“Another brilliant idea…nets another nothing.”
Warrick stood, stepped back, surveyed the vehicle again. Then he opened the door, glanced around the interior. Looked at the steering wheel, the dash, the windshield and, finally, looked up at…
…the visor.
“Jim, get me a forceps out of my bag, would ya?”
Brass withdrew the instrument from the silver case and brought it to Warrick. “Got something?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Using the forceps, Warrick slowly pulled down the visor. Next to the airbag warning label lay a small plastic lid. He used the forceps to raise the plastic and a tiny light came on next to a business-card-sized mirror. Warrick looked at himself in the mirror, and also at a small bit of fingerprint on the corner of the glass.
“There you are,” he said, as if to his own image.
Brass was alongside the vehicle now. “Like what you see?”
“It’s more than just my handsome face—it’s a fingerprint that Ecklie’s people missed.”
“How’d they manage that?”
“Didn’t pull down the visor. And I bet once I dust the plastic lid, we may have more.”
“I thought you didn’t bet anymore,” Brass said.
“Not often,” he said, climbing out of the car to go after his fingerprint kit. “And I couldn’t tell you what the odds are, here…other than that they’ve just improved.”
A white plastic Sears bag in hand, Catherine Willows walked briskly down the corridor, like a shopper at a mall heading for a really great sale.
Catherine, however, had already made her purchases. After making the rounds of just about every appliance store in Clark County, Catherine had finally ended up “where America shops,” to quote a slogan from bygone years. The Sears bag held—potentially—two of the most elusive answers in the Missy Sherman inquiry.
She barged right in, startling Dr. Robbins, who was at his desk taking care of paperwork.
“Need a look at one of your customers, Doc,” she said, striding over to the vault where Missy Sherman still resided.
“Catherine—what are you doing?”
Setting her bag on a nearby worktable, Catherine opened the vault, slid out the tray bearing Missy’s body, then turned and grabbed something from the shopping bag. As she did, Robbins came hustling over, barely letting his metal crutch touch the floor.
“You’re pulling a Grissom, aren’t you?” Robbins asked.
“I prefer to think of it as a Willows.” She held up a small blue piece of rubber that looked a little like a pudgy bullet, rounded at one end, flat on the other end, barely an inch long.
“What do you have there, Catherine?”
Carefully brushing the hair away from the face of the victim, Catherine placed the rounded tip of the rubber nipple against the dead woman’s cheek.
The indentation matched perfectly.
Smiling triumphantly and holding up the blue rubber object between thumb and forefinger, Catherine said, “Doctor, you are looking at a frost warning device found in Kenmore chest freezers sold at Sears.”
“So,” Robbins said, “she was kept in a Kenmore freezer.”
“That’s the theory. Give us girls a hand, would you?”
“My pleasure.”
Grunting, Catherine said, “Here—let’s sit her up…"
“Okay…"
They lifted Missy’s corpse so that she…it…was now sitting on the slab, leaning a little left toward Robbins, almost as if Missy were trying to lay her head on Robbins’ shoulder, restfully.
Then, while Robbins held Missy more or less upright, Catherine removed the other item from the bag, a metal rack covered with white plastic, designed to sit across the opening of the freezer and hold smaller items.
Catherine held the tray to the hash mark on the back of Missy’s arm.
“Shit,” Catherine said.
It didn’t match.
Perplexed, she stepped back. “Why didn’t that work?” she said.
Robbins looked at the corpse’s arm, then at the rack and finally back at the arm. “Flip the rack,” he suggested.
She did, then placed it against Missy’s arm—perfect!
“That’s more like it,” she said with some satisfaction. “Now we know what kind of freezer we’re looking for.”
She helped Doc Robbins lower Missy back down. As the coroner covered his charge carefully, and eased the slab back inside the vault, he asked, “How are you going to track down the specific unit?”
She shrugged. “Frankly, Doc, I have no idea. I’m just happy to put a couple of the pieces together, and start making out a picture. What do you think? Should I go door to door?”
He closed the vault, consigning Missy Sherman’s remains to cold storage—again. “How many Kenmore chest freezers with racks and little blue plugs are there in Vegas?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. No database I know of would be any help at all.”
“What about sales records?”
“Possibly,” she said, “but if we go back to when Kenmore started using the blue plug and the rack, that might be a year ago or it could be twenty. Haven’t checked, yet.”
“If it’s twenty,” Robbins said, “I would imagine Sears has sold its share here in Vegas.”
“And who’s to say the freezer was sold in Vegas? Hundreds of people move here every month, bringing their freezers and other things along in the back of their covered wagons.”
Robbins nodded. “No offense, Catherine, but I’m glad I don’t have your job.”
Catherine glanced toward the vault where Missy resided. “You may find this hard to believe, Doc, but I don’t spend much time envying you, either.”
He smiled at her. “Nice work, Catherine.”
“Thanks. Later, Doc.”
For almost five minutes, Catherine raced around CSI HQ looking for Warrick and Nick, going room to room with no luck. Finally she found Warrick in the fingerprint lab.
“You wouldn’t be in here,” she said hopefully, “if you hadn’t found something in that Lexus.”
Warrick reported his findings, concluding, “The hair and fibers are at Trace, and I’m doing the print off the mirror.”
“And?”
“And it doesn’t belong to either Alex or Missy Sherman.”
“Dare I hope…? But it could be someone from the car wash.”
“Could be,” Warrick admitted. “And we won’t be able to print and eliminate any of them until the car wash opens in the morning.”
“You don’t have to wait till morning to run it through AFIS, though.”
“That’s my next step…. You’ve got that look, Catherine.”
“What look?”
“Cat? Canary? What have you come up with?”
She told him what she’d learned about the freezer.
“Sweet,” Warrick said. “Forward movement. Gotta love it.”
Nodding, she said, “Stay on those prints.”
“Try and stop me.”
She was barely out the fingerprint lab door when her cell phone chirped; she answered it.
“It’s Nick.” In the background, she could hear the familiar howl of the Tahoe’s siren.
Talking and walking, she said, “Where are you rolling to?”
“Murder scene! I think you need to be in on this.”
“We’re focused on the Sherman woman. You’ve gone solo before, Nick—what’s the problem?”
Nick worked his voice up over the siren: “Radio chatter I been listening to, street cops think it’s a strangulation. But no ligature marks!”
Like Missy Sherman.
“Who’s the vic?”
“As-yet-unidentified woman about Missy Sherman’s age. If she’s a thawed-out corpse-sickle, too, we could have a whole ‘nother deal, here.”
Just what they needed: another serial killer.
“Where’s the crime scene?” Catherine said, almost yelling into the phone, which leached siren nois
e.
Nick was almost yelling, too. “Charleston Boulevard—all the way out at the east end.”
“Nick—there’s nothing out there.”
“Just our crime scene…and some houses, up the hill.”
“I’ll grab Warrick and we’ll meet you there.” She clicked off without waiting for his response.
In the Tahoe’s front passenger seat, Warrick said, “This damn case didn’t make any sense when it was just a missing person turned murder. Now you’re telling me it might be a double homicide?”
Deciding not to get him stirred up with her serial-killer notion, Catherine—behind the wheel—shook her head. “We don’t know the murders are connected.”
“Then why are we heading out to the crime scene?”
She shrugged. “Back Nick up.”
After that, the pair drove mostly in silence, Warrick unsuccessfully fiddling with the radio trying to scrounge up the same kind of chatter Nick had overheard. They surely would have arrived at the scene a minute or two sooner if Warrick had been driving, but his race-car tendencies made Catherine nervous, so she’d slid behind the wheel. She had enough stress right now.
Soon, she was easing to a stop near Nick’s Tahoe. They exited their Tahoe into the chilly night with field kits in latex-gloved hands, their breath visible. Streetlights didn’t reach this far past the end of the paved road and halogen work lamps had been set up near the body.
Charleston Boulevard dead-ended at the foot of a mountain, near where several half-million-dollar homes nestled on a ridge, modern near-mansions with a view on rocky, scrubby desolation. Little more than a hundred yards to the south from the houses, near the entrance to a construction road that led off around the mountain, a ditch on the very edge of the desert had become a dumping ground for trash—bulky waste items like carpeting and old sinks, and—tonight—the nude body of a slender white woman around thirty years old.
Just off the side of the construction road, on her back, arms splayed, legs together, the corpse rested amid the garbage, alabaster skin glowing under the brightness of the halogen beams. The glow intensified every time the strobe on Nick’s camera went off.
Catherine and Warrick came closer. The uniformed officers were divided into three pairs, their cars blocking the eastbound lane of Charleston Boulevard and a gravel area to the left of the CSI Tahoes. The first pair of officers stood guard near the body, the second pair were assigned to keep any cars coming up Charleston from stopping and gawking and the last pair stood between the dead woman and a handful of concerned, confused residents who’d wandered down from the expensive homes in the mountain’s shadow.
“She frozen?” Warrick asked.
Nick snapped off two more quick pictures. “You’d have to ask Doc Robbins, but I’d say no—none of that moisture under the body found at the Lake Mead scene.”
“Strangled, you think,” Catherine said.
“Suffocation, anyway,” Nick said.
The woman’s eyes were open, staring skyward at nothing—with the distinctive petechial hemorrhaging of asphyxia.
“Want me to check for tire marks?” Warrick asked.
“Please,” Catherine said.
Moments later, Catherine glanced over to see Warrick slowly looking over the gravel area at the end of the road, in search of tire tracks from the vehicle that had dumped the body. Catherine walked up to the detective who’d caught this case, Lieutenant Lockwood, a tall, athletically built African-American. He gave her a grim smile as she approached.
“Lieutenant,” she said.
“Catherine,” he said.
“Any witnesses?”
“None we know of.”
“Who called it in?”
He nodded toward one of the squad cars, where an Hispanic woman sat quietly in the back, a tissue to her face. Catherine watched until the lady dropped the tissue and Catherine could get a better look at the woman’s profile. About all Catherine could tell from here was that the woman’s black hair was tied back in a bun. “Who is she?”
“Lupita Castillo,” Lockwood said. “Domestic.” He turned and pointed toward a rambling two-story stucco.
“Who lives there?”
Tilting his notebook toward the halogen work lights, Lockwood checked. “Jim and Catherine Dietz. He’s a honcho with the Democratic party, she’s a high-powered attorney. Ms. Castillo, off work, was making her way to the bus stop, couple blocks from here. Stumbles on our dead naked woman.”
Looking at the rocky ground, Catherine said, “And Mr. Democrat and Mrs. Mouthpiece can’t drive their maid home, or at least to the bus stop?”
“I had the same thought,” Lockwood said. “Ms. Castillo says her employers usually drive her to and from work, but they’re out of town. Comes by the house every other day just to make sure everything’s okay.”
“The Dietzes are where?”
“Disney World with their six-year-old daughter.”
“Where’d Ms. Castillo call from?”
“She went back up to the Dietz house.”
“What was she doing there so late on a Saturday night?”
Lockwood chuckled. “Jeez, Catherine, we think alike.”
“Great minds.”
“I asked her and she said that she came over after Mass, made herself dinner and watched a cable movie. She said the family lets her do that, when they’re away—makes it look like someone’s home.”
“Sounds credible,” she said. She gave Lockwood a tight, businesslike smile. “Time to go to work.”
With Nick taking photos, Catherine was free to do a detailed study of the body.
The woman’s blonde hair spiked a little on the top and, on the back and sides, was no longer than Nick’s. Tiny, junkie-thin, with nearly translucent skin, the woman reminded Catherine of the dancers she used to work with who were locked in clubs all night and their apartments all day. They never saw the sun and their skin took on a ghostly pallor. This woman shared that unhealthy skin tone, but for the crimson slashes of lipstick.
With her eyes open, the dead woman seemed to float above the garbage pile; she might have been on her back in a swimming pool, looking up at the piece of moon and the scattering of stars.
Catherine sensed someone at her side.
Nick.
“Just threw her away,” he said, his expression grave. “Like another piece of trash.” He shook his head.
“Oh yeah,” Catherine said. “We have to nail this monster, Nick…” She gave him her loveliest smile. “…for leaving us a garbage dump to process as a crime scene, if nothing else.”
He nodded, eyebrows high, a smile beginning to dig a dimple in one cheek, and said, “You got that right.”
And they went to work.
9
THE CRIME SCENE WAS STILL AND LOVELY, SUNLIGHT DANCING off the white expanse, with almost no wind. Sara was taking photos when the hotel manager trudged back up into the crime-scene area, a thermos under either arm. His expression was grave, but he sounded cheerful enough as he called, “Hot coffee!”
Grissom and Maher immediately slogged over to where Cormier had set up shop at the tree that served as their watch post. Maher in his parka might have been reuniting with his Eskimo brother, when he approached the similarly attired Cormier. The hotel manager poured the brew into Styrofoam cups he’d withdrawn from a coat pocket. Sara finished her latest series of photos, then joined the group. Cormier handed her a steaming cup, which she blew on before taking a hesitant sip.
“I was just telling your partners here,” Cormier said, “the sky’s plannin’ to dump more snow on us.”
She looked from Grissom to Maher, their faces as grim as Cormier’s. “More snow,” she said.
Cormier nodded. “Weather report is not encouraging. Could be as many as ten more inches.”
“So much for the forensics conference,” Grissom said.
“Officially canceled,” Cormier said. “Got an e-mail from two of the state board members who set it up.”
Maher sighed over his cup, and the cold steam of his breath mingled with the hot steam of the coffee. “Is anybody getting in?”
With a quick head shake, Cormier said, “No one gettin’ out, either. I don’t look for the State Police to even try, till later.”
“Define ‘later,’” Grissom said.
“Not right now,” Cormier said, ambiguously.
Sara sighed a cloud, and in exasperation said, “What next?”
Grissom turned to her and spoke over the ridge of his muffler. “Finish our coffee and go back to working the crime scene. Just because it snows doesn’t change the job, Sara.”
Yes, out here in the beautiful snowy woods, Sara was experiencing a true Grissom moment. Only her boss would provide a literal answer to what a billy goat would have easily perceived as a rhetorical question.
Grissom was asking the Canadian, “What’s the story with the sticks over there?”
Sara had been wondering that herself.
“It’s a technique developed by two Saskatchewan game wardens,” Maher said. “Buddies of mine—Les Oystryk and D. J. McGill. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Maher led the CSIs to the stick he’d planted at the downhill end of his line. “It’s a pretty simple theory, really,” he said, gesturing with a gloved hand, as if passing a benediction. “I placed a stake where the bullet entered the snow.”
Eyes tight, Grissom asked, “Denoted by the beginning of the streak you saw yesterday?”
“Exactly. Normally, we’d run a string or flagging tape twenty feet to a second stake, aligning it with the streak in the snow that showed the bullet’s path. But with snow this deep, I simply ran the second stake as straight as I could, and planted it without the string.”
Sara asked, “And the bullet never deviates from the path in the snow?”
“‘Never’ isn’t in my lexicon,” Maher said. “If the slug hit a rock or something, deviation is possible, even probable—but with snow like this to slow the bullet, the path won’t be altered much.”
Grissom gestured back toward the toboggan. “Which is where your metal detector comes in.”
“Yes,” the constable said. “Lucky I brought it along for my presentation, eh?…I think we’ll find the bullet within three feet of that line, on either side.”
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