6 Months Earlier
9AM Friday, July 29th.
"The name is Karen Baldwin. Caucasian, 30. She's from Nebraska. We already asked for . . ."
The faint smell of burnt flesh was barely noticeable, a marked difference from his other "crispy critter" cases. The detective who had been in charge prior to their arrival was providing a running commentary that Goren wasn't paying attention to anymore. He'd heard that Andy Michaels was smart, but she had an annoying personality. Hopefully, Eames was keeping track.
Goren took in the hotel's ambiance as he brushed past a few stray firemen and CSU guys. Threadbare carpet in 1975 brown and orange, dingy walls criss-crossed with cracks and water stains. At least he hoped they were water stains. The scent of cheap perfume and sex provided a fitting counterpoint to the scent of smoldering mildew and burnt flesh. They stepped off the staircase and into a hall that was, encouragingly, occupied by only two crime scene investigators. The open door directly across revealed the scene; scorched carpet around blackened bed, the body of what had once been a thirty year old woman with dirty blonde hair in the center, all soaked with water. A ruined scene, as far as he was concerned. Now he would have to rely on the specialists to process the information for him.
Without comment, Goren moved forward, past the photographer, who took the hint and began taking snapshots of the rest of the room. He looked at the woman's face, which was only minimally scorched near the neck. Features might once have been pretty, but even with the ravages of the fire, he could tell she'd lived a hard life. He looked at her arms, bound to the headboard with handcuffs.
"So why didn't the sprinklers come on?" Eames peaked in the bathroom.
"I know this'll shock you, but the proprietor turned the system off five years ago. Too many false alarms for crack pipes, I guess. His life's about to become very uncomfortable," quipped Andy.
Bobby tilted his head, examining the body from every angle. Her wrists and arms were unbruised, the shoulders unstrained. "She didn't struggle much when she was on fire. Or before."
"Yeah, well," Andy supplied, "we found two empty fifths of cheap bourbon. The liquor store owner says she bought them last night. She was toasted before she got toasted."
Bobby sniffed the bed. "The bourbon was the accelerant. And this," he pointed to a small pool of wax, barely noticeable. "A candle."
"That and this is why we called you guys." She handed Goren a clear evidence bag containing a letter written in small, neat handwriting. "My captain about shit a brick when he heard the name."
"What name?" Eames asked, trying to read over her partner's shoulder. Failing miserably of course. He was too damn tall.
Andy answered. "Ben Baldwin. You remember Detective Moreno? He, his wife, his brother-in-law got turned into roadkill six months ago? His sister-in-law was the only survivor. Baldwin was her husband."
"He was a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist." Goren said offhandedly, giving the letter to Eames. "He just had a book come out."
"Cop, socialite, acclaimed journalist. It was a huge story. Special people, special cops." Andy shrugged and walked away.
Eames handed the letter back to Goren. "I don't get it. If she was killed because of blackmail, why didn't the killer burn the letter?"
Goren scowled. There was only one possibility, but it didn't make
sense either.
"And why burn her? It's overkill," Eames added.
Goren turned to leave the scene. "We need to talk to Amy Baldwin."
"Wife?" Eames asked.
"Sister."
9AM Friday, July 29th.
"The name is Karen Baldwin. Caucasian, 30. She's from Nebraska. We already asked for . . ."
The faint smell of burnt flesh was barely noticeable, a marked difference from his other "crispy critter" cases. The detective who had been in charge prior to their arrival was providing a running commentary that Goren wasn't paying attention to anymore. He'd heard that Andy Michaels was smart, but she had an annoying personality. Hopefully, Eames was keeping track.
Goren took in the hotel's ambiance as he brushed past a few stray firemen and CSU guys. Threadbare carpet in 1975 brown and orange, dingy walls criss-crossed with cracks and water stains. At least he hoped they were water stains. The scent of cheap perfume and sex provided a fitting counterpoint to the scent of smoldering mildew and burnt flesh. They stepped off the staircase and into a hall that was, encouragingly, occupied by only two crime scene investigators. The open door directly across revealed the scene; scorched carpet around blackened bed, the body of what had once been a thirty year old woman with dirty blonde hair in the center, all soaked with water. A ruined scene, as far as he was concerned. Now he would have to rely on the specialists to process the information for him.
Without comment, Goren moved forward, past the photographer, who took the hint and began taking snapshots of the rest of the room. He looked at the woman's face, which was only minimally scorched near the neck. Features might once have been pretty, but even with the ravages of the fire, he could tell she'd lived a hard life. He looked at her arms, bound to the headboard with handcuffs.
"So why didn't the sprinklers come on?" Eames peaked in the bathroom.
"I know this'll shock you, but the proprietor turned the system off five years ago. Too many false alarms for crack pipes, I guess. His life's about to become very uncomfortable," quipped Andy.
Bobby tilted his head, examining the body from every angle. Her wrists and arms were unbruised, the shoulders unstrained. "She didn't struggle much when she was on fire. Or before."
"Yeah, well," Andy supplied, "we found two empty fifths of cheap bourbon. The liquor store owner says she bought them last night. She was toasted before she got toasted."
Bobby sniffed the bed. "The bourbon was the accelerant. And this," he pointed to a small pool of wax, barely noticeable. "A candle."
"That and this is why we called you guys." She handed Goren a clear evidence bag containing a letter written in small, neat handwriting. "My captain about shit a brick when he heard the name."
"What name?" Eames asked, trying to read over her partner's shoulder. Failing miserably of course. He was too damn tall.
Andy answered. "Ben Baldwin. You remember Detective Moreno? He, his wife, his brother-in-law got turned into roadkill six months ago? His sister-in-law was the only survivor. Baldwin was her husband."
"He was a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist." Goren said offhandedly, giving the letter to Eames. "He just had a book come out."
"Cop, socialite, acclaimed journalist. It was a huge story. Special people, special cops." Andy shrugged and walked away.
Eames handed the letter back to Goren. "I don't get it. If she was killed because of blackmail, why didn't the killer burn the letter?"
Goren scowled. There was only one possibility, but it didn't make
sense either.
"And why burn her? It's overkill," Eames added.
Goren turned to leave the scene. "We need to talk to Amy Baldwin."
"Wife?" Eames asked.
"Sister."