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."
Just then, the father of the "baby" comes through, asking all clueless, "What are they doing? Did somebody break into my car?" Of course. Don't the police always summon a lot of ambulances whenever a car window gets smashed, just in case the owner makes himself sick with distress? Unfortunately, identifying yourself as the owner of the car isn't going to do anything to endear you to this crowd. Brass turns around -- the look on his face is truly terrible -- and says, "Detective Brass, Las Vegas police. Sir, do you have a son?" The guy stares at him a moment, and then: "Oh, God! Joshua!" Catherine, who has been staring at the guy with disgust, suddenly gets a bad case of empathy. Gil is too busy to notice, since he's informing people that it's 145 degrees inside the car. The father clutches his head and gets all remorseful. Catherine's recovered from that case of parental empathy and is now giving him a shocked look. Gil, however, is glaring at the guy as if he'd like to strap him into a giant plastic seat and leave him to cook in a hot car for a while.
The Who are grateful that they're nowhere near Gil right now.
When we get back from commercial, Las Vegas is still in the middle of a heat wave. Catherine's taking pictures of Joshua the infant and telling Emergency Backup David, "If it's not babies in cars, it's babies in swimming pools. It's that time of year." As she snaps photos, Emergency Backup David notes, "Body's fully rigid. Normally, I'd say infant's been dead a couple of hours. But in this weather, I'd say the infant died no more than an hour ago." We pan back out through the crowd; the good Samaritan lady is anxiously watching the goings-on. Emergency Backup David ducks out of the car for some air. Catherine continues to snap photos, and Gil comes over to tell her, "I brought a sheet. All these looky-loos? I think we better treat this like the baby's still alive." Catherine turns to look at him as she realizes that Gil ain't carrying no baby -- dead or alive -- anywhere, and I notice that in the course of the commercial break she lost her hat and gained a ponytail. Somehow, Catherine manages to swaddle the rigid infant, Gil helps her adjust the bundle as she pulls it out of the car, and then Catherine walks it on over to the coroner's van. It seems to me that it would have been a more effective charade if actual paramedics or other folks were the ones doing the body-moving, and if they put the baby in an ambulance. What's the point of trying to "treat this like the baby's still alive" if you're going to put the body in the coroner's van? Also, while I'm at it, shouldn't someone have strapped down the body? All you need is Emergency Backup David going through one yellow light, and then there's a body in his lap.
We have no time to consider that, because we are now at the verdant shores of a brilliantly blue lake. What, you didn't know about the big lake in the middle of downtown Las Vegas? There has to be one, since Lake Mead is a federal area and therefore not really the CSIs' concern. Oh, wait -- that didn't stop them when they wandered into the California part of Death Valley last season, did it? Anyway, gorgeous lake. Gorgeous girl by side of lake. Gorgeous dead girl by side of lake, with park ranger explaining that he spotted her in the lake whilst doing a routine patrol, and pulled her to shore to keep her from floating away. Nicky takes in the board shorts and swimmy shoes; she was at least dressed for a day at the beach. Sara notes the lack of bloating; Nicky concludes that the lady of the lake has been dead for fewer than 24 hours. Sara notes, "Neck looks broken and her head's split, but there's no cone of foam." The ranger's all, "Huh?" Nicky explains, "We have air in our lungs. Add water, you get foam." Sara finishes, "It means she didn't drown." Yeah, well, the broken neck and the cracked head maybe got her first. Nicky points out that there are plenty of ways to die by a lake.
Meanwhile, back on the baked plains of Las Vegas, Catherine is watching the father explain to Brass that he was supposed to drop Joshua off at daycare. He explains, "My wife usually brings him on her way to work. It was a hectic morning. My cell phone was going off. Problems at the office." We flash back to this guy yammering on the phone while the baby sits quietly in the back seat and listens to the poignant piano tinkling away. This, my friends, is the dark side of all those cell phone commercials that are all, "Sure, you're a corporate drone. But your kids still love you because you spend a few minutes on the phone with them every day!" Nobody's making the ads about how those cell phones gnaw into your personal time, are they? Anyway, this clown is busy driving and talking on the cell phone -- also not something prominently featured in most of those heartstring-tugging cellular service ads -- and generally having a meltdown while his baby takes it easy in the back.
In the here and now, the father says simply, "I forgot he was in the back seat." Brass asks, "How could you forget?" The dad replies, "I'm not the one who drives him. Vickie does that." Wouldn't the change in routine be enough to prompt his memory? Apparently not. This clown continues, "I was distracted. This job consumes so much of my mind." Brass asks the question we all want the answer to: "What kind of a job is so distracting?" "I run the nationwide organ-donation program, and if I spend five minutes off the phone, a small, pale child has the kind of death that makes Little Eva's look undignified by comparison," the guy replies. Oh, wait. He doesn't either. It's "I defuse bombs for a living, and thousands of lives are at stake if I can't concentrate and tell people which wires to snip." No, no, no. That's not it. Hostage negotiator? No. Spiritual counselor? Nope. Head of logistics for Doctors Without Borders? No. Ah -- the show tells us. "I'm an agent for the gaming commission. It's a 25-hour-a-day, eight-day-a-week job." Ah. Brass asks, "Your wife work?" "She works as much as me [sic]," the father replies. And now would be when Brass asks whether these two workaholic professionals have a nanny or other full-time caretaker, since neither of them has adjusted their schedules to accommodate having a child. Except he doesn't, because we go back to Catherine's face so we can all think about how this single mother is wracked with guilt over -- oh, who cares what Catherine's conflicts are right now? We'll be revisiting them on a regular basis. In any event, the guy mealymouths about how the child neither he and his wife had time for made their brutal schedules all worthwhile. The guy then continues, "She's in L.A. on business. What am I going to tell her?" That you're a rotten multi-tasker? We focus back on Catherine looking all worked up. Why has nobody remembered that her daughter nearly died after being trapped in a car, so this might be touchy?
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.
And for all of you saying, "It's been 18 minutes. Where's Warrick already?" -- well, now we have an answer. He's trapped in a subdivision of Hell, if the architecture is any indication. By the way, it's still hot outside. Warrick, however, is inside. He's taking pictures of a guy in a recliner, and he looks up to ask, "You with me?" Gil replies, "I am now. Passed off the dead baby case to Catherine, since I figure she doesn't get enough food for thought on how difficult it is to reconcile her role as a parent with her role as someone who investigates the neglectful actions of other parents." Or maybe he stops after mentioning Catherine's name. Gil mentions that it's hot in the apartment; Warrick photographs his beefy, shirtless corpse du jour and nods in the affirmative. He continues snapping: a fan, a telephone, and what looks to be an extremely complex remote control. Warrick notes that the super came in to check the AC and found Beefy Guy like this -- he's one Wesley Jones, aged 33, expired in his plug-in massage chair. There are no signs of forced entry, nor is there any indication that robbery was a motive; all Warrick has to go on is this half-naked husk in the chair and a bruise on the guy's fingertip. As Warrick photographs the crumpled soda can near Wesley's feet, Gil comments, "I had a case once where the soda can was the murder weapon. Suspect used it to bash in the victim's head." I'm assuming it was full then, and the suspect summarily emptied it so it looked less likely to inflict head trauma? At least, that's how I'd do it. Not that I often think of murdering people with Diet Coke cans. Warrick takes more photos of Wesley's detritus: a diet shake, a fitness magazine, and an empty cookie sheet filled with crumbs. He concludes, "This guy trying to start a diet or fall off of one?" Over by the fridge, Gil notes, "He's got a workout schedule. And today? A three-mile run." Maybe he should have tried bikram yoga instead. Gil further notes, "Fat metabolizers containing ephedra. Scorching heat and ephedra? That's not good." We flash to one imagined scenario, where Wesley really did go for that run, then staggers in for a diet shake and a brief post-workout chair massage before passing out and dying. Warrick says, "Sounds like a heat stroke to me." Gil lets us all know how he feels about weight loss by caustically saying, "Yeah. Feel the burn."
Meanwhile, Catherine wanders through the Labitrail before making her way over to Liam the Lab Tech's lair. He's working on that swab she took. Liam asks, "I heard the DA's really gunning for the father. What do you think they're going to charge him with? Murder?" Catherine replies, "Not likely. Child endangerment, child neglect, child abuse." Liam says, "Sounds like a slap on the wrist to me." Catherine retorts that Liam and Sinclair can shake hands on that. Before things can get any tenser, the printer spits out the results of Catherine's sample: "Brompheniramine maleates. USP-one." For those of you who are "Bro-phe-who-what?" we're talking an antihistamine compound used to treat rhinitis and other hypersensitivity reactions; it works by coming into contact with an allergen and minimizing the body's subsequent reaction to it. Catherine realizes they're dealing with cough syrup.
Sara and Nicky are dealing with pretty people, and pissed-off-looking park rangers. I don't blame the rangers; those uniforms probably aren't built for the heat. Nicky hands Sara a stack of chips and comments, "Dollar slots." Sara replies, "Is there truly no place left in Las Vegas without slot machines?" She's been here for what -- three, almost four years? And she's still surprised by this? Nicky hands over the rest of the lady of the lake's belongings. The Western Las Vegas University student ID labels her as Sophia Renatta. Sara's gone rummaging through the bag and found a guy's wallet with no credit cards or ID, and an XXL t-shirt they conclude has to be too big for Sophia. Nicky suggests, "It could be a boyfriend or beach buddy." Sara shoots back, "A suspect?" Oh, you just know how the rest of this is gonna go.
Cut to a bitter dock rat telling Sara, "I remember her and her punk in shining armor." Nicky asks, "He wasn't a cool guy?" Dock Rat says, "Dude stiffed me twice, bro. Rented a Wave Runner and doesn't bring it back, and his cheap-ass plastic's got a two-k limit." Two thousand isn't enough? How expensive is it to rent a Wave Runner? Apparently it's five grand, whatever this guy owes. I am still wondering how on Earth you run up a five-thousand-dollar bill on a Wave Runner without owning it outright. Anyway, Nicky asks if the two were a couple, and Dock Rat gets all judgmental with, "She was a pretty girl with a problem, and he knew an in when he saw one." We flash back to what happened -- the "problem" was that Sophia didn't have a credit card and the Dock Rat was completely unsympathetic to her plight, so the kid swoops on down, hands over the card, and a couple for the ages is united. Back in the present, Nicky's wondering if that move would work for him. No, not really -- knowing his luck, he'd get someone who would commit fraud. Sara checks the rental log: the phantom guy's name is Mark Young, and he checked out the Wave Runner at 11:45. However, he and Sophia didn't hit the water until 2:15. Nicky comments, "Well, if he did just meet her, he's a pretty smooth operator. Bailed her out, bought her lunch, and had enough left over to play the dollar slots." Sara snorts, "Classic lake date." Oh, did Hank take her here? I'd like to imagine that he did, and that she hated every minute of it. We see two jackasses heading out on Wave Runners, and we flash to Sophia and Mark riding around, looking equally as asinine. Or maybe it's just my prejudice against personal watercraft, since their presence in a park usually means disruptive things for water quality, air quality, soundscapes, wildlife, wildlife habitat, shoreline vegetation, and other water-user safety. Irrational, I know, but there you go.
And now, we meet the mother of dead little Joshua Winston. She's all, "I ask my husband to do one thing -- one thing. I got up early, I fed Joshua, got him changed, dressed, all he had to do was drop him off." Is it just me, or do you get the feeling the Winstons still hadn't negotiated who the primary caretaker for this child was? We find out that Mrs. Winston is in horticulture, and designing a garden for a new hotel in Anaheim. This just goes to show, you can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her marry someone who can deliver a child to daycare. I kid! We know nothing about Mrs. Winston's sexual habits; I just couldn't resist the Dorothy Parker riff. Anyway, I can't help but wonder: since a different parent was dropping off Joshua at daycare, wouldn't daycare have called the primary parent or phone contact when the kid failed to show? Anyway, we flash back to Mrs. Winston putting the car seat in Mr. Winston's car before she took off; she prissily informs Catherine she had a car seat in her car because "it's the law." What, is this going to be news to the law enforcement? Catherine asks if Joshua had a cold. Mrs. W cops to the baby having a slight cough, courtesy of a bug going around daycare; she gave him some cough syrup last night, but not this morning, because "there's a rule in our house that only one parent medicates the child. But I told Paul to go ahead and give it to Joshua if he was still coughing." Nice temporizing there; I'm sure Catherine and Brass didn't notice you checking out their faces or pausing as you felt your way along that one at all. Catherine gets a skeptical look on her face, and Mrs. W immediately asks, "Why?" Brass hustles into the exchange with, "Thanks for coming in. We're all done now. Feel free to take the damn tinkly piano player with you when you leave." Just then, Mr. W comes on by, and Mrs. W decides that maybe she will leave the office. Paul starts in with, "Vickie..." and she smacks him in the chest, sobbing, "What is wrong with you? How could you leave him in the car? What is wrong with you?" Then she collapses into him and just begins bawling. Catherine and Brass watch them stagger off; both of them are teary too. Tell me again why the two parents on this shift are handling this case, whilst the four child-free folks who may not identify so closely are all working on something else?
Possibly because that empathy thing could come in handy. Sara's demonstrating why she's not the best person to handle parents with, "Mr. Young, your son was last seen with a young girl. We know that he rented a Wave Runner. Now that young girl is in our morgue, and we don't know where your son is." Understandably, Mr. Young looks like he's biting back the urge to say, "And you expect me to know?" Instead, he points out that Mark has a job and therefore has no reason to be out on the lake. It turns out Mark called in sick. Mr. Young understandably takes umbrage: "What are you saying -- that he killed this girl? That's ridiculous!" Nicky steps in to point out that nobody has said that. He adds, "We're just…" He looks over at Sara, and she gives him an eye-rolling you're on your own, pal look, and he asks, "When was the last time you saw Mark?" That would be yesterday morning; Mr. Young laments, "At this age, I can't keep track of him." Nicky grins, "Believe me, I understand. I've been there." He has? When was he raising kids? There's a sitcom in that: "He's a grizzled crime-scene investigator. They're kids...whose only crime is being orphaned! See what happens when Nicky takes on the five kids he finds at a crime scene -- and gets five hundred times the laughter and love he had before. You'll be following the evidence -- to a punchline!" Sara sulks some more. Mr. Young says, "Mr. Stokes, my son is not a criminal." Nicky calmly points out that nobody's saying he is. Sara mows on in with, "All we're saying is that your son had contact with the victim, and now he's missing. What we'd like to do is get a warrant to search your house." This is a bit much for Mr. Young to absorb. Nicky gives Sara a look that plainly says, Shut your gob until I finish this, and quickly adds, "But maybe we don't need one, if we could just come by the house and collect some of Mark's things. We could get a DNA sample, exclude him as a suspect?" Sara's looking distinctly put out that Nicky's had more of a rapport with Mr. Young and therefore been more successful; it must be frustrating when you're normally banking on your technical skills, and all of a sudden, your people skills are what sells the step of the case. Mr. Young invites them in with, "You can take whatever you want. Mark didn't hurt that girl." Nicky looks at Sara, but she turns her head and glowers somewhere over Mr. Young's shoulder. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, competing for a promotion ought not interfere with how they run a case together.
And now, the C-plot. You know, I thought the show had worked the urge to triple-plot an episode out of its system a few years back; I'm not loving the relapse here. Anyway, we're down in the morgue with David and Warrick. David is inviting Warrick to pinch Wesley's skin. He does, and there's no tenting, so therefore, Wesley wasn't dehydrated when he died. No dehydration in this case means no heat stroke. David adds, "Vitreous urea nitrogen and creatinine were normal. Same for sodium." I'm going to admit here that David pronounced that c-word as "cree-at-in," but it's spelled in the closed-captioning as creatinine, and creatinine itself is a breakdown product of creatine, which can be used to determine kidney function, so it makes sense from a urine-testing POV. David quickly shoots down the drugs and heart attack theories, but returns to the tiny bruise on the guy's finger. He's sectioned off the bruise under the scope; Warrick looks and comments, "The skin cells look stressed out." David tells us, "It's called nuclear streaming. It occurs when electrical current passes through tissue." So Wesley was electrocuted, but there are no burn marks because he received a low-power shock. In David's words, "The current crossed the heart. No damage to the muscle, but havoc on the rhythm. Ventricular fibrillation -- a precision clock becomes a bag of worms." We see this courtesy of the TMIcam.
Back in the B-plot, a considerably subdued Hodges is telling Sara that the substance on Sophia's hips was suntan lotion with zinc oxide and a high SPF. Sara thinks that's odd, what with the rest of Sophia being coated in a deep, even, leather-at-age-forty tan and bottle of baby oil. She theorizes that the sunscreen got on Sophia courtesy a simple dermal transfer, and we flash to Mark grabbing Sophia's hips menacingly as she walks. We then move to the green stuff in Sophia's hair; it's all algae. "Not the free-swimming kind. These are all epilithic diatoms," Hodges says. For those of you playing along at home, that means they're growing on stones (epilithic), and they're a pretty nifty kind of algae that typically grow between two overlapping silicate shells, so reproducing means dividing so that each part gets a little shell, which then serves as an outer cover for a kind of Russian doll-like method of cellular division until there's nowhere to go but meiosis and fusing gametes that divide to release new, larger diatoms. They're pretty cool little things. Sara's all, "Girl's out at the lake, she meets some random guy she knows nothing about, she goes off." Hodges responds as if coached, "She places herself in a bad situation." Sara intones, "And bad things happen. Sophia takes a header off the Wave Runner, he bails." We see that happening in flashback. It's worth noting here that Sophia is played by former American Idol contestant Ryan Starr, so there may be a few viewers getting a vicarious thrill out of the head wound.
In the scene, Sara's looking at a map of the lake and moaning, "This algae is everywhere." Nicky adds to the chorus of woe. Cue Liam with this week's handy hobby of the week clue: "I heard you guys narrowed down your search area to 44 square miles. That could take months." Sara glowers at him too. Boy, she is just not playing well with others on this case. Nicky says tartly, "I'm sure you're here to shed some light on the situation." Liam does. He asks, "Your case is a boy-girl thing, right?" The two CSIs confirm that it was. Liam makes sure the body was washed up by Windmill Cove (between Mesquite Cove and Six Miles Cove). He checks the rest of the map and says, "These two coves to the north -- Cottonwood Island and Tequila? Huge make-out spots -- but nearly impossible to get to by land." Sara snidely asks how Liam would know, and Liam replies, "A gentleman never tells." As Sara just stares at him, Liam adds, "Anyway, I thought that would be a good place to start. If you guys need an extra set of hands..." Nicky absently says that they don't. As Liam leaves, Sara's mouth puckers. Oh, whatever. Is this supposed to indicate that Nicky's one up on her in coworker relations too?
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.
C-plot. Eyes rolling back in head with boredom. Long story short: no lightning within three days, so there goes that theory. However, the melted phone leads Warrick to conclude that maybe the phone was how the current got out, not how it got in.
Cut to Warrick and Archie setting up the chair in the apartment again. Warrick carries on about how fickle electricity is; as he does, he shines the flashlight on the chair, and there's a very cool little black-and-white ghost image of poor departed Wesley. Since the current went out Wesley's right index finger and into the phone, for the current to have crossed Wesley's heart, it had to have been introduced on the left side. Archie notes that the soda can was in Wesley's left hand, so he had to have been shocked at some other point. There's another flashlight pass and Wesley's little ghost feet. Warrick sees that Wesley's bare feet touched the floor (where else were they going to go? Wesley wasn't exactly doing the padmasana pose in the Barcalounger) and follows a thin white line to the wall, where we see a somewhat melted surge protector. "Path of least resistance," he decrees.
Sara continues to build a case for Ryan as a killer as she and Nicky walk to the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake. Sara notes that it's a 50-foot drop. Nicky points at the case of Mountain Dew and solemnly explains, "They were doing the Dew. These kids were the victim of idiotic advertising." Yeaaaahhh. He actually pulls a different codger move: "When you're young, it looks like a whole lot of fun." Sara tendentiously drones, "Not for Sophia." We flash to her imagining of how this all played out: Ryan pushing a reluctant Sophia to the edge and then pushing her over. We see Sophia's splash reflected in Sara's sunglasses -- very cool -- and then Nicky punctures that scenario by pointing out, "The evidence isn't up here. It's down there." Funny how he seems to be working a different crime scene than Sara is.
Did you guys really think we were going to get through this hour without seeing how the Winslow case affected Catherine? If so -- I point and laugh in your general direction: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! She's opening up her locker; out pops the poignant pianist and his Heartstring Ditty. There are also pictures of Lindsey as a very little girl, and as a slightly older one with Catherine. Hey! Remember when Catherine had bangs? This picture does. There's also a crayoned picture of "Super Mommy" and another reading, "Do you feel guilty for neglecting your living daughter yet?" Well, maybe I made up that last one. It's just that we see so few instances where Catherine seems to be glad she has her job, or where she demonstrates any conviction that working outside the home makes her happier and therefore better able to parent her daughter; Catherine's entire character is one-woman propaganda machine for the idea that women who are working parents aren't capable of having either personal or professional satisfaction, thanks to the choices they've made.
Whoa, sorry. Reeling it on in, y'all. Catherine gets changed, and Liam pops in to tell Catherine he found a therapeutic level of cough syrup in the baby's system, no more than the recommended dosage. Catherine concludes, "Between the cough syrup and the heat, Joshua probably fell asleep and the father forgot that he was there." Liam stammers, "Maybe. I also found organophosphates -- more specifically, disulfoton." This makes Catherine take notice; Liam's taking about pesticides. She asks, "What the hell's he doing with pesticides in his system?" Suffering nervous system assaults, since that class of toxin affects acetylcholinesterase?
Catherine and Brass head on over to the Winstons' house, which is remarkably free of the friends or relatives you'd expect to see around a grieving household. Brass presents the warrant, and Catherine goes straight for the gardening supplies.
While Catherine's rummaging around a potting shed, Sara and Nicky are hip-deep in the lake. Nicky's directing the scuba team to search in a spiral pattern around the anchor chain for the Wave Runner. They'd like the swimmers to go deep.
Catherine eventually finds her organophosphates, right around the same time that the divers find Mark at the bottom of the lake.
Back in an interrogation room, Brass is asking the Winstons why they never brought up Howard. Mrs. W snits, "How dare you bring up Howard. I'm a mother in mourning. I've already buried one child, now I have to bury another. One was in God's hands, the other in the incapable hands of my husband." If she felt like this about the man who fathered her children -- and she's had plenty of time to observe him, so it's not like Mr. W's seeming incompetence is a surprise -- why on earth didn't she work around it? Or build in fail-safes? Anyway, Mrs. W's all, "Show some compassion -- I'm not the guilty one here!" No, because Mr. W is more than happy to cop to that. He argues, "I'm not a bad parent. I was negligent." Some might argue that the two are more closely related than Mr. W perceives them to be. In any event, Brass drops the news that they found pesticides in Joshua's bloodstream, so he's getting a court order to exhume Howard's body as well. Mr. W adds that he and the missus went through hell watching Howard deteriorate: "Can't you let my boy rest in peace?" "Which one?" Brass shoots back. Oh, he does not. He's all compassionate with, "I'm afraid not."
The scene begins with a focus on a tiny coffin, with a very tiny pianist tinkling a tiny little Fugue for Exhumation on top. We look at yet another CPR dummy baby on the camera screen as David explains that he's hopeful the baby was treated by a good embalmer. He adds, "The body's well-preserved. Tay-Sachs is a genetic disorder. You see the retarded musculature? Classic symptom." Catherine comments that it's a startling contrast when compared to Joshua. She uncaps a syringe and pulls a lot of fluid from the dead(er) baby, commenting, "Quite a lot of vitreous fluid left." David happily changes his assessment of the unknown mortician's work from "good embalmer" to "great embalmer."
Catherine comes out with a sample and hands it off to the waiting Liam with direction to "run this." He does -- my, but there are a lot of bubbles in whatever liquid he picks up whilst pipetting -- and after a long and silent interval filled with titration and pipetting, he comes back to tell Catherine that the only thing he can pick up from the sample is a trace of monocycline. Catherine tells us the anti-inflammatory drug is sometimes prescribed to Tay-Sachs patients because "it's the same principle as giving marijuana to glaucoma patients. It doesn't cure the sight problems, it just buys you time." Liam offers, "Maybe the Winstons didn't want Howard to suffer." Catherine asks, "They don't kill their first child who's dying. Why kill their second child who's healthy?"
When we get back, Catherine and the Pianist of Pathos have gone to the pediatrician. The good doctor calls on his extensive medical training and knowledge of Punnett squares to explain how two people who carry Tay-Sachs have a one-in-four chance of having a child with the disease. Catherine points out, "Joshua dodged the bullet." The doctor says, "We tested Vickie early in the second trimester. The results came back negative." The pianist takes a break, and then Catherine asks if the doctor had seen Joshua recently, so the pianist begins Etude for a Medical Misdiagnosis: Vickie had called in a panic and said something was wrong, they brought in the baby, and he seemed to exhibit a lot of the early symptoms of Tay-Sachs, such as floppiness and poor head control. As the doctor says, "When they brought him in, it was Howard all over again. My only conclusion was that the fetal test was a false negative." Catherine asks about the odds; they're under one percent. The doctor mentions that he sent out an enzyme test to confirm the Tay-Sachs diagnosis, but the results aren't back yet. You all know where this is going, right?
Meanwhile, in the B-plot, we find out that Mark drowned; he had no other injuries, save for a ruptured tympanic membrane. Ouch. Sara and the TMIcam lean in for a closer look, and she notes that the tear is red and ragged. David explains, "Ante-mortem injury. In water, burst eardrums typically result from rapid descent. Sudden changes in pressure without equalizing." We see a flashback where Mark pushes Sophia off the cliff and she dives toward the water. Nicky narrates, "She went in first and he jumped in after her." And then, presumably, he went looking for Sophia when she failed to pop up like a cork. His eardrum went, and he drowned in the deep water. Nicky concludes, "This was an accident, Sara. He was trying to save her." Sara snots, "That's a great theory, but we can't prove that." We can't prove he shoved her off a cliff with killer intent either, Sara. Nicky points out, "Twenty-six feet under with a busted eardrum? If not to save her, why dive that deep?" Sara's got no good answer for that, but she decides that the case is over. "Almost over," corrects Nicky.
The C-plot marches towards its finish line. Warrick explains to Gil -- who, by the way, sure did a whole lot of nothing after he excused himself from the baby case -- that the mineral strip from the chair to the burnt-out power strip indicates a steady water path. The water also hit the cookie sheet and the magazine. Warrick produces a wrapping that formerly graced a block of ice, and it's all clear what happened: Wesley had the block of ice on the crumby cookie sheet, with the fan propped up behind it to blow the evaporating water in his general direction. The water hit the floor, went to the power strip, and completed the circuit, thus electrocuting Wesley. Gil comments, "Inventive." Warrick says of poor dumb Wesley, "Guy was just trying to stay cool." And assuming he died in a state of grace, he will be staying cool.
The weather channel jackdaws have ceased chattering, but Sara's still glaring like it's 108 degrees. She walks in on Nick explaining to Mr. Young that he thinks Mark died while trying to save Sophia. Mr. Young thanks Nicky and shakes his hand; Nicky says politely if inappropriately, "It's my pleasure." Sara comes over and, after pretending to be happy to see him for a moment, asks, "What are you doing? What did you tell him -- his son died a hero?" Not necessarily -- just that it was a plausible working hypothesis. Nicky says, "Look, I'm just trying to give the guy a little peace." Sara whistles for her high horse, then mounts it while she says, "Who are you trying to help feel better -- him or you?" Well, Sara, who are you projecting your insecurities about your people skills on -- him or you? Nicky asks Sara to put herself in Mr. Young's shoes. She replies, "If the evidence doesn't support the answer, a CSI shouldn't be asking the question." She and her high horse then canter on down the hall. Nicky wanders off. Normally, I'm all, "Go, Sara!" but this just...the evidence didn't support her theory from start to finish (speaking of evidence: why was there only the sunscreen on one small part of Sophia's body? If there was dermal contact, wouldn't there be more? Or was the sex weirdly untactile?), so she's all over Nick's theory as a rebuttal? I'd argue that the evidence leads more easily to his conclusion, and yet because there was no signed statement on a rock -- "I am going to rescue this girl" -- it's somehow a less valid hypothesis than "he preyed on a woman and pushed her off a cliff"? Oh, whatever.
Catherine stands in a room and looks at giant carbon-based molecules for a while. Maybe it's performance art.
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.
Mrs. W pulls out one more moral-high-ground card and tells Catherine, "You have no idea what it's like to watch your child die." Catherine should shoot back, "You have no idea how many children I've seen dead," but she does not. Anyway, Paul whimpers, "We couldn't go through it again." Well, at least you didn't have to watch it this time, you coward. Also, nice how you and the wife are all, "We can't suffer anymore, we can't handle it," as opposed to making the argument that you're trying to spare your son a short and painful life. It's all about you, isn't it?
Catherine then drives home the final ironic twist. Raise your hand if you saw this coming: "The shame of it is, you didn't have to. The enzyme test that Dr. Garner ran came back negative. Joshua didn't have Tay-Sachs. You killed a perfectly healthy baby." Now Vickie reacts, shaking her head back and forth.
And now, the cloying conclusion. Oh, my God! Catherine left Gil in the car! He's dead!
I kid. Catherine hops into one of the CSImobiles, turns on the inside temperature, and watches it rise from 135 degrees on up. The pianist, fingers sliding off the keyboard from sweat, is in there with her, pounding away. And we're done with this episode.