"The optimum temperature is about 119 degrees. But you've got to be careful because the flashpoint is 207 degrees and the self-ignition point is only 232. Once it's at the right temp, though, all we have to do is pour it in and wait…. You ready?"
She nodded.
Maher took the pot off the flame and carried the brew toward the print. Eyes wide, he said, "And, oh yeah-never use this stuff indoors!"
Grinning a little, she said, "Kinda guessed that. Noxious fumes aren't my favorite." She watched as he carefully filled the impression with the liquid sulfur. "That won't melt the impression?"
He shook his head. "Not enough to matter. The detail'll still be better than dental stone, and we don't have to take a week off, waiting for it to cure. Besides, if you use dental stone, you'll mix it with potassium sulfate and that reaction creates enough heat that if you don't put it in the snow while it mixes, it'll completely melt your impression."
A short while later, Grissom came over to them again. "I've uncovered two sets in each row."
"Good job," Maher said.
"Just looking with the naked eye," said Grissom, "I'd say all four sets were made by the same person."
"No kidding? Not two killers, then?"
"Looks like one. Smaller person, too-men's size eight or nine, woman's nine or ten."
"So-what happened?"
Grissom explained what he knew so far.
The killer chases the victim away from the hotel. The victim sprints up the slope and the killer is shooting at him, at least three shots fired.
So the killer fires and misses, fires and misses, then connects, putting one in the victim's back, the victim pitching forward. Then the killer rolls him over and sets the victim on fire. To disguise the body, perhaps, or even…to punish the corpse, disfigure it vengefully.
"But what about the other tracks?" Sara asked.
"That doesn't make sense," Grissom admitted, eyes tightening with thought, "unless…"
Still kneeling over the impression, Maher asked, "Unless what?"
"Unless the killer didn't have the gasoline along, and had to go back for it."
"Or," Maher offered, "the killer may have had the gas along, but left something behind here at the scene-in the heat of the moment, eh?-and had to come back for it."
"Possible," Grissom granted.
Pulling the first cast up, Maher said, "One other thing."
"Yeah?"
He held the casting of the impression where they both could see it. "Our killer has new boots. I couldn't get a better casting in the parking lot of a shoe store with boots right out of the box."
"So," Grissom said, "we've finally got some real evidence."
Rising, Maher said, "Sara, take your photos of the rest while I bring Grissom up to speed, with the sulfur process."
Pulling her camera out again, Sara asked Maher, "And what are you going to be doing?"
"Well, we've got the killer's feet. Be nice to know his weapon too, eh?"
She just looked at him.
"When I've got both of you working the footprints, I'll go to find our missing bullets."
The sun was hiding and the air was growing colder. Was it going to start snowing again? No wonder Maher was trying to work fast.
Cormier, who'd been a spectator on the sideline for some while, came up to them then. "You folks gonna be much longer?"
"Some time, yes," Grissom said.
"Then I'm goin' back down to the hotel and see if anybody's tryin' to dig us out or anything…and find out if the phones are workin' yet. Be back in an hour, okay?"
"Should be fine," Maher said. "And bring up some more coffee, eh?"
Sara whispered to Grissom, "Good day, eh?"
But the reference was lost on him.
Cormier waved and started down the trail.
"Smallish feet for a man," Sara pointed out as the hotel manager disappeared in the trees.
"He doesn't have new boots, though," Grissom said.
"At least, not that he's wearing."
"Then," Grissom said, "we can't eliminate him-or anybody else-as a suspect, yet. So let's get back to work and dig up some more evidence."
Grissom rejoined Maher over by the Sterno burner. Sara went back to work taking pictures, using the tripod and digging down with the scale. She even sprayed the gray primer in a couple of the prints. Sneaking a look at Grissom, she noticed that again he seemed utterly content in his work. Sara wondered idly if she looked that happy as she was spray-painting snow.
Somehow, she doubted it.
8
CATHERINE WILLOWS COULD THINK OF ONLY ONE PLACE TO go, on a case this cold: back to the beginning. Under her direction, the CSIs watched old security videotapes from Mandalay Bay, the Chinese restaurant; they read original reports of the detectives and the day-shift crime lab, combing them for any lead that might have been missed thus far. Nothing promising had yet emerged.
Catherine refused to be intimidated by the year they had lost. Nor would she accept the option that they'd run into a killer smart enough to get away with murder. Some murderers did go unapprehended, of course-rare ones who really did outsmart the police; and others who were lucky enough to draw second-rate detectives and third-rate crime labs. Most killers-even the smart ones-made at least one mistake, often many more than one, in the commission of their homicides.
Tonight, Catherine was playing Grissom's role, checking in with her people, cheering them on, exchanging ideas, priming pumps. Walking down the hall through the warren of labs under the cool aqua-tinged lighting, she ran into Greg Sanders, the young, spiky-haired lab rat who looked more like an outlaw skateboarder than the bright young scientist he was. Under his white lab coat, Sanders wore a black tee shirt with a WEEZER logo.
"Tell me you found something," she said.
"I have checked every result from the day-shift lab reports."
"Tell me," she repeated, "you found something."
"I have personally examined every bit of evidence collected by Ecklie's people: random hairs, fibers, even the Chinese food container from the Lexus."
"Tell me. You found something?"
He pursed his lips as he thought, carefully; then, abruptly, he said, "No."
She placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Tell me when you find something."
Catherine moved on.
She found Warrick Brown-still working on the tire marks-at a computer terminal, fingers flying on the keyboard. His manner was cool, deceptively low-key. Catherine considered Warrick an intense, even driven investigator-the sharp, alert eyes in the melancholy face were the tell.
"Anything?" she asked.
He looked up at her glumly. "The tire mark closest to where Missy got dumped is a General. It's an aftermarket tire that fits a lot of SUVs."
"Which tells us an SUV stopped along the stretch of road where Missy Sherman was found."
"Yes-an SUV that may or may not have been driven by the killer who dumped the body there. With a tire distinctive enough to say it belongs to an SUV, but not narrowing it down much."
"So," Catherine said, "nothing."
"Not nothing," he said. "It's a start."
"Some people say the glass is half-full."
"Grissom says, dust the glass for prints and see who drank the water."
Catherine chuckled softly. "What about the other marks you casted?"
"Two motorcycles."
"Probably not significant."
"Probably not," he agreed. "One tire from an ATV, which is a possibility, but a stretch; the others still unknown."
Catherine nodded. "Keep working it."
"You know I will."
As she moved down the hall, Catherine savored the sweet thought of solving a case day shift had dropped the ball on. That was hardly the top priority, of course-finding the truth and making it possible for justice to be meted out remained much higher on her list; but she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit the appeal of outshining Sheriff Mobley's lapdog, Conrad Ec
klie.
First-shift supervisor Ecklie, after all, gloated over each perceived victory, and had a ready excuse for every loss. He'd made his bones badgering the other two shifts at any opportunity. It would be nice, Catherine thought, if they could find a way to shut him up, if only for a little while.
In the morgue, Dr. Robbins was doing only marginally better than the others.
"Definitely, suffocation," he said. "And it was a plastic bag."
"We know this because…?"
The bearded coroner showed her a sheet of paper. "Read for yourself-tox screen came back, heightened CO2 level."
"All right," she said, "at least that's something."
"Yeah, but that's all I can tell you on the subject. If you're waiting for me to identify the type and brand of the plastic bag, you'll be disappointed."
Catherine shook her head, patted his shoulder. "You're never a disappointment to me, Doc…. Just keep looking."
That left Nick and the videotapes. She found him in the break room with an open bag of microwave popcorn, a Diet Coke, and the remote. His three-button gray shirt had flecks of popcorn salt on the front, his black jeans, too.
Draped in the doorway, she said, "Midnight movies, huh? What's playing-Rocky Horror?"
"Well, it's the time warp, all right," he said, and his grin had a little pride in it, which encouraged Catherine.
"Meaning?" she said, at his side now.
"These year-old tapes gave up something. I think. You tell me…."
She pulled up a chair and said, "Pass the popcorn."
He did, and she nibbled, while he went on: "First, you have to understand that there are no cameras on any of the exits at the Mandalay Bay…so we have nothing of cars leaving the premises."
"Well, we wouldn't want it to be too easy, right?"
"That's a sentiment I've never quite grasped." He backed up the tape a ways and hit PLAY. "This is at just about 1:35 P.M."
The tape rolled and Catherine, munching the popcorn but glued to the screen, watched the grainy black-and-white image of cars turning into the Mandalay Bay parking lot from the Strip. The camera looked down at the cars and made it impossible to see inside the vehicles. Three or four cars rolled by before she saw what Nick wanted her to see, a Lexus RX300, pulling into the lot.
"That's Missy?" Catherine asked.
"Yeah. Their Lexus had a Michigan State sticker in the rear window, and it's tough to see at this angle, but, if you know it's there…"
He showed her what he meant, and Catherine was able to catch the sticker with its helmeted Spartan head, despite the high angle, or enough of it anyway to sell her on this being Missy's Lexus.
"Now the next car…" Nick backed the tape up again, and let the tape play again until the Lexus pulled through the camera shot once more, and was replaced by a dark, boxy car. "…is Regan Mortenson's gray Camry."
"All right. Both women were at the Chinese restaurant. Any security tapes available from inside the place?"
He nodded. "The two of them walking through to the restaurant and again when they're leaving. One on one camera, other on another."
"They arrived together," Catherine said, no big deal, "they left together."
"The tape doesn't lie. It's just like Regan told Brass and me, only…look at this."
Nick fast-forwarded the tape, the clock in the corner rolling over in high speed. Just after 11:45 P.M., he slowed the tape and brought it to normal speed.
As the grainy images flickered across the monitor screen, Nick said, "I was going through the rest of the tape at high speed…probably the same way Ecklie's guys did it…but my soda took a tumble and as I reached out to catch it, I stopped the machine right about here."
Cued up properly, the tape revealed several cars rolling past the entrance without pulling in. A few made the turn into the lot, then at 11:49-according to the timer in the corner-an SUV slowed as it approached the entrance, rolled by, then sped up and disappeared.
Catherine froze, a half-handful of popcorn paused in midair. "Holy…That looks like…"
"It sure does," Nick said, and he backed the tape up until the SUV was once again in front of the entrance, then still-framed the image and-using a nearby computer keyboard-punched keys, zooming in on the side of the vehicle, a Lexus RX300, same color as the Shermans'. It wasn't terribly clear, but in the rear window was the white-and-green Michigan State sticker, Spartan head and all.
Catherine returned the handful of popcorn to the bag. Quietly, as if in church, she said, "And Ecklie's people never noticed this?"
"Apparently not-no record of it." Nick shrugged. "I might've missed it, too, if I hadn't almost knocked over my Coke. We were all looking for cars coming in the entrance, not passing it by…. Let me tweak this a little…."
He zoomed in even closer and tried to clear the picture. It remained a little pixilated, but the sticker was unmistakably the Michigan State sticker on the passenger rear window of a Lexus RX300.
"What," Nick asked, "are the odds that this is someone else's Lexus with exactly the same Spartan sticker, in the same position on the same window?"
"Grissom would give you a figure," Catherine said. "I'll just say, slim and none. But, Nick-that car was found in the parking lot!"
He nodded. "That's a fact." Gesturing at the still frame again, he added, "Another fact: this is the main entrance. There are other ways into that lot, and not all are covered by security cams."
Catherine, amazed, said, "Can we ever see the driver?"
"I don't think so. We'll try some image enhancement, but with the angle, and reflections…Probably not gonna be lucky on that one."
"Nick, what about talking to the people inside the hotel, when the SUV drove by?"
"Even assuming the driver came inside at some point, there'd be thousands of people in that casino alone. And that was over a year ago. How are we going to track them down?"
"You're right," she admitted. "If this crime had gone down yesterday, we'd be facing tough odds-a year later…. So Missy was abducted in her own car, and driven off, and after her murder, the Lexus was returned to the lot?"
"Looking that way."
She thought for a moment. "If the Chinese food in Missy's stomach is undigested, then by the time her car comes back to the hotel…"
"She's dead," Nick said.
Perplexed, Catherine pointed at the screen. "Then who the hell is driving that Lexus?"
"Maybe somebody who owns a chest freezer."
"May," Catherine said, "be." She pushed a button on the intercom. "Warrick?"
His voice crackled back over the line. "Cath?"
"Head over to the video lab, would you?"
Soon they were showing Warrick the tape; then they shared with him what they'd surmised.
"If you're thinkin' I need to put my proctology tool up that Lexus," Warrick said, shaking his head, "I gotta tell ya-that baby wasn't that spotless at the dealership. Anything I find could've been easily displaced when Sherman had the interior professionally cleaned."
Catherine asked innocently, "You ID those other tires yet?"
Warrick twitched half a smirk. "That's a work-in-progress."
"Which is the better lead?"
"The Lexus."
"Well, then," she said. "Round up a detective and head back to the Sherman place."
Warrick stood and gave her a grumpy look. "You know, if Gris was here-"
"He'd send your ass out to the Shermans to pick up that Lexus."
Warrick considered that for a second. "Yeah, he would," he admitted, and was gone.
Jim Brass drove Warrick back to the quiet upper-middle-class housing development; calling on people so late at night-it was approaching midnight-was something Warrick could never get used to, rolling into slumbering neighborhoods, delivering nightmares.
Again, one light was on upstairs, and another in the living room of the mission-style house on Sky Hollow Drive. No loud TV emanated, however, and Alex Sherman answered on the first knock. F
or a change, they were expected: Brass had called ahead, though the detective had given the man no details.
His white sweatshirt (with green Michigan State logo) and green sweatpants rumpled, Sherman greeted them with the hollow look of a man who was either sleeping way too much or hardly at all.
"Do you know something?" he asked, his tone at once urgent and resigned. He had lost his wife and even the best news could not bring her back.
"We do have a lead," Brass said. "You remember Warrick Brown, from the crime lab?"
"Of course."
Warrick picked up the ball. "Could we step inside? We need to talk again."
"Sure…come on in. I made coffee."
They did not refuse the offer. This time it was Warrick who sat beside Sherman on the couch, while Brass perched on the edge of a nearby chair. Sherman's dark razor-cut hair stuck out here and there at odd angles, and the man's glasses rode low on his nose. He hadn't shaved in a while.
"I'm a little out of it," he admitted. "I'm getting calls from Missy's relatives, and…I haven't even made the funeral arrangements yet."
Brass said, "It's hard getting used to the idea of your wife being gone."
Sherman looked sharply at the detective. "I was used to her being gone. What I'm not used to is her being back…and murdered…and…"
Warrick thought the man might weep, but it was clear he was way beyond that. Nothing to do but get into it….
"Mr. Sherman," Warrick said, "did you ever wonder why it was that you couldn't find your wife's SUV that night?"
Sherman shrugged-not just his shoulders, his whole body seemed to capitulate. "I assumed I was just…too screwed up. Too worried and anxious to tell my ass from a hole in the ground."
"It never occurred to you that the car actually may not have been there."
Frowning, Sherman said, "What are you talking about? It was found right there in the lot."
Warrick nodded. "What did you say at the time, when you were questioned?"
"I said, I know my own car, and it wasn't there or I would have seen it."
"You were right."
Sherman didn't grasp Warrick's meaning yet. "But like I said, I've come to realize I must've been so out of it…" Sherman's features had a hard, almost sinister look as he turned a burning gaze on the CSI. "Or…are you saying something else?"
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