Sin City (CSI)

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Jenna Patrick was a professional stripper who said she was trying to get out of the sex trade and into junior college. She wound up strangled to death in a locked room in the back of the club where she worked. What could these two women possibly have had in common -- aside from the fact that they are both victims of homicide?

Are you ready to investigate your first case?

Find out as Grissom, Willows, and the rest of the CSI team track down a sordid trail of secret lives and private dances, from the saintly to the seedier side of Sin City. Max Allan Collins is a New York Times bestselling author of original mysteries, a Shamus award winner and an experienced author of movie adaptions and tie-in novels. He is also the author of the tie-in novel series based on the original CSI. Chapter 2 Captain Jim Brass ambled down the hall toward the washed-out aqua warren of offices that served as headquarters for the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau, a coldly modern institutional setting for the number-two crime lab in the country.

The sad-eyed detective was sharply attired -- gray sports coat over a blue shirt, darker blue tie with gray diagonal stripes, and navy slacks -- and his low-key demeanor masked a dogged professionalism. A cellophane bag dangled from the detective's right hand, an audiotape within. Slowing to peer through various half-windowed walls, Brass passed several rooms before he found the CSI graveyard-shift supervisor, Gil Grissom, in the break room at a small table, hunkered over a cup of coffee and a pile of papers. Dressed in black and wearing his wire-framed reading glasses, the CSI chief looked like a cross between a gunfighter and a science geek, Brass thought, then realized that that was a pretty accurate mix.

Grissom -- one of the top forensic entomologists in the country, among other things -- was in his mid-forties, with his boyishly handsome features seemingly set in a state of perpetual preoccupation. Brass liked Gil, and felt that what some considered coldness in the man was really a self-imposed coolness, a detachment designed to keep the CSI chief's eye on facts and his emotions in check.

Grissom shook his head, and responded as if the detective's question had been serious. Scuttlebutt is the County Board wants to cut the budget for next year. Brass held up the plastic baggie and waved it like a hypnotist's watch, Grissom's eyes following accordingly. Nodding, rising, removing his glasses, Grissom said, "In my office.

What have you got? The detective fell in alongside Grissom as they moved down the corridor. Brass had only lately ceased to be creeped out by Grissom's inner sanctum, with its shelves of such jarred oddities as a pickled piglet and various embalmed animal and human organs, and assorted living, crawling creatures -- a tarantula, a two-headed scorpion -- in glassed-in homes.


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At least the batteries had finally worn down on the Big Mouth Billy Bass just above Grissom's office door. A desk sat in the middle of the methodically cluttered office, canted at a forty-five-degree angle, two vinyl-covered metal frame chairs in front of it. Brass handed the bag over to Grissom, then plopped into a chair. Behind his desk, Grissom sat and placed the bag on his blotter like a jeweler mounting a stone.

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From the top righthand drawer, he withdrew a pair of latex gloves and placed them next to the bag. Brass sat back, crossed his legs, twitched a non-smile. Nice people, late thirties, early forties -- straight as they come. He's in the finance department at UNLV. They say their friend, woman named Lynn Pierce, has disappeared Grissom's eyes relaxed.

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She may be gone, but she's not 'missing,' yet. Brass shrugged. That's when they pulled out this tape. Brass had to smile -- Grissom was like a kid waiting to tear into a Christmas present. Brass pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open, filling Grissom in on the particulars -- Owen Pierce, successful physical therapist, married eighteen years to the missing woman. East of the Callaway Golf Center.


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One of Grissom's eyebrows arched in skeptical curiosity. Pierce showed up on their doorstep last night -- with this tape in her hot little hand. Pierce told her friends the Blairs that she'd hidden a voice-activated tape player in the kitchen. Wanted to prove what kind of verbal abuse she'd been suffering, of late. Her hidden microphone caught a doozy of an argument, it seems. Anyway, the Blairs said that Mrs. Pierce gave them the tape for safe keeping, then she sat with them and talked and talked about her marital problems, and trouble with their daughter, Lori But most of all, Lynn was tired of the constant threats of violence her husband had been making.

The detective told Grissom about the Blairs going to the Pierce home, where Owen Pierce claimed his wife had gone to visit a sick brother. Calling to report his wife missing.

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He now claims that she got pissed off after a 'misunderstanding,' and he figures she left him, and he doesn't know where the hell she went. But she took her own car -- a '95 Avalon -- also a suitcase, some clothes. Slipping on the latex gloves, Grissom removed the tape from the bag. He rose, moved to a small boombox behind the desk, and slid the tape into the holder. After closing the door, he pushed play with a latexed fingertip -- Brass noted that Grissom brought the same anal-retentive precision to the simple procedure of playing an audiotape cassette as he would to one of his bizarre experiments involving blood-spatter spray patterns or insect eating patterns.

The sound was somewhat muffled; apparently the couple had been standing across the room from the secreted tape recorder. But the words soon became clear enough, as the Pierces raised their voices in anger. Now the man's: "Stop it? Stop what? What the fuck are you talking about? I've already talked to a lawyer -- ". I'll make sure you don't get a goddamned thing -- including Lori! Do you think what I really want is a divorce? Jose Zuniga Det. Chris Cavaliere.

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