Author's Note:
Okay, so, fine… I couldn't get enough of CSI: NY. It was just too good! So I've devised this story. It's AU, obviously. I wanted to explore what would happen if Mac were on the other side of the law. If he's guilty, that is. =) To find out more, you'll just have to read on.
Chapter One:
"More of the Same, but Different"
April in New York is gorgeous, there's no denying it. The trees in Central Park are in bloom and if you feel like taking a walk in the city, the night lights are absolutely unforgettable. If, of course, you can ignore the screaming, the cursing, the mugging, and the traffic. If you can manage that without ending up in Bellevue, you're meant to be here.
My name is Stella Bonasera, and I'm a detective with New York City's crime lab. I'm in charge of my team and they're all good people, and even better forensic scientists. I'm lucky to have them, and I like to think they enjoy having me around. Our cases are trying, but we all work hard to get them solved. Most days we enjoy our jobs, but every now and then things get hard to handle. Facing death on a daily basis isn't exactly like a weekend at the Hilton.
This morning is just like any other, and I'm rushing around my apartment looking for a shoe I could have sworn I kicked off by the door last night. I find it under my bed (of course) and grab my bag as I run out the door. Running down the stairs seems faster than praying for a speedy elevator, so that's what I do. I'm not exactly running late, but I will if some cabbie doesn't take mercy on me along with a couple of mildly illegal shortcuts.
It's two minutes before eight when I walk in the doors of the lab, daring anyone to make a comment about my less-than-timely arrival with my eyes. No one does, though, because my temper is legendary and no one has the guts. Or, you know, because I'm not late yet.
Sheldon Hawkes is the first to greet me this morning, and he does so with a shy smile and a progress report on the case that's been on his plate for two weeks now. The fingerprint he finally managed to get a subpoena for hadn't matched the one left at the scene, and he doesn't look happy. I feel sorry for the poor guy; we've all had cases that just didn't piece together like we hope.
"Sorry, Hawkes," I say, handing him the file back. "Keep looking. You'll find something."
He scoffs. "If I'm lucky."
"Don't give up."
He walks out of the office and the first thing that I notice are the files requesting my attention. But, since I'd honestly rather do dumpster duty than sit at a desk all day, I let them wait a little longer. They'll be just as urgent when I get back, so they'll keep. If I'm lucky they'll disappear and I'll never have to deal with it. Being a scientist, I don't think it's likely. That doesn't mean I won't cross my fingers.
I've been at my desk for maybe a minute when my phone rings.
"Bonasera."
"Detective, we have a body for you," the dispatcher informs me and I grab a pen and sticky note to record the address. "1700 South Avenue H. It's an abandoned warehouse. Detectives Flack and Angell are on their way there now."
"Okay, give us half an hour."
In fifteen minutes exactly, Danny, Lindsay, and I are on our way to the crime scene. Danny's better at the whole traffic thing, as opposed to me—who takes cabs everywhere—and Lindsay, whose version of traffic in Montana is a tractor and a cow. Needless to say, we let him drive without another word. It's a division of labor that suits everyone.
At nine o'clock on the dot, we arrive at the crime scene.
A couple of uniforms have it taped off from the curious public, and we walk in to find Flack and Angell staring at the body. Right off the bat, I know I have a long night ahead of me. Our victim is tied to a chair and shows obvious signs of heavy and merciless abuse. His face is a giant amalgamation of bruises that makes even me cringe, and I'm pretty confident in the cause of death as I take a longer look at the body.
His throat has a gash that goes almost from ear to ear, and I'm sure it's the only kindness that's been paid to him. When the carotid is opened, a person will bleed to death in under a minute. After what looks like hours of torture, it must have been a relief to go so quickly. I'm sure he would have preferred to not go at all, but the world doesn't always give us that alternative. I can only hope that it's some consolation to catch the killer. That's what I've believed in all my life, and that's why I do what I do.
"Any ID on him?" I ask Angell as I come to stand beside her. She nods her head, dark curls bobbing, and hands me a black leather wallet.
"James Corelli," she tells me and I look at the driver's license in my hands. The body in front of me looks nothing like the picture. "A bit of a mob connection if the rumors are to be believed."
"Mob?" I ask, but the concept is nothing new. This is New York, and it takes all kinds. "What kind of role does he play in the family circus?"
"Enforcer," Flack says. "He's gotten tagged for assault more than a few times and drugs once or twice, but any murder charges he's been brought up on have mysteriously vanished. Courtesy of a lawyer that's way out of his pay bracket."
"Family lawyer?" Danny asks, leaning behind the chair where the victim is tied to take a closer look at the ropes used to hold him.
"I can only guess," Flack responds and turns to me. "What do you think, Stella?"
"Multiple contusions and abrasions on the face. I'd be willing to guess they're other places, too," I observe from a few feet away. My eyes rest on the victim's left hand, the digits of which have been twisted at odd angles. "Three broken fingers. The wound on the neck looks like the kill shot. Sid can tell you more when we get him back to the lab."
"Looks like the killer is right handed, from the direction of the cut," Danny says from the floor. "Not that that really narrows anything down. I'm just saying."
"Thanks anyway," Angell offers.
"Stella, we've got DNA over here," Lindsay calls from several feet away, near a giant wooden desk that looks like it's seen better days. It probably came with the building.
"What kind?" I ask, starting over to her.
"Skin," she says, collecting the evidence in a tiny vial that we'll take with us back to the lab. She's kneeling down to look at the front edge of it, where a nail is sticking out of the woodwork. "Looks like blood, too."
"Nice catch."
I watch her collect the evidence and a gash in the top of the desk catches my attention. I put on a pair of latex gloves to keep my fingerprints from mixing with our killer's, and I run my finger over the laceration in the wood. It's long and triangular; if my guess is correct, I would bet it was where someone had stabbed a knife into the desk while they were waiting to use it.
Reaching for my kit, I take a cast of the marred spot of wood and find it just over two inches deep. The shape of the cast tentatively agrees with my theory of a knife, but I'll hold onto it to compare it to blade variations later. Sid will give me a good estimate on the kind of blade, and then we'll narrow it down with the cast from the desk. If nothing else is accomplished today, we'll know our murder weapon within a few hours.
-----
When noon rolls around, we're already sighing. The warehouse has been thoroughly searched, only to find nothing that would even come close to a murder weapon. Flack and Angell have separated to find the building's owners and any potential witnesses, and after three hours on the scene I've come to the conclusion that we've done all we can do here.
James Corelli's body has been transported back to the lab and we have possession of his restraints, cell phone, and wallet. Sid will get the clothes back to us when the autopsy is underway, and we'll be able to examine it for trace evidence. We'll have to look through all the blood to do it, but we'll manage. It's easy to forget how brutal mob killings are when you don't see them every day. When you catch one, though, it's hard to forget for a while.
We drive back to the lab talking about the case, comparing our evidence. I'm pleased with what we've managed to find. Lindsay's evidence seems to be the most promising, along with the fingerprints Danny collected from the chair and the desk. My cast of the desk will serve as corroborating evidence in the event that we find the actual murder weapon, and it will be just another nail in the killer's coffin. There's no such thing as too much evidence.
My first stop is Dr. Sid Hammerback when we get back to the lab. I put Lindsay on the fingerprints and Danny on the DNA, hoping we'll get something back. I drop the victim's cell phone off with Adam and beg a read-out. The lab tech eagerly accepts, and promises results within the hour. Sheldon, Flack, and Angell have gone out to inform the family of their loved ones' untimely demise. All our bases are thoroughly covered; save for mine as I walk through the autopsy doors.
Sid greets me with an enigmatic smile that only he can manage, and I return it with a smile of my own. His black reading glasses are perched on the end of his nose and he's been staring down at the body. As of yet, the thoracic cavity is unopened and I'm silently grateful. Being used to something doesn't mean you have to enjoy it. That's my philosophy on autopsies, and it's served me well so far.
"Good afternoon, Stella," he says. "Quite an early morning, I've noticed."
"Tell me about it," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "Is it too early to beg for information?"
He smiles. "Never. With the amount of blood on the body I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that the official cause of death is exsanguination, but I'll know for sure when I open him up."
"Any idea when he was killed?"
"Based on liver temperature and lividity, I think midnight or thereabouts would be your TOD. Give or take an hour or two," he says and I nod my head, adding it to the list of facts I have going in my head. Later I'll need to add them up and hope for an answer that I can take to court with me.
I stay and talk with Sid for a few minutes, gracefully bowing out when he brings out the scalpel. He understands my reluctance, though, and bids me farewell. I'm incredibly fond of Sid. He's a little like the weird uncle I never had; the kind who told crazy stories and kept lizards in his pockets.
My next base is Adam, who hands me a piece of paper almost immediately upon my entry into his little corner of the lab. My eyes catch the highlighted portions first.
"What am I looking at?" I ask and he points at the bright yellow markings.
"The same number appeared several times over the last few days, but the calls never lasted more than a minute," he says enthusiastically.
Adam is a little like a lap dog who gets excited when you praise him for catching a ball. Hyperactive, but sweet.
"Except," he emphasizes, "For the last call. It was made last night just before eleven o'clock and lasted for almost ten minutes."
"Sid said midnight was our time of death," I say and his eyes light up a little.
"Looks like our guy got set up," he says. "Is it true that he's mafia?"
"Does it matter?"
"Well, no, not really," he says. "I'm just interested."
"The rumors seem to point in that direction," I confirm and try to ignore the look on Adam's face. It's unprofessional, but it's not hurting anybody. "Flack and Angell mentioned it, but nothing's for sure. We'll pull up his rap sheet and see what kind of potential killer list the guy got started and go from there."
"Yeah, of course."
"What do I always say, Adam?" I ask because he looks like he needs a reminder.
"Never jump to conclusions?"
"Exactly," I tell him. "What are the chances that we can trace this number?"
"Pretty good if we get lucky," he says and goes back to the computer. I watch over his shoulder as he types the number into a database.
The machine whirrs and beeps until a message pops up onto the screen.
"Sorry, Stella," he says. "Disposable cell. And it has been disposed of, because I can't trace it."
"Hmm," I say but I'm thinking, Damn. It would have been too easy.
"Good work, Adam," I say and pat him on the shoulder. "If you manage to pull anything else off of it, you know where to find me."
"Absolutely," he says and he's back at the computer, winding his way through whatever database he can to get us a lead. He works hard, and I can only hope he knows how much I appreciate him and his work. I'm bad sometimes about taking things for granted.
A quick visit with Lindsay tells me that the partials removed from the scene are our victim's. She gives me an apologetic smile and promises to keep looking.
Strike two, I think and head over to Danny.
"Hey," I say as I come to stand beside him.
"Hey yourself," he says, looking into a microscope. "I've got a damn good specimen here. Blood and skin, neither of which are our victim's. It looks like the guy got caught on a nail that was sticking out from the desk; maybe a hand or an arm. My money's on the hand, though. I didn't find any hair on the sample."
Finally, a break.
"That's the best news I've heard all day," I tell him. "Any hits yet?"
"Not so far," he reports. "CODIS came up empty."
"Well, keep trying," I tell him and go to start comparing the cast I've made of the blade to possible matches before a beeping behind my back stops me.
"Holy hell, I got a hit," Danny says from behind me and I rush back to his side. Times like this are when I absolutely love my job.
"You're kidding."
"AFIS got something," he says and a picture pops up on our screen.
The man staring back at me from the computer's monitor has dark hair and light blue eyes with a severe-looking mouth and a strong jaw. His frame is broad and muscular; evidence of a lifetime of hard work. If I were considering him as anything other than a suspect, he would have had my utmost attention.
"He's a Marine. Staff Sergeant Mac Taylor."
A/N: I know! Cruel! Is Mac a murderer? If you want to find out, hit the little button and tell me so.