CSI09 - In Extremis Read online

  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, so you 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 wristlocked 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 MILITARY assault 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 dispatche
d 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 hardearned 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. That was not a good thing. The drug agents would undoubtedly be searching the general area for other suspects, thereby severely limiting his tactical options. And the arrival of six CSIs on the scene, rather than the normal two or three, suggested the shooting situation was complicated, and that they would probably be working all night to reconstruct the events, trying to resolve whatever developments had brought the larger-than-normal team there in the first place. That could turn out to be a very bad thing indeed.4

  GRISSOM AND CATHERINE CAUTIOUSLY approached the hastily rigged perimeter line with big bundles of bright, wire-mounted evidence locator flags tucked into their vests and high-intensity flashlights and strobe-mounted digital cameras in their gloved hands. As they moved forward, they continuously swept the beams of their flashlights across the ground in front of their feet, a routine double check to make certain the initially responding officers had set the perimeter far enough out to contain all of the relevant evidence. They were stopped at the perimeter edge, examining the multitude of boot prints, churned sand, and expended casings on the ground between the truck and the bright yellow tape, when Jim Brass came up beside them. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Bad time to be doing this,” Grissom commented as he paused to take a broader look at the scene. “We don’t have enough lights to illuminate the entire scene properly, so we’re going to have to work it in sections.” “Do you want to wait until daylight?” Brass inquired uneasily. Somewhere in the dark sky that was rapidly becoming overcast and clouded, the threatening ripple of a distant lightning bolt offered a whimsical answer. “I’d love to,” Grissom said, gesturing up at the sky with his head, “but I don’t think we’d have much of a scene left by morning. If you want us to reconstruct the shooting sequence with any degree of accuracy, we’d better get at it right now.” “I need this scene worked as quickly and as thoroughly as humanly possible,” Brass replied. “Getting pressure from the boss?” Catherine queried. “The sheriff called in to let me know that he’s definitely expecting ‘quick and thorough’ on this one,” Brass responded, “but he’s not the problem.” Grissom raised his right eyebrow quizzically. “Mostly because he’s out of town and won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon,” Brass explained, a pained expression crossing his face. “Mace, Boyington, and Tallfeather are the problems. Mace is the son of a Nevada state senator, Boyington’s parents are wealthy and tightly connected to the governor’s campaign staff, and Tallfeather is the youngest son of the chief of a Paiute Indian tribe living on the Moapa River Indian reservation.” “Oh,” Grissom finally said. His interest in local politics was infamously and invariably limited to the degree that such nonsense might impact his crime scene investigations. “Well, it looks like you hit the trifecta then.” Brass gave a tight-lipped grin before responding. “It would be nice if the body in that truck belongs to a drug smuggler named Ricardo Paz Lamos, we find ten kilos of coke, and the shooting turns out to be clean; but— ” “You don’t think so,” Grissom suggested. “No, I think there’s something wrong with their story— possibly several things. I just don’t know what.” “I’m surprised Jackson’s not one of the problems,” Catherine commented. “He was pretty aggressive during the initial questioning. I got the impression he might have something to hide.” “Jackson is his own problem,” Brass said. “According to Fairfax, he’s been involved in three previously questioned shootings, and is technically still on probation, whatever that means.” “Probably means he shouldn’t have been out here involved in a shooting tonight, which presumably makes that Fairfax’s problem,” Catherine said with a knowing grimace, nodding her head in understanding. “Jackson was the assigned team leader on this deal, but I g
ather he was supposed to have run the operation from their field command center,” Brass said. “That being the case, it would be nice, for Fairfax and the DEA’s sake, if Jackson was the last one to fire his weapon, and only fired to stop the truck; but that doesn’t seem to fit his M.O.” “So what do we think we know?” Grissom asked. Brass pulled out his field notebook. “We think we know that Ricardo Paz Lamos called Jackson twice on his cell phone to explain he was running late, which was why the buy-bust team was relaxed and not set up for his arrival. Everyone agrees they heard occasional engine sounds coming from the base of the Sheep Range, roughly west to northwest of this site, but it was hard to tell directions because of all the echoing effects. No one saw any headlights, but Grayson said that wasn’t unusual because poachers frequent the area, trying to shoot one of the last Desert Bighorns on the planet. So no one got real concerned about the engine-noise situation except for Grayson, who wanted to go check the area, but got talked out of it by Jackson and Mace.” “They probably didn’t want to blow their big drug bust over a couple of endangered sheep,” Grissom said disapprovingly. “Exactly,” Brass said with a nod. “So everyone’s sitting around talking, and the informant— our dear Jane Smith— is acting increasingly paranoid about something, when all of a sudden, maybe fifteen minutes before the truck arrives here, they hear what sounds like automatic gunfire coming from somewhere in the general direction of the Sheep Range, again roughly west to northwest of here.” “Automatic gunfire? That doesn’t sound like poachers,” said Catherine. “I’d think they’d want to be a little more subtle than that, especially with wildlife refuge officers like Grayson on the lookout. Maybe Ricardo Paz Lamos was taking care of some side business before he made his deal with Jackson and his team.” “Possibly, but don’t forget, the Army does test and train on the west side of the Sheep Range,” Grissom pointed out. “I would imagine they have a considerable number of very loud automatic weapons that need to be test-fired on a fairly regular basis. Maybe the sound carried?” “But why would they test-fire them in the middle of the night?” Catherine asked. Grissom shrugged— he didn’t have the slightest idea of what the Army might or might not do, much less why. “Grayson said night firing does occur at the test and training range on occasion, but the sound rarely carries this far,” Brass said. “Anyway, after the shooting stops, they hear a car engine revving up in the same general location, the noise gets louder— like a vehicle was coming down the dirt road from the base of the mountains— and then, all of a sudden, this red truck appears, turns on its headlights at the road intersection, makes a sharp left, heading straight toward this campsite, and then accelerates right at the UCs.” “And that was when all the shooting started?” Grissom asked. “Apparently,” Brass acknowledged. “And there was a second vehicle that made a mad dash down the same road a few seconds after the shooting started, with its lights on; but that one didn’t make the turn toward the campsite. It just kept on barreling down the road toward Las Vegas.” “Trying to escape a barrage of automatic gunfire?” Grissom asked. “Very possible,” Brass agreed. “Everyone at the campsite saw the second vehicle drive by; but the only one who got a good look at it was Boyington, and that was for a split second. He thinks it was a dark-painted SUV, possibly an Escalade, definitely a late model, and big; but he admits that’s mostly a guess because dust was flying everywhere and they were all still concentrating on the truck. We put in a call to the local hospitals, just in case.” “Could have been Ricardo Paz Lamos, making his getaway with the coke?” Catherine suggested. “Another reasonable possibility, I suppose,” Brass said, “except it’s hard to believe that he’d make a run like that— especially with his headlights on— right past the road intersection where the deal was supposed to take place. Grayson said there are several dirt roads leading out of the refuge that he could have easily taken without being observed. And Jackson and Smith both describe Ricardo as the kind who isn’t the least bit reluctant to get into gun-fights with Mexican or American cops. With a rep like that, I’d have expected him to at least fire off a few rounds during the drive-by, for self-respect if nothing else.” “Speaking of shooting, has anyone claimed they actually saw the suspect in the truck firing a weapon?” Catherine asked. “Smith, Tallfeather, Jackson, and Grayson are all insisting that they saw gunfire coming from the cab of the truck before they returned fire at the suspect,” Brass replied after consulting his notebook. “And both Smith and Mace are certain that they were shot at— Smith because of her head wound, and Mace because he heard at least one bullet whizzing close by his head. All six UCs admit to firing their weapons at either the truck tires or the engine compartment, trying to stop it. But the five who say they shot at the cab— that would be Smith, Tallfeather, Jackson, Boyington, and Mace— all insist they only did so when they started getting shot at by someone in the truck.” “Did anybody open one of the truck doors or get inside the cab after the shooting?” Grissom asked. “Jackson ordered Tallfeather to call for backup while he, Mace, Boyington, and Smith approached the truck,” Brass said. “They all looked into the cab through the shattered windows, but, supposedly, no one actually touched the doors or got into the cab.” “Jackson let Jane Smith approach the truck with a loaded weapon?” Catherine said, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Isn’t that a little unusual?” “Jackson said she’s the only one of the group who’s actually met Ricardo Paz Lamos face-to-face,” Brass explained. “That’s why they had her at the scene in the first place. She’s terrified of the guy; claims he put a price on her head— which is why Jackson let her stay armed on site. They wanted her to make a positive ID of the body in the truck, but she couldn’t because the guy’s face was blown apart.” “What about Grayson?” Catherine asked, looking up from her notes. “He’s pretty sure he was the first one to fire at the tires of the truck, trying to stop it when it first arrived on site,” Brass said. “He also says he didn’t fire at the cab because he didn’t have a clear view of the suspect; and after the truck headlights were blown out, he couldn’t tell where the other UCs and Smith were positioned. Immediately after the shooting stopped, he got on his radio and called Metro for backup.” “I thought you said Tallfeather called for backup,” said Grissom. “That’s what Jackson said, but I confirmed that with the dispatcher that it was definitely Officer Grayson who made the call.” “So who do you think Tallfeather was calling? Fairfax?” asked Catherine. “Probably,” Brass said. “It would explain why he and Holland got here so fast. But if I wanted immediate backup on a buy-bust shooting in the middle of the night, I don’t think calling my boss would be my first choice— even if he was riding around nearby in a Black Hawk.” “So, basically, you’d like some answers to all of these questions before the sheriff stands you up in front of the proud parents to hand out commendations for a job well done?” Grissom said with a smile. “Be tough to put out a recall on the plaques if the D.A. starts handing out indictments,” Brass agreed. “So what can I do to help?” Grissom gestured with his gloved hand in the direction of the parked CSI vehicles. “In the back of Warrick’s vehicle, you’re going to find two stacks of weighted traffic cones— an ‘A’ stack and a ‘B’ stack— with large black-and-white alpha-numeric identifiers and circular photo-alignment markers on the outside surfaces.” “Okay, so?” “Once we’re finished swabbing and collecting firearms, we’re going to want to place paired sets of those cones— ‘A-one,’ ‘A-two,’ ‘B-one,’ ‘B-two,’ and so on— in the precise locations where the shooters were standing or sitting or squatting when the truck arrived on scene