CSI
Justice Is Served

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What is it with this show and livers?

I can feel my will to live diminishing with every scene. This one doesn't help: Gil and the buzz-cut detective go visit the felonious dog in question, owned by one Dr. Susan Hillridge. What did they do to come up with that name, drive through suburban housing developments until something stuck? Anyway, Susan and her gigantic slobbering beast of a dog come to the door, and Gil attempts to engage her in a Quincy-esque line of inquiry until the dog leaps up on him and more or less knocks coherent thought out of his head. Believe me, I know how he feels.

In the next scene, a squadron of animal control officers are wrestling Simba the dog into submission while Susan claims he's just a big ol' sweetie. As it turns out, Simba happens to be missing a tooth; Susan claims this is a wild coincidence, and Gil says somberly, "We still have to take him into custody until we find out whether or not he had any involvement in this homicide." Flash to me thinking about what forensic whiz-bangery Gil will perform to interrogate the dog. Hey, if he can whip out the mind-reading device on the deaf kid, this may well be the week where we discover that Gil can talk to the animals. Susan is remarkably sanguine about Simba's impounding. Gil engages her in more small talk -- we learn that Susan's specialty is nutrition and her patients are mostly professional athletes. In Las Vegas? What is she, the team physician for the XFL franchise out there? Gil tries to fish for clues to whether or not Susan knew the dead runner -- an amateur marathoner named Terry Manning -- and Susan calls him on it. Nope, no alarm bells going off in the viewer's brain there, not a one.

Incidentally, I've got 300 milliliters of wine left. No, wait -- I found another bottle. I've got 1050 milliliters of wine left. And I'm going to need every drop.

Back at CSI Central, Catherine is hectoring Greg about the results of the urine test she had the carny submit in violation of his civil liberties. Apparently, there was no evidence of any controlled substance in the urine. "Ah, come on. That creep tested clean?" Catherine spits. "Yeah. For someone who's on the pill. He's got synthetic estrogen in his urine sample. It should modulate his mood swings," Greg replies, leading us all to the conclusion that whatever green rookie oversaw the impromptu urine test missed the switching of the samples. "He probably keeps a stash [of urine] in his trailer," Catherine fumes. Maybe she can hook up with some of that mood-leveling hormone herself. Sara comes in with more good news for Catherine: she just got off the phone with OSHA, and apparently the Carnival of Souls is wanted in eight states for assorted unspecified violations. Moreover, it's staffed by many ex-felons. In a carnival? Quelle surprise. And it turns out that the boss man is one Roger Pete, a convicted sex offender on parole. And excuse me for wondering, but...exactly how many parole officers are going to let their convicted sex-offender charges wander about the country with a carnival? Marion Jones couldn't make the leaps of logic required to sustain any willing suspension of disbelief in this episode.

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