When Catherine and Nick pulled up at 17 Clearview Road, home of Mason Ziegler, it was not what they expected.
It was a quaint little one-story brick ranch house, with a white sloped roof and the door and shutters were painted a cobalt blue. The garage was open but no cars were inside. Four young men were sprawled in the driveway in the shade of the garage door in rusty beach lounge chairs.
"Where's Beaver?" Nick asked.
"Hopefully not smoking pot in the garage," Catherine gestured towards the garage gathering.
They gathered their field kits, tugged on their CSI vests and walked up their driveway.
The four young men were all in their early to mid-twenties. Two had dreadlocks like Mason Ziegler had had, one was shaved completely bald and the other had spiked hair that was dyed bright blue. The bald one and one of the dreadlocked wore sunglasses. There was a stereo nearby had bad reception and playing heavy metal broadcasted from the local college radio station. The thick smell of marijuana hung over them and the garage like a damp rag and they all held the joints out in the open, unaware of Nick and Catherine's presence.
"Halt, who goes there?" said the bald one. The other three snickered.
"Uh, Crime Scene Investigators," Catherine said raising an eyebrow.
"We're looking for Mason Ziegler," Nick said.
"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazzzzzz!" came the howl of the dreadlocked guy in sunglasses.
"Shut up, dickweed," the blue-haired one said listlessly. His joint hung from his hand loosely and threatened to drop any second.
"Do you guys know Mason Ziegler?" asked Nick.
"We know Mazz. He's our guy," the bald one said after taking a long drag on his joint.
"Yeah…you looking for him?" said the dreadlocked guy without the sunglasses.
"Are you guys cops?" blurted the blue-haired one suddenly, his enervated body suddenly becoming rigid.
"Fuck, you're cops?!" exclaimed the bald one. "Shit, yo. We don't got nothing. We're fuckin' legal." He dropped his joint on the pavement of the driveway. It still smoked.
"Uh, we're not cops," Catherine said. "We're Crime Scene Investigators."
"Hey, I've got something you can investigate," the blue-haired one smirked and, to Catherine's disgust, made an inappropriate gesture to the crotch of his jeans.
"Back the fuck up, Freak," the bald one said. "They're cops."
"We are not cops," Nick stressed.
"Then what the hell do you want with Mazz?" the dreadlocked one in sunglasses asked.
"We just want to know if this is where he lives. Is it?" Catherine put her hand on her hip, growing intolerant.
"You want answers? What are you gonna give us?"
"Yeah," the one without sunglasses chuckled. "You gotta give us something. You want something from us, we want something from you. Give us some boobies!"
"Hells yeah!" the bald one laughed loudly. "Show us your tits!"
Nick grabbed his cap off his head and threw it down. "Okay, that's it. You all better show this lady some damn respect or we're gonna gather all your asses up and take you down to the police station."
"Hey," the bald one got up out of his lounge chair and approached Nick, over whom he towered by half a foot. "Fuck you, man. We're just trying to help you out."
"You're being more successful at royally pissing off a law enforcement associate. Now sit the hell down and give us some answers about Mason Ziegler or else—"
"Or else what?" the bald one narrowed his eyes.
"Or else I got the Las Vegas Police Department on speed dial and they'll be all over your asses like white on rice and then we'll really have a problem."
"Hey, Cole," the blue-haired one said. "Sit the fuck down."
The bald one, Cole, sat slowly and then picked up his joint and took a drag. He closed his eyes and sat back.
"Calm the hell down, Cole," said the dreadlocked one without sunglasses. "Relax, man."
"What do you think I'm doing, Baker?" Cole snapped.
"Hey, man," the dreadlocked guy with the sunglasses stood up and approached Catherine and Nick. "Cole's been really tweaked lately. Sorry about that. Can I offer you a sacrificial smoke?" he held up a joint.
"No, thanks," the CSI's replied simultaneously.
"Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Zip. That's Baker, Freak and Cole."
Zip didn't offer a handshake and neither did the CSI's.
"Can we get your real names?" Nick asked.
"No," Zip said simply.
"Why?"
"I don't remember what their real names are," Zip snorted a laugh. "Sorry, man, sorry. Sorry. You guys want a smoke?"
"No thank you," Nick said firmly. "We'd like to know about Mason Ziegler."
"Who?"
"Uh, Mazz?"
"Ohhh," Zip grinned. "Dude, yeah. Mazz…Mazz…Uh, he lives here. This is his place, man."
"We know that," Catherine said. "What do you know about him?"
"He's not home right now, but if you leave your name and number and a brief message after the tone, he'll get back to as soon as possible," Zip snorted again.
"What can you tell us about him?" Catherine repeated.
"Uh…he's a guy? He's got…hair…and like, tallish-shortish, kinda? Something? Hey, you guys want a smoke?"
"No thank you."
"So, Mazz is a guy, with hair and is tallish-shortish?" Nick raised an eyebrow and pretended to understand and take this stoner seriously.
"Yeah, yeah. Um, you guys want—?"
"No, we don't want a smoke," Catherine said, exasperated.
"Then I can't help you," Zip replied and meandered back to his lawn chair, which collapsed when he plopped down on it. This caused the other three to burst out in hysterical laughter. Cole even rolled out of his own chair, holding his stomach since he was laughing so hard.
"Fuck you all," Zip muttered.
"Can any of you space cowboys give us any other information about Mazz, besides how he looks?" Nick readjusted his CSI cap.
"I know his birthday!" Freak, the blue-haired one, exclaimed.
"What is it?"
"Uh…it's somewhere between January and December."
"For Godssake," Catherine muttered under her breath.
"Yeah, I know. I'm glad I didn't inhale, either," Nick replied.