Skin & Bone

Living within the round-the-clock hustle that was Las Vegas, it was easy to forget that the middle of nowhere lay just an hour away in almost any direction. The abandoned Borax mine of I-15 wasn't quite that, but the desert twenty miles southeast of it certainly was. In the shadow of the aptly named Dead Mountains amidst scrubby patches of grass and random jutting boulders, Nick Stokes parked his Tahoe well away from the small group of people gathered in a loose circle, not wanting to coat them with a cloud of dust.

With no indication of what equipment would be needed, Nick decided to stick with the basics, slinging his camera around his neck and grabbing his kit before striding over to join the group. The morning sun hadn't quite burnt off the chill of the previous night and Nick was grateful for the brisk air that invigorated him for what looked like it could be a very tiring double.

The first person he met up with was Jim Brass, but the man was yelling into his cell phone, obviously dealing with a bad connection, so Nick walked past with nothing more than an amused lift of his brows to which Brass responded with a long-suffering eye roll. Gil Grissom was standing with three other people around an empty pit that was large enough to hold one, possibly two, bodies. It was at least three feet deep, surprising considering the desert's hard-packed soil, and was barely five feet by two. A uniformed officer was stringing the area with yellow tape and the pit had been condoned off by twine wound around short posts at each corner.

"Hey," he said to Grissom and nodded politely to the other three people present, none of whom looked much older than thirty. "What've we got?"

"We have two partially mummified bodies on their way to our morgue from the WLVU archaeological department."

Nick frowned. This was definitely going to be one of those strange cases. "Oh-kay..."

"We also have two DBs found on a construction site in Seven Hills," Brass added, joining them on Nick's opposite side. "Covered in bugs."

Grissom lifted his chin slightly, his attention caught by the announcement. Then he looked back down at the pit, obviously torn. "Tell them I'm on my way," he told Brass before turning to Nick. "I need you to start working this scene. Warrick will be out to join you when he's finished in court."

Nick blinked. All he had was a hole and no bodies. "Do we know what this is? Was? Body dump?"

"This is Ms. Ponds," Grissom indicated a tall, slender women with her blond hair in two braids. "She'll be able to explain the situation as well as I could." He patted Nick on the shoulder, "They all need to be interviewed." Before Nick could object, he started off for his own Tahoe.

Jim gave Nick a "whaddya gonna do?" shrug, and followed.

With a sigh, Nick set his kit down, feeling a little off-balance, but not too surprised. If an empty pit was up against two bodies covered in bugs, there was really no question which scene was going to take precedence with Grissom. He briefly wondered if getting stuck with a lot of grunt work was Grissom's way of letting him know he didn't get the promotion, but moments later decided it didn't matter, he still had a scene to process.

A quick glance behind the trio of twenty-somethings cleared up many of Nick's questions. He introduced himself, then nodded to the blonde. "You were in charge of the dig, Ms. Ponds?"

"Louisa," she corrected with a quick smile. "Dr. Bellemey is actually overseeing, but I'm in charge of the dig. I was working it with--oh," she indicated the people beside her as though she suddenly remembered they were there. "This is Javier Ora," she indicated a stocky, round-faced man. "And Kit Eagin," a thin young woman with her dark hair cut short.

"Hi," Nick said with a smile and a nod for each of them. "Where's Dr. Bellemey?"

"He's helping move the skeletons to your morgue," Kit supplied.

"Okay," Nick began focusing on what he really needed to know. "Now, why did you choose this spot? What were the indications you would find a skeleton?"

All three protested immediately. "We didn't know there was a skeleton."

"We weren't looking for one."

"Louisa flipped when we found a femur."

This last from Javier earned him Louisa's evil eye before she smiled at Nick again. "This was supposed to be my senior thesis. I was hoping to excavate near the old Borax mine, but couldn't get permission. This land is owned by the county and it's easy to get access, so when my cousin mentioned finding arrowheads out here--he was off-roading--I decided to check it. I also found some pottery shards that were definitely not modern, so I got permission and set up the dig."

"We expected to find an old Paiute campsite, maybe," Kit chimed in.

"Okay," Nick looked at the empty pit again while he considered this. "And what exactly did you find that made you contact the police?"

"It wasn't until we were removing the second skeleton," Louisa explained. "It was partially under the first--that we found the bullet hole in the skull. And it wasn't until we got it back to the university that we removed the bullet and found out it was a kind manufactured just before World War II. That's when we called the police."

"Because a criminal investigation is required in any homicide less than a hundred years old," Nick finished.

"In this case, I'd say it's in the last sixty or seventy years."

She seemed determined to impress, so Nick hid his smile--he could even relate a little. He looked down at the pit again. "Looks like you've already processed my crime scene for me."

Kit and Javier smiled, but Louisa laughed as though he'd said something particularly witty and pointed toward an old but well-maintained van. "Everything we've found is catalogued over there," she said, indicating several covered wooden trays on the ground beside it.

"Okay," Nick glanced around. "I'm going to ask you to stick around for a while yet, but I'll try to have you on your way within the hour. If you wouldn't mind just waiting in your vehicle?"

Kit and Javier seemed content with that and immediately headed for the van. Louisa remained where she was. "Not everything we've recovered is from the twentieth century. Will I be able to get those artifacts back?"

"Anything that's not related to the case I'll try to have back to you as soon as I can," Nick promised. Then the woman's situation occurred to him. "Do you think you'll have enough to build a thesis?"

"I might," Louisa replied. "If I discuss the finding of a modern crime scene, it could be quite original. I could interview you a few times about the crime scene aspect to gain some background," she added with a tilt of her head and another smile.

Oh. She was flirting with him. Nick hadn't been certain at first, but now there was no doubt. After the disaster with Kristy Hopkins, he'd trained himself not to react to women he met on his cases, whether they were suspects, victims or witnesses and was usually quite successful. Warrick often told him that was a little extreme, but Nick wasn't going to take any chances. If, in fact, it required barely any effort on his part not to respond to women, that was nobody's business but his own.

"I'd have to clear something like that with my supervisor," he told her, keeping his tone one of friendly professionalism. "Information would only be allowed after we've ascertained the case has been thoroughly investigated."

Much to Nick's relief, Louisa accepted his mild rebuff with a good-natured shrug. "I guess I'll start looking around for a new project, then," she said and walked away to join her fellow students.

Nick turned his attention to his crime scene, focusing his camera and stepping carefully around the rectangular pit, snapping pictures. He knew he didn't need quite as many shots as usual since this was obviously not the original scene, but he wanted to be thorough. As he crouched down to get a different angle, several long ridges in the soil on the opposite side of the pit caught his eye. Lowering the camera, he leaned back slightly, then backed up a few steps and crouched lower, studying the pattern and spacing. Running parallel to the long side of the pit, the ridges were about a foot and a half apart and there was some definite sinkage between them. Another few steps and another angle revealed the pattern repeating itself several times over, side by side.

Glancing over at the uniform on duty, Nick saw she was leaning against her patrol car, doing her job by keeping an eye on the scene, but looking utterly bored with the situation. Some officers would have been curious and interested in the actual scene, but obviously not this one. Nick didn't bother mentioning his suspicions to her. He briefly considered asking the students if they'd noticed, but another survey of the sunken areas convinced him it wasn't necessary.

After snapping another handful of photos, he returned to the Tahoe, dialing Warrick's number as he went. "Hey, Rick," he said when he got his friend's voicemail. "I'm at that scene southeast of the old Borax mine." He began rooting one-handed through the back of the truck and quickly found the metal probe he wanted. The metal detector caught his eye and he hauled it out as well. "Before you drive out here, see if you can get a hold of a GPR unit. Unless I'm seein' things, we've got more than one grave."

As it turned out, he hadn't been seeing things. Within two weeks, Louisa Ponds' senior thesis had become a mass grave that was keeping all three CSI shifts busy. Graveyard--appropriately enough--still had the lead on it and with Grissom's approval, Nick began splitting most of his shifts so he could be out at the scene during daylight hours. Several times a week, Grissom and Warrick would be there as well, but for the most part, the case was left in Nick's hands. However, Grissom was still keeping track of how it was--or wasn't--progressing. So at the end of the second week, he asked Nick and Warrick to meet him in his office to discuss everything that they knew.

"All right," Grissom started off with a sigh. Nick wasn't surprised, discussing this case was depressing in every way. "What are our latest totals?"

"Uh..." Nick hesitated, not because he didn't know, but because he hated going over these numbers. "We know there are 16 victims for sure. The breakdowns...ten skeletons in their entirety, six are partial. Of those that can be determined four are Caucasian, three are Asian, three are Latino, one is Native American and one African-American. The other four can't be determined." He tried unsuccessfully to stifle his own sigh as he continued with the sad tally. "The ages for those four also can't be determined. The rest are all between the ages of approximately nine and sixteen. They died and were buried at various times, but all within the same ten-year period, about 60-70 years ago."

All three men fell silent after the tally. Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "And we're certain they're all homicides?"

"Doc Robbins was able to determine COD for 13 of 16 vics," Nick continued. "All of them were homicides." He flipped through his folder, "I have those breakdowns, too..."

"Just tell me if there's any that stand out."

"That's easy. Of the 13, at least nine were either crushed or beaten to death."

"I just got off the phone with Curtis from days before I came in here," Warrick added. "She said it looks like they just uncovered least two more vics today."

"And now the bad news," Grissom dead-panned, making Warrick and Nick exchange humorless smiles. "I've been told by both Director Cavallo and Sheriff Atwater that days and swing will only be working on this case one more week, and after that it we're on our own. No overtime will be allowed for it."

Nick saw his own shock reflected in Warrick's expression. "You gotta be kidding me," Warrick said blankly.

"We still haven't figured out how much of an area there is to search," Nick protested. "Most of them were concentrated in those 50 square feet, but three of the bodies were found twenty feet away and--"

"I know, Nick," Grissom said.

"Three weeks," Nick felt his lip curl. "We uncovered what is basically a mass grave and they want to close the case after three weeks."

"With little chance of actually identifying a suspect and even less of bringing charges, the DA is just not interested," Grissom's expression indicated what he thought of that. "According to Sheriff Atwater, the county can't afford to expend resources and manpower on a case that isn't going anywhere."

"Sixteen kids were murdered," Nick said through clenched teeth. "If there's even a chance to find out who did it--"

"Nick," Grissom interrupted him again, not angry but firm. "I know there isn't enough evidence to confirm motive or suspect, but just going by the victims--most of them minorities, their ages--what does that indicate to you?"

"Child labor," Nick replied. "Probably in the mines."

"Very likely," Grissom agreed. "That's also what the DA and the Sheriff believe. With all the nearby mines having been closed for more than fifty years, the chances of finding the companies or parties responsible would be next to impossible."

Warrick nodded slowly, "And Atwater doesn't want too much focus on the bad old days of Nevada."

"Oh, that's--" Nick stopped himself before his temper got away. Going on about how disgusting he found such reasoning was pointless, because he knew Grissom and Warrick already felt the same way. He also knew that in the long run, it wouldn't change a thing. "Anymore bad news?" he asked, resigned.

"Unfortunately," Grissom put his glasses back on. "The land north and east of the site doesn't belong to the county, but to one Barrett Sampson, and he has refused to allow us on his land. I'm sure you've seen the barbed wire fence to the east, but there's no actual boundary marker to the north." He handed them each copies of a map. "This shows the property lines--we are not allowed to investigate past them. Days will be putting markers up so there's no mistake."

Nick looked over the map, then studied it more carefully, unable to believe what he was seeing. The land boundary wasn't much more than 200 feet north of the original grave, and although they hadn't excavated the area yet, there were sunken areas that suggested more burials. "Why won't he allow it?"

"Sampson? He didn't give a reason." Nick knew he must have let his suspicions show, because Grissom added--"He doesn't need to. He's only owned the land for the past twenty years."

"What about a warrant?" Warrick asked.

Grissom shook his head. "Other than the bodies, we've found two bullets, a handful of old coins and some equally old clothing."

"And that's not enough?"

"Apparently not in a case this old," Grissom shook his head. "Look, we'll meet out there next week to see where we are. Nick, you can split the rest of your shifts until then. After that, you can continue working it, but not at the expense of the rest of your caseload."

More than anything, Nick wanted to make another argument about why this was so wrong, but instead, he kept himself to a single question. "Am I approved for any doubles for the next week?" He felt Warrick's eyes on him and Grissom was looking at him over the tops of his glasses.

"I can get you approval for two extra shifts on this case," Grissom finally said. "If you turn up anything probative, let me know. If there's something exceptional, the DA might change his mind."

Although tempted to push for more overtime, Nick knew he would only piss Grissom off. Instead, straightened all the papers in his folder and stood up. "That's everything?"

Grissom nodded.

"Okay. Thanks," Nick said, knowing Grissom had probably already done some arguing with the DA about this case. He left the office and started for the locker room, intending to head straight out to the scene.

Warrick fell into step beside him. "Nick..."

"Don't, man," Nick sighed.

"Are you going out there now?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna get changed and check what sort of progress they're making."

"Want some help?"

Nick blinked. He'd been half-expecting a lecture, "You?"

"No, Ecklie," Warrick snorted.

Nick chuckled as he opened his locker. He had several old t-shirts on hand for working the case, because it was just too damn hot to bother with coveralls.

"Nicky," Warrick began again, and Nick knew he was honestly concerned if he was calling him that. "I want justice for those poor kids, too, but we've got to be realistic about it. There's always a chance we could find out who is responsible, but it would take one hell of a break in the case. I just don't want you letting it get to you."

"I know, Warrick," Nick said. "But it is our job."

"It is," Warrick agreed, unbuttoning his shirt. "But Nick, don't let this take you away from cases where you can get justice for the victim. They need your help, too."

It figured Warrick would know just what to say to make an impact. "I know, Rick. But I've got one week left."

"And I'm gonna work the hell out of that week with you," Warrick agreed, stripping off his shirt and hanging it in his locker. "And although I know it isn't how you operate, pissing off Cavallo when you've put in for a promotion isn't a good idea. So if you do keep poking around afterward, keep quiet about it."

Warrick's last warning didn't quite register, because Nick was thoroughly distracted by the bare, muscular torso as Warrick rooted through his locker for another shirt. He'd seen Warrick shirtless plenty of times--the man seemed to be something of an exhibitionist--but every now and then, the impact of it hit him anew. Almost immediately, he looked away, disgusted with himself for ogling his friend. His straight friend.

"Hey."

Startled, Nick looked up to find Warrick with a sleeveless tee on.

"Get a move on," Warrick teased, bumping Nick with his shoulder as he passed. "You just lost yourself the driver's seat."

With a wry smile, Nick pulled on a t-shirt and hurried after him.

During the next week, two full bodies and the bones of three more were uncovered, along with more coins and clothing from the late 1930s. None of it was enough to change the DA's mind.

The site was deserted when Grissom, Warrick and Nick arrived. Boundary markers and crime scene tape were still up and would remain for several more days.

"What exactly are we supposed to find in a few hours that will crack this case?"

Both Grissom and Warrick looked at him in surprise, and Nick knew he sounded bitter. He couldn't help it, though. He was frustrated and exhausted by the case and for the past several days often found himself wanting to shred the entire file and forget the whole thing. That, in turn, would make him feel guilty. Warrick was watching him with concern, and Grissom didn't comment which made him want to crawl under one of the rocks that surrounded them.

"I brought three soil probes," Grissom explained as Warrick opened the back of the Tahoe. "I've also marked grids for each of us to work," he handed them each a copy of a map, marked off and labeled. "Take a soil sample from each square and well have them processed for human remains."

Nick studied the map. "This is a couple hundred samples each." Grissom gave him one of those looks, so he hastened to explain. "I don't have a problem with it, but Hodges is going to freak."

"Let him," Grissom replied shortly.

"Well," Warrick shrugged. "It won't be that bad. Hell, it's not like Gris can make them all top priority."

"I might," Grissom remarked absently.

Nick exchanged an amused grin with Warrick. Grissom's disdain for the trace tech was well known. Nick would have agreed at one time, but Hodges had lowered his level of brown-nosing and Nick found him easy to tolerate now. Apparently, Grissom didn't.

Gathering up his map, some markers, one of the soil probes and a case full of sample jars, Nick got to work. It was repetitive and uninteresting, but Nick kept his eyes open for any other signs of graves--he didn't notice any--and kept his mind occupied by running over the details of the case again. He didn't come up with anything new, but in this manner, he made such good progress that after three hours, he only had about thirty more samples to go. Deciding he could afford to take a quick break--it had been nearly ninety minutes since his last one--he picked up the bottle of water he'd tucked in the shade of a boulder and sat down on a lower outcropping of rock to rest his back and legs, which were beginning to ache a little.

His collection area took him close to the rocky bottom of the Dead Mountain and he idly surveyed the ground he was working as well as the land beyond. There was a large area of coarse, hardy grass that somehow survived amidst the dry, rocky soil and he looked it over, wondering if he should check it for possible graves, but deciding not to. Boulders and juts of rock separated the grassy land from the rest of the desert and made it unlikely he would find any.

Movement in the grass caught his eye and Nick tensed for a split-second before he saw several little black plumes moving through the grass. Craning his neck, he tried to make out whether the quails were California or Gambel's. As silently as possible, he moved to a closer, higher rock for a better view. Then he heard a klee-klee sound and looked up in time to see a small hawk dive into the grass. When it didn't rise again, Nick inched closer. The hawk, which was either a fledgling hawk or possibly a kestrel, was smaller than the quails, who didn't seem the least bit concerned by its presence.

Fascinated, Nick wished for his camera or at least binoculars. Besides the quails, there were also what looked to be thrushes or larks coexisting with the little hawk. It was possible that the small hawk found enough mice to sustain it and didn't want to risk tangling with birds as big as or bigger than it was. With the main attraction of the Dead Mountains being the petroglyphs on the opposite side, Nick supposed the birds lived fairly undisturbed. They hadn't even acknowledged his presence, but kept walking around one another with the occasional wing-flapping scuffle. It was enthralling--a live Discovery Channel he had practically walked into.

With neither camera nor sketchpad on hand, Nick committed the birds' various markings and shapes to memory, so he could look them up at home and satisfy his curiosity. Putting the cap back on his water, he lightly jumped down from his rock and headed back to finish his soil samples. He soon finished, and decided he might as well fill the six jars left over from the last case he'd brought. Going over the map, he added and numbered another six spaces on the grid, carefully measuring so he didn't cross the boundary onto Sampson's land and render them completely useless.

Once that was finished, he was tempted to check out the feathered community again, but firmly reminded himself he was on the clock and marched himself back to the Tahoe to see if Grissom or Warrick needed any help.

Warrick scowled as he finished playing the melody he'd been working on the week before and debated whether or not he should just trash the thing. He was playing it on a guitar, but maybe subconsciously he'd written it for the piano. That was still at least another year away, though. He'd finally paid off all the debt he'd racked up through years of gambling and rewarded himself with the Martin acoustic. A digital piano was further down his list, unless he wanted to abandon his plan of finally finding a bigger place.

The song probably wouldn't sound much better on a piano, anyway. He'd been aiming for bluesy, but somehow had ended up with something more along the saccharine lines of an old AM Radio power ballad, mawkish and endless. How the hell had he come up with something like that?

Looking back, Warrick soon had his answer.

Nick Stokes.

He had spent the last week worrying about the effect this mass grave case was having on Nick, especially when the Texan began asking Hodges for results on the soil samples every few days. Warrick half-expected Hodges to retaliate by putting all of Nick's trace at the bottom of his pile, but amazingly, the trace technician usually had results on at least a half-dozen soil samples whenever Nick asked. Thus far, none of them showed signs of human remains, but they were always there. Nick thanked Hodges every time he handed over useless results, which was more than Warrick would have done. It was probably also the reason Hodges kept at the soil samples so diligently even though they were low priority. Either that, or the trace technician had a thing for Nick, which would have been the only real sign of good sense the man had ever displayed.

Warrick quickly shook off the idea. The last thing he wanted to think about was how Hodges might feel about Nick because that would only lead to him thinking about what he felt for Nick.

He would probably be better off just to stick to worrying, Warrick decided, then winced as he struck an off-chord. It wasn't like he could avoid it, anyway. Worrying about Nick had become something of a habit for him over the past couple of years. Probably had something to do with seeing the guy get thrown out a second story window.

Nick had bounced back surprisingly well from the Nigel Crane ordeal. He'd moved shortly after, but no one had thought that was strange. Other then that, there hadn't been any overt signs of lingering effects. Overt being the key word, because Warrick sometimes sensed an unease from his friend that often seemed out of place with the situation. It was never enough to provoke a comment, and Warrick had no way of knowing if anyone else even saw it.

Of course, this current situation was entirely different and Warrick knew exactly what was going on.

Nick was putting on that big white cowboy hat of his.

If those twenty-one kids had no one else to fight for them, they definitely had Nick Stokes. The more people who turned away from the cooling case, the more determined Nick would become not to abandon it--or to his way of thinking--them. To a certain extent, Warrick understood, but he was usually able to distance himself from a case more than that.

Not Nick. It was one of his greatest strengths as a CSI. It was also one of his greatest weaknesses and usually the cause of the rare arguments between them. Right now, it could also keep Nick from that promotion to Lead CSI.

Warrick hadn't even bothered applying, knowing he had a couple of black marks in his jacket. He wasn't even sure he wanted it, anyway. His one stint as acting supervisor had been more than enough.

Nick seemed to think that Sara was a shoe-in, but Warrick wasn't so sure. Sara was a brilliant criminalist, but a little too uncompromising to be in management. Nick, as far as Warrick could tell, didn't much care for playing the necessary politics, but knew how and when to do it. The only person better at it would be Catherine. There were even times when Nick seemed more suited to management than Grissom. And that amused the hell out of Warrick, because if he ever said so, Nick would probably consider it sacrilege.

Warrick had worried briefly that if Nick did get the promotion it would change their friendship, but the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Nick wasn't the sort to go on power trips. He valued his friendships too much.

Fuck.

At the rate he was going, he might as well just call this song "The Ballad of Nick Stokes" and be done with it.

Things only went downhill over the next few weeks. Nick was kept busy between dead cops, more dead kids and the words of some pyro that got to him more than they should have. The mass grave case got colder by the day.

Grissom didn't follow through on his threat to torment Hodges by making all the soil samples priority, but the trace technician was working through them at a surprisingly steady pace, considering how busy things had been in the lab. The results were always the same, though--no human remains.

All this was capped off by the promotion he received being cut in the same letter as it was awarded. Nice touch. Even though it gave him a rush of pleasure to know Grissom had recommended him, it wasn't easy hiding his overall disappointment.

This last case, a boy being framed by his own father, had left a bad taste in everyone's mouth and by unspoken agreement, no one on graveyard suggested breakfast after shift. That was fine by Nick, he had the next day off and fully intended to crash for ten hours straight and not think of a single case until his next shift.

Surprisingly enough, all went according to plan and after he'd taken care of the errands that tended to pile up and had gone to the gym, Nick had an entire afternoon in front of him with nothing to do. He was at a bit of a loss until remembered the flock of mismatched birds near the Dead Mountains. He'd looked them up and as best he could tell, there had been two kinds of warblers, Gambel's quails, common ground-doves, and the "hawk" had been a full-grown American kestrel. Nick decided he'd kill the afternoon by driving out for another look. Even if the kestrel wasn't among them, he could still get some nice shots of the other birds. He hadn't taken any pictures outside of work for months.

His camera and binoculars were easy to find, but he had to do a bit of hunting for his old sketchpad. That, along with a few bottles of water, went into a knapsack that he tossed into the passenger seat of his Ranger. He hopped into the driver's seat, cranked up the really country music that his colleagues loathed and, singing along, set out for an enjoyable afternoon. Thoughts of the crime scene flickered through his mind, but Nick resolutely pushed them away. He was going to be more than a half-mile away from the grave sites and even a few dozen feet from where he'd taken the last soil sample, and he wasn't going to think about any cases.

That's what days off were for.

Tomorrow he could go over the case again, his eyes and mind all the fresher for the break.

The day was hot, but not unbearably so and Nick ignored the air conditioning in favor of open windows, at least until he left the main road. The notion came, as it often did at times like this, that the only thing missing was a dog beside him with its head out the window. He really wanted a dog. There had always been one, often two, in the family growing up. His own dog, a shepard-collie mix called Lobo had passed away the year before he moved to Vegas. Since his move, he'd often considered getting another one, but didn't think it would be fair to the animal, considering the long hours he worked.

And now that he thought about it, he wouldn't have much luck photographing birds if he brought a dog along.

He rolled up his windows once he reached the old Borax mine, since the rest of his drive crossed the desert on only the barest hint of a road. As he headed for the mountains, he kept on a path directly toward the outcropping of rock he'd climbed that day, bypassing the crime scene completely. He parked well away from the grassy area, not wanting to disturb the birds. Approaching the rocks quickly and quietly, he settled himself on one of the larger boulders. He could see the Gambel's quails even without the binoculars and once he pulled them out, he could see the larks and warblers as well. There was no sign of the kestrel, but today there were also some chukars, ground-doves and tanagers, which made Nick just as happy.

When he was certain the birds wouldn't be startled by his presence, he carefully moved closer, choosing a slightly lower rock. From that vantage point he knew he would get some good shots. Especially with the zoom on this sucker, he thought with a grin.

He didn't remember the exact conversation, but when he visited home the previous summer, he'd mentioned to his oldest sister, Susannah, that he meant to get a new camera with better zoom on it. That Christmas, Susannah and Adrienne, another sister, had thrown in together to get him a fantastic digital Nikon with all the bells and whistles, including 12x and the mutli-lens capability to take it to 50x if he ever wanted to. Like I'm the freakin' paparazzi. He had only had the chance to really use it twice since Christmas, although he'd spent several hours fiddling with it to see everything it could do. He hadn't bothered with the adaptations for more zoom, knowing he'd get some good shots with the 12x.

Good shots? More like amazing shots. With this camera, he could get close enough to capture the subtle differences between the mourning and MacGillivray's warblers. He snapped away for the better part of a half hour and was lucky enough to get a series of shots of a tiny junco pestering the hell out a mountain quail.

He stopped and got out his sketchpad to do a few sketches, even though they weren't necessary, and jotted down some notes. Then he pulled out a bottle of water, but only had time for a couple of sips before he heard a klee-klee from above. Looking up, he saw the silhouette of a raptor, so he quickly capped the bottle and got his camera ready again.

Sure enough, it was an American kestrel, probably the same one, because it landed amongst the other birds without any of them showing alarm. Nick spent another hour alternately snapping pictures or scribbling notes, all the while mulling over various reasons for a raptor--even such a small one--to be living among ground and song birds. Orphaned, maybe? Did birds adopt abandoned young? He'd have to look that up. Such a small kestrel could probably survive on the insects the others ate, along with maybe the occasional rodent, so perhaps there was enough to go around. On the other hand, kestrels were perching birds and this one seemed at home on the ground. Possible imprinting? He'd definitely have to look into that orphaned thing.

He was just waiting for that bratty little junco to start bothering the kestrel so he could snap a great shot when the entire flock scattered, taking to the air. Frowning, Nick looked up from his camera and blinked in astonishment when he saw a boy who looked to be in his early teens walking uncertainly toward the mountains. "Hey, there."

The boy startled so badly he nearly tripped over his own feet and looked up fearfully at Nick.

In the direction the boy had come from, Nick could see nothing but horizon. Which meant the boy had been walking at least three, probably four or five miles. "Are you lost?" he asked in his most friendly manner.

"I am Alexei," the boy replied.

Nick's eyes widened. He hadn't expected to hear a Russian accent. Now he was definitely curious. "Hi, Alexei. I'm Nick." He started to climb down from the rocks, but halted when the boy took several steps back, looking alarmed enough to bolt. "What are you doing way out here? Where did you come from? Walk from?" he clarified, after a moment's consideration.

Another hesitation, during which Nick could almost see Alexei going over his words. "I walk from house," he finally said, pointing northward.

Nick looked, seeing no sign of a house. Alexei was definitely indicating Barrett Sampson's land, but there was no telling how far beyond that he meant. "Someone has a house out here?"

Alexei nodded immediately. "I stay with."

Nick nodded in return, taking in the boy's very American clothing, right up to the baseball cap on his head. Right now, though, he was also sweaty and dusty from his trek across the desert.

Alexei shifted nervously, "I am...scholar--student. Uh...menyatz...changing, yes?"

"Exchange student?" Nick supplied with a smile.

"Yes."

"And you're staying with--"

"With pakravytl...sponsor? Host."

"Your host family." Nick surveyed the desert again. "That's a long walk. Will you be able to find your way back?"

Alexei shook his head, "Find..?"

"Do you know how to..." Nick searched for a better word. "How to return to your house?"

The boy's eyes widened, "Yes, I will return to house." He spoke quickly, "Yes."

"Okay." But Nick was already deciding to give the kid a ride back to...wherever.

"I will go now?" Alexei asked nervously.

"You don't have to go now. You know what?" He reached into his backpack and pulled out his second bottle of water. "You've gotta be thirsty."

"For me?"

"Yeah," Nick grinned, hopping down from his rock to hand it over.

After a long hesitation, Alexei took it. "Spasiba," he said, taking several big gulps, then sighing with relief. "What do you do here?" he asked Nick carefully.

"I'm taking pictures. Photographs." He picked up his camera.

Alexei took another step back, "Of what do you photograph?"

"Birds," Nick replied.

"Birds?" Alexei blinked.

"See?" Nick held out the camera so Alexei could see the LCD. "Birds."

"Computer camera." The boy's interest was obvious. He'd even begun to inch closer.

"Digital," Nick corrected, grinning again because the boy sounded so impressed.

Alexei got close enough to hold out a finger, nearly touching the small screen which was displaying the kestrel. "You take those--here? And see them."

"Sure. Like this." Nick back away and aimed the camera at Alexei, snapping a picture.

Although he seemed to balk for a moment, Alexei took of his baseball cap and straightened his hair a bit.

Chuckling, Nick snapped a couple more pictures, then brought one up on the LCD. "See? And then you print the ones you want."

Alexei nodded, then backed away again, sitting on a different rock and taking another sip of water. "It is your work?"

"This?" Nick laughed. "No. This is a hobby, although I do sometimes take photographs in my job." Alexei tilted his head inquisitively, so Nick continued, "I'm a criminalist with the Las Vegas Police."

"Politzya?" Alexei stood again. "I will return now, yes?"

"Okay. My truck is right over there," Nick jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I can drive you back."

"No. I walk." He started to take several steps back, then halted and held the bottle out to Nick. "I go now."

"You keep it," Nick said, waving the bottle away. "Drink it on the walk back. Are you sure you want to walk?"

"I walk, yes."

"All right. It was nice meeting you, Alexei."

Alexei gave him a bemused frown, halting again. "Good-bye," he turned and started walking back across the grass and looked back momentarily when he reached the rocky desert soil again.

Nick waved, wondering if maybe he should insist on driving the kid home. But Alexei had said no, and he'd certainly walked out without too much trouble. Hot and parched, yes, but overall the boy looked healthy--well-nourished and properly clothed. At least he had water for the walk back.

Opening his own water again, Nick sat on the rock, waiting just in case Alexei changed his mind and decided he didn't want to walk. He knew there wasn't much chance of that happening. The boy had certainly been wary and obviously hadn't expected to see anyone out here--for that matter, neither had Nick. Possibly he'd been around in the previous weeks and shooed away from a crime scene--that would explain his nervous behavior.

Alexei was keeping a steady pace, but kept checking back out his shoulder and it suddenly occurred to Nick that the kid might have been waiting for him to leave. Maybe he wanted to do some exploring but felt uneasy with Nick around. Nick shook his head ruefully. Considering his job and some of the things he'd seen, he should have caught on sooner. Just because he knew he meant no harm didn't mean Alexei knew it. If he was indeed an exchange student, possibly his host family had warned him about strangers, even those claimed to be cops. If he wasn't actually an exchange student, then maybe just hearing about police scared him.

Either way, Nick knew there was little he could do, and that he'd probably only frighten the kid if he pushed too hard. Alexei was still in sight, so Nick quickly packed up his things, putting his water, camera, ball cap and sketchpad back in his knapsack and slinging it over his shoulder. As he started for his truck, he looked back and saw that Alexei had indeed stopped. For all he knew the kid had been here several times already, poking curiously around the old crime scene or maybe looking at the petroglyphs.

As he drove back to the city, Nick felt content with his afternoon. He'd nearly filled his video card, found a little nature mystery to investigate and met a kid from Russia. Not bad. Now he had the whole night shift free to download the pictures and pick out the best ones. Even more important, he wanted to see what he could find out about orphaned birds.

He checked his watch. It was just after four. Maybe when he got back to Vegas he'd give Warrick a call--see if his friend wanted to grab some dinner before he had to go to work.

The next night Nick went back to work with, as he'd hoped, as clear mind and renewed determination to solve the case.

It didn't change a thing.

No new leads.

No new insights.

Nick knew what that meant.

He'd have to work harder.

"You mean you're actually going to do it?" Warrick stared in disbelief.

"I think so," Nick said as they left the locker room. "I had it like that for a year at A&M."

"Frat hazing? Or did you lose a bet?"

Grinning, Nick gave him a playful shove. "Just thought I'd try something different."

"So what do you do? Just grab a Remington and go to town?"

"I actually did it myself in college," Nick laughed. "But I'll get someone else to do it this time."

"Well, if you're gonna do it, I guess summer is the time to--"

"Nick?" Greg stuck his head out of the DNA lab as they passed. "You got a minute?"

"Sure," Nick said, making a detour.

"Hey," Warrick muttered. "If you want to talk to someone about the whole head-shaving thing," he nodded to Greg.

"I'm not a miracle worker," Nick snorted as they walked in. "What's up?" he asked the tech.

"I finished running the DNA on all the skeletons in the mass grave case. Except for the three that didn't have viable DNA, of course."

"Really?" Nick was impressed, knowing that since he was trying to get as much experience in the field as possible, Greg didn't waste much time in the lab. "They weren't priority."

"I know, but I was caught up on everything." Greg handed Nick the results. "I don't know how helpful it will be, though."

"Right now, we've got practically nothing, so whatever you found will--we've got siblings."

"Two sets," Greg clarified.

"Really?" Warrick peered over Nick's shoulder at the results.

"P1 and P7 are brother and sister..." Nick mused. "P2 and C6 are brothers--hey, now we'll know P2's race. That's something."

"What?" Warrick frowned.

"On some of the partial skeletons, there wasn't enough to identify sex or race. Of course, with the complete skeletons, we know all that. P2 was one whose race couldn't be identified, but if the complete skeleton is his sibling..."

"...you'll know his race," Greg finished, looking pleased.

"Nicky," Warrick said quietly.

He sounded so serious that Nick looked up from the results. "What's the matter?"

Warrick glanced at Greg before asking, just as quietly. "You've got the stats on all these kids memorized?"

"Are you kidding me?" Nick couldn't help laughing. "There's twenty-one of them. No, I just know the numbers of the five partial skeletons, because we've been trying to identify them for so long." He noted Warrick's dubious look, "I am trying to keep some distance, Rick," he added.

Warrick studied him for a moment, then nodded. "We'd better get out to our scene, then. Brass is going to be getting testy."

"And that's new?" Nick asked, and they all smiled. "Okay, let's go. Thanks for the results, G."

"No problem. Like I said, I'm all caught up, so if you guys need a hand out at the scene..."

Nick's smile widened. So that's what this was about, at least partially. "We don't even know what we've got yet."

"I know. I'm just sayin'..."

"Let us see what we've got," Nick said, glancing at Warrick, who nodded. "And if we can find a reason for an extra set of hands, we'll call."

"Yeah, we'll keep you on speed dial," Warrick added.

"Cool."

After they left the lab, Warrick glanced back over his shoulder. "Man, I hope his proficiency is soon. The kid's gonna bust one of these walls with the way he's bouncing off them."

"Grissom wants to have someone to replace him in the lab first, doesn't he?"

"Greg said he found someone to start in a couple of weeks."

"What?" Nick frowned. "When did you hear this?"

"Last night. Someone with a couple years at CCL." Warrick saw Nick's blank look and clarified, "Connecticut Crime Lab."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Nick halted at the door.

"What? That's what he said."

"Aw, hell. He's never gonna get out of the lab," Nick shook his head and walked outside.

"Why not?" Warrick frowned, following.

"Connecticut? To Las Vegas? Hell, even when I came from Dallas, it was a shock. Just the size," Nick shook his head. "A week. Tops. You can't make that kind of a jump."

"No way," Warrick shook his head.

"Rick, you've only lived here. Vegas definitely takes some adjusting."

"You're exaggerating," Warrick insisted.

Nick glanced at him, and the words were out of his mouth before he thought, "How sure are you of that?"

Warrick stared.

Fuck. You idiot. "Rick, I'm sorry..."

"Let's make it not worth my while," Warrick suggested easily. "Five bucks says the newbie makes it through a week--that's actually six shifts," he held up a fist.

Nick considered dropping the whole thing, but decided to follow Warrick's lead. "Done," he bumped knuckles with his partner before climbing into one of the new Denalis.

Glancing down at the red ball cap on top of his knapsack, Nick shook his head with a rueful smile before focusing his attention on the highway again. It was nearly two weeks since his last day off and he'd enjoyed it so much, he decided to take another drive out to the Dead Mountains. When he was filling his knapsack again, he found the ball cap inside and realized it must be Alexei's. After a moment's confusion, Nick recalled quickly gathering his things--likely he'd tossed the cap in without thinking.

No wonder the poor kid was looking at me funny. He probably thought I was stealing his hat.

So he brought it along on the off-chance that he met up with Alexei again, although he seriously doubted that would happen.

Nick parked in his usual spot, grabbed his knapsack and quickly strode to the first rock. Much to his disappointment, there were only a couple of thrushes sitting in the grass, and they seemed to be drowsing. Now that he was out here he didn't want to turn right around and go back, so he took out a bottle of water and decided to give it half-an-hour.

When he spotted something moving out on the desert, beyond the scrubby grass, Nick grabbed his binoculars for a better view. It was the little kestrel fighting with a--what was that anyway? A rodent of some sort. One that was too large for the kestrel, so instead of a meal, he was getting a fight.

Your eyes were way too big for your stomach, buddy.

Nick took a couple of shots with his camera, but even with the zoom, they wouldn't be that great. Slinging his knapsack over his shoulder, he jogged across the desert, getting as close as he dared. He didn't want to break up the fight--it wasn't his place to intervene. Besides, the kestrel and...it looked like a kangaroo rat, seemed pretty evenly matched. They were too busy tangling with each other to pay much attention to him, so Nick crouched down on his haunches and started snapping.

Filling his card with shots of the almost humorous battle, Nick was only distantly aware of the sound of motors. His attention was focused on using his camera's abilities to shoot a few short video clips as well. Not until the animals abruptly separated, the rat skittering across the ground and the kestrel going airborne, did Nick bother taking note of his surroundings.

Nick stood just as two SUVs blew past him and parked near his Ranger. Two men got out of the white SUV, and started toward him, so Nick walked to meet them. "Hey."

"You're trespassing," one of the men said.

Glancing around, Nick realized he'd walked onto private land while trying to get the perfect shot. Ah, hell. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going." He continued toward the county land, but his footsteps faltered when the men advanced on him. They were both taller and heavier than he was and there was something about their posture that did not bode well.

"You've been out here before," the first man said. Bald and with a goatee, he was so thickly muscled that his neck seemed to just blend right into his shoulders.

The man's tone was not reassuring, and Nick wished he'd brought his gun. He rarely carried it off-duty, though. "Not on this land. I've just--"

"He's got a camera," said the other man--apparently quite the genius. Built like a brick house, his thick black hair was slicked back with some sort of oil. A lot of it.

Nick catalogued all these things out of pure habit. "Look," he explained in a friendly tone. "I apologize, okay? It was a mistake and I'm leaving right--hey!" He tried to jerk away when the cueball grabbed his arm, but before he could get very far, the greaseball plowed him one right in the gut.

Okay, now he was mad.

Pausing only long enough to catch his breath and let out a few choice curses, Nick brought up his free arm for a swing of his own. Before it went anywhere, that arm was caught by Greaseball and Cueball landed a punch on his ribs. Then both men twisted his arms painfully behind his back. Gasping for air now, Nick struggled, but that only made the men wrench his arms harder.

Hearing the doors on the second vehicle open, Nick realized he needed their tags, but the vehicles were parked too far away and the angle made it impossible, anyway. As two more men approached, Nick twisted again, then decided to wait for a better chance. One of the men was bigger still, with white-blond hair pulled back in a tail. The fourth man was expensively dressed, but other than that, nothing about him stood out. He was average height, average build, average features and average brown hair. Utterly forgettable. "You're trespassing," Expensive Suit reiterated.

"By mistake," Nick said. "And that doesn't give these guys the right to assault me. Is any one of you even Barrett Sampson?"

Ponytail stepped forward, casually backhanded him across the face and took his camera from around his neck before Nick could recover. Nick spat blood out of his mouth and instinctively began to struggle again, until one of his arms was wrenched so high he thought it would break.

"What are you doing out here?" Suit asked.

"Nothing that warrants this," Nick insisted.

That got him another backhand to his head, hard enough to make him see stars. Jesus, what the hell did these people think this was? They were acting like this was the Old West or the Mob days when they could just--

Now he was getting worried.

None of these men seemed particularly concerned about the consequences of their actions, and Nick couldn't help but wonder the reason for that. He was suddenly acutely aware that no one knew where he was, and no one would have the slightest idea where to start looking should anything--

And now he was scared.

Ponytail handed the camera to the Suit and bent to pick up the knapsack that had fallen from Nick's shoulder. Just Nick's luck, Ponytail pulled out--"Binoculars."

Nick stifled a groan. This wasn't looking good.

Then Ponytail pulled out the sketchpad, "What the hell is this?"

Nick bit back the first sarcastic remark that sprang to mind. "My sketch pad. I was out here bird watching," he said, still panting a bit.

Suit was going through his LCD display. "I'm tempted to believe you."

Well, good.

"But just this once, I'm going to resist temptation." He took the knapsack from Ponytail and stepped back, giving a small nod.

Nick barely had time to brace himself before Ponytail closed in. Cueball and Greaseball obligingly held him still so the big guy could do some serious damage. His ribs were taking most of the hits, and Nick had a moment to be grateful they weren't landing punches like that to his head before things started greying out.

He was vaguely aware of someone saying, "Stop!" and thankfully, the punishment did end.

He heard someone--the Suit, maybe?--speaking to him. "So you're Nick, are you?" At least, that's what it sounded like, but Nick was too fuzzy to be certain. The man didn't seem to require an answer, which was good, because Nick wasn't in any sort of shape to give one.

Then there was a brief discussion that Nick could only partially make out past the ringing in his ears, but it sounded like it was about him and where he worked. He was lifted and carried some distance before being unceremoniously dropped to the ground, knocking most of the breath he'd managed to catch back out of him. His knapsack was slammed down onto his back, with the camera and binoculars inside, judging by the pain to his spine, while the camera's memory card was crushed beneath someone's heel right in front of his face.

Nick didn't try to get up--not that his body was likely to cooperate at the moment--and didn't want to contemplate what else these men had in store for him. When he heard them getting back into their SUVs, his brief moment of relief was dashed by the panicked thought that they might run him over. But the sound of the vehicles soon faded, and Nick relaxed as much as his aching body would allow. He shifted enough so the knapsack slid from his back and was startled to see his truck tire. That was strangely considerate of them.

Trying to push himself up brought a stabbing pain to his side and tears to his eyes, but Nick forced himself into a sitting position. He reached for his knapsack and a bottle of water to rinse the blood and gravel out of his mouth. The first things he found were the torn pages of his sketchbook, and so didn't even think about looking at his camera, just went for the water. Leaning against the tire, he went over his injuries. His ribs were definitely bruised, possibly cracked, but he didn't think they were broken. He could feel his lip beginning to swell and carefully prodded his left eyebrow. There was definitely a cut there, but with any luck he wouldn't need stitches. He took a small sip of water, mindful of the way his stomach was lurching.

His head was beginning to clear, and Nick was sure that he'd be okay to drive as long as he kept his mind on the road and not the reason behind the attack. That was something he would be able to figure out once he got himself safely home.

Nick touched his eyebrow again and then his lip. How the hell was he going to explain this at work?

On to Part 2