CSI09 - In Extremis

  CSI: Crime Scene Investigation™ In ExtremisA NovelKen GoddardPocket Star Books New York • London • Toronto • SydneyBased on the hit CBS series “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation” produced by CBS PRODUCTIONS, a business unit of CBS Broadcasting Inc., and ALLIANCE ATLANTIS PRODUCTIONS, INC. in association with Jerry Bruckheimer Television. Executive Producers: Jerry Bruckheimer, Carol Mendelsohn, Anthony E. Zuiker, Ann Donahue, Naren Shankar, Cynthia Chvatal, William Petersen, Jonathan Littman Series created by: Anthony E. ZuikerI Wonder What the Going Price Would Be for a Hit on You, Grissom?

  Mialkovsky casually allowed the crosshairs of his still-restabilizing rifle scope to center on the CSI’s head. Possibly a great deal of money; but who would have the nerve to issue the contract? They’d have to know that the other CSIs would never stop looking for the killer

  or the people who set it into motion. The idea of being known among his peers as the only assassin ballsy enough to take the internationally infamous Gil Grissom out with a single shot and then successfully evade the subsequent all-points search by vengeful legions of detectives, CSIs, and forensic scientists appealed to Mialkovsky in an oddly twisted Special Ops sort of way. But he wasn’t about to give in to the macho impulses that had once fueled his most outrageously risky and successful missions. He’d long since outgrown those youthful flashes of insanity. Or, at least, he assumed he had. The truth was, Viktor really didn’t know; and he only vaguely cared. But of one thing he was certain: playing the odds with a clever and resourceful crime scene investigator like Gil Grissom was a Las Vegas long shot, indeed. Something he’d sworn not to do, but then accepted the Clark County contract anyway because the money had been too good to resist

  .Original novels in the CSI series: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation Double Dealer Sin City Cold Burn Body of Evidence Grave Matters Binding Ties Killing Game Snake Eyes In Extremis Serial (graphic novel)CSI: Miami Florida Getaway Heat Wave Cult Following Riptide Harm for the Holidays: Misgivings Harm for the Holidays: Heart AttackCSI: NY Dead of Winter Blood on the Sun Deluge

  Pocket Star Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright Š 2007 by CBS Broadcasting Inc. and Alliance Atlantis Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Alliance Atlantis and the stylized A design are trademarks of Alliance Atlantis Communications, Inc. Used under license. All Rights Reserved.CSI: CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION and related marks are trademarks of CBS Broadcasting Inc. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. ISBN-10: 1-4165-7199-X ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-7199-5 Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.comIn memory of San Bernardino Sheriff’s criminalist John Davidson, an amazing fellow who taught me long ago to reconstruct shooting scenes with a slide rule and a set of trig tables

  and of Whittier (CA) PD Sergeant Tom Lamping, a recently lost buddy who faced life and adversity with the heart of a devoted husband, loving father, skilled craftsman, and tough cop.Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to my editor, Ed Schlesinger, who has a very keen sense of suspense and mystery, not to mention a questionably evil gift for keeping readers guessing; and to my literary agent, Eleanor Wood, who has remained amazingly supportive and encouraging all these years. And a special thanks to my longtime criminalist buddy, Luke Haag, who brought the entire science of shooting scene reconstruction forward in his wonderful— and aptly named— new reference book that, in my certainly biased view, ought to be required reading for all CSIs— trainees, practitioners, and dinosaurs alike. Luke, like many other “old-timers” in the field (myself included), is an advocate of the idea that while performing their work in a carefully methodical, analytical, and ethical manner, forensic scientists should never forget that their proper role in the lab or at a crime scene is to think about the significance of the evidence that lies before their eyes. The following comment regarding the accreditation-driven trend of crime labs in the U.S. (and throughout the world) to establish rigorous protocols for each and every examination their scientists perform; thus— intentionally or otherwise— establishing “menus” of tests for the investigators to select from when they submit their evidence is apt and timely: “In this strictly reactive role the forensic scientist is no longer functioning as a scientist at all. Rather he or she has been reduced to the role of a technician

  . He or she may be doing the requested tests correctly and in accordance with some approved, standardized, certified, or accredited methodology but they are not fulfilling the true role of a forensic scientist.”

  — Lucien C. Haag, 2006, SHOOTING INCIDENT RECONSTRUCTION

  1

  LIKE THE YOUNG MULE DEER in his rifle scope, Viktor Mialkovsky was a patient creature who preferred to spend a great deal of time monitoring his surroundings before making a decisive move. But unlike that timid mammal— who now sat trembling in fear approximately two hundred yards from his high-point position overlooking the rocky clearing below— Mialkovsky was the furthest thing imaginable from harmless. Thanks to a considerable amount of progressively intense training and experience, all paid for by the United States government, Viktor Mialkovsky was perfectly capable of killing human and wildlife alike with a wide range of lethal weapons that specifically included his bare hands. As a result of that same training and experience, he was also considered an expert hunter, tracker, and survivalist by the small number of peers and supervisors who were personally aware of his skills. On the summary sheet in his personnel jacket, the words “mission-oriented” and “emotionally detached” had been highlighted and underlined for emphasis. Had Mialkovsky possessed a similar degree of camaraderie, and respect for teamwork and authority, he would have been the ideal government hunter-killer: an infinitely adaptable human weapon to be judiciously applied to the most difficult tactical problems. That was certainly the plan, as far as the succession of people responsible for his training and duty assignments had been concerned. But it hadn’t taken each of these veteran supervisors long to conclude that their supposedly ideal hunter-killer was indifferent to authority and regulations in general, to the rules of engagement in particular, and to the other men and women attached to his missions without exception. Most of them were convinced that Mialkovsky’s heralded “emotional detachment” had far less to do with his ability to control his emotions than with a general lack thereof. These were serious flaws that should have terminated Viktor Mialkovsky’s government career long before his skill set became unmanageable; and certainly would have, had he not also possessed from early childhood an almost feral ability to conceal himself— both his mind and his body— within the organizational structure of his environment. No aptitude or personality test ever confirmed the suspicions of his supervisors, none of his questionable actions had ever been documented, and no eyewitnesses had ever stepped forward to report what they had heard or seen. In effect, to his supervisors and to his external world at large, Mialkovsky remained irrefutably who and what he chose to be at any particular moment. And that, in addition to his formidable skill set, made him extremely dangerous to anyone or anything that happened to cross his path. Thus the fact that Mialkovsky and the young mule deer had chosen to conceal themselves on adjacent sets of narrow rocky mesas overlooking this particular high-mountain clearing on this particular night certainly bode nothing good for the animal. But the presence of the terrified
deer seemed only to amuse the supposedly emotionless hunter-killer, who had briefly held the deer’s head in his crosshairs before methodically shifting his view to the next sector. It was a casual decision that would have undoubtedly intrigued the legion of government psychiatrists who had diligently probed Viktor Mialkovsky’s psyche over the years with their batteries of standardized but ultimately unrevealing tests. This particular decision by Mialkovsky was revealing, because it would have taken the hunter-killer only a fraction of a second to send one of his modified 7.62x51 NATO hollow-pointed bullets through the deer’s exposed head. In doing so, he would have confirmed the functionality of his primary weapon, acquired some extra meat for his freezer, and reduced the number of unpredictable factors at the scene by one; all positive results achieved at minimal risk to his intended task. Very “mission-oriented,” indeed. And, in fact, during that brief and thoughtful moment, he had considered squeezing the trigger of his silenced bolt-action rifle, for the simple purpose of double-checking the accuracy of the 80mm-wide-aperture ATN 4-12X80 day-night telescopic sight

  and to make the next few hours a bit more interesting. But, ultimately, he chose not to do so, for five very specific reasons. First of all, he’d come here to hunt a different species. And he’d already sighted in the scope after he’d parked and concealed the dune buggy back down the trail. And he really didn’t need another deer for his freezer, because he didn’t have a freezer; at least not in this state. And he didn’t consider the animal a significant issue in terms of the overall scene. But more to the point, Viktor Mialkovsky really wasn’t interested in the concept of mercy killing, one way or the other. He viewed that as a job for the other predators in the area— the cougars and coyotes— who would eventually hone in on the deer. No need to upset Mother Nature’s balance. At least not any more than was absolutely necessary for his purposes here tonight. So he remained in his high-lookout position here in Nevada’s Desert National Wildlife Range, methodically searching the sectors of his three-hundred-and-sixty-degree perimeter for any sign of the individuals who could easily show up on a random basis, but who more likely were not going to be out patrolling a remote and desolate stretch of high desert on a Friday evening when they could be enjoying dinner with friends or family. The weatherman had been predicting a big storm coming in from the north, so who in their right minds would be out hunting on a night like this?Only the truly dedicated hunters, Mialkovsky thought, smiling to himself. As the sun began to settle in the western sky, he observed what appeared to be a group of outlaw bikers— eight grubby-looking figures, barely discernible in the scope, six on motorcycles and two others in a battered and dirty jeep— come about halfway up the dirt road, turn off on a small side road, and proceed to set up a crude off-road campsite. He monitored their activities with the rifle scope for a half hour or so; but they were a considerable distance from his position, and seemed intent on fiddling with their motorcycles, lounge chairs, cigars, and whatever was in the big ice chest, so he canceled them out of his calculations. When the sun finally set down over the high ridge of the Sheep Range, he removed the daytime eyepiece from the rear of the telescopic sight that cost five times as much as the rifle it was mounted on, and replaced it with the larger night-vision eyepiece that provided a clear and sharp field-of-view in shades of bright green. Then he went back to the routine and boring but absolutely critical task of monitoring his surroundings. If the dedicated federal wildlife refuge officers, or their plainclothed special agent counterparts, who worked this area were going to conduct a surprise patrol in their ongoing effort to keep poachers from killing the prized Desert Bighorns that thrived on the high ridges of the Sheep Range, Mialkovsky figured this was when they’d probably show up. So he continued to maintain his sector searches as the slivered moon arced high overhead and grew brighter. But there was no sign of activity from the U.S. Fish & Wildlife’s Corn Creek Field Station— the official entrance to the range some six miles to the west of his location— or from the intersecting dirt and gravel roads that wound their way south to that ultimate bright-light emitter: Las Vegas. And the biker group camped out on the distant side road had built themselves a small rock-ringed fire, and— apart from a couple of apparent motorcycle joyrides in the nearby sand-filled gullies— showed no signs of going anywhere.Maybe we’ll have a peaceful night up here, all to ourselves, Mialkovsky thought, an idea that was unlikely at best. In his experience, things never worked out as planned. There was always a need to adapt to the some unexpected event, and that was perfectly fine as far as he was concerned. In truth, he enjoyed the adapting part far more than the hunt

  or even the kill. The scopes and sensors he had brought with him on this particular night were state-of-the-art, so it was especially ironic that Mialkovsky was first alerted to the approaching SUV when the mule deer’s ears suddenly cupped and swung around to focus on the distant new sound. Six minutes later, Mialkovsky’s far-less-sensitive ears finally detected the noise of the Escalade’s muscular engine. But he’d had the bouncing and swerving off-road vehicle in his night-vision-enhanced telescopic sights for five of those minutes, and was now chuckling to himself as he watched the driver hit the ruts and bumps that would have been a lot easier to see— and avoid— with the headlights on. “Back off it, you idiot,” Mialkovsky muttered irritably. The last thing he needed on this particular evening was an unplanned accident with unpredictable consequences. But the heavyset driver of the Escalade showed no indication of halting his aggressive, high-speed ascent of the narrow dirt road, in spite of the fact that he was completely dependent on his front-seat passenger— a broad-shouldered man who appeared to be using a pair of night-vision-equipped binoculars— to guide them along the otherwise pitch-black roadway. On three separate occasions, the wildly driven four-wheel-drive vehicle missed careening off the road and tumbling down the mountain by mere inches. Mialkovsky shook his head in amazement.Some people just can’t help doing things the hard way; it’s their nature, he reminded himself as he watched the dark-painted Escalade finally come to a sand-and-dirt-and-gravel-spewing stop behind a mass of boulders down near the base of the trail. Moments later, in a chorus of slamming doors, clanks, curses, and general stumbling, intermixed with audible hissings to “be quiet,” the two men began working their way up the narrow winding trail. From his high-top position overlooking the clearing and the trail, Mialkovsky was able to follow their movements in the glowing green view field of his night-vision scope with a minimal amount of moving. Not that he was overly concerned that the two men would actually spot him. Between the desert-camouflage Ghillie suit that blurred his features into an indistinct mass and the desert-camouflage cloth interwoven with branches of the local flora that accomplished the same thing for his extended rifle and other pieces of equipment, the two visibly over-weight and poorly conditioned men would have had to trip over him to see him, even with their modern night-vision gear. And to do that, they would have to do a hell of a lot more climbing up some extremely difficult terrain. Given their antics so far, not to mention the possibility that the strained heart of the larger of the two men— who appeared to be carrying at least three hundred and fifty pounds on his short, squat frame— might give out at any moment, Mialkovsky didn’t think that was very likely. Predictably, when the two men finally made it up to the clearing, they chose the easier route up to the surrounding rocky ledges— the one to their right— instead of the far more difficult route to the left that Mialkovsky had taken. In doing so, they never saw the old and wary Desert Bighorn ram quietly move away from them with practiced ease, instinctively keeping large boulders between it and these intruders who had disturbed his normally quiet evening. Instead, they began to work their way along the narrow rocky mesa on the far side of the clearing with a sense of purpose, the heavier man— the Escalade driver— in the lead, slowly searching the surrounding crags and boulders with his nightscope-equipped rifle while the second broad-shouldered man made a wider search of the area with his night-vision binoculars.So, are you really wor
th all of that effort, old fellow? Mialkovsky wondered as he briefly set the crosshairs of his scope on the steadily retreating ram, the distinctive scar from a ricocheting bullet clearly visible on the animal’s cracked left horn, before returning his attention to the two men across the clearing. It would have been an easy two-hundred-and-twenty-yard shot, but Mialkovsky wasn’t ready to start shooting just yet. In a situation like this, positioning was everything, and patience the key. So he continued to methodically shift the scope’s aim-point, monitoring the position of all of the possible targets around the clearing, until the mule deer’s ears suddenly cupped and swiveled back toward the road once again. This time he heard the vehicle moments after he had it in the view field of his telescopic sight: an old nondescript pickup truck with a poorly tuned engine, cautiously working its way up the dirt road with all lights off except for a pair of dim running lights mounted under the front bumper, and seemingly following the tracks that Mialkovsky had made with his dune buggy.You’ve been here before too, haven’t you, pal? The thought came to Mialkovsky unbidden— his subconscious already working on the angles— as he focused his nightscope on the creeping truck. The only occupant appeared to be the driver, who was wearing some kind of helmet on his head; and he could see what appeared to be a bolt-action rifle cradled in a rack mounted behind the driver’s head. High above in the rocks, the veteran hunter-killer smiled as he made a quick sweep with his rifle scope to see how the other occupants of this high mountain habitat were reacting to the new visitor. As he’d expected, the two men across the clearing had dropped to their knees behind some small boulders, exposed from the waist up, and were staring back in the direction of the trail with their modern night-vision devices. The old ram was standing still, watching and listening from his far-better-concealed position. And the young mule deer seemed to have turned into stone. Another quick check of the distant biker group suggested that the figures sitting around the small fire— Mialkovsky could see only six, but there was intermittent movement on the opposite side of the jeep where the motorcycles were parked— had no interest in old trucks wandering around in the dark, or were completely oblivious to the situation. More likely the latter, he figured. Moments later, the pickup came to a halt about fifty yards down the dirt road from the start of the narrow trail leading up to the clearing. The sound of a rusty door slowly creaking open echoed across the cold mountain air, causing the two men across the clearing to crouch a little deeper behind their quasiprotective boulders. Then silence