"Open the door! This is the Las Vegas Police Department! Open the door or we'll be forced to break it down!"

On a hot, dry Las Vegas night, four squad cars, their signal lights flashing like strobes at one of the many area night clubs, took position at the front door of the brick townhouse at 1375 East Cactus Lane (1). Several nervous police officers remained squatted behind the cars, guns drawn. Others, weapons in hand and wearing bullet- proof vests, gathered on the front steps, waiting to gain entrance.

Sheriff Rory Atwater glanced at his watch, noting the time was 9:23 p.m. Neighbors, still awake, gathered across the street and on either side of the house, keeping a safe distance away, but craning to see what would happen, next. A television crew arrived in a van and a reporter and cameraman jumped out. The reporter, quickly straightening his tie and taking his spot before the camera's beam of light, began to speak.

"We are reporting live from the home of famed Las Vegas criminologist Dr. Gilbert Arthur Grissom (2), who, for the last five years, has headed up the nightshift of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Sources close to the Las Vegas Police Department have confirmed that a warrant has issued for Grissom, 48, who is suspected in the brutal rape and murder of 37-year-old police officer Carol MacEnroe, earlier this evening. Members of the LVPD are attempting to gain entrance to the Grissom home, now, and we expect an arrest at any moment."

"Knock it down," Atwater ordered Officer Vince Fromansky.

Inside the otherwise quiet townhouse, a pair of tarantulas in a glass cage were the only living things moving. Grissom was sprawled out on his bed, wearing only his boxers and tank top, fast asleep and snoring softly. A fan sitting on the bedside table hummed, creating both a cooling breeze and white noise. The soft strains of Enya floated from a CD player. And next to the CD player, a half-bottle of sleeping pills, the lid tossed to the side, sat next to an empty water glass and Grissom's reading glasses. He never heard his front door being broken open. He never heard anyone enter his home, until he was dragged from his bed and slammed to the floor, face down.

Grissom, shocked into consciousness, blinded by bright flashlights and convinced he was being attacked by an intruder, lashed out, only to be beaten about the head and neck with clubs. Curling into a fetal position on the floor, he covered his head with his hands as the toe of a boot slammed into his ribs, cracking some of them. As he tried to turn away, another boot got him in the small of his back, and he yelled out in pain.

"Stop it!" a man directed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"He killed one of ours!" another voice protested.

"He IS one of ours," the first voice countered. "Now, cuff him and put him in the car, and I don't want to see another mark on him! Got that!"

"Yes, sir," someone said, grudgingly.

Grissom, forcing himself onto his knees, looked up into the hard- lined face of Fromansky.

"What the...?" he asked, struggling to breath as pain wracked his chest and back. "Why?"

"On your feet, Grissom," Fromansky ordered.

Two of the police officers grabbed the criminologist and pulled him into a standing position, then yanked his arms behind his back to cuff them. Pain drove through his chest and he doubled over. Gasping for air, Grissom tried to stand and focus in the dim light, but his vision became increasingly blurred as blood ran from a gash on his forehead and into his eyes.

"Fromansky! Why?"

The officer shook his head and looked unhappy.

"Sorry about this, Grissom. Just doing my job."

Without another word, Grissom was dragged through his apartment and down the steps -- barefoot, bleeding and still in his underwear -- into the view of police, neighbors, and the KVBC Channel 3 news. The enthusiastic reporter pushed through police and stuck his microphone at Grissom; the camera's spotlight blinded him. Grissom tried to duck the glaring light and hide his face, as the reporter yelled, "Did you do it, doctor? Did you kill her?"

Stumbling, Grissom didn't answer. A hand pushed his head down and his body was shoved into the back seat of the squad car. An officer in full gear joined him, and the car peeled off into the night.

Grissom, groaning in pain as he slumped in the seat, panicked. As his heart pounded in his ears, one question gripped his mind: Who was dead?

With Grissom gone, crime scene investigator Conrad Eckley ordered his crew into Grissom's home, to process for evidence.

"There you have it, folks," the reporter was saying into the camera. "Criminologist Gil Grissom has just been arrested for murder. For further updates, stay tuned to Channel 3, first in news."

The camera went dark, the crowd dispersed, and Eckley stood in the sanctuary of Grissom's home, scowling at tarantulas.

-- TBC --

(1) This is not a real address. Don't try to look it up!
(2) Source: Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CSI:_Crime_Scene_Investigation).