Title: Perfects

Summary: The victims are unrelated. The MOs are identical. The crime scenes are perfect. The New York CSIs have no leads, no evidence, and no way to tell when the murders will begin again.

Rating: PG-13/FRT for violence, mild language.

A/N: Takes place sometime early in Season 3. No specific spoilers, but Sid, Peyton, and Angell are all present.

At 1:43 a.m., Leslie was just about to shut off her computer and head to bed when an IM from a familiar screen name popped up on her screen.

U still awake?

She smiled, rolled her eyes, and sat back down to type. going 2 bed now. Talk 2 u tomorrow?

It's sat. night babe, the IM shot back. u rly packing it in this early?

Sunday morning technically. got somewhere 2 be at 8.

that's not so early.

Leslie couldn't help but laugh to herself. Two years of grad school and seven all-nighters too many meant that she was one of the few people she knew who still had a concept of day and night.

yeah it is. good night.

night night. don't let the roaches bite.

XP thanks for the reminder.

And with that, at 1:45 a.m., Leslie snapped her laptop shut.

At 2:27 a.m., she was awakened by a knock on the door. It was barely enough to wake her, but whoever was knocking was insistent, pounding on the door until she could no longer ignore them.

"Just a second." She mumbled. The knocking continued. "I said wait a second! Jesus, Mike, that you?" She rubbed her eyes, flipped on her bedside light, and crawled miserably out of bed.

The steady rhythm of knocking slowed, became erratic. Leslie pulled on a sweater, undid the deadbolt, and opened the door.

"What do you wa –"

But there was a bullet in her brain before she could finish her sentence.

"Victim's named Leslie Crisham, twenty-three years old, grad student." Flack recited as he walked down the narrow, gloomy apartment hallway. "Her friends hadn't heard from her since Saturday, got worried, called the police…that's where we found her." As they reached the door he ducked under the crime scene tape, waited for Mac and Danny to do the same, and indicated the body on the floor.

Leslie, small and clad in sweatpants, lay splayed in the middle of her apartment, staring blankly at the ceiling past a bullet hole in her forehead. Peyton Driscoll was already beside her.

"No sign of forced entry, nothing disturbed, nothing taken." Flack continued. "And whoever killed her locked the door behind them."

"Doesn't look like she put up a fight." Mac commented, looking at the girl's frozen face.

"She probably didn't have much of a chance," Peyton replied, pulling her thermometer out of its sheath and sliding it precisely into Leslie. "Single through-and-through gunshot wound to the head. No other visible injuries, no bruising…nothing." She looked up at him. "I don't think she even knew what hit her. Liver temp and decomposition put time of death about three days ago."

"Consistent with when she dropped off her friends' radar." Mac turned to Flack as Danny pulled on his gloves. "You talk to the neighbors?"

"Most of them. Nobody heard anything, saw anything…nobody had any idea she was dead. Course, until I told 'em, a few didn't know there was anyone living in 414 in the first place."

"So she kept to herself. Would explain why it took so long for someone to report her missing."

"I don't know, Mac," Danny spoke up, giving the room a quick glance. "If she lived alone, didn't go out, didn't have any visitors, why's her apartment so tidy?"

"Neat freak?" Flack asked.

He shook his head, and opened the microwave door to demonstrate. "Neat freak who left ramen in the microwave for –" He gave the packaged noodles an experimental sniff. "– more than a week? Somebody cleaned this place up. Not just the crime scene, the whole room."

"Which means odds are we're out of luck with trace." Mac turned on his own flashlight. "Let's see if there's anything left."

But the tiny apartment was immaculate, save for the chilly ramen and a few tumbleweeds of dust lurking in the corners. Everything else had been wiped down, dusted, and put neatly back in its place. Books were stacked; chairs were pushed in; laundry was folded. Even the mirror was freshly wiped down.

"Somebody knew what they were doing." Danny turned back to the doorjamb, looking frustrated. "Place's spotless."

"And if nobody heard anything, that means either a whole lot of people are misremembering or the killer had a silencer." Flack looked down at the corpse.

"Professional?"

Flack raised an eyebrow. "Or a cleaning lady with a grudge?"