The show begins as it so often does: desultory shots of the strip at night, confirming for those of us who have Memento-like cognitive disorders that yes, CSI does take place in Las Vegas. We then zoom into the lobby area of one of your nicer, newer casinos: the marble floors are, as of yet, unscuffed, and the clientele doesn't have the chain-smoking, Frito-eating stink of unhealthy living about them.
They do, however, give off pheromones in rolling waves. More specifically, a young blond man is walking a young blonde woman over to the elevator and promising her, in between exploratory excursions to her tonsils, that "you're going to love my room. It has a view of the whole Strip from the balcony." Somehow, I get the sense neither one of them is big into surveying the miracle that Circus Circus and its contemporaries hath wrought in turning the Las Vegas Strip into one mega-casino after another. As the man -- who is, it should be noted, sporting the same haircut that was visual shorthand for "swinger!" in the 1970s -- swirls the woman around and pins her against a wall, she protests her normal rectitude: "I don't usually do this. Especially with guys I just met." He feigns assent, murmuring, "I could tell just by looking at you," as he manages to multitask, copping a feel while pressing an elevator button. The blonde balks for a moment, and Casanova swoops in for his final sales pitch: "Don't worry. You can trust me." On CSI? Oh ho ho. "Promise?" asks the blonde, clearly looking for someone upon whom to hang the blame for the rotten judgment call she's about to make. "I never lie," purrs the bargain-basement lothario. As the elevator opens, she simpers, "You are so baaaaad." "Yeah, I am," says Mister Don't-Worry-You-Can-Trust-Me. You know, most women would take that as a sign to either burst into mocking laughter or exit the elevator. Then again, most women probably would have shot this guy down when he tried to pick them up with a sloppily-made Cosmopolitan and some line about lipstick. Luckily for us, Blondie's one of a kind; she lets this paperback-romance roué twirl her around and slam her into the elevator wall in the kind of move that will leave her breathless not from passion, but rather from direct impact with a wall. Still, who am I to deny these two insipid bubbleheads their night of tawdry passion? I'm the recapper, that's who. On with mocking, I say! Our would-be seducer is busy gnawing his way down the blonde's neck, and she's making all the appropriate noises lest elevator passengers or passersby mistake them for anything other than two pretty people having fantastic foreplay, when she gets distracted. She makes a squeaky noise -- which Romeo, currently engaged in activities south of the border, interprets as lust -- and then points out that there's an unconscious male body in the elevator with them.
Cut to the television couple currently not busy conducting oral examinations of each other's anatomy, i.e. Gil and Sara, entering the crime scene. Sara asks Brass if the suspicious-circs assessment is true; Brass replies that the anonymous phone call to 911 immediately before the body's discovery in the elevator seem to lend weight to that theory. Gil asks where the body in question was; Brass tells him that since the man was unconscious but breathing, paramedics took him to Desert Palms hospital. Sara asks if this breathing piece of evidence has a name. Indeed, he does: Bob Fairmont. Brass adds that Fairmont is an upscale home developer. That's a nicer way of putting it than I would, i.e. the suburban Satan, the merchant of McMansions, the hobgoblin of homogeneity. Clearly, my issues with bland suburban housing developments are not shared by the writers on the show. Anyway, Sara pops in with, "'A Fairmont Home, you'll never roam.' His billboards are everywhere," thereby establishing that this man is quite the high-profile wealthy local figure. Brass hands over photos of the non-roaming Bob Fairmont to a glowering Gil; Gil, in perhaps a subtle shout-out to William Petersen's earlier roles as JFK (The Rat Pack) and Joseph P. Kennedy (The Kennedys of Massachusetts), cracks, "This is phony as a Chappaquiddick neck brace." Sara leans in and notes that the stiff's suit is, shall we say, rumpled. Gil clarifies for Brass, since it's not like Brass was a long-time investigator or the former head of the CSI or anything: "It's impossible to redress an unconscious person and make it look like they dressed themselves. You notice anything about the suit coat?" Brass looks at the snaps and replies, "Well, unless he's going to court or church, there's no way he buttons all three buttons." Gil doles out a crumb of praise, then turns to Sara and says wonderingly, "Why do they think they can fool us?" Sara has no answer for him, what with Pete Townsend and the boys making a ruckus in the background. I think maybe they want to know who we are.
Once we return from commercials -- where, let me say, watching Patricia Heaton gamely mug her way through some yuletide atrocity makes me wonder if my Christmas present can be someone taking the entire made-for-network-television-movie conceit out back and euthanizing it -- Nicky and Catherine have showed up. Nicky shares that Fairmont was staying in Room 2927. Gil bids them all go up to the room; he takes off with Nicky. The womenfolk are on his heels. As the four investigators approach the room, Gil notes blandly, "Mr. Fairmont was staying in Murder Central." "Hmmm," Catherine nods in assent. Nicky looks confused. "Murder Central?" he asks. Sara gives him a cool look and says, "You never heard that phrase?" "Well, if I did, would I have asked the question?" Nicky shoots back. Busted, Sara! She purses her lips, reminding herself that even Nicky's capable of issuing smackdowns when provoked. The two senior CSIs let that special moment play out, then separate the kids: Nicky goes with Catherine to the elevator, and Gil will work the hotel room with Sara. As Catherine heads down the hall with Nicky, he grouses, "Sara doesn't know what Murder Central means any more than I do." Catherine slings an arm around his shoulder and advises him to drop it. Nicky has nothing to worry about: if Catherine is the mother figure of CSI, Nicky is definitely Mama's boy. Of course, this is Catherine we're talking about, so that might be cold comfort.
Moving away from CSI Family Circle for a moment, we're at Desert Palms, where Brass is quizzing the widow Fairmont. It's Kimberly from Melrose Place! She's giving Brass a wide-eyed look and whispering, "My husband is in surgery; can't it wait?" Don't trust her, Brass! She's bald and insane! God, that was great television, back in the day. Does anyone remember Kristen Davis stumbling around drunk, wailing, "Billlleeee!" before drowning herself? Or Courtney Thorne-Smith looking at the inert Andrew Shue and sighing, "Billleeee." Little did we know she'd be reprising that role on another show. And the Michael-and-Kimberly plots. Sigh. Oh, Melrose Place. You were my guilty pleasure for so long, before you began sucking so badly. Now let me put down this plate of madelines, cease my recollective rapture, and return to recapping. Kimberly -- or, for purposes of the here-and-now, the Widow Fairmont -- notes mournfully, "He usually goes with women who look a lot like me, only younger. And I'm embarrassed to admit I've been flattered at times." Brass is not about to get sucked into the yawning vortex of the Widow Fairmont's infidelity issues; he prods for more info, and comes up empty. Apparently, we're all supposed to infer from that scene that Brass has formed two separate hypotheses: the Widow Fairmont has plenty of motivation to see her cheating heartthrob dead, or one of Fairmont's many mistresses had a hand in doing him in.
We won't get to test or confirm those hypotheses just yet; we're back at Murder Central with Gil and Sara. Gil is peering around with his usual owlish gaze. Sara, ever eager to score with Gil -- in any capacity -- chortles, "I know. The room's talking to us." Gil cocks an eyebrow in Sara's direction. Emboldened, she continues: "They had champagne. They were celebrating something. No lipstick on either glass, 911 did say it was a man's voice who placed the call..." I love expository monologues like these because they spare me the trouble of having to describe what Sara's inspecting. Gil listens, then asks Sara to take a good, healthy sniff: the room smells like sex. He eyes the bed -- and the mirror on the ceiling immediately above the bed -- as he points this out. Sara is not entirely convinced, pointing out that whoever was in the room kept the drapes open, meaning they weren't terribly concerned about the possibility of being photographed. Gil counters that such behavior merely bespeaks arrogance on the part of one or both of the room's occupants. Sara then hones in on a bra -- 34C, for those keeping track of such vital stats -- and turns back to Gil: "If [Fairmont] was with a woman, who was the guy on the 911 call?" she queries. Oh, Sara. For someone who worked in San Francisco -- indeed, for someone who's worked in Vegas -- she has remarkably little imagination about sordid sex crimes. There's no evidence yet that indicates the room wasn't occupied by three people. Of course, this is CBS, not HBO, or a murder a trois is unlikely, but still, my point is valid. Don't presume it's an either-or situation, yes?
In the elevator, Nicky and Catherine are looking at some white specks in the carpet. Nicky wonders aloud if they're cocaine; Catherine absently dismisses that hypothesis. "How can you tell just by looking?" Nicky wonders. Catherine gives him a sly look and murmurs, "Never you mind." A-ha, an oblique reference to an oblique reference from last season. She then uses a sort of sticky film to capture the flaky white stuff. Yum! She and Nicky then rejoin Sara and Gil in the hotel room, just in time to lift prints and listen to Sara wax rhapsodic about how "the average hotel room is covered in stains that are invisible to the naked eye." Well, lucky for us then that this show so thoughtfully illustrates them all in ultraviolet TMI-o-Vision. Gil points out that not all the stains have human provenance. Sara rebuts, "No matter how clean the room seems, that's why I always travel with nonoxynol-9." Huh? Because she has a raging fear of renegade sperm? Gil tells Sara she sounds like she's making a commercial, then cuts Sara's pitchwomanly obligations short before we can find out how to act now to order our own travel-sized container of nonoxynol-9. Nicky hits the lights, and sure enough, we're seeing a lot of stains we wouldn't otherwise. The bed is covered with champagne and semen, and as Sara pans the light up the wall, we see a veritable galaxy of semen stains splattered across it. Okay, now I'm thinking Sara might be on to something with that nonoxynol-9. Gil takes in the constellation of chromosomal matter and deadpans, "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight." He wishes he may, he wishes he might, and because he's the supervisor, everyone else is doing the scut work tonight. Gil takes his leave; Sara follows the fertile crescent to a light fixture where a condom happens to be resting, after it was presumably flung in a moment of sheer, unhygienic jubilation. As Gil is leaving, he casually says, "Oh, and Sara? Last hotel room nearest the stairwell. Easy entry and egress for an intruder, and if a victim fights back, fifty percent less chance of being heard." Sara, embarrassed at being busted in front of a smirking Nicky, flounders, "Rooms only on one side. Murder Central." Gil exits.
The moment the door closes, Nicky drawls, "You are so busted." Sara whirls around and smiles shamefacedly. And while we're basking in Nicky's victory -- give the man credit for knowing enough to ask when he doesn't know something; how else is he going to learn? -- let us also take a moment to observe that he's on an unprecedented Good Hair, Good Wardrobe streak. The all-black ensemble from last week was pretty damn hot, but he's looking fine in a charcoal pullover tonight too. So long as everyone remembers that Nicky looks best in cool, dark colors, I can reserve my sartorial snideness for other transgressors.
Cut to what looks like a white crevasse. The camera swirls around and we see a hyperfocusing lens, then a close-up of Catherine's eye. She says absently, "I gave this to Trace. Why do you have it?" Because we're twelve minutes into the episode and there hasn't been any gratuitous Liam abuse yet, so why not start now? Liam The Lab Tech -- whose hair is still doing something I don't quite approve of -- tells Catherine he has the sample because he deals with DNA, and this is dandruff. There's a little brushing of Liam's shoulders after this, just because it has apparently become part of the show's internal mythology that the best way to repay the puckish lab tech who tosses clues into your lap is to mercilessly jab at his self-esteem. Apparently, Liam hasn't lapped sufficiently at the saucer of embarrassment, because he then says, "Hey, Catherine? Do you think Sara would go out with me?" I don't know. I'd tell Liam to ask Nicky to pass Sara a note -- "Do you like me? Check yes or no. Will you go out with me? Check yes or no." -- but given the way those two boys interact, there's no telling what subtextually overloaded hijinks would ensue. Catherine, to her credit, is only mildly disparaging, saying, "Sure. As long as you don't tell her it's a date." Catherine then drifts out and bumps into Warrick, who mentions that he happened to have gone to the Fairmont house on one of his first CSI calls three years ago. That doesn't seem right: according to episodes and official show website information, Warrick's been working in CSI for six years, not three, and he's been working with Gil since 1997, which is at least four years. Anyway, somewhere back in the non-contiguous space-time warp of Warrick's prior career experience, he worked on the Fairmont case; the man had accidentally shot himself while cleaning his gun. However, after hearing about what happened tonight, Warrick's suspicion about what really happened lo those many years ago has been aroused, so he's off to shackle himself to a wall in the root cellar of related plotlines -- I mean, he's off to dig up the old file. Catherine is nearly giddy at the idea that they'll have another clue, and heads off to Desert Palms hospital to pick up Fairmont's clothes.
Speaking of giddiness, we're back at The Suite De Splattered Sperm. Nicky is plucking the offending prophylactic from its aerie with a half-amused, half-disgusted look and depositing it in an evidence envelope. The reservoir tip is still damp. Mmm-mmm-mmm! Sara comments, "I wonder how it got up there." "I'm only impressed if he aimed," Nicky replies, leading me to wonder exactly what sort of shenanigans Nicky's been up to in his spare time. Sara muses on the likelihood that the woman realizes she left her DNA behind too -- and again, I should point out that as of yet, there is no evidence eliminating the possibility of sex between two men; for all we know, the bra was a ringer. Nicky, however, has dedicated himself to bringing exposition we don't need by pointing out, "It's not rocket science. Man's inside, woman's out." The two exchange a matter-of-fact look. I'm so glad the powers that be have taken the lame, lame attempts at flirtation from last season and turned the Nicky/Sara dynamic into sibling rivalry.
Brass and Gil are power-walking through the corridors of CSI Central, talking about how the 911 tape was lost, and the voice wasn't male so much as it was gender indeterminate. Gil then gets a cell call and rushes off. We find out, mere seconds later, that he rushed to an autopsy, courtesy of David The Unfun Coroner. Fairmont died of an apparent aneurysm -- "blood floods the subarachnoid space, heart still beats but the brain's dead," in David's words; the TMICam backs him up. Gil fishes for some sort of cranial trauma; David naysays it: "Genetic predisposition; both parents went that way. Increases the chances of a stroke ten-fold." Gil gives David a look that clearly communicates the sentiment, you're not helping me out much here. We learn that Fairmont was healthy; he was also an organ donor. David exposits that the doctors took eight organs in under two hours; Gil marvels, "Boy, those doctors move fast, don't they?" We flash to the likely organ-harvesting scenario, body parts flying while doctors tensely bark directions. I have to say that although I am all in favor of organ donation, I do like seeing how it could stand in the way of doing an autopsy. I have often wondered if someone in the medical examiner's office looked down at a body after the organs, leg bones, and/or skin was harvested and thought, "Well, damn."
Speaking of frustrating situations, Liam is busy swabbing out the condom while trying to ask Sara out without really asking her out. "So I was thinking, we could take our break at the same time...together," he begins. Sara's not really listening. "Sure," she replies absently as she reads through some paperwork. "Really," Liam verifies. She comes over and stares over the slide he's working on; Liam snaps back to business and points out that unless they get a DNA sample from Fairmont, this semen is somewhat useless. "I am more interested in who the woman is," Sara says. And again...we don't know that it wasn't two men practicing safe sex. Argh! Anyway, Liam points out that he'd also need a DNA sample, and he's about to launch into an explanation of why when Sara, who has been thumbing through Fairmont's autopsy photos, exclaims, "What the heck? Stripes!" "Stripes," Liam uncomprehendingly repeats as she dashes out of the lab.
Sara is now showing her stripes to Gil -- fingernail stripes, that is, horizontal white bands ribbing the nails. "They look like Mees' bands to me," she insists. Gil challenges her to explain how it's not livor mortis. She counters that the striations are indicative of heavy metal poisoning; Gil reminds her that they really can't count on a photo. "We need the body," he says. Unfortunately, they're not going to get the body. Sara inquires incredulously of David how it is possible that he'd think it was okay to release the body of a man found in suspicious circumstances. He replies, "I deal with cause of death which was an aneurysm, and therefore based on that, was a natural. Based on that, his body was released to a mortuary." Sara asks how it can be that the transplantation thing didn't raise a flag; Gil acerbically answers with, "I thought I raised a flag with the good doctor when I told him I was going to notify the police department. Evidently, I miscommunicated again." David takes all this in and offers the only salve he can: the name of the mortuary where Fairmont's body was taken.
What are the odds that we'd run into our fun friend the slightly crooked undertaker? Pretty high. He ushers Sara and Nick over to the crematorium where Fairmont's mortal remains have been burning for ninety-two minutes thus far, thus scotching any chance of getting a blood sample. Surprise, surprise -- Fairmont's wife approved the cremation. Cut to Sara taking a chunk of the charred remains and beginning to grind it with a mortar and pestle; I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that she'll have found some way to test for the persistent presence of heavy metals.
Meanwhile, Brass is questioning the Widow Fairmont. "You told me your husband was in surgery," he starts. "He was," she rebuts. "Surgery to take his organs, not save his life," Brass counters. He should learn from that exchange that the Widow Fairmont is crafty enough to answer questions so she can give technically truthful answers while omitting incriminating details, and tailor his line of inquiry accordingly. What are the odds that this will happen, thus saving us from scenes later on where surprise information is revealed and the people confronted with the facts can reply that they never lied about the new information, only neglected to disclose it? Yeah, I thought so. The Widow Fairmont plays the grief card, and wraps up her bereavement act with the guilt-inducing question, "Why are you being so hostile?" Brass tells her it's because someone poisoned her husband. The Widow Fairmont seems surprised that they discovered this. Sara is more than happy to explain how heavy metals' heat-resistant properties guarantee that they show up even after cremation, and she found selenium in Fairmont's remains. "Did you notice your husband's breath might have been garlicky?" "Garlicky?" the Widow Fairmont echoes, in a faintly incredulous tone. Sara explains that people suffering from a surplus of selenium will excrete dimethyl selenide, which smells like garlic. Sara then pushes the Widow Fairmont on the fingernail observation; the widow punts with, "We didn't see each other a lot." Well, given that the Widow Fairmont seems to spend all of her time averting her eyes, it's a wonder she can see to walk, much less register the presence of other human beings.
Sara asks casually, "That bother you, him not being home?" We cut to Brass, who's cocking an eyebrow in curiosity. The Widow Fairmont ducks the question yet again: "I think it would bother any woman." Yes, but it might bother different women for different reasons; one may be piqued over not getting quality time with the spouse, while another's just irked that her window for poisoning her neglectful partner is closing. Again -- it's all in the line of inquiry. I'm just saying. Sara tries another tack: "Did you know the most common choice of murder among women is poison? They cite its passivity." I understand it's also the most popular method for suicide among women. The Widow Fairmont gets all indignant with, "I did not poison my husband." "You cremated his body," Sara counters, making a logical leap that, were it transposed into the physical realm, would leave Marion Jones weeping in envy. The Widow Fairmont protests that she was merely following her husband's wishes, and storms out so that she may prepare for the memorial service. As she turns to go, Sara calls out, "Do you want us to notify you?" "Of what?" the Widow inquires. "Of how much selenium your husband was dosed with, over what period of time," Sara replies. "I thought you couldn't tell," blurts out the Widow Fairmont. Now, I'm no forensic investigator, and my observations on the vagaries of human behavior are derived largely from whatever happens to land in my email on any given day, but I'm thinking that most women, when handed a gold-plated opportunity to find out what killed their spouse, would unhesitatingly reply, "Of course." But the Widow Fairmont replies, "I thought you couldn't tell." Sara points out that they can still track down the organs. Still looking a little taken aback, the Widow Fairmont wanly says she'd like to know what turns up.
What's turning up is a jovial transplant patient who is, I am betting, not going to make it to the end of this episode. The balding, elderly gentleman is asking a doctor if he's going to die; the camera pulls back so we can see Nicky standing behind the doctor as he explains to the transplant patient that no, his new kidney is only a little poisoned, not a whole lot. The patient gasps around his oxygen tube, "I must have had a hundred tests. How'd you doctors miss this?" "Well, we're not normally in a position to be taking organs from men killed slowly through heavy metal poisoning," the doctor snaps. No, wait. That would only happen if this were the Scrubs/CSI crossover. The doctor admits that something like this happens so rarely, it never occurs to anyone to test for it. The patient laughs, then says to Nicky, "You don't look like a doctor." Nicky flashes a charming, self-deprecating grin (note to wardrobe: see how much better Nicky comes off in his scenes when he's wearing the right colors. Read and learn, my frock-selecting friends, read and learn). "No, I'm not. I'm Nick Stokes." Really? As if the patient's going to be all, "Oh! Nick Stokes! I saw your centerfold in Forensic People!" Still, Nicky explains why he's in the room; he'd like a biopsy of the kidney: "The only way I can get an accurate barometer of the poison in Mr. Fairmont's system is through one of his organs." The patient shakes his head, clearly balking at the idea of any more procedures: "This is my kidney now. I waited four years. I can't have everyone cutting into me -- I just can't." Nicky's quite gracious and understanding about it, and nicely thanks the man for his time. He then compliments the patient on his watch, which we see strapped to the hospital bed rail. The patient notes that it broke while he was in surgery and now the hands are stuck at eleven o'clock. I instantly flash to the clock metaphor in The Watchmen and extrapolate how this plotline shall play out. Nicky says goodbye courteously, and leaves. I go into shock as I realize we're seeing the most vigorously pro-Nicky episode ever: he's calling Sara's bluff! He's displaying manners and compassion with the living! He's having a good wardrobe day! Will wonders never cease?
Sara's recapping the result of the organ solicitations; the only person who consented to a biopsy was the heart recipient. "Useless. The heart has no memory for poison," Gil decrees, seemingly oblivious to the metaphorical and poetic potential of his statement. Sara asks why they can't just cut people open and test for selenium; Gil gives her a priceless deadpan look and Sara goes, "I know, I know, something about constitutional law and probable cause." Yeah, a little something we like to call privacy. And I just won't even go into the many, many ways the United States government has been eroding what few privacy rights we have -- not that women enjoy that many, what with being lucky enough to have our reproductive options regulated by assorted state and federal laws -- and how everything about us is more or less for sale to the highest bidder...anyway, y'all are spared a long rant wherein I quote everything from HR 602 to Mike Godwin of the Electronic Frontier Foundation because it is late and I still have some twenty-odd minutes of the show to recap, and knowing CSI as I do, the plot will thicken dramatically around the thirty-five minute mark. So you have been spared. For now. Anyway, back to the show: Liam is trying to take his break with Sara, but no dice. She wanders off, and Gil gives Liam a gimlet-eyed glare before asking, "You want to clue me in?" "Sara and I are just going out for dinner," Liam says, striving for cool. "On the case," Gil clarifies. Liam manages, "Oh. Right," and slinks toward the lab, making sure to log this latest humiliation in the Liam Abuse Log he's required to keep.
And the plot is about to thicken: in a hospital lab, a woman identifying herself as Claudia Gideon -- secretary to the late, possibly lamented Mr. Fairmont -- is coming by to pick up Fairmont's stuff. "Oh, I'm sorry, but Ms. Willows already asked for it," chirps the desk clerk. Catherine, conveniently enough, is slouching against the counter checking out Ms. Gideon and thinking, "My, she looks familiar." She sure does -- she played Jamie's sister Lisa on Mad About You. Anyway, Catherine explains that the property is now part of an investigation, so she has to take it. "Just doing my job," Claudia says, preparing to beat feet. "Yeah, me too," Catherine sighs. She asks casually whether Claudia happened to have been around three years ago when Fairmont shot himself while cleaning his gun. Conveniently enough, Claudia was out sick that day. Catherine then notices -- in one of the most awkward conversations two strangers can have -- that Claudia has serious dandruff. Hmmmm.
Cut to Catherine and Brass talking to Claudia in an interrogation room. Within moments, they've established that Claudia may not have been in the hotel room with Fairmont, but she's the one who dressed him and placed him in the elevator. They establish this more or less on a dare; Claudia says assertively, "You don't know what you're talking about," and Catherine replies, "That's dangerous to say to a scientist." It's also the third mention of science as a method for divining the truth. Might there be a theme building? Catherine then launches into an explanation of what dandruff is, pointing out that it does have DNA and that the dandruff they recovered from the elevator matches the dandruff on Claudia's sweater. Claudia then modifies her initial assertion ("You don't know what you're talking about") to something a little more conciliatory; she claimed she found Fairmont in the hotel -- after she swung by purely for business reasons -- and he was both naked and unconscious. "He always told me, reputation before health," Claudia claims, so she dressed him. Catherine and Brass then manage to get it out of Claudia that yes, she did go down a stairwell after doing the elevator dress-and-dump, and no, she doesn't mind if the CSIs compare her DNA to that on the condom. Warrick then makes a special appearance to point out, via the use of computer models, that the story about Fairmont shooting himself in the leg three years ago -- and why wasn't that scar noted or commented on during the autopsy? -- was a lie. As Warrick speaks about his initial mistake in assessing the case -- "I was new, and I wasn't too eager to talk to another guy about shooting off his manhood" -- we see, instead of Fairmont sitting at a table and inadvertently shooting himself in the thigh, that it's more likely he was walking in the door and someone was sitting in a chair, aiming for his groin as he came in the door. The CSIs are thinking Claudia has something to do with this; they cite her name on the admission form on September 6, 1998 as proof of this. If you ask me, that's pretty shaky logic. Claudia says, "I didn't shoot him." I instantly think that, like the Widow Fairmont, what Claudia's not saying is a lot more enlightening than what she does let slip.
In the scene, the Widow Fairmont, taking a page from a past life as a psychotic wife, admits that she shot her husband in a fit of pique. Well, given the lame excuses he was giving in the flashback -- "It was a business meeting! I swear! It wasn't like before! I was thinking about you the whole time!" -- it's almost understandable. What an idiot; you'd think that IQ would be the filter that separates the dolts from the philanderers, and yet, you'd be wrong. Catherine asks why the Widow Fairmont didn't admit the shooting at the time; she claims she wanted to, but her husband, citing reputation over health, vetoed it. I am torn: is he the bigger idiot by virtue of advocating skullduggery and danger over the protections afforded him by the Las Vegas legal system, or is she the bigger idiot for listening to the imbecile she married? Cast your vote. Warrick mentions that he's taking the case to the DA, three years old or no; the Widow Fairmont tremulously replies that her husband's dead, and while the Fairmont union wasn't perfect, she loved the dummy, so she doesn't care what they do now. "Well, there are two reasons a woman shoots a man: she either loves him or she hates him," Brass observes. "Or both," Catherine muses.
In the scene, Catherine's giving Gil and Liam the 411 on her conversations with Claudia and the Widow Fairmont respectively. "The secretary has dandruff," Gil says helpfully. "We know. Dematomycoses seborrhea. We got it," Catherine replies. Gil's not done yet: "Topical eczemas like that require prescription medication. The main ingredient of those medications? Selenium sulfide." Catherine rolls her eyes in frustration at not having thought of that first. Cut to Catherine and Brass going through Claudia's office as the Widow Fairmont watches; they find a huge, honkin' bottle of Nizopal-AD (prescription shampoo) in a medicine cabinet. Conveniently enough, Claudia chooses that moment to return from dinner. She observes the bottle in Brass's hands and says indignantly, "That's mine." "Could you tell us why you keep your shampoo in your office?" Brass asks. Catherine adds, "Shampoo full of the same poison found in Bob Fairmont's remains?" "I don't know," Claudia replies shortly. Brass cocks his head in feigned disappointment and says, "Awww, you have to do better than that." Yeah. Tell them you're stashing it there because you forgot to slip it into your gym bag; I keep all manner of things in my bottom file drawer for that reason. Claudia stammers an excuse that's a lot less rational than mine. The camera swoops over to the Widow Fairmont for a moment; she's watching the entire scene with a wary, watchful expression. Catherine heads over to the fridge and finds garlic cream cheese. Brass notes that the garlic hides the bitter aftertaste; Catherine tags in and observes that it would also explain Fairmont's breath as he was being poisoned. Claudia insists she didn't poison him. Catherine waves the cheese container around and tsks, "We'll see." Just then, the Widow Fairmont decides to complicate matters:
The Widow: Aren't you going to arrest her?
Claudia: Pffft. I haven't done anything.
The Widow: Other than poison Bob.
Claudia: "Poison"? I'm the one who looked out for him.
The Widow: You? I ran his home, I entertained his clients --
Claudia: Who made all his dental appointments? His haircuts? Who got his taxes in on time?
The Widow: Covered for his mistresses...
Claudia: Why did he need mistresses?
Brass intervenes right then before we can get into the hair-pulling Melrose-style fight we're all so eagerly anticipating. Catherine chides both of them with, "We build our case before we make any arrests."
And we might get to build it sooner than we thought. Nicky's back with Karl The Kidney Patient; it turns out his body is rejecting the kidney and, since he's a goner already, he figures hastening his death via invasive biopsy surgery is small potatoes, especially if he can help solve a crime. He also makes a crack about the watch -- O! Symbolism! -- and the two men have a nice moment wherein one is bravely facing his mortality while the other acts as an audience.
Cut to Nicky recounting the anecdote to Gil, saying, "I can't even talk Warrick into splitting a sandwich with me, and this guy's willing to give us his kidney?" "You asked for it," Gil replies curtly, clearly not impressed with the largeness of Karl The Kidney Patient's spirit. "That's my point. Karl dies sooner to help with our investigation, but who protects his rights?" Nicky asks rhetorically. Gil rounds on him, snarling, "What? The living are just here to inconvenience us, Nicky! Never blaspheme in my presence again!" Actually, Gil mumbles something about Karl having free will. Nicky replies that he does too, and he's retracting his request: "I don't think any investigation for the dead is worth hurting the living." There's a squad room full of detectives in Baltimore that would disagree with you, Nicky, but that was another network, and besides, the show is dead. Gil is about to rebuke Nicky for his impertinence when Sara rescues them all by reporting that she found out who the prints on the champagne bottle found in Murder Central belong to. Surprise! The Widow Fairmont was in the suite with her husband.
Cut to the Widow Fairmont, reluctantly admitting that she was trying to put the spice back in her marriage. It seems to me that this sort of information -- i.e. the being-in-the-suite thing -- could have been divulged earlier, had the Widow been on the up-and-up and genuinely interested in helping the investigation along. Brass raises this point, and the Widow points out that she declined to mention it because she was only asked about whether or not she re-dressed her husband in an elevator, not whether or not she had met up with him in the hotel suite. See what I mean? See? It's all in the questioning with her! In the nicest bit of television self-reference all night, the Widow Fairmont deflects the inquiry as to when Fairmont had his aneurysm with "I'm not a doctor!" Because, you know, she used to play one. Gil, Nicky, and Sara are watching the Widow's questioning through the one-way glass; they perk up when Brass mentions testing the champagne bottle for selenium and all the Widow Fairmont can say is, "I didn't think poison caused strokes." She seems to be awfully fluent in the forensic pathology of poison. Brass mentions this as well. "I know a lot of things about a lot of things," she replies. Oy. She continues, "But that doesn't mean I killed my husband." Gil rolls his eyes and says dryly to Sara and Nicky, "Yeah. But what never lies?" The evidence, the evidence, rah rah rah!
Gil goes back to sifting through Fairmont's ashes; it turns out that his three gold crowns are missing because the Widow Fairmont had them removed prior to cremation. Gil and Sara briefly discuss how this small, dentally sentimental gesture is in fact reflective of the etymological origin of "gold-digger." They then move on to the case at hand. Gil asks Sara what the most important component in solving a poisoning case is. "Poison," she answers confidently. "Patience," he corrects.
Or perhaps Nicky, who happens to be walking through the parking lot just as the Widow Fairmont swoons into a faint by her car. Since Nicky is congenitally incapable of passing up a damsel in distress, he catches her, then helps her sit in her car. He then summons an ambulance for the merry widow. As he's heading back into CSI Central, he passes Liam, who is using the world's most effective search engine (oddly enough, not Google) to find 900 different references to the Widow Fairmont out there in the public domain. Nicky continues striding past Liam and evidently does a few laps or something, because in the shot, he's running into Catherine and Gil and sufficient time has elapsed to permit Nicky to exposit that the Widow Fairmont has been treated with a shot of hydropazine -- an anti-emetic used to counteract heavy metal poisoning -- and sent on her way. "Somebody's been poisoning our suspect," Gil says.
Cut to Claudia offering an alternate hypothesis: "Maybe she poisoned herself." Brass gives Claudia a look, and she continues to spin a tale of coincidences, concluding, "[The Widow Fairmont] is trying to frame me for killing him." Brass asks if Claudia has anything beyond her evasive allegations, and Claudia replies, "She had his gold teeth removed. Doesn't that tell you anything about her?" We switch to the view over Brass's other shoulder, where the Widow Fairmont is saying, "I had his watch and ring removed too. They're in a box at home; would you like to see them?" Brass tells her that removing her husband's gold crowns does not give, shall we say, the best impression. "It can look however it wants. I have nothing to hide," replies the Widow Fairmont. "You mean since you yourself have been poisoned," Brass deadpans. "Yeah. Why aren't you asking Claudia about that? First my husband, then me?" inquires the Widow Fairmont. Brass asks what Claudia might have against the happy couple. "Maybe because he refused to leave me for her," the Widow Fairmont replies. We swoop over Brass's shoulder again and back to Claudia, who is vigorously refuting this idea with the familiarity-breeds-contempt argument. We fade out on the scene, realizing two things: Brass has a thankless job, and both women have done an excellent job of rebutting every suspicion with a counter-suspicion to be pinned on someone else. Gosh, it's almost like they got together and planned a crime that would leave the police incapable of acting or something. You think? Naaaah.
Sara is wandering back to her desk when she notices Liam there. She calls his name, and he straightens up and gives her a lovesick grin. "Hey! I was just printing something up for you on your hot case," he says excitedly. Oh, lab techs in love are adorable. Too bad this love affair is one-sided. Or directed at the wrong CSI. Anyway, Liam's all, "I was on break, I had some time..." Sara's gazing down at the fruits of Liam's infatuation, recognition dawning on her face, and she finally leans down and says in a voice throbbing with excitement, "I could really, really just kiss you right now." Liam ducks, blushes, and swoons as Sara leaves.
The big news Sara wanted to deliver: Ten years ago, Claudia was married to a rich rancher and -- quelle coincidence! -- the Widow Fairmont happened to be the rancher's secretary. The rancher died young; Claudia donated his organs and cremated his body, the better to impede investigation. Except -- and this is the kind of break described as "lucky" by only the very dedicated -- the liver recipient died two months later, and Nicky's got a brand-new warrant for a grave in Arizona. Sara scrambles off, presumably to stock up on Slim Jims and Snapple so she can road-trip to Arizona with Nicky. Gil elects to stay at CSI Central and glower at Claudia.
Cut to a science montage: Nicky and Sara watching the grave get excavated; David explaining to Nicky that the modern miracle of embalming retards rotting to a point; Nicky taking the moderately degraded liver, turning it into a viscous goo, and using an eyedropperful of the thick black suspension to test for poison, then coming up sodium selenite. Well, to clarify a little: the selenium substance is different, as it's part of a compound normally used as part of a supplemental injection for grazing animals whose feed may be mineral-poor...much like the animals on the Rancho De Claudia ten years ago. Again -- what are the odds that Claudia and the Widow Fairmont happened to know each other ten years ago as spouse or secretary to a rich man, Claudia's husband died of selenium poisoning like Fairmont, and she just happened to donate all the organs and cremate the body, like Fairmont? What a crazy coincidence!
Claudia points out, "We have never represented that we didn't know each other previously," thereby proving the these-women-will-never-actually-volunteer-information thesis I put forth earlier. Catherine and Sara aren't having much of it: they outline what must have happened ten years ago -- Claudia poisoning her husband and the Widow Fairmont catching her in the act, then making the decision to abandon her ethics and pressure Claudia into splitting the estate with her; the two women eventually running out of money and thus moving westward to repeat the crime with another rich man; the complication of the Widow Fairmont actually loving her husband at some point. The accused women sit there impassively, because they're sitting on a trump card. Gil swings by and pulls Sara and Catherine out of their meeting to reveal it: the DA, after reviewing evidence and meeting with the Widow Fairmont's attack lawyers, has decided not to move forward and press charges.
Claudia and the Widow Fairmont rub salt in the wound Catherine and Sara have just received by walking out and coolly asking Catherine where the bathroom is. Catherine, to her credit, retains her composure although she seems close to tears, and gives polite directions. Out walk the two merry widows, secure in the knowledge that a she-said/she-said case is a virtual deadlock for a jury. Catherine and Gil accept this with hard-won equanimity. Sara, however, does not: "Just let them move on to another state, another husband?" Gil replies gently, "It's not always up to us." Sara sets her jaw and angrily turns to go, throwing up her hands in exasperation as she heads outside. Gil follows her out, calling, "Sara! Look...I know this isn't news to you, but sometimes, science isn't enough." And we have thematic closure! Sara stops, and Gil catches up to her. She wheels around and asks, "What are we doing?" You're screwing with the heads of half of my forum posters, is what. No, wait...Sara says, "What are we doing? Digging up graves, chasing prints...if it's no good in court, if the killers win --" Gil interrupts, "It isn't a competition. We don't 'win.' The courts are like dice. They have no memory; what works one week won't work the ." Sara nods vigorously, fighting to keep calm. "I know that. I do. I know that. That's why I'm mad." Gil points out that if Sara gets mad, the terrorists -- excuse me, the criminals win. Sara quickly notes that Gil had just made a comment about this not being a competition, but catches herself before she can finish voicing that thought with, "This is one of your riddles, isn't it?" Gil half-smiles as he replies, "One of life's riddles." His work done, he walks off again, stopping only to tell Sara the good news that there's no statute of limitation on murder.