Sara pondered that particular tidbit of info. “So how did it get here?”
“Just another tourist in search of a wild Vegas weekend?” He contemplated the writhing masses of snakes in the two containers. “Do snakes have bachelor parties?”
“Only if a mouse jumps out of a cake,” Sara guessed. Before isolating the coral snake in a bin of its own, she took a closer look at their prime suspect. The snake was at least two feet long and about an inch wide. Round pupils met her gaze. To the casual eye, it did look much like the harmless milk snakes it was keeping company with. Sara could see how an unsuspecting masseuse might not notice the difference.
I still want to talk to Heather Gilroy, though.
She was admiring the snake’s brightly colored scales when she spotted an irregularity along its length. Keeping a tight hold on the snake, she rotated it to get a better look.
“Check this out,” she said to Hodges. “There appear to be some sort of scratch marks on its hide, about two-thirds of the way down its dorsal region. Make a note of that.”
He scribbled in the notebook. “Unidentified scratches on its back. Got it.” He eyed the snake suspiciously, as though it might slip from her grasp at any minute. Despite his earlier mockery of the Serpent Empire, he clearly wasn’t going to relax until the venomous predator was safely locked up again. Commander Artemus Bishop would have been disappointed in him. “Anything else?” he rushed her. “Or are you done playing snake charmer?”
“Hard to say.” Holding on to the squirming reptile was admittedly a challenge; it was difficult to conduct a thorough examination while simultaneously trying not to get bitten. “We’ll have to get a closer look at those scratches later.” She mentally ran through all the evidence the snake could possibly provide. “We’re also going to need samples of its blood and venom for analysis.” She twisted the snake to inspect its jaws. “Who knows? Maybe there’s even some traces of the victim’s DNA on these fangs?”
Hodges gave the snake’s jaws a wide berth. “Don’t expect me to swab those teeth. Or hold the snake while you do.” He clearly considered that beyond his job description. “That’s going to be easier said than done.”
“I know,” she said regretfully. There was really only one way to safely process the snake for evidence. Damn.
Hodges must have caught the sadness in her voice. His snarky manner gave way to an atypically gentle tone. “Sara, if you want, I’m sure Ray and I can put down that snake for you. A painless injection of barbiturates should do the trick.”
“I’d appreciate that,” she admitted, genuinely touched by Hodges’s consideration. Given all the human carnage she had cleaned up after over the years, it had to seem funny that she’d be squeamish about euthanizing a deadly snake, but she’d always had a soft spot for animals. A vegetarian, she hadn’t touched meat in years.
Not even snake meat.
Taking no chances, she relocated the coral snake to a tank of its own, apart from the other specimens. She doubled-checked to make sure the lid was sealed and secure. “In the meantime,” she told Hodges, “we should finish our inventory, to make sure there’s not another coral snake in the mix.”
“No problem.” He climbed back onto his stool. His pencil poised above the open notebook, he paused as though there was something else preying on his mind. He coughed to clear his throat. “Anyway, Sara . . .”
“Yes?” she asked.
“Does Grissom ever talk about me?”
10
NICK WAS ABOUT an hour into a new shift when Greg ambled into their shared office, clutching a manilla folder and a cup of coffee. The hip young CSI was wearing a gray T-shirt and dark slacks. Nick recalled the old days when Greg had sported spiked hair and an acid-stained lab coat. He’d matured a lot since then.
“What’s up, pal?” Nick asked.
“Just some routine housekeeping.” Greg flipped open the folder. “Ballistics confirms that the bullet that killed Matt Novak, the one we pried out of the wall at WaxWorkZ, came from Jill Wooten’s gun.”
“Good to know,” Nick said. The news was not unexpected, but it paid to make sure all their ducks were in a row, just in case the matter ever went to trial. Meanwhile, Doc Robbins had already declared the COD to be a single gunshot wound to the chest. Traces of Novak’s blood and tissue, identified by DNA, had been found on the deformed .38 caliber bullet they had found at the scene. “It looks like we know exactly how Novak died, and who pulled the trigger. It’s the why that’s still a little murky.”
Catherine had shared her suspicions about the “accident” with the other CSIs. Nick wasn’t sure what to think just yet. Had Jill really fired on Novak in a mistaken case of self-defense? Was this just a tasteless practical joke gone wrong? Or was there more to the picture than met the eye? Nick agreed with Catherine tha the fatal shooting deserved a closer look.
He sat in front of a laptop at his desk. The spacious office, conveniently located between the fingerprint and A/V labs, had once belonged to Gil Grissom, but was now shared by Nick, Greg, and Ray. An irradiated fetal pig, preserved in a tinted bottle of formaldehyde, occupied a shelf in memory of Grissom. Greg came up behind Nick and looked over his shoulder. “What you doing there?”
“Checking out your favorite show,” Nick explained. “Shock Treatment, uncut.”
Greg blushed slightly. “Hey, I never said it was my favorite show, just that I had watched it occasionally. You know me. I’m more of an indie film guy myself.” He pulled a chair over and peered at the screen of the laptop, where Jill Wooten could be seen entering WaxWorkZ. “That the raw footage of the shooting?”
“Yep.” Nick rubbed his eyes, which were already tired from staring at the screen nonstop. “We’ve got it from multiple angles.”
For maybe the sixth time, he watched Jill creep apprehensively into the office behind the bar. The color footage fully captured her mounting fear and anxiety, which crossed over into full-blown terror when she discovered Bill Hamilton apparently trapped inside the iron maiden. Nick had personally examined the intimidating torture device, which had turned out to be a harmless replica. The rusty “metal” spikes lining its interior had actually been made of rubber, just like the teeth on the prop chainsaw. Hamilton had never really been in any danger, not that you could tell from his frantic, bugeyed performance.
Jill sure didn’t look like she knew it was a hoax. Panic was written all over her face. Nick turned down the volume before she screamed in horror. Matt Novak, in full chainsaw maniac mode, charged into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He raised the whirring chainsaw high. Backing away fearfully, Jill reached into her purse and pulled out her Smith & Wesson. Novak toppled onto the floor.
A few minutes later, he was dead.
Nick hit Pause on the recording. He shook his head, appalled at what he had just seen. He turned toward Greg. “You’re the expert. This how it usually goes?”
“Well, except for the shooting, yeah.” Somewhat sheepishly, Greg described how the show was supposed to work. “Usually, just when this week’s victim is convinced they’re toast, the ‘bear’ comes clean. ‘Surprise! You got Shock Treatment!’ At which point, the victim’s best friend or cousin or whatever emerges from hiding and everybody laughs it off.”
“At least until they get home,” Nick said. “Gotta wonder what some of those victims really thought about getting set up by their so-called buddies.”
“Oh, yeah,” Greg said, smirking. “There was this one episode where the victim runs off and completely abandons his real-life girlfriend to be eaten by hillbilly cannibals without a backward glance. I mean, he got out of there so fast the hidden cameras could barely keep up with him. The girlfriend pretended to find it funny, but I always assumed that their relationship took a turn for the worse afterward.”
Nick was inclined to agree. “Must be hard to see a guy the same way after he chooses to save his own skin over yours—even if the danger was only a hoax.”
“That’s wh
at’s kind of morbidly fascinating about the show,” Greg said in a transparent attempt to rationalize his viewing habits. “You get to see how real people react under extremely bizarre conditions.”
“Like we don’t see that every night?”
“Er, good point.” Greg steered the conversation back to the case. “From what I hear, Jill was definitely pissed off at her friend Debra for setting her up. Catherine said they nearly had an all-out cat-fight in the parking lot behind the club.” His curved fingers clawed at the air. “Meow!”
“Can’t say I blame Jill for losing her temper,” Nick said. “That was one practical joke that really backfired. If it was really just an accident.”
“Only one way to find out,” Greg said, settling in for the long haul. “Let’s see that footage again.”
“Okay.” Nick keyed it up back to the beginning again. He wasn’t looking forward to watching the tragedy play out one more time, but maybe a fresh pair of eyes would spot something he had missed. Besides, he couldn’t really complain about having too much video coverage of the actual incident. Most of the time, they would kill to have this much evidence. Too bad more of our cases don’t take place on reality shows.
They watched Jill fall for the prank again, with fatal results. Judging from the angle, this footage had been shot from behind the mock flatscreen TV on the wall. It gave them a perfect view of the whole deadly affair. The screen went blank shortly after Novak died, as someone belatedly remembered to turn off the cameras.
“You know,” Greg said, after reviewing the footage, “is it just me, or does this particular scenario seem almost expressly designed to produce a messy outcome? Think about it. The hockey mask makes it hard for the ‘slasher’ to come clean, the noise from the chainsaw would drown out any hasty explanations, and the only other actor close enough to intervene is chained up inside an iron maiden. Throw in a gun, and it’s a perfect recipe for an ‘accidental’ shooting. They couldn’t have set things up better if they tried.”
“Maybe someone did,” Nick said. “Or maybe they just got sloppy.” He mulled it over. “According to Catherine, the show’s producer, Roger Park, personally put together this scenario and cast Novak as the slasher. You think he wanted Novak dead?”
“Who knows?” Greg leaned back in his chair. “It would be a pretty ingenious way to get rid of someone. You get someone else to pull the trigger for you, without them even being in on the scheme, so there’s no way they can implicate you. And if the death is ruled accidental, you’re in the clear.”
“But why would Park sabotage his own show like that?” Nick asked. “Something like this is bound to shut them down for good, right?”
“Probably,” Greg said. “Production has been suspended and the network has temporarily pulled the reruns from the air. On the other hand, take a look at this.” He walked over to his own workstation and fired up his computer. A few clicks of a mouse took him onto the internet. “DVD sales have gone through the roof, and internet searches on the show are at an all-time high. This is more publicity than Shock Treatment has gotten in years.”
“Well, I’ve certainly heard of the show now,” Nick admitted, “where I hadn’t before. I guess sudden death is always a headline grabber.”
“Usually works that way,” Greg said, “especially where Hollywood is concerned. Look at Brandon Lee, Heath Ledger, or even James Dean. Their final films got big publicity boosts from their untimely demises. If nothing else, Shock Treatment is going out with a bang.”
Nick wasn’t sure. “It still seems kind of shortsighted. What good does all that publicity do you if the show gets yanked off the air for good?”
“Maybe Park thought it was worth it?” Greg surfed the web, bopping from one show-biz news site to another, most of which he seemed to have saved as favorites. “From what I gather, Shock Treatment’s ratings had been sinking anyway. Zombie Heat is a much bigger deal these days. Park could probably afford to write off Shock Treatment. He’s got bigger zombie fish to fry.”
Nick took his word for it. Greg was probably the only CSI in the lab who read Entertainment Weekly cover to cover. He claimed that staying in touch with pop culture and music helped him out on the job. To be fair, it wasn’t just an excuse. Last year Greg had helped them find a missing teenager by figuring out that her favorite underground band was in town. They had found her camped out on the sidewalk in front of the Ice House Lounge.
“Okay,” Nick said. “So Shock Treatment was probably on its last legs. Why would he want to get Novak killed?”
“Catherine says that there had been friction on the set lately. That Novak had been acting like a jerk.”
“Doesn’t seem like reason enough to kill someone,” Nick said. “Otherwise Hodges would be dead now.”
Greg shrugged. “Since when do people need a good reason?”
Sadly, Nick knew what Greg meant. As a CSI, he’d seen people murdered for less. Just last week, a woman had been stabbed to death in a movie theater for talking too loud on a cell phone. And then there was that stand-up comic who poisoned another comedian because he didn’t like his material. “Yeah, maybe. But this wasn’t a case of someone simply losing their patience and whacking the guy. Why go to all this trouble to get rid of him if he was just a pain in the butt? Why not just fire him?”
“Good question,” Greg said. “And how could Park have known that Jill Wooten would be armed?”
“Unless she was in on it?” Nick suggested.
Or maybe her crazy ex-boyfriend . . .
11
CATHERINE’S OFFICE WAS smaller than her job.
Ecklie had offered her Grissom’s old office when she had taken over the night shift, but it just hadn’t felt right, like she was living in someone else’s house. Besides, she was comfortable here in her old corner office. Ferns and flowers counteracted the sometimes sterile feel of the crime lab. Ceramic plates and decorative glassware added a feminine touch. Framed photos of Lindsey, taken at various ages, reminded her that there was more to life than just blood spatter evidence. A brass name placard staked out her turf. A potted cactus needed watering. Blinds on the rear windows kept out the glare from the late-night traffic outside, while the clear glass wall facing her desk offered her a view of the corridor outside and the DNA lab across the hall. Subdued blue-green walls enclosed the rest of the office. Catherine routinely kept her door open to remain accessible to her people.
The autopsy report on Matt Novak was spread out on top of her desk. Aside from a pair of spooky “bloodshot” contact lenses, Doc Robbins had found nothing unexpected. The abrasion collar and smudging around the entry wound suggested that the fatal shot had been fired from slightly more than two feet away, as described by the witnesses. No additional ammo or wounds had been found during the postmortem. Novak had been killed by a single bullet from Jill Wooten’s revolver. Just like everyone said.
But had she really thought she was in danger?
Brass rapped on her door. “Got a moment?”
“Come on in.” Catherine looked up from the report. She took off her reading glasses. “What have you got?”
Brass looked tired from running down leads all day. Even though they were both technically on the night shift, practicality dictated that a lot of the footwork had to be conducted during daylight hours, when witnesses were up and about and shops and places were open for business. Squeezing in a few hours of sleep here and there could be a challenge. Catherine couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a full eight hours. Maybe the last time she was in the hospital?
“I’ve been checking out Jill’s story.” He sank gratefully into a chair, resting his feet. “Turns out she did have a TRO out against her ex, who sounds like a real winner. Apparently he used to work as a trainer at her gym, but was fired for sexually harassing female customers. According to an affidavit Jill submitted over a year ago, he was not happy when she eventually ditched his sorry ass. He allegedly stalked her at her home and work, sent her hostile email
s, and even tried breaking into her apartment one time.”
Catherine disliked him already. She had a zero-tolerance policy when it came to abusive boyfriends and husbands. “No wonder Jill thinks he’s responsible for those anonymous calls. He’d be my prime suspect, too. And her history with him definitely speaks to her state of mind at the time she fired the revolver.”
“What about the gun?” Brass asked. “Any way the show could have known she might have it?”
Catherine shook her head. “The gun wasn’t registered.” Which meant that Jill had obtained the weapon illegally, perhaps because she hadn’t wanted to wait for the mandatory 72-hour “cooling off” period. “No concealed weapons permit either.”
In order to get a CCW permit in Clark County, a resident had to submit an application, complete an approved firearms course, get photographed and fingerprinted, pass a background check, and pay over a hundred dollars in fees. The process could take as long as six months, which was probably also longer than a frightened stalking victim was willing to wait.
“Figures,” Brass muttered. “You run a trace on the gun?”
“Naturally, not that it did us much good.” She pulled the printout from the file. “It was reported ‘stolen’ from a gun shop in Reno three years ago.”
Both of them knew that “stolen” was often a euphemism for an illegal, under-the-table sale. Literally thousands of handguns and rifles were reported “lost” or “stolen” every year by less than reputable gun dealers. Many of those misplaced firearms ended up on the black market, rendering them more or less untraceable, which didn’t exactly make Catherine’s job any easier. Sometimes it seemed like it was easier to get a gun than a restraining order.
Wonder if Jill felt the same way? Especially this time around.
Even if Novak’s death was chalked up to misadventure, Jill was still going to be in hot water for carrying an unregistered, concealed weapon without a permit. But her bad luck was possibly good news for the TV show and its lawyers.