I:
Captain James Brass silently watched as David Phillips went about his job, a half-hidden look of disgust on the jaded detective’s face. He was a cop. A homicide detective at that, which meant he dealt with the worst his part of the world had to offer. Still, there were horrors even Jim Brass had a hard time stomaching.
Hidden among the tumbleweeds and other debris that collected at the entrance to one of the many drainage tunnels that serviced the greater Las Vegas area was the reason Brass had been called out on such an inhospitable night. The body of a half naked teenage boy had been discovered by a couple of patrolmen investigating a 9-1-1 call nearby. Looking as if he had been washed up by rainwater, the boy’s dead eyes stared up at the somber police captain, demanding justice even in death.
“Hey Jim, what have we got?”
Brass turned from the lifeless gaze boring into his skull to the man making his way down the cement embankment that led from the road above. Silver case in hand, Gil Grissom deftly made his way to where Brass stood, doing a short skip where the embankment entered the concrete gully.
“Just you tonight?” Brass asked, not seeing any backup for the Night Shift Supervisor.
Grissom placed the silver case at his feet before pulling a pair of latex gloves from his lab issued jacket pocket, his eyes taking in the body that David was finishing up with. “Sara and Catherine are going to meet us here,” he informed Brass, stepping closer to the body to get a better look. “Do we have a T.O.D., David?”
David turned his bespeckled face up as he spoke. “His body temperature is ninety-two degrees. Given the ambient temperature and the lack of rigor mortis I would estimate he’s been dead no more then three hours,” David informed them.
Grissom nodded squatting down on his haunches next to David. Realizing he had a captured audience, David momentarily stumbled on. “Umm, it looks like cause of death is a puncture wound to his right side. Dr. Robbins can confirm that back at the morgue.” Pointing Grissom’s attention to the young man’s wrists, “Possible ligature marks?” he asked.
Grissom nodded as he noted the same red marks on the boy’s ankles. “What’s this, David?” Grissom asked, his pointed finger indicating a long, perfectly straight cut. The wound started just below the young man’s sternum and angled down at a forty-five degree angle, almost paralleling the ribcage.
“Not certain, yet,” David answered. “It’s deep but wouldn’t have been life threatening,” he added as he collected his things. “The body’s all yours.”
“Thank you, David,” Grissom said, his attention focused primarily on the body before him.
Grissom stood up and reached for his field camera, pulling the lens cap off his eyes barely strayed from the body. Snapping his locator shots, Grissom mentally took notes about their victim. The boy didn’t look to be older then fifteen or sixteen. The general lack of body mass suggested to Grissom that he had a poor diet and the ratty condition of his boxers hinted at bad hygiene, poverty or both.
There was blood streaked down across the boy’s neck reminiscent of claw marks indicating either the victim or the perpetrator had clutched at the boy’s neck. Adjusting the camera to take several close-up shots, Grissom quickly finished with his photographs and turned his attention to examining the body for trace evidence.
Much of the blood evidence had been diluted and contaminated by the trickle of a stream flowing from the nearby drainage tunnel. The rains the night before had sent a deluge down upon a city not renowned for its ability to deal with heavy precipitation, turning the sewers and underground water channels into raging rivers.
“Hey, Jim.”
Brass turned from watching Grissom examine the crime scene to the two women making their way along the cement culvert. “Sara, Catherine,” he greeted. Motioning to the body he said, “We got ourselves a big crap sandwich.”
“Aww, damn it,” Catherine cursed when she laid eyes on their victim. “He’s just a kid.”
“Yea,” Brass answered, a look of disgust on his face. “I’m having Vartaan check missing persons, see if anything looks like our victim here.”
Sara came up behind Grissom, setting her case down next to his before slipping her gloves on. “What do you need me to do?” she asked.
Grissom was barely aware Sara had asked him anything his focus captured by the victim’s feet. “He doesn’t have any shoes,” Grissom thought out loud.
Catherine gave Sara an incredulous look. Grissom could be the king of the obvious sometimes. “Yes, he also has no pants, no shirt,” Catherine said sardonically. “Poor kid’s pretty much nude here.”
Grissom rolled his eyes at Catherine, well used to her sarcasm. “If the local scavengers had picked him clean for his clothes,” Grissom began, referring to the homeless population that often made the drain sewers their home, “then why are his feet torn up and bloody?”
Both Catherine and Sara shone their flashlights down on their victim’s feet. The bare feet were criss-crossed with painful looking cuts, caked with blood and dirt. Catherine pinched her lips in a look of grudging interest. He had a point, Catherine thought. Of course with the knowing smirk that had developed on the man’s face, Catherine would never admit it out loud.
“Catherine, you and Sara fan out,” Grissom said, looking up at the two women. “Let’s see if we can find out where this kid came from.”
The two women nodded, working their way out from the body in concentric circles. The light from their flashlights swaying back and forth in front of their feet as they carefully searched the ground for any clues. The likelihood of finding anything useful was going to be pretty slim, the damp cement would not easily give up anything of value.
A rumble of thunder in the distance had all three CSIs looking up at the overcast skies and silently cursing. Rain was an investigator’s worst nightmare. The power of a simple rainstorm to obliterate evidence and wash away clues was on par with fire and there was not much they could do about it other than pick up their pace.
“We better hurry,” Grissom called out to the women.
Sara and Catherine had already picked it up a notch, doubling their vigilance to compensate for their increased pace. Working under pressure was nothing new for the women. But losing evidence to the elements was particularly aggravating, especially when there was so little of it to collect.
Grissom put his trace lifts in his kit before snatching up his flashlight and making his way to Brass, carefully scanning the ground to ensure he didn’t step on any possible evidence along the way. His eyes examined the road traversing the culvert far above before looking over his shoulder, following the concrete waterway with his gaze.
“It wouldn’t be easy to spot the body from the road,” Grissom told Brass, who was patiently waiting for the man to formulate his thoughts. “And the debris obscures it from this direction,” he explained pointing in the direction behind Brass.
Brass turned in the direction Grissom pointed before scoping out the scene, his eyes following the higher terrain in a hundred-eighty degree arc. “Best place to spot the kid would be from the tunnel or up there, maybe,” Brass said, indicating an area above the culvert and several yards back from the street.
The banks of the man-made drainage river were littered with dumped appliances. The open ground buffering the giant culvert was an easy dumping ground for those not wanting to pay the required disposal fee. Piles of broken televisions, computer monitors, stoves and refrigerators marred the terrain, making minuscule electronic mountains.
“Hey guys!” Sara called out on the opposite embankment from Grissom and Brass, “I might have a bloody shoeprint here,”
“It looks like a child’s shoe,” she told Grissom as he came to stand next to her, her brows creased, her face grim.
Grissom had to agree that the print did seem too small for an adult. “We’ll never get a lift off the cement, best to grab as many shots of it as you can then see where they lead.”
Sara nodded before placing her measurement scale next to the footprint. The L-shaped ruler would help Sara determine the shoe size which would give her an approximate height range. It wasn’t much to go on but as every investigator knew, sometimes it was the little things that made or broke an investigation.
Grissom saw that Catherine’s search grid had led her to the entrance of the garage-sized drainage tunnel. Not comfortable with Catherine being alone near the tunnel, Grissom made his way over to her. Most of the sewer’s two-legged occupants were society’s sad toss-aways. Men and women who were out of work, out of luck and out of a home. On average these poor souls were harmless, more concerned with day to day survival but scattered within their numbers were criminals and the deranged.
It was the latter two that had Grissom stepping up to keep an eye on Catherine. “Find anything?” He asked, shining his light into the darkened recess of the passageway.
Catherine was kneeling down, examining the ground in front of her, her flashlight sweeping in a subtle curve as she stood up. “I’ve got blood,” she informed him as she secured the swab with the blood sample she had collected. “I think this is where he got that stab wound,” Catherine explained, shining her light on what was left of a large blood pool, the small stream of water lazily making its way through the culvert having washed away much of the blood.
Grissom swung his light back towards their victim. “Okay,” he began, visualizing the crime and forming a possible scenario. “Our vic comes out of the tunnel…presumably shoeless since his feet are torn up. He’s stabbed here by his assailant, struggles, gets away but only gets a couple of yards before he dies from his wounds?”
“Assuming he died by exsanguination,” Catherine stated, since cause of death had not been officially determined.
“True,” Grissom said with brows raised. “I’m thinking we need to check out these tunnels, maybe-“
“Oh no! I did sewer duty last time,” Catherine objected strenuously. “It’s you or your honey this time,” Catherine stabbed a finger between Grissom and Sara, her voice taking on a conspiratorial hush.
Grissom gave the strawberry-blonde a single arched brow in reply; his head swiveling nonchalantly in either direction to ascertain if her objection was heard by anyone nearby. Aside from Brass and the team, no one knew about Grissom and Sara’s relationship.
Catherine gave him a sly little wink as she made her way past him, enjoying the little start she gave him when she mentioned the two secret lovers. “Don’t worry, hot-shot,” she teased, grinning at the annoyed look on his face.
There were times when Grissom felt justified in the idea of muzzling his best friend. Checking Sara’s progress and assuring himself that Officer Mitchell was keeping an eye on her, Grissom followed Catherine over to where Brass was speaking with Vartaan.
“Vartaan,” Catherine greeted as she approached. “Find anything on our young John Doe?”
Vartaan glanced over to where David Phillips and his assisted were strapping the black bag enclosed body on to a gurney. “Not yet,” he answered regretfully. “If he was reported missing it wasn’t in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Well,” Catherine watched as David and his assistant lifted the wheeled gurney up, “he hasn’t been dead that long. Maybe no one knows he’s missing yet.”
“Could be a runaway or homeless too,” Grissom threw in. “Maybe one of the locals will recognize him.”
A knowing look crossed Vartaan’s face. “Funny you should mention that,” he told Grissom. “There’s a Sister Elizabeth Ortega up on the road.” Vartaan pointed to the road above. The slashing red and blue lights of the police cruisers diffusing in the approaching morning light, they had caught this case at the tale end of night shift.
“Sister Liz?” Brass asked, stuffing his notepad in the inner pocket of his suit coat, giving Grissom and Catherine a pained but curious look.
Vartaan catching the knowing glances between his superior and the CSIs asked, “Do you know her?”
“Sister Liz? Oh yea,” Catherine answered definitively. “This will be interesting.”
Vartaan’s curiosity about the sister was peaked as he followed the three up the embankment to the road above. He could almost swear that he had seen a flicker of fear pass across Jim Brass’ face. Could Brass be afraid of the little sister?
“Sister Liz.” Grissom was the first to greet the slight woman upon reaching the street. Over the nearly twenty years he had worked in Vegas, Grissom had had his fair share of run-ins with the feisty Sister. He had found her to be highly opinionated and stubborn but had grown to respect the woman immensely. She had a tough job and she did it well, even if it meant butting heads with the local law enforcement.
Sister Elizabeth Ortega was a tiny firecracker of woman. Always willing to fight the good fight, Sister Liz had made a reputation of being a tough cookie willing to go toe to toe with the worst that society threw at her. A five foot nothing crusader for Las Vegas’ downtrodden, she worked diligently for the homeless, as well as the hundreds of street kids. Her presence told Grissom that their victim was most likely the latter.
“Gil,” Sister Liz said somberly, trying to look beyond him to the two men wrestling the gurney up out of the culvert. Turning her dark gaze upon Brass she added, “James.”
Brass almost cringed. He always felt like he was being reprimanded by the diminutive Sister. “Sister,” he greeted back.
If the moment had not been such a solemn one, Catherine might have laughed at the almost contrite look upon the police captain’s face. “Sister what brings you out this early in the day?” Catherine asked, wondering if the Sister had heard of the body in the culvert.
Pulling the oversized and well-used denim jacket tighter, Sister Liz explained her presence. “I was told there was a hurt boy out here and I wanted to check for myself. See if I could help,” she said, her serious gaze momentarily skirting to the small crowd that had developed on the other side of the bridge that traversed the culvert.
Grissom followed her gaze and noted several teenagers being blocked by a patrolmen. Even from his distance he could see the anxious and frightened looks on their faces. They are probably missing someone, Grissom thought. Otherwise there was no reason for them to fear the bodybag laden gurney cresting the road.
“And how did you find out about the boy, Sister?” Grissom asked, his attention divided between the petite Sister and the group of increasingly agitated teens.
A pause hung in the air catching Grissom’s undivided attention. Sister Liz folded her arms defiantly across her chest, giving Grissom a glaring eye. A sideways glance at Brass showed the man dancing uncomfortable at the sister’s reprimanding stare while Catherine tried to control the smile breaking out over her face. “Sister?” Grissom questioned with an arched brow.
“Why do you ask?” She demanded boldly, unwilling to give any ground.
“A young man was murdered-“
“Murdered!” Sister Liz unfolded her arms, her look of defiance melting quickly into shocked concern as she made to move past Grissom.
Grissom reached out to gently grab the sister’s upper arm, a look of concern and warning in his eyes. Sister Liz had seen her fair share of dead bodies. Like Grissom, her vocation made it unavoidable. Unlike Grissom, Sister Liz generally knew the victims in life before seeing them in death. A silent communication went on between the CSI and the Sister before Sister Liz nodded, Grissom wanted the woman to be prepared.
Letting go of her arm, Grissom followed the woman over to where David was preparing to load the body into the Coroner’s van. “David,” Grissom called out, halting the Assistant Coroner.
Understanding, David told his assistant to wait before stepping back from the gurney. Grissom gave the younger man an approving nod before stepping up to the gurney, his hands reaching out for the zipper that would reveal their victim to Sister Liz. A quick look to see that she was ready and Grissom pulled the zipper down, the rasp sounding rude in the relative silence of the moment.
Grissom pulled the open sides apart for the Sister’s view, the moment heavy as her dark gaze took in the boy’s face. With tentative fingers, Sister Liz reached out to gently brush the lock of wet sandy blonde hair from the boy’s face before running the palm of her hand along his cold, pale cheek.
“His name is Jesse Burdette,” Sister Liz informed Grissom, her dark eyes never leaving the dead boy. “Most just called him Burd. He was a good boy, never into any trouble, had a job even, worked for some construction outfit as a general laborer.” The Sister looked up at Grissom, her sad eyes strangely reminiscent of Sara’s when she was down. “He was going to be a daddy in a couple of months,” she told him with a twisted, wry smile.
Grissom’s eyes widened marginally. It wasn’t unheard of, teen pregnancy, still he was amazed at how many kids out there tested fate. “Did Burd have any enemies? Anyone that might want to hurt him?” Grissom asked, his voice low and compassionate as he looked at the solemn woman, her mouth pinched tightly as she worked to keep her emotions in check.
Sister Liz shook her head. “No, he was well liked by most…no enemies that I know of other than the usual ones all these kids have.”
Grissom nodded knowing full well the inherent dangers that homeless kids faced. Pedophiles and degenerates roamed the streets with kindly smiles and promises of better tomorrows, trolling for some poor young kid desperate enough to take their poisonous bait. The streets were dangerous enough for an adult, for a child hungry, homeless and without hope it could be a death sentence.
Softly whispering a prayer over the boy before making the sign of the cross, she said, “I assume you’ll want to talk with some of the kids.”
The squaring of her shoulders told Grissom that the Sister had gone into protective mode. The street kids were her young and she’d fight to death for them, regardless of the foe. Grissom couldn’t fault her for that, even if it had made his job difficult at times.
“Yes.”
With a curt nod she let him know she would talk with Burd’s friends. “Just tell James he better be nice,” she warned, walking by the startled man in question. The look on his face questioned what crime he had committed.
“What I do?” Brass asked as Grissom came to stand by him.
Grissom shrugged, his interest on the group of teenagers the Sister was breaking the news to. A slender, blonde, obviously pregnant girl began shaking her head frantically before screaming “no”. She was quickly supported in a protective embrace by a skinny red-headed boy. Sister Liz stroking the distraught girl’s head softly began to lead them away. Grissom knew where to find her. He just hoped she could convince her kids to talk with him.
“I take it she knew our victim,” Catherine stated, her voice tight as she reined in her emotions.
“Yes,” Grissom answered. “According to the good Sister our victim’s name is Jesse Burdette.”
Brass scribbled the name down on his notepad. “She give us a reason why the kid is dead?” He asked, turning at the sound of the Coroner van doors being slammed shut.
Grissom shook his head. “No but she says if you’ll be good we can talk to the kids at the shelter.”
Brass made a snort of insult, his hands thrown up in the air. “Whatever happened to forgiveness? It’s been sixteen years dammit!” Brass cursed as he stalked to his car.
A small smirk slipped on to Grissom’s face at the police captain’s indignant rant. Turning to Catherine he said, “I’m going to go with Jim. You and Sara take back the evidence. If nothing pertinent comes up call it a day.” With that he hurried to catch up to Brass.
Slipping into the passenger seat, Grissom chuckled at the sour look on Brass’ face.
“What?” Brass challenged.
“You’re pouting,” Grissom chuckled, slipping his sunglasses on, thankful that the rain clouds were slowly giving way.
Brass slapped his sunglasses on before turning the ignition to his Charger over. “I’m not pouting,” he declared. “Look, I told her I was sorry. She’s a Sister for God’s sake, isn’t she suppose to forgive and all that.”
Grissom pursed and rolled his lips in effort to stem the laughter that was threatening to burst forth. “Maybe she felt you were less than penitent,” Grissom needled the man wickedly.
“Oh, shut up,” Brass ordered, trying not to be amused by the situation.