Meanwhile, off at the Carnival of Souls, Catherine and Sara -- who are looking mighty bundled up for two women in Las Vegas in the spring -- approach some poor tertiary character as he's preparing to roll the dead six-year-old's body onto a tarp, presumably for transport. Catherine chews him out, instantly establishing that yep, she's identifying the victim with her daughter, and yep, it's going to color the tenor of her whole investigation. I love how both Catherine and Sara get depicted as taking these cases a little too personally. No, actually, I don't. Anyway, after Catherine's ripped off one tech's head and handed it back to him, she says, "She looks scared. No six-year-old should have to go through that." I could make a few comments about how scared Catherine's own daughter might be if she realized there was a chance that Brad Johnson and his giant teeth were coming home with Mommy -- but I'm taking the high road. For now. Sara asks Catherine if she's okay, and Catherine punts, telling Sara to interview the mother while she handles the crime scene. Sara, who apparently wronged the hairdresser during cocktail hour and thus has two shish-kebab skewers affixed to her skull (Fire the hairdresser! Do it now!), wanders off to interview the mother. Mom is standing huddled in a blanket with her boyfriend's arm wrapped around her; she spins a tale of woe about how one moment, she and daughter Sandy are having a grand time in the Tunnel of Love, and the next moment, the daughter's apparently fallen into the briny depths. Mom claims to have fished around for Sandy unsuccessfully. The boyfriend looks up and asks Sara, "How can this happen? At a carnival?" Because it's the carnival of crime, you ninny.
Nicky's out in the dark park with a flashlight; I begin hoping against hope that perhaps the mountain lions we heard so much about will come back to see what's causing all the fuss. Warrick comes on over; we learn that Nicky volunteered them both for collecting evidence -- "evidence" being another word for "dog crap" -- in the park. There's apparently a lot of evidence. "This is combat duty," Nicky grumbles. "This is somebody's doody," Warrick replies. Oh, Christ. I'm not asking for George Bernard Shaw. I'm not asking for Oscar Wilde. I'm not asking for Moss Hart, or anyone else who had a bead on crackling dialogue. But I am asking that CSI hire writers who can do better than a weak pun about fecal matter. Please -- I only have 500 milliliters of wine left. Warrick shines his flashlight on two especially sturdy pieces of would-be evidence. Nicky dismissively says to forget those; the rabbit hair indicates that it's cougar scat. We find out that the two men apparently attended a seminar on forensic feces (there's probably a term for it using the Latin copro -- i.e. the fear of fecal matter is coprophobia, fossilized feces are coprolites, et cetera -- but I'll be damned if I know what it is and Ask Jeeves was less than forthcoming) taught by a particularly good-looking instructor. "No CSI should be that fine!" says Warrick, who is apparently oblivious to his own good looks, and who is, frankly, treading on dangerous territory because they're only a comment away from talking about their coworkers and that's kind of creepy. Anyway, before anyone can run off at the mouth, Warrick finds some dirty ice and enters it into evidence. Oh, that ought to be good.