“Not much more in here,” Warrick said, showing Greg the bag with the hair. “Let’s try the bathroom.”
The bathroom was barely big enough for one, let alone both investigators. While Greg fingerprinted the faucets and the sink, Warrick got down on his hands and knees around the toilet.
They found nothing.
They talked to Tara Donnelly a short while longer, then worked on convincing her to go to the hospital with Charles to have a rape kit done.
“Listen,” she said, “I’m okay. And he used a condom?”
“Please,” Warrick said. “It might not show anything, but better to have it than not. Might really be a help in getting this guy before he date-rapes some other young woman.”
Soon, out in front of the apartment complex, when they’d watched a squad car take the victim away, Warrick tapped Greg on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
At the far end of the building, set back at the end of the parking lot, barely visible in the dim wash of streetlights, was a Dumpster.
Greg turned up his nose even as his flashlight played over the large metal container. “Oh no. I hate this sport….”
Dumpster diving.
“I’ll do my part,” Warrick said.
“Yeah—what?”
“I’ll spot you…hold the light.”
Shaking his head, Greg said, “Dude, this is so not right. Why do I always have to be the one—”
“Rank has its privileges.”
“Rank is right!”
Warrick held up a finger for silence. “Neighbors are trying to sleep. Get inside…your bitching will have a nice resonance in there.”
“Very funny.”
Greg took the time to slip a white Tyvek suit over his clothes before he climbed into the Dumpster. He came out less than two minutes later, grinning, a pair of latex gloves in a plastic evidence bag.
“Nice going, Speedy Gonzales,” Warrick said, looking at the bag under the beam of his flash.
“Right on top,” Greg said, pleased with himself. “Guy must have just pitched them in, then split.”
Warrick laughed once. “Why is it that the bad guys always think we’re lazy, stupid, or both?”
“They’re the lazy, stupid ones, not taking their gloves somewhere else to dispose of.”
“Yeah—and not just throw them in the nearest Dumpster, like we won’t think of looking for ’em there!”
Greg held up a finger before his lips, and Warrick stopped his rant.
Greg said, “Neighbors are trying to sleep….”
6
Saturday, April 2, 2005, 3:20 A.M.
NICK STOKES ALWAYS DID HIS BEST NOT to make snap judgments about witnesses and suspects; but something about this character Keith Draper rubbed the CSI raw—a little too slick, a little too smarmy in that Mr. Monopoly tuxedo and Wal-Mart cologne, his black hair cut just so (probably had to drive to Vegas to a mall salon), and, finally, the guy’s emotions-on-his-sleeve mentality….
As Nick, Grissom, and Catherine sat in the security office of the Four Kings with Draper, Chief Lopez, and casino rep Henry Cippolina, Draper was fidgeting in his chair, first sniffling, then worrying a tissue in his hands into shreds.
Not surprisingly, the Boot Hill crime lab was not exactly the biggest, best-outfitted in the nation; but they had a water tank and a microscope, which meant Sara could do firearms comparisons.
Problem was, the bullet they needed to compare it to was not in the town morgue because Boot Hill didn’t have one: instead it resided in the local mortuary, inside the body of Nick Valpo.
And the probable difference between some small-town mortician cutting a bullet out of a murder victim and Clark County Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Albert Robbins doing his version of that procedure was…troubling. Robbins, of course, could be counted on to get the slug out without tarnishing or abrading any of the markings. A local mortician would be more adept at running a business than preserving evidence.
Nevertheless, as soon as the Draper interview was over, Nick would be on his way to the mortuary to fetch the bullet (whatever shape it might be in) for Sara to compare to a bullet from Draper’s confiscated .22.
The gun-toting pit boss sat in a straight-back chair in front of a metal desk. Chief Lopez had deposited himself behind that desk, properly projecting authority, with floor manager Cippolina standing behind him. The seated CSIs were fanned out behind Draper.
“So, Keith,” Lopez said with a smile that wasn’t cheerful. “Tell us what happened.”
“Pretty busy for that time of day,” Draper answered. “Maybe a hundred people scattered through the casino…. Generally, that late in the afternoon, traffic should be about half that.”
“Where were you, exactly?”
“Pit six,” Draper said, shredding his third tissue. “I was just, you know, making my rounds—no big whoop.”
“Then what?”
Draper’s face tightened, as if he’d awoken from a bad dream and was compelled to try to recall it. “Then those slimy bastards came.”
“The Predators.”
“Predators. Valpo leading his entourage, swaggering around like he owned the goddamn place.”
“You knew Valpo?”
“Not well. Not particularly. But I knew him and his type, all right.”
Lopez remained conversational in tone, not at all threatening. “A type you hate, Keith?”
“I do hate that type, and I hated Valpo, as much as you can hate somebody you hardly know.”
“If you hardly knew him, then—”
“Valpo and his breed, they barge into a decent town and people are supposed to bend over and kiss their asses just for being here, bringing in a little ‘business.’ We all lose when their type comes to town. When they aren’t scaring off regular law-abiding people, then they’re wrecking our machines or trying to get something for nothing, out of sheer…intimidation.”
Nick glanced at Grissom, who was taking all this in with a deceptively bland expression. Draper was growing more heated with each word.
“You know as well as I do, Chief—there are good, decent people here just trying to make a living…and this trash rolls in here like God on wheels and tries to take over…like we were only put on this earth for their amusement.”
As Draper finally paused for breath, Lopez cut in. “All right, Keith—I believe we’ve established that you don’t like the Predators—”
“Not just them!…I can’t stand the sight or smell of any of those maniacs.”
Lopez shrugged a little. “Point taken—all bikers are on your bad side. Okay? Okay. Now, Keith—what happened next?”
“Those bastard Spokes barged in and…” He shuddered, and Nick couldn’t tell if it was real or theatrics. “…all hell broke loose.”
Like a traffic cop, the chief held up a hand: stop. “Slow ’er down, Keith—one thing at a time. I’m not looking for a general take on this—one look at the casino and the general idea becomes pretty clear. Be specific. The Spokes came in, and then…”
Draper sighed, tried to settle down. “Then I saw Buck Finch.”
Lopez glanced past Draper to the CSIs and explained, “Buck Finch is head honcho of the Rusty Spokes.”
Catherine nodded, and so did Nick. Grissom remained motionless and might have been in a catatonic state, although those who knew him well could spot the intensity in his eyes.
The chief was saying, “What happened next, Keith?”
“Spokes started pulling guns outta everywhere, pockets, coats, from in back of their belts, even their boots. I kinda took it all in, in slow motion, like one of those old Westerns?…Seemed like it took me a million years to react, but it was probably only two or three seconds. But that was two or three seconds too late. When I reached to hit the panic button, it was already all over but the shooting—literally.”
The panic button, Nick knew, was something all casinos had: when a pit boss hit it, all the security men in the place would swarm to
that area.
“With so much gunfire blazing,” Draper was saying, “I hit the floor. Then I got my own gun out and tried to return fire, only by then the Predators were firing back…so many guns! So many bullets flying everywhere!”
Grissom asked, “Mr. Draper, how many rounds would you say you fired?”
“I can say exactly—I emptied the clip. Eight rounds.”
“All in the same direction?”
Draper sighed heavily and hung his head. “I’d like to say I only shot at the Spokes…but the truth is, I freaked…panicked. Just started pulling the trigger as fast as I could. I…I hope to hell I didn’t hurt anybody who didn’t deserve it.”
Grissom asked, “Did you move your position?”
A little embarrassed, Draper said, “No. I stayed in the pit behind a table. That seemed about as close to ‘safe’ as I could get.”
Lopez took over the interview again, and Catherine gave a sign to Grissom and Nick, who followed her out. They huddled against a concrete wall, the empty hallway affording them privacy.
“What do we think, so far?” Catherine asked.
Grissom said, “If Mr. Draper didn’t move from pit six, he couldn’t have shot Valpo from close range.”
Eyes tight, Catherine said, “That’s my thinking, too—but the security video should show us the shooter, once Sofia and Archie get through it all.”
Nick said, “We’re not takin’ that clown’s story at face value, are we?”
Catherine shook her head. “Still, if Draper’s lying, be nice to have the bullet from Valpo’s head, to catch him in the act.”
With a nod, Nick said, “I’m all over that. I’ll get one of the cops to drive me over to the mortuary.”
“I’m going to work some more here,” Catherine said, indicating the casino.
Grissom’s head tilted to one side. “I think Chief Lopez is planning to visit the two gangs…. How about I go with him, Catherine?”
“Good idea,” Catherine said. Her tiny smile told Nick she appreciated Grissom’s unobsequious deference to her supervisor role.
The officer who drove Nick across town was a big, strapping concrete block of a kid in a uniform who didn’t seem quite old enough to be carrying that sidearm. He’d introduced himself as Dean Montaine and had a firm but not overbearing handshake. Red-haired with pale skin, the young officer didn’t seem to have pulled a lot of traffic duty on sunny days.
When they’d been in the car for a few minutes, Nick asked, “Ever play any ball?”
Montaine nodded. “High school. You?”
Briefly Nick told him about Texas A&M and his knee. They talked football and were properly bonded by the time they reached the darkened mortuary.
“Nobody home?” Nick asked. “Nobody who’s still breathing, anyway?”
Montaine said, “Mr. Erickson must be ’round back.”
After pulling the car into the parking lot, Montaine circled around to the rear of the dark-brick two-story with the discreet BOOT HILL MORTUARY sign. They found a dim light shining through an open door and, under a weak parking-lot light, a blue minivan, parked.
“That’s Mr. Erickson’s,” Montaine said, indicating the van as he pulled up next to it.
They got out and approached the building, feet scuffing the gravel of the lot; but as they grew closer to the open door, something got the hair prickling on Nick’s neck.
Nick glanced sideways at the young cop. “Would Mr. Erickson leave the back door open like that?”
“If he’s inside,” Montaine said with a shrug, “why not?”
“You guys ever have any crime before today?”
“Yeah, a little. But what’s to steal in a stiff hotel?”
Nick could think of something, but said, “You think it’s reasonable a Boot Hill businessman would have the back door of his business wide open…in the middle of the night?”
Montaine’s hand dropped to the nine millimeter on his hip.
Holding out a hand to keep the young man where he was, Nick eased forward, hand on his own gun’s butt, the strap of the holster undone.
Nick went in first.
A garage awaited, with a hearse and a limousine both sitting under a naked hundred-watt bulb in the center of the ceiling.
“Mr. Erickson?” Nick called.
Only half an echo off cement answered the CSI.
Nick took in the surroundings: garage walls cluttered with tools, a lawn mower, a workbench, and other things blocked by the parked vehicles. Easing his gun from its holster, but keeping the pistol at his side, Nick called out again. “Mr. Erickson?”
Still no answer but the echo.
Nick glanced back to see Officer Montaine, all business now, pistol out.
Beyond the workbench, a door stood ajar—to the interior of the mortuary, Nick assumed. He brought his gun up and kept it trained on that door. Behind him, he hoped Montaine had his pistol set to cover them if someone popped up from behind a vehicle.
Though that door was open, Nick could see no light beyond. He got out his mini-flash, turned it on, and used his left wrist to brace the pistol so the light and gun were both pointed into the darkness. With a head motion he summoned the young local cop to follow.
The door opened into a small hallway. To Nick’s right, in a corner, were two expandable carts that the coffins sat on during transportation from room to room, or to the back of the hearse. The hall in front of him was lined with doors. To his left, at the other end of the short hallway, was a door on the right. He could see no light coming from beneath. Nodding toward that door, Nick kept his pistol on the main hall while Montaine tried the door.
Locked.
The young officer caught up to Nick and they moved slowly down the corridor to a closed door on the left, where Nick signaled for Montaine to cover the hallway. No light escaped from beneath this door, either; but this one was not locked…
…and swung easily open when Nick turned the knob with the heel of his flashlight hand.
An office.
A quick sweep of the flash told Nick that he was in here alone. Closing the door as he came out, Nick nodded for them to move on.
Montaine went through an open doorway to the right. Nick could see a table and chairs under the beam of the young man’s flash, but nothing else. The officer came out and shook his head—safe to move to the next door.
Nick did not like mortuaries. He’d had a bad experience at night in another one, not long ago; and while he did not like to think he was easily creeped out, this excursion was making him progressively edgier. He hoped it didn’t show, because the last thing they needed was for the young officer to get spooked….
Nick took a breath, and—with the flashlight hand—tried the next door.
His initial sweep of the light joined with pungent chemical odors to tell him he was in the body preparation chamber.
A metal table, not unlike the one back in Robbins’s morgue, sat centrally, and counters and sinks and cupboards lined the walls. An embalming machine sat conspicuously on a counter in the corner. At first, Nick thought he had entered another empty room…
…then he heard the moan.
Turning the beam toward the sound, the CSI saw a man sprawled on the floor beyond the metal table.
“Montaine!” Nick said. “In here.”
Without waiting, Nick went to the man, who was groggy but very much alive.
Montaine entered the room and flicked the light switch.
“Oh hell,” the young officer said. “Mr. Erickson, are you all right?”
Erickson was struggling to all fours now, his head toward Nick, a bloody wound in the back of his skull.
“Ambulance,” Nick said, “now.”
Montaine was on the radio immediately.
“Lay back, Mr. Erickson,” Nick said.
The mortician peered up unsteadily through glassy gray eyes—a tall, broad, balding man of perhaps fifty. His glasses had been knocked off and lay askew on the floor nearby.
“Who…who are you?” Erickson managed.
“Nick Stokes, sir—Las Vegas Crime Lab.”
“Oh. Oh, yes…the CSI coming about the dead biker….”
“Yes, sir. Lay back now; rest easy. You’ve probably got a concussion.”
“Damnit!” Erickson snapped, suddenly angry. “I never even saw him.”
“Who would that be?” Nick asked, holstering his weapon and flicking off the flashlight. Possibly he should have just told the mortician to remain quiet; but this was a crime scene, and Erickson’s words were evidence.
“The SOB that hit me—never even saw him. One moment I was leaning over the body, next you and Dean were here…and all I’ve got to show is…ahhhh…” Erickson winced in pain.
Nick didn’t want to ask the next question—he already had a really bad feeling about the answer. He grabbed a towel off a rack by a sink, ran it under cold water, wrung it out, then knelt next to the mortician and pressed it to his wound. “Mr. Erickson…”
“Stan…call me…call me Stan.”
“Stan,” Nick said. “Do you know where the body is now?”
Erickson glanced forlornly at the metal table. “Oh, hell. Bloody goddamn hell. They stole it!”
“Valpo didn’t walk away,” Nick said.
“What’s the matter?” Montaine asked.
Nick glanced at the young cop. “Whoever assaulted Mr. Erickson did so in order to steal Valpo’s corpse.”
Montaine looked at the table. “No way.”
“Way,” Nick said. “And incidentally, we’re standing in the middle of a crime scene. So keep that in mind.”
The officer looked around quickly, as if he’d just stepped into a room slithering with snakes.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” the mortician was saying.
“Please, sir,” Nick said. “Just take it easy till help comes.”
“It’s my…my first bodysnatching.”
Nick almost said Not mine, but let the man have his special if humiliating moment.
Hauling his cell phone off his belt, Nick could find solace only in knowing breaking this news to Catherine would be marginally better than doing so to his previous supervisor.
After all, Gris could get cranky when evidence got tampered with. And how could you tamper with murder evidence more than by stealing the victim’s body itself?
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