Crime Scene - CSI Reilly Steel Prequel
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That meant he was irrational and likely had no plan, other than to obtain money or drugs, or money for drugs. She assumed he must work for a dealer or other drug kingpin; your garden-variety meth user, she reasoned, would probably not have access to an automatic weapon or the incredible amount of ammunition he was burning through. Every few seconds, he’d shout out more obscenities and threats and fire his weapon randomly into the now-deserted mall.
In her earpiece, Reilly heard Jake issuing instructions. “Okay rookies,” he said, “enough hiding behind stuff. Get your butts out there and take this guy down. You need to confront him, people.”
Reilly looked toward her fellow recruits. Everyone exchanged glances.
Then Hillary, a tall brunette, motioned for Jason and Reilly to cover her while she rushed the gunman from behind. All nodded in agreement and got ready to move. Again, Reilly heard Jake barking into their earpieces. “Come on, what are you waiting for? Rush him.”
Irritated, she turned her focus back to Jason and Hillary. Jake’s ill-timed instruction had thrown off their timing. Instead of rushing forward as planned, Hillary froze.
The gunman turned and saw her frozen mid-step. He leveled his weapon at her. There was no time for Hillary to move out of harm’s way, and both Jason and Reilly were too far away to intercept.
Suddenly, out of another shop doorway further down the mall, Jake burst out, holding an automatic weapon of his own. With a primal scream, he ran straight for the gunman, firing continuously. The hostage was hit first; she crumpled to the ground and the gunman was riddled with bullets.
As the echo of gunfire died away, she heard Rob Crichton’s voice in their ear buds. “Okay, that’s it. Let’s get out.”
The virtual reality faded away, giving over to the reality of the nearly empty VirtSim room.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, was an excellent demonstration of how we do not resolve a conflict,” Crichton said tightly.
“Yeah well, it was taking too long,” said Jake. “Maybe next time they’ll get to it faster.”
Rob glared at him. “The point is not how long it takes,” he said tersely. “The point is to not kill the hostage while the agents get the gunman.” Turning to the rest of the class, he said, “You’ll have to excuse our somewhat over-zealous instructor. Now go get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another long one, and we’ll be trying the VirtSim again. Preferably without the heroics next time.” And with that, he turned and left the room.
Reilly wanted nothing more than to follow SSA Crichton’s advice. She was tired, and frustrated with their first VirtSim run. If only that idiot Jake hadn’t gotten so impatient, and spoken up at the wrong time. . .
Faye was saying something to her, but she was lost in her own thoughts. She turned to ask Faye to repeat her comments — and found herself face to face with Jake.
“Hey there,” he said in an oily tone that Reilly supposed was meant to be sexy but only sounded creepy. She gave him a small, insincere smile and tried to step around him, but he moved to block her way.
“So were you impressed?” he asked her. Reilly almost shot back a harsh reply, then checked herself. Instead of telling him what a colossal idiot she thought he was, she merely said, “It was definitely interesting.”
“Yeah. Always feels great when you’ve saved the universe.” He laughed like he really thought his comment was funny.
“Yes, it was something all right …” Reilly bit her tongue.
“I always like to wind down after I off somebody in VirtSim,” Jake continued. “How about we go get a beer and get to know one another better?”
She forced herself to keep her tone even, wishing she could wipe the smirk off his face with the back of her hand. “I’m tired. I need to get some rest,” she said. Moving past him, she started for the door.
“I’ll take you up on that beer,” Reilly heard Faye say.
Jake gave her a look. “I was asking her.”
Faye flushed but didn’t say a word. She merely picked up her gear and followed Reilly out of the room.
“I can’t believe he just said that to me,” she raged. “I’m going to get him to take me out if it takes all 20 weeks.”
“And I can’t believe you still want to, especially after what he just said,” replied Reilly open-mouthed. “Faye, he’s a jerk. You deserve better than that.”
“Maybe, but I want him.”
Reilly shook her head, mystified. “Just be careful what you wish for.”
Back in the room, the two began to prepare for bed.
“Boy, am I beat,” Reilly yawned. “I know it was a busy day, but I am extra-tired for some reason.”
“Probably the nightmare,” Faye said simply
Reilly’s head snapped up. “What? What nightmare?”
“Last night about 2 am, you woke me up. You were whimpering in your sleep. Then you started talking but I couldn’t understand what you were saying. It sounded like you were pleading with someone. Then you screamed. I tried to wake you, but I couldn’t. You calmed down though, so I figured you were okay. You scared the holy crap out of me, though. What were you dreaming about?”
“I . . . don’t remember,” Reilly replied, her cheeks coloring.
Damn.
Luckily, Faye decided not to press for an explanation and although Reilly genuinely didn’t remember having the nightmare, she knew well what the dream was about. It was the same one she’d been having every night since her mother was murdered.
So much for being remade.
Chapter 3
The following day, the recruits were taken outside to a mock crime scene in a wooded area on campus. Rob Crichton informed them that the purpose of the exercise was to process the crime scene and form a hypothesis on what had occurred.
The students were to examine the scene on their own, make notes and come together after one hour to discuss their findings. Crichton would then critique their observations and hypotheses, filling in any missing information.
Reilly and her fellow recruits began to study the mock crime scene. Near a large tree, there was a man’s baseball cap in the dirt and beside it, a torn shirt with blood stains, and a small, bloody pocketknife.
The students were instructed to examine the evidence for 30 minutes without touching anything. She immediately noted that the baseball cap, a faded blue color with no logo, was upside down. The shirt, a cheap white tank top known as a “wife beater,” was torn at the shoulder as though someone had pulled on it.
The blood stains, few but large, were surrounding a slash about chest level. The pocket knife, a keychain-sized model, lay with its tiny blade open on the ground, covered in blood to the handle. The knife was blue in color and the small ring at the end, usually attached to a larger key ring, was empty.
No keys were in sight. There were no marks on the tree itself, but there were signs of a scuffle in the dirt surrounding the roots. Unfortunately no distinct footprints or patterns were visible though, as the dirt area gave way to grass within a few feet of the base of the tree. The grass however, was quite smashed and compacted with signs of an escalating struggle. Reilly carefully examined the ground and found what she guessed she was supposed to be looking for — a small puddle of blood amidst the disturbed grass.
When 30 minutes had elapsed, SSA Crichton removed the crime scene tape and allowed the students to examine the evidence more closely. Reilly went straight for the knife. Pulling on her latex gloves, she picked it up and began to look at it more closely.
The blood on the knife stopped right before the blade ended and the casing began, which could mean that the attacker’s hand had slid up the knife as he stabbed. She turned it over and noted that the typical logo displayed on the case of such blades had been covered with a small rose decal.
Relinquishing the blade to one of her fellow recruits, Reilly moved on to the shirt. Several students were already examining it, so she patiently waited for them to finish. In the meantime, she observed the others present.
Despite his charming accent and friendly openness, Jason impressed Reilly as a perceptive, contemplative man. She watched him now as he and Faye examined the baseball cap. Jason was flirting and Faye was flirting back. Reilly was glad; maybe she would forget about that annoying Jake Callahan.
Reilly then turned her attention to the trio examining the shirt: Jordan Nance, a highly intelligent computer geek from Detroit; Michael Wayne Bolton, (and yes, he’d heard all the jokes about his name, which is why he insisted they call him Butch), a Mormon and former Sheriff from Missouri; and Farhad Azizi, a graphic novelist from New York City.
The three seemed to be engrossed in the blood stain pattern. Reilly continued to observe, allowing her eyes to play over the scene, looking for any further clues. Seeing nothing, she moved closer to the three guys. They greeted her, indicated they were finished with the shirt, passed it to her, and moved on.
Reilly looked over the shirt, noting the blood stain pattern and examining the tear. Someone had definitely gripped this man’s shirt tightly, ripping the fabric and pulling it off his body. She detected a faint aroma; slightly flowery with an undertone of musk. She sniffed the shirt more closely, searching for the source of the scent.
As she neared the torn shoulder, the smell intensified slightly. Reilly inhaled it again, then moved on to see if the scent was elsewhere. Coming to the opposite shoulder of the shirt, she detected it again. Following the scent down the shirt toward the blood stain, she tracked to where the smell of the “blood” (Reilly detected no metallic odor, so she knew it had to be stage blood) interfered with the flowery-musky scent. Turning the shirt over, she smelled the back of the garment. The smell was present but only faintly. She guessed this was due to the time the garment had spent lying on the ground — the smell had transferred from the front of the shirt to the back.
Reilly bent down to where it had been lying. At first she saw nothing but trampled dirt and grass. But as she looked more closely, she noticed a tiny spot of color — something tiny and bright pink. Picking up the object with a tweezers, she discovered it was the tip of a painted fingernail. She’d nearly missed it; it had been hidden mostly under the edge of the grass where it stopped and gave way to the dirt surrounding the tree.
Laura and Nicole Stewart from Seattle, twin sisters with jet black hair and dark eyes, approached and asked if they could examine the shirt. Reilly handed it to them, but kept the discovery of the fingernail to herself. When the twins bent to examine the shirt, she replaced the fingernail where she’d found it.
After 15 minutes of examination, the students gathered together near the “crime scene.” SSA Crichton queried what the evidence had told them, and what they thought happened. A few scenarios, including a drug deal gone bad, a mugging, and a variation of Reilly’s own suspicions (albeit missing a few key pieces of evidence) were proposed, but Crichton gave no indication which scenario, if any was correct. When it came time for Reilly to speak, she proposed her theory — the scene indicated an unsuccessful rape attempt and the wrath of the intended victim on the perpetrator.
“And how did you come to that conclusion?” asked Crichton, his expression giving nothing away.
“Well, at first I thought it was an attempted robbery too, but when I found the fingernail and smelled the perfume . . .”
“Excuse me?” Crichton interrupted. “Did you say you smelled perfume?”
She paused, wondering if she’d come to the wrong conclusion somehow, but it was the best theory she had, so she proceeded. “Yes, at least I think it was perfume. It was flowery and sweet, so I assumed it was a woman’s. I didn’t get enough to maybe pinpoint the brand so I’m only guessing, but it didn’t smell like a man’s cologne. Too feminine.”
“I see. And you also mentioned a fingernail?”
“Yes, there was the tip of a woman’s fingernail, painted bright pink, right at the edge of the grass and the dirt, under the tank top. I almost missed it at first but when I bent down and took a closer look . . . “
“So what do you think happened, Steel?”
“I think that our ‘victim' was actually a perpetrator who got what he deserved. He accosted a woman, pulled her close to him and told her he was going to rape her. And she retaliated by fighting back. She had a small pocket knife, which she managed to get out of her purse or pocket and use it to stab him, but the wound would have been fairly superficial because she lacked the strength to jam the blade in all the way. I could tell by where the blood ended on the blade. I mean, it could have been that her hand slipped, but that would be more likely if the attacker was another man. He likely slapped her hand away or something right after she stabbed him. She freaked out because the wound bled a lot at first, and that made him angry too, so I’m guessing she fled and he attempted to chase her. But she must have gotten away or someone else showed up and spooked him, because after the signs of the struggle near the tree, there aren’t any more patches like that on the grass nearby.”
Crichton’s face was impassive. “Congratulations. You’ve just solved the case.”
After class, he called Reilly over. “Do you mean to tell me that you could actually smell the perfume on the shirt?”
She paused. “Yes, sir,” she replied cautiously.
“Incredible,” the instructor said, with faint admiration in his tone. “No one ever got the perfume clue, so we gave up putting it on the shirt. Over 8 months ago.”
Chapter 4
The remainder of the first week was extremely busy and long. Each day’s activities lasted 12 hours or longer, and by Friday evening the recruits were dragging. Everyone wanted a break but was too tired to do anything about it.
Saturday was a different story. They had the weekends off, which as training progressed would evolve into much-needed extra study and sleep time. This first weekend however was another story. Nearly all the recruits were eager to blow off some steam.
About 1:00 Saturday afternoon, rumors began circulating about an off-campus party that night. The location was an absent relative’s home of a friend of one of new recruits. The address was passed around. The party would begin at 7 pm. There would be booze.
By 6:30 that evening, nearly everyone had left campus for the party. Faye and Reilly were still getting dressed. Faye kept changing her clothes, insisting that she looked terrible in everything, eventually settling on a little black dress, patterned tights, and high-heeled boots. Reilly kept it low-key with a simple white T-shirt, jeans and boots. By 7:00, they were ready to go. Both were looking forward to the evening. The weather was perfect, and they felt they could use a change of scenery, since they hadn’t left the FBI compound all week.
As they were leaving Faye said, “I really hate to be late, but I think we need to grab a bite to eat before we go. I have a feeling I may drink a little tonight, so I need some ballast before I start.” Seeing Reilly’s startled look, she hastened to add, “Don’t worry, I won’t be driving us home. You can drive a stick shift, right?”
“Absolutely.” Reilly wasn’t much of a drinker, so she didn’t mind being designated driver. Secretly, she had been itching to drive Faye’s car. It was a classic, and had a 420cc engine that tore up the road. She had a weakness for fast, powerful automobiles — particularly muscle cars and Faye’s was a classic ’67 Mustang convertible in Nightmist Blue that she and her brother had restored several years before. Original interior and upholstery, the car had been flawless but missing the engine. Faye explained that her brother had bought it from an elderly woman whose husband had passed away the year before. The car had been in the garage for at least two decades.
He’d wanted to teach her about cars so “no slime ball mechanic can pull one over on my little sister.” It had been a valuable education, and more fun than Faye could have imagined.
The two went to a Mexican restaurant near the Quantico compound. When Reilly had time to relax she loved to cook, particularly Cajun and Mexican dishes. She made a mean chile relleno, if she said so herself.
The restaurant wasn’t busy but the service was slow, so Reilly and Faye didn’t finish eating until nearly 8:00. Undeterred, they headed for the party.
The festivities were taking place at a house in the nearby hills; Reilly had checked the directions online and printed them out and as Faye had a GPS device, they were confident they wouldn’t be too late.
But after driving around for over half an hour, repeatedly losing the GPS signal and finding errors in the online map, they had to admit they were lost. Frustrated, they pulled over. Taking some time to get their bearings and discerning where they were based on their previous wanderings, they decided on a direction and set out again. The GPS came back on intermittently and using the internet map, what information came from the GPS, as well as their instincts, they eventually found the party. By the time they parked the Mustang, it was nearly 9:00.
Getting out of the car, Reilly and Faye headed for the house. They’d had to park near the far end of the street, and Faye was now loudly bemoaning her choice of footwear. As they approached the house, Reilly noticed how quiet it seemed. It certainly looked like a gathering was taking place — every available parking spot had been taken, including several cars parked on the lawn. It was obvious the yard had been well-manicured, and now it sported deep gouges in the lawn from partygoers using it as a parking lot.
Faye didn’t comment on the cars on the lawn, but she did say, “Doesn’t it seem a little quiet for a party?”
“I was just noticing that,” Reilly replied. “Obviously, it’s a full house from all the cars parked here, but I don’t hear any people. What could be going on?”