Blind Memory

by MissLucy

Insert your favorite disclaimer here

AN: This story has a bit of a history that's important to know. You see, I pay very little attention to entertainment or celebrity news, and I don't read spoilers. So, way back in August 2004, all I knew about the third season of CSI:M was what I saw in the season premiere promo. So, I had no idea that Rory Cochrane had decided to leave the show and no idea who was going to die in the premiere. This story is the result of what my imagination saw when I saw the teasers. So, while the story is sort of indirectly influenced by "Lost Son", it doesn't bear much resemblence to the episode itself. Someone does die, yes, but very little of the rest of it happens. Also, I did not see any of season 3 beyond "Lost Son" and I have not seen any of Season 4, due to an inhospitable work/school schedule, a broken VCR and a lack of cable television. I know certain small things about some events from things friends have told me, but I've not seen any episodes. Therefore, anything that happens that bears any resemblence to anything that's happened since "Lost Son" is coincidence. The story has only taken so long to post because I had the ending and part of the middle all put together way back in August 2004, but never had a beginning until now, so the majority of the story was plotted out and written over a year ago.

There is also defninte angst going on here. It's Speed's story, and most of it takes place inside his head, and the inside of his head is a somewhat scary place at the time the story takes place, in a variety of ways and for a variety of reasons. There is a lot of introspection, a fair bit of forensics, and some action when it comes to it, but no fluff. If that's not your style, then you might want to give this one a pass.

All that being said, I hope you enjoy it!

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen-. Edward de Bono

As the years pass us by, will I still make the grade
Can I really offer anything, and will my soul be saved
Can you cleanse me of...drive out the swine
Am I only falling farther, can you keep me safe from harm
The memories you build in the house on a hill
Would you really change a thing
Corrected mistakes in a world full of hate
Never changes anything
- "World Full of Hate", Dropkick Murphys

September, 2004

The rain beaded up on the windshield of the parked car, obscuring the view of the Miami-Dade Police Department. Tim Speedle sat in the driver's seat and watched the rain make patterns on the glass, trying to gather the energy to get out of the car. Getting out of the car meant walking across the wet parking lot and into the building and dealing with co-workers when all he really wanted to do was hole up in a corner and stare at nothing. He hadn't slept. He couldn't; not this week, anyway. The rain was not helping. Rain meant driving the car, the old beat up wreck of a car that he'd had since…well, since before. He'd lost count of how long. He just knew he'd had it all of twelve years and probably for more than that. He hated the car, but couldn't manage to get rid of it. But one can't drive a bike in Miami rain, and it had been raining for days. And so the car.

If you don't get it together, you're going to be late. The sensible voice, the one that made him get up out of bed this morning. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed his bag, opened the car door, and stepped out onto the wet pavement. The rain provided the impetus for a burst of energy that got him across the parking lot, into the building, down the hall past the reception desk and into the locker room. He dumped his bag on the floor of his locker, hung up his jacket, and retrieved a dry pair of shoes and his gun from the top shelf. There were few things he hated more than cold wet feet. He changed his shoes and clipped the gun to his waist, next to his badge.

No one was in the hallway as he made his way to the supply closet he and Calleigh laughingly called an office. They had crammed two desks and a file cabinet among shelves lined with boxes in an effort to have somewhere other than a layout table to type reports. He squeezed around a cluttered desk and the file cabinet to the desk in the far corner. The desktop held a smattering of files, which he picked up as he sat down. Two of the files were meant for Calleigh, and he smirked humorlessly at the usual assumption that hers was the clean desk. He tossed them on top of the strata of paper that covered Calleigh's desk and turned his attention to the remaining file, which held the final evidence reports of the case they had wrapped up the afternoon before. If he was lucky, he could have the report done before he got tagged with another case. There were supplies to be ordered, too, and it would be nice to have time to deal with that, as well.

His cell phone rang, distracting him from the report. Sighing, he answered, "Speedle."

"Hey, Little Man, it's your old dad. Are you at work already?" came the voice from the other end of the line.

"Hi, Dad. Yeah, I'm at the lab. What's up?" he asked warily. Early morning phone calls from his father were not rare, but right now Syracuse was a world he did not have the energy to deal with. Nor the desire. Not this week.

"I thought you might be, when your mom tried the house and said you didn't pick up. I'm not catching you in the middle of something, am I?" his dad asked.

He shrugged, even though his dad couldn't see. "Not really. Just paperwork on something we wrapped up yesterday."

"Ok, good. I just need a minute, ok?"

"Yeah, fine," he sighed, glancing back down at the file and shuffling the papers into the order he needed. "Is everything all right?"

"No, no, everything's fine. I just wanted to call you before your mom got ahold of you. She's thinking about the holidays already, and I wanted to talk to you first."

Tim closed his eyes, his hands stilling on the papers. Not this week, he thought. Just…no. "Dad," he started, but his father cut him off.

"No, wait, Timmy, let me explain it all before you start protesting, ok? Just let me tell you what we're thinking," Tim sighed, but didn't say anything. "All right. Your mom and I were talking, and we thought it might be nice to have a bit of a change of pace this year. We were thinking we'd close up the restaurant for a couple of days and have Thanksgiving in Niagara Falls this year. Thought we'd ask Matt's girlfriend along, and you could bring someone if you liked, too, and we'd just go away for a nice long weekend. We haven't been to Niagara for a long, long time. And it's our twentieth anniversary this year, you know." His dad's voice dropped as he said, "and it would mean a lot to your mom if you were there. I'm not saying it to pressure you, I'm just saying it so you know, ok?"

He was silent. Does he really not remember what this week is, he thought. I can't, I don't, I… "Dad, I…I don't…Let me think on it, ok?", he replied. "I'll…call you next week or something. I have to…think it through, all right?"

"Sure, honey, that's fine. I just wanted to tell you what we were thinking. We got a bit of an early start this year, because we'd have to make travel arrangements and all, but next week is plenty soon enough, ok? Just consider it, is all we're asking," his dad replied.

"Right. I'll…do that," he said.

"And it's just Thanksgiving," his dad said. "We were thinking that maybe we'd come to Miami for Christmas, or maybe between Christmas and New Years a couple of days, if you'd want. No reason to decide right now, but we thought it might be nice to come see you instead this year. Especially since we understand that you won't be able to take off at Christmas if you take off for Thanksgiving".

"Right," he said faintly. He hadn't taken time off for either holiday in the entire time he'd been working. He wasn't sure his father realized that, though. It was true that he never went home, but he never said it was because of work. He would have thought his parents knew why it was. But if they did, they would not be bringing this all up now. His father said something else, but a movement in the doorway caught his eye. Calleigh was leaning against the doorframe, raising her eyebrows at him. He shook his head and said, "Hey, Dad, I'm sorry, but I gotta go, ok?"

"Oh, sure, kiddo. No problem. You'll call us next week and let us know what you think?"

"Yeah, I'll…do that. Just tell Mom, that I'll call, ok? She…doesn't…."

"Right," his dad interrupted. "No problem, I will pass that on to her."

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome. Love you, Little Man," his father said, a smile in his voice. He had to swallow back a lump in his throat before he could reply.

"Love you too, Dad. Talk to you later," he said, hanging up before his father could respond.

Calleigh looked at him for a moment, but didn't say anything. They had an unspoken agreement to pretend to not overhear phone calls from or about each other's family members. But he had a feeling that she had heard more of the conversation than he'd noticed and had chosen that moment to poke her head in to give him an out from the conversation.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she shrugged. "What are you doing?"

"The writeup from yesterday. And the supply list, if I get the chance."

"You might. Horatio says there's nothing so far, but you and I are first up, because he and Eric are still working on that hit and run," she said.

He nodded. "Right. Oh, I put a couple of files on your pile, there. They're right on top."

She smiled. "Someone mistook the desks again?"

"Yeah. I can't imagine why," he said, looking back at the papers in his hands. Calleigh chuckled, and rummaged around in her own papers.

"Well, ok, I've got some evidence from night shift that needs logging down there, so that's where I'll be."

"Gotcha," he said, not looking up from the papers. "I'll find you."

"Good deal," she said, as she breezed out of the office and down the hall.

Reports and paperwork were not his favorite activity, but the tedium was about his speed at the moment. He lost himself in the report, pushing away the thoughts of the phone call and the rain.