Body of Evidence

Warrick had the glazed expression of a caught carp.

'…Our boss.'

'Our boss,' Grissom said amiably. 'Sheriff Brian Mobley.'

Captain Jim Brass chose this moment to come walking into the morgue, and noticed Grissom's upraised hand with four fingers raised. With a smirky little smile, the detective said, 'What you cipherin' there, Jethro?'

The pop culture reference didn't penetrate Grissom's concentration, and he motioned with that upraised hand, in a presentational manner, to the body. Brass's eyes followed the CSI's gesture.

'If I may,' Grissom said, 'Jim Brass-meet Candace Lewis.'

'Holy shit,' Brass said, his normally sleepy eyes wide awake, whites showing all around. 'Does the press know?'

Shaking his head, Grissom said, 'We just now I.D.ed her. We won't make an official identification until we check her prints.'

Brass was at the edge of the tray, looking down at the garishly made-up corpse. 'Oh, that's her, all right. Hell.' He cast his mournful gaze on Grissom. 'You and I better go see Mobley, my friend-this is gonna get real ugly.'

Grissom grimaced, not relishing the notion. 'Do I need to go? Isn't that more…administrative?'

The cliche most people fell back on to describe Grissom and Sheriff Mobley was oil and water; the CSI supervisor himself viewed their relationship as more along the lines of gasoline and a lit match. It wasn't so much that Grissom didn't like Mobley-he didn't really have enough regard for the man for that to be an issue.

Despite all the blustering about law and order during his campaign, Brian Mobley was a politician first and a sheriff second; and Grissom disliked politics intensely. The constant battles over the CSI budget had been so bitter that Grissom had even considered resigning the supervisor's post so he could concentrate on the science; but in the end, he'd stayed on when he realized that if he didn't fight the budgetary constraints, no one would.

Only the high success ratio of arrests-to-convictions-they were rated number two crime lab in the nation-had helped convince Mobley (and other politicians) to keep the money flowing. With tourism the primary industry, keeping Vegas safe was a priority; this, added to the CSI success rate, enabled the lab to tap into the top technology in the field. But it also meant Gil Grissom had to deal with Brian Mobley far more often than he cared to.

'We're both going to have to deal with Mobley,' Brass was saying, 'throughout this mess-so I'd advise you to come. I can't force you.'

'Let's get it over with, then,' Grissom said. Turning to Sara and Warrick, he said, 'Start working the evidence-I'll be back when I can.'

'Fingerprinting first?' Warrick asked.

'Yes-and let me know for sure this is Candace. I know, I know…it's her. But let me know when it's officially her. For one thing, we'll have a family to notify.'

A sober moment followed this observation.

Then Grissom said, 'DNA can wait. All right?'

'All right,' Sara said.

Warrick merely nodded, already gathering the evidence bags.

Stepping up to the tray, Robbins said to Grissom, 'I'll page you if I get something significant during the autopsy.'

'Thanks, Doc,' the CSI supervisor said.

Then Brass and Grissom were walking down the hall, the former calling Mobley's cell phone.

'Brian,' Brass said, 'take my word for it, it's important. And it's not something you want broadcast over an unsecure line…. Okay. Fifteen minutes is fine…. No, Grissom's office…. That's right, Grissom's office.'

Career politician though he was, Sheriff Brian Mobley was also a man of his word, and the kind of man who took matters of time seriously, one of the few things Grissom liked about him. Accordingly, Mobley walked into Grissom's office exactly fifteen minutes later.

Grissom felt at home in his office, much the way an animal might in its den or nest. He was wholly unaware that to others his office seemed uncharacteristically cluttered, even chaotic, for such a serious man of science, much less an individual charged with the duties of a manager.

Gray metal shelves lined the walls to the right and left of the door, home to two-headed pigs, various arcane experiments, books and periodicals from various centuries. His desk perched in the middle of the room, arrayed (or perhaps disarrayed) with piles of paper, a phone and an art deco lamp. More shelves, cubbyholes and other equipment consumed the back wall. The front section of the large room housed a small work area with a modest quantity of lab equipment.

When Mobley entered, Grissom was seated behind his desk, while Brass stood off to one side, careful not to lean against any of the jarred samples on the shelves. Whether the detective did this out of respect for Grissom's quarters, or out of fear that something might grab him, Grissom could not venture a guess.

Mobley positioned himself in front of the desk, facing Brass. The sheriff's aide and campaign manager-Ed Anthony, a short, pudgy individual for whom the term 'toady' might well have been coined-tagged along in the sheriff's wake like a remora hanging on for dear life.

'I don't like having my chain pulled, Jim,' Mobley said tightly. 'I have a lot on my plate right now.'

Twinkies and Big Macs, most likely, Grissom thought.

At Mobley's side, Anthony said, witheringly, 'The sheriff doesn't have time for any of your fun and games, Captain.' The aide had a flat face except for a sharp-beaked nose, thinning dark hair and shiny blackbird eyes.

'Just what is so goddamned important?' Mobley demanded, continuing to ignore his host behind the desk.

Without a word, Brass took a photo from his inside sportscoat pocket and handed it to Mobley, as if serving a summons.

The sheriff studied the picture-a Polaroid Sara had shot of their Cleopatra, on the morgue tray-while Anthony peeked around his boss's shoulder for a glimpse.

But neither seemed to recognize the woman whose face had graced the front page of both the Sun and the Review-Journal for the better part of the last twenty days. Of course, Grissom thought, she didn't look exactly like this, when she was alive, and applying her own makeup….

Brass waited for several long moments and, finally, when Mobley looked up in wordless confusion, Brass said, 'Straight from the morgue, Sheriff…. Candace Lewis.'

'Oh my God,' Mobley said hollowly, glancing back at the face.

Anthony seemed hypnotized by the picture; his eyes were huge. 'Hell….'

Nodding, Brass said, 'That pretty much sums it up.'

The aide took a sudden step forward. 'And what's the meaning of summoning the sheriff to CSI about this?' Anthony demanded.

Brass answered, but directed it to Mobley: 'To give you a heads up, Sheriff, and a head start. I thought this better dealt with on our turf.' To both of them, Brass said, 'The press will have this before the end of business, today…much sooner, probably…and you're going to have to respond in some way.'

Mobley nodded. 'Thanks, Jim,' he said softly, sincerely. 'We'll start working on a statement right away.'

'Brian,' Brass said, his voice remarkably gentle considering all the contention that had existed between these two, 'you do know that you'll have to recuse yourself from the case. You might want to do that right now, at the outset.'

Anthony took a step forward and stopped when he realized he had nowhere else to go, an angry terrier on a short leash. 'Why the hell should he recuse himself? It's a major case, under his aegis!'

Moments before, the campaign manager had wanted to know why they were bothering the sheriff with this triviality.

'Why?' Brass snapped. 'Jesus, man, what the hell kind of advisor are you? Why would you even need to ask that question? He's running against Harrison for mayor!'

'We haven't announced as yet,' Anthony said, defensive.

Brass shot the little man a look that should have shut him up.