Shock Treatment (32 page)

“Good thing,” Sara told Yun. “Otherwise, you might have been looking at a lethal injection of a different sort.”

“S
O HOW DOES
this work again?”

Nick watched with interest as Mandy Webster set up her experiment. She placed the shell casing at the end of a short wooden wand. The rest of her apparatus was set up in a cardboard box lined with aluminum foil. A metal contact plate was wired to a 2,500-volt battery. Nearby a metal scoop, with a wooden handle, rested atop a tray of fine black powder.

“It's pretty ingenious,” Mandy enthused. “Ordinary fingerprinting techniques require some sort of sweaty residue to be left on the metal, but this British inventor, Dr. John Bond, has developed a technique that can sometimes retrieve prints even after they've been wiped or burned away. It's based on the idea that the salt in the original fingerprints actually corrodes the metal underneath. That corrosion remains even after the sweaty prints are gone.”

“And the sweatier the hands, the deeper the corrosion?”
Nick remembered reading something about the process in a forensic journal.

“Yep,” Mandy said. “Good thing most people tend to get a little nervous when they're planning to murder someone.”

She flicked a switch and placed the casing against the electrical terminal. The wooden wand kept her from being shocked herself, although she was also wearing rubber gloves just to be safe. “The corroded areas are too small to be seen by the naked eye, as in microns,” she continued, “but they pick up less of an electrical charge than the clean brass.”

She scooped up a small quantity of the black powder and sprinkled it over the casing, rolling the 9mm cylinder across the electrode as she did so to make sure all its surfaces were exposed to the powder. “These are actually tiny ceramic beads, about a half a millimeter in diameter, coated with a very fine conducting powder. In theory, they should cling to the microscopic corrosion pattern left behind by the fingerprint.”

Nick was impressed by how relatively low-tech the apparatus was, as opposed to some of the expensive DNA scanners that busted the crime lab's budget. “You built this set-up yourself?”

“You bet,” Mandy said proudly. “Not really that hard. The original inventor constructed his prototype out of cardboard, masking tape, and popsicle sticks.”

“Ecklie's going to love that,” Nick observed. The stingy undersheriff was forever complaining about the cost of keeping the lab's hardware up-to-date.

Mandy flicked off the current and held the cartridge
up for inspection. Sure enough, inky black whorls and ridges stood out against the brass exterior of the casing. The uncorroded metal, which had held a stronger charge, gleamed by comparison.

Mandy subjected the prints to her expert eye. “Probably a forefinger or thumb. From when the shooter loaded the gun.” She passed it over to Nick, so he could admire her results. “Now we just need to heat the casing to bake the powder in place and compare it against our exemplars.”

Nick couldn't wait to compare the fingerprint to Roger Park's. The smarmy TV producer was possibly responsible for at least two deaths. It would be great to pin him to at least one of them.

“Thanks, Mandy. You may have just cracked this case.”

“Don't thank me,” she said. “Thank our friends in Scotland Yard.”

“Right.” Nick looked forward to reporting their success to Catherine and Greg. “What was the name of that inventor again?”

Mandy took off her glasses and affected her best Sean Connery impression.

“Bond. John Bond.”

T
UMBLEWEEDS ROLLED DOWN
the dusty streets of the abandoned ghost town. Moonlight shone down on ramshackle brick buildings that had been slowly falling apart for over a century. Cacti sprouted in the middle of the street. Desert weeds poked through gaps in dilapidated plank porches and sidewalks. Sagging roofs tempted gravity. Rusty chains were draped over askew hitching rails. A derelict dance hall leaned precariously to one side. Wooden shutters banged in the wind. A noose dangled from a hangman's tree.

An airborne figure came hurling through the swinging doors of an old saloon. He flew over the rotted timber porch to crash down hard on the baked dirt street, the impact of his landing raising a cloud of ochre dust. Torn modern clothing, better suited to a twenty-first century gangbanger than an old-time gunslinger, clashed with the decrepit western decor. A bloody stump protruded from a shredded sleeve,
where the man's left arm appeared to have been torn from its socket. Pain and fear contorted his sweaty face, which was now caked with grime. Blood spurted from his ghastly wound. He whimpered pathetically.

A second figure stomped out of the saloon after his victim. The tattered remains of a blue LAPD uniform clung to his tall, bony frame. Merciless crimson orbs glared at the wretched gangster sprawled in the street. A skeletal hand clutched a severed arm like a police baton.

“No! Keep back!”

The panicked man reached beneath his scuffed leather jacket with his remaining hand and drew out a Beretta semiautomatic. The sharp report of the pistol sounded as he opened fire on the fearsome apparition stalking him. Bullet holes erupted across the creature's moldering blue shirt, but no blood spewed from the wounds, only puffs of grave dust. A dry, sepulchral voice escaped a withered larynx.

“Benny Salucci,” Officer Zombie addressed the fugitive. “You have the right to remain silent . . . forever.”

The gangster screamed in mortal terror.

“Cut!” Roger Park barked. “Great work, guys!”

A full film crew was in place to shoot the scene, which was being shot on location in one of the many abandoned frontier mining towns within a day's drive of Las Vegas. Mounted spotlights simulated moonlight. A wind machine churned up the atmosphere. Production trailers were parked discreetly out of view of the cameras. Tumbleweed wranglers scrambled to get the prop weeds back in
place for the next take. No longer lurching like a dead man, Officer Zombie helped his “victim” get up off the ground.

“You okay, Duane?” Park asked the stuntman.

The dust-covered “gangster” gave him a thumbs-up with the hand that wasn't hidden beneath the torn jacket. His terror-stricken expression gave way to a cocky grin. “No problem, chief.”

“Cool,” Park said. “I think we need to do one more take, though.” He got up from a folding director's chair. “This time I really want you to dial it up to eleven. I want to see sheer dread on your face and maybe even a trace of remorse. Salucci is guilty as hell and his sins have finally caught up with him.”

“I couldn't have put it better myself,” Catherine said, intruding on the conference. “Maybe you can give him some pointers on what it feels like.”

“What the hell?” Park spun around to see Catherine and Brass striding toward him, with Nick and Greg lagging right behind them. His eyes bulged from their sockets. Angry veins stood out on his neck. “This is a closed set!”

Brass held up a polished copper star. “Tell it to the badge.”

“This is harassment,” Park objected, while the rest of the film crew milled about awkwardly, uncertain what to do. Park pulled out an expensive-looking smartphone. “I'm calling my lawyer.”

“Tell him to meet you at the station.” Brass kicked a stray tumbleweed out of the way. “Roger Park, you're under arrest for the murder of Debra Lusky . . . and possibly Matt Novak.”

The fingerprint on the shell casing had proved a perfect match for Park's right thumb. Catherine wasn't sure they'd ever be able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the corrupt producer had conspired to get Novak killed; just pronouncing
nuclear
correctly wasn't enough to make a conclusive voice analysis. But that was for the D.A. to decide. What with the blackmail tape, the evidence linking him to Debra, and his print on the bullet that had killed her, however, Catherine was pretty sure they had him on at least one count of first-degree murder.

I can live with that,
she thought.

She stepped forward to confiscate the stuntman's gun. They'd have to bring in all the firearms being used by the production. If they were lucky, maybe ballistics could match one of them to the weapon that had killed Debra. Not that they really needed it. She smirked at the noose dangling from a nearby tree branch. As far as she was concerned, they already had more than enough to hang Roger Park.

Figuratively speaking, that is. Nevada had switched to lethal injection years ago.

“This is insanity,” Park babbled. “I didn't do anything.” Panicked eyes darted back and forth, looking in vain for a way out. The cast and crew backed away from their agitated boss, not wanting to get involved. Catherine spotted Bill Hamilton in the crowd, decked out as a dead rodeo clown. The zombie peeled off his latex mask. He didn't look a thing like Matt Novak.

She glanced around the set. A rubber arm, smeared with blatantly phony blood, lay forgotten in the dust. She shook her head.

Two people died . . . for this?

“Don't even think about running,” Brass warned Park. He stepped around to cuff the producer's hands behind his back. “There's nothing but desert for miles around anyway.”

Sweat streamed down Park's face. He looked just as terrified as the unsuspecting victims on his other TV show. Catherine couldn't resist delivering the
coup de grace.

“Surprise,” she told him. “You got
Shock Treatment.
”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank my editor, Ed Schlesinger, and the good folks at CBS for giving me a second chance to test the wits of the ace investigators at the Las Vegas crime lab; I tried hard to come up with cases worthy of the original TV show, which I look forward to watching every week. I particularly enjoyed the opportunity to write Ray Langston and Sara Sidle for the first time.

Researching a CSI novel is always an education. This time around, I can thank the friendly doctors and staff at the Applebrook Veterinary Clinic in Oxford, Pennsylvania, for answering my questions about cat scratches, and the Hand & Stone Massage and Spacial Spa in nearby Kennett Square for letting me tour their premises. I promise I didn't see any dangerous reptiles on the loose at either location.

As always, I can't forget my agents, Russ Galen and Ann Behar, for handling the contractual details. And my girlfriend, Karen, for all her support and patience, even when I kept talking her ears off about voiceprints, coral snakes, elastic braces, and interrogations.

Finally, our four-legged family—Alex, Churchill, Henry, Sophie, and Lyla—did their best to distract me, but somehow I managed to get the book done anyway.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

G
REG
C
OX'S
previous CSI novel,
Headhunter
, received a Scribe Award from the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He is also the
New York Times
bestselling author of numerous novels, including the official movie novelizations of
Daredevil, Ghost Rider, Death Defying Acts
, and all three
Underworld
movies. In addition, he has written books and short stories based on such popular series as
Alias, Batman, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Countdown, Fantastic Four, Farscape, Final Crisis, 52, The 4400, The Green Hornet, Infinite Crisis, Iron Man, The Phantom, Roswell, Spider-Man, Star Trek, Terminator Salvation, Xena: Warrior Princess, X-Men, and Zorro.

He lives in Oxford, Pennsylvania.

His official website is:
www.gregcox-author.com
.