Justice Is Served

The first shot is of someone running through lush, verdant foliage -- the kind of lush, verdant foliage not normally found in desert habitats such as Vegas. But who am I to nitpick? This isn't the most asinine thing we'll see tonight. So the runner -- male, decked out in black, looking like your typical scrawny road racer -- is winding down from a presumably vigorous run when he hears a growling noise, and then something big and toothy pounces on him. Those of us who have cats wince in sympathy.

Several hours later, it's dark, and the runner is now huddled face-down in a culvert. Gil and his merry men wander through the usual assortment of law-enforcement vehicles, slip and slide across the carpet of thick grass growing beside this desert running trail, and are wending their way through a copse of trees down to the body when an unnamed tertiary character runs through, catches one look at the runner, and promptly departs to go chunder in another freakishly leafy stand of foliage. Nicky makes a lame-ass comment about the guy not being able to eat dinner; Warrick looks appropriately disgusted. I should also note here that Warrick also looks as though he's been recently scalped. Whoever did Gary Dourdan's hair, back off slowly and drop the shears where we can see them. Anyway, Gil cases the scene, concluding that the runner had been dragged down from the trail to be disemboweled in the culvert below; Warrick shines his flashlight on the body and winces over the extent of the wounds. Nicky opines, "He picked the wrong time of day to be running alone. Dusk is when the animals come out." "From what I hear, they carved out a piece of this valley when they made this park. Some mountain lion probably didn't like getting relocated. Mountain lions are brutal," Warrick replies. "And smart. This one evidently knows how to use a scalpel," Gil says.

On that not-terribly-painful note, we go to the credits. Twenty-one episodes, I've run out things to say about the Who.

Back at CSI Central, Gil is about to skulk into his office when he runs into Catherine. He looks dismayed -- as well he should. Whatever positive ground Catherine gained with her kicky new 'do a few episodes ago has been completely lost here. Find the hairdresser for this episode and fire him. Now. Anyway, the two of them have a conversation establishing the B-plot for this evening: a six-year-old girl died on a carnival ride a few blocks over, and since Catherine's all about working on cases that affect her profoundly and impede any hope of objective investigation, she wants this one. Gil asks how she knows about this case, and Catherine says she got the case off his desk while pawing through his paperwork and other personal effects. Gil asks if she cleaned up any while she was in there. "Do you think I overstepped?" she asks. Yes. ? "These people come to town, they commit crimes, and they leave!" she huffs. It's a carousel of crime! A Ferris wheel of felony! A tilt-a-whirl of treachery! I could go on all evening, but there are fifty-two hateful minutes of this episode to suffer through and I only have 750 milliliters of zinfandel to get me through. Gil, sensing that Catherine is about to blow another case, implores her to take Sara along. Oh, I'm sensing an evening of female bonding. Given that it's Catherine and Sara, I'm sensing that the bonding will be about as successful as attempting to mix oil and water. Catherine confirms that Sara will be on the scene, and stalks off.

Gil then wanders into the morgue as Warrick asks David the unfun coroner, "So Doc, how big of a cat are we actually dealing with here?" Given the scope of the wounds, I'd say about twelve pounds. Or perhaps that's just a reflection of my cat's own reign of terror. Speaking of terror, the credits are still flashing and I notice that Brad Johnson -- the toxically virile building inspector from a few episodes back-- is going to be appearing tonight. And here I am with only 700 milliliters of zin. Anyway, David the unfun coroner says, "We're not." "We're not?" Gil says incredulously, because apparently that theory about scalpel-wielding mountain lions was looking pretty plausible until a few seconds ago. "Have you ever owned a kitten? When they play, they don't just bite -- they scratch," David says, and all over the country, cat owners are nodding in agreement. "There's no sign of claw marks on the victim," David finishes, and Nicky rushes in to fill Brass's able expository shoes: "So what are we dealing with?" "Forget Whiskers, think Spot," David says. As he explains the way the canine-looking teeth pierced the jugular -- which we see in TMIcam, and which distracts me to no end because I'm wondering exactly how you'd train a dog to go for the jugular, or if there's some freakish animal instinct at work here -- Gil is shaking his head and muttering dazedly, "I was wrong about the species." And again, I have to ask: you have no problem with a scalpel-wielding mountain lion, but the idea of a tool-using dog blows your mind? Stick to the insects, Gil: the ways of vertebrates will forever be a mystery to you. Both Nicky and Warrick look at him incredulously; I'm not sure if it's because they're shocked Gil is wrong, or that they're dumbfounded to be working for someone who's still wrapping his brain around Fido the cardiothoracic surgeon. David says he'll make a mold of the teeth to narrow down the breed; I leave that one alone, since this could be one of those surprise episodes where we find out a group of toy poodles has been terrorizing the park. Gil finally notices that his subordinates are gaping at him. "What?" he asks defensively. "Most people don't admit when they're wrong," Nicky says. "I'm wrong all the time. That way, I eventually get to right," Gil replies. Well, it doesn't have the usual Zen minimalist flair of "if you want to go fast, go slow," but it'll do. David interjects that Gil was right about the scalpel, and the crack team quickly deduces that a human may have actually stepped in after the dog did its business and absconded with a few internal organs.

Meanwhile, off at the Carnival of Souls, Catherine and Sara -- who are looking mighty bundled up for two women in Las Vegas in the spring -- approach some poor tertiary character as he's preparing to roll the dead six-year-old's body onto a tarp, presumably for transport. Catherine chews him out, instantly establishing that yep, she's identifying the victim with her daughter, and yep, it's going to color the tenor of her whole investigation. I love how both Catherine and Sara get depicted as taking these cases a little too personally. No, actually, I don't. Anyway, after Catherine's ripped off one tech's head and handed it back to him, she says, "She looks scared. No six-year-old should have to go through that." I could make a few comments about how scared Catherine's own daughter might be if she realized there was a chance that Brad Johnson and his giant teeth were coming home with Mommy -- but I'm taking the high road. For now. Sara asks Catherine if she's okay, and Catherine punts, telling Sara to interview the mother while she handles the crime scene. Sara, who apparently wronged the hairdresser during cocktail hour and thus has two shish-kebab skewers affixed to her skull (Fire the hairdresser! Do it now!), wanders off to interview the mother. Mom is standing huddled in a blanket with her boyfriend's arm wrapped around her; she spins a tale of woe about how one moment, she and daughter Sandy are having a grand time in the Tunnel of Love, and the moment, the daughter's apparently fallen into the briny depths. Mom claims to have fished around for Sandy unsuccessfully. The boyfriend looks up and asks Sara, "How can this happen? At a carnival?" Because it's the carnival of crime, you ninny.

Nicky's out in the dark park with a flashlight; I begin hoping against hope that perhaps the mountain lions we heard so much about will come back to see what's causing all the fuss. Warrick comes on over; we learn that Nicky volunteered them both for collecting evidence -- "evidence" being another word for "dog crap" -- in the park. There's apparently a lot of evidence. "This is combat duty," Nicky grumbles. "This is somebody's doody," Warrick replies. Oh, Christ. I'm not asking for George Bernard Shaw. I'm not asking for Oscar Wilde. I'm not asking for Moss Hart, or anyone else who had a bead on crackling dialogue. But I am asking that CSI hire writers who can do better than a weak pun about fecal matter. Please -- I only have 500 milliliters of wine left. Warrick shines his flashlight on two especially sturdy pieces of would-be evidence. Nicky dismissively says to forget those; the rabbit hair indicates that it's cougar scat. We find out that the two men apparently attended a seminar on forensic feces (there's probably a term for it using the Latin copro -- i.e. the fear of fecal matter is coprophobia, fossilized feces are coprolites, et cetera -- but I'll be damned if I know what it is and Ask Jeeves was less than forthcoming) taught by a particularly good-looking instructor. "No CSI should be that fine!" says Warrick, who is apparently oblivious to his own good looks, and who is, frankly, treading on dangerous territory because they're only a comment away from talking about their coworkers and that's kind of creepy. Anyway, before anyone can run off at the mouth, Warrick finds some dirty ice and enters it into evidence. Oh, that ought to be good.

Catherine's harassing a bald carny about the likelihood that the Tunnel of Love is really a charnel house of horror. She heads inside to collect evidence on the ride, and notices a hammer in the murky water. Catherine then charges outside to harass another carny. He's looking pretty jittery in anticipation. I can't even be bothered to recount what happens here: Marg Helgenberger chews on the scenery, the day hire does a redneck shuck-and-jive, and Sara appears out of nowhere to note that whatever investigative savvy Catherine has is gone, gone, gone. The only two things you should know: the jittery redneck now has to provide an impromptu urine sample, and I'm down to 400 milliliters of wine.

Gil is looking at a clay mold of teeth and musing, "Like David Crosby said, 'If I'd have known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of my teeth.'" Actually, David, it's your liver you should have been more concerned with, but that's a whole 'nother discussion. In pops Greg the lab tech, ready to share the news that the dog they're looking for only has 41 teeth. This is so far outside his usual realm of expertise, I can only deduce that the writers are looking for a way to work him into the episode in preparation for regular-cast-member status in season two. God, I hate everything about this episode tonight. The interchange is leaden, and all we learn is that the dentally challenged dog is a Great Dane/Mastiff mix.

Cut to Nicky and Warrick examining assorted samples of dog crap under a microscope. I should probably give the show credit for showing the less glamorous side of forensic investigation, but I'm so irked at it right now, I'm not going to bother. Warrick is complaining -- understandably so -- about how he'd rather be working another case, any other case, in which animal droppings do not feature prominently, when Gil comes in and drops some more Grissomian wisdom: "It's interesting how we categorize evidence in terms of what it might mean to us as opposed to what it might mean to the case...sometimes we deal with bugs, worms, waste or worse, but as scientists we look beyond the possibly offensive qualities of these things to what they might tell us about the puzzle we are trying to solve." Thank you, sensei. Or should I say, senseless? The scene thuds on, and Gil eventually works around to revealing something that will make the plot lurch forward: they've ID'd the dog. Nicky twinkles, "Well, if there's bits of jogger hanging out of his mouth, cuff him." And if there's a clever line in this episode, jump on it with both feet so it doesn't get away.

I can feel my will to live diminishing with every scene. This one doesn't help: Gil and the buzz-cut detective go visit the felonious dog in question, owned by one Dr. Susan Hillridge. What did they do to come up with that name, drive through suburban housing developments until something stuck? Anyway, Susan and her gigantic slobbering beast of a dog come to the door, and Gil attempts to engage her in a Quincy-esque line of inquiry until the dog leaps up on him and more or less knocks coherent thought out of his head. Believe me, I know how he feels.

In the scene, a squadron of animal control officers are wrestling Simba the dog into submission while Susan claims he's just a big ol' sweetie. As it turns out, Simba happens to be missing a tooth; Susan claims this is a wild coincidence, and Gil says somberly, "We still have to take him into custody until we find out whether or not he had any involvement in this homicide." Flash to me thinking about what forensic whiz-bangery Gil will perform to interrogate the dog. Hey, if he can whip out the mind-reading device on the deaf kid, this may well be the week where we discover that Gil can talk to the animals. Susan is remarkably sanguine about Simba's impounding. Gil engages her in more small talk -- we learn that Susan's specialty is nutrition and her patients are mostly professional athletes. In Las Vegas? What is she, the team physician for the XFL franchise out there? Gil tries to fish for clues to whether or not Susan knew the dead runner -- an amateur marathoner named Terry Manning -- and Susan calls him on it. Nope, no alarm bells going off in the viewer's brain there, not a one.

Incidentally, I've got 300 milliliters of wine left. No, wait -- I found another bottle. I've got 1050 milliliters of wine left. And I'm going to need every drop.

Back at CSI Central, Catherine is hectoring Greg about the results of the urine test she had the carny submit in violation of his civil liberties. Apparently, there was no evidence of any controlled substance in the urine. "Ah, come on. That creep tested clean?" Catherine spits. "Yeah. For someone who's on the pill. He's got synthetic estrogen in his urine sample. It should modulate his mood swings," Greg replies, leading us all to the conclusion that whatever green rookie oversaw the impromptu urine test missed the switching of the samples. "He probably keeps a stash [of urine] in his trailer," Catherine fumes. Maybe she can hook up with some of that mood-leveling hormone herself. Sara comes in with more good news for Catherine: she just got off the phone with OSHA, and apparently the Carnival of Souls is wanted in eight states for assorted unspecified violations. Moreover, it's staffed by many ex-felons. In a carnival? Quelle surprise. And it turns out that the boss man is one Roger Pete, a convicted sex offender on parole. And excuse me for wondering, but...exactly how many parole officers are going to let their convicted sex-offender charges wander about the country with a carnival? Marion Jones couldn't make the leaps of logic required to sustain any willing suspension of disbelief in this episode.

Catherine decides it's time to open a can of subjective whoop-ass on the cocaine-addled carny from a few paragraphs back; we see him sitting in the tank, saying, "How'm I supposed to know she was only sixteen and a half. From the neck down, she was all grown up. If you know what I mean." Cut to Brass, glowering over in a corner and saying, "I have a teenaged daughter. So no, I don't know what you mean." Oh, man -- can you imagine trying to date Brass's daughter? He'd probably be cleaning his service pistol while chatting amiably about the importance of respecting his daughter's curfew. Roger Pete notes that neither Sara, nor Catherine, nor Brass is looking especially amused, and he huffs, "Jerry Lee Lewis, man. Same thing happened to him. What's all this got to do with the little dead girl anyway?" An excellent question, Roger. Sara turns the tables and suggests that Roger fill in a few blanks. He does: "I was walking down the midway, and I seen this woman come whishing out of the tunnel screaming for her daughter. Me and Joey -- he's the operator -- we hit the kill switch and stop the ride, ran into the tunnel to look for the kid. And I seen her laying face down in a pool of water." Okay -- his story doesn't jibe with the mother's story, and he's not in a room full of people inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Catherine more or less tells him that, then storms off. Sara bolts after her and asks, "You worried you tipped your hand in there?" "No," Catherine snaps. "Look, don't bite my head off, but is there any chance you're going after this guy because you're a mother?" Wrong question, Sara. Catherine does bite her head off, scowling about convicted sex offenders and drug users working at a carnival. Who did you expect to be operating the bumper cars -- laid-off dot-commers? Wharton graduates? Catherine continues to ramble about how suspicious it was that the only ride where kids were in the dark -- the tunnel of love -- was the one Pickens happened to be near. Well, excuse him for running toward someone screaming for help. God, this plot makes me irritated. Thank God for the wine. I have a whole 'nother bottle left.