little friends, a bug; but closer inspection proved it to be metallic: a gun barrel, almost completely buried! Almost. . . .
She picked up the camera and clicked off several more shots.
'What have you got?' Nick asked.
'At least the barrel of a gun, maybe more.'
Maneuvering around the body, Catherine pulled herself closer. Carefully, she dug around the black cylinder and left it completely exposed. Though the pistol was gone, the killer had figured he'd fool the firearms examiners by leaving the barrel with the victim.
She glanced back into the hole from which she had extracted the barrel, and saw nothing . . . or was that something? Pulling out her mini-flash, Catherine turned it on and stroked its beam over the shallow hole. A small bump, slightly lighter in color than the rest of the dirt around it, showed at one end of the hole.
Excavating with care, she uncovered the remnants of an old cigarette filter. Part of this murder case, she wondered, or the detritus of a field used as a garbage dump for the last quarter century? Better safe than sorry, she told herself, and snapped some pictures before bagging it.
'One last thing,' she said.
'Yeah?' Nick said.
'Cigarette filter. I've bagged it.'
Climbing out of the wrecked trailer, she handed the evidence bags to Nick.
'Small caliber,' he said, holding up the clear bag, peering in at the gun barrel. 'A twenty-five?'
She nodded as O'Riley came up to them.
'Any ID?' the detective asked.
Catherine said, 'I didn't find a wallet or anything and his fingertips are gone.'
O'Riley frowned. 'No fingertips?'
'Don't worry, Sarge. We can still print him.'
'It's like Roscoe Pitts,' Nick said.
O'Riley looked confused. 'Roscoe Pitts? I thought you said . . .'
'No,' Catherine said. 'Roscoe Pitts was a bad guy back in the forties. Had a doctor remove his fingerprints, then had skin grafted to his fingers from under his arms.'
Nick picked up the story. 'He walked around like this for weeks.' Nick crossed his arms, his hands flat against each armpit. 'When he got them cut free,' Nick said, wiggling his fingers, 'smooth skin.'
Getting it, O'Riley said, 'No fingerprints.'
Catherine grinned. 'What Roscoe didn't understand was that, A, with smooth fingertips, he'd made himself stand out even more, and, B, you can get prints past the first knuckle.'
'So he got busted?' O'Riley asked.
'Almost immediately.'
'And that's how you're going to ID this guy?'
Nick nodded. 'If our mummy's in the computer, we'll know who he is before the end of the day.'
They turned when they heard one of the EMTs swearing.
'What's the matter?' Catherine asked.
The EMT, a big guy with a blond crewcut, held up one of the loafers with the foot still snugly inside. 'I'm sorry. It just came off. It's like trying to pick up a potato chip.'
Catherine said, 'Nick, let's get the hands bagged first, then help these guys before they dismember the whole body.'
With a grin, Nick said, 'Sure-I always listen to my mummy.'
Catherine tried not to smile, and failed.
Then, two small figures in the midst of a vast, crime-scene-taped lot, they got back to work.
3
THE SECURITY ROOM TOOK UP MUCH OF THE SECOND FLOOR of the hotel, an anonymous blue-gray chamber where banks of VCRs covered one full wall, a security guard checking off a list on a clipboard whenever he changed tapes. The adjacent wall, constructed of one-way glass, overlooked the casino floor, the frantic universe of gamblers on silent display.
The east wall and most of the middle of the room were taken up by security guards sitting in front of computer screens. Some seemed to be watching one camera feed or another, while several more seemed to be monitoring gauges. One gauge, Grissom noticed, was the temperature inside the casino. A huge console inset with nine video monitors filled the south wall. In front of it sat a young Asian man, in attire similar to a desk clerk, tapping on a keyboard.
'Let's see,' the computer tech said. 'The fourth floor hall, between when?'
Behind him, Brass checked his notes. 'Five-thirty and six o'clock this morning.'
Grissom watched as the center video screen went black, then flipped to a grainy black-and-white shot of a vacant corridor, a time code in the bottom right-hand corner, the date in the left. 'Can we speed it up until someone comes into sight?'
The guard said, 'Sure. Probably not much traffic at that hour.' He tapped some more and nothing seemed to happen in the hallway, but the time code was racing ahead. A man appeared and, as suddenly as the numbers had sped up, it slowed to normal.
'Mr. Smith Goes to Vegas,' Brass said.
Picking up the narrative, Grissom said, 'Heading for his room-practically running. Does he know his killer is coming for him?'
Starring in the documentary of his death, Smith ducked into an alcove about halfway down the hall on the right-hand side. In less than twenty seconds, a second man entered the corridor at the far end. This man stayed near the center of the hallway, glancing from side to side as he went, careful to keep his head lowered so his face never appeared on the video.
'Camera shy,' Grissom said. 'Stalking his victim-here! He ducks in after John Smith.'
The videotape had no sound, so they didn't hear either gunshot. But when the killer stepped back into the hall, they saw the muzzle flash of the second shot. Bobby LaFay entered the hallway, the killer spun to face him, and the tray of food fell to the floor soundlessly as LaFay ran back toward the elevator. The killer turned back this way, head still lowered, slipped in Smith's blood, then ran headlong toward the camera, throwing up an arm to cover his face. He passed the camera and disappeared, presumably down the fire stairs to the first floor.
'Run it again,' Grissom said.
Now that he knew what happened, he would be free to hone in on the details.
Again Smith scrambled down the hall wearing a dark suit, a look of fear etched on his face as he fumbled with his keycard until he ducked out of sight into the alcove. Next came the killer, a light-colored sports jacket over a light-colored shirt, dark slacks, possibly jeans, and dark shoes, maybe running shoes of some kind, the small pistol already in his right hand, his left hand also up in front of him, doing something.
'Run it back ten seconds,' Grissom told the tech, adding, 'and can you slow it down?'
The tech tapped the keys, the time code reversed ten seconds, and the tape ran forward again, this time crawling along in slow motion. The killer entered the corridor, his two hands up in front of his chest, his right holding a gun, his left . . .
'He's screwing on a noise suppresser,' Grissom said.
'Mob hit,' Brass said automatically.
'Too soon to say,' Grissom said just as automatically.
With the silencer in place, the killer ducked into the alcove out of sight. Then Smith's feet appeared as he fell.
Grissom said, 'Impact forced him face first into the door. He hit it, then slid down, his feet coming out into the hall.'
