Tuesday, July 15th, 2003
10:47 pm
The night air is thick with nearly unbearable heat as Grissom and Catherine step out of the navy blue Tahoe and open the rear doors to retrieve their evidence kits. The normally quiet street is ablaze with red and blue flashing lights, chasing away the dark shadows. Unintelligible transmissions over police radios crackle through the air, amid the murmurs of curious bystanders.
Stepping under the bright yellow crime scene tape, Catherine and Grissom approach Homicide Detective, Jim Brass, who is waiting by the front door.
Hey Brass, Grissom says in greeting. Dispatch said it was a 419.
Not your standard DB, the detective replies darkly. Coroner just pronounced.
Who called it in? Catherine says, eyeing the crowd that has formed.
Next-door neighbor. Says her dog ran across the lawn and kept barking at the patio doors to the bedroom, so she decided to take a peek. Spotted the body on the bed through the vertical blinds and called 911, Brass supplies.
Pausing at the doorway, all three pull powder blue coverings over their shoes to protect the crime scene. Making their way carefully though the house, Brass rattles off the details of the victim. Melinda Greenwalt, age 29. 5'8, 140 pounds, according to her Nevada license. No violations on her record. Single. Accountant. Neighbor says no boyfriend, no pets. She hasn't seen Melinda for about a week.
Entering the bedroom, Grissom stops short. The aroma of death hangs heavily in the stifling air. Taking a deep breath, he continues inside, Catherine right behind him.
she says softly.
The nude body is posed suggestively on the bed, thighs spread wide, her green eyes frozen in fear. With blood shot eyes, she stares blankly up at the two criminalists. Wordlessly, they put down their kits, pull on latex medical gloves and begin examining the room.
Petechial hemorrhaging. No ligature marks, but her lips are blue, Grissom comments from behind his camera as he snaps a series of photos. Fingertips too.
Stepping closer for a better look, Catherine examines a wound just below the ribcage on the victim's left side. This looks like a knife wound, but there isn't any blood, almost no bruising. Peri-mortem? Post-mortem maybe?
Grissom answers, distracted. There's more bruising at the wrists. Robbins will be able to tell us more after post.
Bright flashes bounce off the soft rose-colored walls as more photos are taken.
Catherine looks around the room, then walks over to the closet door and opens it.
This is odd.
Brass asks.
Everything is so . . . neat. Orderly, Catherine says. Even her shoes are lined up perfectly. Light to dark.
She's organized, so what? the detective replies.
Stepping back, Catherine gazes at a dresser next to the closet. An expensive looking gold watch lays next to an open jewelry box full of necklaces and earrings on top of the polished wooden case.
Aside from the bed, nothing has been disturbed. Definitely not a robbery, Catherine observes dryly. There's gotta be close to two grand on this shelf alone.
More flashes as Grissom takes more pictures.
Catherine, help me turn her over. I think there's something on her back, Grissom requests as he examines the shoulder of the victim.
I'll do it, Brass offers.
You need gloves, Grissom replies as Catherine walks back over to the bed.
As the woman is rolled onto her stomach, Grissom's eyes widen.
What the hell? Brass exclaims.
The words YOU'RE MINE WHORE' have been carved in her flesh in four inch high letters and a white, folded piece of paper has been wedged into the shallow track.
Oh my god, Catherine gasps.
Carefully removing the piece of paper from the wound, Grissom begins to unfold it. "It's addressed to someone named 'Strawberry,' he says. "Maybe the lab will be able to lift some prints." Opening a plastic envelope, he slides the partially folded, blood soaked paper inside and seals it.
"The vic is a redhead," the detective notes. "Maybe it's for her."
"Possibly." Pushing his glasses up on his nose with the back of his hand, Grissom examines the wounds closely. She was alive when this happened. Look at the bruising.
That's a lot of hate, Brass remarks, grimacing at blood crusted cuts. How could she have stayed still with that going on?
Unconscious maybe? Catherine suggests. We hope.
There isn't very much blood. Looks like she's been cleaned, Grissom remarks as he sweeps his flashlight across the sheets. Her hair has been washed very recently.
Want me to process the bathroom? Catherine asks, looking over her shoulder towards the hallway.
Grissom nods, then turns to Brass. We need to make a call.
Washington, D.C.
Catherine asks; brow furrowed with confusion.
I've seen this before.
* * *
