Chapter Seven
Puzzle Taking Shape
Thursday, Near Dawn
"Can't we get some power tools in here?" Warrick asked, his frustration at the slow progress of the rescue overflowing. Every muscle burned with fatigue after hours of grueling physical labor helping the search and rescue team remove the rubble. They had called in a second crew after Walcott announced that almost every square inch would have to be meticulously cleared; they had no way of knowing if they were engaged in a rescue or recovery operation.
Walcott had returned to the rotation twenty minutes earlier, after a rest break. He paused now, leaning on the pick he wielded with practiced precision, and lifting an arm to wipe sweat on his sleeve. "Too risky," he answered succinctly. "As unstable as this place is, the vibration could set off another collapse and bury all of us."
Warrick nodded in resignation as he raised the tail of his outer shirt, now tied around his waist, to blot his sweat-streaked face. He knew Walcott was right, but concern for his friends had declared open warfare on the rational need to proceed with suitable caution. The thought that Grissom and Nick might have suffered the same fate as Stevens burned like acid in his gut. Even more distressing was the possibility that they were trapped, injured, even dying, isolated from help by tons of debris.
He went back to work with renewed determination, glad to be able to take an active role in the effort to locate the two missing men. He had seen the almost mutinous reluctance on Sara's face when Catherine insisted that they both return to Las Vegas. And he knew that only Walcott's decree that extraneous personnel would not be allowed in the mine had swayed her decision. Only careful negotiation, and the reminder that the mine was most likely a crime scene, enticed the rescue leader to allow Warrick to remain.
"Found something here," one of the rescue men called, and Warrick made his way over to join him.
"What have you got?" Warrick asked, though he saw what the man had found as soon as he looked down. The clearing efforts had unearthed a 9 mm semi-automatic pistol, the metal now scratched and dented. Warrick carefully retrieved the weapon with a gloved hand, ejected the clip and worked the slide to clear the chamber. Six rounds were expended. The sweat trickling down his back turned cold at the implication of those missing rounds.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Warrick emerged from the mine shaft to the first pale suggestion of daybreak. Tired, filthy, and fighting a growing sense of despair, he accepted a cup of lukewarm coffee from one of the rescue support team and downed it in a single gulp, then held it out for a refill. He scrubbed a hand over his hair and grimaced as his fingers dislodged a flurry of dust and stone chips.
"There's food, too," the aide said helpfully. "It's not much – just Power Bars and fruit – but it'll help keep you going."
Warrick nodded his thanks and promised to grab something in a few minutes. He made his way over to the state police patrol car that had been on the scene for the duration and asked the trooper for the use of his radio. He should have checked in with Catherine before now, but had hoped to have good news for her when he made the call.
The state police dispatcher linked him through to the phone in the crime lab, and Catherine answered so quickly he suspected she had been sitting with her hand on top of the receiver.
"Any sign of them yet?" she asked.
"Not yet," Warrick answered with a sigh. "It's slow going, and there's no way to know how deep the cave-in runs."
He heard Catherine's sharply exhaled breath. "As long as we don't find bodies, there's a chance they're still alive."
"I recovered Stevens' weapon, with six rounds gone," Warrick reported somberly. "What have you come up with?"
Catherine told him about the positive GSR test on Stevens' hands and clothes, and filled him in on the rest of their findings. "Just like we thought, the photos in Grissom's camera were taken at the mine. Apparently they managed to uncover an old crime. The last frames were of a body, probably dead close to a year. It was all but mummified."
"About the time of the armed car robbery?" Warrick asked. He rubbed a hand over his face in an effort to force his brain to function logically.
"According to Doc, it's possible," Catherine replied. "The dry environment of the mine could desiccate a body pretty quickly. There's no way to know, though, without recovering the body for autopsy." She exhaled a brief sigh before she went on, "The blood on the money carriers doesn't belong to either of our guys. It's so old and degraded Greg couldn't recover any intact DNA or even get a type from it. We do know that Stevens was the last person to handle the bags. His prints were on the handles of all of them."
"That's not surprising. We found them in the trunk of his car."
"True. What is surprising is the fact that at some point, Stevens was in very close contact with Grissom. We found a couple of hairs – short, curly, and gray – caught under a shirt button, and blood and skin cells under his nails. DNA is still out on those, but the blood type is the same as Grissom's."
Warrick frowned. "Sounds like they tangled, mano a mano."
Catherine responded with a humorless laugh. "Does that sound like Grissom?" she asked skeptically. "He is the most nonviolent person I know. Half the time he forgets to carry his weapon."
"I didn't say he started it," Warrick countered. "But I have seen him get in someone's face if he thought it was justified. Anybody who feels threatened enough can be pushed to defend himself. Did Stevens have any marks or wounds that weren't caused by the rocks?"
"Nothing definite. Doc found broken bones, internal injuries, crushing head injury. Nothing that couldn't have been caused by the rock fall."
Warrick sighed and looked back toward the mine entrance, now completely clear of the boards that had blocked it earlier. "I'd better get back in there," he said wearily. "No telling how much more rock we'll have to clear before…"
He broke off abruptly when a dusty figure moved into the light at the mouth of the mine, his face grim and his gloved hands clenched on a battered hard hat cracked almost in half. The LVPD emblem stamped on the front bore deep scratches that in places obliterated the distinctive lines. Warrick started forward, feeling the coffee he'd drunk roiling in his stomach.
"We dug it out of the debris," the man said grimly.
Warrick, barely hearing Catherine's voice from the radio asking him what was going on, reached out to take the helmet and turn it slowly in his hand. He was somewhat encouraged to find no telltale signs that anyone's head had been inside it when the rocks did their damage. "Anything else?" he asked almost reluctantly.
The rescue man shook his head. "No. Just that."
Warrick peered closely inside it, focusing on the padded inner web that held it in place on its wearer's head. Stuck to the worn leather bands he spotted stray hairs – short, curly, gray hairs, like the ones Catherine said they'd found on the dead detective's shirt button.
To be continued…
Author's Note: I will tryto get Chapter Eight up before I leave town for the holidays, but I can't promise. Thanks again to all who have reviewed the story. I'm flattered and inspired by all your wonderfully positive comments.