Catherine warms to the idea, asking, "He was in the front seat, but looking at the rearview mirror?" And we flash back to him sketching the victim in a car. Gil's all, "So he can attack her, abduct her, rape her and strangle her, but he can't look directly at her?" Well, he's a sensitive serial killer. The CSIs quickly conclude that they're looking for a Chevy van, and then Nicky takes one for the team by admitting he's familiar with the signage -- "It's the Erotic Boutique on Tropicana." Nobody buys his explanation that the font is distinctive. Nicky takes the high road and shuts up, instead of saying, "So I pick up a few issues of Big Bodacious Babes. It beats mucking about with a Mensa-level dominatrix, Gil, or humping suspects in an investigation, Catherine."
Maybe he thinks it in the car as a dozen squad cars descend on the boutique and its parking lot. Brass darts over to the van and opens it up, and everyone recoils at the scent of Eau de Dead Girl. Yet she looks surprisingly good for someone so smelly. Catherine notes the props in the van -- a pump for the sex doll, and beer bottles, likely used as a phallic substitute in a rape.
After dispatching his subordinates to process boring things like bodies and vans, Gil strolls on into the porn shop, which seems intent on creating its own little red-light district via the creative use of neon and strobe lights. Gil wanders around for a while before finding the inflatable dolls. How come this is okay, but a little face-suckage like last week's requires the warning? Maybe it really does come down to the apparently offensive idea that women like sex too. As Gil picks up a doll similar to the one the Blue Paint Killer used, the clerk remarks, "Hunh. I would've picked you for a leather guy." Gil ignores that and asks if anyone's bought an inflatable doll recently, and the guy yawns about the customers who buy the latex dolls in the sex-toy equivalent of a committed relationship versus the one-night stand quality of the inflatable numbers. Gil's all, "I'm more interested in the clientele than the merchandise...I'd like to take a look at your credit-card receipts." The guy -- who looks like what Vin Diesel will look like once the Riddick residuals can no longer cover the gym membership -- snorts and points down to a sign reading, "cash ONLY pervert!!!" Gil desperately asks if there's any surveillance camera, and Vin says, "Bad for business." My God, this store's a shoplifting pervert's dream. Gil's discouraged until he notices the literature by the cash register -- magazines and comics, one of which looks like it was drawn by the killer. The cover totally reminds me of the stuff I saw this one time, when I was sent to cover an "alternative underground" comics convention for the magazine I worked for, and discovered that "alternative underground" was a euphemism for "Dungeons and Dragons meets My Little Pony porn." You haven't lived until someone's whipped out an eight-by-eleven panel devoted to the female anatomy and explained how many different Photoshop filters they've used to make the labia majora look like it belongs to a feisty bisexual demoness.