Fortunately, we've arrived at the B-plot, so I can let my brain relax for a little bit. Nicky and Warrick are walking through what looks like Caesar's; they register the excited shrieks of a woman who's apparently just gotten lucky, comment on the fickle nature of gambling, and keep on rollin'. And then we go to a female lounge singer who, frankly, is probably there to drive the patrons to drink. She's in a gauzy black cocktail dress and a scarf, kind of bobbing and weaving and providing atmosphere, and it's making me glad my TiVo comes equipped with a few different fast-forward speeds, plus a mute button. Naturally, Warrick is mesmerized by the slinky siren, leaving Nicky to introduce himself to homicide detective Lockwood, who tells Nicky the DFO's in the back. Warrick stands there, kicked in the butt by love.
Meanwhile, Nicky's getting the 411 on the guy -- Stan Grevey, 35, backup sax player -- who's lying slumped over the table. Warrick decides to make an appearance and join Nicky in bending over to examine the body. Nicky comments, "Tiny scrubbing bubbles," while the camera zooms in for an extreme close-up of Grevey's mouth. Warrick points out that the tiny bubbles have been wiped down. Nicky then notices a tiny scrap of cowhide between Grevey's teeth; Warrick turns over Grevey's arm and explains, "He tied himself off. All the signs of an OD, without any of the paraphernalia." Nicky asks Lockwood if the waitress happened to mention cleaning up Grevey's works; Lockwood answers in the negative, and finishes, "Said he reminded her of Coltrane." Warrick responds to that somewhat skeptically, and gathers up some of the white powder on the table for further analysis back at the lab. While still sitting at the table, he asks Nicky, "Two coasters, one glass?" Nicky asks Lockwood if the waitress and Grevey were having a small soiree; Lockwood replies the waitress was just coming on shift. Warrick's not paying attention; he's found a contact lens on the table. After Nicky and Warrick come to the conclusion that Grevey's problems probably didn't include a missing contact lens, they're distracted by the chanteuse coming back toward the crime scene, asking, "How's he doing?" Warrick avails himself of the opportunity to fling himself toward the woman by halting her progress and preventing her from contaminating the crime scene. She has cognitive difficulties processing the news: "He's dead? What are you talking about? They told me he wasn't feeling well. He was backing me up an hour ago. What happened to him?" Warrick takes it upon himself to calm her down, pulling her outside.
Back at CSI Central, David the Lonely Coroner's waiting in a dimly lit autopsy bay. He greets Gil with, "What took you so long?" Gil replies that he was waiting for ice to melt. I bet he and Sara sat there and did algebraic proofs for fun while they waited. David brings us back to matters at hand: Rivers's tox screen came up empty, save for quinine. David muses, "He must have had malaria in the past six months, or he's a big gin-and-tonic drinker." (There's quinine in the tonic.) David is ordering Rivers's medical records; he goes on to mention that if he were Rivers, he'd be popping pain pills owing to the hairline fracture of the ulna, bruised kidney, ten stitches off the orbital bone, fracture of the nasal bone, and recently healed rib fractures. David reaches into Rivers's mouth, pulls out a bridge, and muses, "I bet he was proud of every last battle scar. What is it about organized sports?" What is it about the fallacy that organized sports are somehow the exact same thing as the machismo subcultures that spring up around them? Yeah -- weekend warriors, idiot boys who think hazing is essential to team identity, and people who confuse a winning athletic team with a statement of personal validation are all blights upon humanity's collective IQ, but that doesn't mean that the games being played are inherently bad. Okay -- rant over. Gil replies, "Well, organized sports is [sic] the paradigmatic model of a just society. Everyone knows the same language, everyone knows the same rules, and there's a specific punishment handed out the moment someone tries to cheat. It's instant morality." Well, when you look at it that way, sure, but I say the uniforms are the redeeming thing. David brings us back from that armchair sociology lecture by asking what Rivers did when he wasn't acting out his Wayne Gretzky fantasies. Gil tells us Rivers was a stockbroker. "Competition junkie," David comments. "Aren't we all?" Gil inquires. "Not me. Not anymore," David asserts. Gil refutes that by asking how David got to be CME, finishing with, "We're all carrying prehistoric genes in a postmodern world. We get our meat from the grocery store instead of with a club and a knife. We have to work off our, uh, testosterone somehow." I have a good chuckle, thinking back to the conversation Gil and Lady Heather had. David dismisses the testosterone dissipation argument with, "Follies of youth." Gil looks reflective and a little sad for a moment before agreeing.