When Shadows Collide

by Burked

What happens when the victim and the perpetrator are both insane? Some GSR, mostly casefile.

Title:                 When Shadows Collide

Author:             Burked

Disclaimer:        I have no rights of ownership of anything relating to CSI.

Summary:         Who's insane: perpetrator or victim?  What happens when shadows collide?

A/N:                 Many thanks, as usual, to my beta-reader, Mossley – one of the best influences I have in life and in writing. Also, thanks to Psyched, who also betaed to ensure I didn't do anything psychologically stupid (in the story!). Whole sentences in italics are thoughts.

"Hey," Sara said with a compassionate smile, as she slowly approached the woman, not wanting to spook her or make her feel crowded.  "My name's Sara Sidle."  Sara was well-practiced at taking in a set of mental pictures, without looking like she was examining the injuries to the woman.  Soon enough, she hoped to be taking real photographs, but she knew that she needed to establish some bond of trust before she could process the victim.

"I heard the nurse call you Bess.  May I call you that?" Sara said asked, when she didn't receive any verbal response.  It was typical of people who'd been battered to be withdrawn, and Sara knew she'd have to lead the conversation, at least initially.

Go rest, Bess.  I'll take it from here.

No, you can't.  You're not supposed to be here.  It's a rule.

This is different, Bess.  The rules don't count right now.  This is a special circumstance.  You know that the pain won't bother me. 

Who let you out again?

They all did, Bess.  None of them can stand the pain.  But I can.  You know that.  That's why I'm out, just like before.  Now, go be a good girl and rest.

"I'd rather you not.  My name is Elizabeth Rudat," the woman said with no emotion, as though she were answering a business call.

"May I call you Elizabeth?"

"Sure.  Why not?  It's my name," the woman said dismissively.  "I'd like to go home now."

"That's not a good idea quite yet," the young intern said as he picked up the woman's chart and began to write.  "We've sutured the lacerations and have done x-rays, but you've sustained a great deal of injury, including to your head.  I'd like for you to be admitted, for overnight observation," he said quickly, without looking up from his notes. 

It was Saturday night in Las Vegas, and the Emergency Room was buzzing with activity.  The intern had the aura of one moving quickly, even as he stood still in her room, as though his body stayed in a state of perpetual torque, ready to spring into action.

"I've been hurt worse by students in my karate classes when I was younger.  They couldn't help it; they had no control," she muttered, as though she thought that she needed to defend the honor of her students.

Sara couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in reaction to Elizabeth's revelation.  The woman had not only taken martial arts, but had apparently been adept enough to teach as well.  Sara wondered how she had been so thoroughly beaten, even if she was out of practice.  After years of training, defending herself should have been instinctive. 

She quickly glanced at the woman's knuckles, the still-thickened skin verifying her story of having practiced martial arts, but also showing no offensive wounds.  It was evident that the woman hadn't hit her attacker, at least not with her hands.

Sara surmised that studying martial arts explained Elizabeth's unusual calmness.  She had thought maybe the woman was in shock, but she was still responsive.  Considering that she didn't appear upset or angry, Sara guessed that Elizabeth could turn off emotional pain as well.  She wished she knew how to do that.

"As far as the other injuries go," the doctor said, finally looking up at the bruised woman whose face and arms were pock-marked with gauze bandages, "I'd be inclined to agree with you.  But a head injury isn't something to mess around with.  A concussion can take hours to manifest, as the brain slowly swells."

"I'm familiar with the symptoms of concussion," the woman said, sliding off of the exam table.  "My daughter can call the paramedics if I exhibit them.  I have two children who are home alone right now.  I need to get back."

"Do you have any friends or family that you can call to stay with them tonight?  Or we could have Children's Services send someone," Sara suggested.

"I have to be there.  My son needs me there.  His big sister can only help so much.  He'll get scared if I'm not there soon."

"Are you a single parent?" Sara asked.

"Yes.  And I need to get home," the woman said resolutely, looking around for her clothes.  "I have responsibilities."

I have to meet my responsibilities.  It's an Important Rule.  We all have to meet the responsibilities that we have.  If you bring them into the world, you must take care of them.  You must do the best job you can do.  It's a rule.  An Important Rule. 

"Yeah, and you're not going to be able to meet those responsibilities if you've passed out from a concussion," the young doctor said abruptly.

"I'm fine.  And I can assure you that I am unusually aware of my mental processes at all times," Elizabeth said.  "Where are my clothes?"

The intern huffed out a frustrated breath and noted in the chart that the patient was discharging herself against medical advice.  He left as quickly as he had arrived, on to the next crisis.  He didn't have the time or the energy to argue with the woman.

"Elizabeth, I need for you to tell me what happened to you.  Can you do that?" Sara asked gently as the nurse busied herself gathering the surgical implements that had been used to repair the damage wrought during the assault.

"No."

Don't open your mouth, Bess.  Stay back where you were.  I'll get us home.  You can come back then.  Don't talk to them.

"I know that this is difficult.  I really do.  Everybody feels that way at first.  I'm here to help you, and you can trust me."

She's a stranger.  You know that we can't trust strangers.  They don't care anything about us, and they won't understand.

The woman turned slowly, gazing at Sara with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable for Sara to look at. 

"This isn't difficult in the least.  I appreciate what the doctor has done.  I appreciate what you're trying to do.  But I'm fine, and I want to go home," she said, wincing momentarily as she moved, but catching herself.  A steely resolve passed over her, turning her face and body as hard as stone.  She sucked in a deep breath and began looking around again.

"Where are my clothes?"

I have to get home.  I have responsibilities.  If the little one gets scared because I'm not there, it could be trouble.  It could take days to get him calmed down.  No one should have to be that scared.

"They're evidence," Sara said gently.  "We can get you a pair of scrubs to wear.  Or I've got a jumpsuit in my truck, but you're a lot smaller than I am."

"I'd like my own clothes back," Elizabeth said calmly, but forcefully.

"I'm sorry, but we have to keep them," Sara said, smiling apologetically.  "Like I said, they're evidence."

"Evidence of what?  I wasn't aware that I called the police," Rudat said icily. 

Bess, did you call the police?

No, Elizabeth, I swear I didn't.  I know better.  Really, I do.

Beth?  What about you?

I didn't do anything.  I wasn't involved.

That's right, so stay out of it.

"You didn't.  The emergency room personnel called when you were admitted.  It's evident that you've been beaten and, well, and ... assaulted.  Your clothes and the rape kit are evidence.  We need them to find the man or men who did this to you, and put them in prison where they belong."

"Good luck," Elizabeth said under her breath with a chuckle.  "I'd like to borrow some scrubs, if I might. I'll gladly pay for them."

He could be standing right here, right now, beating the hell out of me, and I wouldn't say a word.  They wouldn't believe me, anyway.

The nurse nodded and left the room, taking the tray of used surgical instruments with her.

Sucking in a breath, Sara winced as she looked at the bloody square of gauze across the woman's forehead, covering a two-inch gash that was held together by twenty stitches.  "That's gotta hurt."

Bringing a hand unthinkingly to her forehead, the woman shrugged.  "Not really."

"It seemed to hurt you when I first got here," Sara said with only a hint of challenge in her voice.

She knows, Elizabeth!  She can tell!

Shut up, Beth!  She doesn't know shit. 

"That was then.  This is now.  I can assure you that I'm fine now.  I have a very high pain threshold," the woman said, looking away.

"You must.  I'd be chasing that nurse down the hall, threatening her life if she didn't give me something for the pain," Sara said, cocking her head at the woman, watching her closely.

"Pain is just a message.  It can be ignored, like any other communication, once you know how," Rudat said in a voice that sounded like she was giving a lecture. 

"So I've heard," Sara said, nodding slightly.  "How does that work?"

"Don't fight it.  That's the mistake most people make.  Give in to the pain and acknowledge it.  Once it's done its job, it's no longer necessary.  If it continues, you route it all to one part of your mind, and close it off from the rest," she said, as though it was a simple and obvious process that anyone could do.

"Now that you're feeling better, maybe you can tell me something about what happened."

"No, actually I can't," Rudat said, holding out her hands for the scrubs that the nurse handed her.  "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to change in private."

See!  I told you!  I told you that you should have been more careful!  What if they see what you've done to your back?  What if they see?  They'd think you're crazy.  They'd think you did all the rest of this to yourself.

Shut up!  I told you all that I was sorry.  I got a little carried away.  But the pain was necessary to make the other pain go away.  You replace pain with pain.  You know that.  You all know that.  But none of the rest of you has the guts to do it, so don't get pissy with me.  I just did what needed to be done.  If any of you can do a better job, then bust your ass out here and do it!

Sara turned and looked at the nurse in frustration, only to see the ennui of someone who sees too much every day to be surprised by anything.

"Okay.  Well, if you think of anything, or even just want to talk, here's my card," Sara said, holding it out.  When Elizabeth pointedly ignored it, fiddling instead with the ties on her hospital gown, Sara set the card down on the gurney next to her.

She's gone, thank God.  They're all gone.  You need to go back, Elizabeth, before you get us in trouble.

I'm not going to get anyone in trouble.  We've got enough trouble right now.  But I'm not going back yet, because I know for a fact that none of you could tolerate this pain, and you know we can't take any medicine for it. 

Why doesn't the pain bother you, Elizabeth?  Why are you so strong that way?

Because I have to be.  Someone had to be.  Someone has to take it all so that the rest of you don't have to.

Elizabeth, do you care about us?

No.  Go rest, Bess.

* * * * *

"Where have you been?" Night Shift Supervisor Gil Grissom asked as he and Sara met when the hallways they were striding down converged.

"The hospital.  The ER called the cops when a woman showed up on her own, beaten half to death and raped."

Grissom exhaled deeply, knowing nothing he could say would seem appropriate to the situation.  What can one say to the abominable cruelty and humiliation that one person can inflict on another?

"She's not talking," Sara said heavily.  "Doesn't seem interested in pressing charges, even if we find the guy."

"Maybe she's just in shock.  Being beaten is bad enough without being raped as well.  That's a lot to process.  Give her a little time," Grissom said with unusual compassion, drawing a sideways glance from Sara.

"You know we don't have much time.  Evidence is time-sensitive.  The guy could be on his way out of town this minute.  Or he could rape someone else tomorrow," she said in frustration.

"No one's saying not to process the evidence you have," Grissom said.  "With any luck, his DNA is in CODIS and you can have him picked up.  Maybe once he's in custody, she'll feel more like cooperating."

"If she feels anything at all," Sara breathed out as they reached the door to his office.  Grissom moved straight through, rounding his desk to sit down.  Sara hung back at the door.

"What do you mean?" Grissom asked, furrowing his brows.

"She's not in shock, according to the nurse.  But she doesn't seem to feel any pain.  She's not angry, or upset.  You'd think that she just stubbed her toe instead of having the hell beaten out of her."

"Some people don't show their pain on the outside."

"Yeah, but earlier she was crying and practically begging for medication.  Then, when it got there, she didn't want it anymore."

"Maybe it took her a little while to get control over it," Grissom suggested.  "Some people can completely block out pain, but it doesn't mean that they don't feel it.  They've just trained their minds to not react to it the same way."

"That's what she said.  It was weird.  It was like watching someone transform themselves right in front of my eyes.  One minute she's compliant, in pain, and crying.  She was obviously very upset over what had happened to her.  Over the next few minutes, she became calm.  By the time they were finished with her, she was the Rock of Gibraltar.  She said she used to teach martial arts."

"People who study Zen learn to control pain and their emotions like that," Grissom said. 

"How long have you been studying it?" Sara asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Grissom cleared his throat, unsure whether he should take Sara's query as a straightforward question, a compliment, or a criticism. 

"I've been interested in it for a while.  It's a way to find some ... peace ... when you're feeling upset," he finally answered.

"Maybe I should become a Buddhist," Sara said, turning to leave.

"Sara," Grissom called out, stopping her egress.  "You can't save the whole world.  I respect that you want to, but you just can't.  No one can.  If this woman doesn't want any part of this, there's nothing you can do.  I'm not saying not to try.  But I'm saying there may a point where you'll need to decide to let it go.  You can't hound the poor woman into submission.  She's been through enough."

"You know, if I didn't know better, that would almost sound like compassion," Sara noted dryly.  "But what about having compassion for the other women he'll beat and rape?"

Grissom stared, tapping the end of his pencil unconsciously against the desk.  "So, what do you suggest?"

"If the rape kit comes back positive for semen, I'd like to go see her again.  But here's where I need your support:  I want Dr. Kane to go with me.  There's something going on here.  Something more than the usual post-traumatic stress.  I'd like Dr. Kane to evaluate her, without her knowing it, if possible."

"He can't evaluate her without her consent.  But he might be able to give you an informed opinion.  I don't really know.  And I don't know if I can swing it, but I'll try," Grissom agreed, to her surprise. 

She had expected to have to push to have Kane involved, but she realized that Grissom hadn't been as difficult to work with lately.  If anything, she'd have to admit that he'd been fairly accommodating ever since he'd given his recommendation for Nick to get the promotion to Lead CSI, instead of her.  For a brief moment, she considered that it was almost worth losing the recommendation.

* * * * *

Sara strode resolutely into Grissom's office near the end of the shift, this time not stopping at the door.

"Did you talk to Dr. Kane?" she asked, holding up a folder that Grissom assumed held the preliminary results of the rape kit.

"Yes.  He said that, under the circumstances, he'd rather a female forensic psychologist do it.  He gave me a name," Grissom said, shuffling through the papers on his desk, looking for the small scrap of paper.

"We hit the jackpot," Sara said, obviously excited.  "Not only was there semen, but he's a secretor.  Blood type is AB-negative.  We've also got pubic hairs.  We've got DNA material everywhere, and this guy's going to have a hell of a time saying it's a false positive, considering his rare blood type."

"You've got the crime and the evidence.  Now all you need is a suspect and a victim," Grissom said wryly.

"If you could find that number, I might be able to get the victim," Sara countered, smirking.

"Dr. Madeline Simms," Grissom read out as he held the small slip of paper up triumphantly.  "Let's give her a call."

"Hey, Grissom, I want you to know that I really appreciate this," Sara said sincerely, though with a soupçon of surprise.

He shrugged and smiled briefly as he picked up the phone.

* * * * *

"May I help you?" she asked as she stood partly behind her front door, looking briefly at the ID badges suspended around the two women's necks.

Why are they here?  Don't tell them anything, Beth!  If you do, you'll get us all in trouble.  If you don't care anything about the rest of us, then think of the children.  Who's going to raise our kids?  Who's going to help Chris when he gets scared?

"Elizabeth, do you remember me?  I was at the Emergency Room last night," Sara said, smiling warmly.

The woman looked at her for a moment, then nodded. 

"This is Madeline.  She works with me.  We'd like to talk to you a few minutes, if we can."

"Hello, I'm Beth," she said to the middle-aged black woman who was a bit taller than she was, but not so tall as Sara.  Madeline began to extend her hand, but aborted the effort when she noticed Beth stiffen and lean away ever so slightly.

Sara pushed back her confusion at the woman introducing herself as 'Beth' after she'd specifically told Sara to call her by the more formal 'Elizabeth', and she could have sworn the nurse said 'Bess'.  But perhaps she'd misheard, and 'Beth' may have seemed too personal and familiar for a stranger to call her in her time of crisis.

The door swung open, and Beth ushered the two women into the living room, where it was evident that she'd been resting on the couch.  A video was playing on the television, the sound muted.

"Who's here, Mom?" a teenaged voice called out.  Sara could read a sense of concern in the voice that was soon followed by a girl who looked younger than her fourteen years, but acted older.

"Just some people that want to talk to me about what happened.  It's okay," Beth said, letting the girl hug her briefly, then pulling away.  "We don't get many visitors, so it's notable when someone's here," she explained to the two women.

Sara assumed that the contact hurt, knowing that Elizabeth had extensive upper-body bruising.  She watched as the woman reached out to lovingly touch the side of the young girl's face, bringing a smile. 

"Run along, now.  I'll be fine," she told the girl, returning the smile.

The girl looked at her mother and then at the two strangers uncertainly.  "Okay, I'll be in my room, if you need me," she said, slowly withdrawing.

"She's a little protective," Beth said.  "I guess it comes from being a big sister."  The woman eased herself down onto the couch.

Sara and Madeline sat down in the chairs that framed the couch when a smaller bundle of energy blew into the room.

"Mom!  Mom!  Mom!"  The smaller child exhaled the name repeatedly as he bounded into the room, plopping unceremoniously down on the couch next to his mother.  Sara would have thought him to be in grade school, but considering the small size of his mother and big sister, he could be older.

"What is it?" the woman asked quietly, making a hand gesture that obviously meant for the child to calm down.

The child started to recount something he'd just seen on TV that struck him as funny, his mother smiling and nodding as she listened, holding and caressing the child as though it didn't hurt her at all now.

Once his story was told, the child merely said, "Loving you," and ran back out of the room.  The woman closed her eyes briefly once the child was gone, breathing deeply as though she was calming herself.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "He's a little excitable."

"Don't you wish we had the energy kids do?" Sara asked.

"I'm not sure you'd feel the same way, if you really did," the woman said enigmatically.  "That much energy is hard to control.  You have to do something with it, or it'll drive you crazy."

"Beth, we just wanted to see how you're doing, and whether you remembered anything that could help us find the person who hurt you."

"As you can see, I'm fine.  And there's nothing I can do to help you," the woman said, smiling apologetically.  "I really have little or no memory of what happened."

"Can you tell us the last thing you do remember?" Madeline said gently, her low voice resonating warmly.

Be careful, Beth!

I can't lie.  It's a rule.

Yeah, but you don't have to tell them everything.  It's not the same as lying.  They're strangers.  Don't talk to strangers.  That's a rule, too.

But it's an Unimportant Rule.  Not lying is an Important Rule.  You know that.

Don't get anything started that someone else is going to have to finish, Beth.  We're serious. 

"I was coming home from work.  I think I stopped at the store, or something like that," the woman said, her forehead furrowed in thought.

"Did you remember which store?" Sara asked.

"No.  I would assume the grocery store that I always go to just down the street.  I don't go a lot of places.  Work.  The grocery store.  A few other places that we have to go to," she said unevenly.  She tried to say the words as though they had no significance, but her body language said otherwise.

"Did you go into the store?"

"I don't remember," the woman said, shrugging.

"I understand that you used to teach martial arts.  I've always found them interesting, though I don't think I could do it.  I'm too uncoordinated," Madeline said, chuckling.

"Martial arts could help you with that," the woman said.

"What rank were you?" Sara followed up.

"First brown.  In the system I was training in, it took about five years of consistent training to reach black belt.  I was due to test for my first dan black belt when I got pregnant with Lizzie and had to stop.  I never made it back," Beth said.

That wasn't you.  It was me.  You could never be that focused.  You could never make the physical and mental commitment.  You could never take the pain.

Do you want me to tell them it was you?

No, of course not.  But don't carry on about it like you even have a clue.

"So you trained almost five years?"

"Yes," she said, nodding.

"Beth, don't take this wrong.  I'm just asking so that I can piece together what happened.  I don't mean it as any sort of criticism, okay?"

"Okay," the woman said slowly, steeling herself.

"I noticed that you don't have any wounds on your knuckles, which would lead me to believe that you didn't fight your attacker.  All of your injuries are defensive, not offensive.  Can you explain that?  Did he maybe surprise you and subdue you before you had a chance to react?"

"I have no idea," the woman said nervously, obviously hiding something. 

That's the damned truth!  If I had been there, that guy would still be coughing up his balls after I shoved them down his throat.  But she didn't do shit, did she? Do I have to do everything for all of you?  Can't just one of you stand up for yourself?

She was hurt.  She was scared.  She didn't know what to do.  Why didn't you help?

I did.

That was later.

It was the best I could do.  I can't always be there instantly, especially when one of you is upset and won't get out of the way.  Believe me, she should be glad she weren't there for the part I was.

I'm glad, and I'm sure she is, too.  Thank you, Elizabeth.  You do care about us, don't you?

No.  Quit asking me that.

"Like I said, I'm just trying to get a mental picture of how this happened to you," Sara assured her.

"I can't help you with that.  I'm sorry.  And, even if I could, I couldn't.  It's hard to explain."

Careful.  Too much information.

"I'd like you to try to explain it," Madeline said, leaning forward a bit.

"Even if I remembered what happened, it wouldn't help.  No one would believe me," the woman said, looking anxiously between the two confused women.

"We'd believe you," Sara assured her.

No they wouldn't.  They'd laugh at you behind your back.  Or they'd put you in the hospital.  They've tried that before, remember? 

"You might.  You might not.  But I wouldn't be able to testify in court.  I might not remember then.  It's hard to explain," she said again, looking down at her hands that fiddled restlessly in her lap.

"Are you saying that you have some sort of problem with memory?" Madeline probed.

"Something like that," Beth said, obviously becoming more agitated.

Shut up, Beth!

"Do you know why you can't remember things?" Madeline pressed.

"Yes.  I know why," she nodded, her breathing picking up pace, showing her anxiety.

"Why?" Madeline asked gently.

Beth, I swear to God, if you tell her, I'll make sure you never come out again.  I swear.  You don't tell about us to strangers.  It's one of the most Important Rules.

"It's just how I am," the woman shrugged, looking up briefly, then back down, unable to maintain eye contact with either of the women.

"Are you doing anything about it?" Madeline asked gently, looking over for a moment at Sara, who was obviously lost, but knew enough to not ask any of her own questions at the moment.

"Yes.  We're working on it," the woman said, nodding.

We?  We? Listen to yourself!

"Good," Madeline said, adding a warm smile.  "Been working on it long?"

"Off and on for about twenty years.  But no one understood.  We think we found someone who understands now," Elizabeth said cryptically, though Madeline seemed to understand what she was talking about.

What's this 'we' shit?

"That's good.  It's like anything else.  You've got to find the right person to work with.  Someone you can trust."

"Yeah.  We trust her."

Watch out, dumb ass!  Quit saying 'we'!  If you can't do this without screwing up, then shut your mouth.

"Good.  I'm glad you found someone you can trust.  It still may take a while.  You know that, right?"

"Yeah.  She told me," Beth said heavily, very purposefully using the singular.

"If you need someone to talk to, and you can't reach her for some reason, you can call me," Madeline said, handing Elizabeth her card, which revealed that she was a psychologist for the Las Vegas Police Department.

Madeline stood, indicating to Sara that it was time to leave.  Beth led them back to the door, pointedly moving a few feet around them, just far enough that they wouldn't be able to touch her.

* * * * *

"Wow, if I didn't see her with my own eyes, I wouldn't have thought that was the same woman I saw twelve hours ago," Sara said to Dr. Simms as they got back into Sara's SUV.

"Maybe it wasn't," Dr. Simms said evenly, buckling her seat belt.

"Are all psychologists purposefully vague?  Do you take courses in it?" Sara asked with a grin.

"Yes.  I have six graduate hours in Vagueness.  They're a prerequisite to the classes in Answering Questions with Questions," Dr. Simms answered dryly.  "We don't actually learn anything about how the mind operates, since no one really knows.  We mostly take classes in making people confused enough about what we say that they can read anything into it they want.  Most people actually help themselves.  We're just there to make them feel supported."

"I always suspected as much," Sara said.  "But, seriously, what do you think of Elizabeth Rudat?  What does she mean when she says she honestly can't help?  Is she just being uncooperative?  And why isn't she angry, or sad, or in pain?  I don't get it."

"Perhaps she's dissociated," Dr. Simms offered.  "She doesn't recall the event, so there's no trauma associated with it, nor any pain."

"You can do that?" Sara asked, incredulous.

"I can't," Dr. Simms answered literally, "but other people can, and do.  An event is too overwhelming for the mind to process, so it chooses not to.  It happens a lot to children, since they don't have the experience to cope with that much stress."

"Yeah, but she's a grown woman.  She's 39 years old."

"Maybe she has some prior experience with dissociation," Dr. Simms theorized.

"Like what?  What are we talking about here?  You mean, like being in some of abusive situation?"

"Could be.  Or some other traumatic event earlier in her life.  Or, it's always possible that she has a disorder that allows, or rather causes, dissociation.  She's evidently in therapy."

"Like what?" Sara asked, finding that each new piece of information was clouding the issue rather than clarifying it.

"There are different mental disorders that involve dissociation and memory loss."

"She seemed normal enough to me, other than not remembering the attack, and that's pretty common," Sara offered, realizing that she was sharing an untrained psychological assessment with a trained forensic psychologist.

"Um-hm," Dr. Simms intoned, looking out of the window contemplatively.  "The operative word there is 'seemed.'  Sara, even if someone wants you to know and understand their problem, it can take a long time to establish a trust level sufficient to be able to make a clear diagnosis of a psychological condition.  If she doesn't want anyone to know, and she's rational, then I could observe her the rest of my life and still not be sure what's going on in her head."

"So, what do I do?  How can I convince her to help us?" Sara asked.

"You can try to gain her trust, but that doesn't mean she'll cooperate," Dr. Simms warned.  "You told me about how she behaved at the hospital.  The woman we just saw doesn't mesh with your description.  My advice would be to call her, or approach her, at different times, on different days.  You might get a different result."

"You mean let her think about it?  Maybe she'll change her mind?" Sara asked as they pulled into the parking lot of the lab.

"No, not exactly," Dr. Simms said, turning to Sara and giving her a grin.  "Though you could make a case that her mind changes," Simms said, chuckling at her private joke.  "Think about it.  When you got to the hospital, you saw a frightened, hurting person who was compliant and willing to undergo treatment, tests, and the rape kit.  Within minutes, she'd changed completely.  The woman we just spoke to was pleasant and cooperative, loving towards her children, but completely unable to help us in any way.  Are you seeing a pattern here?  Or rather, the lack of a pattern?"

"I don't think so.  Hey, it may be obvious to you because you're a psychologist.  What is it that you see?"

"Like I said, it would take a lot more observation to know, but I'd hazard a working hypothesis that she's got a dissociation disorder, perhaps even Dissociative Identity Disorder.  Did you notice that she referred to herself a few times in the plural, using 'we'."

"No, I guess I didn't notice.  What the hell is Dissociative Identity Disorder?" Sara asked.

"It's what they used to call Multiple Personality Disorder," Dr. Simms answered.  The DSM-IV – that's the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders – renamed it to be more inclusive.  In some cases the sufferers of the disorder do have multiple fully formed personalities.  But often, it's more of a fractured single personality, where each role operates fairly independently, instead of forming a single consciousness."

"You lost me on that last part," Sara admitted.

"Okay, think of it this way.  Different areas of your brain are responsible for different functions, right?"

"Yeah."

"And they all have their own perspective and way of processing the information that they specialize in."

"Okay, I'm with you so far."

"Our minds put all of that data input, if you will, into a single consciousness.  There's normally a single internal monologue."

"Sometimes I argue with myself," Sara said with a grin.

"That's not the same as having more than one personality.  That's just one consciousness looking at two sides of an issue.  In people with DID, it could actually be an argument between two entities, with separate consciousnesses."

"Okay.  So you're saying she could by like that movie, Sybil, where the lady had something like a one or two dozen personalities?"

"She could.  But those were distinct personalities, with different names, different ages, different everything.  And they weren't aware of each other.  Not all DID victims are like that.  Some have a fractured personality, like I explained, but they are all aware that they are the same person in a sense.  And they may even be aware of each other, due to the necessity of working together, since the personalities are not whole by themselves."

"How do you get like that?"

"It's theorized that it's a post-traumatic stress reaction, from either a life-threatening situation as a child, or a pattern of abuse.  The personality split could be from damage during a formative period, or it could be a survival mechanism.  The victim copes by dissociating from what happened, splitting it off.  In the process, there's a general dissembling of the personality."

"How can people like that function?  How can she possibly take care of her kids if she's operating as different people all the time?" Sara asked, shaking her head.

"Well, some have a difficult time, obviously, especially if they have separate whole personalities.  However, you'd be surprised at the skills they develop to be able to function without other people knowing.  People who know them may see them as being moody, and they may try not to have close enough relationships for people to get a good bead on their personality.  That way, no one can tell when they've switched.  She may exhibit more than one personality, but that doesn't mean that they don't all recognize the responsibility of caring for her children."

"Okay, let's put this all together," Sara said, exhaling.  "One personality of Elizabeth Rudat was there for the attack.  I guess it's the one that went to the ER.  I think the nurse called her 'Bess.'  Then I met a tough cookie named 'Elizabeth.' Then we've seen another one now, called 'Beth.'  She can't help, because she wasn't the one attacked.  Is that right?"

"Possibly.  Or she realizes that they wouldn't be believed.  Think about it.  Is she going to go into court and testify that she "saw" the attack?  And yet, unless the original victim surfaces, that's all the alters, as they're called, could really do.  They weren't out at the time, though they might have been aware on some level of what the victim was enduring.  And how credible would she be considered as a witness?  She'll be labeled as being mentally ill, possibly even unfit to testify.  She probably knows that.  Why should she go through that?"

"That's ridiculous.  We have evidence.  She's a walking bruise.  If we get a DNA match, it's more conclusive than personal testimony anyway.  Why should her condition matter?" Sara asked.

"It shouldn't.  But it might.  It probably will.  Not only that, but what if it gets into the news?  I don't think you're aware of what you'd be asking her to risk, Sara.  All of this is conjecture, of course.  I can't be sure that's even what we're dealing with," Dr. Simms reminded her.

"So I've really got more than one victim, in a sense," Sara said contemplatively.

"In a sense," Dr. Simms agreed.  "And it's probably not the first time she's been a victim.  Did you notice that she avoided being touched, and even had to regroup after her kids touched her?  That isn't from just this one attack."

"Except the little kid.  She touched him a long time."

"But it affected her.  There's some reason she let the little one touch her.  Maybe she knows that the child needed it.  But I could tell that it was still difficult for her." 

"Great.  So I'm dealing with a woman with multiple personalities who can't stand to be touched.  Anything else wrong with her?"

"I have no idea.  But maybe you can see why she won't come forward.  You're on her side, and already you're talking about what's 'wrong with her'," Dr. Simms said with a hint of reproach.

* * * * *

"Why do they do it?  How can they do it?" Grissom asked, pouring them both a drink.

"I don't know, Gil," Catherine answered heavily.

"I mean, there are people out there who would kill to have kids, and then people like the Bentleys kill the kids they have.  I just don't get it."

"I don't either.  If they don't want them, they should give them up."

"I'll never have children," he sighed, washing the words back down with the smoky, brown anesthetic.

Catherine looked at him, her face a mixture of stunned confusion and compassion.  She had never thought of him in those terms, since he had never had a serious relationship in all the time she had known him, some 15 years.

"I'm the last male in my family, so I guess this is the end of our line," he added, leaning his head back on the couch.  "Not that it's all that distinguished of a line," he added sullenly, thinking of his father's shady past, since he knew nothing of his present.

"Why do you think it's too late?  That's the thing about men;  you can sire children almost to the day you die.  Look at Pablo Picasso."

"I wouldn't want my kids to be the butt of jokes about how old their father is.  Not to mention that I probably wouldn't be around for very much of their lives."

"So it's better to not have them at all?  You could give them more love in the years you probably have left than other people do in almost a lifetime.  You just have to make up your mind to do it."

"I know they've come a long way in biotechnology, Catherine, but I believe it still takes two people to accomplish this," he huffed out.

"Yeah, and your point is?" she asked, her face becoming slightly accusing.

"Evidently, I'm not husband or father material.  Even humans are guided somewhat by natural selection.  If one gets to be my age and hasn't been selected, that should tell him something."

"In your case, it should tell you that you're being stubbornly blind," she said.  "You've been selected, but you won't do anything about it."

"She's too young," he said heavily, pouring himself another drink and downing it in one gulp before refilling his glass.

"Well, someone your own age certainly wouldn't be able to have kids," Catherine countered.

"That's why I'm saying it's too late to have kids," he said, studying the skewed reflection of his face in the smooth surface of an ice cube floating on top of the drink.

"If that's what you choose, so be it, but don't whine.  It's not like you're being prevented from having what you want.  You're choosing to walk away from it."

"There's no guarantee that she even wants kids," he said, trying to bolster his position.

"You'll never know unless you ask."

"Catherine, just a couple of months ago I turned down an offer for dinner with her.  I can't very well walk up to her now and ask her if she wants children," he snorted.

"It could come up in conversation, just like it did with us."

"She and I don't talk much anymore, other than what's necessary for our work."

"You could change that," Catherine suggested.

"I'm afraid to.  And, besides, what if she doesn't want kids?" he mused.

"Then you're no worse off than you are now, are you?"

"No, I guess not," Gil said unemotionally, suddenly leaning forward.  "Catherine, I think it's too late.  I've burned every bridge between us."

"Build a new one," she said nonchalantly.

"I'm not very good at that," he admitted.

"Look, you did it before with Sara.  Just do it again," she urged.

"That was a long time ago, and we were both different then."

"Gil, no more excuses, okay?  You need to think, really think, about what you want out of life.  Then do it.  If you don't want her, then leave her the hell alone.  If you do want her, well, I don't think it would be all that hard or take all that long to build that bridge.  Hell, you could just quit tearing up the bridges she builds."

"I've been thinking a lot about that in the past few weeks, to be honest," Grissom said.

"That case really got to you, didn't it?"

"Which one?" Grissom asked, feigning ignorance.

"You know which one," Catherine chided him.  "It was spooky.  She looked so much like Sara."

"And she was killed by her middle-aged workaholic ex-boyfriend, because he couldn't stand the loss.  He cracked."

"Sara's not at all like Debbie.  And you're not at all like Dr. Lurie.  Yeah, some of the circumstances are similar, and I can see why it creeps you out.  But she'd never do that to you, and you'd never do that to her."

"I was lucky.  She threw me over for some young guy before things got as involved as it did for Lurie.  It wasn't as traumatic."

"Don't go there, Gil.  I'm serious.  It wasn't the same at all.  Debbie was involved with Lurie, and fell for another guy.  But she was already a player.  Sara's not like that.  And she wasn't involved with you when she started seeing Hank.  So don't even act like she knew anything about all this trauma you supposedly went through.  If you had been involved, she wouldn't have given him a second look."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do.  She was just settling for something instead of nothing.  People get lonely.  Damn, she'd been here for two years, without a single date, as far as I can tell.  Exactly how much longer did you expect her to wait?"

"I don't know," Grissom said, shaking his head.  "I was trying to decide what to do.  I wasn't even sure she was interested.  What if I had asked her out and she took it as sexual harassment?  That's it – my career would be over."

"You know better now.  You know that she's interested."

"I know she was, before.  I don't know about now.  I've done everything I could to distance myself."

"How did you feel when you saw Debbie lying on that bathroom floor?"

"It made me feel sick on the inside.  Even though I knew it wasn't Sara, I couldn't seem to separate them."

"I was watching you when you came out of the house.  The first thing you did was look at Sara."

"I had to assure myself that she was all right."

"Gil, I'm not sure I should tell you this.  Oh, hell, I might as well.  Can't screw things up any worse than they already are."

"What?"

"I think that she knew.  You did everything you could to keep her away from Debbie and from you when you were working the case, but she saw Debbie.  She said that she didn't really look at her face, but you should have seen Sara.  She was lying to me.  She doesn't lie worth a damn.  I can see why she so rarely tries it."

"So," Grissom said, shrugging bravely.  "She knows the victim bore a remarkable resemblance to her.  That doesn't mean that she knows anything about my feelings."

"This is the part I shouldn't tell you," Catherine said, taking three big gulps of her scotch whisky, steeling herself.

Grissom looked at her expectantly.

"She was there, Gil.  When you were talking to Lurie, she was in the observation room.  You'd been keeping her on the fringe of the case, and she probably just wanted to know what was going on.  You didn't have her doing anything else, so I guess she went by to watch the interrogation."

"Oh my God," Grissom said, lowering his face into his hands.  "How do you know?"

"I saw her coming out.  She walked right past me like I wasn't there.  I cornered Jim and asked him what had happened, and I put two and two together."

"Great.  So you know, Jim knows, Sara knows.  Should I just put a transcript in the departmental newsletter?"

"Hey, it's your own fault.  You shouldn't have gone in there after working three days with no sleep and only one meal.  You're the one who decided to confront both the suspect and your own demons in front of other people."

"She hasn't said anything about it," Grissom said hopefully.

"I imagine it took some time to process.  She's still probably trying to decide what it all means – what, if anything, she should do."

"She shouldn't do anything," Grissom said heavily.

"I mean about her life, not necessarily about you.  It's not all about you, Gil," Catherine said with a slight slur.

"Oh.  You think she'll leave?" he asked, trying to sound unaffected.

"I would.  But then, I'd have left your ass a long time ago.  So, no, she probably won't.  She's stubborn.  I like that about her, even though it drives me crazy sometimes."

The two friends took another healthy swig from their drinks, each allowing themselves and the other to become lost in their own thoughts.

* * * * *

The three sat in Grissom's office, the door closed to keep out the distraction of the constant activity of the lab.

Sara had just finished going over the case file with Grissom and Detective Brass, both men quietly contemplating all the facts and theories that Sara had so passionately presented.

"We've got to do something," she finally said, with exasperation.

"If she doesn't want to press charges, and won't testify, what exactly do you expect me to do?" Brass asked, cocking his head toward her.

"I want you to arrest him," Sara said in shocked frustration.  "The semen sample got a hit on CODIS.  Evan McCloud.  He's a known sex offender.  Why is this so hard?"

"Because I can't hold him if she doesn't press charges," Brass explained as gently as he could, though his own frustration was showing.

"Sara," Grissom started off, pausing briefly when she spun her head around to peer at him, almost accusingly.  "Look, if Dr. Simms' theory is right, I don't think you understand what you're asking her to do.  We sometimes see crimes against mentally ill homeless people, right?  There's little we can do.  They don't trust us, and even if they did, how could they testify?  They're not competent."

"She's not insane.  I've been doing some research," Sara said, flipping through a deep stack of papers in her lap.  "Dissociative Identity Disorder isn't exactly a mental illness so much as it's a mental injury.  She's not irrational.  She's just fragmented, with different identities handling different aspects of her life.  She's functional.  She's got a well-paying job that she's had for years, and two kids that she's raising all by herself.  She couldn't do that if she was insane."

"Okay, okay, let's look at that a minute," Brass suggested, holding up a hand to interrupt her.  "Most of the people we see with any sort of emotional problem that severe don't have that kind of successful life.  She's obviously learned to work around her problem.  She has a relatively normal life, at least in ways.  Evidently, no one except her therapist knows she's got this multiple personality thing going.  You think she's going to get up on the stand and tell the world?"

"She's managed to dissociate from the attack.  In a way, it's like it never happened," Grissom said softly, trying to placate Sara.  "It's just how her mind works.  She doesn't remember it, or at least the personalities you've seen don't remember it.  You're asking her to risk the life she's worked so hard to build to do something about an attack she doesn't even remember."

"He's a known sex offender.  He's done this before, and he'll do it again.  We've got to get him off the street," Sara said resolutely.

"You're right.  He'll do this again.  And maybe we can put him away then," Brass said, not meaning to sound as apathetic as he did.

"What!?  You're just going to let him do this to someone else, and hope you can catch him then?" Sara shouted incredulously.

"Sara, you're acting like I have a choice in this," Brass said defensively.

"You do.  When people who aren't competent are victims, the state can press charges on their behalf," Sara said.  "Criminals don't get a free pass to victimize them, just because they aren't competent."

"Sara, you're missing the point," Grissom told her.  "If the DA presses charges on her behalf, she'll be seen by the world as being incompetent.  Is that what you want?  It's obviously not what she wants.  She is competent, at least as a person.  But she's not credible as a witness."

"Why not?  She's not delusional.  At least one of her personalities knows what happened to her.  She didn't make up those injuries."

"Jim, will you excuse us a minute?" Grissom asked. 

Brass was only too glad to escape the building pressure-cooker atmosphere in the office.  The two CSIs sat alone in an uncomfortable silence, then Grissom walked around the desk to take the chair Brass had been using, turning it to face Sara instead of his desk.

"It's time to let this go," Grissom said in a voice just over a whisper, leaning over to try to make eye contact with her, as she hung her head.

"I can't.  Someone's got to speak up for her," Sara said.

"She can speak for herself.  She's telling you to let it go.  You need to respect her wishes."

"We need to get this scum off the streets," Sara countered angrily.

"I know.  And we will, eventually.  But not today.  It's not fair, but everyone who's a victim of a crime that gets to court has to relive it, to be victimized again.  But this time is different.  This time, the victim is risking much more.  I'm not trying to minimize what's already happened to her.  But does she also have to give up everything she's worked for, just to meet your expectations of her responsibility to society?  What about her responsibility to herself?  To her children?"

"What about the next woman he rapes?  How will she feel when it happens again, to somebody else?"

"She may feel heartbroken.  She may feel nothing.  But it's not your place or my place to make that decision for her.  How will she feel when she loses her job because the people she's worked alongside for years suddenly think she's crazy?  How will she feel if her ex-husband, or even the state for that matter, tries to take her children, claiming she's incompetent as a mother?  It won't matter to anybody that she's had that job for years and has raised her kids halfway to adulthood."

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Sara asked, her eyes filling with tears.

"From what you've told me, I'm sure that the woman would help if she could.  But she can't.  The risk is greater than the reward, and we don't have any way to understand how she's coping with knowing what's on both sides of the balance."

"You understand, though, don't you?" Sara said, examining Grissom's eyes.

"I'm trying to," he said unevenly.

"No, I think you already do.  I think that you understand what it is to have to make a hard choice."

"Sometimes, there's no clear-cut right and wrong.  Sometimes, there are costs, heavy costs, on both sides of the issue.  In the end, you have to do what you think is best for everyone, no matter how much it might hurt," he said, looking absently across the room.

"What if you misinterpreted the risks?" Sara asked softly, leaning towards him.

"What if you misinterpreted the risks?" he countered.  "You can't know what another is risking.  You can theorize, but you can't know."

"Unless they tell me," she countered.  "Maybe if I understood their reasoning, what they think the risks are, I'd be able to let it go," she said, her slightly quivering voice telling Grissom that she knew that the conversation had widened from just Elizabeth Rudat's assault.

"Sara, even if she could tell you all the risks, and explain them to you, that doesn't mean you'd feel the same sense of significance.  They aren't your risks;  they're hers.  Maybe they're based on what's most important to her.  Maybe they're based on what she fears the most."

"What's most important to you, Grissom?" Sara asked, her face pale and trepidation crossing her eyes.

"I can't answer that in any way you could understand, in any words you could relate to," he said distantly, his thoughts seemingly a million miles away as he peered into open space.

"Your job?"

"It's not just a job, Sara.  It's who I am.  If I lose it, I lose myself.  Do you understand that?"

"Who are you, away from the job?" she asked quietly.

"Nobody.  I'm nobody.  But, here, I'm somebody.  I'm doing important work, that I'm good at, and that I enjoy.  It gives meaning to my existence.  This is what I was put here to do, to be."

"I understand that more than you think I do," Sara said, nodding in agreement.

"Do you ever think about what you risk, just to be able to do this job?  Your mental health, your physical health.  You could become infected with a bloodborne pathogen.  You could be shot, like Holly was.  You could ..."

"... be in a lab explosion," she said, completing his thought.

"You could have been killed," he exhaled, the memory of that day coming back to haunt him, as it has dozens, maybe hundreds, of times.

"But I wasn't.  I could get hit by a truck on the way home.  I can't live my life in fear of what might happen."

"That's true.  But what if the odds were that it would happen?  You risk a lot to do this for a living, so it must be important to you.  I know it is.  Probably too important.  Considering that, what would you risk your career for?  Not your life, because you've already made the choice that the career is more important than the physical risks.  Somebody else's life maybe?  What if you had a loved one who was having their life threatened because you were doing your job?  Would you quit?"

"No.  I'd do everything I could to protect them.  But I couldn't let the bad guys win.  That would be just wrong," she said, shaking her head.

"See, that's where we're different.  You do this job because, underneath it all, you're seeking justice.  There are other ways to do that, if you couldn't do this kind of work."

"Why do you do it?" Sara asked.

"Because it's what I am," he answered, smiling wanly and shrugging his inability to explain it more clearly.  "It's a search for the truth, yes.  It's also a mental challenge.  But it's also to prove to myself and to the world that I have a value.  This is where I can make a mark, to prove that I existed and that it mattered that I existed.  Other people have children for them to be remembered by, to link them to having been here.  I'll never have children, but I can try to make my being here count for something."

"Maybe we're not so different," Sara returned.

"You're still young," Grissom said reassuringly.  "You still have time to have children."

"I'll be 33 in September.  I know that seems young to you, but my biological clock is running out of sand pretty quickly.  And I don't even know if I would want to have children.  The whole concept of having kids seems so foreign."

"I'll be 48 in August," Grissom said distantly.

"You make it sound like we should all pitch in and buy you a walker for your birthday," Sara said wryly, giving him a smirk.

"Sometimes I feel old," he answered, looking back at her.

"We all do.  It's the nature of the job," Sara offered.

"It's not just the job," Grissom exhaled.

"I know," Sara said empathetically.

"You heard, didn't you?" he asked, his meaning clear despite the economy of words.

"Yeah," she answered, swallowing hard.

"I wish you hadn't.  I wouldn't have said some of those things to Lurie if I had known you were listening to the interrogation."

"I needed to hear them.  I wish you'd said them to me, and said them a lot sooner."

"I couldn't.  I didn't really put it all together until then, until I'd seen it in somebody else's life."

"I have to tell you, Grissom, I'm not really sure what to think right now.  Is it worse to think that you weren't interested in me at all?  That was quite a beating to my ego, but I always held out hope.  Or is it worse to know that you were interested, but made a conscious decision to turn away from me?"

"I'm sorry," Grissom said lamely.  "That's what I meant when I told you before that I didn't know what to do."

"Well, it seems you've decided what to do," Sara said weakly, her voice quivering with each word.

Grissom looked up at her, his lips pursed and his eyes squinted into slits, emotional pain evident on his face. 

"Hey, don't worry about it," she said gamely, putting on a forced smile.  "It's better for me to know it'll never happen.  Here I was, trying to think of ways to get you interested.  Now I know not to bother.  It's better this way.  Really."

"Are you okay?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Sure.  I'll be okay.  I've just got to get it all straight in my head.  It's just really sad right now.  When I first heard you, before I even thought about how it meant we'd never get together, it still hit me as being incredibly sad ... for you, I mean.  I could see on your face that it wasn't a decision that you made lightly, and it wasn't a decision that you felt good about.  You looked so beaten down."

"I felt that way," he agreed.  "I still do."

"I'm sorry if I did that to you.  God knows it wasn't my intention.  I was just thinking about two people who were a lot alike, who seemed attracted to each other, getting together to share even more.  I didn't mean to devastate you."

"I'm not worried about me," Grissom said.  "I made my own choices and I have to live with them."

"It's sad when two people can't even take some time to see if they have something together.  All of this happening, causing us both so much torment, and we never even got to see if maybe it would have worked out.  So we get all the pain of breaking up, without ever being together.  Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"No," he agreed, looking down.  "Life's not fair.  Just look at poor Ms. Rudat.  Creeps could line up at her door, taking every advantage of her in the world, and there's not a thing she could do about it without risking everything."

"We have to find a way to get justice for her, without risking the life she's built," Sara said.

"Good luck," Grissom said, the weight of the world showing on his bent shoulders.

"What if he confesses?" Sara asked, excitedly.  "What if we build such an iron-clad case that he doesn't opt to go to trial?"

"He might plea bargain for a reduced sentence, but he'd still be off the streets for a while, and she'd have some closure," Grissom agreed, nodding.  He thought about Sara's proposal for a moment, then turned to smile at her. 

"If you find a way to do this without destroying everything she's worked for, I know of another risky situation that I'd like you to take a look at.  You might have a gift for risk-management," he said, smiling wryly.

"Don't tease me, Grissom," Sara said, turning serious.  "Don't say that if it isn't true.  That would be just wrong, on so many levels."

"I'm sorry, Sara," Grissom said, his own smile fading.  "I know you must think that I'm jerking you around.  That's not my intention.  I'm trying to do what's best, but it's so hard to know what that is.  Every time I think I've decided, I wonder if I'm wrong."

"Let me ask you this.  If I didn't work for you, if there wasn't any professional risk, would you go out with me?"

"I've never really thought about it," Grissom admitted.  "You do work for me, and it would be a professional risk ... for both of us."

"Well, think about it.  I've got work to do, but we'll talk about this later.  We've been dealing with this for a long time;  we don't have to settle it tonight."

"I guess you're right," Grissom said.  "Do you want any help on the case?"

"Only if it's you.  I don't need any B-teamer on this with me," she said resolutely.

Grissom chuckled silently at her.  "Okay, fine.  The A-team is on the case.  What's left to do?"

"Find the scene of the crime.  Since she didn't press charges, it seemed moot before."

"Shall we go?" Grissom asked, standing at the same moment she did, their bodies coming perilously close to each other before he moved back to let her pass.

* * * * *

As Sara pulled the SUV up to the curb in front of Elizabeth Rudat's modest home, she gave Grissom a reminder. 

"Remember, she doesn't like to be touched."

"Sara, when was the last time you saw me touch anybody?  Anyone who wasn't dead, that is," he added.

"Oh, yeah.  I wasn't thinking," she said, pushing her door open.  "Hey, wait a minute!  Sometimes you touch me.  That doesn't seem to bother you."

"Oh, it bothers me all right, just not in the same way," he teased, following her to the door.

"You know, I'm starting to get really tired of this," Elizabeth Rudat said bitterly as she opened the door.

"Uh oh," Sara said under her breath, realizing that the alter she was seeing wasn't the compliant Bess or the friendly Beth.

"Elizabeth, I understand what you're saying.  We're not here to ask you to press charges," Sara offered quickly, hoping to keep the door from being slammed in their faces.

"What do you want, then?"

"This is my boss, Gil Grissom.  We have another plan we'd like to discuss with you."

Grissom nodded at the woman when he was introduced, remembering to not offer his hand.

"Damn, it's getting to be like Grand Central Station around here," Elizabeth mumbled as she turned to head back to the living room, leaving the CSIs at the door.

"I like my privacy, too," Grissom offered as he followed her into the house.  "Sara's worked with me for more than three years, and we knew each other for a few years before that.  But she's only been to my house once, for an impromptu meeting of all of the team.  And even that wasn't my idea."

Elizabeth looked coolly at Grissom, deciding that he was being truthful.  She had become adept at evaluating people quickly, and she decided that she didn't immediately dislike him.

While there were many things about Sara that Elizabeth liked, she saw her as a threat, and was cautious around her.  She both admired and feared her tenacity, knowing that one of the other alters might cave into her continued pressure.

"What's this plan?" Elizabeth asked, wanting the two to say what they came to say and leave.

"I understand that you don't want to press charges," Grissom said.

"You don't understand shit," Elizabeth said, chortling.

"I think I do," he replied calmly.  "Our plan is to try to arrange it to where you don't have to, but we can still prosecute your attacker.  We've identified him by the DNA in his semen."

"And how are you going to prosecute him if I don't press charges?"

"We're going to try to convince him to plea bargain.  That means that he'll plead guilty, and you'll never have to testify," Sara said encouragingly.

"But I would still have to press charges.  My name would be in the papers.  Everyone in town, all the people I work with, and the friends of my children will know that I was beaten and raped.  Doesn't sound like such a good deal to me."

"No.  The charge would read The People of the State of Nevada versus your attacker.  With him pleading guilty, and no trial, it'll pass right under the media's radar screen.  There's no reason for your name to come up.  The DA could probably get a change of venue so that even the sentencing is held someplace else."

"Can you guarantee any of that?" Rudat asked, her eyes narrowing in challenge.

"No, I can't.  But it's the most likely event."

"You a gambling man?" Elizabeth asked.

"I used to be," Grissom said, looking uncomfortably at Sara for a moment.  "But I guess I've gotten conservative in my old age."

"Yeah, well, me too.  I used to take risks ... unnecessary risks.  But I've got two little people dependent on me now.  I can't afford to take risks anymore."

"Just hear us out," Sara pleaded.  "What we want to do is gather all the evidence we possibly can.  We then have the police arrest him.  They can hold him 72 hours without charging him.  Once he's had some time to sweat it out, we present all the evidence to him and his lawyer.  With the DNA match and the fact that he's got a rare blood group, if we can also get crime scene evidence, it's a lock.  He's toast, and he'll know it.  This isn't his first offense, and if he's convicted of aggravated sexual assault, he'll probably spend the rest of his life in prison.  So he'll be motivated to plead guilty for a lesser sentence."

"What if he doesn't?  What happens then?  I'll either have to press charges, or he'll be let out, and he'll be thinking I turned him in.  My kids could be in danger.  So, the way I see it, if he doesn't go for the deal, I'm screwed."

"Then we have to build the strongest case possible," Grissom said confidently. 

"I hope it's as easy for you to do as it is for you to say," Elizabeth countered dryly.

"It would be easier if you could tell us what happened, to the best of your recollection," Sara said.

"I could tell you about the rape, but what's to tell?  I'm sure it was pretty standard, as far as rapes go," Elizabeth answered with a bitter edge to her voice.

"Where did it occur?" Grissom asked gently.

"Behind Albertson's.  Next to the dumpster, where all the other trash hangs out."

"How did he get you to the back of the store?" Sara followed up.

"I have no idea," Elizabeth answered, with a dismissive shrug.

"Then may we talk to the one who would know?" Sara hazarded.

Elizabeth's head whipped around, her eyes boring into Sara's, her face turning steely. 

I told you to be careful yesterday!  I told you!  But you just had to run your mouth to her and to the shrink she brought.  It was a trick.  I told you not to talk to strangers, Beth!

Elizabeth, if she does know, she's not acting like it's a big deal to her.  Why can't we just tell the truth?

Have you lost your freaking mind? 

I think we should help them so they can catch the animal that hurt us.  Isn't that a rule, too? 

It's an Unimportant Rule, Beth.  We don't have to do it if it would hurt us, and this will. 

He'll hurt someone else.

I don't care.  Someone else isn't my problem, or my responsibility.  All of you and the children are my responsibilities.  I have to meet my responsibilities, Beth.  It's an Important Rule.

"I don't know who would know," Elizabeth said resolutely.  "I don't remember seeing anyone else around."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Sara countered.  "I'd like to talk to Bess."

Grissom's eyes passed back and forth between the two women, both stubborn and both hoping they were doing the right thing.

What harm would it do for me to tell her how it happened?  She already knows most of it, anyway.

That's not the harm, dumb ass.  The harm is in admitting to her that there are others. 

I'm coming out, Elizabeth, and you can't stop me.

Au contraire, I most certainly can.  I'm much stronger than you are, and you know it.

You're not stronger than all of us, and you know that.  We can make you go rest.

You're all making a terrible mistake, but if you want me to go rest, I will.  Good luck with the pain.

The stony visage of the woman melted before Sara's eyes, and she could see the surprised shock in Bess's eyes as she brought her hand to her head, wincing as she touched the bandage.  She gingerly shifted her body on the couch, drawing in a gasp at the sudden pain of the movement.

"Oh, God, it hurts!" she finally moaned.  "Lizzie!" Bess called, out, and her daughter trotted into the room, her youthful face turning stern when she saw her mother. 

"What is it, Mom?" she asked, looking accusingly at each of the two visitors.

"Could you get me the ibuprofen?  Just bring the bottle, and some water.  Please?"

"Sure," the teen said, withdrawing quickly, then returning with the analgesic.  "Maybe you should rest, instead of talking to strangers," Lizzie said firmly.

"No, baby, it's all right.  I'll go rest when we're done.  It's okay.  Really," she said, forcing a smile through the pain.  "Now run along.  This is a private conversation."

"Okay," the girl said hesitantly.

"She knows?" Sara asked quietly as Lizzie walked back to her room.

"Sort of," Beth said.  "She knows the basics, but not all the details.  But Chris doesn't, and he can't.  He has his own problems, and it wouldn't help for him to think of me as anything other than his source of stability and security, until he can learn to be his own."

"Does he have a dissociative disorder as well?" Grissom asked, more out of scientific curiosity than anything, wondering whether it could be genetic rather than environmental.

"No.  They're not sure yet what it is, because several disorders that will manifest fully later have similar symptoms in children.  He might be bipolar.  He might be schizophrenic.  He might never develop anything more than the paranoid delusions he gets sometimes.  The delusions are like waking nightmares, and they scare him, but he knows they're not real.  And he takes medication that helps control them, unless something really upsets him.  So don't start thinking he's dangerous and is going to grow up to be like the monster that attacked me."

"It never entered my mind," Grissom said honestly.

"Good.  Just because we're not like you doesn't mean we're crazy," Bess said defensively.

"We know that.  I've done a little research, to make sure that I understood as best as I can," Sara assured her.

"Okay.  Good.  I'll tell you the part I know.  I was coming home from work, and needed to pick up Chris's prescription and a few groceries, so I stopped off at Albertson's."

"Which one?"

"The one just down the street, on South Rainbow," she answered.

"Then what happened?" Sara prodded.

"I had to go to the bathroom," she answered meekly, obviously embarrassed.

You always have to go pee.  Everywhere we go, you've got to pee.  Is it like marking territory or something, like a freaking animal?

No, I just get nervous and have to go to the bathroom.  Why do you say those mean things to me?

Quit whining.  You know how much I hate that. It's weak.  You're weak.  I always have to be the strong one, and I'm sick of it. 

"Bess?" Sara said softly, trying to rouse the woman from her internal dialogue.

"Oh, sorry.  I get distracted sometimes," she said, smiling weakly.  "Anyway, I thought the bathroom was in the back part that's like a little warehouse, but I guess I was thinking of another store.  I was wandering around back there, when he came out from behind some boxes and hit me in the head with something hard.  I didn't see what it was."

Again, her hand rose to her forehead, bringing a stifled whimper.

"Then what?" Grissom said, sensing that she needed to finish quickly so that the obviously stronger Elizabeth could return to handle the pain.

"I don't remember every little thing in order.  I fell down.  I tried to get up, but I was stumbling around, and he kept hitting me.  I couldn't even think, it hurt so bad.  I finally stood up somehow and sort of fell out of the back door, into the alley."

Yeah, dumb ass, you went the wrong direction!  If you can stumbled back into the store instead of to the alley, none of the rest of it would have happened!

I was hurt, Elizabeth!  There was blood in my eyes.  I couldn't think.  I couldn't see where I was going.  I was trying to do the right thing and get away.

You're the one that just had to pee.  Couldn't wait 10 minutes until we got home.  Then when you got in trouble, you went the wrong way.  Is there anything you did right?

I'm sorry, Elizabeth.  I'm not strong like you are.  I know that.  I'm sorry.

Quit whining.  Just tell your sad story to the two strangers and get them out of here.  If you start crying, I'll make you go rest.  You know how I hate crying. 

"I couldn't see where I was going, because of the blood in my eyes," Bess said, fearing the strangers would think the same thing Elizabeth did.

"I understand," Sara said, nodding her encouragement.

"He hit me some more, then pushed me down behind the dumpster.  I don't know any more, because that's when Elizabeth took over for me."

"Is that Elizabeth's job?" Grissom asked.  "To handle pain?"

"She's stronger than any of the rest of us.  She's always been able to deal with pain better."

"Okay, I think we've got everything we need for right now.  Maybe you should let Elizabeth come back, until you feel better," Sara suggested.

"No, I'll hold on a little longer.  She needs to rest, too, sometimes.  Besides, I need to show her that I can," Bess said, smiling wanly.

Are you trying to prove that you're as strong as I am? You think you don't need me anymore?

No, Elizabeth, that's not it at all.  I just thought you might want a little rest.  You've been handling things for days.

Like you care!

I do care.

None of you care about me.  You never have and you never will. 

Your tough act doesn't fool me, Elizabeth.  I know you care.

* * * * *

"Don't tell me that nobody at this store noticed this!  There's blood on the pavement, on the back wall, on the dumpster.  It looks like a human exploded, and no one noticed?"

"To us it's obvious.  To some 16-year-old kid taking out trash, it's just a brown stain," Grissom said, hoping to calm her.

"This guy went over the top," Sara said, shaking her head in amazement.  "This was way more than was necessary to subdue his victim."

"A lot of rapes are about anger, uncontrolled rage, acted out on a person they feel they can control.  With this much rage in him, she's lucky he didn't kill her," Grissom said pedantically, knowing that Sara already knew that.

"What stopped him?" Sara asked, crouching to take samples of the blood spatters on the concrete.

"Maybe he came face-to-face with someone he couldn't control, someone who would take his punishment, but not be bowed by it."

"Wouldn't that just piss him off more?"

"Maybe initially.  But eventually he might feel that he's not getting the satisfaction he was seeking.  She wouldn't give him what he needed.  She didn't fear him."

"So he might have killed Bess, but not Elizabeth."

"It's just a theory, of course, but something stopped him."

"And she just sucks it up and drives herself to the emergency room.  Why didn't she call 911 for help, I wonder?"

"She doesn't strike me as the type to ask for anyone's help," Grissom answered, an eyebrow raised.

"Hey, you think this store's got surveillance cameras anywhere?  If we can get a shot of him in the store around the time of the assault, it's just another nail in his coffin," Sara said with an evil grin.

"We'll check when we're done here."

"Why don't you go ask the night manager while I finish this up?"

"I'm not leaving you alone behind this store."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No.  I'm entirely serious."

"You think I need a man to protect me?" Sara asked incredulously, turning her face up to peer at Grissom.

"No, but there's safety in numbers.  Didn't your momma ever tell you that?" he asked with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

"There seem to be a lot of things my momma never told me," she said sarcastically as she returned to her work.

* * * * *

"Evan, Evan, Evan," Brass said, shaking his head.  "If you're going to be a career criminal, you really need to develop a better work ethic.  This one was sloppy.  You did everything but sign your name."

Evan McCloud never blinked as he leaned back in the chair in the interrogation room, arms cross defiantly against his chest, a look of cold ennui on his face.

The Public Defender spoke up, asking Brass to detail what evidence he had to support his case.

"Oh, not much.  Just surveillance footage showing Evan at the grocery store, slipping suspiciously into the back.  Ms. Rudat wandering back some time later.  Her blood all over the area behind the store.  His semen and his pubic hair from the rape kit done at the hospital.  His DNA under her fingernails and on her torn clothes.  Like I said, it's pretty thin," Brass said facetiously.

The Public Defender blanched and looked over at McCloud, silently urging him to start cooperating.

"Here's the way I see it, Evan.  You're a loser.  This will be your second aggravated rape conviction, and once the jury sees the hospital photographs of that poor woman, you'll be lucky if you don't get a life sentence.  Too bad for us you didn't pull this in Texas.  They'd probably execute you."

"Is the DA willing to deal?" the PD asked hopefully.

"Why should he?" Brass asked.

"Trials take a lot of time and effort.  They cost the taxpayers a lot of money," the PD answered.

"Your client doesn't look like he wants a break.  He looks like he wants to bet it all on one roll of the dice," Brass said, narrowing his eyes.

"Let us have a minute to ourselves," the PD suggested.

Brass stood and glared at McCloud on his way out, but he never got any reaction.

Within minutes he was summoned back in, with McCloud sitting in the same position, and the Public Defender obviously uncomfortable.

"My client wishes to be examined by a Forensic Psychologist or Psychiatrist.  His contention is that he's not guilty, by reason of insanity."

"What?!" Sara barked behind the two-way mirror separating the interrogation room from the observation room.

"I don't believe this," Grissom added tiredly.  "He's not going to attempt to deny the evidence – it's too strong.  But he's too stupid to go for a deal."

"Oh this is just great!  Now we'll have to cut him loose, or convince Elizabeth to press charges.  She's going to be furious.  And it'll just make her more mad that he's pleading insanity."

"We talked her into taking the risk, and it backfired," Grissom said, exhaling deeply.

* * * * *

"So, he says he's not really a rapist by reason of insanity," Elizabeth spat out bitterly.  "Does that mean that I'm not really a victim by reason of insanity?" 

"We wanted to let you know what was happening, but it's not over yet.  He's due to be evaluated by a court-appointed psychiatrist and a forensic psychiatrist.  If they find that he's sane, I don't think he'll risk going to trial," Grissom assure her.

"You 'don't think'.  The truth is, you don't know.  When you get down to it, he is crazy.  Anyone who does that to anyone else must be crazy.  But that shouldn't relieve him of his responsibilities.  I manage to meet my responsibilities."

"Yes, you do, and you do a very good job of it," Sara nodded.

"Don't patronize me," Elizabeth spat out.

"I'm not.  I mean it.  It's hard enough for anyone to be a single parent of two kids, especially if one has additional needs.  But to do that when you're ..."

"Crazy?" Elizabeth asked icily.

"No, when you're working through your own issues, I was going to say.  You need to quit being so defensive," Sara said. 

"Walk a mile in my shoes, then tell me all about being defensive," Elizabeth exhaled, trying to let go of the anger that was building inside of her, threatening to burst out catastrophically.

"Sara can tell you, I'm hopelessly curious," Grissom said in preamble.  "Would you mind telling me how all of this works in your mind?  How did it all play out the night of the attack?"

Elizabeth eyed him appraisingly, then shrugged, deciding that he already knew too much, so explaining it wouldn't hurt.  "Only one alter at a time comes out, to control the actions of the body, but more than one can be consciously aware of what's going on.  We can talk to the one who's out, and often do.  They can talk to us."

"Are you all fully developed personalities?"

"No.  None of us really are, though some come close.  With the others talking to us, we manage to fit together enough to get by – most of the time.  Some don't speak at all and rarely come out.  Each of us has a primary responsibility for something."

"How do you keep any continuity, like with raising the kids?" Sara asked.

"We have an elaborate system of rules.  There are Important Rules – they must never be broken.  Then there are Unimportant Rules.  Those can be, in a pinch.  Just like murder is a more serious crime than jaywalking.  Both are illegal, but one is relatively unimportant."

"What are some of the Important Rules?" Grissom asked.

"Don't kill people.  Don't steal.  Don't lie.  The usual Ten Commandment-type stuff.  All the laws that you'd get put in prison for.  We must keep all promises.  We have an agreed-upon set of responsibilities, like caring for the kids, and meeting responsibilities is an Important Rule.  We have to all go to work, even if some of us don't like the job or aren't suited for it.  We're not allowed to quit a job, just because a few of us don't like it.  Some of the others might like the work, and we have to have a job to meet our other responsibilities."

"So the rules help you maintain the level of continuity and stability that you have.  If only our legal system worked as well," Grissom chuckled mirthlessly.

"It would, if it had the same rigorous system of punishments for breaking the rules," Elizabeth said grimly.

"Like?" Grissom prodded.

"Depends on the rule, how it was broken, and why it was broken."

"Mitigating circumstances," Sara added.

"Precisely.  The punishment could be unpleasant, but relatively minor, such as being banished from coming out for a while, or not being able to talk to the one who's out – much like the Amish practice of shunning.  One might be sent even further back, so that you aren't even aware of what's going on.  Kind of like being put in jail."

"What about breaking an Important Rule?" Grissom asked.

"That's not something I'd care to discuss," Elizabeth answered, the heat of her anger dissipating into a chill that settled around them.

"Sounds serious," Grissom mumbled, aware that he'd crossed an imaginary line.

"Very serious," Elizabeth replied.  "But you have to be serious about the rules and their enforcement if we're to operate relatively seamlessly in society, and provide a stable environment for the kids."

"So pull this all together for us.  Who goes to work every day?"

"Usually Beth or Bess, but any of us can, if we happen to be out for some reason."

"And so Bess was coming home from work, and stopped at the grocery store."

"Yes.  I hate the grocery store.  I hate to shop for anything.  But it's a responsibility, so I'll do it if I have to, but Bess really doesn't mind."

"Okay, so she goes looking for the bathroom, and goes to the back."

"Yes," Elizabeth hissed out, still annoyed by Bess's constant need to urinate.

"Were you aware at the time?"

"No.  I was in trouble, so I wasn't aware," Elizabeth answered with a huff.  "I'm in trouble a lot.  I tend to be impulsive and volatile, and sometimes I break the rules without really meaning to."

"Okay, so Bess is attacked and stumbles out to the back."

"Yes, that's what she said."

"But you don't remember it, because you weren't aware?"

"It's hard to explain.  I can sort of remember it, like a shared memory, but I don't have any detail or attachment to the memory.  Like if you briefly look at a picture of something that had no meaning for you.  Not even Bess remembers very much, after she was hit in the head."

"When, why, and how did you come into the picture?" Grissom asked, his lips pursed and his brows knit in fascination.

"I was on the ground when I became aware and took control.  He was just beginning the rape.  He had my hands pinned down.  I can't tell you how much I hate to have my hands restrained.  It makes me absolutely nuts – no pun intended.  But, anyway, once he concentrated on the rape and quit beating me, I could pretty much just kick back and dissociate from it.  It was just really bad sex from that point on."

"If you weren't aware before, how did you know to take over?" Sara asked.

"The pain.  It's my primary responsibility to endure and deal with any major pain.  I was basically given a reprieve to come handle the pain.  It was too much for Bess.  Or any of the others, for that fact.  He got a little carried away, if you ask me," Elizabeth said evenly, as if it didn't affect her in the least.  "So, I locked it away.  I got us to the hospital, then I went back to my place in my mind."

"That's why I saw Bess, and she was crying from the pain.  Why did you go back?"

"I'm not really supposed to be out in public very much.  I tend to say things and do things that start trouble.  So I figured my part was done, and I left."

"But you came back."

"She wasn't dealing with the pain well.  They were going to give her medicine.  We don't all react the same to medicines, as hard as that might be to believe, so we don't like to take them.  One of us may overreact to them.  One of us might be allergic.  So, I came back to handle things until the pain could subside enough for one of the others to deal with it."

"No offense, but why are you still here?" Grissom asked with his usual lack of diplomacy.

"It's not just physical pain, but any kind of pain that I deal with.  That's why I'm concerned about a trial, in addition to the obvious risk of exposure.  I'm not sure Bess could make it through the trial without my help.  But I know for damn sure you don't want me on the stand," Elizabeth laughed.

"Bess would be a more ... sympathetic ... victim," Grissom said carefully.

"That's just it.  Beth's more of a victim.  I refuse to be a victim.  I hate the whole victim mentality.  Nobody owes me anything, just because some dickhead took advantage.  Shit happens.  Life's a bitch, then you die, but never when you want to."

"Do you bear the pain because you have this outlook?  Or do you have this outlook because you bear the pain?" Sara asked just above a whisper.

"I don't know," Elizabeth answered quietly, contemplatively.  She couldn't remember a time when she felt any different, but then she couldn't remember a time where there was no pain.

"Do you have to do it?  Are you forced to?" Grissom asked, curious.

"No.  I don't think I have to," Elizabeth answered after a moment of thought.  She'd never really thought about it in those terms before. 

"Don't you ever want to just say 'no'?  Why do you do it?"

"Because it has to be done, and I'm best qualified to do it.  It's my role."

"You seem protective of the others.  You must care very much about them to take their burdens like that."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Elizabeth said with a huff.  "And I certainly wouldn't want any of the others to hear you say that.  Next thing you know, we'll all be holding hands and singing Kum-ba-ya."

"I take it you don't all get along," Grissom said, an eyebrow raise provocatively.

"Let's just say that, because of how we are, we don't have a lot in common."

"What do you do with things that are too much for even you to handle?"

"Wall it off in a dark place.  I know I probably lost you there, but don't even ask me to explain," Elizabeth said, laughing.

"We all have corners of our minds where we hide things – especially things we don't want to deal with," Sara said, turning her eyes briefly over to Grissom, who was looking at her as if he knew she was referring more to him than to anyone else in the room.

"I suppose so.  In a lot of ways, we're really not all that different from regular people.  It's more a difference in process, that's all," Elizabeth said, shrugging as if to minimalize it.

I heard what you said.

So?

I think you do care about us.

Dream on.

I could feel your feeling.  I could feel what you felt when you talked about how you help us.  It wasn't just pain you were feeling.  It was love.

I'm not going to argue with you, Beth.  I'm tired.  Are you ready to come out?  I need to rest.

Sure, if you think I can take it, I'll try.

You're stronger than you think.

Thank you, Elizabeth.  That's quite a compliment, coming from you.

Don't let it go to your head.  You just hit me at a bad time, when I'm tired.  At this point, I'd say anything to get to go rest.

You're not usually this grumpy, Elizabeth.  What's wrong?

One minute I was in the dark place, in trouble.  The next minute I'm out, beaten half to death, restrained, being raped.  Now all this shit with the strangers.  And I'm afraid that everything's going to come out into the open, and that could wreck our lives.  But, hey, other than that, it's all gravy.

You act like none of this matters to you, Elizabeth.

Nothing matters.  And what if it did?  Would that somehow make this easier?  I know what I'm doing.

Seeing Elizabeth lose herself in her reverie, Grissom and Sara quietly left, knowing she probably had a lot to talk about with the others.

* * * * *

"How's your case going?" Nick asked when he breezed into the break room.

"Oh, just super, Nick.  I've got a mentally ill but functional victim who's afraid to testify because she's afraid the world will find out about her.  I've got a perp nailed sixteen ways from Sunday who's trying to get off by claiming that he's insane."

"Sounds like an even match," Nick joked with a smile.

"I'm not sure we could have any more evidence if he'd done it on national TV, but it's still looking like he could walk," she exhaled heavily.

"That bites," he agreed.

"Yeah, she's never been in trouble with the law.  She hasn't even gotten a traffic ticket in the last fifteen years.  But she's the one that could look incompetent.  Meanwhile, this jackass is just pretending to be insane to avoid the consequences of his own actions."

"Legally, insanity is the inability to discern right from wrong.  Is there anything that shows premeditation and knowledge that the act was wrong?"

"If he didn't know it was wrong, why'd he ambush her in the warehouse?  Why'd he beat her into submission?  Why'd he rape her in a dark alley?  Why'd he run away?  The answer is because he knew it was wrong, morally and legally," Sara answered.

"I think a jury could understand that," Nick said supportively.  "And with all the evidence you have, this should be a walk in the park."

"It is.  Or it would be.  Except that we can't be sure who'll show up at the trial to testify for the victim."

"Huh?" Nick asked, his face screwed up.

"She's got multiple personalities.  Two were present during different parts of the crime.  Neither really knows the full story.  And there's no guarantee that either will show up at the trial.  There are others – some that I haven't met."

"Can't she control that?"

"Not exactly.  It's like asking if you can control your moods, in a way.  You may be able to to some extent, but circumstances could also dictate how you feel."

"I'm glad that it was you who drew the case," Nick said, nodding and smiling his admiration.  "Not everyone would worry about how the victim would handle the trial, and work to finding ways to help."

"Thanks, Nick," Sara said appreciatively.  She was more accustomed to having her co-workers chide her for being too involved with the victims.  Only Nick seemed to be able to relate to her need to connect with them in order for it to all seem worthwhile.  Otherwise, it was all just a job or at best a scientific challenge.  But Sara needed for it to mean something if she were going to devote her life to it.

* * * * *

"Should we wear our flak vests and firearms?" Grissom asked teasingly, his face pinched into a look of fearful anticipation.

"Probably not a bad idea," Sara huffed out, slamming her locker door. 

"I don't know about you, but I know she could kick my ass," Grissom said, closing his own locker.

"Depends.  I could take Bess or Beth, but Elizabeth would probably tear off my arm and beat me to a bloody pulp with it."

"You might not win, but by God she'd know she'd been in a fight," Grissom said, a silly half-grin pulling at his lips, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

"Thanks ... I think," Sara added hesitantly.

"This is just what I wanted to do when shift was over," Grissom breathed out tiredly.

"We should probably wait an hour or so.  Not everyone appreciates a visit at seven in the morning."

"Sure.  Okay.  That's give us time to eat.  I'm starved," Grissom said, turning to head out of the room, holding the door open for Sara, who stood stock still.

"Both of us?  Eat?  At the same time?  At the same place?" she asked almost mockingly.

"Yeah," Grissom said slowly, not sure at first what she was implying.

"Are you sure that's not going to be a problem?" she asked stiffly.

Realization dawned on Grissom, and he breathed out a dragon-breath.  "Sara, the problem was never eating together.  The problem was the 'let's see what happens' part."

"I know.  That was catty of me.  I'm sorry," she sighed.  "I guess I'm just a little tired, stressed, frustrated."

"If it would make you more comfortable, we can ask someone else to join us.  Or we can just meet at Ms. Rudat's house in an hour or so," Grissom offered.

"No.  I'm not uncomfortable.  I thought you'd be," she shrugged.

"We've been together all night.  We're going to be together for a couple more hours.  What harm could eating together do?" he asked, smiling slightly.

* * * * *

Grissom couldn't help but grin as he lifted the cup of coffee to his lips.  Sara was just polishing off a plate of pancakes, drenched in maple syrup.  An empty bowl sat forlornly next to the sticky plate;  until a few minutes ago, it had held a variety of diced fruit.

"If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it," Grissom said, setting his cup down and chuckling.

"What?" Sara asked, a small drop of maple syrup perched on her lip until she licked it off with the end of her tongue.

"I was beginning to think that you just absorbed nutrients from the air through your skin.  I almost never see you eat, and very little when you do."

"That's because we're usually working," she shrugged.  "I don't eat often, but when I do, I don't mess around."

"So I see.  What I'm wondering is where you're putting all that food.  You have a hollow leg?"

Sara blanched slightly, embarrassed that she had felt comfortable enough with him to order the Grand Slam breakfast and mixed fruit, asking them to put the meat on a separate plate, which she donated to Grissom.  She noticed that he'd left a smattering of food on his plates, but she had eaten every bite of her eggs, toast, pancakes and fruit.

"I wish I had a hollow leg.  With the weird way I'm built, I'll probably look five months pregnant for the next few hours.  It's pretty obvious when I eat."

"Actually, I've noticed that before," Grissom said a bit solemnly, averting his eyes from hers to his coffee cup.  "Sort of had me worried a time or two."

"You thought I was pregnant?" Sara almost squealed.

"It's not beyond the realm of possibility," Grissom said, defending himself.

"Well, it's beyond the realm of probability, unless the world's due for another Immaculate Conception," Sara huffed out, washing down her embarrassment with the remainder of her orange juice.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to embarrass you," Grissom sputtered.  "And I certainly wasn't fishing for information regarding your love life."

"I know.  My love life is probably the least of your interests."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," Grissom admitted.

"I'm sorry.  I'm baiting you, I guess," Sara exhaled.  "I'm still a little ... I don't know ... unsettled, I guess ... about this whole deal."

"I can see where it would be unsettling," Grissom agreed.  The two sat stiffly, neither knowing what to say to cut the tension building between them.  Grissom silently reached for his wallet, picking up the check and setting down the tip. 

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Sara moaned, not looking forward to their last task of the workday.

* * * * *

Bess sat on the couch, silently nodding, taking in everything that Grissom and Sara told her regarding the results of the psych tests.

"So, is he insane or not?" she asked, still confused.

"It's for the court to decide now.  His psychiatrist says 'yes';  our forensic psychiatrist says 'no'," Grissom recapped.

"I don't know what to say," Bess finally expelled.

And I don't even want to talk about it right now.  I'm way too pissed to be civil.

I know, Elizabeth.  Just keep cool.  You know how you get when you get angry.

"We're at the place we were trying hard to avoid:  you're going to need to decide if you're going to press charges against him, or let him go free to do this again," Sara said, knowing she shouldn't have sounded so biased, but unable to help it at this point.

If she thinks she can guilt-trip us into this, she's got another think coming. 

Grissom looked over at Sara, who quickly looked away, deciding to be silent for a moment to gather her senses.

"We have a strong case," Grissom assured her.  "I'm not sure I've seen many stronger.  All you'll really have to do is briefly recount the event, so that we can introduce the evidence to support your story.  Then you identify your attacker in the courtroom when you're asked to.  When the defense cross-examines you, he'll try to trip you up on little, insignificant details, but if you look at the jury when you're answering, and just stick to the facts you know, you'll be fine."

"What if I'm not?  What if I get upset and switch?"

"Can't the other alters pretend to be you?" Sara asked.

Yeah.  All we have to do is act like a doormat.

That's enough, Elizabeth!  I know you're mad, but don't take it out on me!

"I guess they probably could, but not all of them know the details."

"If that happens, just ask the judge if you can take a break.  Tell him the truth, that you're upset and need a few minutes to pull yourself together.  People do it all the time.  Maybe once you calm down, you or Elizabeth could finish testifying.  If not, ask the judge if you can be excused.  Considering the fact that you're a victim of a violent crime, he'll probably recess until the next day," Grissom told her.

"Bess, you've managed to go to school, work and raise kids without anyone finding out about your disorder," Sara said, finding her composure again.  "You can do this.  You just have to make sure that all of your alters understand that they need to behave like you, but ask for a break if it gets to something they don't know.  Are you able to communicate that to all of them?"

You know as well as I do that most of them don't have a clue what's going on right now.  It's been pretty much you and me for the past week, on our own.  Cowards.  They don't even want to know what we've been through.

Beth has been here for us.

Yeah.  But what can she do?  She doesn't know shit about what happened.

"I can try.  The problem is that some of the alters don't speak."

"Can someone speak for them?" Grissom asked.

"Sometimes Elizabeth does.  It's hard, and it comes out very slowly.  She has to tell them the words to say, one by one."

Poor, mute idiots.  They can think, but they don't even know the words that go with their thoughts.

"We can't make this decision for you.  You'll have to discuss it with your alters.  But I hope you find a way to work together to get this done."

"We haven't worked together that way in a long time – not since the last time we had a host," Bess said wistfully.

Don't throw that up to me again.

"A host?" Grissom asked, looking between the two women.

"It's sort of like a generic personality presented to the outside world, with the various alters providing their services in a less obvious manner than coming out," Sara explained uncertainly, hoping she'd understood the research she'd done.

"The host doesn't even know about us," Bess added.  "She thinks that the words she hears in her head are just her thoughts, but they are really us talking to her."

"And you don't have one of these hosts, I gather," Grissom said.

Yeah, it's all my fault.  I know.  I've heard it a million times.

"Not anymore.  They come and go.  The last one fell apart last year after we started therapy again because she sensed that something was wrong.  She found out that she wasn't real."

She was suicidal!  What did you want me to do?  I had to get her out of control before she did something.  I'd tried to tell her bits at a time, but having only part of the story only confused her, made her worse.  I had to just come out and tell her.  How was I supposed to know that a host could have an existential crisis?  Okay, hearing that you aren't real must be a shock, I know, but she didn't have to just disappear!

Maybe she didn't want to be just a host, knowing that she was more of a puppet than a person, Elizabeth.  Since she was suicidal anyway, it's not surprising that she'd go away. 

Then why do you blame me?

We don't blame you for her going away.  Well, we do, but we understand the circumstances and agree that it was probably necessary.  I think that the problem is that you've done things to make it hard to have another host.  We can't seem to work together the same way, anymore.

I'm trying to make things better for us.  The therapy will help us, in the long run.

It's just stirring up trouble.  We were fine before the therapy.

No, we weren't.  We were just pretending to be fine.  We were ignoring the problem.

It worked for me.

Well, it didn't work for me.  I guess it would be easier on you, since you didn't have to deal with the pain or the fallout from the problems. 

Do you want to go away?

No.  Why do you ask that, Bess?

Because, if we get well, we'll have to go away, won't we?  Won't there just be one left?

Not necessarily, Bess.  Nobody has to go away.  We can all stay, if that's what we want.  But we can all be happier.  We can all learn to deal with problems better.  We can learn to work together.  It'll be like being one, without anyone having to go away.

I'm afraid of this therapy stuff, Elizabeth.  You're used to the pain.  We're not.  It's just all going to come up again, and we'll all have to feel it. 

Hey, I've already felt it the first time, and I'm willing to go through it again if I have to.

You're used to it.  We're not.

That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

"May we speak to Elizabeth?" Grissom asked hesitantly, anticipating it would be much less pleasant.

"Can you pull it off?" Sara asked, now being able to pick up the nuances of body language that told her which alter she was seeing before she even spoke a word.

"I could," Elizabeth said confidently.  "And Bess could, even though she doesn't know much.  We could fill her in on the details.  But I'm not sure about the others."

"Can you stay in control?" Grissom asked.

"I'm not sure.  Stress affects us just like it does other people.  Makes us nervous.  We tend to shift a lot when we're nervous.  It's like trying to find the right fit when there is none."

"It usually takes months before a trial like this begins.  If you developed a host between now and then, would she know about the rape?"

"If we wanted her to.  People have got to have at least some memories, or they know there's something wrong.  We share memories.  What we can without freaking it out, that is," Elizabeth added gravely.

"Elizabeth, do you know why you're like this?" Sara asked gently.

"Yes.  I do.  One other does, but it doesn't come out.  Or at least it's not supposed to.  It's not right in the head, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean," Grissom said evenly.

"I mean she's crazy.  She's like a child, and she can't deal with what she knows, so she's crazy."

"But you aren't."

"I don't know all the details, like she does.  I know what happened, in a generic sense.  She knows what happened specifically.  She's the keeper of all the worst memories."

"If you develop a host, would that solve our problem?"

"That's a bigger proposition than you probably suspect.  It's like developing a character for a novel.  You've got to give her a backstory, a personality, memories, a sense of identity.  It's not as easy as you think."

"Do we have any other options?" Grissom asked hopefully.

"Maybe.  Let me talk it over with the others.  Like you said, we have time."

"Elizabeth, I want you to know how much I respect that you're going to go through with this," Sara said sincerely.

"You might not respect it so much if you knew the motivation," Elizabeth said conspiratorially.  "I'm not doing this because of your sense of right and wrong.  Or some greater sense of justice.  Or because of some hypothetical societal responsibility.  I'm doing it because that asshole is claiming to be insane.  He's giving all of us truly crazy folks a bad name!"

Grissom's eyes cautiously moved over to meet Sara's and both sat silent for a moment, until Elizabeth burst out in laughter, then they joined her in the release of her self-deprecating joke.

* * * * *

"What, exactly, were you doing in the storeroom at Albertson's?" the defense attorney, Eric Jacobsen asked, his Nordic good looks honed to perfection for the jury's benefit.

"Looking for the bathroom," Ms. Rudat answered.

"The restrooms are at the front of the store, are they not?" he asked accusingly.

"Yes, I suppose they are," she shrugged.

"Then why were you in the back?"

"All grocery stores look essentially the same to me.  Some have them in the back, some in the front.  I guess I was thinking of another store."

"But don't you frequent this particular Albertson's, at least weekly?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't know where the restrooms were?" he asked incredulously, turning towards the jury to display the look of utter disbelief on his face.

"I'm sorry.  Maybe you know the precise layout of every store you've ever been to.  I really don't give it that much thought.  It's not like I go there just to pee," she said, drawing snickers from the jury and the audience, and a stern look from the judge.

"You stated that your attacker ambushed you, striking you in the head with a hard object.  Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"After a brief struggle that involved more blows to the head, you went out the back door to the alley.  Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Why did you do into the alley?"

"To get away."

"Why not go back into the store?"

"First of all, the back door was closer.  Second, he was between me and the door to the store.  Third, I had blood in my eyes, was disoriented, and just wanted to get away."

"So you couldn't see?"

"Not well."

"Then what makes you think that Mr. McCloud was your attacker?"

"I could see later, when the blood stopped flowing into my eyes.  Once I was on the ground, it ran down the side of my head instead of in my eyes.  Gravity's like that.  Always goes the same direction," she said sarcastically, earning another harsh look of reproof from the judge.

"Ms. Rudat, are you under the care of a psychiatrist?" he asked, turning away from her and walking back to the table to pick up his tablet, appearing to be looking for specific information.

"No, I'm not."

"A psychologist, perhaps?"

"No, I'm not."

"Ms. Rudat, are you under the care of any sort of mental health professional?" he asked in exasperation.

"I see a counselor," she said unaffectedly.

"What for?"

"Objection, Your Honor," the District Attorney barked out, rising to his feet.

The judge looked expectantly at the D.A.

"Ms. Rudat is not on trial here.  Her personal life has no bearing on the guilt or innocence of Mr. McCloud."

"Your Honor, I believe that it's only fair for us to be able to establish the credibility of the only material witness against my client," the handsome, young defense attorney shot back immediately.

"Considering the severity of the charge, I'll allow a certain amount of latitude, Mr. Jacobsen.  However, I expect you to show relevance, and show it quickly," the judge admonished.

"Yes, Your Honor," he said, turning to make eye contact with Ms. Rudat. 

"Please answer the question," the judge instructed her.

"No, I don't believe I will.  On the principles of confidentiality, I'd rather spend the weekend in jail for contempt," she said, turning to look at the judge.  Taking a breath, she continued, "Mr. Jacobsen, half the people in this courtroom have seen a counselor, therapist, shrink, whatever.  And the other half probably should have.  People are under a lot of stress nowadays, and I'm no exception.  I go to learn how to cope with the stresses of my life in the most constructive way possible.  Beyond that, I won't answer."

"But you've been going quite a while.  Isn't that so?" he said harshly.

"Yes.  And I've been a single mother for a while, with a special needs child for a while.  And the economy's been bad for a while, making my work life more stressful for a while.  So, yes, I've seen a counselor for a while."

"Make your point, Counselor," the judge instructed, running out of patience.

"Ms. Rudat, isn't it true that you have a mental disorder, and that's why you see a therapist?"

"Mr. Jacobsen, I've had the same job for many years as a purchasing agent at a Fortune 500 corporation, and have raised two good kids all by myself.  Does that sound like a lunatic to you?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"Yes, I have.  I've answered all of your questions clearly, coherently, and cogently.  If that doesn't satisfy you that I'm a competent witness, then I don't know what could."

"Do you have a mental disorder?" he asked again, his frustration clearly showing in his voice.

"I think you're starting to drive me crazy," she said with a huff, bringing another round of stifled laughter, and a verbal warning this time from the judge to simply answer the questions.

"I haven't raped anyone, killed anyone.  I haven't gotten so much as a parking ticket in years.  I don't beat my kids or cheat on my taxes.  And I take responsibility for my own actions, unlike other people," she said, looking over at the smirking Evan McCloud, who seemed to sense that the only witness was starting to look less believable.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"I already have.  I see a counselor to learn effective coping strategies for the stresses in my life."

"Do you have a mental disorder?" he repeated.

"Objection, Your Honor!" the D.A. practically shouted.  "The defense is hounding the witness unnecessarily.  She's answered questions regarding this, even though it's not germane to the case.  She's obviously a coherent witness.  How much longer are we going to waste time on this innuendo?"

"Sustained," the judge intoned evenly.  "Move on, Mr. Jacobsen."

Though he fought to not change his expression, the smirk on McCloud's face fell slightly, at the same moment as one began to pull at Ms. Rudat's lips.

"No more questions for this witness, Your Honor," Jacobsen said tiredly. 

"You're excused," the judge told Ms. Rudat, who strode down the aisle leading to the outside corridor, unbowed and undefeated.

* * * * *

"Now what?" Elizabeth asked the small group of people standing with her in the corridor.  They were all dressed in the Sunday best, anxious to make an impression as professionals on the jury, despite the fact that no one in their line of work would wear a suit to a crime scene.

"We present our evidence, tying him to the crime scientifically," Grissom said. 

"Not that it matters all that much," Sara said.  "After all, Not Guilty By Reason of Insanity is like saying 'Yeah, I'm guilty, but I have an excuse'.  Everyone pretty much knows he did it.  The only real question is whether he's insane."

"So it still comes down to his shrink versus our shrink," Elizabeth said, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes," Brass answered, nodding sympathetically.  "It all depends on who they believe.  Of course, because of the nature of his plea, they can bring up other stuff from his past that they might not have been able to before," he added. 

"So this could backfire on him?"

"Yes.  It's a crap shoot.  I wouldn't have done it," Grissom said.  "I'd have taken the plea bargain."

"But that's because we're not gamblers," Elizabeth said with a slight smile.  "We have too much to lose."

"I guess so.  But you gambled.  I hope it pays off for you," Grissom said, starting to reach out to touch her arm, but withdrawing as each of them began to feel the discomfort of his intended action.

"I hope so, too.  If he gets off and comes near my kids, we'll all be here again, but because I've killed him with my bare hands," she said harshly, through gritted teeth.

"I don't think it'll come to that.  Even if he gets off, he's still a rapist.  That's just how he is.  He'll do it again.  Unless he wants a quick one-way ticket to prison, he'll move on someplace else," Brass said.

"And rape someone else," Elizabeth exhaled.

"Yeah, probably, but all of this will be in CODIS, so he'll have a hard time denying anything.  He'll either go to prison or to a mental institution, if they find him insane.  Either way, he's off the streets."

"Let me tell you a little something about mental institutions," Elizabeth said conspiratorially.  "The state is going to pay a set amount, and not much at that, for the institution to maintain the criminally insane.  And all they do it take up a bed that could be used for a patient with insurance.  They can gouge the insurance company, and so they'll keep a person who voluntarily committed themselves as long as possible.  But criminals can get out as soon as they can demonstrate that they're sane."

"Still, he's got to be reviewed by a panel of experts, much like a parole board," Sara said hopefully.

"Yeah.  And if they have open beds, they'll keep him.  After all, it might not be much, but it's income.  But if they are at capacity, it behooves them to get the state-supported riff-raff out," Elizabeth argued.

"Speaking from personal experience?" Brass asked, not intending to be as callous as he appeared.

Elizabeth turned a harsh eye, but it softened with a smile. 

"No, as a matter of fact, I've never been hospitalized.  However, one shrink wanted me to commit myself for two weeks, to get regulated on an antidepressant.  That was a long time ago, before I was married."

"But you didn't go," Sara said.

"No.  I did a lot of research, though.  In the end, I couldn't do it.  I was too afraid.  Afraid of how it would look.  Afraid they'd never let me out, even though it was voluntary.  I can't tolerate the thought of being restrained," Elizabeth added darkly.

"There's a lot more oversight at places like that now than there was twenty years ago," Grissom said, basing his comments on a case he'd had several years prior.

"Yeah, I'm sure that's true.  But they still have problems in a lot of them.  It's not like the inmates are reliable witnesses when things go wrong," Elizabeth countered.

A bailiff opened the door and called for Grissom, who smiled reassuringly as he slid through the doors.

* * * * *

A large black man in a three-piece suit that was straining slightly at the buttons emerged from the courtroom, made eye contact with Grissom, and walked over to the group.

"Philip," Grissom said, nodding rather than extending a hand.  If someone else initiated a handshake, Grissom would reciprocate, but he rarely offered his hand first.  He never gave it any conscious thought;  he just knew that it made him uncomfortable.

"Gil," the man said with a smile, his deep voice soothing and melodious, even when intoning a single syllable. 

"How'd it go?" Sara asked anxiously.

"Well, I'd say," Philip Kane answered, looking over at the woman he assumed to be the victim.

"Oh, sorry," Sara said, blushing slightly.  "Dr. Philip Kane, this is Elizabeth Rudat."

"Pleased to meet you," he said, reaching out his hand, leaving it there, despite her hesitancy, until she took it.  He rewarded her by letting go of it after a quick shake.

"Philip's our forensic psychologist," Grissom explained.

"I thought Madeline was," Elizabeth said, turning to Sara.

"She's from another jurisdiction," Sara answered partially.

"Ms. Rudat," Dr. Kane began soothingly, "I had another forensic psychologist meet you so that I'd be able to do what I did today, without compromising you in any way.  If I had any knowledge of you that could qualify as evidence, they could ask questions along that line.  This way, when they asked if I had ever met you, I was able to honestly answer that I hadn't.  End of story.  No more questions about you."

"That was clever," she said.

"I've been down this road a few times," he said, smiling.

"You mean where both the victim and the attacker were crazy?" she said, baiting him.

"Well, in this case, the attacker isn't crazy," he said, baiting her in turn.

"Are you implying I am?" she asked with a hint of anger making her voice sharp.

"I've never met you, so I would only have your word to take on that.  Are you?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she answered.

"Aren't we all?" he replied, smiling broadly.

* * * * *

Again the bailiff opened the door, as he had so many times over the four days that the trial had been in session.  This time, he said in a strong voice, "The jury has reached a verdict."

The small groups of people, mainly previous witnesses and a few family members of the accused, began to file into the courtroom, each group keeping a respectful distance from the other.

Knowing Elizabeth's discomfort with physical proximity, Brass, Kane, Grissom and Sara slid down the seat to leave her enough room at the end to not touch anyone, yet not enough for someone else to sit. 

She looked over at them gratefully, and surprised Sara by moving in closer, sitting next to her.  When the jury filed in, Sara leaned over and whispered to her, "They're not looking at him.  That's a good sign for us."

Elizabeth nervously smiled, her hands fiddling in her lap.  Sara could see that she was starting to breathe faster, and she wondered if the poor woman was going to have an anxiety attack.

"Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?" the judge said, looking over his reading glasses at Ernesto Santiago, who occupied chair number one in the jury box.

Sara set her hand casually down on the small part of the bench that separated her from Elizabeth, who was sitting to her right – an offer made, but not pushed.  Unknown to Sara, on her left, Grissom had shifted slightly in his seat, placing his elbow across the backrest of the bench, his hand only an inch or so from Sara's shoulder.

"Yes, Your Honor, we have," Mr. Santiago answered.  He pulled his glasses from his coat pocket and began to read the slip of paper he held, though he knew every word on it.

Elizabeth's fidgeting stopped, as did her breathing.  She reached out her left hand, and took Sara's hand in hers.  Sara gave it a slight squeeze, but didn't hold it tightly enough to make Elizabeth feel uncomfortable or restrained.

Leaning in slightly, as though to hear the foreman better, Grissom allowed his hand to rest against Sara's shoulder, leaving it there so that she'd know it was intentional.  She leaned into it slightly, soaking in its warmth and supportiveness.  As she gave her support to Elizabeth, and took in Grissom's support, she too held her breath.

"We, the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged, of one count of aggravated rape," he said, handing the slip to the bailiff and tucking his glasses into his pocket.

The entire population of the courtroom seemed to exhale simultaneously, some in relief and some in resignation.  Elizabeth turned to Sara and smiled, squeezing her hand one last time before separating herself. 

In turn, Grissom squeezed Sara's shoulder, then released her, turning to nod his respects to Philip Kane, knowing that his testimony was crucial in their decision to determine that the defendant was sane.

Evan McCloud glowered at the jury, the hatred and anger seeming to emanate from every pore.  None of the jurors would meet his gaze, some opting to look sympathetically at Elizabeth, some at the judge.

"It's over," Sara said, exhaling deeply. 

"For you," Elizabeth said, though not bitterly in the least.  "You'll move on to the next case, as you should.  He'll just blame everyone else but himself, and forget about what he's done.  But for us, it will never be completely over."

"Us?" Sara asked.

"Me and the other alters.  The others had to be made aware, so that we could work together during the trial.  Surely you didn't think that was just me up there?" Elizabeth chuckled.

"I couldn't really tell.  Sometimes I thought I was hearing Beth, but other times Elizabeth would definitely come shining through," Sara said with a chuckle, thinking of some of Elizabeth's remarks to the hapless defense attorney.

"It was a cooperative effort.  We've been working on that," Elizabeth said proudly.

"I'm glad to hear you're getting along better," Sara said, trying not to think about how surreal that sounded.

"We are," Elizabeth asserted, standing and taking a last look around the courtroom.

I knew we could do it, Elizabeth.

Yes, Beth, you were right.

I was afraid a few times that you were getting angry, and would get us in trouble.

I was angry, but I knew what I was doing.  That golden god of a defense attorney needed to be taken down a peg or two, that's all.

You were protecting us.

If you say so.

You care about us, don't you, Elizabeth?

Yes, Beth, I guess I do.  I would do anything for you ... all of you. 

* * * * *

"You want to go get a coffee?" Grissom asked as they exited the courtroom, both he and Sara hurriedly putting on sunglasses to block out the sun that they weren't accustomed to seeing.

"That's okay," Sara demurred.  "It's almost 4:00.  I thought I'd fit in some sleep before work tonight."

"You're not scheduled to work tonight," Grissom countered.

"I know.  But I've been so wrapped up in this trial that I've gotten behind.  I need to get back up to speed on the Griffith case."

"The Griffith case will still be there tomorrow.  I'll help you with it, if you want," Grissom offered.

"I don't need any help.  I just need to get back focused on it," she said, a bit defensively.

"I didn't mean it that way, Sara.  I just meant that I'd help you get caught up.  So you could take your day off.  And so you'd have coffee with me," he said, pausing briefly after each sentence.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," she said, looking down, then looking off to the side, looking anywhere but at Grissom, though both of their eyes were hidden behind dark amber sunglasses.

"Why not?"

"Grissom, maybe you've put this whole thing behind you, but I'm not quite there yet.  I can't just forget everything that quickly.  You're going to have to give me more time."

"I was kind of hoping you'd give me more time," he said lowly, leaning in as though they were in a crowded room instead of standing alone in a parking lot.  "You asked me a question a few months ago.  I wanted to talk to you about the answer."

"Which question?" she asked, genuinely confounded.

"You asked if I'd ask you out if you didn't work for me, if there were no professional risk."

"Oh, yeah.  Right.  To be honest, I didn't really expect an answer.  It was more of a rhetorical question, I guess."

"I think you deserve an answer."

"Okay," she said, hesitantly.

"Yes, I would."  Though the words seemed to flow quickly from him, she could tell that it was anything but easy for him to say them.  She wondered if he had been practicing what to say and how to say it, finally settling on those three simple words.

"That's nice to know, I guess, but it doesn't really change anything," she said, her voice starting to waver.

Sara had been trying for the past several months to reestablish a strictly professional relationship with Grissom, fighting to banish any other thoughts from her mind as soon as they would enter.  It didn't make it any easier that he'd begun working with her more.  It didn't make it any easier that he'd begun talking to her again, falling back into the pattern of easy banter they'd had when she first arrived in Las Vegas, when she first realized she was falling in love with him.

"It changes everything," he countered, leaning in closer, essentially trapping her between himself and her SUV.

"Really?  How?" she asked, barely able to vocalize the words strongly enough to be heard.

"I started thinking about that.  About how I'd have pursued you if you had been working anywhere else."

"Yeah, well ..."

"I'd try to imagine that I'd eventually win you over," he said, the volume and timbre of his voice dropping as he slightly closed the gap between them.

"Okay, that would take you about a day.  Then what?" she asked, trying to make light of what he'd said, hoping to take away the sting of rejection when it came.

"Then I thought about what the past three years would have been like if I'd had you to go home to."

Sara couldn't speak – her throat hurt from the constriction that the painful emotions brought as she imagined along with him.

"Then I asked myself which gave me more pleasure, more fulfillment:  what really happened the last three years, or what I imagined could have happened the last three years."

"What did you decide?" Sara asked, a spark of hope igniting in her chest, making the cold fear release her voice.

"It didn't take a forensic scientist to analyze the evidence.  I would have been happier with you than I was without you," he said, his voice just over a whisper, his face mere inches from hers.

Grissom reached up and took off his sunglasses, pocketing them.  Slowly, he raised his hands to Sara's face, lightly touching her cheeks before moving up to pull off her sunglasses as well.  He wanted to be able to see what she was thinking and feeling.

"What about the risk?" she asked, searching his eyes as well.

"I've learned a little about facing risk lately," he said, his eyes following his finger as it stroked the side of her face, bringing down her eyelids as she soaked in the feel of him touching her.

Sara exhaled, and opened her eyes, meeting his.  Gathering her courage and facing her past rejection, she drew in a deep breath and asked yet again, "Would you like to have dinner with me?  See what happens?"

"Yes, I'd love to," he said, his lips brushing hers as an appetizer.