In Extremis

by Ken Goddard

  “Shanna Lakewell, and I’ll take your word for the other investigators’ ID’s,” the youthful officer responded as she removed her glove and extended her right hand in a quick handshake. “Connor 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 Range, 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 Connor—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 an informant was involved in this shooting?” Grissom interjected calmly. “Presumably meaning an informant was allowed to be at a federal-state buy-bust scenearmed ?”

  “I think that’s what happened, but my information is all secondhand…from Connor.” Lakewell nodded her head nervously.

  “Connor 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. “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 anytime 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 eyebrows raised in an ‘I dare you’ look of anticipation—“bumper.” As Catherine rolled her eyes skyward, he added: “I have a feeling things are about to get interesting.”

  When the four-vehicle caravan arrived at the turnout point a few minutes later, the scene looked like something out of an early Quentin Tarantino movie.

  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 an 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 an 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 night-shift 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 a 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 gray-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 rules of 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 backup. When our responding patrol officers arrived, the UCs 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 out anywhere 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 it’s 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.”

  “You guys don’t have to tell me how a buy-bust operation is supposed to go down,” the LVPD captain shot back. “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 make 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 to say something, but Brass held up a silencing hand.

  “I count three missing primary elements in your underlying investigation, Agent Fairfax. And under the agreement that our sheriff and your agency directors have all signed and established as standard operating procedure for officer-involved shootings in Clark County,” Brass stated pointedly, “the senior officer at the scene with the least number of subordinate officers involved in the shooting is to 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 immediately conducts a shooting reconstruction to verify the facts of the incident. I’m not wrong about all this, am I?”

  Fairfax looked like he was about to interject something, but remained silent.

  “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. I think you have enough problems as it is.”

  “I’m glad you’re on our side,” Catherine murmured to Brass, giving him a wry smile.

  “You should see mewithout the coffee,” Brass replied as he turned to Grissom. “Are you ready?”

  “You bet,” 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, from the crime lab. This is my deputy supervisor, Catherine Willows; and this is 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.

  “Connor Grayson. I’m the supervising refuge officer here at the Desert National Range. You’ll have my complete cooperation in this matter.”

  “Thanks, Connor,” Grissom commented, motioning with his head at the next figure.

  “Jeremy Mace, 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.”

  “Russell Jackson, special agent, DEA. Far as I’m concerned, this whole deal is pure bullshit. I’ll leave i
t 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 bloodstained 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 deceased 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 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.

  “Nobodysaw 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,” Grayson finally said, “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.” He pointed 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 we all came out of our barricade positions and approached the truck.”