As Catherine and Nick stood outside of Mason Ziegler's garage waiting for a straight answer from the potheads, a clean-cut young man descended a side staircase attached to the outside of the house. He had slicked-back dark blonde hair, honey-colored eyes, over which wore small rimless glasses. He wore a baby blue button-down T-shirt with the top three buttons undone with a pair of jeans. His feet sported hiking boots.
"Ah good, I thought I heard voices," he said, flashing a suspiciously white smile. "Gentleman, lady, my name is Greg Ziegler. Please excuse the peanut gallery—they're not mine, I rent hourly. Can I help you?"
"I'm Nick Stokes and this is Catherine Willows from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Nick explained. "We're here about—"
"Let me guess. You're here about Mason Ziegler?"
"Yeah," Catherine said. "How did you know?"
"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazzzzzz!" hooted Baker, again.
The young man ignored Baker. "Like I said, I'm Greg Ziegler. Mason is my little brother. When I heard the word 'crime', his name is synonymous. It's no secret he's not an angel. He has been missing for some time but that's not unusual."
"It's not?"
"No. Well, last we saw him he was on his way to work and sometimes he'll just forget where he's going and drive around until he runs out of gas or finds a random motel. He'll come back in a day or two."
"He just…forgets?" Catherine crinkled her forehead.
Greg scuffed his feet. "I'm not going to lie to you—you look too official. Mason…well, he smokes massive amounts of marijuana, as you can guess from the peanuts baking in the sun over there."
Nick and Catherine shot each other looks and then glanced at the "peanut gallery". They still hadn't moved from their lawn chairs. Baker was beginning to twitch and Zip was now engrossed in a single potato chip, holding it up in front of his eyes.
"Can we go somewhere private to talk? Somewhere you feel comfortable?" Nick asked.
Greg Ziegler raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Follow me."
"Hey Greg!" shouted Cole. "Just a heads up—the blonde won't take off her shirt!"
The others hooted and Baker slapped Cole a high-five and then pounded fists.
Greg shook his head and turned to Catherine, "I'm sorry. They're Mason's friends. I don't invite them, he does. Sometimes they never leave. Bunch of sad cases."
"It's alright," Catherine said, now blushing and feeling self-conscious.
Greg turned and climbed the same set of steps he'd gone down to greet the CSI's in the first place. "This is where I spend most of my time," he said as they came to a screen door.
It was a separate room alienated from the rest of the house and this staircase was the only entrance. There were three large windows on the eastern wall, letting in the afternoon sunlight. Posters from several art colleges were posted on the walls, along with some concert advertisements for Phish, Blind Melon, Live and Incubus. It was set up like an art studio, only instead of paintings, it contained sculptures. Some were finished, painted and covered in plastic. Others were in various forms of completion. There were a few pottery wheels positioned besides large blocks of red clay.
A pretty girl with sleepy eyes and dark blonde hair wearing large headphones attached to a stereo system over her ears and a pair of faded, paint-covered overalls was hunched over one of the wheels that was facing one of the windows. Her tongue, which was pierced with a neon orange stud, was between her teeth and her hands, brown from the wet clay, were meticulously working on a vase. Her right bare foot—three toes glinting with silver rings—worked the pedal of the wheel while the left tapped to music only she could hear.
Greg tapped the girl on the shoulder. She jumped and looked behind her. She smiled and turned off the pottery wheel and took off her headphones.
"Hey," she greeted Greg with a smile.
"Meinka," Greg said, a hand on her shoulder. "These are…I'm sorry, I've forgotten your names…"
"We're CSI's," Catherine said. "I'm Catherine Willows. This is Nick Stokes."
"I'm Meinka, Meinka Hoch, Greg's girlfriend," the girl said, getting up. "It's wonderful to meet you."
When Meinka stood, it was very obvious that she was wearing nothing underneath her overalls. Neither she nor Greg were embarrassed by this. Nick fought his mouth hanging open and Catherine tried not to stare as they shook hands with her. It was not unusual to see bare breasts inside a Las Vegas strip club, but in the open like this was something new, especially for Catherine. Meinka also did not notice that she had forgotten to wipe her hands before she greeted the CSI's. Nick stared in annoyance at his now-brown palm and wiped it off with a rubber glove. Catherine just smeared it on the knee of her jeans.
"What are they doing here, Greg?" Meinka cocked her head as she picked up a nearby rag and wiped her hands. Large peace signs hung from her ears.
"Something about Mason," Greg said.
"Early this morning there was a robbery at a convenience store called the Stop-n-Go," Nick said. "We understand Mason was an employee there?"
"When he showed up," Meinka mumbled under her breath.
"Yeah, Mason worked at Stop-n-Go," Greg said. "I got him the job—my friend Steve is the manager and he owed me a favor."
"Well, like we said, there was a robbery," Catherine said. "Mason was one of the victims. He was shot in the head and killed."
Meinka gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Greg inhaled sharply, gave a curt nod, and sank into a nearby chair.
"I knew it would happen one day," Greg sighed.
"You don't seem very surprised, Greg," Nick frowned.
Meinka got onto her knees and put a hand on Greg's back. "It's okay, babe…"
Greg shrugged her off and Meinka looked as if she was going to cry. She turned to the CSI's apologetically. "When he gets like this, it takes him an hour or so to recover. When his father died he was like this for a few days."
"We understand," Catherine nodded.
Meinka lowered her voice to a whisper, "There's nothing we can do right now when he's like this, but do you guys want something to drink? Eat?"
"No thanks," Nick and Catherine replied simultaneously.
"We actually would like to see Mason's living quarters," Catherine said.
"Oh…his room? Yeah I can take you there."
Meinka left the studio and Nick and Catherine followed. She bounded down the steps in bare feet, not worried in the slightest about splinters from the wooden staircase. She passed the "peanut gallery", ignoring them and their whoops and swiftly opened the front door of the ranch house. It was obvious this girl was comfortable with her sexuality and nudity to prance around in a houseful of guys without wearing a shirt or even a bra.
"C'mon," she said, calling to Catherine and Nick. They hurried inside, into the air conditioned residence.
"I'm sorry about Greg," Meinka said, leading them into the kitchen.
"It's okay," Catherine said.
"Hang on a sec…I gotta get a drink." Meinka panted. She opened the refrigerator and ducked her head inside. "You know, Greg always acted like he hated his brother…but deep down he really loved Mason," she continued.
"I know what that's like," Nick, the baby of seven children, commented.
"You guys sure you don't want something to drink?" Meinka popped up from the fridge. "I got some lemonade. Homemade," she added, making it sound tempting.
"Sure," Nick said, giving in.
"Why not," Catherine shrugged, though she was more anxious than thirsty.
"How long have you been living here?" Nick asked Meinka.
Meinka withdrew the clear pitcher, brimming with refreshing yellow liquid from the fridge and put it on the counter. "Who, Greg and me?"
"Yeah."
"Well, the house really belongs to Greg and me," Meinka said, taking three glass tumblers from an overhead cabinet. She poured thee glasses as she spoke. "We bought it four years ago, around the same time Greg's mother Hannah kicked Mason out of the house. She just couldn't stand having him around anymore, just smoking pot and doing nothing. She said it was ruining her social life."
"His mother said that?"
"Hannah's a big shot in her neighborhood," Meinka said. "A regular social butterfly, if you will. Ran charities, hosted every party imaginable, sold Tupperware and Mary Kay, taught mah-jongg and bridge at her home, organized neighborhood social events. Hannah hates everything out-of-the-norm, which was why she practically disowned Greg when she found out he was dating a neo-hippie freakshow like me. I guess having Mason wandering around the house in a stupor just cramped her style, so she kicked him out."
"The butterfly becomes a hornet," Catherine smirked.
"You could say that. Anyway, Mason just kinda followed us out here like a lost puppy and kind of carved himself a niche. Greg really didn't want him to stay, but finally gave in after he understood Hannah had kicked him out for real this time. We told him that he could stay but he had to earn his keep. If he didn't, we warned, he would be kicked out and probably end up staying in a shelter somewhere, or worse, with one of his friends. So Greg got him the job at the Stop-n-Go and he paid two hundred bucks a month for rent," she sighed and shook her head. "It wasn't long before he stopped going to work on a regular basis and started having those shithead bums coming over. But we let Mason stay anyway—he somehow kept coming up with the two hundred for rent."
"Any ideas on how he kept coming up with the money?" Nick asked.
"Oh sure, I had ideas," Meinka sighed as she handed one glass of lemonade to Nick and one to Catherine. "But I never told Greg about them."
"What ideas?" Catherine cocked her head.
"Drug dealing, of course. What else could someone like Mason do? "
Catherine nodded. She should have known. Nick recalled the collection of marijuana and wax paper Grissom had found in Mason's pockets.
"But truthfully, you guys?" Meinka leaned in and Nick fought staring down her overalls and resisted closing his eyes. "Mason really was a good kid when he wanted to be and when he tried. He was so talented, too."
"Talented?" Catherine asked.
"Well, yeah. Some of those sculptures in our studio? They're Mason's."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. Unfortunately, some of his best work was done when he was high as a kite in an updraft. He made us a lot of money at our craft shows." Meinka gestured at a ceramic tile on the kitchen wall. "That's one of his best tiling works. I wouldn't let him sell it and he gave it to me for Christmas."
Catherine and Nick wandered over to it. It was about a circle with a diameter of about eight inches and it was about an inch thick. It was a carefully carved out crescent moon, cradling an ornate sun. The details were amazing. It was painted over with just the slightest bit of color and then covered with a gesso glaze, making it smooth and shiny.
"Is that what you and Greg do for a living? Make sculptures and such and sell them at craft shows?" Nick asked, turning back to Meinka, who was leaning against the counter. Catherine ambled back to her lemonade.
"Well, during the week I'm a veterinary assistant and Greg's a bank teller. But over the weekend, yeah," Meinka nodded, "we're at craft shows, galleries, flea markets, swap meets. We've been all over Clarke County more than twice. Of course, we gave Mason all the credit in the world for everything he's sold, but we never gave him the profits. We both knew where it would go."
"Down the bong," said Nick, picking up his glass of lemonade.
"Bingo."
"That was what was found under Mason's fingernails," he realized. "Clay. That red substance."
Catherine nodded and then asked, "Can we please see Mason's room, now, please?"
"Oh…sure. Sorry I forgot!" Meinka shook her head. "My mind these days…it must be from breathing the pot air whenever I pass by the garage."
She exited the kitchen and took a sharp right down a hallway, Catherine and Nick on her trail.
"I warn you," Meinka said, stopping in front of a white door with a large KEEP OUT sign taped on. An unmistakable picture of a pot leaf was taped underneath it. "It's a disaster. Greg referred to it as the devil's nursery."
"I'm sure we've seen worse," Catherine assured her.
Meinka opened the door and let the CSI's stepped inside. She wasn't kidding and neither was Greg—it had earned it's "devil's nursery" nickname. Clothes were piled everywhere. The bed wasn't really a bed at all, just a bare mattress lifted up a half a foot by a simple box spring. Food was left on plates for God-knows-how-long. Pizza boxes and empty juice cartons littered the floor. A huge stereo system was wedged into a corner, dusty with age and misuse. CD cases glinted from beneath piles of junk. For some reason, a long, thick knotted rope was attached to the ceiling and hung down, nearly touching the carpet.
"Don't ask about the rope," Meinka said, reading their minds. "Greg and I could never figure it out either."
"Oh…okay," Catherine said.
"I gotta get back to my work. If you need anything, just come up to the studio. I'll be happy to get it for you."
"Thank you," Nick said, tipping the brim of his CSI cap.
"No problem."
When Meinka left, Nick and Catherine felt dirty just standing in the middle of Mason Ziegler's room.
"Can you say 'pack rat'?" Nick commented.
"I can definitely say disgusting," Catherine wrinkled her nose. "Just breathe out your mouth and you'll survive."
Nick put his field kit down on a single clean spot on a nearby TV tray that was piled high with so many Playboy, Maxim and Hot Rod magazines that it was a miracle the thing hadn't collapsed yet. He opened up the kit and snapped on some rubber gloves. Catherine did the same, but settled for resting her kit on the carpet.
"Have you had all your shots, Cath?" Nick asked teasingly.
"Have you had yours?"
"You know it."
"All right then," Catherine sighed. "Let's do some treasure hunting."