CSI14 - Serial Read online

Orrie nodded toward the nightstand. My wallet’s right there.

  Do you have a permit for the pistol?

  In the wallet, too.

  Grissom studied the gun for a moment, a .45. Is this your only handgun?

  Looking nervous, Orrie nodded. Only one I have with me.

  Glancing toward Brass, Grissom shook his head. Wrong weapon. Too big. John Smith was killed with something smaller.

  Brass didn’t seem so eager to let Orrie off the hook. Why did you tell the waiter you were with the FBI?

  Orrie shrugged. I didn’t want to explain my business. The more people that know what I do, the better chance I’ll get knocked over. It was my own damn fault. Normally, I wouldn’t have left the gun laying out. But I’d ordered breakfast from room service and he showed up before I was completely dressed and had it holstered.

  The detective looked skeptical.

  Grissom thumbed through the wallet, finding a New Jersey driver’s license and concealed weapons permits from both Jersey and New York. You are in fact Ronald Eugene Orrie, Grissom said as he compared the photo on the license to the man, and you have up-to-date concealed weapons permits.

  I know.

  With your permission, I’d like to have your hands checked for residue.

  What … what kind of residue?

  The kind a gun leaves when you fire it.

  I haven’t fired a gun in months!

  Good. Any objection?

  No … no.

  Thank you. Someone from criminalistics will come to see you, within the hour.

  The man winced. But can you make me stay in this room? I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but …

  A frown seemed to involve Brass’s whole body, not just his mouth. His whole demeanor said,I knew it couldn’t be this easy,and Grissom’s eyes replied,They never are.

  Brass said, Mr. Orrie, do you have a concealed weapons permit from the state of Nevada?

  Orrie shook his head.

  Then you know you can’t leave this room with that gun, correct?

  The man nodded.

  If I catch you on the street with it, I’m going to bust you.

  Yes, sir.

  And don’t tell anyone else you’re with the FBI.

  No, sir … I mean, yes, sir.

  And wait here until somebody from the crime lab comes to see you.

  Yes, sir.

  And if we decide to search your hotel room, will you require us to get a warrant?

  No, sir.

  Are we done here? Grissom asked.

  Brass still seemed to want to hang on to the only suspect he had. Finally, he said, Yeah, we’re done.

  Grissom said, Let’s go look at the tapes.[“0743444043-toc.html#toc2”]

  2

  NICK STOKES, AT THE WHEEL OF THE CRIME LAB’S TWIN BLACKChevy Tahoe, threw a smile and a glance out his window, as if someone on the sidelines of his life might be able to make sense of ita ref, maybe. Can you believe this shit? Nick asked, as he drove up the Strip in medium traffic. Only fifteen minutes before the end of shift!

  In the passenger seat, Catherine Willows’s reddish-blonde hair bounced as she shushed him, her cell phone in hand. Catherine tapped numbers into the phone and punchedSEND,then waited impatiently.

  The phone was picked up on the third ring. Hello.

  Mrs. Goodwin? Catherine asked.

  Yes?

  It’s Catherine. We caught a case. Can you get Lindsey off to school?

  The woman’s voice was warm, even through the cell phone. Sure, no problem.

  How is she?

  Sleeping like an angel.

  Catherine felt a heaviness in her chest and a burning behind her eyes. Thanks, Mrs. Goodwin. I owe you.

  Don’t be silly, Mrs. Goodwin said, we’ll be fine, and hung up.

  She’d no sooner pressed theENDbutton on her phone than Nick started again on his litany of woe.

  Do you know who was going to meet me for breakfast after shift?

  Surprise me.

  A cheerleader.

  Really.

  Yeah, a beautiful UNLV cheerleader.

  As opposed to one of those homely UNLV cheerleaders.

  Now I gotta miss breakfast. This girl was getting out of bed for me.

  Despite her anxiety over Lindsey, Catherine couldn’t help but laugh. No comment.

  A chagrined smile flickered across Nick’s well-chiseled features.

  Catherine liked the idea that Nick finally seemed to be coming out of his shell; though the demands of the job kept herand Nickfrom thinking about their own problems, giving them focus, she knew that crime scene investigation was also the kind of work from which you should have at least an occasional break. She’d finally learned as much, and she hoped that now Nick would too.

  She asked him, What do we know about this call?

  Shaking his head, Nick said, Some constructionworkers got an early start today, trying to beat the heat. They found a body under a junky old trailer.

  New body, or junky old body?

  That’s all I know, Cath.

  They passed the MandalayBay, crossed Russell Road, and turned into the construction site for the new Romanov Hotel and Casino. Supposedly the Strip’s next great resort, Romanov would play thematically on the opulence of Czarist Russia, the main building modeled after Nicholas and Alexandra’s palace in St. Petersburg, featuring rooms based on those of the actual palace. And if Catherine knew anything about Vegas, the joint would also have dancing Rasputins and Anastasias.

  Right now, however, a construction crew had been engaged to clear away debris from the years the lot had stood vacant and become something of a dumping ground. The sun glinted off metallic garbage and presented a rocky, rubble-strewn landscape more suited for Mad Max than Russian royalty. A line of pickups on the far side told her that a pretty good-sized crew was working at the site.

  She spotted a semicircle of construction workers standing around the remnants of an old mobile home trailer, staring at something on the ground. Behind them a few feet sat an idling hydraulic excavator, its bucket still hanging over the back of a dump truck where it had been left by its operator. Off to one side, maybe twenty yards away, sat two black-and-whites, the patrolmen leaning against them, sipping coffee, shooting the breeze. Beyond that squatted the unmarked Ford of an LVPD detective.

  Nick braked the SUV to a stop near the yellow dump truck. Catherine threw open the door only to be met by a wall of heat that told her she’d be sorry for leaving the comfort of the air-conditioned truck. Nick piled out the other side, they grabbed their field kits, and Catherine led the way to the huddle of men.

  Burly, crewcut Sergeant O’Riley separated from the construction workers and met them halfway.

  Never seen anything like it, he said.

  What? Nick asked.

  The guy’s a damned mummy.

  A mummy, Catherine said.

  O’Riley extended his arms, monster fashion. You know. A mummy.

  Nick shrugged at Catherine. A mummy.

  She smirked at him. Come on, daddy-o… .

  The cluster of construction workers split and made room for them to pass.

  The rusted hulk of the former trailer looked as though God had reached down and pulled out a fistful of its guts. Through the hole, beneath what was left of the floor, something vaguely human stared upward with dark eye sockets in what looked like a brown leather head.

  Anybody gone in there? she asked.

  The construction workers shook their heads; some stepped backward.

  She set down her field kit and turned to O’Riley. Sweat ran down his face in long rivulets, his color starting to match that of his grotesque sports coat. You wanna fill me in, Sergeant?

  The crew came in at four-thirty. Trying to getahead, work when it was cooler, so they could knock off at noon.

  Catherine nodded. It was a common practice in a desert community where the afternoon heat index would probably top 130 degrees.

  They’d only been at
it about an hour or so when they found the mummy, O’Riley said, waving toward the trailer.

  Okay, get a couple of uniforms to cordon off the area.

  O’Riley nodded.

  We want to make sure that he’s the only one.

  Frowning, O’Riley said, The only one?

  Pulling out her camera and checking it, Catherine said, A lot of stuff’s been dumped here over the years, Sarge. Let’s make sure there’s only been one body discarded.

  Nick, at her side, said, You think we got Gacy’s backyard here?

  Could be. Can’t rule it out.

  O’Riley called to the uniforms and they tossed their coffee cups into a barrel and plodded toward him.

  Oh, she said, lightly, and you might as well send the construction workers home. We’re going to be here most of the day.

  Nodding, O’Riley spoke briefly to the uniforms, then talked to the foreman, and slowly the scene turned from a still life into a moving picture. The workers dispersed, their dusty pickups driving off in every direction as the patrolmen strung yellow crime-scene tape around the junk-infested lot.

  Times like this, Nick said, as the yellow-and-blackboundary took form, I wish I’d invested in the company that makes crime-scene tape.

  It’s right in there with the smiley face, she agreed.

  Catherine stepped into blue coveralls, from her suitcaselike field kit, and zipped them up; she was all for gathering evidence, just not on her clothes. She put on a yellow hard hat, the fitted band feeling cool around her head, for a few seconds anyway.

  While Nick and the others searched the surrounding area, Catherine took photos of the trailer. She started with wide shots and slowly moved in closer and closer to the leathery corpse. By the time she was ready to move inside the wreck, with the body, Nick had returned and the cops were back to standing around.

  Anything? she asked as she reloaded the camera and set it on the hood of the Tahoe.

  No, Nick said. Our mummy has the place to himself.

  Okay, I’m going in. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked up her camera again.

  Careful.

  Catherine tossed him a look.

  I’m just saying, Cath, it’s rusty metal, unstable …

  I’ve had my tetanus shot.

  Entering through a huge bitelike hole in the trailer’s skin, she picked her way through the rubble, slipped through the gash in the floor and slid down next to the body, half of it now exposed to the sunlight pouring in through the wide tear in the roof. The ground felt cooler in the pools of shadow beneath the trailer. She noticed hardly any smell from the cadaverand, judging from the condition of the skin, he’d been dead for quite a long time.

  White male, she said, snapping the first of half a dozen photos.

  Outside, Nick repeated her words as he wrote them in his notebook.

  Finishing the photos, she set the camera to one side. The body had been laid to rest on top of a piece of sheet metal, probably a slab of the trashed trailer’s skin, and slid in under the dilapidated derelict. Though the killer had hidden the body well, he’d also managed to protect it so that instead of rotting, the corpse had mummified in the dry Nevada air.

  They did indeed have a mummy of sorts.

  Moving carefully, Catherine examined the body from skull to ox-blood loafers. The eyes and soft tissue were gone, leaving empty sockets, and the skin had contracted around the bone, resembling discolored beef jerky. Shocks of salt-and-pepper hair remained and the teeth were still intact.Good.

  The clothes had held up surprisingly well, though the narrow-lapeled suit had probably faded from popularity well before this poor guy ended up buried in it. She checked the victim’s coat pockets as best she could and found nothing. She could tell, even through the clothes, that some of the man’s organs had survived. Shrunk, but survived. It wasn’t that unusual in a case like this. Moving down, she went through the corpse’s pants pockets.

  No wallet, she called.

  Nick repeated her words.

  In the front left pocket she found a handful ofchange and counted it quickly. Two-fifteen in change, the newest coin a nineteen-eighty-four quarter. She put the coins in an evidence bag, sealed it, and set it to one side.

  Again, Nick repeated what she had said.

  She looked at the victim’s hands and said, He’ll never play the piano again.

  What?

  Shaking her head, she said, The killer hacked off the victim’s fingertips at the first knuckle.

  Trying to make it harder to ID the guy if anybody ever found the body, Nick said.

  Yeah, looks like he used pruning shears or something. Pretty clean amputations, but there’s a gold ring that got left behind.

  Picking up the camera, she snapped off several quick shots of the mummy’s hands showing the shrunken, blackened stubs of the fingers, and the gold ring. She set down the camera and, lifting the mummy’s right hand carefully, she easily slid the band off the ring finger.

  Gold ring, she repeated, with an F inlaid in diamonds.

  Interesting, Nick said, then he repeated her description.

  It would not seem to be a robbery, yes, Catherine said, as she pulled an evidence bag from her pocket, put the ring inside and sealed it.

  Cause of death? Nick called.

  Not surenothing visible in the front.

  Gingerly, she eased the corpse onto its left side and looked at the sheet metal underneath the body, but saw no sign of bugs or any other scavengers. Thatwould disappoint Grissom, who did love his creepy crawlies. The suit seemed to be stained darker on the back and, moving slowly toward the head, Catherine found what she was looking for.

  Two entry wounds, she announced. Base of the skull, looks like a pro.

  Firearm?

  Firearm is my call.

  Anything else?

  She didn’t want there to be anything else. The heat now pressed down on her from above. Any relief brought on by the cooler soil down here had evaporated and sweat rolled down her back, her arms, and her face.

  But she forced herself to stay focused on the job at hand. Then, just to the left of the mummy’s head, something caught her attention, something black poking out of the dirt. She at first thought it was one of Grissom’s little friends, a bug; but closer inspection proved it to be metallic: a gun barrel, almost completely buried! Almost… .

  She picked up the camera and clicked off several more shots.

  What have you got? Nick asked.

  At least the barrel of a gun, maybe more.

  Maneuvering around the body, Catherine pulled herself closer. Carefully, she dug around the black cylinder and left it completely exposed. Though the pistol was gone, the killer had figured he’d fool the firearms examiners by leaving the barrel with the victim.

  More than one way to skin a cat,she thought, as she shot three more photos, then bagged the evidence.Catherine Willows knew lots of other ways to catch a murderer besides matching bullets.

  She glanced back into the hole from which she had extracted the barrel, and saw nothing … or was that something? Pulling out her miniflash, Catherine turned it on and stroked its beam over the shallow hole. A small bump, slightly lighter in color than the rest of the dirt around it, showed at one end of the hole.

  Excavating with care, she uncovered the remnants of an old cigarette filter. Part of this murder case, she wondered, or the detritus of a field used as a garbage dump for the last quarter century? Better safe than sorry, she told herself, and snapped some pictures before bagging it.

  One last thing, she said.

  Yeah? Nick said.

  Cigarette filter. I’ve bagged it.

  Climbing out of the wrecked trailer, she handed the evidence bags to Nick.

  Small caliber, he said, holding up the clear bag, peering in at the gun barrel. A twenty-five?

  She nodded as O’Riley came up to them.

  Any ID? the detective asked.

  Catherine said, I didn’t find a wallet or anyth
ing and his fingertips are gone.

  O’Riley frowned. No fingertips?

  Don’t worry, Sarge. We can still print him.

  It’s like Roscoe Pitts, Nick said.

  O’Riley looked confused. Roscoe Pitts? I thought you said …

  No, Catherine said. Roscoe Pitts was a bad guy back in the forties. Had a doctor remove his fingerprints,then had skin grafted to his fingers from under his arms.

  Nick picked up the story. He walked around like this for weeks. Nick crossed his arms, his hands flat against each armpit. When he got them cut free, Nick said, wiggling his fingers, smooth skin.

  Getting it, O’Riley said, No fingerprints.

  Catherine grinned. What Roscoe didn’t understand was that, A, with smooth fingertips, he’d made himself stand out even more, and, B, you can get prints past the first knuckle.

  So he got busted? O’Riley asked.

  Almost immediately.

  And that’s how you’re going to ID this guy?

  Nick nodded. If our mummy’s in the computer, we’ll know who he is before the end of the day.

  They turned when they heard one of the EMTs swearing.

  What’s the matter? Catherine asked.

  The EMT, a big guy with a blond crewcut, held up one of the loafers with the foot still snugly inside. I’m sorry. It just came off. It’s like trying to pick up a potato chip.

  Catherine said, Nick, let’s get the hands bagged first, then help these guys before they dismember the whole body.

  With a grin, Nick said, SureI always listen to my mummy.

  Catherine tried not to smile, and failed.

  Then, two small figures in the midst of a vast, crime-scene-taped lot, they got back to work.[“0743444043-toc.html#toc3”]

  3

  THE SECURITY ROOM TOOK UP MUCH OF THE SECOND FLOORof the hotel, an anonymous blue-gray chamber where banks of VCRs covered one full wall, a security guard checking off a list on a clipboard whenever he changed tapes. The adjacent wall, constructed of one-way glass, overlooked the casino floor, the frantic universe of gamblers on silent display.

  The east wall and most of the middle of the room were taken up by security guards sitting in front of computer screens. Some seemed to be watching one camera feed or another, while several more seemed to be monitoring gauges. One gauge, Grissom noticed, was the temperature inside the casino. A huge console inset with nine video monitors filled the south wall. In front of it sat a young Asian man, in attire similar to a desk clerk, tapping on a keyboard.