DISCLAIMER: I do not own CSI or Las Vegas, though I wish I did. However, I like writing about the crime team's investigative adventures. Enjoy!
The morning was still grey in the city of Las Vegas. It is quite an understatement to say that noone was on the always-bright streets lit by flashing neon signs. Drunks were headed home from the bars; overconfident men returned to their posh hotels from a successful night of gambling; airport terminals were preparing to open their doors to the soon-to-be-arriving tourists that flocked to the city every day to whittle away their hard-earned savings on slot machines and souvenirs.
On the rougher side of town, the smaller, less-successful businesses were getting ready for the day also. Smoke shops turned their signs from CLOSED to OPEN, convenience stores turned the locks on their steel-meshed doors. Along a street home to such businesses, a middle-aged man strode quickly, looking over his shoulder nervously every other second or so. He was a larger man, wearing a pair of white pants and a too-small chef's shirt which stretched to cover his overweight stomach. He was balding, and what remained of his brown hair was gradually turning white. To make up for his loss of hair, he seemed to have grown an overly-bushy moustache which twitched whenever he looked over his shoulder. Although he tried to hide it, John Meyer was truly afraid of this part of Vegas. However, when he moved here five years ago, he was set in his ways to start a bakery and this was the cheapest locale in town to do it. He wasn't happy with the drug dealers that stood outside his shop every night as he closed up, but he was much too afraid to do anything about them being there. His doctor said that if he didn't reduce his stress level and cut back on the leftover doughnuts, he'd be dead within a decade. Of course, the ulcer he'd developed within his first month of being in Vegas wasn't helping matters either.
On this particular Monday, John tried to avoid eye contact with the bums and strippers that glared at him suspiciously. He watched his feet, terrified that if any of them tried anything he'd have no way to defend himself. He was relieved when he finally reached the door of his shop and fumbled with the key in the lock. When he managed to open the glass-paned door, he hurried inside and closed and locked the door behind him. With his back against the wall, he closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. He was in his sanctuary, his safe place. With that thought, he hummed to himself as he went about his pre-baking business in gathering the ingredients and warming the giant ovens.
After about fifteen minutes, however, John was in the middle of mixing dough for bread when he smelled something burning coming from somewhere in the shop. This is odd, he thought to himself. I thought I took Friday's last batch of muffins out of the oven before I left yesterday. With his brow furrowed, John wiped the flour off his hands with a wet towel as he opened the door of his first oven. The coils were glowing red with the heat, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about the oven. Strange, he thought to himself. He opened the second oven, and slammed the door shut at what he saw. Wide-eyed and holding back a scream that threatened to erupt in his throat, he backed away from the oven and fumbled for the handheld phone, frantically dialing 9-1-1.
"So, what do we have today, Captain?" A young black man in his thirties stepped out of the police Tahoe and slammed the door shut behind him. He approached the police captain Brass with his forensics kit in hand.
"Well, a baker named Mr. John Meyer was opening his shop this morning when he discovered something unusual in his ovens," Brass explained.
Warrick Brown raised his eyebrows. "Let me guess, it wasn't chocolate muffins."
"Nope, but it's something you CSIs will have to dig your teeth into," Brass joked. His cell phone rang and as he went to answer it, Warrick ducked underneath the crime tape and entered the shop.
David, the coronary assistant, was already inside with the paramedics. He was peering into one of the ovens with a flashlight and looking slightly confused.
Warrick cocked his head at David. "What, you having problems finding the body, there, Dave?"
David looked up at Warrick from overtop of his glasses.
"No, I'm wondering how to get it out of here."
Warrick glanced into the oven. The baking coils were still glowing a bright red. As his eyes adjusted to the new light, Warrick saw the victim crumpled at the back of the oven. It was in the fetal position facing the back. Its skin was the colour of uncooked steak, and the parts touching the coils had gone black and crispy. The CSI was experienced, but the body was so badly burned that he couldn't determine the gender.
"This oven's gotta be at least five feet deep," Warrick noted. "I can see your dilemma, David. Any way I can help?"
David grinned. "Get me a long hook and a spatula and I'll be just fine."
Warrick began to process the scene. He took pictures of the counters, the blenders with fresh dough still in them, the footprints going from and to the door, the flour-covered phone handset. He was in the middle of fingerprinting the phone when the doorbell tinkled and Nick entered the shop.
" 'Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man,' " Nick recited, " 'Bake me a cake as fast as you can.' Man, you'd think the guy could've waited til it was out of the oven before he decided to get it. Where haven't you processed yet, Warrick?"
Warrick was taking a shot of a pair of dislodged blender blades that were lying on the counter near the ovens. "I haven't done the back room yet," he said. "You could start there."
Nick proceeded to the back of the shop. He walked through the protective plastic curtain into the dark of the supply room. He pulled out his flashlight and scanned the room. He looked up and saw a dislodged air vent near the ceiling at the back of the room.
"Hey, Warrick, you might want to take a look at this."
As Warrick joined him, Nick walked carefully to the back of the room, stepping over flour and sugar bags as he went. When he got to the back wall, he shone his flashlight up towards the vent and saw dried blood that had run down the wall from the vent.
"What do you make of that?" he asked. Warrick took photos of the blood as Nick followed the trail of drops leading away into the storeroom. He climbed over mounds of flourbags until he reached a corner near the door into the shop. There was a bit of blood smear on the floor, but not enough to indicate a body had been there for an extended amount of time.
"There's flour all over the floor here," Nick said. Warrick, having finished his photographs, kneeled down and snapped some pictures of the flour mess. He spotted torn bags lying all over the floor near the smear.
"You know," Warrick reasoned, "the vic could have slipped here after he came through that vent and ripped some bags on his way down."
"Nah, look at how many bags there are! There must be at least six fifty-pound sacks. That's a lot of stuff to knock over, especially considering how heavy they are."
"Well, what if they fell on top of him?" Warrick suggested.
"It still doesn't explain how he ended up in the oven," Nick said doubtfully. "Dead men can't walk, after all."
"Not unless they have help." Warrick stood up and returned to the shop and left Nick to pick up some flour for Trace.