Chapter Twenty Try Not to Kill Yourself
(I've decided to do something new with the chapter and divide it into three sections - one for each clue, brought in by a different CSI)
Nick:
The note he held in his hands must be the case breaker. There was no way to know for sure at the moment, but the first line was a big clue to who the writer was. If he wasn't mistaken...this was a suicide note. It could render the entire search for clues pointless, it could shut down the investigation completely and, to make Greg happy, they would drop the murder charges on Roger. If only it was signed...
The other two stared over his shoulder, probably shocked. He smiled to himself, bagging the note, pleased with his work.
"I think we're done here," he said, failing to contain his excitement. "I'm gonna go analyze this, see if I can prove that our victim wrote it."
"But wait a second, Nicky," said Warrick. "I found the gun in Roger's cell. If he committed suicide, then it would have been found next to his body, or at least in his cell."
"Well, maybe Roger saw the gun but not his brother's dead body, and took it, trying to kill him, but he was already dead."
"That's pretty far-out," Warrick said skeptically.
"Hey," Nick shrugged. "Stuff like that can happen. This place is pretty dark."
"Yeah, but he still had to hear the gunshot."
"And what about my clue? The breath mint - aspirin?" asked Greg, correcting himself mid-sentence.
"It was found by the guard posts, not anywhere near where the real crime happened," Nick said. "It's probably of no significance."
He stepped past Greg and Warrick and went through the door to head back to the lab. At once, the press swarmed on him. He tried to ignore them but couldn't help but smile. The door opened again and the other two came out begrudgingly. Nearly blinded by the flashing bulbs as they escaped the courthouse, Nick got in the front seat of the car and turned on the engine. No one spoke on the way back. They were probably thinking about how they were going to tie their clues to the murderer, but Nick was absolutely sure that his clue was the most significant. How could they not think that?
As soon as he parked the car, he ran into the building to David the coroner. David must agree with his theory, he said that someone would have to be very good to have shot him from across the cell. The wound would tell the story.
David was bending over the body, seemingly studying it closely. But he looked up when Nick entered the room.
"Hi," Nick said, striding over. "I need to ask you some questions." David smiled in a friendly manner and acknowledged him. "Right. Did you find any pens on him, by any chance?"
"I don't think there are any pockets in the convict uniforms," David said. "And no, I didn't see any pens attached to his body." He smiled humorously.
"Well, then...another question. Would someone get these wounds if they...committed suicide?" Nick said slowly.
David looked confused, but gave a small nod. "Y-yes. I'm not going to say that's definite, but it's pretty consistent if he put the gun to his own head. By the way..." he said as Nick was about to leave the room, "I found that he had swelling at the back of his throat. I think it was an allergic reaction to something. So I sent a sample of his blood to tox."
"Okay," said Nick, not noting that he wasn't going to check up on that. Why did David bother doing that? The victim just probably yelled too much. The allergic reaction, if there was one, didn't cause his death, so what was the point?
Now Nick made his way towards the expert on handwriting. He was a large man with glasses and looked funny sometimes, but his expertise on paper, inks, and anything to do with writing couldn't be compared to. Nick wasn't quite sure what his name was, so he tried to avoid addressing him. "Hey," he said, pausing. "I need you to do a handwriting comparison." He took out the note and placed it on the desk.
The man cleared his throat. "I'd love to help you, Nick," he said slyly, "but to do a comparison, hey, I need something to compare it to."
Nick flushed red. "Oh...crap," he said, automatically searching his pockets. He didn't have a document to compare it to! What a stupid thing to forget! "Well...he's in the CSI database, does that help?"
The handwriting guy sighed. "More work for me, then," he muttered, moving in front of a computer screen. "Maybe it helps, I'm not sure. What's his name?"
"David Mason," Nick said monotonously.
The handwriting guy typed this into the computer and up popped a picture of a man with long blonde hair and a pair of glasses. David didn't look menacing there: in fact, he looked rather friendly. Looks can be deceiving, Nick thought.
"Alrightee," said the handwriting guy, scrolling down the page. "He's been a CSI for six years, he's got to have filed a handwritten report at some point or another." His eyes continued to search the page hurriedly. At last, he clicked on a link that brought him to a roughly written report. He pressed the "print" button and a comparable copy soon made its way out of the printer. Mr. Handwriting took a small hand magnifier and pressed his eye over some of the lettering.
"Whoever wrote this," he murmured, "was a leftie."
"And...?" Nick said impatiently. "Does that compare to the other one?"
Mr. Handwriting lifted his face from the report and then put the magnifier over the note. "And whoever wrote this...was a leftie."
"So...are they the same person or not?"
He went back and forth between the papers a few times before motioning for him to come over. "Notice the 'g' in 'Roger,'" he noted, "and the 'g' in 'interrogative.' They're the same. And the way the 'i's are dotted with lines rather than dots. I would say...they are the same handwriting."
Nick smiled. He knew it. Forgetting to utter a thanks to the handwriting guy, he picked up the note and walked out proudly. He went to go find Warrick and Greg and tell them what he knew happened. David felt so guilty that he was abusive that he had killed himself to end Roger's agony. It made perfect sense and he had proof from both the handwriting guy and David the coroner that it was a suicide.
Warrick:
Warrick stood there, holding the bagged gun, watching Nick as he walked out of the crime scene clutching the note he found like a trophy. That note could have been easily forged and thrown in a corner by a ruthless Roger. That's why the gun was in his cell. Nick was probably blinded by his own mind, but he would soon find out that the note was not written by David, it was written by Roger or someone else to cover the murder. But it didn't make sense that they had forgotten to hide the murder weapon. . .
"I don't care what Nick says," he said mostly to himself than to the rookie still crouched on the cell floor. "I'm gonna follow this clue. It doesn't make sense for the gun to be here. It must have been a murder."
"Yeah," said Greg. "I'm gonna follow my clue, too." He held up the bagged aspirin.
Warrick looked at the little white pill and actually fought back a laugh. "Oh, Greg. I hardly think headache medicine is going to solve a murder. A guard probably dropped it, like Nick said. I don't think it really has anything to do with the case."
"Well, you found it," said Greg. "And for all we know, it has everything to do with the case."
The two of them got up and followed Nick to the swarming mob of media. Bright flashbulbs went off in various directions, nearly blinding them all. Nick seemed to be star-struck for a moment, but then he moved out and Warrick followed behind him quickly. He jumped in the front seat next to the driver and sat quietly. The silence was so awkward: he wondered why no one was saying anything. A few times, he tried to start up a conversation, but the ambience said that no one would reply.
As they pulled up to the lab, Nick unbuckled his seatbelt, eager to get out and prove his case. Warrick was just as eager. He watched Nick run out towards the building, and then he opened his door. He could hear Greg coming out behind him. Climbing the stairs of the building, he thought of what he was going to do first: fingerprint the gun.
He headed to a small lab and took the gun out of its bag. A small, clear plastic rectangular case stood on the desk. On the bottom was a juice cap with a few drops of dried glue in it. It was fairly simple to fume things for fingerprints. With care, he hung the gun by the barrel inside of the case, put some drops of wet super-glue on the bottom, and sealed it air-tight. He had but to sit and watch as the fingerprints appeared on the gun's handle. As soon as they were clear, he took the gun out, dusted fingerprint powder on them, and tape-lifted them for comparison. Warrick lifted one of them up to the light, smiling at it proudly. These had to belong to Roger Mason.
Without having to think about it, he scanned the prints into the database, then sat back in his chair, staring and waiting for the match. There was no doubt in his mind of who was going to pop up. However, he was met with a slight surprise: two names popped up. One belonging to Roger Mason, of course. The other, though, was a cop by the name of Larson Wolfe. For a minute he stared, confused, wondering how in the hell this Wolfe guy's prints got on the gun and who he was. Then it hit him. It was the most obvious answer to the obvious question he had forgotten to ask: Where did Roger Mason get the weapon in the first place? Stupid! He was so used to people just having guns that he forgot Roger wouldn't be allowed to carry one in jail.
He had to go back and interrogate the cops now. But if Nick found out about his mistake, he would surely be laughed at. So he would just go back by himself and face the stupid media. Leaving his CSI jacket behind and grabbing his car keys, Warrick made his way outside into the sweltering heat. Another surprise found him as he stepped outside: Greg was standing there looking out into the parking lot, his spiked hair blowing in the hot wind. Warrick shook himself out of a daze and went past him as he gave a small wave.
"Where are you going?" Greg asked.
"I'm..." Warrick paused. There didn't seem to be a point to lying to Greg: he was a rookie after all. "I'm going to go interrogate one of the cops at the courthouse."
"Can I come?" asked Greg.
Warrick thought about it for a minute. He didn't see the harm in it, perhaps Greg had finally given up on that mint thing and wanted to help out. He got in his car, and they drove to the courthouse. It was still quiet in the car, but less quiet because he had turned the radio on.
The media flew out at them once more when they went over to talk to the cops. It was getting very annoying. Warrick had the print-out of Larson Wolfe and looked around for someone who looked like the picture. It was difficult - most of the cops looked exactly the same to him. He turned to Greg to ask for aid, but Greg had wandered off and was talking to a cop that definitely wasn't who he was looking for. Warrick shrugged. Maybe he had found out something interesting after all.
At last, he decided to just come out and say it. He approached a fairly thin and young cop with brown hair that wasn't a natural color. He stood out from the crowd because he was not wearing his uniform shirt but a bright orange one with his badge clipped to the pocket.
"Excuse me," Warrick said politely, "Do you know where Larson Wolfe is?"
The cop nodded. "That's me," he answered. "What can I do for you?"
Warrick couldn't help but stare at the orange shirt. Wolfe noticed.
"If you're wondering about the shirt," he said, "I got a lot of blood on my uniform. They let me change out of it, but the bloody shirt's in a paper bag somewhere." He looked around him and picked up a brown paper bag, handing it to Warrick. "Here."
"How - how did you get blood on your shirt in the first place?" asked Warrick curiously, putting on a glove and picking up a cop shirt covered in blood.
"Ah," said Wolfe, turning slightly red. "See, I kinda dozed off in the middle of my shift. I woke up when I heard a gunshot. It's damn dark in there, you know." He pointed to the cell room. "You've been in there. The lights have been working funny for a while. So...I wanted to see if something happened to one of the criminals. The only way to tell was to go inside and check it out. I checked Roger's first, but he was breathing fine: I thought he was asleep. I guess he was just pretending, eh?"
He looked sadly down at the ground. Warrick felt bad for him for some reason, but then remembered the question he had meant to ask in the first place. "Did you know that your gun is missing?"
"What?" he looked down at his belt in surprise. "Oh my gosh, so it is!" He looked up desperately at Warrick. "Look, have you seen it around?" Wolfe got down on his hands and knees, searching for it. "'Cos I ain't exactly got a clean slate with this thing...oh, shit.."
"Well, then," said Warrick comically, "I've got some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I know where your gun is."
"You do!" cried Wolfe jubilantly, jumping to his feet. "Where is it?"
"That's the bad news," said Warrick. "It's our murder weapon."
Wolfe put a hand to his mouth, suppressing tears, or so it seemed. "No...no..." he said. "That little – he must've taken it from me when I brought him some food! The little sneak!"
"Who?" asked Warrick, pressing on. This interview was turning out better than he expected - the culprit's identity was on the tip of this man's tongue.
"Roger!" he cried, his face contorted with disgust. "He probably tried to blame me for his brother's murder!"
"Exactly," said Warrick accidentally out loud, extremely happy about the results of this interview until it struck him that there was something odd about Wolfe's answer. He calling the culprit by his first name, as thought they were on good terms. "Wait...do you know the suspect?"
Wolfe's face went red again. "Yes," he muttered, apparently ashamed of himself. "We went to the Academy together. He and his brother and I."
"The victim?" Warrick asked, surprised. This interview was getting more interesting by the minute. "You knew the victim?"
"Yes," he confirmed shyly. "David Mason. He and Roger went on to become CSIs and I became a cop. Roger was a friend of mine, actually, but I haven't spoken to him in years."
"And...his being arrested for kidnaping and attempted murder...did that surprise you?"
Warrick didn't expect Wolfe to shake his head. "No, can't say it surprised me. He hated his brother. I never saw anything too bad going down between them, but sometimes he would come to class with those cuts on his face and bruises. I remember asking him what happened. One day he just came out and said that it was his brother. But I couldn't do anything about it. I...kept telling him to report it, but he didn't and...now look what happened."
The while he told his story, he didn't look at Warrick in the face. Not as though he were hiding something, but as though he was deeply sorry about something. But Warrick didn't need to investigate any further. This only further proved the theory that it was Roger who did it. He only needed one more question answered.
"Who was on duty that night with you?"
"It was me and Con," he nodded towards a stocky cop who was at least 10 years his senior who Greg was talking to. "Connor Bradshaw. From late last night till morning."
"Thanks a lot," said Warrick. He turned to get Greg. This was perfect. His theory was flawless. In his mind, he thought out the story. Roger was tired of David abusing him, so when Wolfe brought him his food, he stole his gun and later shot him. The note was probably planted after Wolfe checked up on him. The aspirin was meaningless. He couldn't wait to get back to the lab and tell the other two that he had solved the case.
Greg:
"I'm going to follow my clue, too," said Greg, holding up the bag with the aspirin in it. It felt a little silly, but this thing must be here for a reason. He had heard about cases that were broken open because of stray pills or breath mints, maybe this was one of those cases.
Warrick scoffed. "I don't think headache medicine is going to help us much on this case," he said.
"Well, you found it," said Greg. "And for all we know it has everything to do with the case!"
Although he said this, he was skeptical. Warrick probably was right, but he wasn't going to let him think that. And if the pill led him to a dead end, then so be it. He didn't want to help either of the other two: Warrick was determined to prove that it was Roger. And Nick was out to prove that David had killed himself, which he sincerely doubted. He had a quick flashback to that time in the rain, standing there and silently begging them not to kill him. David wouldn't have turned the gun on himself: he didn't have the courage.
He and Warrick went outside the cells and into the flashing bulb lights of the reporters. Hurriedly getting out of there, he clambered into the back seat of Nick's car, thinking about what the hell he was supposed to do with what he found. It was so quiet that he was able to think straight, but he still hadn't come up with a good idea by the time they pulled up to the lab. He wanted to continue sitting there and thinking of something, but Nick and Warrick ran out of the car so quickly that Greg, fearing being locked in there, had no choice but to follow.
By the time he walked inside the shade of the building, the other two were already gone. He decided that the first thing to do was to find out what in the world this thing was. And the only way to do that was to bring it to trace. Reluctantly, he paid a visit to David Hodges, someone he did not like much but would be forced to cooperate with for the moment being.
Hodges looked up. "Hi, Sanders," he said. "I half expected you to let yourself be kidnaped again while everyone was out." Greg turned red but tried to ignore him. He knew he was just teasing, but it was annoying.
"Look, Hodges," he returned, "I need you to do your job for once and find out what this is." He took out the zip-lock with the pill in it. Hodges leaned over it, looking at it hard.
"It's an aspirin," said Hodges. "Job done."
"More specifically," said Greg, trying to sound like he was doing something important and that he had some idea of what to do with the results.
"Fine, fine," he took it under the microscope and various other instruments that Greg was only vaguely sure of how to work. This room was filled with more technical equipment than his own lab. He had always wondered what working in trace was like. So many things you had to know about instead of just DNA stuff. Glass and paint and whatnot.
The analysis came back in ten minutes, through which Greg stood patiently, pending the results and hoping that they were interesting. At last, a big square machine printed out the results, which Hodges read to himself before handing over the desk to Greg.
"Okay, I was wrong," said Hodges. It was rare that he admitted this. "It's prescription sedatives. Like, for someone who can't sleep. It's the stuff with the creepy green moth in the commercials. You know, Lunesta?"
"Yeah," said Greg, automatically revering back to those commercials. "Can you check how many people in Nevada have a prescription for Lunesta?"
"Yeah, why not?" said Hodges in a bored tone, leaning over to his computer and looking it up. "I got nothing else to do...ah. Here you go. Have fun. One hundred thirty-five."
Greg walked over to see the screen, scanning through the names, seeing if any popped up. None of them rang a bell. But he did notice that some of them were registered cops. "Can you narrow it down to how many cops in Nevada have a prescription for Lunesta?"
"Fine, fine," said Hodges, clicking a few times until all that was on the screen were the profiles of three cops. "Ooh, our final three. Eric Hodgenson, Connor Bradshaw, aaaaand...Stephanie Wheeler."
But Greg was fixed on Connor Bradshaw. Under current employment, it said "Las Vegas Court House." He seized the mouse from Hodges's hand and clicked on him so the profile took up the contents of the entire screen. This was the guy. The profile began printing and Greg took it. Without another word to Hodges, he left the office. That was before he realized he didn't know what this had to do with anything. Once again, he now had nothing to do. The first thing that popped into his head to do when one was at a dead end: go back to the dead body. So he took a turn down the corridor and paid a visit to David and David.
The coroner looked up as he entered and actually gave a smile. "So, Greg, you're working on the case, too?" he asked. "In that case, I have the tox report back for you. It had some interesting results."
"Tox report?" Greg said softly, but David must've not head him, for he continued talking as though he hadn't said anything.
"Now it's not enough to kill him," admitted David, "but he had traces of some sort of sedative in his blood. But it was nearly twice the normal dosage."
"Sedative?" said Greg, raising his eyebrows. "Like...Lunesta?"
"Lunesta would do it," David nodded. "And I doubt he took these pills himself. I mean, he was in a holding cell. That's almost like a jail cell. Now, I'm no CSI, but someone drugged this guy. Any ideas who?"
"Yeah..." said Greg, staring off into space. He could hardly believe it - that stupid little pill had actually sent him down the right path. "Thanks...thanks a lot." This was just too incredible to express how happy he was.
Instinctively, he ran outside into the hot sun before he stopped on the top of the staircase, wondering what to do next. He didn't want to admit it, but he was a little bit afraid to go to the courthouse by himself. He didn't want to leave the grounds without informing someone where he was going, after what happened to him before, they'd probably go berserk. And if he informed them of where he was going and led them to a dead end, they'd laugh. He didn't like people laughing at him, and if he wanted to become a CSI as soon as possible, he would have to be a bit more professional. If only someone else was headed there. ..
As though someone had read his mind, the door opened and out walked Warrick. He waved hello as soon as he stepped out, but Warrick was quick on his feet and had practically raced down the stairs. What was he in such a rush for?
"Where are you going?" Greg called.
"I'm..." Warrick hesitated. "I'm going to interrogate one of the cops at the courthouse."
It was as though the stars were falling from the sky. Greg's heart lept: this was perfect. But Warrick had turned to leave faster than he could ask to come along. He shouted after him, "Can I come?" He stopped in his tracks. Greg supposed that meant yes. He ran down the stairs and jumped into the car. Warrick turned the radio on and soon the two were off.
The courthouse was as filled with media people as before, but this time they had less of a chance to flash pictures of them as they walked quickly. Warrick took out a paper and began comparing it to the cops around them, but Greg spotted Connor Bradshaw at once. He was pretty stocky and had pure blonde hair on his head that Greg was almost sure was a toupee.
"Excuse me," he said politely, approaching the man with caution, "Is your name Connor Bradshaw?"
"Yep, what can I do for ya, kid?" he asked as though he were a baseball hero. Greg scowled. Did he really look that young? He was tired of people calling him "kid."
"I'm actually here to ask you some questions," said Greg with a tone of authority. "Were you on duty at the time of David Mason's murder?"
"Oh, yes," said Bradshaw uncomfortably. "It was me and Wolfe." He pointed at a kid in a bright orange shirt whom Warrick was now approaching. "That was a bad experience."
"Well, a man was murdered," Greg said obviously. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"I don't really recall things well anymore," he said, twisting his hands nervously. That was a sign of some sort of guilt. "All I remember is I stepped out and heard a gunshot. It was loud. And the next thing I remember is Wolfie yelling that someone had been shot. So I called 911."
"Uh-huh," said Greg. This guy was definitely guilty. His eyes were darting, he was sweating, and his story wasn't exactly straight. 'Mr. Bradshaw, do you have trouble sleeping?"
Bradshaw nodded. "Yeah. I can't seem to go to sleep at night, which is funny 'cos I wake up about 5 AM. I got a prescription sleep aid, though. You know the one with the green butterfly in the commercial?"
"Yes, Lunesta," said Greg. He was starting to feel of superior intelligence to this guy. "Did you know that David Mason doesn't have a prescription for Lunesta?"
"Well, I'm sure he doesn't," said Bradshaw, getting more nervous and suspicious by the minute. "He's a lucky guy, then."
"Lucky, sure," Greg said sarcastically. "He got murdered. Not only that...but we found that he actually had a sleep aid in his system. Can you explain that?"
"Well...I..." Bradshaw's face went pale at once. "See...I...look, you were involved in the case, right?"
Greg couldn't lie about that, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He replied in the affirmative.
"Well, you know, he's loud!" said the cop in exasperation. "He wouldn't shut up! Ask Wolfie, he'll tell you how much he was yelling and kicking the bars. Probably knew he was going to be convicted. And...see, I get these terrible headaches. And he was starting to give me one. So I...I slipped some in his food. Just to quiet him down."
"Why is it, then, that he had twice the normal dosage in him?" asked Greg suspiciously.
The cop shrugged. "I don't know how much I gave him. But when he was done eating, he was quieter. Only thing he said was that he wanted a piece of paper and a pen. I never did get that pen back..." he trailed off, thoughtfully.
"I wouldn't worry about the pen, if I were you," said Greg. "It's illegal to share your prescription drugs with someone else. Even if it is for...practical purposes."
He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Warrick.
"C'mon, let's go," said Warrick. He had a large grin on his face and seemed very pleased with himself. "I solved the case."
"Really?" said Greg. "Who did it?"
"A no-brainer, Greg, it was the brother."
Greg let out an automatic cry. "No!" he said. "You're wrong! I haven't finished my case yet, I'm in the middle of proving it was a cop." Bradshaw backed away slowly.
"Hey!" came a call from across the room. They both searched for the source and found Nick standing in the doorway. "Where were you two? I was just looking for you to tell you I solved the case! I confirmed that the note is David's handwriting. He committed suicide!"
"What?" said both Warrick and Greg at once. Maybe this case would be harder than they thought.
Author's Note: Yes, this is the end of the chapter. I'm going away to Florida for a week, so I won's be able to update until after that. I hope this keeps you in suspense and keeps you guessing.
PS: If anyone would like to take a guess at which one of the CSIs's theories on how David Mason died is correct (one of them is correct), please feel free to email me. Maybe I'll tell you if you're right.