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It's an average summer afternoon in Las Vegas, Nevada. The sunshine pours down incessantly and the SUV's air conditioning can barely keep up. The vehicle carries its occupants from the city's heart to its outskirts then beyond, into the desert. The sun's rays reflect against the fiery sandstone, giving everything in sight an orangish-red glow and the road ahead glimmers with the illusion of standing water.
It's an average summer afternoon, which means Greg Sanders and Sara Sidle should be asleep. Instead, they're being 'team players' and picking up a case for the crime lab's overwhelmed dayshift. In reality, it's an unfortunate case of wrong place, wrong time when earlier the pair ran into Ecklie at the end of their scheduled shift.
"You on overtime, too?" Greg asks, looking to the driver's seat.
His partner only arches an eyebrow. Of course she's on overtime. She was on overtime two days ago.
Squinting through his sunglasses at the Martian-esque landscape, Greg swipes at the sweat collecting on his brow. Sara looks abundantly better than he feels. Not that this is new, but she doesn't seem to be sweating and appears well-rested. Although not cheerful, she's at least eager to get started on the scene. Greg, on the other hand, is tired and hot and hungry and grumpy. Did he mention tired? He can't recall a time lately that he hasn't been tired.
The drive is relatively short and they soon turn into a parking area that has been cordoned off by several police and park officers. Greg opens the door and groans when the true temperature outside blankets him. He retrieves his kit and trudges along behind Sara, who is already greeting an officer and asking for details.
"A hiker found the body about two hours ago. She's located about a half mile from the start of the trail. Checked for a pulse and when he didn't find one called 9-1-1."
"It's rare to find cell service out here," Greg notes.
"Must've gotten lucky. We brought him down to the station for an interview, but I think he's telling the truth. Looks like heatstroke to me. Tourists make a habit of ignoring the signs," the officer says, pointing to one nearby that clearly states hikers should be carrying water.
Greg looks at the kit at his side. He normally keeps a water bottle in it for cases like this but can't remember if he's filled it recently.
Oh well. The case sounds straightforward, and they should be on their way back to the lab in no time.
They make the trek to the scene and by the time they arrive, Greg is quite literally drenched in sweat. He pinches his shirt, pulls it from his sticky skin, and flags it to allow air to cool him. The investigators find the assistant coroner, David Phillips, squatting next to a woman's body. A patrolman stands nearby looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. An ATV hitched to a long cart is parked next to the path, ready to transport the body back to the parking lot.
"Hey guys! You're late," David greets good-naturedly when he sees them. He acts more cheerful than he should, considering these are extra hours for him as well. "Name's Jessica Tredway. Tennessee drivers' license says she's nineteen years old. No signs of trauma so far. Body's not older than a couple of hours. Definitely wasn't carrying water—she's basically a raisin."
The woman is wearing jean shorts, a purple tank top, and tennis shoes. She lays facedown just off of the trail, mostly shaded by an old juniper tree. A sun visor lays a few feet from her head near the trunk of the tree, and sunglasses near her right hand. Sara snaps some pictures and Greg crouches to study the woman's shoes.
There are scuff marks in the sand behind her and he envisions her staggering from the path before collapsing. This would be consistent with heat stroke. Sara continues to take pictures and makes small-talk with David while Greg stands and wanders further up the path. He stares at the ground, stepping carefully.
Sara notices he's gone a few moments later. "Greg?" she shouts.
"You haven't learned to keep him on a leash yet?" David grins and points. "I think he went that way."
Sara makes her way down the path, avoiding the shoeprints there by walking to the side. In many places the path narrows, rocks jutting out on either side along with yellowing vegetation, and it takes effort to avoid contaminating any possible evidence. After some time she rounds a corner to find the path widen again, and sees Greg squatting near something on the ground, head in his palms.
"You okay?"
He jumps at her question, stands too quickly, and his vision blacks out. He squeezes his eyes shut and thankfully a moment later when he opens them his sight has returned.
"I found this." He points to the ground and she sees a water bottle laying on its side. "Also, I think Miss Tredway had company…at least, up until this point."
"What makes you say that?" Sara crouches now and snaps some pictures of the bottle. Around an eight of its contents remain, and its cap lays inches away.
While he waits for Sara to finish her photos, Greg opens his kit. He rolls his eyes after spotting his own empty water bottle. Good thing he doesn't feel all that thirsty right now. He pulls on gloves and again wipes sweat from his face with his forearm, glancing up and down the path.
"I've been backtracking her shoe prints up to this point, but right around here another pair fades in just next to hers. Looks like men's size eleven. Her hiking buddy left the path here," he points again, then gestures into the foliage bordering the path, "and never rejoined her."
"Unless he did," suggests Sara, looking back the way they came. "What if the hiker that found her knows more than he's letting on?"
Greg kneels by the bottle and picks it up lightly between with two fingers. He holds it up to the sun, looking closely for fingerprints. "There's a few hopefuls on here. Phew, smell that?"
When he holds the bottle closer to Sara, she wafts the opening and grimaces. "What looks like water but does the opposite of hydrating you?"
He takes another whiff. "If it's vodka, I don't think it's pure. Smells watered down. Maybe melted ice?"
"Who drinks vodka on the rocks on a hike in triple-degree weather?"
"More hydrating than neat, I guess. Anyway, I doubt it would be the first time. I mean, we're in Vegas."
Sara shrugs. She watches as Greg dumps the contents of the bottle into a water-proof container, then deposits the bottle and its cap into their own evidence bags and works on labeling everything. She looks further up the path and spots something glimmering back at her. It could be a mirage, but she heads to check it out after taking a swig of her own water.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Greg is panting when he catches up to her, both of their kits in hand.
She continues toward the item, which turns out to be another disposable water bottle, this one capped and completely empty.
"She was really knocking them back," he comments, setting their kits down.
Sara takes more pictures, then looks around thoughtfully. "Suppose you're on a hike in this heat. You're carrying a few bottles of water to keep you hydrated, but every bit you drink only dries you out more."
"Are you suggesting she didn't know she was drinking alcohol?" Greg asks disbelievingly, squinting because sweat has entered his eyes. He awkwardly tries to dry them with his sleeve but it isn't long enough.
"Maybe." She sighs and approaches him, pulling a tissue from a packet in her pocket. "Here," she offers, holding it up to his face since she is ungloved. He hesitates briefly before gratefully wiping his eyes on it.
"Thanks. The problem with your theory is that I have to know I'm drinking alcohol. That stuff wreaks like bottom-shelf, and I'm guessing it doesn't taste any better."
"True," Sara frowns. "I just can't imagine someone guzzling booze at that rate thinking it was a good idea. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"Yeah, just really hot."
"Do you have water?"
"In my kit," he lies.
"Well, drink it. You're soaked in sweat, and it's not getting any cooler out here." Sara starts to walk down the path again, this time carrying her own kit, and Greg is forced to rush through collecting this bottle and gathering his things to catch up with her.
He knows he could just tell her the truth, that he forgot to bring water. She probably even has extra that she would give him. But he doesn't want to admit he wasn't prepared. He feels a constant pressure to keep up with the other investigators; to be better at his job today than he was yesterday, and the last thing he needs is for Sara to be disappointed in him.
He looks up and sees she has lengthened the gap between them and is now several yards ahead. He stops and looks back, longing for the air conditioning of the SUV.
'I'll be fine,' he reassures himself. The scene shouldn't take much longer and hopefully soon he will be at home in his bed, where he belongs at this hour.
"Over here!"
Sara's voice draws his attention and he turns too quickly. He stumbles when his vision spins then cuts completely to black, and the next thing he knows someone is shaking his shoulders and yelling. He has a headache bigger than the sandstone boulders nearby and his stomach is turning. His limbs are weak and cold but the surface beneath him feels like it's searing through the skin of his back.
He's shaken again and weakly pushes the hands away. He tries to tell his harasser that they're making things worse, but all that comes out is a feeble moan following by a fit of dry coughing. His throat and mouth are parched and his lungs can't keep up with his need for air.
"Somebody call the medics!" he hears Sara shout.
Why does she need medics? Is she hurt? Has she found another fallen hiker?
"Help me get him to the shade!"
Two arms hook under his and Greg's body is lifted from the hot ground. He can't support his own head but a hand scoops under it and holds it up.
"Here, lean him against this."
He's lowered again. This time the ground is cool and his back rests against a vertical, scratchy surface. Two soft hands cup his face and pat his cheeks.
"Greg, could you look at me? Please?"
Her voice has a slight tremble to it and the concern prompts him to crack open his eyes. Sara's face becomes visible although the world beyond it still spins.
"Here, have some," she prompts, and the rim of a bottle touches his lips. He opens his mouth and drinks until he coughs, but still tries to follow the bottle when it is pulled away.
A hand on his chest pushes him back against the rough surface as he continues to choke. Fingers travel to his shoulder and pat reassuringly. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to open his eyes wider. Sara is still there and the world has slowed its orbit.
"What…?" he mutters.
"I think you've got heat stroke," David's voice informs him, and Greg turns his head groggily to see the coroner crouching next to Sara. "Haven't you had water lately?"
Sara shakes her head, frowning, and addresses David. "No, he hasn't. I just tried to find the water in his kit that he told me about and the bottle was bone dry."
"You've really got to keep hydrated out here, Greg," David condones.
Greg normally likes David, but right now he wants to tell him to go away because technically he's a coroner and Greg isn't dead. As much as he might feel that way. He tries to sit up but is stopped again by Sara's hand.
"Stay here a while. Medics are on the way."
Greg groans. "No. Don't need medics."
"They're already heading over so you might as well get checked out."
An officer approaches and hands a cloth to Sara. She presses it to his forehead and it's cool and feels amazing. He closes his eyes and focuses on trying to still his rotating vision. His stomach turns again and he's grateful he hasn't eaten lately.
"He should be perking up by now," David's voice cuts into Greg's thoughts. "He's had some water and he's in the shade."
"When was the last time you ate?" Sara prompts.
The question is harder than it should be. He doesn't remember the last time he ate, but it has been a while. He shrugs and the movement makes him sicker.
The world becomes a blur of colors and shadows. He hears worried voices surrounding him but is unable to respond. In another minute he is laid out onto his back and lifted through the air, and the nausea becomes too much and bile rises in his throat. Someone helps him to his side and he vomits.
He has enough time to hope he didn't throw up on anyone before he's pulled back under, where he is blissfully unaware of any worries or discomforts.
Greg shivers in his sleep, and Sara pulls the blanket to his chin. She thumbs his cheek lightly and sighs, settling back into her seat. Her mind is stuck in a place between worry and anger, but as she watches her friend sleep fitfully the scales are tipping toward worry.
'…dehydration, inadequate sleep and nutrition …' the doctor had told her. All contributed to Greg's heatstroke and subsequent shock.
If he was doing so poorly, why wouldn't he talk to someone?
A soft snore turns into a cough, waking Greg. His throat is sore and his head still hurts. He wants to return to sleep because awake he feels absolutely miserable. Where is he? How did he end up here?
A warm touch on his hand, and Greg turns his head and opens his eyes.
"Sara?"
His voice cracks. She smiles and disappears briefly from sight. When she returns, she has a cup of water in her hand and helps him sit up so he can drink.
"What happened?" he asks when the cup is empty.
"You gave us a scare at the scene yesterday. Also, count on getting a lot of water bottles as gifts next Christmas."
"Huh?"
"Your doctor told me a lot of things, but the gist of it was that you need to take better care of yourself," Sara explains gently.
"Hmm," Greg says simply. "What about the case?"
Sara takes the cup from him and places it on a tray near his bed. "The shoeprints you found matched the shoes of the hiker who found Jessica Tredway."
"So he lied."
"Yeah, he did. Speaking of the case, I can't stay long. I just wanted to stop by and see how you're doing before heading to the interrogation."
"Of the hiker? I'm going with you." Greg starts to push himself up but Sara quickly goes to him and presses down on his shoulders.
"Oh, no you're not. You're not leaving here for at least another few hours."
He rolls his eyes. He has a tiny smile on his face but is starting to become annoyed. "Sara! I'm alright. I've been here all night and I feel fine."
Sara crosses her arms and backs up a few steps, clearly not happy with his decision. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits on the edge. He instantly regrets not moving slower because the world wobbles and he nearly tips over.
"Yeah, you're in great shape."
"Hush," he says quietly, steadying himself with a hand on the bed. After a moment, he is able to pull himself up. The head rush this time is not as intense, and he becomes hopeful.
"Is your plan to just walk off your IV catheter?" she asks sarcastically.
Greg's eyes find the line taped into his arm and follow it to the machine pumping fluids into him. He sighs and sits heavily back onto the bed. He presses the call button, glaring at Sara as she smiles sweetly.
"I'm going to show you a picture, and I need you to tell us if you've ever met this person."
Charles Stanson, the hiker that reported finding Tredway's body, has already been questioned by police twice: yesterday at the scene, and then a few hours later at the police station. Now, the following afternoon, he finds himself back at the station. This time he's in a much smaller and less decorated room, and Sara, Greg, and Captain Brass sit across from him.
"Fine," he grunts.
Stanson is in his mid-twenties and about to start his last year at the university. He's very tall with bleach-blonde hair and a tan that proves he spends a lot of time outdoors. Brass slides an enlarged copy of Jessica Tredway's DMV picture across the table for him to examine.
"Why are you asking me this again? That's the dead girl I found yesterday on my hike. I told you I've never met her before."
"We have evidence that you walked next to her at some point before the end of her hike," Greg puts in. His fingers are clasped in front of him to hide the trembling. He still feels weak, but confident in his ability to hold it together during the interrogation.
"You're lying. When I found her, she wasn't doing any walking."
Greg leans forward with pictures of two ink shoeprints. "Mr. Stanson, the bottoms of the shoes you wore yesterday match prints we found next to Jessica's, to the last detail."
"Now why would you lie to us about something like that?" Sara asks, leaning forward as well.
Stanson's eyes darken substantially. "All that proves is that we walked the same path."
"This was further up the path, past where you said you found her body," Greg clarifies. "According to your story we shouldn't have found your shoeprints there. There are also ways to tell, just by the pattern and tilt of the prints, if two people were interacting as they walked."
With a heavy sigh, Stanson leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "It was supposed to be a joke. All these sightseers and tourists come here, and they have no understanding; no respect for the desert. She wasn't that far from the trailhead. There's no reason she shouldn't have made it."
Sensing Stanson isn't finished, the investigators exchange glances but remain silent.
"It's not the first time. I've done it before. I have classmates that do it."
"Do what?" Brass finally prods.
"The goal is to teach a lesson and get some action. You find a hot hiker, preferably someone from out-of-town that is unprepared," Stanson explains. "You set yourself up to 'run into' her on her hike, and just happen to notice she's out of water. Being the gentleman you are, you lend her a few of your waters. Only these 'waters' are actually fifty percent vodka.
"It seems crazy, but if someone's thirsty enough they'll drink almost anything without question. You veer off the path, and follow her until she's tipsy. Then, you can jump out again and play hero, escorting her to your airconditioned car and 'hosting' her until she feels better."
"So you're admitting to getting women drunk without their knowledge, then taking advantage of them?" Sara asks, her anger barely restrained.
"Yeah, and that's all I'm admitting to," Stanson snaps. "No one ever died before."
"Until now."
"I had nothing to do with that. No one ever died before," Stanson repeats defensively.
"This time, someone did. And that is one-hundred percent on you," Greg says.
Lips curling into a sly grin, Stanson glares at Greg for some time before shrugging lazily. "She should have brought her own water."
Greg grimaces. "What made you call the police?"
"The rest of it might not have gone according to plan, but I still had a chance to play the hero."
Brass stands and signals for Stanson to stand as well. "Charles Stanson, you're under arrest for the murder of Jessica Tredway. You have the right to remain silent…"
Brass handcuffs and takes him away. Sara and Greg watch from the doorway as the young man is led toward booking.
"Feel better now?" Sara questions, referring to the fact that Greg was able to participate in the interrogation.
"It feels like I should," he answers, "but I don't. In a few years he'll be back out. Where's the justice? For Jessica and for all of the other women he's done this to."
"We don't know how long he'll get put away. And justice? Justice isn't our job. Our job is finding the truth, and we did that."
Greg smiles sadly and turns to face her. Leaning against the doorframe he looks paler than before.
She places a hand on his upper arm. "Tonight is your night off, and it's still early. Any fun plans?"
He shrugs one shoulder and there is a soft 'thump' when he rests the back of his head on the doorframe. "Fun? No. But I think I could sleep about a million years."
"I think a nap sounds like a great idea," Sara agrees. She tugs his hand lightly until he follows her towards the station's exit.
"Is that an invitation?" he asks slyly.
"The doctor did say that you might have a mild concussion from when you fell. You probably shouldn't be alone." She turns long enough to wink at him, and they continue through the double doors and into the blinding sun.
It's just another average summer afternoon in Las Vegas, Nevada, but to Greg Sanders it feels like a second chance.