“We’ll do that,” Brass promised. “But this location is locked down until we’re done here.”
“Naturally,” Park agreed. “You have any idea how long that’s likely to take?”
Catherine was used to being nagged by impatient landlords and business owners anxious to open up shop again. She had learned from experience to never let herself get pinned down. “That depends on what we find.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” He frowned, obviously less than satisfied with her answer. She wondered just how long the studio had leased this real estate for. “But, really, that’s not going to take too long? I mean, it was just an accident, right?”
Probably, Catherine conceded. But right now they only knew one thing for sure.
Matt Novak was dead.
7
DESERT PALM HOSPITAL was starting to feel like Ray’s home away from home away from home. Although several years had passed since he had actually worked full-time as a surgeon, he often found himself at Desert Palm processing a victim.
Like today.
Rita Segura was hooked up to a ventilator in the hospital’s ICU. An IV was attached to her arm. Blinking apparatus monitored her vital signs, which appeared to be weak but stable. According to her attending physician, whom Ray had already spoken to, she had not regained consciousness since arriving at the hospital. Mechanical respiration was keeping her alive, while copious amounts of antivenin, as well as standard antibiotics, were doing the same. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes closed, but Ray could tell that ordinarily she was an attractive woman. Her petite frame, and low body mass, helped explain why the venom had taken effect so quickly. Children and smaller individuals were typically more at risk from envenomation.
He reminded himself that, on an average, there were only about fifteen fatal snakebites in North America every year, mostly from rattlesnakes and other pit vipers. Nobody had been killed by a coral snake in years. There was every reason to hope that Rita would not become a statistic.
But she wasn’t out of the woods yet.
An older gentleman was seated at her bedside. Engrossed in his vigil, he did not look up as Ray approached the bed. The CSI cleared his throat to avoid startling him.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Mr. Segura?”
Rita’s husband was in his sixties at least, with mussed silver hair and rumpled clothing. A wool sweater vest was unbuttoned. Sitting as close to the hospital bed as he could, he held on tightly to his wife’s hand. Teary, red-rimmed eyes looked up at Ray. His cheeks were damp. “Yes?”
“My name is Ray Langston. I’m with the Las Vegas crime lab.” He placed his field kit next to the bed. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Marshall Segura pulled himself together. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “That’s all right.” He squinted at Ray. “Langston, you say? Aren’t you the one who figured out what kind of snake had bitten Rita? The doctors here say you may have saved her life.”
“It was a reasonable deduction,” Ray said. “I’m just glad it proved useful.”
Unfortunately, Desert Palm had not had the appropriate antivenin in stock, since coral snakes were hardly native to Nevada. It had been necessary to fly the antivenin in from Texas, causing a dangerous delay in Rita’s treatment. Small wonder she hadn’t regained consciousness yet. If only the doctors here could have administered the antivenin sooner.
“Well, you have my gratitude, young man.” Segura turned his worried eyes back to his wife. “I hope you’re not expecting to question Rita, though. I’m afraid she hasn’t spoken since . . .”
He choked up, unable to complete the sentence.
“I understand,” Ray said. In fact, Detective Vartann had declined to join the CSI on this call since Rita Segura was obviously in no condition to be interviewed just yet. “But I still need to examine her wound if you don’t mind.”
Segura nodded, his gaze never leaving Rita. “Go ahead. Do what you have to do.”
“Thank you.” Ray went around to the other side of the bed. He drew a curtain around them to provide a little more privacy. According to her chart, Rita had been bitten on the throat so Ray gently undid the top of her hospital gown and pulled it down to expose the base of her neck. A gauze bandage had been applied to the wound. He gently peeled it back.
A horseshoe pattern of tiny teeth marks confirmed that Rita had been attacked by a coral snake. A rattler or another pit viper, like copperheads and water moccasins, would have left two puncture marks instead. He was relieved to see minimal swelling around the site, which indicated that the antivenin and antibiotics were doing their job. The wounds had already scabbed over, but he hadn’t been planning to measure their depth anyway. Instead he took out a tape measurer and carefully recorded the bite radius. He then took multiple photos of the bite, placing a paper ruler against the unconscious woman’s throat for scale. The flash of the camera did not rouse her.
“What are you doing that for?” Segura asked. His tone was not confrontational, merely concerned.
“We need to identify the snake that bit her,” Ray explained. “Measuring the distance between the bite marks may help us do that.”
“I see.” Segura averted his eyes from the ugly wound. “Dammit, I always knew that snake thing was a bad idea. I tried to talk her out of it.” Revulsion twisted his face. “Disgusting creatures!”
“You don’t like snakes?” Ray asked.
Segura snorted. “Who does?” His expression softened as he watched over his wife. “But she seemed to enjoy it and I could never say no to her.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion. A handkerchief dabbed at his eyes. “It’s not right, I tell you. She’s so young, not like me. I’m not supposed to outlive her.”
His grief struck Ray as genuine, but he couldn’t help noticing the extreme disparity in age between the elderly man and Rita Segura, who was still in her late twenties. The term “trophy wife” came to mind, somewhat uncharitably. Was it possible there were marital problems at play here, perhaps another man? The victim’s spouse was always a prime suspect in any possible homicide or attempted homicide. Too many dissatisfied husbands and wives, Ray had discovered, came to consider “until death do you part” an escape hatch instead of a vow. It was enough to make one think twice about matrimony.
Maybe that’s why so few CSIs take the plunge, he thought. Aside from Grissom and Sara, of course.
He replaced the bandage and pulled Rita’s hospital gown back up. He walked around the bed to join Segura. Although Rita could not be interviewed yet, there was still her husband. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“No,” Segura answered. “What do you need to know?”
Ray pulled up a chair. “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your wife?”
“I know exactly who is responsible for this nightmare,” Segura spat. Anger infused his voice, showing a harder side to the distraught old man. “The filthy animal she sent to prison.”
Ray was surprised by his answer. This was more than he had been expecting. He felt like a prospector who had accidentally stumbled onto the mother lode. “What do you mean?”
“About a month ago,” Segura said, “Rita received a summons for jury duty. I told her she should try to get out of it, but she insisted on doing her civic duty.” He beamed at her proudly. “That’s the kind of decent, upstanding woman she is.”
“Very commendable.” Ray was eager to get to the point. “So what happened?”
“She ended up serving on the trial of a vicious drug dealer. The jury even appointed her foreman. I went with her to the courthouse every day, just to provide her with moral support.”
Or perhaps to keep a close watch on your alluring younger wife, Ray thought. He hated to be so cynical, but that was an occupational hazard. The job trained you not to take people’s testimony at face value and to always look for ulterior motives. Maybe this seemingly devoted old man also had a jealous and suspicious streak?
“If only she hadn’t gotten on that jur
y,” Segura sobbed, breaking into tears. “Maybe none of this would have happened.”
Was this just an act? Ray’s gut told him that Marshall Segura was innocent, but he had been fooled before . . . badly. Years ago, long before he became a CSI, he had worked at a hospital much like this one. A killer had also worked there, a self-appointed “angel of death” who had put multiple patients out of their misery before he was caught. The fact that the killer had operated right under Ray’s nose for so long still haunted him, and had taught Ray a bitter lesson: Murder often lurked right where you least expected it.
Perhaps even in the heart of a weeping husband?
“Rita and the other jury members found the defendant guilty,” Segura continued after he had composed himself. “As well they should have. I’ll never forget the way that animal glared at Rita when the verdict was read. She had nightmares about it for weeks.” A bony fist clenched at his side. “That criminal must be responsible for this, or one of his scumbag friends!”
“I see,” Ray said diplomatically. He wasn’t entirely sure how an imprisoned drug dealer could arrange to have Rita attacked by a snake at a spa, or even whether she was actually the intended victim, but stranger things had happened. It was definitely worth looking into. “Do you recall the name of the defendant?”
“I’m afraid not. Sorry,” Segura apologized. “But I’ll tell you what I do remember. The no-good son of a bitch had a tattoo on his neck.” He paused to make sure he had Ray’s full attention. “A tattoo of a snake.”
8
“MR. BOGGS, I presume?”
Their next witness flinched at the name. “Yeah, that was my character tonight. My real name’s Hamilton, though. Bill Hamilton.”
The makeup trailer being perfectly good for him, the middle-aged thespian occupied the same stool formerly graced by Jill Wooten and Debra Lusky. Catherine and Brass had relocated back to the dressing room after vacating Roger Park’s roomier digs. Hamilton didn’t seem to mind being interviewed here. Catherine guessed it was more comfortable than an iron maiden.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Thank you for your patience.”
“No problem,” he rasped. “Believe me, I needed some time to recover.”
He had the unglamourous, everyman features of a born character actor. He was short and pudgy, with thinning gray hair and a ruddy face. Stubble dotted his cheeks. Lurid red splotches stained his wrinkled business shirt. A blood spatter specialist, Catherine knew stage blood when she saw it. No way was it real; not only was it the wrong shade of red, but real blood would have turned brown by now.
Guess it fooled Jill Wooten, though.
Brass began by flipping open his notebook. “Sounds like you had a front-row seat for tonight’s show.”
“More like a supporting role,” Hamilton grumped. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, revealing the origin of his gravelly voice. Nicotine stained his fingertips. “Do you mind if I smoke? I’m still pretty rattled.”
“Not in here,” Catherine said. She didn’t want to risk contaminating any evidence, let alone endure the secondhand fumes. “Sorry.”
“Figures,” he said sourly, putting the cancer sticks away. “Yeah, I saw the whole thing. Unfortunately.”
“Tell us about it,” Brass prompted.
He eyed the exit longingly, no doubt still hoping for a cigarette break. “I’m sure you’ve already heard the whole story.”
“We need your version,” Brass said. “For the record.”
“Sure. I get it.” He took a deep breath and began. “Everything was going according to the script at first. I was trussed up in the iron maiden, playing the part of the trapped club owner, when this week’s vic tiptoed in, just like we planned. I put on my act, pretending to be scared shitless, ad-libbing beneath my gag. The girl fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. She looked absolutely petrified even before Matt charged in with the chainsaw.” He sighed and shook his head. “Hell, you know what happened next.”
Brass didn’t force him to describe the shooting. “How many shots were fired?”
“One, I think.” He sagged against the makeup table, momentarily overcome by the memory. “Oh man. I still can’t believe that Matt is really dead. We’ve been doing this show for years now, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“So they keep telling us,” Catherine said.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “I swear to God, nobody’s ever been hurt or injured before.”
“Any close calls?” Brass asked.
Hamilton hesitated. “Well . . .”
This sounds promising, Catherine thought. “We’d appreciate anything you could tell us.”
The actor wrestled briefly with his conscience. “Okay, once in a while, a vic freaks out and goes for the bad guy before he can reveal himself, but usually there’s a supporting character or two, like me, who can jump in to restrain the vic before anybody gets hurt.” He chuckled mordantly. “I remember this one time. A college quarterback went nuts and tackled Matt, knocked him flat on his butt. I had to break character and pull the guy off Matt. Things got pretty crazy there for a few moments, but it all turned out okay. I bought the guy a beer later on. It was no big deal.”
“Unlike this time,” Catherine observed.
“Well, I was bound and gagged, you know.” He sounded like he had been replaying the incident over and over again in his mind. “There was nothing I could do to stop that girl once she pulled out her gun. I couldn’t even call out to her, tell her it was just a gag. Not that she would have heard me, over the chainsaw.” He reached automatically for a cigarette to steady his nerves, then remembered they were off-limits. “Looking back, we screwed up big time. We should have staged things differently.”
“You think?” Brass said.
“Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” Hamilton protested. “I don’t dream up these stunts. I just do what I’m told. Don’t try to pin this on me!”
“Nobody’s accusing you of anything,” Catherine assured him, playing the good cop. There was nothing but sympathy in her voice. “Sounds like you’ve been with the show for awhile.”
He relaxed a little. “Since the beginning, pretty much. I usually do the setup, play the worried school principal or park ranger or whoever, whatever it takes to set up the scenario. Nobody ever recognizes me or guesses that I’m an actor. I suppose I just have one of those faces. People accept me as an ordinary guy. Poor old Mister Boggs, trapped in the iron maiden. That’s my forte. I don’t often play the bear.”
“The bear?” Catherine asked.
“That’s what we call the monster of the week,” he explained. “The Bigfoot, the serial killer, the crazy Satanist. The bear is usually an actor in costume, but sometimes it’s just a prop. Like a ticking bomb or a phony spray of toxic waste. Once we even faked a terrorist attack.”
Just good, clean fun, Catherine thought sarcastically. She had to work hard to keep her disgust in check. “Did Matt often play the bear?”
“Yeah. All the time. Park and Matt go way back. Matt was the stuntman on Park’s first low-budget slasher flick, back in the day. They were old drinking buddies, although maybe less so these days, now that’s Park’s hit the big time and married to that big kahuna at Constellation. Tell you the truth, Park outgrew Matt, but still threw some work his way for old time’s sake.”
Catherine got the picture. “So Park was doing an old crony a favor, which ended up getting him killed.”
“Yeah, how’s that for a kicker?” Hamilton started to loosen up, becoming more gossipy. “Jesus, what a stupid way to go. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, not even Matt Novak.”
Brass picked up on the put-down. “You had a problem with Novak?”
Hamilton shrugged, backpedaling a little. “It was no big deal. Matt just had a bit of an attitude lately. He’d started acting like a diva on the set, like he thought he was the star of the show or something.”
“I take it that wasn’t the case,” Cathe
rine said.
“Hardly,” the actor scoffed. “If you ask me, he had the easy part. Anyone can put on a fright mask and say ‘boo!’ The hard part is convincing some poor vic of the reality of the situation, creating a context in which the shock makes sense. That’s where I came in. I was the one that was really selling the scenarios. By the time I was done with them, the vics were already primed to jump out of their skins. I made it easy for Matt, not that he’d ever admit it.”
Catherine detected a bit of professional rivalry. “He thought it was all about him, huh?”
“His ego was out of control,” Hamilton said. “He thought he was a shoo-in for the lead in the new Zombie Heat series, even though he’d only played a bit part in the feature version.”
“What happened to the original actor?” Catherine asked.
“That guy?” Hamilton snorted. “He and Park had a falling-out over the merchandising; the idiot wanted a cut on every toy and T-shirt using his image, even though he was buried under a ton of monster makeup at the time. Moron. He’ll never work for Park again. Last I heard, he was in Bulgaria doing some straight-to-DVD schlock. But that didn’t mean Matt was going to get the gig.”
“Well, he’s not getting the part now,” Brass pointed out. “Unless he really can rise from the grave.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Hamilton fumbled for smokes again. “Unlucky bastard.”
The actor was turning out to be a font of behind-the-scenes gossip. Catherine pressed him for more. “So how did Novak’s new attitude go over on the set?”
“Honestly, I was surprised Park put up with it. Granted, they had a history, but friendships only go so far in this business. Like I said, Park had left Novak behind, career-wise. Matt should have been grateful for any crumbs his old buddy tossed at him. The last few months, though, he’d been mouthing off to Park on the set, making all sorts of ‘artistic’ suggestions, and generally behaving like a first-class pain in the ass. Park was letting him get away with murder, pardon the expression.”