Nick grunted a small laugh. “Yeah, well help me open this one.”
Rita Bennett had only been buried about three months and remarkably little odor crept over the sides of the vault and down to the trio on the floor.
Using the crane, Nick set the vault lid off to one side.
Brass walked over and asked, “How’s the casket look?”
The two CSIs glanced down into the vault at the same moment.
Sara spoke first. “Looks good, surprisingly.”
“Like brand new,” Nick added. To Sara under his breath, he said, “Only one owner….”
“Not much smell,” Sara said quietly.
Their comments were sotto voce, to keep them from the daughter seated across the room.
Turning to Brass, Grissom said, “One of the good things about living in the desert—things decay slower, here.”
“Personally,” Brass said, “I’m decaying pretty damn fast these days, this heat.”
Next, Nick and Sara worked straps around the casket and Nick used the crane to lift it out of the vault and swing it over the side of the truck. Lowering it slowly, Nick set the casket gently on the floor not far from Grissom and Brass.
Brass turned to the seated woman and said, “Ms. Bennett—if you’d join us?”
She did, and the five moved to the oaken box; then Grissom, Brass, and Rebecca watched as Sara and Nick released the locks and flipped up the lid of the coffin.
Within, Grissom had expected to find Rita Bennett looking much as she had when she’d been buried, just three months ago. The dress would be tasteful, her makeup in place but slightly over the top, like it always had been in her TV spots for the car dealership, and her hair would be dyed platinum blonde.
Looking into the casket, Grissom felt his stomach lurch a little.
He saw tennis shoes, jeans, a Las Vegas Stars T-shirt, painted fingernails, pierced ears, pink-glossed lips, and auburn hair surrounding a face that had to be younger than twenty-five. The young woman in the casket, younger than Rebecca standing next to him, looked very peaceful indeed.
She just didn’t happen to be Rita Bennett.
Rebecca’s hand shot to her mouth and her eyes opened wide.
Sara was the first to find her voice. “Uh…oh….”
She looked at Nick, whose slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression mirrored her own.
“Gris,” Nick said gingerly, “this doesn’t look like a heart attack.”
“What have you people done with my mother?” Rebecca demanded. She turned to Grissom and said, “Where is my mother?”
The shift supervisor turned to Brass, who seemed suddenly about three inches shorter, an invisible and very heavy weight having settled across his shoulders.
Sheriff Atwater was going to love this….
Grissom faced Brass and asked, “We double-checked the grave location—right?”
“I went to the office myself,” the detective said, his voice wavering between anger, confusion, and frustration. “And the damn headstone is even in the truck! Everything matched.”
Holding up his hands, Grissom said, “No need to get defensive, Jim…just checking.” Grissom turned to Sara and Nick with renewed energy. “If our paperwork was right, and the cemetery staff took us to the correct site…all of which seems to have happened, then we have ourselves a brand-new crime scene.”
Rebecca Bennett got between them. “I’m thrilled for you! But where is my mother?”
Grissom raised a palm, as if trying to stop traffic. “I don’t know, Ms. Bennett…but I can promise you we’re going to do everything we can to find her.”
“This isn’t happening,” Brass said, and sat on the bumper of the truck. “We come in to do a simple exhumation, and now we have a murder?”
“Not necessarily,” Grissom said. “Could be a simple mistake.”
The dead woman’s daughter managed to open her eyes even wider. “Simple mistake?”
Covering his eyes, Brass was calling for a dispatcher on his radio.
“Forgive me, Ms. Bennett,” Grissom said. He began to lead the stunned woman away from the casket. “We, as criminalists, have to approach this as a problem that needs to be solved. But we don’t really mean to be callous.”
“My mother, what the goddamn hell happened…?”
“You have my word, Ms. Bennett—we’ll solve this. All your questions will be laid to rest.”
“Like my mother was?”
Grissom didn’t have an answer for that.
Sara approached and said, “We’re very sorry about this awful turn of events. This has been a terrible traumatic thing, but please believe me—we’re going to help.”
Grissom watched as a uniformed officer entered. Brass joined Grissom and the distraught young woman, showing up at the same moment as the uniform man.
“Ms. Bennett,” Brass said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to step out now.”
“Are you people trying to get rid of me now?” she asked, her voice, practically a shriek, careening off the cement walls.
Grissom stepped up. “No, Ms. Bennett—we’re trying to preserve evidence. We have to find out what happened to the woman in your mother’s casket.”
“What…about…my mother?”
Shaking his head, Grissom said, “The only clues we have to what happened to your mother are inside that casket with this girl. You need to let us do our job.”
Rebecca obviously wanted to put up a fight, but Grissom could tell she saw the logic of his argument; he read her as a strong, intelligent young woman. Hanging her head, sighing in defeat, she allowed the uniformed officer to lead her out of the garage.
Turning back to his charges, Grissom’s face was tight. “Let’s do it.”
Sara was already bent over the coffin. “Blood on the pillow,” she said. “I can’t tell more until we get the body out.”
Grissom said, “All right, then…Nick, you work the casket. Someone put her in there—let’s see if we can’t find out who. Sara, find out who she is and walk her through autopsy. Tell Doc Robbins this is a rush—we’re already at least three months behind.”
Brass added, “I’ll start with the cemetery and work my way back to the mortuary.” He checked his watch. “The staff should be there by now—you gonna work past the end of shift?”
Grissom nodded. “All the shifts are working overtime these days.”
Sara asked, “What about Rita Bennett?”
“We can’t find out what happened to her,” Grissom said, “until we find her…and the only clue we have to her whereabouts is the mystery guest buried in Rita’s grave.”
“Blood on the pillow,” Sara said. “Already looking like murder.”
Nick shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t anybody in this town ever die normal anymore?”
Grissom cast his charming smile on the younger CSI. “Where would the fun be in that, Nick?”
2
THE “RED BALLS,” as high-priority murders were known in some jurisdictions, got the adrenaline flowing, and were the kind of cases that could build careers. But CSI Catherine Willows had come to prize the more normal calls, particularly in a period of record homicides and double shifts like the one she was in the midst of.
This morning—at a time when a nightshift criminalist like Catherine should by all rights be in bed asleep—she and her partner, Warrick Brown, were riding out to the Sunny Day Continuing Care Facility with the Tahoe siren blessedly off and the air conditioning whispering its soft song. In addition to less stress, such a relatively routine call provided Catherine a better sense of connection with the people she and the LVPD served.
For having worked all night, Catherine Willows looked surprisingly, if typically, crisp in cool cotton, a man-tailored white shirt, and khaki-color slacks; after twenty years of harsh Vegas sun, the slender, strawberry-blonde crimefighter remained blessed with the facial features and general architecture of a fashion model, though her past actually included runways of another sor
t. The journey of this former exotic dancer into this highly respected, demanding profession had been very much a self-made one.
Behind the wheel, Warrick Brown—with his restrained dreadlock Afro, creme de cacao complexion and arresting green eyes—did not reveal the long hours either. In the tan cotton pullover and cargo pants, he looked almost collegiate…or would have if his world-weary demeanor didn’t convey something of the terrible things a CSI had to learn to live with.
The sun was already high, but the temperature hadn’t risen to the broiler-like numbers it would register in another few hours; so the day still held the promise that perhaps the heat-soaked murder spree gripping the city might let up.
They had been summoned to Sunny Day by Detective Sam Vega, a veteran investigator with whom the nightshift CSIs had worked on numerous occasions. Routine or not, Catherine knew something must be up—the no-nonsense Vega neither spooked easily nor suffered fools lightly.
But as they made their way through traffic, Catherine forced herself away from pointless speculation about what might await them at the Sunny Day facility, and tried instead to concentrate on the very real sunny day all around them. Heat or not, she was enjoying it, particularly in thinking that she and her daughter Lindsey might get to the park later and enjoy some of this golden sunshine.
But Warrick, at the wheel, wouldn’t let her evade the reality of her…of their…job. “So what’s this about, anyway? Vega say?”
Catherine shook her head, gave her partner half a smirk. “Vega was vague.”
Warrick arched an eyebrow. “Actually, ‘vague’ is not Vega…he’s usually one specific cop.”
“Not this time. Just said he had something he wanted us to take a look at.”
“What, scene of a missing bedpan?” Warrick took a left.
Catherine laughed in spite of herself. “Hey, don’t be smug—we’re all headed to Sunny Day, someday. You be nice, now. Respectful.”
Warrick’s easy grin seemed a little embarrassed. “Sorry, just kidding. I mean, with the kind of high-flyin’ homicides we’ve been pulling lately, a rest home sounds, I don’t know…”
“Restful? Would you rather have a dead scuba diver up a tree, or possibly a frozen corpse in the desert?”
Warrick nodded. “Maybe. Keeps you awake, on these endless shifts….”
Tucked away in a quiet Henderson neighborhood, just off Lake Mead Drive, Sunny Day Continuing Care was a sprawling facility of the one-stop-shopping sort that seemed to be springing up in cities everywhere. Not merely a nursing home, Sunny Day offered the growing number of retirees invading the Vegas Valley everything from independent living to constant care.
Heading there, Warrick turned one more corner and they found themselves moving down a street with houses on the right side and an eight-foot wall down the left. Easing the Tahoe up to the guard shack outside the gate in the middle of the block, Warrick hit the down button on his power window.
A silver-haired guard, who might himself have been a Sunny Day resident, asked and received their names, inspected Warrick’s ID, said he was expecting them, checked something off on a clipboard, and returned to his shack to hit the button that opened the wrought-iron gate.
The drive split in two around a green space occupied by park benches and, at the far end, a shuffleboard court. One side of the gated community was split between condos and duplexes, where the more active residents lived. The other was dominated by a pair of high-rises that housed the semi-care and full-care patients of the facility. Out in front of one high-rise could be seen Vega’s Taurus, an ambulance, and a squad car.
“I think we’ve found the party,” she said.
“I doubt I’ll need my noisemaker,” Warrick said dryly, referring to the automatics both CSIs packed on their hips, weapons that were rarely drawn, though a department mandate of recent years required carrying them—even on a nursing home call.
Warrick pulled the Tahoe up near the other vehicles, parked, and they climbed down. A single officer manned the door of the building.
“What about our kits?” Warrick asked, deferring to the senior officer.
Catherine shrugged. “Vague as Vega was, I say we get the story first, then come back for whatever we need…if we need anything.”
“I like the way you think, Cath.”
They approached the officer playing sentry. He was a dayshift guy who Catherine had encountered a couple times, most recently on a love triangle murder in a Summerlin kitchen—Nowak was the name, if she remembered right. As they neared the tall, painfully young–looking officer, Catherine sneak-peeked at his nameplate.
Then with friendly familiarity, she said, “Hey, Nowak—what’s the word?”
“Two words,” the uniform said, giving Catherine a shrug and Warrick a quick nod. “Heart attack.”
Catherine asked, “You know where we’re headed?”
The officer gestured. “Doctor’s office, second door down the hall. Administrative wing.” He pulled the glass and steel door open for them. “On the right.”
“Heart attack,” Warrick said, shaking his head. He looked at Catherine and said, “And we’re here why?”
Catherine said, chipper, “I don’t know, Warrick. Why don’t we ask Detective Vega?”
Officer Nowak said, “I think Vega’s interviewing Doctor Whiting right now.”
Warrick grunted, “Well, we’ll try not to get in the way.”
Warrick headed in and the officer raised his eyebrows and said to Catherine, “What’s his problem?”
“Three days of double shifts.” Catherine grinned. “Or maybe just his time of the month.”
That surprised a laugh out of the officer, as Catherine stepped inside to catch up with Warrick.
It must have been even hotter outside than she thought, because this place felt like a walk-in refrigerator.
“Wow,” Catherine said, head rearing back, almost laughing.
“What happened to senior citizens liking it warm?” Warrick asked with a little eye roll.
The long hallway was a pale institutional green, the overhead lighting fluorescent, the atmosphere sterile and decidedly unhomey—more hospital than hospitable. They walked past oversize, gurney-friendly doors that stood ajar, announcing a corridor where nurses and orderlies moved with joyless efficiency.
“Business must be good,” Catherine said, pausing to note the plastic chart bins attached to the walls just inside.
Catherine could see beyond those double doors into the nearest room, to glimpse a bedridden woman with black-streaked silver hair, impossibly thick glasses, and an oxygen tube in her nose; her skin was the color of wet newspaper.
Across the way, a frail old man with wispy hair, his eyes closed, his countenance peaceful, made Catherine wonder if the old boy was dead or just asleep. Without more evidence, the CSI could not be sure.
Still, it was clear to Catherine that no one down that corridor would likely ever, under his or her own power, walk out of Sunny Day into any day, sunny or otherwise.
Warrick paused, and something flickered across those private, somewhat melancholy features.
“What?” Catherine asked with a gentle smile, as they walked on.
“Just thinking—we see all kinds of people end up all kinds of ways, most of them reeaaal bad.”
“That we do.”
His sigh came up from his toes. “This?…Is the worst.”
The door with the nameplate “DR. L. WHITING, CHIEF OF STAFF” was closed, though muffled conversation within confirmed Vega’s presence. Catherine knocked and a deep voice bid her to come in.
Catherine entered—there was no reception area—with Warrick just behind her, a formidable mahogany desk facing them. The office, also an institutional green, was less than spacious but not cramped, with a two-seater sofa next to the door, and the wall at left obscured by a credenza-style bookcase of medical tomes and family photos. On the wall at right, a few framed photographs taken on a golf course joined a handful of diplomas to
intermingle with filing cabinets and provide this sparsely decorated office with a touch more warmth than a scalpel.
Pen and pad in hand, Vega occupied one of two chairs opposite the desk. The compact, broad-shouldered detective—he might have been a boxer or wrestler before his days on the force—was in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie loose; only the over-the-top heat would inspire such casualness in this tightly wound cop. His black hair cut short, sans sideburns, his eyebrows dark and thick over sharply intelligent brown eyes, Vega had a serious visage that made a lot of his brother officers wonder if the man had had his sense of humor surgically removed.
The two CSIs, however, knew Vega well enough to know that he did on occasion laugh—though seldom at work.
The man across from the detective had a build similar to Vega’s, a handsome, even distinguished man of about forty-five in a white lab coat. His hair was the color of desert sand and neatly combed; he had dark blue eyes, high cheekbones, a deep Vegas tan, and the slightly remote expression of so many physicians. The straight, rigid way their host sat indicated he might have a bad back.
Physician, heal thyself, Catherine thought.
“Doctor Whiting,” Vega said, without rising, swivelling toward the CSIs and gesturing with his pen, “this is Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown…from our crime lab. Catherine, Warrick—Dr. Larry Whiting.”
The doctor rose stiffly, and Catherine and Warrick leaned past the seated Vega to exchange handshakes with their host.
“Good of you to come,” Whiting said, his tone quiet, serious. He met Catherine’s eyes and gestured toward the remaining chair.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Catherine said, and sat next to Vega while Warrick settled his long frame onto the sofa just behind them, sitting forward, any doubleshift tiredness wholly absent from his low-key keen attentiveness.
For a few moments, an awkward silence prevailed.
That happened frequently with CSIs, who often arrived in the middle of a police interview.
Vega decided to catch them up. “Doctor Whiting came to work today and found…” The detective looked toward the doctor. “Why don’t you tell them what you found, Doctor?”
Grave Matters Page 3