So where was Mr. Boggs?
Maybe he’d just needed to hit the men’s room?
Another strangled groan dispelled any such hopes. Her heart sank as she realized the whimpers were coming from the iron maiden. The rusty metal sarcophagus was large enough to hold an adult man or woman. The cabinet was cast in the likeness of an unsmiling female figure. A vertical seam down her front divided a pair of closed metal doors. A narrow air hole parted her iron lips. An agonized moan issued from the gap.
Someone was definitely trapped inside.
It took all her courage not to run screaming from the club. Trembling, she walked over to the iron maiden. She heard the groan again; there was definitely someone trapped inside. She nervously took hold of the metal doors, which felt cold and metallic. Against her better judgment, she pulled them open. Rusty hinges squeaked like they were in pain.
“Oh my God!”
An older guy, who she assumed was Milton Boggs, was trussed up inside the iron maiden. Bound and gagged, he struggled futilely to free himself. A steel collar was locked around his neck, holding him fast to the spiked inner walls of the torture device. Chains pinned his arms to his sides. His craggy face was contorted in fear. An ashen complexion was almost the same color as his disheveled gray hair. Bright red blood smeared the front of a rumpled white business shirt. Frantic eyes were wide with panic. He looked scared to death.
So was Jill.
A towel or cloth was jammed into his mouth. Jill couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she guessed he was freaking out. She recoiled in horror, uncertain what to do. “Holy crap! Who did this to you?”
She stared at the heavy-duty locks and chains. She wanted to help the poor guy, but didn’t know where to begin. The crimson stains on his shirt looked way too fresh for comfort. Her gorge rose. She glanced around fearfully, just in case Boggs’s attacker was hiding somewhere, but didn’t see anybody else. It seemed like they were alone, thank God.
“Hang on,” she told the guy, resisting an urge to run for the nearest exit. “I’m calling 9-1-1.” She fumbled with her purse, trying to find her cell phone. Please, she prayed, let me have remembered to charge it!
The phone call alone was not enough to calm Boggs. He went crazy inside the iron maiden, rattling his chains in a violent attempt to break free. The iron collar dug into his neck as he strained at his bonds. He shouted at her through the gag, like he was trying to warn her. The last of his blood drained from his face. Bulging eyes stared in fright, not at Jill, she realized too late, but at something behind her. The office door slammed shut.
The roar of a chainsaw drowned out her scream.
Jill spun around to see the hulking chainsaw maniac from the lobby. Crazed bloodshot eyes glared at her from behind the expressionless hockey mask. The madman wore a grimy flannel shirt under bloodstained blue overalls. Heavy boots stomped across the floor. He brandished his whirring weapon, its jagged teeth spinning too fast to see. The chainsaw’s engine growled ferociously. Noxious exhaust fumes invaded Jill’s lungs. Her phone slipped from her fingers.
No! she thought. This can’t be happening!
The waxwork figure, impossibly come to life, lumbered toward her, holding his chainsaw aloft. Jill stumbled backward, shrieking. Inside the iron maiden, Boggs flailed about uselessly. Jill stared into the rabid eyes of a lunatic. A crazy thought popped into her brain.
Craig?
Panicked, convinced she was only seconds away from being chopped to pieces, she thrust her hand into her purse. She took out a .38 revolver and swung the business end toward her attacker. There was no time to think or even aim carefully. She pulled the trigger.
The muzzle flared. A deafening report shook the office. The recoil knocked her into the desk, bruising her hip. The startled slasher staggered backward, then toppled onto the floor. The growling chainsaw fell from his grip, landing on the carpet a few inches away. It sputtered and fell silent. Bright arterial blood spurted from his chest. Hot droplets spattered Jill’s face.
Her limbs turned to rubber. She could barely hang on to her gun, which suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Leaning against the desk for support, she watched the wounded maniac twitch upon the floor. He tried to lift one hand. Gloved fingers clawed at the empty air. Jill didn’t dare look away. In the movies, the killer never stayed dead, no matter how many times you shot him. . . .
“Oh, God! What did you do?”
A closet door swung open at the rear of the office. A strange man, wearing a baseball cap, a khaki jacket, and some sort of headset, burst into the room. A bearded jaw dropped at the sight of the dying madman. “Matt!” he cried out. “Oh shit! Matt!”
Confused, Jill lifted her gun. She swung it toward the newcomer, her finger poised on the trigger. The man’s face went pale. He scrambled away from her, almost tripping over his own feet. He threw up his hands. “Wait! Don’t shoot! It’s just a TV show!”
What?
Jill didn’t understand what was happening. Looking back toward the closet, she glimpsed a hidden room on the other side of the wall. More people were crowded in the doorway. They seemed torn between rushing to the madman’s side and hiding from Jill’s gun. Scared eyes watched her nervously. To her surprise, Jill spotted a familiar face.
“Debra?”
Like the others, her friend looked shocked and horrified. A sob tore itself from her throat. “Oh God, Jill. I’m so sorry!”
Debra was the one who had set up this interview for her. But what was she doing here now? And who were all these people?
“Please, lady,” the man in the baseball cap said. A logo on the cap read Shock Treatment. He approached her cautiously. “Just put down the gun, okay?”
She had almost forgotten about the gun. She stared at the name on his cap.
A TV show? This was all just pretend?
Jill dropped the gun onto the desk. She grabbed onto the desk to keep from falling. The truth was starting to sink in. She found it hard to breathe.
Jesus, what have I done?
More people poured into the room. Ignoring Jill, they rushed to the bleeding man on the floor. “Matt?” A lean, tanned man with a ponytail tried to push his way through the crowd to get to the gunshot victim, but a woman with a first aid kit got to him first. “Everyone get back!” the medic ordered. “Give him some air!”
Ponytail gave the patient room. He chewed anxiously on his knuckles. “Matt?” he called out again. “Stay with us, Matt!”
The hockey mask came off, revealing the face of a perfect stranger. A lantern jaw, heavy brows, and a crooked nose gave him the look of a thug or bouncer. Mussed brown hair needed combing. His skin looked pale and clammy. Unable to speak, he coughed up blood.
Not Craig, Jill realized numbly. It wasn’t Craig at all.
Debra pushed her way through the chaos to get to Jill. She threw her arms around her friend, apologizing over and over. Her tears soaked Jill’s shoulder. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“Has anyone called 9-1-1?” Ponytail shouted. “We need an ambulance!”
It was already too late. A final spasm shook Matt’s body. His arms and legs went limp. His eyes glazed over. The blood stopped pumping from his chest.
The “chainsaw maniac” died before Jill’s eyes.
“Are we still filming?!” Ponytail angrily kicked the silent chainsaw across the room. “Somebody tell me we’re not filming!”
2
IT WAS WELL past midnight when the CSIs arrived at WaxWorkZ.
Catherine Willows surveyed the scene from the passenger seat of a black Denali as Nick Stokes pulled up to the curb. Police cars were already parked in front of the nightclub, along with Jim Brass’s unmarked Taurus and the coroner’s wagon. As usual, the forensic team was the last to arrive. Yellow crime scene tape sealed off the front entrance, while uniformed police officers kept curious onlookers out of the way. A small crowd, comprised of both locals and obvious tourist types, mobbed the sidewalks on both sides of the st
reet. Curious eyes scoped out the excitement. News of the shooting had clearly traveled fast.
“What’s supposed to be the story here?” Nick asked. The broad-shouldered Texan hit the brake. A blue baseball cap covered his short brown hair. Catherine had briefed him on the basics on the way there. “We talking a homicide or a prank gone wrong?
“That’s what we need to find out,” she replied, reluctant to jump to any conclusions until they had thoroughly reviewed the evidence. Her predecessor, Gil Grissom, had taught her that. Keep an open mind until all the facts were in. Now that she was in charge of the night shift, Catherine subscribed to the same philosophy. Strawberry-blonde hair framed her face. Shrewd blue eyes had been trained to take in every detail. She glanced back over her shoulder at Greg Sanders, who was occupying the backseat of the SUV. “So, you were saying you’ve actually heard of this show?”
“You bet.” He leaned forward, poking his head between Catherine and Nick. Tousled brown hair was stylishly mussed above his animated features. The former lab rat prided himself on his extensive knowledge of modern pop culture. “Shock Treatment is basically a horror-movie version of Candid Camera. They scare the crap out of unsuspecting victims, while filming the whole thing with hidden cameras.”
“Never heard of it,” Catherine admitted. Then again, what with working nights and raising a teenage daughter, she hadn’t had much time for watching TV even before she was promoted to supervisor. These days she was lucky if she could squeeze in a movie rental on her days off. “Is it new?”
“Nope,” Greg informed her. “It’s been running on cable for at least five seasons now.” His enthusiasm for the program was obvious. “You should have seen the flesh-eating virus episode. The victim practically had a meltdown before they let him in on the gag.”
Nick scowled. “Making people think they’re in actual danger? Sounds kind of sadistic to me.” He gave Greg a dubious look. “You actually watch this stuff?”
“Sometimes,” Greg confessed a trifle sheepishly. Suddenly, he didn’t seem quite as proud of his expert status. He withdrew back into his own seat. “Call it a guilty pleasure.”
“Or maybe just guilty,” Catherine said.
Nick killed the engine. Catherine stepped out of the heated Denali into the frigid night air. A blue jacket and gloves fit the weather. FORENSICS was printed in block letters on back of the jacket. WILLOWS was written in smaller type above her chest, across from an LVPD star patch. She fished her metallic silver field kit out of the back of the Denali and headed for the entrance. Nick and Greg followed after her, lugging their own kits. She hoped that three CSIs would be enough for this call.
Unfortunately, the media had already arrived in force. A news copter hovered overhead, making Catherine glad that the crime scene was safely indoors. She’d had too many outdoor sites disturbed by the backwash from an overeager copter. Camera flashes and spotlights nearly blinded her. Reporters shouted questions at her, which she studiously ignored. A Channel 8 news van circled the block, looking for someplace to park. It was obvious that the press had already gotten wind of the show-biz angle.
Terrific, she thought sarcastically. In her experience, excess media attention just brought down more pressure on the crime lab and made her job that much more difficult. The fact that a TV show was involved, even an obscure cable program, meant publicity, gossip, and all sorts of public-relations baggage to deal with. Ecklie is going to be all over this.
She flashed her ID at the uni in charge, who lifted the yellow tape to let the CSIs through. Later on, they would have to bag the yellow tape and take it back to the lab for processing, just in case any trace evidence from the scene had transferred to it. At least once, they had actually cracked a case by isolating some cobwebs that had been accidentally carried out by a careless first responder. A mosquito caught in the webbing had contained DNA from the perp, blowing his alibi. Catherine had made sure to look over any crime scene tape ever since.
Escaping the reporters and their cameras, they entered WaxWorkZ. The club’s dimly lit foyer was a literal chamber of horrors, and not in the bloody sense they were used to. They paused on the red carpet to take in the display. Catherine hadn’t seen this many hardcore killers since her last trip to the penitentiary.
“Wow.” Greg gawked at the macabre figures. “Not exactly Madame Tussauds quality, but pretty good.”
Catherine was less amused. She got enough of murder and mayhem every night at work. She grimaced at the sight of the Miniature Killer immortalized in wax. “Okay, that is way too soon.”
Natalie Davis had committed suicide in her prison cell only three years ago, after nearly killing Sara Sidle. Resurrected in effigy, she tended to her gruesome dollhouse with meticulous care, an inscrutable smile upon her bland, unassuming features. Catherine was glad that she hadn’t assigned Sara to this call.
“Tell me about it,” Nick agreed. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Is it just me, or does this place remind you of Millander?”
Paul Millander, another notorious serial killer in their past, had manufactured grisly Halloween novelties for a living, churning out severed rubber heads, arms, hands, and feet, some of which he’d used to plant bogus prints and impressions at crime scenes. He’d also managed to produce several genuine corpses before the CSIs had finally brought him to justice. Like Natalie Davis, he had ultimately cheated the executioner by taking his own life.
“No,” Catherine said. “You’re not the only one.”
Now was no time for a trip down memory lane, however. She mentally shoved the disturbing recollections into the past. Millander and the Miniature Killer were dead. She had a new case to focus on. Scanning the lobby, Catherine noted a conspicuous gap in one line of figures. An empty pedestal was positioned between John Wayne Gacy and Lizzie Borden.
Wonder who used to be there?
Another cop met them at the end of the carpet and escorted them to the actual site of the shooting, which turned out to be a back office behind the bar. The body of the victim lay on his back on the floor. The front of his blue coveralls was soaked in blood. The clotted stains were still shiny and damp, indicating that the blood had been spilled in the last few hours. A gunshot wound in his chest left little doubt as to the cause of death. A hockey mask lay near his head. Blood spatter stained the walls and furniture. An untouched void on the desktop indicated the possible location of the shooter. Catherine winced at the sight of smeared red footprints all around the body; too many people seemed to have stomped all over the evidence. A single bullet hole could be seen in the wall by the door.
A chainsaw rested on the carpet about a yard from the body. Catherine did a double take at the incongruous power tool.
And was that an iron maiden in the corner?
What the hell?
Captain Jim Brass was already on the job, along with David Phillips, the assistant medical examiner. Dave appeared to have completed his preliminary examination of the victim, and was now waiting for Catherine and her team to release the body. Both he and Brass were keeping their distance from the corpse to avoid disturbing the blood and footprints more than they already were. Catherine appreciated their caution, but was not surprised. The two men had been working hand-in-hand with the crime lab for over a decade now; Brass had even supervised the forensics unit for a time before returning to his true calling as a detective. They knew the drill.
“Welcome to the house of wax,” Brass greeted them, looking and sounding nothing like Vincent Price. A Jersey accent testified to his roots in Hoboken. A dour, hangdog face conveyed the impression that few things surprised him anymore. A star-shaped badge was pinned to the lapel of a tan sport coat.
“What did we miss?” Catherine asked.
Brass pulled out his notebook. “The victim is Matt Novak, an actor on the show. According to multiple witnesses, who were filming the whole thing from the next room, Novak surprised the shooter, one Jill Wooten, as part of a hidden-camera stunt. She surprised him by pulling out a gun
and putting a bullet into his chest before anybody could say ‘cut.’” He put the notebook away. “Guess his performance was a little too convincing.”
“Talk about dying for your art,” Catherine said. She peeled off her winter gloves and replaced them with thin white latex. “And the chainsaw?”
“A noisy prop,” Brass reported. “All bark, no bite.”
Catherine took a closer look at the chainsaw, wanting to quickly eliminate it as the murder weapon. A gloved finger gingerly touched one of the jagged teeth, which bent backward when she pressed on it. The teeth weren’t metal at all, she realized, just rubber painted metallic silver. Guess that explains why the carpet isn’t all chewed up. The harmless prop would have generated lots of noise and smoke, but no real danger. Not that any frightened “victim” was likely to notice.
The CSIs gathered around the body, like mourners at a wake. Novak’s bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the ceiling; a thin film had already formed over the lifeless orbs. Catherine looked at David, curious to hear his conclusions. “David?”
“COD appears to be a single GSW to the chest.” He pointed at the hole in the wall she had noticed earlier. It was right by the door, about six inches to the left of where they had entered the office. “Possibly a through-and-through. Rigor and body temperature puts the time of death at approximately eleven p.m.”
Brass nodded. “Which agrees with the initial reports from the witnesses.”
That makes life easier, Catherine thought. Maybe this would prove to be a straightforward case of death by misadventure. She put herself in the place of the alleged shooter, suddenly finding herself face-to-face with a masked, chainsaw-wielding assailant. Catherine could see why she might have shot the actor in self-defense. Under the circumstances, I might have fired, too.