Summary: Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

A/N: Takes place CSI Season 7. Contains references to CSI Season 1, Strip Strangler. No spoilers.

Special thanks to my friends csishewolf, smacky30, vrtrakowski, and scifijoan who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story, when complete, will be novel length (projected final word count is 60,000 words). What this means for you is that it takes a little while to build. I promise it's worth the investment of your time.

Dead Ringer is a crossover between CSI and Manhunter (Red Dragon). For those of you unfamiliar with the film Manhunter, William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom.

As I was winding up Ghost (quite sure I would never have another idea or write a single word again), it hit me that a CSI/Manhunter crossover had a lot of potential, despite its equally great risk of cheesiness. I thought, "Who doesn't like cheese?" and plunged ahead…I mean…Gil Grissom and Will Graham look just alike! Who knew? The story is not quite that simple, though. I hope you enjoy it.

This is my first genuine Work In Progress. YIKES! So, bear with me as I walk this lonely road of complete insanity (because, I must be insane to be doing what I swore I would never do). Stop that laughing…it's not funny. IT'S NOT!

Posting Schedule: THIS STORY IS ON TEMPORARY HIATUS.

PROLOGUE

Cincinnati, Ohio – 2005

Candle light flickered over her skin, rendering it a soft gold. The man worked tirelessly between her thighs, his sweat dripping where he'd tucked his head against the juncture of her shoulder and neck. As he rode his release, back arched to bury himself deeper, his roar of triumph echoed around the room.

Rolling off her, he took a last look at her serene and beautiful face and the dark hair splayed prettily around her, the fluttering light still giving the illusion of animation to her frozen features. He hadn't meant to kill this one. Messengers were supposed to be breathing when placed, but his passion had gotten away from him. He'd just have to deal.

The soldering iron he'd plugged in on the nearby counter was hot. He didn't like the look of the orange extension cord he'd been forced to buy, but a two foot cord was too short for his purposes and soldering irons just weren't available with long cords. He'd looked.

Grasping the cork collar of the tool, he referred quickly to the notes he'd made. The letters must be just right, centered properly across the skin of her abdomen. Taking a breath, he started to burn The Message on his human tablet.

I have not forgotten.

CHAPTER ONE

Neither gods nor men can foresee when an evil deed will bear its fruit.

Bodhidharma

Thursday, December 28, 2006 – Las Vegas, NV

Annoyed, Grissom said, "What do they need me for, Conrad?"

"It was a special request from Quantico, Gil. They want you to be a part of a Profiling Task Force," Ecklie said soothingly, knowing he had his work cut out trying to convince Grissom to cooperate with the FBI.

"I'm not a profiler. I'm an entomologist." Grissom sat back in the client chair in front of Ecklie's desk and exhaled noisily. "The FBI is run over with profilers…they don't need me to pad the ranks."

"The Sheriff is honored that Las Vegas was contacted and that the FBI asked for one of our people…you…by name. He is inclined to grant their request, unless you can give me a good reason to say no – and I mean a good reason, Gil, not that you think the FBI employs a bunch of arrogant assholes."

Grissom said, not quite under his breath, "Well, they do."

Ecklie rolled his eyes, knowing that his most useful tool – an appeal to vanity – was useless on Grissom. He pulled out his ace in the hole. "Gil, you and I both know you're going to have to do this because the Sheriff wants this particular feather in his cap. The only thing I can offer to make it more palatable is to assign CSI Sidle to accompany you as your assistant."

It was many years before Conrad Ecklie again saw a stunned and speechless Grissom.

xxx

" Quantico? Really? For a month?" Sara asked, obviously pleased.

"You don't have to look so thrilled," Grissom grumbled.

"Are you kidding? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Gil. We get to be part of a forensic think tank for a month – together – away from the scrutiny of the Lab. What's not to like?" she said, puzzled by his attitude.

"Sara, why would someone at the FBI ask for me? I'm not a profiler. I do bugs. I'm great with bugs, but profiling? I don't get it."

"First off, don't sell yourself short. You've solved your share of serials…Paul Millander…Syd Goggle…" Sara said, ticking off cases on her fingers.

Grissom interrupted, "I didn't solve those cases alone, Sara: they were all team efforts…"

Cutting him off with mock exasperation, Sara said, "OK, have it your way…except we both know who led the Las Vegas Crime Lab to its current position as number two in the country…and who trained most of the CSIs – the team – who keep us there."

Since she was right there wasn't much he could say. But he wasn't in the mood to give in. "I'm still not a profiler," he said grumpily.

"So somebody made a mistake. We still get to go do something interesting together. Don't look a gift Task Force in the mouth," she teased, crossing from her spot in the kitchen to plop down into his lap. "For two workaholics like us, I can't think of a better vacation."

Grissom wrapped his arms around her and kissed the grin off her face, "All right. It probably will be interesting and we'll be able to bring back our experience to the Lab."

Sara kissed him deeply and then pulled back, "And…"

Smiling, leaning close to spread kisses from collarbone to ear, Grissom whispered, "And we'll have a month pretty much to ourselves – a luxury under any circumstances."

"Absolutely." Giggling because his breath tickled, Sara kissed him one more time and got back up to finish chopping the vegetables she'd been working on.

He watched her from the couch, still slightly amazed that he and Sara were a couple, practically living together, and that their relationship when it came out had caused only the tiniest ripples of interest at the Lab. They still felt pressure, mostly from themselves, to keep personal and professional boundaries intact – the feeling of scrutiny was part of the vigilance they'd adopted to insure the integrity of their work and evidence they collected.

A month out of the fishbowl…that would be great.

Still. Why him? "Not enough data," he thought, shrugging. Delicious smells from the kitchen broke into his thoughts. Accompanied by a rumbling stomach Grissom went to the kitchen, stopping just behind Sara. He put his arms around her waist as he looked over her shoulder, "Need any help?"

Friday, December 29, 2006 – Quantico, VA

At the FBI Training Academy in Quantico, Virginia, the Director looked over his phone messages. "I see we have an acceptance from Las Vegas."

Agent Rick Culpepper shifted uneasily from his spot near the door. "I still think that invitation was a mistake. He's not a profiler."

The Director looked over the top of his glasses, "Don't pout, Culpepper. Whatever he is, he's good. The Las Vegas Crime Lab owes its reputation to him and he's solved a number of serials…including the one you were SAC on, as I recall."

"Don't remind me," he said, pouting nonetheless.

"Look, you know what we're trying to do with this Task Force. I'm having enough trouble without static from you."

Sighing, Culpepper left his vantage by the door and sat on the couch next to the Director's desk. "Well, if you ask me, it's a lost cause."

Ignoring his agent's attitude, the Director continued to sort through his messages.

Agent Culpepper took out a cigarette and started to light up. Sharp words shot across the desk, "Don't smoke in here, and for the record, no one asked your opinion."

Angry blue eyes flashed at the reprimand. "Why are you trying to resurrect the dead, Crawford?" Noting the Director's second trip through the messages, he said, "Graham hasn't accepted yet, has he?"

Annoyed, Jack Crawford carefully straightened the small stack of pink paper and placed it in the center of his blotter. "He will, one way or another, Culpepper. I owe him that," he said.

Saturday, December 30, 2006 – Marathon, FL

Agent William Foster pulled up in front of the bungalow hoping this would be easy and knowing it wouldn't be. "God, I hope he's not drunk," he thought as he crossed the sand to the half open screen door. Two dogs of indeterminate heritage ambled up, tails wagging. They did a perfunctory sniff and immediately sprawled out in the cool sand on either side of the porch.

"Some watch dogs you are," Foster said, knocking on the door jamb. "Dad? You here?" he called out as he walked into the house. It was a good sign that the place was picked up. He called out again, "Dad, where are you?"

Faintly, from the direction of the lanai, he heard, "Back here, son."

Making his way through the house, Foster let himself out on the porch. "Hey, Dad. How ya doin'?" he asked, patting the middle-aged man on the shoulder before settling into a patio chair. "You look good."

"I am good...well, I was until I got that call from Crawford. He won't take no for an answer."

"He's pretty persistent," Foster said.

"I guess that's why you're here...to convince me."

"Look, Dad...we need you on this Task Force..."

"No, you don't. I quit the Bureau and it has gotten along just fine without me for almost 20 years. Crawford doesn't need to drag an old ghost like me out of the attic."

Foster looked at the man who'd been there after his own father had died, who'd loved him like his own and stood by him even when he was hanging by a thread himself. He was right, the Bureau didn't need him but Crawford was right, too...he needed the Bureau, or at least the work. "Dad, please...you need to do something. You're dying down here. I worry about you."

Their eyes met and Foster knew he'd hit a nerve.

"I know you've put your gift or whatever you call it in cold storage – and that's good because it was eating you up. Even without it you're one of the finest profilers the Bureau ever had. It would do you good to use some of your skills again…"

"And I should share my great knowledge with the next generation…" he said, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, Dad, you should. But don't do it for them…or Crawford…not even me. Do it for yourself. You need something to keep you going. If you don't you're going to melt back into the earth like this house. In a couple of years there'll be no evidence there was anything here at all."

As much as he hated to admit it, Willy was correct. There was nothing for him here anymore except memories that were fading every day, leaving him more empty and sad, and in danger of crawling back in the bottle. "All right, son. You tell Crawford I'll be there."

The young man nodded and smiled, "Good." Wanting to capitalize on this easy victory, he said, "Come on, I'll help you pack."

Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 8:45 am ­– Dulles, VA

Grissom and Sara stood at Baggage Claim waiting for their luggage to appear. Agent Rick Culpepper shifted from foot to foot next to them, impatient to get moving. They'd offered to rent a car and make their way to Quantico on their own, but Culpepper refused saying he needed to see to their comfort personally. Heavy emphasis on the 'personally' amused Grissom as he surmised, correctly it turned out, that Culpepper had been given this assignment as some sort of payback. "Good," he thought happily, "I owe you from the last time we met, Special Agent Culpepper."

"So, CSI Sidle," Culpepper started, apparently attempting to make conversation, "I'm pleased to see you again."

"Thank you," Sara said, purposely vague. "Oh, I see our bags."

It was then that Culpepper put it together… Grissom's over-protective attitude during the decoy operation on the Strip Strangler case… exchanged looks…subtle touches as they'd waited for their luggage… "Assistant, my ass," he thought, annoyed that the older man had managed to bring along his mistress at government expense. "This is just getting better and better."

Grissom turned, luggage in hand, and was startled at the naked animosity in Culpepper's eyes. It flashed there, just for a second, before he covered it with his Agent Face as he turned abruptly to lead them out of the airport. Following along in his wake, he glanced at Sara; her expression told him she'd seen it, too. Curious.

The ride to Quantico was silent.

Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 11:30 am ­– Quantico

Check-in at the Academy capped a rotten day for Rick Culpepper. The Las Vegas CSIs got through security with no trouble – he'd idly hoped some snag would prevent one or the other of them being admitted to the compound. His luck seemed to turn when the only rooms available at the dorm were at opposite ends of the building and on different floors to boot; he enjoyed the criminalists' disappointment until Jack Crawford turned up and shuffled some cadets around to give Sidle and Grissom adjacent rooms. They made polite protests about the inconvenience, but Culpepper noted the exchange of relieved looks once the issue was resolved.

It was odd for the Director to personally greet guests – Culpepper had to hide his annoyance at the status this conferred. Then he caught Crawford watching Grissom. Oh, he was subtle about it, but Culpepper, who knew the Director well, had never seen the old man so rattled. Making his own surreptitious observations of the middle aged entomologist, he saw nothing that would cause such a reaction.

He hated being out of the loop and he really hated the way the wind was blowing on this Task Force.

Freed from onerous duty to the Las Vegas CSIs, he got in his car and drove too fast to Vermont Avenue in Northwest DC, where he picked up a leggy brunette and for 500, spent the afternoon fucking her senseless.

To Be Continued...Chapter 2 to follow shortly