Maher was taking out his own mini-MagLite; he set it in the hole he'd cleared, so that it shone at an oblique angle across the impression.
'The visibility is a lot better,' Grissom said. 'I've read about this a couple of places.'
'You have?' Sara asked.
'Kauffman's guide to winter crime scenes is pretty much definitive; and there's a good paper, done by two Alaska CSIs, Hammer and Wolfe. Still, reading about it's one thing-working it out in the field…that's the ticket.'
'But paint?' she said.
Her supervisor shrugged. 'No different than us using hair spray on tire tracks.'
Sara thought about that.
'That's a good one,' Maher said, giving them a thumbs-up. 'I love my Aqua Net.'
With a quick nod, Grissom turned and moved back to the leaf blower.
Looking through the viewfinder, Sara had to admit, the prints seemed better-defined. She snapped off several shots from various heights. The rotten-egg smell of the sulfur floated down to her and she fought the urge to gag. It wasn't her way to give in, and she prided herself on her strong stomach, so she decided to risk her breakfast and get a closer look. Edging up, she saw Maher stirring the sulfur as it melted into a translucent amber liquid.
'You were right,' she said. 'That impression looks great, Gordy. Sorry I snapped at you…'
'It may smell like Daffy Duck's backside,' he said, 'but, damn-it works, eh?'
'You prefer it to dental stone?'
'Detail with sulfur is even higher. Cures faster too. The downside is, it's a lot more expensive, and a pain in the ass to work with, sometimes. You let it get too hot, it'll either ignite or get flaky…. Then you have to cool it down and start from jump.'
Sara wondered if any of this would ever come in handy at home. Chances were, probably not; still, it never hurt to learn new techniques.
'The optimum temperature is about 119 degrees. But you've got to be careful because the flashpoint is 207 degrees and the self-ignition point is only 232. Once it's at the right temp, though, all we have to do is pour it in and wait…. You ready?'
She nodded.
Maher took the pot off the flame and carried the brew toward the print. Eyes wide, he said, 'And, oh yeah- never use this stuff indoors!'
Grinning a little, she said, 'Kinda guessed that. Noxious fumes aren't my favorite.' She watched as he carefully filled the impression with the liquid sulfur. 'That won't melt the impression?'
He shook his head. 'Not enough to matter. The detail'll still be better than dental stone, and we don't have to take a week off, waiting for it to cure. Besides, if you use dental stone, you'll mix it with potassium sulfate and that reaction creates enough heat that if you don't put it in the snow while it mixes, it'll completely melt your impression.'
A short while later, Grissom came over to them again. 'I've uncovered two sets in each row.'
'Good job,' Maher said.
'Just looking with the naked eye,' said Grissom, 'I'd say all four sets were made by the same person.'
'No kidding? Not two killers, then?'
'Looks like one. Smaller person, too-men's size eight or nine, woman's nine or ten.'
'So-what happened?'
Grissom explained what he knew so far.
'But what about the other tracks?' Sara asked.
'That doesn't make sense,' Grissom admitted, eyes tightening with thought, 'unless…'
Still kneeling over the impression, Maher asked, 'Unless what?'
'Unless the killer didn't have the gasoline along, and had to go back for it.'
'Or,' Maher offered, 'the killer may have had the gas along, but left something behind here at the scene-in the heat of the moment, eh?-and had to come back for it.'
'Possible,' Grissom granted.
Pulling the first cast up, Maher said, 'One other thing.'
'Yeah?'
He held the casting of the impression where they both could see it. 'Our killer has new boots. I couldn't get a better casting in the parking lot of a shoe store with boots right out of the box.'
'So,' Grissom said, 'we've finally got some real evidence.'
Rising, Maher said, 'Sara, take your photos of the rest while I bring Grissom up to speed, with the sulfur process.'
Pulling her camera out again, Sara asked Maher, 'And what are you going to be doing?'
'Well, we've got the killer's feet. Be nice to know his weapon too, eh?'
She just looked at him.
'When I've got both of you working the footprints, I'll go to find our missing bullets.'
The sun was hiding and the air was growing colder. Was it going to start snowing again? No wonder Maher was trying to work fast.
Cormier, who'd been a spectator on the sideline for some while, came up to them then. 'You folks gonna be much longer?'
'Some time, yes,' Grissom said.
'Then I'm goin' back down to the hotel and see if anybody's tryin' to dig us out or anything…and find out if the phones are workin' yet. Be back in an hour, okay?'
'Should be fine,' Maher said. 'And bring up some more coffee, eh?'
Sara whispered to Grissom, 'Good day, eh?'
But the reference was lost on him.
Cormier waved and started down the trail.
'Smallish feet for a man,' Sara pointed out as the hotel manager disappeared in the trees.
'He doesn't have new boots, though,' Grissom said.
'At least, not that he's wearing.'
'Then,' Grissom said, 'we can't eliminate him-or anybody else-as a suspect, yet. So let's get back to work and dig up some more evidence.'
Grissom rejoined Maher over by the Sterno burner. Sara went back to work taking pictures, using the tripod and digging down with the scale. She even sprayed the gray primer in a couple of the prints. Sneaking a look at Grissom, she noticed that again he seemed utterly content in his work. Sara wondered idly if she looked that happy as she was spray-painting snow.
Somehow, she doubted it.
8
CATHERINE WILLOWS COULD THINK OF ONLY ONE PLACE TO go, on a case this cold: back to the beginning. Under her direction, the CSIs watched old security videotapes from Mandalay Bay, the Chinese restaurant; they read original reports of the detectives and the day-shift crime lab, combing them for any lead that might have been missed thus far. Nothing promising had yet emerged.
Catherine refused to be intimidated by the year they had lost. Nor would she accept the option that they'd run into a killer smart enough to get away with murder. Some murderers did go unapprehended, of course-rare ones who really did outsmart the police; and others who were lucky enough to draw second-rate detectives and third- rate crime labs. Most killers-even the smart ones-made at least one mistake, often many more than one, in the commission of their homicides.
Tonight, Catherine was playing Grissom's role, checking in with her people, cheering them on, exchanging
