Las Vegas after dark: a thousand colours, a million lights. Fountains and fireworks paint the desert, while the casinos flash and echo. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper, laughing crowds with painted smiles pack the street. On the horizon, the mountains stand silent sentinel.

South of the airport, a small, single bedroom house sits surrounded by laurel bushes. In the driveway a run-down Honda leaks oil. The yard is lit by headlights and strobing emergency flashers, red and blue. Yellow tape stretches around the perimeter.

Inside the house is dim. Red stains and puddles cover the walls, the floor, the furniture, spatters have even reached the ceiling. The air is thick with an acrid, metallic tang. A woman lies on the bed, dead, drained white as a sheet. A single drop of dried blood stains the corner of her mouth, otherwise there is no sign of injury.

The dining table, kitchen counter, sideboard and end table are covered in snackfood wrappers, ashtrays and empty bottles. Chips are spilled on the floor. On every surface there are glasses. They are filled with blood.

Grissom surveys the scene, then turns to face Brass: "Now could I drink hot blood, and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on".