Disclaimer: I don't own the characters who appear on CSI. Don't sue me,
please.
"You'll never believe this one," Jim Brass said.
"Try us," Gil Grissom returned. "This is Vegas, Jim. Sin City. We've seen everything, we've heard everything, you get the picture. I don't think there's anything that could shock any of us."
"Oh, I'm not entirely sure about that, you guys. Come with me," the homicide detective said.
"This better be good," Sara Sidle said, following two paces behind Grissom and Brass.
"I'm not sure if good would be the word," Brass said as they reached room 395 of the Sphere. "You two get first dibs."
Grissom and Sara entered to find a man lying on the floor, a cut through his abdomen and his head lying neatly nearby. Sara swallowed audibly, and even Grissom felt like gagging. Brass, who was standing near the door, was deathly pale.
"Seppuku," Grissom said flatly.
"What?" Brass asked.
"Ritual suicide," Sara put in. "It's a way to restore honor. You can either do what our guy did and have someone cut your head off after you do the deed or you can cut your gut open and not have your head cut off. Either way it sounds ugly."
"So what's our guy doing in Vegas anyway?" Brass asked. "Besides this."
Sara looked up from an open notebook on the bed. "Gambling. He's been keeping track of his wins and losses. He's also been keeping track of his...uh, gambling buddies. Last night he went to the Beachcomber, the Parisian and the Oasis Towers."
"Who was there?"
"Dave Chapin, Tara Woods, and Nicole Harris. Our guy lost five hundred dollars at the Beachcomber, six hundred dollars at the Parisian, and seven hundred at the Oasis Towers," Grissom reported.
Brass whistled. "Damn."
The investigators were interrupted by a loud voice from the doorway.
"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in here?"
"You'll never believe this one," Jim Brass said.
"Try us," Gil Grissom returned. "This is Vegas, Jim. Sin City. We've seen everything, we've heard everything, you get the picture. I don't think there's anything that could shock any of us."
"Oh, I'm not entirely sure about that, you guys. Come with me," the homicide detective said.
"This better be good," Sara Sidle said, following two paces behind Grissom and Brass.
"I'm not sure if good would be the word," Brass said as they reached room 395 of the Sphere. "You two get first dibs."
Grissom and Sara entered to find a man lying on the floor, a cut through his abdomen and his head lying neatly nearby. Sara swallowed audibly, and even Grissom felt like gagging. Brass, who was standing near the door, was deathly pale.
"Seppuku," Grissom said flatly.
"What?" Brass asked.
"Ritual suicide," Sara put in. "It's a way to restore honor. You can either do what our guy did and have someone cut your head off after you do the deed or you can cut your gut open and not have your head cut off. Either way it sounds ugly."
"So what's our guy doing in Vegas anyway?" Brass asked. "Besides this."
Sara looked up from an open notebook on the bed. "Gambling. He's been keeping track of his wins and losses. He's also been keeping track of his...uh, gambling buddies. Last night he went to the Beachcomber, the Parisian and the Oasis Towers."
"Who was there?"
"Dave Chapin, Tara Woods, and Nicole Harris. Our guy lost five hundred dollars at the Beachcomber, six hundred dollars at the Parisian, and seven hundred at the Oasis Towers," Grissom reported.
Brass whistled. "Damn."
The investigators were interrupted by a loud voice from the doorway.
"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in here?"