The official rules of Vegas are simple for law enforcement- don't gamble, don't get involved with suspects, don't party in a public place and don't ever be seen to be breaking the law no matter how big the bribe be it money, a pile of drugs or something a little more physical. The unofficial rule of Vegas is even simpler- don't get caught.

Las Vegas was the whore of Nevada- glamorous and full of the promise of sultry wares on the outside but very much only in it for the money and full of disease on the inside. Like the magicians she hosted she could dazzle and distract for a while, make people forget their miseries with a show of sparks but her prime act of disappearing people's cash wasn't so pleasing. At least the tourists could claim newcomer's ignorance when they lost their dollars to the lights and the colours but what excuse could the natives use?

Every time the squad of LVPD thought they had heard them all something new came along to shock. After all, this was Vegas where anything was possible. When the body of Ellie Mae Ross showed up it demonstrated this point beautifully for two reasons. One, Ellie Mae Ross had been declared dead just two weeks ago, believed to be a victim of the still unidentified Schoolgirl Strangler. Two, she had been found in dramatic fashion, bound upright to a post outside clad only in a sloppily bound bedsheet, her right arm upright holding a battery powered torch whilst a souvenir, Lady Liberty crown rested on her head.

The call had come with the dawn, as the sun had risen bathing Las Vegas in gold and causing its buildings to glitter advertising it as the jewel in the desert of Nevada, a weary drunk had staggered broke from the New York-New York hotel, banished to barf on the streets which were not gold after all but merely pale cement with a desert sand tinge. Seeking to cast a final vengeful look upon the domain that had taken his meagre fortune, the drunk had instead found himself eyeing a blurry mirage of Lady Liberty clad in white and looking a little cheaper and smaller than he remembered. It had taken another expulsion of vomit and a few solid minutes of head scratching and swayed vision studying before the drunk had finally realised he was looking not upon a copied statue but a body.

"I hate the weird ones," Detective Louis 'Lou' Vartann remarked grimly as he surveyed the scene. First to arrive from homicide, he considered a tad unfair that this wasn't the day shift's call. Apparently day shift didn't begin at exactly dawn. Seeing his yawning CSI companions he realised with a small, bitter smile and a shake of his head that he wasn't the only one to think this.

"Really? I love them," Detective Chris Caviliere enthused.

The bright eyed detective raised his camera to snap a few photographs of the body.

Lou shook his face scornfully at his companion's gesture and took a step away from him, wishing to avoid being contaminated by association. To the untrained eye Chirs Caviliere was merely doing his job and taking some shots of the scene but to anyone and everyone that knew him, he was taking some morbid snapshots for his scrapbook of the weird and wonderful murders of Las Vegas.

"Hey Vartann," CSI Nick Stokes greeted with a mustered cheer as he offered the man a small smile.

The detective nodded back in answer, appreciating the sincerity of the greeting. Quite often the CSIs and the detectives butted heads, sometimes it was healthy competition over solving a crime but sometimes it was a trade of insults and blame with some childish jibes about education. Lou understood it, the Crime Scene Investigators were science people, degree educated and coolly devoted to the evidence, the detectives had risen in ranks from the streets, uniforms graduated to suit wearing investigators who prided themselves on their man hours and their ability to humanise the badge without getting too involved in the emotional ties of a crime.

"Hey Nick," Catherine Willows, a deputy supervisor to the CSIs, called to her co-worker quickly. She was in the shade of the body staring up at it with suspicion, one hand upright to shield her brow from the rising sun.

Both Nick and Lou looked over at the call and both headed over.

Catherine's long, golden-auburn tresses pooled unevenly over her shoulders, jostled as she moved her hand and squinted, cocking her head slightly as she studied the pallid face of the deceased.

"Nick, does she look familiar to you?" Catherine demanded as she lowered her hand and looked to her fellow CSI with a suspicious blue stare. She seemed almost agitated, needing Nick's response immediately.

Lou's tawny eyebrows rose slightly at Catherine's tone and he looked to the body, squinting as the sun continued to rise behind the New York-New York hotel that framed her. He hadn't studied it too hard, spending his time taking a statement off a witness who needed a drunk tank, satisfied that the body wasn't going anywhere.

Nick cocked his head too, confused as pale golden rays dazzled him and he focused on the clean white sheet that bound the body like a burial shroud. Would it have trace that wasn't from the deceased? Was it intentionally white? Was there a symbolism there other than a weak attempt to have it resemble the robes of Lady Liberty? His dark gaze crept up to the face, only half-turned to them, young, chalk white in death, bloating and rot not yet started, bruising about the visible eye and at the throat suggesting violence but not necessarily in death.

Nick frowned as did Lou. Nick saw a shadow of innocence hovering like a spectre just above the corpse, he remembered a sparkle in green eyes in a photograph but the eye turned to him was shut so he could make no comparison there. The hair was lank, the shine lost to death and neglect, the colour had started to creep out, dark roots and golden-blonde tresses, he remembered that. A green eyed, golden girl, svelte form, freckles at the cheeks, a smile pretty, womanhood creeping into the corners of the pink mouth and edging at the curves developing on her body.

"Is that...Ellie Mae Rose?" Nick's voice was doubtful, he couldn't believe it, he didn't really want to. Declared dead but he'd still hopes for her turning up alive if only because she was young and innocent and didn't those deaths ache the worst?

"I think so," Catherine's answer was firmer as she rested her hands on her hips and studied the figure.

Lou felt a certain feeling of defensiveness creep over him at the CSIs words. The investigators had never caught that crime, not really, the disappearance and death of Ellie Mae Rose had stayed with the uniforms and their overbearing detectives. Missing persons had taken it, then homicide had shadowed for a bit, there was CCTV footage of the girl heading out of school in uniform and that was it, the trail had gone cold. It had been almost a year ago, slipping through many police related hands before someone had said 'case closed- she's dead'. Vartann hadn't been involved personally so he had no idea why it had suddenly turned to homicide and the working theory that the Schoolgirl Strangler had snatched her up.

"I see bruising," Detective Vartann pointed out.

Catherine nodded agreeably. "Yeah me too, could be she was one of the strangler's victims after all but he doesn't usually keep them so long."

Nick winced at the thought, a change in M.O from a psychotic serial killer was not what they needed. Alright sure, when that happened it suggested cockiness or sloppiness on the killer's part and was often the slip up they needed to catch them but it also meant worse things for future victims.

"We'll know better when we look at the body," Nick concluded.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of sirens. The familiar flash of red and blue lights let them know that the Coroner's team had arrived.

"We're going to need a crane if we want to preserve the evidence," Catherine mused.

She glanced over to Lou. "Can you arrange that?"
Lou stared back at her dubiously. "I'll see what I can do," he retorted, purposely vague and helpful, it was a line he used often.

He stepped away before the CSIs could ask for anything else extravagant and headed back to the oddity that was Chris Caviliere.

The excitable, morbid detective had stopped with the picture show and now seemed interested in doing his actual job once more.

"Any ideas how we can get a crane here?" Lou queried.

His partner gazed back at him in confusion as he waited for a punchline that wasn't coming. He frowned and glanced past him to the black clad investigators. "They looking it?" he quipped as he gestured to them with his pen.

"No, I just felt like a view of the strip," Lou retorted sarcastically, letting his natural Canadian accent slip into his voice. "Of course it's them, they need the body down."

Chris, undeterred by his partner's tone, shrugged in the universal gesture of- I don't care.

"Try the telephone people," he muttered dismissively.

It took approximately two hours before things seemed to get moving. By then half the city knew about the morbid appearance of a body outside the New York-New York hotel and hotel management were far from impressed. The yellow crime scene tape was more of an attraction than a deterrent to the grotesque hungry public and one too many unlicensed photographs had been taken despite the best efforts of the police force. During the two hours, one officer was lost to another call, a stabbing at a casino, and just like that one body became old news for law enforcement whilst another case took precedence.

The body came down in a crane with guidance from assistant M.E David Phillips before being ushered on to the mortuary.

Eager to swap the dry heat of Vegas outskirts for the coolness of the morgue, Catherine and Nick wrapped up the scene and headed after the body.

The detectives got the confirmation an hour after that. Prints and dental records confirmed it, it was Ellie Mae Rose. Hearts sank at the revelation, oh sure it was nice to have the depressing closure finding a body offered but when a body came with fame attached to it everyone knew what that meant- press and public baying at the doors like jackals. The investigations would be scrutinised with a fine tooth comb, the blame games would begin, one type of game Lou had no interest in winning, and the questions would be relentless as journalists concocted new exaggerations for each day they were left without explanations.

Chris made a dry comment about heads rolling in homicide for this one. Lou had to agree, whoever had signed off that the girl was dead two weeks ago was likely looking at a desk job if not worse. Just two weeks wait could've made all the difference and that really was the worst of it, M.E Doc Robbins said time of death had been between sometime last night and yesterday late afternoon. Cause of death- strangulation. Their boy, as Chris was prone to calling him, was still active then and he had apparently changed his M.O deciding for one reason or another to not rape and strangle instantly but instead keep one victim alive for almost a year.

The question now was, were there others still alive and out there somewhere in his clutches?
Catherine had put in a request to the detectives, the Schoolgirl Strangler had screwed up once before, a victim had escaped him four years ago, she hadn't given much to go on then and with time passing her tale would be all the hazier but Catherine wanted a revisit because maybe there was something missed that they could go on.

So, after he caught a few winks rest, Detective Vartann promised to make the meet and greet with survivor Paige de Lisle.


Greg Sanders and Chris Caviliere made an unusual sort of team. Their hobbies intertwined at times, Greg carried a torch for the history of Las Vegas, vintage Vegas warts and all which often included the mob underbelly, where Detective Caviliere's interest piqued because that meant murder in morbid form, if it was just a shootout he was bored but mention disappeared women and men turning up in pieces in car trunks with snakes shoved down their throats and suddenly he was interested.

The order had come from the sheriff that it was all hands on deck for this, he was getting in the neck from all directions because Ellie Mae Rose had died after officially announced. It didn't help matters that her pretty, freckled face was now on every news station coupled with her shell-shocked parents, the images were wholesome and pure setting off an understandable rage in every average citizen, what kind of monster could molest and murder such a sweet looking child? And how could the police have so quickly dismissed her absenteeism, marking her for dead when she still breathed? Chris was right when he had said heads would roll and already, just a few hours into the investigation, the chopping block was damp with the blood of dismissed law enforcement personnel.

It was why Greg was on the case, an extra hand to help in the field. He was delighted, he longed for the field and savoured every change he got to explore it. He didn't even mind that he was considered to have drawn a short straw getting paired with Chris chasing the origins of a crown and a stark white sheet. To Greg the detective was a lot less strange than lab rat Hodges.

The pair entered the extravagant lobby of the hotel and casino, banishing the desert heat for the alluring air con that brought and kept tourists who claimed not to be gamblers to its casinos, fresh air keeping them tethered to slot machines better than any chain could.

"Did you know they have apples on their cards instead of hearts?" Greg marvelled as they paced up to the front desk. "Isn't that neat?"

"Did you know a severed head once turned up on the roller coaster, buckled into the seat without a care in the world?" Chris retorted with a grin.

Greg glanced over to his companion with a slightly revolted look and gave a brief, forced laugh. "That so," he murmured.

Chris nodded as they reached the desk where an exasperated receptionist gave them an evil eye.

"If you're looking the scoop I don't have it," she advised them bluntly as she frowned over the desk at them. "We know as much as you, maybe less."

Greg looked back to her in puzzlement, he prepared to make introductions but the detective was quicker.

Chris swung back the bottom of his brown blazer to show the gold sheriff's star gleaming at his belt. "Police not reporters," he said bluntly as he let the blazer slide back.

"Oh," the receptionist huffed at him as she leaned back, digging her palms into the smooth wooden surface. "Well maybe if your badge was better displayed."

"Maybe I don't want to advertise to everyone what I am," Chris retorted bitingly with a mean grin to match his tone.

Greg hastened to the desk and gave the woman a warm smile in an attempt to undo the damage of Caviliere's poor social skills. "Ma'am we're here to investigate what happened this morning and would really appreciate your assistance please."

She frowned and folded her bony arms, crinkling her shirt in the process. "Your guys already took the CCTV, not much good mind, that was a blind spot with the statue," she grumbled.

Greg nodded. "I know, I actually want to ask about something else." He produced a photograph of the crown, sitting on a metal table for examination after being plucked from Ellie Mae Rose's head. There had been a few strands of her dyed blonde hair and a few partial prints too smeared for use. It was made of metal, designed like a tiara with a thin band, a base of metallic slits to indicate the windows and the infamous spikes, all coloured silver rather than green.

"Do you know where we could get this?" Greg queried.

The receptionist frowned down at the photo before plucking it up and bringing it close. "Not here," she retorted at last. "We sell foam ones and baseball caps, that sort of thing, this looks a little pricey, what is it, silver?"

"Yes," Greg admitted.

She shrugged and returned the photograph. "Not here."

"Wait a minute," Chris interjected, "that is a Statue of Liberty crown, found on a woman deceased outside this hotel, which is New York themed but you don't have any idea where the crown came from?"

The receptionist narrowed her blue stare as she glowered back at the detective. "That's what I'm saying," she said defensively. "Look I'll call Bert, he's a manager here, all into the collectables and sh-stuff," she corrected hastily.

She picked up the phone before her, pressed a single button on it and let it ring. It was answered after four.

"Hey Bert, yeah it's Christine. Look I've got a couple of policemen here wanting to know about some silver Statue of Liberty crown I've never seen before. Yeah it's about the murder." She nodded and hung up the phone before fixing a cool stare on Greg and Detective Caviliere, neither of whom seemed to appreciate being called policemen. "He'll be right down." She gestured to the cream lobby. "Have a seat, unless you fancy gambling while you wait."

Greg gave her a thin smile. "No thanks."

Greg took a seat whilst the detective paced, glancing at his watch and grumbling about time until a middle aged man in a suit with a gold bar badge noting him as Manager Wells, appeared before them.

"Hi," he introduced with a smile, "I'm Bert Wells, one of the manager's here, are you the officers looking assistance?"

Greg nodded as he stood. "Greg Sanders, Las Vegas crime lab," he introduced.

"Detective Chris Caviliere," the detective introduced himself as he offered out a hand.

Bert accepted the hand and shook before looking to the pair expectantly. "How can I help you?"

Greg produced the photo again and offered it to him. "This crown, any idea where it might have come from?"

Bert studied the photo closely with interest. "Sure, it's some what of a collector's piece," he explained, "we had it in five years ago in one of the stores just, an extra fancy piece of memorabilia if you like," he explained as he flashed a smile of them.

"Where could we get it now?" Chris demanded.

Bert scratched his balding head briefly. "Well, a few people might sell them used but new, the only place I can think of is The Tangieres," he advised them. "They have a small shop which offers a slice of the strip." His smile thinned as he looked to the men again. "Just trying to rip us all of by advertising our stuff in their place but hey it's gangsters we're dealing with."

"What do you mean?" Greg pried.

Bert eyed him coldly as he wondered if the question was a form of entrapment. "I think you'd know, all police should, the owner Sam Braun-"

"Not him," Greg interrupted quickly. "I mean the shop, what do you mean advertising your stuff?"

"Well," Bert look sheepish as he continued, "not quite. I mean, it sells fancy items related to the strip, the liberty crowns, some expensive crystal Lady Liberty statues, a gold copy of Caesar's crown and a replica of Tutankhamun's mask, those sort of things."

"Oh, like boutique stuff," Greg ventured.

Chris nodded with a bored expression as he took notes. "Right, so we need to check out the Tangieres then, see how many of these liberty crowns they sold recently."

"Better you know than me," Bert murmured. "No surprise a crook's involved in this."
"Now we don't know that," Greg said sternly, "we don't even know the crown came from there. Thank you for your help anyway Mr. Wells."

"Any idea when the crime scene tape is getting removed?" Bert queried. "It's er...not great for publicity."

"No?" Chris commented sardonically. "I hear schoolgirl corpses aren't too great for it either."