees of nudity.

She quickly looked through the other two disks, which contained still
more nude shots of Lynne. The third disk also held some word processor
documents. Openine, ne, Sara was dismayed to find that it was a very detailed
and pornographic accoof Lof Lynne’s bathing and grooming routines. Other
documents, chosen by Sara at random, also proved to be highly sexual renderings
of Lynne’s daily activities.

“Okay,” she told herself, “that’s enough for an overview. I gotta tell
Griss about this. ‘Show me the evidence’, he said. You bet I will.”

On her way to find Grissom, Sara thought about the diary entries she
had read, the clues Johnstone had recorded in them, and the nude photos. She
developed a theory about how Johnstone gotten cameras into Lynne’s house.

~~~~~

Ian Johnstone sits in his van, parked where he can see
her house and watches Lynne Whitney and the brat leave the house and walk the
short distance to the bus stop - which he can also see from where he is. He
patiently waits until they board their bus, knowing that they will be gone for
the day. He walks to their house, carrying a large backpack, and rapidly gains
entrance by expertly picking the lock. There is no security system. He closes
and relocks the door. Glancing around, learning the layout, he spies a key ring
hanging on a hook near the door. The key tab bears the kid’s name; looks like
she will be locked out after school, the stupid girl. However, this is too good
an opportunity to miss. He pockets the key, intending to make a trip to a local
hardware store to make his own copy.

He gets to work, there’s lots to do. He walks through
the house; it’s quite small, and old. Likely build in the 1940’s, from the look
of it. He finds the laundry area, another golden opportunity. He rummages
through the hamper, and finds his treasure - her panties, worn but not washed.
Today really is his lucky day. He stuffs them into his backpack.