It's hot in Las Vegas. Who knew? In addition to the shimmering mirage-cam lens lending everything a slick yellow patina, a thousand babbling newscasters are carrying about how it's already 108 degrees, and people should stay hydrated, and those with food allergies should just avoid the sidewalks, as folks will be frying eggs on the concrete for the sheer fun of it.
We see a woman walking slowly to her car, holding a big ice-cream-and-coffee mess just in case we didn't realize it was hot, and she digs for her keys, she notices a baby strapped into a car seat one or two cars over. She heads over to the car to try to unlock it, but no dice. To the woman's credit, she immediately begins bellowing for help. Sure enough, a few passersby come on over, we establish that this isn't the good Samaritan's car, a male good Samaritan liberates a skateboard from its sullen teenaged owner, and as the woman keeps bellowing for help, he smashes the car window open. I sincerely hope that at least one of the people in the crowd has a cell phone and has thought to use it.
As the glass shatters inward, we see a little of it bounce off the rubbery arm of the "baby" -- we're in for an hour of weeping over a CPR dummy -- and then a shot of the giant, yellow sun in a hazy sky fills the screen. Oh, man, I need to get something to drink.
Once we transition from the sun, a thousand different Las Vegas police and rescue vehicles have filled the parking lot, and someone's wheeled in a pianist so they can hit the ivories in a particularly poignant matter. Gil and Catherine walk on over to the car -- bonus points to them for wearing hats to keep the sun off their heads, but maybe they should have considered a color other than black -- and Captain Exposition greets them from the passenger side by noting that the car's missing its registration, but "it's a shopping plaza -- mother can't be too far." Catherine takes off her sunglasses, makes an anguished face at the CPR dummy strapped within the car, and asks, "When are parents going to learn a car is not a babysitter?" Gil forgoes answering the question in anything resembling a Darwinian fashion; he points out instead that it's already 108 degrees outside. Brass opens the door and asks, "You want to document the inside temperature?" Gil sticks the thermometer in and closes the door again. After he does, Brass asks, "How many of those have we had this year?" Catherine's still making the sad face as she says, "I lost count after ten." Gil points out somewhat impatiently, "This one makes twelve."
Possibly because they suffer from shortened attention spans. We're now taking photos of the lady of the lake; Sara is combing through the girl's hair and picking out leaves of grass. No, not the book, although that would explain the blow to the head, huh? Nicky puts down the camera to note that the lady of the lake is remarkably free of birthmarks, scars, and tattoos. He also finds a locker key. Just then, Sara asks about Nicky putting in for a promotion; he answers that he did last week, but he hasn't heard anything. Sara replies, "Yeah, neither have I." That's subtle. Emergency Backup David comes over to ask if they're ready. Sara says she heard he had a bad morning; Emergency Backup David replies that he's had better. He washes the body, and points out a splotch of something to Sara. Neither of them can identify it.
That's okay. They have x-rays to look at. David the Non-Lead-Apron-Wearing Coroner says that verily, the lady of the lake didn't drown, but died from "a palpable fracture of the neck at C1/C2." (That's the first two cervical vertebrae, for those of you wondering when the human spine was reduced to acronyms.) Sara adds, "From the blow to the head." David concurs: "Probable. Cerebral contusions underneath the skull fracture. Savage hit." Nicky tells us that the sexual assault kit showed semen; David counters that there were no physical findings for rape. The lady of the lake is not giving up a lot of evidence. Insofar as stomach contents, there were meat and veg, but the stomach-emptying rates vary from person to person, so the only estimation David can give is that the lady of the lake ate some two to four hours before her death. While Sara and David have been talking, Nicky's cell phone has been bleating in the background. He answers it and holds a conversation; at the end, a smiling Nicky tells a glaring Sara, "Ranger Stone came though. He found our locker." You know, he makes it sound like Ranger Stone just did something epic, as opposed to merely trotting over to the lakeside facilities, sticking a key in a locker, and thinking, "Yup. It fits."
Back at the depressing baby plotline -- and I'll have you know how valiantly I am straining not to attach any alliterative cooking terms to the word "baby," and -- I can't do it. Broasted! Broiled! Boiled! Baked! Barbecued! Basted! Braised!
Okay. That's out of my system. The temptation has passed. Anyway, Catherine gets tagged in the hall by chief deputy DA Jeffrey Sinclair. I wonder if he's going to get replaced by chief deputy DA John Sheridan later on in this episode. Catherine comments that a personal visit must mean this is an important matter. Sinclair replies, "It is. Joshua Winston, the dead infant." Catherine replies tersely, "We're working on it." Sinclair asks how long Joshua was left in the car. Catherine replies, "Based on the time of death, we estimate...roughly an hour. The 911 call came at roughly 11:30 in the morning." Sinclair asks what time Paul Winston starts work; Catherine replies, "According to Captain Brass, 10 AM." Sinclair snorts, "An hour an a half -- come on. I've got a three-year-old at home, and I've left him inside a covered garage with groceries for two minutes, tops. But two hours, in this heat?" Catherine replies, "I know. It's a tragedy." That doesn't seem to be the word Sinclair is looking for. He comments that cases such as these almost never see the inside of a courtroom, but this one will. Catherine asks, "Is there any worse punishment than losing your child?" Sinclair looks at her like she's gone nuts before replying, "Jail time. I want him behind bars, so the time a parent steps away from their vehicle in triple-degree heat, they check the back seat before they lock the door." Catherine snots, "That doesn't change my job." How is she missing the cause-effect link here? It's not exactly subtle. Anyway, Sinclair continues, "Look, I need you guys to thoroughly document this case. I don't want any more surprises in court, so from the car to the kid, just try to cross your t's and dot your i's, okay?" Sinclair walks off, and Catherine mutters, "I always do." Funny, but you can almost hear Sinclair coughing, "Hem hem Sam Braun, hem, hem, testing your own DNA, hem hem," as he heads off. Or maybe the heat's getting to him.
Catherine and Gil are checking out the Winston death car. Catherine notes that the baby seat was fastened correctly, and she pulls it out, dislodging the resident pianist. The instrumentalist recovers by hitting the ivories with something particularly poignant. Catherine notices something, so she calls for Gil's attention. She tells him, "Look at this [seat]. What do you see." "Fine Corinthian leather," Gil says. Oh, he does not. He notes instead that he sees a whole lot of nothing; the seat is amazingly clean, especially for someone who should be toting infants hither and yon. Catherine points out that there are no seat indentations in the leather; Gil replies, "Well, maybe this wasn't the primary vehicle for transporting the baby." How could it be? They had to keep one back seat free for that damn pianist and his tinkly keyboard of poignancy. Before Catherine and Gil can continue this line of thought, Gil notices a sticky red substance in a groove along the floorboards. Catherine swabs it; it comes up negative for blood. Gil sighs. Catherine asks what Gil's thinking. He replies, "I don't get people." Really? We would have never guessed.
Catherine is going over the Winston death car. She finds a picture of the three Winstons tucked in the sun visor, and takes a brief moment to look pained before continuing her inspection. The trunk is full of dry-cleaning, and Catherine quickly tosses that aside in favor of checking out a blue shopping bag pushed in the back. Among the items it contains: a small baby blanket embroidered with "Howard Aston Winston." Catherine holds the blanket and looks thoughtful.
The jabbering troop of talking monkeys manning the CSI weather bulletins continue to emphasize how hot and awful it is outside. Brass and Catherine are walking along a corridor in the Labitrail; instead of being lit in its usual cool blue, it's all yellowy, as though someone relocated CSI to the surface of the sun. Brass is telling Catherine, "I got the state medical records for Howard Aston Winston. Born August 12, 2000" -- Hey! Mr. Sobell and I got married on that day, in Las Vegas! -- "would have been three years old." Catherine asks when Howard died; it was last year, from Tay-Sachs disease. The two of them do a little chatting to establish that having a genetic disorder that deposits gangloside GM2 on the nerve cells in the brain sucks. Catherine notes that the Winstons never mentioned having another child. Brass adds, "Losing one kid is tough -- but two?"
Oh, God, it's the C-plot. This is such a waste: of time, of energy, of Warrick and Archie. I would tolerate this plot only if they worked in Warrick and Archie shirtless because it's too hot to stay clothed, but since they didn't, my patience is at an end. The only good part of this scene: Warrick and Archie compare notes on their preferred method of departure from this vale of tears; Archie wants an aneurysm in his sleep, while Warrick says, "I like surprises." To sum up the rest: all the electronics are in good working order, save for the phone, which is kind of melted. Warrick concludes that the current went through the phone courtesy of heat lightning, since "summer storms roll through the desert; sometimes the lightning strikes in town." The resultant path of current from sky to phone line to switch box to phone line to phone looks like an old game of Mousetrap. Archie speaks for all of us with, "Electrocution through a phone line? I thought that was a myth." Warrick brandishes the phone as evidence. Faugh.
Nicky and Sara are out on the lake, looking for Make-out Cove. Nicky spots the small craft and gives Liam a little shout-out for his know-how. There is also a towel spread out on the cove -- I'm guessing nobody else has been along since Mark and Sophia -- and Sara swabs it. She finds indicators for sex, but not for blood. Nicky notes the half-tank of gas and wonders, "Why didn't he just take this to get out of Dodge?" Sara inspects the sunscreen as she points out that leaving with a woman and coming back alone would be an excellent way to attract suspicion. Nicky looks at the steep cliff looming ahead and asks, "So he just hoofs it out of here? How?" The ranger helpfully points out the access route two miles east, but helpfully adds that nobody's going to walk out of their way to get to that in this heat. Sara notes the footprints in the sand, realizes they match up with the water shoes Sophia was wearing, and says, "Well, if you kill somebody, you find a way." This coincides with a helpful flashback to Sophia walking up the steep hill trail. Sara begins walking. With a shrug, Nicky and the ranger soon follow.
Anyway, now she and Brass are back to talking to Mr. and Mrs. W. Vickie's explaining that she was in the garden the weekend before Joshua died, and she testily asks, "Why are you so interested in everything we do? When did our lives become an open book?" When your spouse killed your kid in a public plaza, lady. Where have you been for the past 54 minutes? Brass more or less says the same thing. We find out that, yes, Vickie was in the garden, and she fought with the mister because neither one of them particularly wanted to take care of Joshua that day. Anyway, Mr. W passes off Joshua to Vickie while she's gardening. Back in the present, she explains that the minute she had the boy, she went inside. Catherine asks if Mrs. W washed her hands. Mrs. W waffles on the answer. Catherine tells her she went and visited the Winstons' pediatrician: "When you brought Joshua in on that emergency call, it was because you feared that he, too, had Tay-Sachs?" Paul Winston notes that they had the tests and the good doctor's reassurances that the baby was fine. Brass adds, "I can imagine for both of you, it must have been reliving the nightmare. One child, now two." Catherine tags in with, "Did you know that repeated exposure to certain pesticides, even in small amounts, can have an adverse effect in infants? Even mimic the signs of Tay-Sachs?" The camera focuses tightly on Vickie's face as the penny drops for her: she was soaking in pesticides, she exposed her son to them, and his resultant maladies mimicked Tay-Sachs. The Winstons exchange a horrified look. To hammer home the point, Catherine says, "You work with pesticides, Mrs. Winston, on your job and in your garden. You handled Joshua. We suspect that's how the traces got into his system." Another horrified look on the part of the Winstons. Catherine says, "I'm just speculating here, but I think this is what happened ..."
We flash to the Winstons out in the garden -- their child nowhere in sight -- discussing what happens now. Mr. W pleads that they should wait for the enzyme tests; Mrs. W argues for no more tests, no more drugs, no more kids, no nothing, because she doesn't think she can handle any more. Of all the boneheaded lines of reasoning, that one is the most calcium-encrusted: what parent wouldn't hope against hope for the best even when braced for the worst?
Back in the present, Catherine says, "You gave Joshua cough syrup, Mr. Winston. Why did you medicate him?" To add a particularly maudlin touch to a case that's rapidly shaping up as "baby killed by stupid parents who jump to conclusions"? Brass suggests, "Maybe he just didn't want him to suffer." We see Mr. W medicating the achingly cute Joshua, whispering, "It's okay, it's okay," while the missus gets ready to flee town. You know, given that she's the one pushing for an alleged "mercy killing" -- which, frankly, wasn't exactly presented in a way that didn't make her look like a selfish twit with the "I've suffered enough!" argument -- it seems like she should be the one to do the dirty deed. Anyway, Mr. W gets out of the car accompanied by his pianist, locks it, and heads off. Just in case this isn't sufficiently drenched in pathos, the baby wakes up and begins to cry.