Entry #3 in the "A Year in the Life" series. The Brillows clan takes a somewhat unplanned family vacation, and run into trouble in a little mountain town called Jackpot. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, they'd have better reasons for a potential suspect to be, well, a potential suspect.


99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall
by Alice Day


CHAPTER TWO

Ellie glared at the cheap pine paneling on the opposite wall of the reception area, drumming her fingers on the bench's armrest. "Catherine's just going to check out the scene, baby," her dad said. "We'll be back in a half hour."

Yeah, this was a great idea for Valentine's Day -- just you and Dad. And Dad's girlfriend, and Dad's girlfriend's daughter, and another fucking dead body that's keeping him busy. Nothing really changes, does it?

Her foul mood bubbled over. "Okay, fuck this noise," she said. "I'm gonna go find something to eat."

"Can I come, too?" Lindsey said plaintively. "Just sitting here sucks."

Ellie gritted her teeth. "Fine, whatever." And now I'm babysitting. You so owe me, old man.

They got up and went to the sergeant's desk, now manned by a dark-haired woman trudging through a stack of paperwork. "Hey. Is there McDonald's or something within walking distance?" Ellie asked.

The deputy glanced up at them, and shook her head. "Closest Micky D's is out near the highway, sorry. But the diner is just a couple of blocks down on the left -- food isn't fancy, but it's pretty good."

"Okay. Could you tell my dad we went there to get something to eat?" At the deputy's mystified look, she added, "The LVPD detective -- 5'9", balding, looks permanently pissed off? He went with some of your guys to look at a crime scene."

"Oh. No problem."

"Great. Come on," Ellie said, nodding at Lindsey.

They left the police station, turning left on the town's main street. It didn't look like any of the small towns Ellie knew from Jersey -- most of the buildings had that Western look that reminded her of old cowboy movies, and she could see low, scrubby mountains in the distance.

And it was cold. She tugged up the zipper of her jacket, turtling her head into her scarf. At her side, Lindsey did the same. "I should be used to this by now," the teenager muttered.

"Used to what?"

"Getting dumped at a police station while Mom goes off to process a scene. She's been doing it since I was a baby."

"Huh," Ellie grunted. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Sixteen. How about you?"

"Twenty-six."

Lindsey looked impressed. "Cool. You live in LA?"

"Yeah." They walked in silence for a bit. "So, how long have you known my dad?"

The teenager shrugged. "Since I was little. My mom used to work for him when he was the grave shift supervisor, then he went back to Homicide and Gil took over when one of the CSIs got killed. I guess Jim's always been around, you know?"

Ellie felt a flood of bitterness. "Nice to know he was hanging around somebody's kid," she muttered.

Lindsey shot her a questioning look. "Never mind," she said, forcing a deep breath. "So you like him?"

"Yeah, he's okay. Blew me away when he started dating my mom, though. I always thought she'd wind up with Warrick."

That surprised Ellie. "Lenny Kravitz was dating your mom?"

Lindsey did a double take, then laughed. "Okay, I see that. No, they didn't go out or anything, but Mom really liked him. Then he got killed and she just fell apart for awhile." She kicked a small rock. "Mom has the shittiest luck that way. Warrick was the third guy she knew who got shot -- well, four if you count that Keppler guy."

Ellie stopped, staring at the younger woman. "Wait a minute -- Lenny's dead?"

Lindsey nodded soberly. "Yeah. He was murdered by the undersheriff last year. McKeen was on the take to some local mob guy, and Warrick was tracking him down. Bastard snuck up on him in an alley and shot him in his car, then tried to pin it on a dirty cop. Jim and one of the CSIs tracked him down and busted him." She scowled. "I hope the sonofabitch has to take it up the ass from every guy on his cellblock."

Ellie's eyebrows crept up towards her hairline, but she just nodded. "So who else got shot?"

"My dad -- he was a music producer. He was killed by a drug dealer, but they couldn't prove motive so the guy walked after a couple of years. Then Grandpa got shot by a business partner who was pissed that he lost money on Grandpa's new casino. Then Keppler -- he was a CSI -- got offed by some cop he knew. And then Warrick."

"Jesus. Your mom really does have shitty luck." She wondered if that was why the redheaded CSI was dating her dad. He's already been shot and he lived through it -- maybe she's hoping that'll break the streak. "Hold on -- your grandpa owned a casino? And your mom still has to work?"

"It's a long story," Lindsey hedged. "She wasn't exactly legitimate, you know? And she didn't find out she was his daughter for sure until four or five years ago, so it kind of screwed up their relationship."

Ellie was surprised to feel a flash of empathy for the older woman. "Yeah, I know that one," she said quietly, pausing in front of a homey-looking building with a deep awning over the front windows. "Okay, I think this is the diner--"

A soft panting whine sounded behind them. Turning, they saw a medium-sized dog limping around the corner of the diner on three legs. It raised its head and gave the girls a pathetic look.

Ellie's bad mood subsided. "Hey, boy," she said, crouching down and holding out her hand. The dog whined and sniffed it, then limped closer. She stroked the animal's head, moving his collar around so that she could read the tag. "Hey, Slugger. What happened to you, sweetie?"

"Oh, crap -- I think his back leg is broken," Lindsey said.

Ellie leaned over and looked at the dog's left hind leg. It was held up against his body, and the lower half was weirdly bent and swollen. "Yeah, I think you're right. Do you think he got hit by a car?"

"I don't know." The teenager crouched next to the dog, and he wagged his tail weakly. "What do we do?"

"Um..." Where's a cop when you really need one? Ellie looked up and down the street, spotting a sign a half block down with profiles of a dog and cat. "I think that's a vet's office," she said, pointing. "Let's get him over there."

Handing her purse to Lindsey, she slid one arm around the dog's front legs and the other between his hind legs, doing her best not to touch the broken limb. He yelped sharply as she stood up, then buried his head on her shoulder and trembled.

"Shh, it's okay," she whispered, trying to walk as smoothly as possible. "The doc's going to fix you up, sweetie, don't worry."

Lindsey dashed ahead of them and opened the door to the Jackpot Animal Clinic. Ellie turned sideways and eased the dog through the doorway, into a shady reception area. The reception desk, loaded down with pictures of pets and their owners, was unoccupied.

Great -- of course they're taking a break. "Hey, we need some help here!" she called.

"Coming."

A dark-haired man in a flannel shirt, jeans and a lab coat came around the corner, dusting his hands together. "What's the problem...Slugger?" He frowned at the dog, then at Ellie. "That's Mack Jones' dog. What happened?"

"I don't know. He just limped up to us in front of the diner," Ellie said. "I think his rear leg is broken."

"Hind leg," the vet corrected, resting his hand on the dog's flank as he peered at the battered limb. "Oh, boy -- you're right. Okay, bring him in here."

He turned and guided them around the corner into a room that looked like a cross between a veterinary exam room and a storage closet. "Sorry. I was rearranging some supplies," he said, pulling a box off a stainless steel table on wheels. "Put him down there, carefully."

"Yeah, like I was going to drop him," Ellie muttered, bending her knees and lowering the dog onto the table. "You're gonna be all right, sweetie," she murmured.

The veterinarian grabbed an old towel and spread it out on the table, then eased Slugger onto his side. "Let's get him comfortable, then I'll need to X-ray the leg. Was he hit by a car?"

"I don't know. We found him in front of the diner."

"Hmm." He probed Slugger's side, and the dog yelped. "Sorry, boy, sorry," he soothed. "All right, let's get you taken care of."

Ellie and Lindsey backed up, watching as the vet gave Slugger an injection. Slowly, the dog relaxed and his breathing eased. "That's better," the vet said. "I think he may have some cracked ribs as well as the broken leg. Could you two wait here, please?"

Gently, he slid his hands under the towel and Slugger, and carried the dog out of the exam room. Lindsey leaned against a badly tinted window, staring around the small space. "So much for food," she said.

Ellie frowned. "I guess. Did he say Slugger belonged to Mack Jones?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"That's the ex-cop who got killed. Your mom's checking out his house right now."

The teenager frowned. "Huh. Maybe whoever killed this Mack guy went after Slugger, too." Suddenly, her eyes went wide. "Whoa."

"What?"

"If the killer hit him, Slugger may have some trace evidence in his fur." She pulled out her phone and started tapping the keypad. "We need to tell my mom."

"Why don't you just call her?"

Lindsey shook her head. "Trust me, interrupting Mom in the middle of a crime scene is not a good idea," she said. "I'm texting her -- she'll check it as soon as she finishes processing."

Before she could say anything else, the vet returned with the dog. "Slugger's left hock is broken in a greenstick fracture, and he's got some cracked ribs," he said, frowning. "This wasn't done by a car -- someone beat him pretty badly."

Ellie sucked in a breath. "Yeah, we know."

He gave her a sharp look. "How? I thought you said you found him in front of the diner."

She gave him a quick recap of the afternoon's events, concluding with Mack Jones' death. The vet's expression changed, turning dark. "Mack was a good guy," he said, his voice low. "He didn't deserve to go out like that." Filling a steel bowl with water, he unwrapped something that looked like a dusty white bandage and put it in the bowl to soak. "What's your name?"

She jerked. "What?"

"Your name," the vet repeated. "What is it?"

"Ellie Brass."

He nodded. "I'm Dr. Sterling," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "If Mack's dead, Alan's going to be calling me soon, so we need to finish this up quickly. Come over here."

Reluctantly, she stepped up to the exam table. "What do you want me to do?"

"Get a good grip on Slugger's ruff, here." He hesitated, then took her hand, guiding it to the back of the dog's neck and closing her fingers around the thick fold of skin. "He's not going to like this next part, so hang onto him."

Sterling brought the steel bowl and a thin white sleeve of material to the table, then took Slugger's hock in both hands. The dog whined, then yelped in pain as the vet firmly straightened the broken bone. Ellie gulped when she heard the wet popping noise. "You're a good boy, Slugger, yes you are," he murmured encouragingly, reaching for the sleeve and sliding it over the hock. In a minute he had the plaster-impregnated bandage wrapped around the sleeve, forming a cast. "Hang onto him for another minute, until the plaster sets."

"Okay." She stroked Slugger's ears, trying to comfort him, then looked closer. "What's that stuff around his mouth?"

Sterling leaned over and examined the dog's muzzle. "Looks like blood. Let me wash my hands, I'll get that cleaned up--"

"No!"

They both turned to Lindsey. "It might be evidence," she explained, quickly studying the medical supplies along the steel work table. She pointed at a jar of long sterile swabs. "I saw Mom do this once," she said. "Slugger might have bit whoever killed Mack. If we get a sample of the blood, and it's human and its DNA matches whoever the cops catch, it could link the guy to the scene."

"Huh. Good point." Sterling pulled out a swab and ran it over the sticky spot, catching some of the blood. "Now what?"

"We need to save it. Do you have, like, a ziploc bag or something?"

He nodded at the teal drawers under the table. "I have some fecal sample bags in the middle drawer." At her face, he shook his head. "Clean ones. They're just fancy ziploc bags."

Lindsey fished one out, and held it open for the swab. Once he deposited it, she locked the bag's plastic zip, then tore off a piece of medical tape and folded it along the seal. "Do you have a pen?"

He plucked a ballpoint from the pocket of his lab coat. "Okay, write your name, the date and time across the tape," she explained. "Mom says this maintains the chain of evidence. It's really important if you want to get a conviction."

As he followed her instructions, Ellie gave the teenager a reluctantly respectful look. "You really know this stuff."

The teenager shrugged. "I live with this stuff. Don't even get me started on cross-contamination."

###

Catherine crouched next to the DB, studying the droplets of scarlet on the floor and wall. "He was killed with a blunt object," she said, pointing at the dead man's head. A large, macerated lump could be seen through his bloodstained white hair. "Baseball bat, maybe. I see at least one blow to the skull, maybe two. Probably more to the face and body, judging from the amount of blood." She wished she had a pair of latex gloves so that she could tilt the head to the side and examine his face; as it was, this had to be a hands-off examination. "What's immediately around the body and on that wall is castoff."

She stood up, tracking the patterns on the floor. "The fight started back here, near the TV," she said, pointing at a broken coffee cup on the floor. "Apart from the blood spatter, the cup is the only sign of a struggle. And I don't know a lot of ex-cops who stand there drinking coffee during a home invasion."

"Shit," Brooks said, folding his arms as he stared at the bloodstains. Dave the deputy stood in the doorway; the one who looked like he was about to puke was currently outside checking the perimeter with Brass. "You're saying he knew his attacker."

"Yeah. And it was someone who could walk right up to him with a bat or some sort of blunt weapon."

The lieutenant shook his head. "Mack wouldn't let me come near him with a baseball bat, and he trained me. He was one paranoid old bastard."

Catherine rested her hands on her hips as she studied the living room. It looked like the typical home of a retired cop living on a pension; inexpensive furnishings, awards and family pictures over the fireplace, everything orderly and neat. She walked over to the fireplace, looking at the pictures. "Was he married?"

Brooks shook his head. "Widower, two years ago. Got a daughter who lives in Elko -- sweet kid, not the brightest button in the box but means well. Cute little granddaughter, too -- Mack thought the sun rose and set on that little girl."

Catherine's cell phone trilled, the signal for an incoming text message. She pulled it out of its holster, checking the screen. Lindsey. Probably wants to know when we'll be done here.

"That reminds me, I've gotta call our coroner," Brooks said, making a face as he pulled out his own cell phone and dialed. "Come on, pick up -- yeah, Dale? This is Alan. Mack Jones is dead -- somebody killed him. You need to get on out here and clear the body so we can move him."

He listened to the response, frowning. "How? You do? Well, I'll be damned -- is he gonna be okay?" He glanced at the CSI, waving her over. "Look, we've got guests from the Las Vegas crime lab here checking out the place -- I think they're gonna want to see Slugger. We'll come get you." He paused, looking surprised. "Yeah, I'll ask."

Brooks lowered the phone. "You got a daughter named Ellie?"

Catherine shook her head. "That's Jim's daughter -- why?"

"She and another girl are at Dale's place -- he's the local vet when he's not playing coroner," Brooks said. "They brought in Mack's dog, Slugger. Dale says someone worked Slugger over with a blunt object, like a baseball bat. You want to go over there and check him out?"

One half of Catherine's brain chimed in with statistics about collecting trace evidence from pets at a crime scene. The other half, the one with the maternal programming, flashed on Grissom's stories about Jackpot; Brooks throwing roadblocks in his way, the limping man who ran the local garage, the flirtatious waitress at the diner. And her ex-husband the veterinarian/coroner, who liked to slap her around every so often. What the hell are Lindsey and Ellie doing there? Are they alone with him?

And on the heels of that thought, if he so much as touches my kid, I'll break his arm off and feed it to him.

"Oh, yeah," she said, shoving her phone back in its holster without reading the text message. "We're going over there now."