Grave Matters

They knocked at Whiting's office door and were again admitted. Within they found the frazzled physician sitting behind his desk, head in his hands. He barely looked up as they came in.

'Doctor Whiting,' Catherine said, leaning a hand against the desk, not bothering to sit. 'Mrs. Elliot had a visitor, another woman, who stopped by this morning right before Mrs. Elliot died. Is there any way of finding out the identity of the visitor?'

Whiting shook his head. 'Other than our guard gate, we don't have sign-in books or video security or anything. We spend the money we make on the residents, and maintaining a top facility.'

'Wouldn't security be part of that?'

'We have security locks on the doors, but that's about it. If Mrs. Elliot buzzed the woman in, or if one of the other residents simply opened the door for her, the visitor would be inside, and we'd have no way of knowing it.'

'Isn't that a little risky, Doctor?'

'I don't really see how.'

'If your patients are being murdered…you may. Thank you for your cooperation.'

Whiting was staring into space as Catherine and Vega left his office.

Back in the corridor, Catherine asked the detective, 'What do you think?'

'I think David better hurry up and get that damn autopsy done.' Vega locked his eyes on Catherine's. 'The other three residents who died this month? All were without families, too.'

'All?'

'Not so much as a long lost cousin.'

'Sam, that still doesn't prove foul play….'

'Well, we'd better find out from Vivian Elliot's remains, because we sure won't ever know with the other three.'

'Why not?'

'As part of a cost-cutting measure here at Sunny Day, all three were cremated. No family to have an opinion, much less a service.'

'Four people in a month? It's not that weird.'

'Catherine, you were investigating that room for quite some time. That gave Dr. Whiting and me time to go over the records. Four this month, three last month, three the month before that, two each in May, April, and March, three in February, three in January-David isn't the only coroner making pickups, you know. That's a grand total of twenty-two deaths in less than eight months.'

He opened the door and held it for her as she walked out into the heat. After the air conditioning, it was something of a shock. She braced herself for another.

Glancing back at the detective, she asked, 'Is that a high figure for a place like this?'

'Almost double last year's total for the whole year.'

'Ooooh…and you think someone's 'helping' these people to get out of Sunny Day?'

Vega shrugged. 'I was hoping you'd find out for me.'

'Well, let's start with Vivian Elliot first. You'll check with that guard, to see if our visitor's name got written down?'

'Sure. On my way out, I will.'

Catherine loaded the last of the evidence into the Tahoe. Warrick was still inside, getting the last of his gear.

She turned to hold the detective's gaze with her own. 'What do you make of David's hunch now?'

Vega rubbed his forehead like he was trying rub all thought away. 'He did the right thing-but I still hope he was wrong. The number of deaths this could make suspicious?…Guess what that'll do to the homicide stats that the sheriff is loving so much right now?'

Catherine decided to take that as a rhetorical question; even if it wasn't, answering would be too painful.

After Vega had disappeared into his own vehicle, Catherine sensed Warrick at her side.

'You think we have a murder, Cath? Give me your best guess-I won't tell Grissom.'

'Well, Warrick, if it is a murder, we could be looking at a serial killer, and possibly, oh…two dozen victims? Most of whom have been cremated….'

Warrick's eyes glazed over. 'I'm sorry I asked…. Keep your damn guesses to yourself, Cath.'

She chuckled and got into the Tahoe, rider's side. But the chuckle caught a bit.

Something very evil might be turning Sunny Day cloudy indeed, in which case Catherine Willows doubted in the foreseeable future that she'd be taking a 'normal' call again.

3

THE COFFIN HAD BEEN PLACED on a trio of sawhorses in the CSI garage to provide Nick Stokes and Sara Sidle with easier access. As if at a bizarre funeral, Nick leaned over the coffin and gazed down at the woman who lay peacefully within.

No way this youthful corpse could ever have been mistaken for fifty-something Rita Bennett. Nick had never met Rita Bennett, but-like most Vegas residents-he'd seen her hawking cars in commercials often enough to recognize the woman; with her aging showgirl glamour, Rita had been a local celebrity with even a certain national fame, considering how many people came to Vegas and at some point switched on a TV.

This woman-girl, really-was barely in her twenties, if that. Even after three months in a casket, pretty features presented themselves, the airtight vault having allowed the exposed flesh to gain just the barest patina of white mold, as if a spiderweb draped the girl's face. For a moment Nick had an odd, even haunting sensation-it was as though the woman's features were coming to him in a dream, through a translucent veil.

Though the desert air didn't cause human remains to break down in the manner common to more humid climes, moisture left in the body sometimes would be enough to give the deceased that distinctive sheen of white. Slim and auburn-haired, the woman revealed no visible wounds, the small trail of blood droplets on the pillow the only evidence, thus far, suggestive of violence.

Jane Doe had a straight, well-formed nose, bangs that nearly covered large eyes closed over high, slightly rouged cheeks. Nick grunted and twitched a non-smile. Even in death, Ms. Doe seemed to glow a little, the desert conditions not having yet begun the mummification that occurred to so many bodies in the Southwest.

Nick started with his 35mm camera, recording the casket and body from more angles than a fashion photographer at a Vogue shoot. When he was done, Sara stepped up to check under the woman's scarlet-painted fingernails, looking for any evidence that this possible victim might have gotten a piece of an attacker.

When finished, Sara shrugged and said, 'Nothing.'

'Fingerprints next?'

'Fingerprints next.'

While Sara inked the woman's right hand, Nick used his Maglite to carefully search the area around the woman's head. The blood droplets were small, even, and dried to a dark maroon.

'Looks like she dripped,' Nick said, 'while the killer loaded her into the casket.'

'We don't know there's a killer yet,' Sara reminded Nick, though there was something unconvinced and perfunctory about her tone. 'Anything under her head?'

'Can't see for sure…. Doesn't look like it.'

'Anything else on the pillow?'

Nick eased the light around to get a better angle. 'No…no…yeah! Yeah, right here-a short black hair.' He snapped a photo of the strand, then used a pair of tweezers to pick it up.

'Not our vic's,' Sara said.

'Let's hope it's the killer's.'

'If there is a killer.'

'If there is a killer. You have that feeling, too, huh?'

Sara frowned. 'What feeling?'

Nick grinned. 'That Gris is always looking over your shoulder.'