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Qui Quoi Où Êtes-Vous?

January 8, 2011

Samuel Beckett once wrote “In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.” And, while nobody really knows what that abysmal drunkard Mr Beckett was on about, in the landscape of forensic science, precision is key  And so it is, also, that precision is the watchword of the television script writer. Extraneous, unnecessary, or even redundant information is “from its mother’s womb untimely ripped”, as it were, and scattered to the four winds “like so many nickels and dimes”… Hmm, perhaps that could have been said better. Whatever the case, what I’m trying to say is: television script writers need to be concise. When they aren’t, scenes get excised, man. Scenes get cut.

This, O nobly-born, is one of those scenes.


We see CAPTAIN BRASS standing in the middle of an upscale hotel room, his head tilting slowly from side to side like a puzzled puppy in curiosity.

A CLEANING WOMAN sits moaning in a chair by the door under the watchful eye of a uniformed officer.

GIL GRISSOM enters carrying his heavy kit and approaches Brass who is too enraptured to notice his presence.

What’s the story?

Brass allows himself an additional moment of admiration before snapping back to business.

We see what he’s been looking at. On the bed, the corpses of a naked man and woman. The man lying on his back; the woman kneeling, knees planted on either side of the man’s head, her cheek pressed against the wall which holds her upright.

We’ve got a positive I.D. on the
female, name of Sunny Chiang. The
room is registered to her. We’re still
working on the male;
his driver’s licence was an obvious
fake. They were discovered by the
cleaning woman…

He looks at his notes for the name.

…one Lucinda Sagrado…or
Consagrado…there seems to be some
difficulty getting her name out of

He jerks a thumb at the woman in the chair who gives a look of surprise at Brass’ gesture, then speaks, becoming increasingly agitated.

¡No, no sagrado—consagrado!
¡Yo nunca daño a nadie! ¡Consagrado!


She leaps from her chair and runs shrieking out the door, passing CATHERINE WILLOWS who is on her way in.

The uniformed officer who was guarding the woman stands dumbfounded and Brass has to point toward the door before it sinks in that he should initiate pursuit.

I haven’t seen a woman run from a
room like that since Carrot Top
left town.

She looks at the corpses.

What do we have here?

Well, no signs of violence. The
lady’s purse and the guy’s wallet
are accounted for; and it appears
from their position that these two
died simultaneously.

“Simultaneously”. Considerate

(Catching Willows’ drift)
The French have a colloquialism for
orgasms: “La Petite Mort”. The
little death.

Yeah? What’s their colloquialism
for “irrelevant information”?

Grissom looks hurt.

Anyway, it looks like they ran into
Petite Mort’s ugly cousin Big Morty
during their trip around the sixty-
nine stations of the Kisokaido.
Cause unknown.

That’s not sixty-nine.

Brass gives him an impatient look.


That’s not sixty-nine.

I know it’s not sixty-nine, Cochise.
Trust me, I know sixty-nine.

Grissom and Willows both grimace at the unwelcome mental image.

Then why…?

This is CBS. If it ain’t
missionary, it’s kinky. You think
all those biddies watching this
show just ’cause it comes on after
“Murder, She Wrote” know what sixty-
nine is? It’s shorthand for kinky.
That’s all they know. That’s all
they want to know.

I think “Murder, She Wrote” went
off the air twenty years ago.

What are you trying to say, Gil?

Grissom shrugs.

Catherine walks to the bed, bends, and peers under the female corpse’s slightly upturned rear which she illuminates with her penlight.

Full lividity; suggests a T.O.D.
sometime last evening.

And here I thought the trip to
visit the in-laws for the holidays
was a long ride.

He pauses, then looks to the ceiling waiting for the theme music to kick in. It does not.

Judging by Grissom and Willows’ befuddled reaction to the line, this lack of theme music comes as no surprise to them.

Grissom clears his throat.

It appears this fellow liked his
sex Sunny side up.

Obviously, no theme music. Brass and Willows stare blankly.

…because her name is Sunny, see?

Really, Gil?

Oh, fucking bite me, Brass! It’s
better than yours.

Horseshit! Yours is just some cliché
you heard somewhere else and
repackaged to suit the situation!

Where? Where do you think I heard

I don’t know exactly, but it
definitely has a ring of
familiarity about it.

“A ring of familiarity”?

Certainly a lack of originality.

Enough, girls! I’ve got it.
Her name was Sunny and she
“set” on his face.

Brass and Grissom weigh this statement for a moment and then reluctantly nod their approval. The three of them stand waiting for the theme music. The silence becomes awkward, and then, just as Brass is about to speak, the theme music blasts.

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