IT WAS WELL past midnight when the CSIs arrived at WaxWorkZ.
Catherine Willows surveyed the scene from the passenger seat of a black Denali as Nick Stokes pulled up to the curb. Police cars were already parked in front of the nightclub, along with Jim Brass’s unmarked Taurus and the coroner’s wagon. As usual, the forensic team was the last to arrive. Yellow crime scene tape sealed off the front entrance, while uniformed police officers kept curious onlookers out of the way. A small crowd, comprised of both locals and obvious tourist types, mobbed the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Curious eyes scoped out the excitement. News of the shooting had clearly traveled fast.
“What’s supposed to be the story here?” Nick asked. The broad-shouldered Texan hit the brake. A blue baseball cap covered his short brown hair. Catherine had briefed him on the basics on the way there. “We talking a homicide or a prank gone wrong?
“That’s what we need to find out,” she replied, reluctant to jump to any conclusions until they had thoroughly reviewed the evidence. Her predecessor, Gil Grissom, had taught her that. Keep an open mind until all the facts were in. Now that she was in charge of the night shift, Catherine subscribed to the same philosophy. Strawberry-blonde hair framed her face. Shrewd blue eyes had been trained to take in every detail. She glanced back over her shoulder at Greg Sanders, who was occupying the backseat of the SUV. “So, you were saying you’ve actually heard of this show?”
“You bet.” He leaned forward, poking his head between Catherine and Nick. Tousled brown hair was stylishly mussed above his animated features. The former lab rat prided himself on his extensive knowledge of modern pop culture. “Shock Treatment is basically a horror-movie version of Candid Camera. They scare the crap out of unsuspecting victims, while filming the whole thing with hidden cameras.”
“Never heard of it,” Catherine admitted. Then again, what with working nights and raising a teenage daughter, she hadn’t had much time for watching TV even before she was promoted to supervisor. These days she was lucky if she could squeeze in a movie rental on her days off. “Is it new?”
“Nope,” Greg informed her. “It’s been running on cable for at least five seasons now.” His enthusiasm for the program was obvious. “You should have seen the flesh-eating virus episode. The victim practically had a meltdown before they let him in on the gag.”
Nick scowled. “Making people think they’re in actual danger? Sounds kind of sadistic to me.” He gave Greg a dubious look. “You actually watch this stuff?”
“Sometimes,” Greg confessed a trifle sheepishly. Suddenly, he didn’t seem quite as proud of his expert status. He withdrew back into his own seat. “Call it a guilty pleasure.”
“Or maybe just guilty,” Catherine said.
Nick killed the engine. Catherine stepped out of the heated Denali into the frigid night air. A blue jacket and gloves fit the weather. FORENSICS was printed in block letters on back of the jacket. WILLOWS was written in smaller type above her chest, across from an LVPD star patch. She fished her metallic silver field kit out of the back of the Denali and headed for the entrance. Nick and Greg followed after her, lugging their own kits. She hoped that three CSIs would be enough for this call.
Unfortunately, the media had already arrived in force. A news copter hovered overhead, making Catherine glad that the crime scene was safely indoors. She’d had too many outdoor sites disturbed by the backwash from an overeager copter. Camera flashes and spotlights nearly blinded her. Reporters shouted questions at her, which she studiously ignored. A Channel 8 news van circled the block, looking for someplace to park. It was obvious that the press had already gotten wind of the show-biz angle.
Terrific, she thought sarcastically. In her experience, excess media attention just brought down more pressure on the crime lab and made her job that much more difficult. The fact that a TV show was involved, even an obscure cable program, meant publicity, gossip, and all sorts of public-relations baggage to deal with. Ecklie is going to be all over this.
She flashed her ID at the uni in charge, who lifted the yellow tape to let the CSIs through. Later on, they would have to bag the yellow tape and take it back to the lab for processing, just in case any trace evidence from the scene had transferred to it. At least once, they had actually cracked a case by isolating some cobwebs that had been accidentally carried out by a careless first responder. A mosquito caught in the webbing had contained DNA from the perp, blowing his alibi. Catherine had made sure to look over any crime scene tape ever since.
Escaping the reporters and their cameras, they entered WaxWorkZ. The club’s dimly lit foyer was a literal chamber of horrors, and not in the bloody sense they were used to. They paused on the red carpet to take in the display. Catherine hadn’t seen this many hardcore killers since her last trip to the penitentiary.
“Wow.” Greg gawked at the macabre figures. “Not exactly Madame Tussauds quality, but pretty good.”
Catherine was less amused. She got enough of murder and mayhem every night at work. She grimaced at the sight of the Miniature Killer immortalized in wax. “Okay, that is way too soon.”
Natalie Davis had committed suicide in her prison cell only three years ago, after nearly killing Sara Sidle. Resurrected in effigy, she tended to her gruesome dollhouse with meticulous care, an inscrutable smile upon her bland, unassuming features. Catherine was glad that she hadn’t assigned Sara to this call.
“Tell me about it,” Nick agreed. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Is it just me, or does this place remind you of Millander?”
Paul Millander, another notorious serial killer in their past, had manufactured grisly Halloween novelties for a living, churning out severed rubber heads, arms, hands, and feet, some of which he’d used to plant bogus prints and impressions at crime scenes. He’d also managed to produce several genuine corpses before the CSIs had finally brought him to justice. Like Natalie Davis, he had ultimately cheated the executioner by taking his own life.
“No,” Catherine said. “You’re not the only one.”
Now was no time for a trip down memory lane, however. She mentally shoved the disturbing recollections into the past. Millander and the Miniature Killer were dead. She had a new case to focus on. Scanning the lobby, Catherine noted a conspicuous gap in one line of figures. An empty pedestal was positioned between John Wayne Gacy and Lizzie Borden.
Wonder who used to be there?
Another cop met them at the end of the carpet and escorted them to the actual site of the shooting, which turned out to be a back office behind the bar. The body of the victim lay on his back on the floor. The front of his blue coveralls was soaked in blood. The clotted stains were still shiny and damp, indicating that the blood had been spilled in the last few hours. A gunshot wound in his chest left little doubt as to the cause of death. A hockey mask lay near his head. Blood spatter stained the walls and furniture. An untouched void on the desktop indicated the possible location of the shooter. Catherine winced at the sight of smeared red footprints all around the body; too many people seemed to have stomped all over the evidence. A single bullet hole could be seen in the wall by the door.
A chainsaw rested on the carpet about a yard from the body. Catherine did a double take at the incongruous power tool.
And was that an iron maiden in the corner?
What the hell?
Captain Jim Brass was already on the job, along with David Phillips, the assistant medical examiner. Dave appeared to have completed his preliminary examination of the victim, and was now waiting for Catherine and her team to release the body. Both he and Brass were keeping their distance from the corpse to avoid disturbing the blood and footprints more than they already were. Catherine appreciated their caution, but was not surprised. The two men had been working hand-in-hand with the crime lab for over a decade now; Brass had even supervised the forensics unit for a time before returning to his true calling as a detective. They knew the drill.
“Welcome to the house of wax,” Brass greeted them, looking and sounding nothing like Vincent Price. A Jersey accent testified to his roots in Hoboken. A dour, hangdog face conveyed the impression that few things surprised him anymore. A star-shaped badge was pinned to the lapel of a tan sport coat.
“What did we miss?” Catherine asked.
Brass pulled out his notebook. “The victim is Matt Novak, an actor on the show. According to multiple witnesses, who were filming the whole thing from the next room, Novak surprised the shooter, one Jill Wooten, as part of a hidden-camera stunt. She surprised him by pulling out a gun and putting a bullet into his chest before anybody could say ‘cut.’” He put the notebook away. “Guess his performance was a little too convincing.”
“Talk about dying for your art,” Catherine said. She peeled off her winter gloves and replaced them with thin white latex. “And the chainsaw?”
“A noisy prop,” Brass reported. “All bark, no bite.”
Catherine took a closer look at the chainsaw, wanting to quickly eliminate it as the murder weapon. A gloved finger gingerly touched one of the jagged teeth, which bent backward when she pressed on it. The teeth weren’t metal at all, she realized, just rubber painted metallic silver. Guess that explains why the carpet isn’t all chewed up. The harmless prop would have generated lots of noise and smoke, but no real danger. Not that any frightened “victim” was likely to notice.
The CSIs gathered around the body, like mourners at a wake. Novak’s bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the ceiling; a thin film had already formed over the lifeless orbs. Catherine looked at David, curious to hear his conclusions. “David?”
“COD appears to be a single GSW to the chest.” He pointed at the hole in the wall she had noticed earlier. It was right by the door, about six inches to the left of where they had entered the office. “Possibly a through-and-through. Rigor and body temperature puts the time of death at approximately eleven p.m.”
Brass nodded. “Which agrees with the initial reports from the witnesses.”
That makes life easier, Catherine thought. Maybe this would prove to be a straightforward case of death by misadventure. She put herself in the place of the alleged shooter, suddenly finding herself face-to-face with a masked, chainsaw-wielding assailant. Catherine could see why she might have shot the actor in self-defense. Under the circumstances, I might have fired, too.
“Do we have a weapon?”
Brass produced a Smith & Wesson revolver, already sealed inside a plastic evidence bag. Catherine raised an eyebrow. “You doing our job for us now, Jim?”
He shrugged apologetically. “One of the witnesses, a tech guy on the film crew, had already secured the gun before we arrived. He turned it over to the first officer on the scene.”
Catherine frowned. She would have preferred to have collected the weapon herself from its original location, but she couldn’t blame the bystanders for not wanting to leave a loaded weapon lying around. Especially after what they had just witnessed. Maybe it won’t matter, she thought. From the sound of it, there was little question as to who pulled the trigger.
“Anybody else touch the victim?” she asked. “Aside from David, that is?”
“’Fraid so,” Brass answered. “A couple of crew members tried to help Novak before he kicked the bucket. Took off his mask and everything.” He knew this wasn’t what Catherine wanted to hear. “Sorry.”
It was starting to look like half of Las Vegas had handled the evidence before they’d got here. The chaotic scene, with the panicked film crew desperately trying to save the dying actor, explained the flurry of bloody footprints. She sighed in resignation, accepting the situation for what it was. This wouldn’t be the first time would-be Good Samaritans had messed up her crime scene.
“But here’s the good part,” Brass added. “We’ve got the entire thing on film.” He gestured around the room, pointing out the location of the various hidden cameras, including the TV screen, a small mirror, and a smoke detector on the ceiling. “From multiple angles, they tell me.”
“Okay, that’s convenient.” She welcomed the windfall. Archie in the A/V lab had some work ahead of him. “I’m going to want every frame of that footage.”
“Way ahead of you,” Brass said. “I’ve already told these folks not to erase a thing. We’ve got all the cameras locked down.”
Catherine expected nothing less. “Great.”
Taking possession of the gun, she turned her attention to the body. Flashbulbs strobed the office as Nick and Greg took numerous photos of the late Matt Novak. Shutters clicked rapidly until they were satisfied that they had every shot they needed. Catherine hung back, supervising, while the guys lifted the confusing mélange of footprints onto clear plastic gel filters. The body’s supine position suggested that much of the blood had collected in his chest, cutting down on the size of the blood pool around him. Nonetheless, they would have to collect the carpet as well, once it no longer had a corpse lying on it. She walked around the body one last time before deciding that there was nothing more to be learned from its placement here. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get Mr. Novak on his way.”
While Greg labeled the footprints, Nick helped David flip over the body. Sure enough, an exit wound in his back confirmed that the bullet had passed all the way through him. They zipped the cadaver into a pristine white body bag made of polyvinyl chloride. The white fabric ensured that loose bits of trace evidence could be easily spotted should they fall off the body in transit. They loaded the body onto a gurney and David wheeled him out the door. Matt Novak’s next starring role would be at the morgue. The violent circumstances of his death mandated an autopsy, although Catherine would be surprised if Doc Robbins turned up anything unexpected. How Novak had died appeared obvious. Why was another matter.
The big question: was this just a tragic accident— or something more premeditated?
“How about the witnesses?” she asked Brass.
“We’ve got them herded upstairs,” he informed her. “In the VIP lounges. Officers are keeping them apart until we can take their statements.”
Catherine nodded. Separating any suspects and witnesses was standard protocol. You didn’t want them comparing notes with each other. Even if there was no deliberate attempt to fabricate a phony story, too much chatter could mess up people’s memories, make them start to second-guess their own initial impressions. You wanted each person’s account, exactly as they remembered it, not some sort of consensus version.
“And the shooter?” she asked.
“Pretty messed up,” Brass said. “No surprise. Paramedics are checking her out now.” He cocked his head toward the north wall. “There’s a bunch of studio trailers parked out back. I figure we can question people there. Give your guys plenty of room to work in here.” Nick and Greg were busy rolling up the carpet. “I’m going to talk to the shooter first. You want to sit in?”
Probably not a bad idea. She needed to check the woman’s hands for GSR anyway, to confirm that she had indeed fired the fatal shot. “All right.” She packed up her field kit and addressed Nick and Greg. “You guys finish working the scene. Brass and I are going to ask some questions.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” Nick took a breather before lugging the carpet out to the SUV. He unzipped his jacket to cool off. “We can handle things here.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said. After taking charge of the night shift, she had drafted Nick as her second-in-command. So far, that was turning out to be one of her better executive decisions. “Keep me posted.”
She vacated the office with Brass, leaving Nick and Greg to collect the remainder of the physical evidence, including the bullet in the wall. She knew she could count on them to make sure everything made it safely back to the lab.
“Okay,” she told Brass. “Let’s find out just what sort of colossal screw-up we’re dealing with here.”
The trailers in the parking lot were of the sort used by film crews when shooting on location. Catherine had been in several such trailers before; she’d lost track of how many movies and TV shows had been filmed in Vegas. It was a popular location. Crossing the lot, she noticed that one of the trailers was larger and more impressive than the others. It was at least two stories tall, seventy-five-feet long, and looked big enough to house a decent-sized crime lab.
Wonder who rates that one?
The other four trailers were of less titanic proportions. Brass led her to a silver Airstream trailer a short hike away from the back door of the nightclub. A bored-looking uni was standing guard outside the trailer. An ambulance was parked nearby.
Brass rapped on the trailer door. A young paramedic answered. A stethoscope hung around her neck. The name on her jacket was EXTON.
“How’s she doing?” Brass asked.
“Still pretty shook up,” Exton said, “but not in shock. I gave her a mild sedative.” She shrugged. “Not much else I can do here.”
“Had she been drinking?” Catherine asked. Alcohol was frequently a factor in accidental shootings.
Exton shook her head. “She’s clean. Didn’t seem to be high either, although we didn’t test her for drugs. She said she hadn’t taken anything. I didn’t see any reason to doubt her.”
Catherine trusted the paramedic’s assessment. You didn’t need to be drunk or high to be scared by a man with a chainsaw.
“Thanks,” Brass said. “We’ll take it from here.”
Exton cleared out, and the investigators climbed into the trailer. They closed the door behind them to keep in the heat. Vinyl flooring led them past a built-in dinette and wardrobe. Sandwiches, popcorn, a vegetable platter, and a pot of coffee had been laid atop the dining table. Catherine was tempted by the coffee. It was looking like they had a long night ahead of them.
They found Jill Wooten in a dressing room near the rear of the trailer, seated on a stool in front of a makeup table. An ambulance blanket was draped over her shoulders. Shaky hands clutched a cup of coffee. Model-pretty good looks showed through her obvious distress. Large green eyes were red from crying. Tearstains streaked her cheeks. Her makeup was a mess. A tight pink sweater was splattered with blood. Catherine put her in her early twenties, only a few years older than her daughter, Lindsey. A maternal instinct threatened to compromise Catherine’s objectivity, but she knew better than to see Lindsey in every troubled young woman she encountered on the job. That wasn’t good for anyone.
“Ms. Wooten?” Brass introduced himself and Catherine. “We have some questions we need to ask you.”
Jill gave them a confused look. “But I already told a policeman what happened.”
“We need to hear it again,” Brass explained. “A man is dead. We need to make sure we understand the circumstances.”
She nodded. “I understand.” She sat up straight, bracing herself for the cop’s questions. Her voice was hoarse. “What do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he suggested.
“Okay.” She put down the coffee cup and took a deep breath before diving in. “I had a job interview tonight. My friend Debra told me they were hiring girls for the opening.” A worried look came over her face as she realized how that sounded. “Not for anything sexual. Nothing like that. Just to glam things up, you know?”
Catherine understood the concept. “Got it. You were just supposed to be window dressing.”
“That’s right.” Jill sounded relieved at having that cleared up. “Anyway, when I got here, the front door was unlocked, but nobody seemed to be around. There was a light coming from the office, though, so I checked it out. That’s when I found that guy chained up in the torture thingie.”
“Wait a second,” Catherine interrupted. “There was a man in the iron maiden?”
“Uh-huh. An old guy with a gag over his mouth. I tried to call for help, but then that freak with the chainsaw came at me—” Her voice faltered and her eyes welled with tears. “I swear to God, I thought it was for real! It was like something out of a horror movie. I’d never been so scared in my entire life. I thought he was going to chop me to pieces!”
Brass took a Kleenex from his pocket. Crying victims and suspects were par for the course. “Okay, take your time,” he said a little more gently than usual. Catherine wondered if he was identifying with the poor girl. She recalled that he had once shot and killed a fellow officer by accident. That was something you never forgot. He handed her the tissue. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Jill needed a moment to recover. She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You know what happened next,” she said between sniffles. “I pulled out my gun and shot him.”
That was the part Catherine didn’t get. “You always bring a gun to a job interview?”
“Not usually,” Jill admitted. “But . . . I’ve been getting these horrible phone calls lately, threatening me.” She shuddered beneath her blanket. “In fact, I got a call just a couple of hours before I left my apartment tonight. No way was I going out after dark without my gun.”
Catherine exchanged a look with Brass. Maybe this case wasn’t as straightforward as it first appeared.
“These calls,” Brass asked. “Any idea who’s making them?”
“Oh yeah,” Jill said. “I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure it’s my psycho ex-boyfriend, Craig. He’s a real creep, started stalking me after we broke up. For a second tonight, I honestly thought that chainsaw guy was Craig.” Anger flushed her ashen cheeks. “He always loved that slasher movie crap. Should’ve tipped me off that he was no good. I even had to get a restraining order against him. You can look it up. His name’s Gonch. Craig Gonch.”
“We’ll do that,” Brass promised. “Can you recognize his voice on the phone?”
Jill hesitated. “I’m not sure. It sounded like him, sort of, but it was all whispery, you know, like he was trying to disguise it or something.” Her face curdled in contempt. “Sneaky S.O.B.”
“What about caller ID?” Catherine asked.
“No luck,” Jill said glumly. “He blocked it somehow.”
That information would still be on file with the phone company, Catherine knew. With any luck, Archie could track down the source of the calls. Unless the caller used some sort of disposable cell phone.
“Did you save any of the calls?” Brass asked.
“You bet I did!” she declared. “In case I needed to get another restraining order.”
“Good,” Catherine said. “We can get copies off your voice mail.” She made a mental note to look into subpoenaing the ex’s phone records as well, if it turned out that there might be more to this shooting than met the eye. The anonymous calls might have been just a coincidence, but, if nothing else, it sounded like they were a contributing factor to what happened tonight. If that was really why Jill had brought a gun to the club.
They couldn’t rule out the possibility that Jill had shot Matt Novak on purpose.
“Let’s get back to the actual shooting,” Brass suggested. “You had no idea who was attacking you when you fired at Mr. Novak?”
“Novak? Was that his name?” Jill started to fall apart again. Tears gushed from her eyes. “Oh my God, that poor guy! I can’t believe I really killed somebody!”
Brass offered her another tissue. “What about when his mask came off? Did you see his face?”
“Yes, unfortunately.” She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the image. “I’m never going to forget it!”
“Did you recognize him?” Brass asked.
“No.” She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
Catherine picked up on her uncertain tone. “What do you mean?”
“Now that I think of it, maybe he looked a little familiar.” She paused to search her memory before opening her eyes again. “Like maybe I’ve seen him on TV?”
Possible, Catherine thought. Novak was an actor, even if she had never heard of him. Maybe he had done some other TV spots or commercials. We should look into his credits.
“You never thought it might just be somebody playing a trick on you?” Brass asked. “In a spooky place like that?”
“No!” she blurted. “Not after I found Mr. Boggs in that metal coffin thing, all bloody and everything.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her. “You have no idea how scared I was!”
She struck Catherine as sincere. “This Shock Treatment TV show? Were you familiar with it?”
“A little,” she confessed a bit defensively. “Craig liked to watch it, back when we were together. But that didn’t even occur to me tonight. I thought it was all real!” The sniffles started up again. “Who was this Novak guy? Do you know? Did he have a family?” Her questions dissolved into sobs, and she buried her face in her hands. “Omigod, I killed him. I really killed somebody!”
Sedative or not, Jill looked like she was at the end of her rope. Catherine judged that they wouldn’t be getting much more out of her tonight. At least nothing useful.
Brass seemed to agree. “All right, Ms. Wooten. We’re almost done now. But I’m going to have to ask you not to leave town until this is all cleared up.” He took her address, then handed her his card. “Give me a call if you remember anything else.”
Jill got up to go.
“Not quite yet,” Catherine told her. “I need to get your fingerprints and check your hands for gunshot residue.” She opened up her field kit and took out some moist swabs. Her gaze fell upon Jill’s blood-splattered sweater. The pretty pink top was evidence now. “And I’m going to need your clothes, too.”
“Oh,” Jill said.