Life's Most Precious Cargo
Updated 2003-10-28 16:00:00
It's hot in Las Vegas. Who knew? In addition to the shimmering mirage-cam lens lending everything a slick yellow patina, a thousand babbling newscasters are carrying about how it's already 108 degrees, and people should stay hydrated, and those with food allergies should just avoid the sidewalks, as folks will be frying eggs on the concrete for the sheer fun of it.
We see a woman walking slowly to her car, holding a big ice-cream-and-coffee mess just in case we didn't realize it was hot, and she digs for her keys, she notices a baby strapped into a car seat one or two cars over. She heads over to the car to try to unlock it, but no dice. To the woman's credit, she immediately begins bellowing for help. Sure enough, a few passersby come on over, we establish that this isn't the good Samaritan's car, a male good Samaritan liberates a skateboard from its sullen teenaged owner, and as the woman keeps bellowing for help, he smashes the car window open. I sincerely hope that at least one of the people in the crowd has a cell phone and has thought to use it.
As the glass shatters inward, we see a little of it bounce off the rubbery arm of the "baby" -- we're in for an hour of weeping over a CPR dummy -- and then a shot of the giant, yellow sun in a hazy sky fills the screen. Oh, man, I need to get something to drink.
Once we transition from the sun, a thousand different Las Vegas police and rescue vehicles have filled the parking lot, and someone's wheeled in a pianist so they can hit the ivories in a particularly poignant matter. Gil and Catherine walk on over to the car -- bonus points to them for wearing hats to keep the sun off their heads, but maybe they should have considered a color other than black -- and Captain Exposition greets them from the passenger side by noting that the car's missing its registration, but "it's a shopping plaza -- mother can't be too far." Catherine takes off her sunglasses, makes an anguished face at the CPR dummy strapped within the car, and asks, "When are parents going to learn a car is not a babysitter?" Gil forgoes answering the question in anything resembling a Darwinian fashion; he points out instead that it's already 108 degrees outside. Brass opens the door and asks, "You want to document the inside temperature?" Gil sticks the thermometer in and closes the door again. After he does, Brass asks, "How many of those have we had this year?" Catherine's still making the sad face as she says, "I lost count after ten." Gil points out somewhat impatiently, "This one makes twelve."
Just then, the father of the "baby" comes through, asking all clueless, "What are they doing? Did somebody break into my car?" Of course. Don't the police always summon a lot of ambulances whenever a car window gets smashed, just in case the owner makes himself sick with distress? Unfortunately, identifying yourself as the owner of the car isn't going to do anything to endear you to this crowd. Brass turns around -- the look on his face is truly terrible -- and says, "Detective Brass, Las Vegas police. Sir, do you have a son?" The guy stares at him a moment, and then: "Oh, God! Joshua!" Catherine, who has been staring at the guy with disgust, suddenly gets a bad case of empathy. Gil is too busy to notice, since he's informing people that it's 145 degrees inside the car. The father clutches his head and gets all remorseful. Catherine's recovered from that case of parental empathy and is now giving him a shocked look. Gil, however, is glaring at the guy as if he'd like to strap him into a giant plastic seat and leave him to cook in a hot car for a while.