T he moon had turned the evening an ivory-tinged shade of blue; a few lights were on in the Pierce stronghold, both upstairs and down, the curtained windows emanating a yellowish glow.

Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes, in the Tahoe, drew up at the curb just as Jim Brass and Gil Grissom were getting out of the Taurus. Catching up with the detective and their supervisor, Nick carried his field kit, but Warrick—like Grissom—brought nothing but himself, as Brass led the way up the walk that curved across the gently sloping, perfect lawn. The detective rang the bell, the rest of them gathered on the front stoop like trick-or-treaters who’d arrived a bit early for Halloween.

The door opened on the first ring, as if they’d been anticipated; and Grissom—at Brass’s side—found himself face-to-face with a young man he did not recognize. None of them did, in fact.

Brass tapped the badge on his suitcoat breastpocket, saying to the kid, “Would you tell Mr. Pierce he has company?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not here right now.” He was a clean-cut, slender, tallish black-haired boy of sixteen or seventeen, in a green Weezer T-shirt, Levi’s, and black-and-white Reeboks. “Mr. Pierce has gone to pick up some carry-out.”

“I see.”

“But he should be back in a few minutes…. I don’t know if I should let you in…but you could wait out front…. ”

Grissom asked, “Who are you, son?”

An easygoing smile crossed the young man’s pleasant face; the kid seemed familiar to Grissom, though he remained certain he’d never seen him before. The boy’s response explained that: “Why, I’m Gary Blair.”

Brass said, for the benefit of Nick and Warrick, “Your folks reported Mrs. Pierce’s disappearance.”

Gary nodded.

“And you’ve been dating Lori?”

“Yes.” The kid looked from face to face of the crowded little group on the doorstep. “I guess it would be okay if you wanted to come in…. Like I said, Mr. Pierce’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

They flowed into the foyer, all of them standing around uneasily.

“Is Lori home?” Brass asked.

“She’s upstairs changing her clothes. We’re going out after dinner. She should be right down…why?”

Grissom could sense Brass’s uneasiness. On the way over, the detective had mentioned that he didn’t like the idea of arresting Pierce in front of his daughter, but saw no way around it.

With this in mind, Grissom suggested, “Maybe we can catch Mr. Pierce at the restaurant.”

Picking up on that, Brass asked the boy, “Where did Mr. Pierce go to pick up the carry-out?”

Gary shrugged, shook his head. “All I know is, he’s going for Chinese.”

The muffled sound of the garage door opening ended this exchange, and Grissom and Brass traded glances—they knew the arrest would have to go down in front of the kids.

Her hair now a garish orange, as if her head was on fire, Lori came trotting down the circular stairs in gray sweat pants and a Fishbone T-shirt of which the bottom six inches had been cut haphazardly off to reveal her pierced navel and flat stomach. Though she looked less Goth, her blue eyes were again held prisoner within black chambers of mascara.

To Jim Brass it seemed that every time they visited this house, the daughter had taken another step away from the conservative religious beliefs of her late mother. He hoped she could find some sane middle ground, once they got her into foster care.

Lori and her boyfriend trailed after, as Brass led the CSI team into the kitchen, to meet Pierce as he came in from the garage, his arms laden with paper bags, his back to them as he shut the door, the unmistakable aroma of Chinese food accompanying him.

When he turned, the therapist’s dismayed expression told them their presence in his kitchen was no surprise: he had seen the SUV and the unmarked car parked in front of his house…again.

Pierce, in a blue sweatshirt and black sweatpants, set the brown bags on the kitchen counter, and waited for what he knew would be coming.

And it came: “Owen Pierce,” Captain Jim Brass said. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Lynn Pierce.”

“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “You’re needlessly ruining lives, when you have nothing to go on but supposition.”

Grissom said, “We’ve just been over at Kevin Sadler’s house.”

Pierce went ghostly, ghastly pale, and he leaned against the counter, as if to keep from collapsing.

Grissom continued: “The basement, the broken glass in the garage, the receipt, we have it all.”

Lori ran to her father, and there was no accusation, just pained confusion in her voice, as she said, “Dad! What’s he talking about?”

Pierce opened his arms and she filled them; he patted his daughter’s head as she wrapped her arms around him, his eyes going to Brass, then Grissom. He seemed about to say something comforting to the child, but what came out was: “They’re arresting me for killing your mother.”

Gary Blair swallowed, and staggered over to a chair and sat at the kitchen table, slumping, leaning his elbows on the table and catching his face in his palms; his eyes were wide and hollow.

“It’s not true,” Lori said.

Slowly he shook his head. “It is true…. I hated her, Lori. I’m sorry.”

His daughter drew away and stared at him, eyes huge within their black mascara casings, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious…. ”

“She kept pushing and pushing. Do I have to tell you how she was? Jesus this, Jesus that—I finally had enough of her. We loved her once, Lori, both of us…but you know as well as I that she was a different woman…. I shot her.”

The girl drew away from her father’s arms, and somehow her eyes grew even larger. “What?”

He reached out and took her by the arms and pulled her back to him, so he could look in her face. “You have to understand, Lori—I shot her. You have to accept that.”

Brass, who had never before heard a more bizarre confession, looked sharply at Grissom, who seemed lost in thought.

Lori Pierce was shaking her head; across the room, at the kitchen table, her boyfriend was covering his face with one hand, as she said, “No, Daddy, no.”

“Yes!” Pierce said. “You have to accept it. I shot her and—to protect myself—I did a terrible thing. I got rid of her body…. -Don’t make me say how.”

Tears began to stream down the girl’s cheeks, making a mess of her mascara; she was trembling as Pierce pulled her to him again, holding her, soothing her.

Brass got on his cell phone and called Social Services. Soon he clicked off, muttering, “Damnit,” and turned to Grissom. “There’s no field agent available now.”

Grissom winced. “That means juvenile hall.”

His daughter still weeping against his chest, Pierce—his eyes flaring—snapped, “I won’t have you putting her in jail!”

“It’s not jail,” Brass began.

“Yes it is,” Pierce said, biting off the words.

Brass did not argue; the father was right.

Gary spoke up. “She can stay at our house, in the guest room.”

Brass thought about that, said, “What’s your number, son?”

The boy gave it to him, Brass punched the numbers in, and soon had Mrs. Blair on the line.

“A social worker will be around in the morning,” he told her, “first thing.”

“We’ll be glad to look after Lori till then,” Mrs. Blair said.

With that settled, Nick accompanied the girl upstairs for her to pack an overnight bag.

With his daughter gone, Pierce—seeming strangely calm now, to Grissom…shock?—turned a penetrating gaze on the seated Gary Blair. “I need you to watch out for my daughter, Gary.”

Gary said, “Yes, sir.”

Grissom noted that the boy did not seem to have lost any respect for Pierce, upon learning the man had shot his wife and butchered her body for disposal.

Pierce was saying, “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

Gary rose, and when he spoke, his voice had surprising authority. “Don’t worry, Mr. Pierce—I’ll take care of her.”

They all stood around awkwardly until Lori and Nick returned, Lori carrying a backpack and a small suitcase. Dropping the bags, the girl again ran to her father, throwing her arms around him, desperately. The pair hugged tightly, Pierce again telling his daughter that he loved her.

“It’s going to be all right, Lori,” he said. “I have to pay for my crime.”

Nick accompanied Gary and Lori to the door, and Brass kept tabs through a window as the clean-cut boy and the Goth-punk girl walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, then crossed the street to a blue Honda Civic parked there, which soon pulled away.

Brass turned and faced Owen Pierce and gave him his rights. The therapist held out his hands, presenting his wrists.

“I’m supposed to cuff your hands behind your back,” Brass said. “But if you’re going to be cooperative…”

“When have I not been?” Pierce asked.

The guy had a point. Brass allowed Pierce to keep his hands in front of him for the cuffs, then led him out to the Taurus and put him in the backseat. Grissom climbed in front with Brass while Nick and Warrick got back into the Tahoe.

As they followed the Taurus back to CSI Division, a troubled Nick asked, “What the hell was that about?”

The normally unflappable Warrick, whose own expression was dumbfounded, shook his head. “Weirdest confession I ever heard.”

“In front of his damn daughter! Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Warrick admitted. “Just being honest…better to hear it from him than somebody else. I guess.”

“It’s sick.”

With a shrug, Warrick dismissed the subject. “Hey, can’t ever tell what they’re going to do or say, when they finally get busted.”

Grissom joined Warrick and Nick behind the two-way mirror to watch as Brass led a low-key Pierce into the interrogation room. Brass turned on the tape recorder; a uniformed officer was in the corner manning the digital video camera.

Brass asked, “Your name is Owen Matthew Pierce?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been advised of, and understand, your rights?”

“Yes.”

“And do you wish to make a statement?”

“Yes.” There was a long silence before Pierce spoke again. “My wife Lynn and I had an argument.”

“Go on,” Brass said.

“We’d been arguing a lot lately.”

“I see.”

“Her religion, it drove us apart. She almost died, or thought she almost died, anyway, and made some sort of…deal with God or Jesus.” He shook his head, numbly. “When we were younger, she was great. Beautiful. Used to say she’d try anything once. The sex was unbelievably hot…. She’d do anything.”

Nick and Warrick, behind the glass, exchanged glances; Pierce discussing his wife in these terms, during the confession of her murder, was both inappropriate and weird. Grissom, on the other hand, showed no reaction—a hand on his chin, he was studying Pierce like a bug.

“I mean anything,” Pierce was saying, and he was smiling now, reminiscing, “with anybody. We got into some wild shit over the years, and we both liked it.”

“Is that where the drugs came in?”

Pierce pressed his hands flat on the table, sighed, the smile fading. “Yeah…back when we were swinging, we used to get high, grass, pills, but the most extreme thing we did was coke. In fact, it was the drugs that made Lynn get religion.”

“You said before she got religion when she almost died.”

“That was the drugs. She O.D.’d on some coke, had a seizure, I took her to the emergency room…it came out fine, but she freaked anyway. Next thing I know, she’s going to church every twenty minutes and yammering about my almighty soul.”

“Describe what happened on the day of your wife’s death.”

“We argued.”

“Tell it in detail.”

Another sigh. “Well…we argued. Lynn wanted to send Lori to some private school, some religious institution, in Indiana. Lori didn’t want to go, and I was against it, too. Lori could never stand up to her mother, so I was the one who took her on. Anyway…the argument escalated.”

“Why did Mrs. Pierce want to send Lori away?”

Pierce shifted in his seat. “Before Gary Blair came along, Lori was pretty wild—Lynn found grass in her room, once, and she was dating some rough boys. That’s when the talk started, about this Jesus school.”

“This has been an issue for a while?”

“Yes. Maybe six months. Lori started going to church, dating Gary, to please her mother. But it wasn’t enough: Lynn still wanted to ship her off to holy-roller class, to get her ‘closer to God.’ Lynn wanted to turn Lori into a goddamn clone of herself!”

“And you didn’t buy that.”

“Well, of course I didn’t want my daughter to become the same uptight, judgmental asshole my wife had turned into.”

“So—the argument escalated. Go on.”

“We were yelling at each other, and Lynn went out to the garage, kind of…saying she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She’d made her mind up and that was that, and if I tried to stop Lynn, she’d…turn me in for my own drug use.”

“Were you still using?”

He nodded.

“Please state that, Mr. Pierce.”

“I was still using drugs.”

“The argument moved into the garage?”

“Yes…yes. Lynn said she wanted to go for a drive to get away from me, but I wanted to settle the issue.” Pierce closed his eyes, his head sagged forward. “I had a gun hidden in the garage…I felt I needed protection.”

“Who from?”

“Kevin Sadler. Lil Moe, they call him. My connection, my dealer. I owed him money. That’s why I had a gun.”

“All right. Go on.”

Pierce shrugged. “I went and got it from my toolbench, where I kept it. I pointed it at her, just to scare her, really. Told her not to leave or…She said I was a sinner and would go to hell. That’s when I shot her.”

“Where was Lynn, Mr. Pierce? Standing there in the garage, when you shot her?”

He shook his head. “No. Lynn had already gotten into the car and started it. I shot her through the driver’s side window.”

“Then what?”

Shrugging, Pierce said, “Well, hell—I panicked. I knew I had to get rid of the body. In my job, I know a little about anatomy; I’m not squeamish about anything to do with the human body. With Lil Moe in jail, I figured I could use his house, without anyone finding out.”

“When did you do this?”

“That same night, late. As soon as I shot her, I put Lynn’s body in the trunk, wrapped in an old tarp in the garage, and cleaned up the car, and drove it over to Lil Moe’s. Put it in the garage, there. Then I walked to a commercial area and caught a cab and came back home, just before the Blairs showed up, pounding on my door, looking for Lynn…. See, I didn’t want Lori to know what I’d done, obviously…and I’m always home for dinner. So I came home, and went back to Lil Moe’s well after dark. I drove my SUV on that trip.”

“Then what?”

“I carried Lynn inside the house, down into the basement and…cut her up with my chain saw.” Finally Pierce’s cool mask began to crack; tears started rolling down his face, though he didn’t seem to notice. “I wrapped her up in the shower curtain, or anyway pieces of it, then put the…packages in garbage bags, along with the chain saw. I folded the bloody tarp up and put it in another bag. I used rocks from a garden nextdoor to Lil Moe’s to weight them down. After that I spread more garbage bags on the floor of the SUV and put her in there. I picked up Lil Moe’s boat…there’s a trailer hitch on my SUV…and went to Lake Mead. I just rode around dropping bags into the lake until they were all gone. It was…peaceful. A beautiful night.”

“Is that all?”

Pierce sagged. “Isn’t that enough?”

Soon a uniformed officer came in to escort Pierce away, while Brass joined the CSIs in the adjacent observation room.

“How’s that for chapter and verse?” Brass asked, pleased with himself.

Grissom said nothing, his face blank but for a tightness around his eyes.

“What’s the matter, Gil?” Brass asked, a bit exasperated. “He copped to it! Life is good. We got the bad guy. Which is the point of the exercise, right?”

Grissom twitched something that was almost a smile. “We got a bad guy…but we don’t have Lynn Pierce’s murderer.”

“What? Gimme a break! The son of a bitch confessed.”

“The ‘son of a bitch’ lied,” Grissom said.

Warrick stepped up. “That was one elaborate lie, then, Gris…. ”

“Like all effective fiction, it had elements of truth…. For example, he cut up the body all right, that part of the confession was true. He just didn’t kill his wife.”

Nick’s eyes were tight and he was smiling as he said, “You notice he didn’t start crying, till he talked about cutting her up? Killing her, he was cool as a cuke.”

Brass looked like somebody had poured water on him; of course, he looked like that much of the time. Still, his aggravation was obvious as he said to Grissom, “Do you have any idea how much I hate it when you do this to me?”

Grissom smiled his awful angelic smile. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jim…but the evidence doesn’t lie.”

“People do,” Nick said.

“Pierce does,” Warrick said.

Brass held up palms of surrender. “Okay—tell me why.”

Grissom’s expression turned somber. “Pierce said he stood outside the car and shot his wife through the car window, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“We know from our tests that there was hardly any glass inside the car, and the blood was confined to the driver’s seat. If Lynn Pierce had been shot from the outside, the glass would have blown in and her blood would have been splashed and spattered all over the passenger side of the car. And he said it happened in the garage. That garage was clean.”

Brass’s face managed to fall further. “So we still have a killer out there?”

“Yes,” Grissom said with a nod. “But we know who it is.”

“We do?” Brass asked.

Warrick’s expression, and Nick’s, asked the same question.

Grissom raised a lecturing forefinger. “You recall when we arrested Pierce, he made that drawn-out, unnatural confession to his daughter?”

“I’ll say we recall,” Warrick said. “Nick and I both thought that was way beyond weird.”

Grissom asked, “And why would a father confess to murdering mommy, in front of darling daughter, unless…?”

Nick’s eyes popped and his head went back, as he got it. “Unless they were getting their stories straight!

“Damn,” Warrick said. “And right under our nose.”

“We need to go back to the castle, one last time,” Grissom said. “The queen is dead, and the king is covering up for the princess.”