Catherine decides it's time to open a can of subjective whoop-ass on the cocaine-addled carny from a few paragraphs back; we see him sitting in the tank, saying, "How'm I supposed to know she was only sixteen and a half. From the neck down, she was all grown up. If you know what I mean." Cut to Brass, glowering over in a corner and saying, "I have a teenaged daughter. So no, I don't know what you mean." Oh, man -- can you imagine trying to date Brass's daughter? He'd probably be cleaning his service pistol while chatting amiably about the importance of respecting his daughter's curfew. Roger Pete notes that neither Sara, nor Catherine, nor Brass is looking especially amused, and he huffs, "Jerry Lee Lewis, man. Same thing happened to him. What's all this got to do with the little dead girl anyway?" An excellent question, Roger. Sara turns the tables and suggests that Roger fill in a few blanks. He does: "I was walking down the midway, and I seen this woman come whishing out of the tunnel screaming for her daughter. Me and Joey -- he's the operator -- we hit the kill switch and stop the ride, ran into the tunnel to look for the kid. And I seen her laying face down in a pool of water." Okay -- his story doesn't jibe with the mother's story, and he's not in a room full of people inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Catherine more or less tells him that, then storms off. Sara bolts after her and asks, "You worried you tipped your hand in there?" "No," Catherine snaps. "Look, don't bite my head off, but is there any chance you're going after this guy because you're a mother?" Wrong question, Sara. Catherine does bite her head off, scowling about convicted sex offenders and drug users working at a carnival. Who did you expect to be operating the bumper cars -- laid-off dot-commers? Wharton graduates? Catherine continues to ramble about how suspicious it was that the only ride where kids were in the dark -- the tunnel of love -- was the one Pickens happened to be near. Well, excuse him for running toward someone screaming for help. God, this plot makes me irritated. Thank God for the wine. I have a whole 'nother bottle left.
Cut to Gil demonstrating that Simba's tooth mold matches the one they made from the marks found on Terry Manning. "So is Simba going to the big dog pound in the sky?" Nicky asks. Gil says they need to find more evidence -- "find some jogger in Simba's stool." Nicky notes that he and Warrick stumbled on a unique sample at the crime scene -- a Great Dane-sized chunk of premium crap, nothing but sirloin and rice. Nicky and Gil are about to run off and ask Susan what she feeds Simba when Warrick comes by to share the exciting news that the ice he found at the crime scene was, in fact, dry ice that evaporated rather than melted. "Surgical teams use dry ice to pack organs shipped for transplant," Gil says slowly. Oh, dare we hope that marauding teams of organ thieves are roaming the lush and verdant hills of Las Vegas looking for marathoners? Hell, in a world where Las Vegas has a thriving green ecosystem, anything's possible. Unfortunately, we're being led to the logical conclusion that perhaps Susan's been putting her surgical rotation to use instead.