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IN EXTREMIS
Chapter 2
Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows had driven
the entire twenty-three miles from the crime lab to the State Highway 95
turn-off leading to the Desert National Wildlife Range in comfortable
silence, much like a long-married couple. Grissom was lost in thought
about the recent article in
Science
about domestid beetles that he really disagreed with, but wasn’t quite
sure if he wanted to ---
“How often
have we done this?” Catherine asked, interrupting her supervisor’s train
of thought as she pulled the black GMC Denali up to a stop at the Corn
Creek Field Station entrance.
“What?
Responded to a scene in the Wildlife Range?” Grissom blinked and then
looked over at her quizzically.
“No, taken all
six of us out to one scene,” the slender, strawberry blond CSI amended
as she lowered her side window and waited for the uniformed U.S. Fish &
Wildlife Refuge Officer waiting at the entrance to approach their
vehicle. “How often have we done that?”
Grissom looked
thoughtful for a moment.
“Here and
there, when the situation calls for it. Why do you ask?”
“Do you think
it’s a good idea, putting all our eggs into one basket, so to speak?”
There was an
argumentative edge to her voice, but Grissom ignored it, smiling as he
considered the visual imagery.
“We’re a
pretty tough bunch of eggs, all things considered, so I think we can
probably still work a scene together without cracking heads,” he said,
his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And besides, Brass was pretty
insistent.”
“That’s what
concerns me, more than anything,” Catherine admitted. “You know how he
operates. He never tries to tell us how to do our job. So why ---?”
“Good evening,
ma’am, are you the folks from the Las Vegas Crime Lab I’m supposed to
meet here?” the uniformed refuge office asked, gesturing with head back
at the two other almost identical black GMC Denalis that had pulled in
behind Grissom and Willows. The woman’s long blond hair, very youthful
features, and deep southern accent seeming jarringly incongruous with
the holstered pistol on her hip, the glistening badge on her new down
uniform jacket, the four-cell flashlight in her gloved hand, and the
surrounding Nevada desert.
“That’s
right,” Catherine nodded, holding out her credentials --- and then
shielding her eyes irritatedly in an effort to maintain her night vision
--- as the young refuge officer focused the glaring beam of her
flashlight on her ID case and then Grissom’s. “I’m Senior Investigator
Catherine Willows and this is Supervising Investigator Gil Grissom. The
CSIs in the other two vehicles are Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, Sara
Sidle and Greg Sanders.”
“Shanna
Lakewell, and I’ll take your word for the other investigator’s ID’s,”
the youthful officer responded cheerfully as she removed her glove and
extended her right hand in a quick handshake. “Mike asked me to wait
here and lead you up to the scene,” she added as she put the glove back
on and shut off her flashlight. “He’s definitely going to be happy to
see you folks up there tonight.”
“Oh, why’s
that?” Grissom asked, his curiosity piqued by the sudden edge in the
young officer’s voice.
“Things were
really pretty tense when I left the scene a few minutes ago,” Lakewell
said uneasily, “and I really doubt they’ve improved a whole lot since.”
“You mean
things were tense among the investigating officers at the scene?”
Grissom pressed.
“Well, I guess
I’m not really sure what you mean by ‘investigating officers’,” Lakewell
responded hesitantly. “The officers involved in the shooting are pretty
upset; but that’s because they want to go looking for some drugs they
think a big shot dealer dumped out of his truck somewhere on the Range,
and your Captain Brass won’t let them leave the scene.”
Grissom’s
thoughts flashed back to his phone conversation with Brass; Grissom had
already explained to Catherine and the other members of the graveyard
team as they were loading up their crime scene gear into the Denalis
that Brass had been extremely brief in his description of the scene:
“A buy-bust
investigation has gone bad at the Desert National Wildlife Refuge, and I
need the entire graveyard team to respond to the location ASAP with all
of your shooting scene reconstruction equipment. Yes, that’s what I
said, Gil, the entire team … as soon as you can get here.”
And that was
all he’d said to Grissom before hanging up. Everything else Lakewell was
now revealing was new information to the two senior CSIs.
“Some of our
Metro officers got involved in a shooting on a federal refuge, and
Captain Brass won’t let them leave?” Grissom continued to press Lakewell
from the front passenger seat, determined to find out as much of what
she knew as possible. He was getting an uneasy feeling that reliable
info might be difficult to obtain once up on the mountain.
“Well, no sir,
not exactly,” Lakewell said, chewing her lip nervously. “In fact, I
don’t think that any Metro police officers were involved at all; just
Mike --- the supervising refuge officer out here -- a couple of State
narcotics officers, and two DEA special agents.”
“DEA agents?”
Catherine turned to stare at Grissom. “Brass is holding federal and
state agents on a federal facility, and not letting them leave?”
“All of them,
and their snitch, too; she was definitely involved in the whole mess,”
Lakewell added.
“You’re saying a snitch was involved in this
shooting?” Grissom interjected calmly. “Presumably meaning a snitch was
allowed to be at a federal-state buy-bust scene
armed?”
“I think
that’s what happened, but my information is all second-hand … from
Mike.” Lakewell nodded her head nervously.
“Mike is your
supervisor?”
“Yes, that’s
right.”
“And he was
also involved in the shooting?”
“That’s
correct.” The young refuge officer nodded again. “Listen, this is
probably none of my business, and I’m brand new to the job so I may be
way off base; but if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have let that woman
have a sharp pencil in her possession during an arrest situation, much
less a Glock … and at least one other pistol that I couldn’t ID. But I
really don’t think that’s the major issue up there. In fact, I think the
entire situation is a whole lot more complicated than that.”
“I’m sure
you’re right,” Grissom said, nodding professorily. “And roughly, how far
are we from this complicated situation right now?”
“It’s about
ten miles up the Pine Nut Road, which is mostly dirt and a pretty tough
climb during the day, and a whole lot more interesting in the dark.
Plus, we’ve probably got a serious storm coming in any time now,”
Lakewell added, glancing up at the sky, “so you’ll want to be in
four-wheel drive and right on my rear the whole way.”
As Officer
Lakewell walked back to her official green-and-white-painted truck that
was parked a few yards away, Grissom pulled a cell phone out of his vest
pocket and thumbed in a multi-dial code.
“Nick, Sara,
I’d strongly suggest you switch over to four-wheel drive, have everyone
double-check their safety belts and weapons, and then follow us up the
road, staying tight on our ---” Grissom glanced over at Catherine, who
had her head and eyebrows cocked in an ‘I dare you’ look of anticipation
“--- bumper.” As Willows rolled her eyes skyward, he added: “I have a
feeling things are about to get interesting.”
The shot-up
truck --- mired in the sand with four deflated tires and illuminated by
two sets of LVPD patrol car headlights --- was the visual centerpiece,
and impossible to miss or ignore. The driver’s side portion of the
windshield had been shredded. Some cracked, starred, pulverized and
bloodied sections of the laminated glass --- held together by the
partially ripped and stretched pieces of the internal plastic layer ---
dangled loose from the windshield frame, while other like sections lay
scattered across the truck’s hood. The headlights, both side windows and
the driver’s side portion of the rear cab window had been struck by
dozens of projectiles. The sun-faded and rusted front and side panels
that might have been painted red twenty years ago were pocked with
dozens of apparent bullet and pellet holes. Cubic chunks of tempered
glass and irregular-edged paint chips littered the ground.
All said, the
ancient vehicle looked like it had been the objective of a head-on
assault by a very determined military fire team.
Between the
truck and the campsite, and well back from the temporary perimeter line
of yellow scene tape that had been set around the truck, two LVPD patrol
cars had been carefully placed so that their headlights lit up each side
of the truck at forty-five degree angles to the center line.
The campsite,
about forty feet from the front of the truck, was illuminated by four
hanging propane lanterns, revealing six seated figures --- all wearing
greasy jeans and an assortment of dirty and torn winter jackets --- who
looked a great deal like disgruntled outlaw bikers. A uniformed LVPD
patrol officer stood next to the rock-ringed fire with his gloved hands
resting lightly on his heavy belt buckle; a virtually identical officer
was standing at the opposite end of the campsite; a third patrol unit
with two additional uniforms standing watch outside was parked a little
way up the road; and a LVPD patrol sergeant had placed himself in a
center position between the two illuminating patrol units and the scene
tape where he could keep a casual eye on everyone in general … and,
seemingly, the one slouched female figure in particular.
The overall
impression was that of a giant three-dimensional puzzle that desperately
needed the attention of a patient and inquisitive mind.
Or, better yet, six patient and inquisitive
minds, Grissom thought, an
anticipatory smile crossing his face as his slowly sweeping eyes began
to absorb relevant details.
One thing he
noticed immediately was the fact that none of the six seated figures
looked especially pleased by the arrival of the CSIs.
Behind the
campsite, some fifty yards away, a pair of helicopters --- one dark,
military-looking, and marked only with an aircraft number, and the other
clearly identifiable as a LVPD Search and Rescue airship --- sat facing
each other with drooping rotor blades, looking like a pair of glaring
fighting cocks conserving their energy for the next round. The two
overall-uniformed flight crews were standing next to the LVPD chopper,
appearing to be sharing coffee and engaging in amiable conversation.
But the focus of Grissom’s and Catherine’s
attention, as the six CSIs emerged from their vehicles wearing matching
thick black nylon jackets over their vests, was Homicide Captain Jim
Brass --- a physically and bureaucratically tough police commander
who the nightshift CSIs
trusted to keep them out of trouble whenever possible.
Brass
was dressed in his standard winter field garb --- polished boots,
pressed jeans and a warm down coat ---
and
standing next to a pair of fiftyish-looking men, both of whom were
dressed in expensive suits, ties and overcoats that really didn’t match
their more rugged-looking desert boots. And the conversation the three
of them were having appeared anything but amiable.
As Grissom and
Catherine approached Brass and the two visibly angry men, Warrick Brown
and Nick Stokes stood side-by-side, arms folded across their chests as
they slowly took in the entire scene, while Sara Sidle and Greg Sanders
began the less-confrontational task of unloading the crime scene vans.
“This is Gil
Grissom and Catherine Willows, the night shift CSI supervisor and deputy
supervisor I told you about,” Brass said to the two overcoats. “The
other four CSIs over by the vehicles are Brown, Stokes, Sidle and
Sanders. Gil, Catherine,” Brass gestured with his head at his apparent
adversaries, “this is Assistant Special Agent in Charge William Fairfax,
from the DEA’s Los Angeles Division Office, and Lieutenant John Holland
from the Nevada Department of Public Safety.”
The two
commanders nodded at Grissom and Willows, but neither man made any
effort to extend a welcoming hand.
“What we have
here,” Brass went on in deliberately controlled voice, “is a
questionable shooting scene that I need you and your team to
reconstruct.”
Both Fairfax
and Holland started to interrupt, but the DEA ASAC --- a formidable
looking man with a carefully trimmed grey-flecked beard --- was a
half-second quicker off the mark.
“I want to go
on record as adamantly objecting to the word ‘questionable’,” Fairfax
said flatly, his dark eyes filled with rage. “Three federal and two
state officers engaged in a shoot-out with a major drug dealer known to
be armed with automatic weapons, and with a long history of violence
against law enforcement officers and resisting arrest. He aggressively
drove into their campsite, instead of waiting for them to meet him at
the road intersection, as planned, and immediately commenced firing on
their position. Our team responded in a manner that was both proper and
effective. There is no way this shooting scene meets the ‘questionable’
standards defined in the Tri-Lateral Agreement.”
“And I agree
with that assessment,” Holland added emphatically. “This is not a
questionable shooting, and your officers do not patrol federal refuges.
Therefore, as far as I’m concerned, you have no jurisdiction over our
officers.”
“Would you
like to talk with your captain again?” Brass inquired, holding up his
cell phone. “Or your SAC?” he added, turning back to the DEA supervisor.
Both men
briefly glanced at each other, but neither responded.
“According to
the Tri-Lateral Mutual Assistance Agreement,” Brass explained to Grissom
and Catherine, “the questioned-shooting standard is met when one or more
primary elements of the underlying investigation are not present at the
scene. The undercover investigators here got into a shooting situation,
and properly called for Metro back-up. When our responding patrol
officers arrived, the UC’s stated they were here to make a purchase of
ten kilos of high-grade cocaine from a known-to-be-armed-and-violent
drug dealer named Ricardo Paz Lamos. As far as I’m aware, no one has
positively identified the body in that truck as Ricardo Paz Lamos, and
no one has pointed out so much as a single kilo of anything at this
scene.”
“How are we
supposed to positively identify the bastard when his face is no longer
recognizable, and his prints aren’t on file?” Holland protested. “Hell,
the guy’s been an unknown for five years; no address on record, and
apparently he never goes anywhere out in public. We’re lucky to have
this one vehicle stop photo.” He held up a crumpled and grainy
black-and-white photo in his gloved hand.
“And its
standard procedure for dealers making a big sale to conceal their main
load some distance away from the buy site until they’ve verified the
money and the right players are on site,” Fairfax said heatedly. “You
know how it works, Brass. You haven’t been out of the field that long.”
“I do
understand how a buy-bust operation is supposed to go down,” the LVPD
captain agreed. “But, the presence of illicit drugs is a required
element of the deal, no?”
“You bet. And
that’s precisely why our investigators need to be out there, looking for
those keys,” Fairfax gestured with one gloved hand at the surrounding
expanse of darkness, “instead of sitting here on their collective asses
having every move they made second-guessed by you and your CSI team.”
“What I also
understand,” Brass went on firmly, “is that we have a dead man in a
truck who may or may not be your drug dealer, and who may or may not
have done anything to justify a sixty-some round barrage of what may or
may not have been ‘return fire’.”
Fairfax
started say something, but Brass held up a silencing hand.
“I count
three missing primary elements in your underlying investigation, Agent
Fairfax. And under the Tri-Lateral Mutual Assistance Agreement that our
sheriff and your agency directors have all signed and established as
standard operating procedure for officer-involved shootings in Clark
County,” he reminded pointedly, “the senior officer at the scene with
the least number of subordinate officers involved in the shooting shall
take control of the scene until a supervising officer with no involved
subordinate officers can respond and assume command.
At
that point, the scene commander shall immediately conduct a shooting
reconstruction to verify the facts of the incident.”
Fairfax looked
like he was about to interject something, but then remained silent.
“And since I
am aware of no Metro officers involved in this officer-involved
shooting, that makes me the scene commander here until relieved by
higher authority; which, presumably, would be my boss because both of
your supervisors specifically placed your men under my command
approximately oh ---” Brass glanced down at his watch, “--- fifteen
minutes ago.”
“He didn’t
place me under your command,” Fairfax responded bitterly.
“No, he
didn’t,” Brass agreed, and neither did your captain,” Brass said to
Holland. “Which means you’re both welcome to leave this scene at any
time; or you’re welcome to stay, so as long as you don’t screw around
with my investigation.”
“I’m staying,”
Fairfax remarked.
“Me, too,”
Holland added.
“Fine, just
stay out of our way … and don’t interfere. I think you have enough
problems as it is.”
“I’m glad
you’re on our side,” Catherine remarked, giving Brass a wry smile.
“You should see me
without
the coffee,” Brass responded as he turned to Grissom. “Are you ready?”
“Certainly,”
Grissom said as he and Catherine walked over to the six dirty and
disheveled figures still sitting around the remains of the campfire,
followed by the other four CSIs, Brass, Fairfax and Holland.
“Okay,”
Grissom began as he stared down at the visibly-disgruntled figures,
“We’ll begin with introductions. I’m Gil Grissom, the night shift CSI
supervisor. This is my deputy supervisor, Catherine Willows; and these
are CSIs Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, Sara Sidle, and Greg Sanders.
They’re all going to be assisting me in this shooting scene
reconstruction. And your names are, and who you work for, starting with
you?” He nodded at the relatively clean-cut figure at the far left end
of the circle of chairs as Sara Sidle began to take notes.
“Mike Grayson.
I’m the supervising refuge officer here at the Desert National Range.
You’ll have my complete cooperation in this matter.”
“Thanks,
Mike,” Grissom commented, motioning with his head at the next figure.
“Jeremy Myers,
detective, Narcotics Unit, Nevada Department of Public Safety. I
disagree with the need and specifically the timing of this
investigation, but I’ll cooperate.”
“John
Boyington, detective, Nevada DPS. I’m Jeremy’s partner, and I agree with
everything he just said.”
“Marcus
Jackson, special agent, DEA. Far as I’m concerned, this whole deal is
pure bullshit. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Chris
Tallfeather, special agent, DEA, ditto.”
Grissom turned
to face the last figure, a sallow-cheeked woman who could have been in
her early twenties or thirties; with acne-scarred features,
bleached-blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and a pair of large
blood-stained bandages on the right side of her face --- covering her
cheek and ear --- and who had remained slouched down in the camping
chair, staring down at the ground the entire time. “And you are?” he
inquired.
“Jane.” She
directed the comment to the expanse of sand between her boots.
“Do you have a
last name, Jane?”
“Smith.”
Grissom cocked
his head curiously, started to say something, and then shrugged.
“What happened
to your face, Jane?”
“I got shot,”
the young woman muttered.
“You were
wounded here, at this location, this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Who shot at
you?”
“He did.” She
gestured with her head in the direction of the illuminated truck.
“You’re saying
the individual in that truck, presumably a man named Ricardo Paz Lamos,
shot at you?”
“Yeah, sure,”
the woman mumbled, her head turned away from the CSI.
Grissom turned
to face the other seated men.
“Did any of
you specifically see this incident?”
The five
seated men all looked at each other and then shrugged and shook their
heads.
“Nobody
saw her get shot?” Grissom asked in a voice tinged with incredulity.
“I heard her
yell ‘Oh shit, he’s here!’ right when the truck arrived on the scene,
and then I heard her scream like she was in pain right after I started
shooting at the tires. Or, at least, it sounded like Jane screaming; but
I can’t say for sure because I was behind that big rock over there,
taking a leak,” Grayson finally said, pointing to a large irregular
boulder that was about five feet high and ten feet long. “Now that I
think about it, I never actually saw her during the shooting … not until
were all came out of our barricade positions and approached the truck.”
“And no one
else heard or saw Jane at the time she was shot?” Grissom continued to
press.
“I definitely
heard her yell that Paz Lomas was coming, and then heard her scream,
right after the shooting started; and I think I might have seen her fall
backwards out of the corner of my eye --- just the top of her head, and
only for a split second,” Detective Boyington spoke up. “She’d gone
behind that big rock over there, to take a leak too, right after Mike
headed over to the guy’s side.” He pointed to a larger boulder off to
his left, in front of the right-truck-side-illuminating patrol car, that
was approximately five-to-seven feet tall and at least fifteen feet
long.
“Is that
correct, Jane? You were over by that rock when the shooting started?”
Grissom asked.
“Yeah, that’s
right.” She nodded sullenly, her eyes still focused on the ground.
“She was
pretty much obscured by the boulder,” Boyington went on, “which was the
whole idea of picking a big one, I guess. That’s all I can testify to,
as far as her shooting or being shot at. I’d already fired two rounds at
the truck headlights --- and maybe at least one at the carburetor by
then --- trying to stop the damned thing from running us over.”
“So you’re not
sure about the timing of your shots, before or after you heard Jane
scream?”
Boyington
thought for a moment.
“No,” he
finally said, shaking his head, “I’m really not sure about the sequence.
The headlights were in directly my eyes, so I know I fired at them
first. Right after that, things got pretty hairy.”
“I’m sure they
did,” Grissom nodded. “Did anybody else see Jane fall backwards?” He
looked around at the rest of the seated group.
Myers,
Jackson, and Tallfeather all shook their heads.
“Okay, now
that we’ve more or less resolved that,” Grissom said, turning his
attention back to the snitch, “who do you work for, Jane?”
“I’m
free-lance; I don’t work for anybody. These guys twisted me so I’d help
them nail Ricardo.” She was still staring at the ground, but she
gestured with her head at the two DEA agents and possibly the two State
narcs; Grissom really couldn’t tell.
“So you’d
define yourself as an independent party, not affiliated with any law
enforcement agency?”
“That’s
right.” Smith’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in defiance. “I’m not
a government employee and I really don’t want to be here. So what
happens if I refuse to cooperate?”
Grissom
glanced over at Jim Brass, who shrugged, and then went on
matter-of-factly: “We would take you into custody as either a material
witness to a shooting, or as a suspect in that shooting.”
“So I can’t
leave whenever I want?”
“No, you can’t
leave until we release you,” Grissom affirmed.
Jane Smith
emitted a long, exasperated sigh and went back to staring at whatever
interested her on the ground.
“Okay,”
Grissom said, “now that we’ve got that out of the way, the next thing we
need to do is collect your gloves, swab your hands for gunshot residues,
collect all of your weapons, and then take elimination sets of your
fingerprints. We’ll collect your boots and clothing back at the
station.”
“You’re going
to disarm these men, here, in the field?” Fairfax interjected from the
far side of the campsite, sounding incredulous.
“That’s right, Grissom said, turning to face
the DEA commander. “Standard procedure is to collect all firearms that
may have been involved in the questioned shooting at the
onset of
the investigation. That means all firearms in their possession,
including any and all backup weapons,” the CSI supervisor added. “You
understand why, I assume?”
“I understand
the reasoning; but why here, and why now?” Fairfax demanded. “You know
drug dealers don’t operate alone; especially out here in the middle of
nowhere. For all we know, Ricardo could have a half-dozen of his people
out there watching us right now.”
“Even if Mr.
Lamos’ men are still out there, which I seriously doubt,” Brass snapped,
“and they see us collecting your agent’s weapons, they will also observe
that this scene is protected by an additional twelve armed law
enforcement officers; which doesn’t include the armed helicopter crews,
and assumes that both you and Holland are carrying. I make that out to
be two-to-one odds in our favor at the very start, not counting our
advantage of our night-vision-equipped air cover; and, of course, all of
the rapid-responding backup we’d need from Metro and the local military
folks if it ever came to that.”
Fairfax looked
like he was about to say something, but then thought better of it.
“That ought to
be more than enough firepower to deal with a handful of Ricardo’s men,
in the unlikely event they really are out there, and really are stupid
enough to approach this campsite. But I can’t think of a single logical
reason why they would, because their drugs don’t seem to be here, and no
one’s going to pay them to retrieve the dead body of their boss under
fire,” Brass added.
“Yeah, but
don’t forget, half of our armed twelve are CSI,” Holland protested.
Grissom’s team
all looked at each other with knowing grins. They all qualified
more-or-less regularly with their weapons, and were accustomed to the
dismissive “science geek” comments they occasionally ran into with some
of the more badge-heavy cops. It had long since become the equivalent of
splattered water across a duck’s back.
“If things get
out of control, we’ll try not to hurt anyone,” Grissom smiled pleasantly
as Brass motioned for Fairfax and Holland to back away from the area.
“Now then, here’s how we’re going to work it. One at a time, each of you
is going to stand up and walk over to CSIs Sidle and Sanders, who will
take your gloves and then swab both of your hands for gunshot residues.
Then ---”
“What’s the
point of that? We’ve all admitted to firing our weapons.” Detective
Jeremy Myers pointed out.
“Reconstruction of a shooting scene requires a great deal of basic
information that has to be collected as close to the actual time of the
shooting as possible,” Grissom explained. “Since we don’t know what will
later turn out to be meaningful, in terms of our analysis, we routinely
collect a great deal of evidence, much of which is never used.”
“Okay, fine,”
Myers nodded, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I said I’d
cooperate.”
“Which we do
appreciate,” Grissom acknowledged. “Then,” he continued on, “you’ll move
over to CSIs Brown and Stokes who will collect your weapons and
ammunition, provide you with an evidence receipt for your records, and
take your elimination prints.” Grissom looked down at the still
slouching Jane Smith, and smiled patiently. “Starting with you, miss.”
Smith
reluctantly rose to her feet.
“Now please
walk over to CSIs Sidle and Sanders, give them your gloves, and then
hold out your hands.”
The young
woman shuffled over to Sidle and Sanders, who were waiting with
plastic-gloved hands, a pair of manila envelopes, and a gunshot residue
collection kit. She held out her hands and glared at Sidle as the alert
and wary CSI carefully removed her insulated gloves and placed them into
the individually-marked manila envelopes; and then continued to watch
sullenly as the two CSIs gently tapped sticky-taped discs against the
dirty palms and the backs of her hands, while Catherine methodically
photographed the process.
“See, nothing
to it,” Sanders said, offering up one of his patented charm-enriched
smile; but got only a brief, dismissive snort in return.
“I’m willing
to go along with this part,” Smith whispered with a dangerous edge to
her voice, “but I’m not giving up my guns as long as Ricardo’s still out
there.”
“What did you
say?” Catherine Willows asked, cocking her head curiously.
“I said I’m
not going to give up my guns, because Ricardo could still be out there,”
Jane Smith snarled, glaring her adrenaline-widened eyes at the CSI.
“No, you said
‘is’ out there, not ‘could be,’” Catherine corrected. “That implies you
don’t think the dead man in that truck is Ricardo Lamos. Right?”
“I … I do think that’s Ricardo in the truck,
or at least I hope it is. But I’m not giving up my guns until I know for
sure, so
you
can just forget ---.”
Smith made the
mistake of jabbing her bare finger into the center of Catherine’s chest.
Grissom saw
Catherine look down at the finger pressed deep into her Kevlar-filled
vest in disbelief, and then back up at the wide-eyed snitch. In a single
smooth motion, she grabbed Smith’s offending wrist with her right hand,
twisted it around, and then wrist-locked the stunned young woman to her
knees.
“You don’t get
to do that,” Catherine said emphatically.
Jane Smith
erupted. She first tried to fight her way out of the wristlock. And when
that didn’t work, she furiously slashed her booted foot at Catherine’s
leg.
An instant later, Smith found herself being
slammed face-and-solar-plexus-forward
against the left front panel of the nearby LVPD patrol vehicle by
Warrick and Nick. Before the stunned snitch could recover her breath,
Warrick had her hands handcuffed behind her back while Nick and
Catherine quickly and methodically searched her for weapons.
“And, no, we
don’t care if you’re a woman, so don’t push your luck,” Nick advised
calmly as the enraged snitch started to bring her foot back up again …
and then hesitated when the smiling CSI reached over and took a
controlling grip on the center handcuff links as Warrick stepped back
out of the way.
“Hey, what do
you think you’re doing?!” a voice in the background protested.
“Two pistols
--- a hip-holstered 9mm Glock, and a hammerless snub-nosed .38 Smith &
Wesson from her right jacket pocket --- two extra magazines for the
Glock, and a pair of speed-loaders for the Smith, left and right jacket
pockets. Nice,” Warrick reported, ignoring the voice as Catherine and
Nick first handed him the discovered armaments, then pulled the door of
the patrol car open and strapped the still-cursing Smith into the rear
seat.
“I said, what
do you think you’re doing?” Fairfax repeated, starting toward the three
CSIs and then hesitating when Jim Brass stepped in his way.
“They’re arresting her, for assault on a law
enforcement officer; that’s
what they’re doing.”
“But she’s
---”
“Ms. Smith is
a material witness in a questioned shooting, and also under arrest. And
if anyone else would like to join her in custody, this would be an
excellent time to speak up.” Brass looked around at the other seated
officers, but only received wicked glares from the four federal and
state narcs. Mike Grayson, the supervising Fish & Wildlife refuge
officer, looked stunned.
“And speaking
of interfering,” Brass went on, turning his attention to Fairfax and
Holland, “you were concerned about the possibility of Ricardo Paz Lomas’
men being in the area, and making a timely search for the missing drugs.
This might be a good time for the two of you to make a general search of
the area with your helicopter; and I’m guessing our Search and Rescue
team would be more than happy to help.”
Fairfax and
Holland looked at each other, and then at their seated investigators.
“I’m sure your
men have a far better understanding of their rights, and the general
shooting reconstruction process, than Miss Smith,” Brass added. “I don’t
expect any further difficulties. But, if something should come up,” he
held up his cell phone again, “I’ll give you a call, and you can be back
here within minutes.”
“Come on,
let’s go see what we can find out there,” Holland said after a moment,
grabbing Fairfax’s arm and pulling the still-reluctant ASAC toward the
make-shift landing zone.
Grissom waited
until the agitated commanders were climbing into the dark-painted
helicopter, and the blades of both airships were starting to rev up,
before turning his attention back to the five seated law enforcement
officers.
“Now then,”
the CSI supervisor went on as if nothing especially interesting had
happened yet, which was pretty much the way he saw it, “while the rest
of you continue the process of handing over your gloves and weapons,
Investigator Willows and I are going to examine the vehicle that appears
to have been the center of so much attention around here.”