Snake Eyes

by Max Allan Collins

  While Sara booted up, Catherine pulled a chair around so she could sit next to her colleague and view the screen easily, rather than hover over Sara’s shoulder.

  Once Sara had logged on and launched the DeltaSphere’s software, only a second or so passed before they were staring at a 3D rendering of the crime scene as it had appeared hours ago, the wounded already gone but the two deceased victims still in place, the detritus of the firefight not yet collected and bagged and marked.

  As they maneuvered through the scene on the screen, Catherine had a feeling similar to when she took Lindsey to the IMAX theater to see James Cameron’s documentary on the Titanic. Watching his drone cameras, Jake and Elwood, motor around the corridors of the world’s most famous ghost ship, she had felt a combination of enormous curiosity and a weird voyeuristic guilt about sifting through someone else’s life so long after death—as if somehow she were violating someone’s privacy in the extreme.

  This odd combination of sharp curiosity and near guilt flowed over her again now, even though she’d felt no compunction when surveying every inch of the real scene as she took this 3D tour via Sara’s laptop.

  The odd sensation almost instantly vanished as Sara manipulated them through the scene, Catherine now feeling wrapped up in some hyperreal video game.

  These graphics were far better than she’d expected, and she found herself studying the monitor as if the crime scene on the screen were the real deal and not the digital reproduction.

  Fingers flying, Sara put them in position to study Valpo’s body from one side.

  The Predator leader lay on his stomach, his shoulder showing signs of what Catherine now knew for sure was an exit wound. Though she could see blood on Valpo’s head, she had from this angle no clear view of the base-of-the-skull entrance wound.

  As if reading Catherine’s mind, Sara swivelled the view until they were above and behind Valpo, standing over the biker, so to speak, and looking down into the bloody wound in the Predator’s skull.

  “Shooter got up close and personal,” Sara said, even though they both knew that already.

  “Yeah,” Catherine agreed. “Plenty of GSR on his neck.”

  The gunshot residue gave Valpo’s neck the appearance that a ghoulish waiter had hand-milled pepper over him after he died, the black pinpoints readily apparent around the wound.

  “Let’s try something,” Sara said, eyes slitted, swivelling the view yet again.

  They were still above Valpo’s corpse—Catherine was sure they had not moved—but now their view was toward the blackjack table, where the young dealer had died.

  From here, the dealer was in plain view, her corpse on the floor, maybe six feet away. The distance between the bodies had seemed greater in the casino; either that, or Catherine had not noticed how close together they were. But she noticed now, all right, from this new vantage point, and had a new thought about this entire matter.

  Entire murder…

  “One killer could have shot them both,” she said.

  Sara nodded. “Grissom speculated that the young woman may have witnessed the ‘execution’ and been killed for it.”

  “If so,” Catherine said, “she should have had time to scramble out of the way…even in that firefight. Why didn’t she?”

  Everywhere they turned on this case, they got more questions…and precious few answers, rolling one snake eyes after another.

  Catherine hoped that the other CSIs were having better luck.

  When Grissom showed up with Police Chief Jorge Lopez, Nick had been working the mortuary crime scene for the better part of two hours.

  The two men climbed out of the Blazer and came over to where Nick was using an electrostatic print-lifter to collect footprints and tire tracks from the mortuary’s rear parking lot.

  Keeping a proper distance from the evidence-gathering, Grissom called, “Nick—how’s it coming?”

  “Not bad,” Nick said. “Almost done here.”

  Lopez asked, “How’s Mr. Erickson?”

  Nick removed his eyes from his work and met the chief’s worried gaze. “Paramedics made him get in the ambulance and ride over to Laughlin…but I’m guessing it was just a concussion. He seemed less than thrilled about having to walk away—or get rolled away—from his business, with it wide open and us poking around.”

  Lopez chuckled. “Sounds like Erickson. But just the same, you’ll get all the help you need from him.”

  Nick nodded. “Mostly he seemed upset somebody got the drop on him.”

  “Most of his customers don’t sneak up on him,” Lopez said dryly. “Where’s Officer Montaine?”

  Montaine’s squad car was still parked at the mortuary.

  Nick said, “He had this idea he should go canvassing the neighborhood.”

  Lopez frowned, shook his head. “Who’s to canvass this early on a Saturday in this neighborhood? It’s all businesses.”

  Nick shrugged. “He’s been gone over an hour. Can’t tell you.”

  Grissom asked Nick, “What have you got so far?”

  “Just that Valpo’s body was stolen, still in the body bag. No real trail to follow.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “On all the doorknobs in the joint, but I’m guessing that once we print Mr. Erickson, that’ll be the only match.”

  The chief asked, “Anything else taken?”

  “Not that Mr. Erickson could see,” Nick said. “But, then, he was shuffled out of here pretty much right away. He did take a look around the preparation chamber and said everything seemed to be right where it should be. Just that one missing item: the body.”

  “What about these footprints?” Grissom asked, indicating Nick’s current efforts.

  Nick said, “That’s why I’d like Officer Montaine to get back here. This footprint looks like a Rocky to me.”

  Lopez frowned again. “Rocky police boots?”

  “Yeah. What’s it look like to you?” He turned over the mylar sheet he had just charged and showed them the electrostatic footprint of a boot tread.

  Grissom nodded. “Looks like a Rocky, all right.”

  “Hell,” Lopez said, and turned up the sole of his shoe so the CSIs could see it. “Looks like my Rocky.”

  “On the surface,” Grissom said, bending for a look, “it’s a match. But you’ve been doing this long enough to know that every individual boot wears differently. Your wear is up on the toes—you walk on the balls of your feet.”

  “These boots,” Nick said, picking up Grissom’s thread, “show more wear along the sides and on the heel. These shoes, whoever’s wearing ’em? Uncomfortable.”

  “So,” Lopez said, eyes narrowing. “You think a cop stole the body…or did Officer Montaine happen to step here?”

  “Either is a possibility,” Nick said.

  “Just two of many possibilities,” Grissom said, obviously trying to prevent anyone from taking a premature path. “A lot of bikers wear Rocky boots these days. So we have any number of potential boots in Boot Hill—only one we seem to have ruled out so far, Chief, is you.”

  “I better go find Montaine,” Lopez said.

  “Nick,” Grissom said, “how much longer do you think you’ll need here?”

  “Just finishing up, really. Chief, can you get me to your lab?”

  “Sure,” Lopez said. “Not much by your standards, but I can provide a computer and some basic lab equipment.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The three loaded Nick’s gear into the Blazer and drove off to find Officer Montaine, which proved a short search: the young deputy was just around the block, walking out of a café with a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  When they rolled up to him, Montaine smiled and waved.

  Lopez, leaning out the window, was in no mood. “Are you canvassing the neighborhood,” he exploded, “or on goddamn doughnut duty?”

  “What…this is just coffee.”

  “Oh, you’re drinking coffee, then? Weren’t you supposed to be off
canvassing the neighborhood?”

  “Chief, I’m really sorry,” the kid said, “but Mr. Ross…the breakfast cook back there at Racheal’s?” He pointed toward the café, barely twenty feet away. “He insisted I take the coffee. And it wasn’t such a bad idea to canvass, ’cause he told me he came in a little after five, to start everything up at the café, and he saw some of those bikers riding by—toward the mortuary.”

  Grissom’s eyes tightened. “I thought all the bikers were quarantined—either at the campground or that other hotel.”

  Lopez nodded. “Yeah…. Dean, did Mr. Ross recognize the bikers?”

  “He said there were only three bikers, but that the one nearest the café? When they went roaring by? Had on a vest with ‘Rusty Spokes’ on the back.”

  “All right,” Lopez said. He worked up a smile. “Sorry I jumped on you, Dean. That’s good work you did. Damn good work.”

  The kid beamed. “Thanks, Chief…. Okay if I drink this coffee, then?”

  “Go right ahead,” Lopez said with a chuckle. “Say, do you know where Sergeant Jacks is?…Haven’t seen him all night.”

  Montaine nodded. “Cody said he was heading out to the Price place, to see if he was there. That’s the last I heard.”

  “Hell,” Lopez muttered.

  Grissom asked, “Why is that a bad thing? Don’t we need to talk to Price, and isn’t Cody Jacks your top investigator?”

  “He is that, Doc,” Lopez said. “But we’ve got more important things to be worried about than Tom Price, who lives way the hell southeast of Cal Nev Ari—almost an hour from here.”

  “I see.”

  Lopez glanced in the rearview mirror to catch Nick’s eye. “Mr. Stokes, I’m going to drop you off at the station so you can get your lab work going.”

  “Great.”

  “I can reach Cody from there,” Lopez said, “after which, Doc, you and me, we can go talk with the Rusty Spokes about breaking house arrest.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Grissom said.

  Nick asked from the back, “Why don’t you just call Detective Jacks on the radio?”

  “Cody’ll be in the Newberry Mountains, which play hell with cell phone and radio traffic. Never reach him from my car, but the transmitter at the station should do the trick.”

  The police station was just down Allen Street from the two hotels, a one-story brick-and-glass building smaller than the garage back at CSI. A sign out front proudly proclaimed:

  BOOT HILL POLICE DEPARTMENT

  and in smaller letters

  CHIEF JORGE G. LOPEZ

  As he parked, Lopez said, “Doc, you can come in or not—should only take a couple of minutes. I’ll set Nick up with his chemistry set, call Cody, then you and me can walk up to the Gold Vault.”

  “I’ll stay out here,” Grissom said. “I could use the fresh air. Mind if I start up the street?”

  Lopez said, “Sure—I’ll catch up. If I’m not right there, wait in the lobby. Don’t take on the Spokes without me, Doc.”

  “I think you can rest assured of that.”

  Lopez grinned. “Okay, Nick, come on—I’ll get ya set up on the cutting edge of forensics circa 1975….”

  Grissom watched as the chief escorted Nick—carting his crime scene kit and evidence—inside the modest station. Part of Grissom wanted to stay with his guy and give him a hand—possibly the senior CSI would have a better handle on using the limited materials at hand—but Nick was a first-rate analyst now and didn’t need Grissom looking over his shoulder. Better to stay outside and accompany the chief.

  The hotel was two blocks away. Grissom started off at a leisurely pace, enjoying the gentle desert breeze. For a guy who lived in labs, Gil Grissom loved the outdoors. The sun was up but not hot yet, and only a handful of people were out moving around. Whether this was normal Boot Hill Saturday activity or a severe curtailment after the gunplay in the casino, Grissom did not know.

  He passed a video rental store, a drugstore, and two restaurants. None were open, not even the restaurant, despite its promise of an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet and twenty-four-hour service.

  A block away from the two casino hotels now, Grissom noticed activity out front of the Four Kings.

  As he drew closer, Grissom could see that a makeshift memorial to Nick Valpo had sprung up on a chain-link fence that bordered a casino parking lot. Several Predators were huddling around the area, though Grissom had no idea whether they’d stayed at the Four Kings (the Predators did have some rooms there) or had somehow broken containment from the campground.

  Crossing the street, Grissom took a bench opposite and was able to watch without intruding as bikers set down flowers and other mementos under a large elaborate colored-pencil drawing on poster board (leaned against the fence and secured with duct tape) of the fallen Predator leader. Some flowers and other items were wired or otherwise attached to the chain-link. A certain melancholy sweetness was undercut by dark black letters over the somewhat idealized portrait of the dead biker captain: MURDERED IN BOOT HILL!!!

  On Grissom’s side of the street, light traffic passed in and out of the Gold Vault Casino. From his bench near the curb, the CSI had a clear view as a young woman—maybe twenty, maybe not—wearing a flowered hippie-ish dress, her long blonde hair tied back in a bow, approached the chain-link memorial and carefully positioned a bouquet of twelve red roses, bright as blood amid otherwise pastel flowers.

  When she turned away and walked toward Grissom’s side of the street, her big light-brown eyes brimmed with tears that caught sunlight and glimmered. She moved with an easy, sensuous grace, passed Grissom, and kept going.

  Grissom stopped a brunette, fortyish woman walking by wearing a Gold Vault casino employee vest and asked if she knew the young woman.

  Without looking at the receding figure, she said, “No,” and moved on.

  Then he asked a man about his own age who was carrying a drugstore sack, just as the young woman was turning a corner and disappearing.

  “Yeah, I know who that is,” the man said, catching her just in time. “Wendy Sierra’s her name.”

  And he kept on walking.

  Grissom glanced toward the police station: still no sign of Chief Lopez.

  Crossing the street again, Grissom entered the Four Kings, gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the lighting change, then took a step through the metal detectors, which promptly started screaming.

  Uniformed and nonuniformed personnel descended on him, Catherine and Sara rushing up, right in the middle. He flashed his ID, which got the security people to back off, and a guard turned off the metal-detector alarm with a key.

  “Sorry, sir,” the guard said, recognizing the CSI. “We’ve got these babies active again.”

  “Good,” Grissom said.

  He and Catherine brought each other up to speed on what they had learned.

  Then Grissom turned to Sara. “There’s a name I want you to run—Wendy Sierra. Local girl. That’s all I know.”

  Sara went off to call Vegas. Grissom figured he could get better information that way than trying to get anything out of anyone in this taciturn town.

  “Wendy Sierra?” Catherine asked.

  “Just a hunch,” he said. “There’s a memorial out on the sidewalk. This girl left a dozen roses. And tears.”

  Catherine said, “That’s not a hunch. That’s just you being sensitive.”

  That seemed to puzzle him. “Really?…Anyway, I’ve got to go—Chief Lopez is meeting me to talk to the Spokes.”

  Catherine’s face turned steely and she said, “Then I’m coming, too. Sofia e-mailed us a partial list of shooters; we can start making arrests.”

  “Oh?” Grissom asked. “Where are we going to put them? Presidential suites of these hotels?”

  “In jail is a start,” Catherine said. “The list is the first four shooters—all Spokes. We can at least get those four on ice.”

  “Good. That is a start.”

  They had crossed the st
reet to the Gold Vault lobby when Lopez came in quickly and joined them. Highway Patrolmen, a visible presence outside the building, were in greater number in the lobby.

  Business continued here, the slots still open, gambling going on for those guests not unnerved by the possibility of another gunfight breaking out. So much post-9/11 chatter had been in the air about Vegas as a possible terrorist target that many casino players were now simply immune to such fears and went back to playing as they always had. Life itself was a gamble, after all.

  The chief’s worried expression told Grissom something had not gone well at the station. The CSI decided not to bring up the Sierra girl until later; right now he wanted to know what was troubling Lopez. So he asked him.

  Lopez craned his neck around to make sure no one was within earshot besides the two CSIs. “I talked to Cody, and he’s out at Tom Price’s. Price is dead.”

  “How?” Grissom asked.

  “Suicide. Hanged himself in his house. Cody found ten thousand dollars on the kitchen table…and a note.”

  “Which said?” Grissom asked.

  “That he was sorry. He didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. And he left the money to the Delware woman’s infant daughter.”

  Catherine said, “You don’t sound very sympathetic.”

  “At least three people are dead, including that single mother, all because this greedy bastard took a bribe to turn off those metal detectors…and now I don’t even get the goddamn satisfaction of putting him away for it. Far as I’m concerned, son of a bitch got off easy.”

  Grissom said, “Is Jacks maintaining the crime scene?”

  “No—he’s on his way back here. Can’t waste one of my few detectives on one dead body with so many live threats. I sent Montaine.”

  Grissom would have preferred to go straight out there, but with so much crime in this one case, he was feeling as much like an air traffic controller as a CSI.

  Catherine was handing Lopez the list Sofia had e-mailed to the security room at the Four Kings. She explained what it was.