by Ken Goddard
“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 Lamos 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 Connor 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 directly in my eyes, so I know I fired at them first. Right after that, things got pretty hairy.”
“I’m sure they did,” Grissom said, nodding. “Did anybody else see Jane fall backwards?” He looked around at the rest of the seated group.
Mace, 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 freelance; 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 theonset of the investigation. That means all firearms in their possession, including any and all backup weapons. 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 Lamos’s men are still out there, which I seriously doubt,” Brass snapped, “and they see us collecting your agents’ 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 the fact 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 night-vision-equipped air cover, and, of course, all the backup we’d ever need from Metro and local military…if it 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 stole glances at one another 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. “So, here’s how we’re going to work it. One at a time, each of you is going to go 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 Mace said.
“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, we routinely collect a great deal of evidence, much of which is never used.”
“Okay, fine.” Mace nodded, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I said I’d cooperate.”
“So then,” Grissom acknowledged, “you’ll continue 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 and give them your gloves, and then hold out your hands.”
The young woman shuffled over to Sara and Greg, who were waiting with plastic-gloved hands, a pair of manila envelopes, and a gunshot-residue collection kit. Jane held out her hands and glared at Sara 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,” Greg said, offering up one of his patented charm-enriched smiles, but getting only a brief, dismissive snort in return.
“I’m willing to go along with this part,” Jane 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 asked.
“I said I’m not going to give up my guns, because Ricardo could still be out there,” Jane 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 Paz 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, soyou can just forget—”
>
Jane 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.
“Don’t push your luck,” Nick advised her calmly as the enraged informant 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 Jane 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 interfere in this investigation and join her in custody, this would be an excellent time to speak up.” Brass looked around at the other seated officers, but received only wicked glares from the four federal and state narcs. Connor 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 Lamos’s 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 in a few minutes.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Holland said after a moment, grabbing Fairfax’s arm and pulling the still-reluctant ASAC toward the makeshift 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 to cooperate, Catherine and I need to examine the vehicle that appears to be the center of so much attention around here.”
3
THE INITIAL ARRIVAL OF THE MILITARYassault helicopter had caught Viktor Mialkovsky out in the open, working on his scene, and the familiar rumbling of the Black Hawk’s heavy rotor blades echoing off the canyon walls had sent him scrambling for cover.
By the time he’d gotten back into position with his night-vision scope, the armored airship had landed on the far side of the distant campsite, amid the flashing lights of the responding LVPD patrol vehicles and their Search and Rescue helicopter that had touched down in the same general area some fifteen minutes earlier.
With all of that ambient light, it had been easy for Mialkovsky to visually confirm the large bright LVPD logo on the elongated-egg-shaped Hughes helicopter, and the complete lack of any visible markings on the dark-painted Black Hawk.
The earlier arrival of the Metro officers and their helicopter hadn’t concerned him much at all. These officers were trained and equipped to deal with drunks, dopers, thieves, and other relatively unprofessional idiots, and thus tended to act in a highly predictable “police” manner. But the possibility that an Army Special Forces team from the adjacent Nellis Test and Training Range had also been dispatched to the scene, for whatever reason, had been an immediate concern. Mialkovsky knew from hardearned experience that the military Special Ops teams were superbly equipped and trained to deal with individual snipers dug into rocky hillsides. If such a group had responded, he could easily find himself surrounded by radio-coordinated pairs of night-vision-equipped spotters and shooters whose skills paralleled his own.
If that happened, Mialkovsky knew, his mission would be irretrievably compromised in the best of circumstances, and his hard-earned reputation for reliability severely damaged.
All things considered, he’d be lucky to escape with his life.
Accordingly, he’d spent the next hour carefully relocating his primary surveillance site to a reasonable-compromise site that included a pair of juniper trees for additional overhead cover, a reasonable line of sight on both scenes, and at least three escape routes he might be able to withdraw through if and when that tactic became necessary.
Focused on his work, Mialkovsky had ignored the animated interactions of the growing number of figures—uniformed and otherwise—at the distant campsite below. It was only the arrival of the three nearly identical GMC Denalis following behind the brightly marked Fish & Wildlife Refuge truck that caused him to pause in his careful preparations.
The campsite had been too far away for Mialkovsky to discern any markings on the Denalis, much less identify any of the individuals who emerged from the dark SUVs, but he had little doubt as to who they were, or why they were arriving at this particular shooting scene.
Vegas’s legendary CSI team, called in to make a reconstruction,he had nodded to himself knowingly, his mind churning relentlessly as he watched the six identically uniformed green-toned figures exit their vehicles and begin to engage with the other figures at the scene.Is that you down there, Grissom? Mialkovsky had wondered, observing the lead figure directing the other five members of the responding team for a few moments before going back to work.Wouldn’t that be ironic—our paths intersecting once again?
As he’d continued to move quietly and carefully among the rocks, making minor adjustments, Viktor Mialkovsky had felt his mind and body responding to the enhanced sense of danger in a manner that was almost feral.
Finally satisfied with the distribution and arrangement of his equipment, Mialkovsky had been working his way back to his scene, determined to make a final double check of all of the critical elements, when he heard the echoing rumble of the distant Black Hawk’s rotors revving up again.
Cursing to himself, he barely managed to scramble back to his relocated position and pull himself under the thin desert-patterned canopy—a thermal blanket specifically designed to conceal the heat of his body from high- and low-altitude IR-equipped night-vision systems—when the Black Hawk came roaring overhead in a wide loop across the eastern face of the Sheep Range.
As Mialkovsky watched with the lens of his night-vision spotting scope, sticking out from under the canopy, the two
helicopters made a series of carefully choreographed sweeps around the campsite, the LVPD chopper working outward in a north-westerly direction toward the Sheep Range at an increasingly higher altitude, while the Black Hawk extended its loops in a south-easterly direction toward Las Vegas.
Every now and then, the Black Hawk appeared to hover just above ground level or to actually land—Mialkovsky couldn’t tell which—for a few moments and then take off again in its determined quest.
Mialkovsky had no idea what the Black Hawk was looking for, or doing; but its initial rapid pass across the lower face of the Sheep Range, and the slow and methodical movements of the Search and Rescue helicopter as it neared the mountains, made it easy for him to spot the night-vision camera system, illuminating infrared search beam, and thermal imaging system mounted on the undersides of both airships.
He immediately recognized both sets of night-search gear as being enhanced—but far less armored—versions of the equipment normally mounted on military helicopters.
This new insight caused Mialkovsky to pause for a moment and reflect on his situation with a sense of both relief and concern.
The quality of the night-vision and thermal imaging search systems mounted on the Black Hawk—high-resolution equipment routinely used by federal law enforcement agencies to track criminal suspects—strongly suggested that he didn’t have to worry about a visit by an Army Special Ops team.
That was a good thing.
But the presence of a federal law enforcement helicopter at this particular scene, arriving shortly after the violent shooting of the frantically fleeing Hispanic man, was a strong indication of a federal drug deal gone bad.
