The episode opens with something I'm more accustomed to seeing on paranoia-riddled, post-apocalyptic sci-fi shows: one car, being pursued by The Man vis a vis several squad cars and a helicopter. Were this a paranoia-riddled, post-apocalyptic sci-fi show, this would be the point in the proceedings where several jackbooted thugs in snappy black uniforms begin demonstrating the incontrovertible connection between big guns and even bigger worries about their manhood. Fortunately, this is CSI, so we get a bunch of cops yammering about a BMW filled with Victoria Secret's models instead.
Yes, really. All that chasing around was for two hysterical college girls joyriding in their skivvies. As the lead cop gives the command, "Rookie, clear the vehicle," I wonder if we're about to see a circle-of-life thing where yet another callow brunette meets an untimely end owing to the neglect of her supervisors at the LVPD. Instead, the cop displays the kind of sharp observational skills that Holly Gribbs could have used, noting the large bloodstain on the bumper.
Cut to Gil -- CSI lacks jackbooted thugs, but they do have their sharp-looking man in black -- and Brass walking toward the car. "Four-nineteen?" Gil asks, and all of us who have been playing along at home realize he's asking if he's been called to the scene for a murder. "More like a four," Brass answers. He and Gil get to the car trunk and open it up; Gil looks down, then looks over at Brass with a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look; Brass smirks back, then Gil grabs a flashlight and focuses it on the drunk. "Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless," he quips. Brass proves he's read up on the CSI Canon of Carnage by replying, "Sleepy Hollow." Cut to the...uh, cut-off head of a dark-haired male. Gil reaches down and opens the eye; the greenish-blue pupil is milky and opaque. "Vitreous humor is glazed over," Gil notes. "What does that mean?" Brass asks, leading me to wonder yet again how it's possible for him to have managed the CSI unit at one point and not learned a damn thing.
Gil, however, recognizes that Brass is only fulfilling his contractual obligation as Captain Exposition, and thus deigns to reply. "That means that six to eight hours ago, somebody lost his head. And then...somebody lost his head."
Cue the Who. I'd just like to point out that I'm now conditioned, in some sick Pavlovian way, to feel as though I should be recapping a CSI episode every time this song comes on. Needless to say, this conditioned reflex makes going to sporting events -- such as, say, the Yankees/A's game I attended when Tim Hudson very nearly beheaded Scott Brosius with a particularly vicious fastball mere minutes after this song played -- an exercise in cognitive dissonance.
But enough about me. Back to the show.
Evaluation Day
Catherine is swinging down the hall with a sassy stride; she slam-dunks an envelope into what is, I hope, an out box, and mutters, "Sayonara." She then saunters into the office with Sara and Nicky. All three of them grin down at Gil, who looks up from a mountain of paperwork with a confused and defensive expression. Catherine comments on the novelty of Gil actually being in his office when they arrive. "It's evaluation day," he grumps, and we are all reminded anew how very much he hates paperwork. Gil then looks around and fails to spot the shift's favorite objet d'judgement. "Where's Warrick?" he asks. "Chained to a wall in the subplot subbasement," Catherine replies. "He won't chew his way out of his restraints until at least 9:12 tonight." Actually, what she says is, "He's working spillover on another case. It's personal. Kid he knows is in trouble." I wonder if it's the Mini-me who so charmed Sara in the Episode That Continuity Snubbed. "Oh, that's right. I forgot," Gil replies. "Maybe we should be evaluating you," smirks Catherine, clearly playing to the audience. "You're a riot, Alice," he replies, but fails to follow up with the promise of sending Catherine to the moon. The CSIs commence with the dispensing of the cases: Gil and Catherine will be working the disembodied head case. Nicky gets another homicide, roughly 40 miles outside Baker. Gil assigns Sara as Nicky's partner in crime investigation, and she grins, exclaiming, "Yes! Road trip! I'm gonna go switch boots." As Sara swans off to find a more travel-appropriate ensemble, Nicky broods. Gil notes this and shoos Catherine off, then turns back to a glowering Nicky.
Gil bids our sulky boy to sit and Nicky does, immediately saying, "Look, Grissom, I know this is a bad time to bitch to the boss, but I've been a CSI level 3 for nine months now. I was a CSI before Warrick. Warrick works DBs solo. Why can't I?" Gil gives him a noncommittal look, then says, "Repeat after me: silk, silk, silk." Nicky follows orders. Gil then asks, "What do cows drink?" "Milk," Nicky answers in a well, duh tone. Gil exudes disappointment from every pore: "Cows drink water. They give milk. A simple riddle, common sense disguised in a puzzle of words, but an excellent barometer for evaluating someone's readiness." So I'm guessing Warrick got to work solo because he got that one about the animal that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening. Nicky, understandably, takes umbrage at the idea that his evaluation is centered around a brain teaser, and retorts, "I'm not one of your suspects you can play mind tricks on. If I'm not ready, be a man and tell me I'm not ready." "You're not ready," Gil replies. Well, then. The riddle of why Nicky has to work with other people is solved.
“ 'Gary Telgenhoff?' Okay, there's no way that name isn't an in-joke of some kind. Maybe it's the president of the CSI fan club, or someone who wronged one of the writers in high school, or something. ”
Nicky strains to take the news like a man -- since, you know, Gil was a man and all while he delivered it -- and says, "You know why I took this job? I wanted to pack heat, walk under yellow tape, be the man..." My God, there's a lot of manliness going on around here. Nicky barrels on. " ...But mostly, [I took the job because] I want you to think I'm a good CSI." A-ha! I was right! Nicky does crave the approval of older male authority figures. Gil, however, isn't going to give Nicky his father fix: "That's the reason why I have to hold you back. Anyone who's good at anything does it for their own approval, not someone else's." Gil, that kind of logic is dangerous, especially for those (editors) who make their living withholding approval from others (hard-working recappers) as a means of motivating them (kidding).
Cut to David the unfun coroner, cutting loose and playing the air crutch in time with some truly egregious rock music. It's a skill that could come in handy if the Stones ever decide to tour again. David recovers quickly as he notices Gil and Catherine watching him, and attempts to deflect attention by asking if the voice on the tape sounds familiar. Catherine notes that it sounds a lot like the day coroner; Gil follows up incredulously with, "Gary Telgenhoff?" Okay, there's no way that name isn't an in-joke of some kind. Maybe it's the president of the CSI fan club, or someone who wronged one of the writers in high school, or something. Theories, anyone? David asks what everyone thinks of Gary Telgenhoff's discordant offerings, and Catherine replies emphatically, "It sucks!" Both men look at her, a little taken aback, and she continues, "I just filed for divorce. I'm feeling confident." Yeah. Confident that you've replaced one loser with another repellent alpha male who will belittle your intellect, that is. Gil takes the news with a big dollop of whatever and steers the conversation back to the head. David tells us all who the head belonged to: Victor DaSilva. David whips back a white sheet as he makes the formal introductions, and I have to say, Victor's probably looked better.
Gil and Catherine gaze upon the disembodied head, examining it for clues. There's a nasty contusion up top, which we get to see up close and personal courtesy of the TMICam, then the two swap theories as to how a few deep and vicious chopping wounds got on Victor's jaw. Catherine favors the "practice makes perfect" theory; Gil's pulling for "bad aim." They stare at the head some more. "Definitely a crime of passion," Catherine decrees. "You think a woman could have done this?" Gil asks. "I could've," Catherine responds. Okay -- two points here:
1. Catherine, quit bragging. It's unbecoming.
2. Who says that men are the only ones capable of beheading someone in a crime of passion?