Salam
Summary: While investigating the brutal murder of a Muslim woman, Nick and Greg find themselves caught in a hostage situation and Sara is enlisted as a negotiator. Dealing with racism, hate and ignorance, the team has to make sure everyone comes out of this alive. Team friendship.
About the rating: This fic is rated for language, violence and political issues which are discussed very candidly. Take those things away, and it would be rated K.
Author's Note: I apologize for the long proviso listed below. If you want, you can skip it, but don't shout flaming political opinions in the reviews please. In a nutshell, it says "keep an open mind and know that opinions voiced by characters are not shared by me. This is a work of FICTION." If you do yell at me calling me racist or something, I will just assume you skipped the proviso and you will be ignored.
PROVISO: The statements coming from characters in this story may seem offensive to certain people. Please understand that the views expressed by the characters are not necessarily views shared by the author. Also understand that this story deals with some touchy politics, specifically the Palestinian/Israeli conflict. This story is not meant to show a bias towards either side of the conflict. It is not meant to offend Jews or Muslims, Israelis or Arabs. This piece serves solely as a commentary on hatred and the animosity the conflict has inspired in all parties. It is not a personal statement about the conflict itself. Polar opinions on the conflict, on governments and officials, and against a specific race, religion or political party are expressed by the characters, but as stated previously are not necessarily shared by the author.
Please note that the stories told by the characters are completely fictional and did not happen. However, also note that any historical references and statistics are as accurate as possible. Also understand that many Israelis and Palestinians have lost their lives in this conflict, a high percentage of them children and innocent civilians who were raising no threat. In addition to that, internationals who visit Israel or any of the occupied territories have also lost their lives needlessly. Most of them are humanitarians who were trying to help. This story is to underline the tragedy of the conflict and to analyze how it has impacted the individual Palestinian, Israeli, American or international. Again, it is not meant to be a statement on the conflict itself. If you would however wish to discuss the conflict, by all means e-mail me and we can talk.
It is important to read this story, and to think of the conflict in general, with an open mind. I do not want you to come into this story and read it favoring one side over the other. There have been terrorist attacks and suicide bombers by Palestinians against Israelis, and by Israelis against Palestinians. If this story is saying anything, it is that we need to learn to understand each other and shoulder the blame collectively rather than continue in a circle of violence. If this story serves any purpose, it is to promote a deeper understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and to encourage people to learn more about it. It is also a statement against racism of any kind, and to show that anyone can be a perpetrator and everyone can be a victim.
Thank you for your time, now that all that is out of the way, enjoy the story.
"For a long time I've been operating from a certain core assumption that we are all essentially the same inside, and that our differences are by and large situational. That goes for everybody— Bush, Bin Laden, Tony Blair, me, you… Palestinians, everybody of any particular religion. I know there is a good chance that this assumption actually is false. But it's convenient, because it always leads to questions about the way privilege shelters people from the consequences of their actions. It's also convenient because it leads to some level of forgiveness, whether justified or not."
Rachel Corrie, April 10 1979 — March 16 2003
It had started like any other day. They all went into work. Grissom handed out assignments. Nick and Sara had a 419 out on the strip. Greg was given the honor of dealing with a robbery at a convenience store. Meanwhile, Catherine, Warrick and Grissom were going to handle a triple homicide down in Henderson.
It had all seemed fairly routine. They would go out, process the scenes, gather the evidence, come back, work through what they had and try to piece together what happened, with the help of the fine Las Vegas detectives. None of them could even guess that it would be Nick and Sara's case that would transform this average night into a nightmare.
Her name was Farah Ibrahim. Sara kneeled down next to her corpse and looked sadly into her dead brown eyes.
"TOD is about four hours ago," David Phillips said as he straightened up. "Looks like she was beaten to death."
"Well I could have told you that…" Sara muttered.
David glared at her. "I can give you a more exact COD later… Ligature marks on her neck and wrists… Possible sexual assault. I'll let you know." He rose to his feet and left Sara to process. She took photos of the body, which was covered in bruises and cuts. Her shoulder seemed dislocated. Her brown hair was a mess and her clothes were torn and revealed one of her breasts. Her black bra had a torn strap and her skirt was around her knees. She was covered in dirt and looked as if she'd been thrown to the ground.
Sara looked at the corpse's hands and took fingernail scrapings, hoping this woman fought back. Although judging by the marks on her hands, she was probably tied up. There was a blood pool by her head, but it was small, which only underlined Sara's body dump theory.
Nick approached her carrying a purse. Sara cocked an eyebrow. "Oh Nick, that really doesn't go with your outfit."
He gave her a look that said 'ha ha' before he explained. "Found this a ways down the road. Looks to belong to our vic." He pulled out a wallet. "Farah Ibrahim?"
"That's her," Sara said. "According to her ID. Found it in her pocket."
"Yeah…" said Nick as he looked at another card. "Says here she's part of the… Joint Faiths for Peace Organization… Hey, I've heard of this, their headquarters aren't far from here. They lobby for tolerance and education, trying to teach people about Islam and the conflict in the Middle East."
"That's impressive," Sara said. "Unfortunately, it's also motive." She shook her head sadly. "This looks like a hate crime to me."
"You could be right," Nick said, squatting down on the opposite side of the body. "I mean, it looks kind of personal. Some of this bruising seems to be post mortem… Why kick a girl after she's dead unless you really had something against her?"
Brass came up from behind them looking at his notes. "I talked to the folks who found her… Honeymooners on their way out of Caesar's Palace. They said a car drove by and just tossed her out without even stopping."
"Son of a bitch…" Nick muttered, shaking his head. "They must have thrown her purse out the window. But they didn't even take money out of her wallet."
"Maybe they didn't think it was worth it," Sara murmured. She looked down sympathetically at the corpse. "She was pretty, wasn't she?" She frowned as something caught her eye a few feet away. Her eyes narrowed as she swallowed. "Hijab."
"Gazoontite," Brass said.
Sara blinked up at him. "What? No. Hijab— It's the Muslim head scarf. I'm guessing that cloth over there is hers. She was devout." Sara rose to her feet and picked up the scarf with her gloved hands. "It's torn… There are hairs on it, probably hers …" She looked closely at one of the hairs. "Roots," she said. "Probably pulled off with the scarf. Someone ripped this from her head."
Nick pulled out a cell phone from her purse. "Two missed calls from 'Hassan.' Who wants to bet that's her husband?"
"It's Hassan," Sara corrected automatically as she bagged the hairs.
Nick cocked an eyebrow. "What?" he deadpanned.
She looked up at him. "The stress is on the first syllable. Not Hassan. Hassan."
"OK…" Nick said. "Hassan then. Wait a minute… They're not both from him. One is from Noah."
"Hassan is the husband," Sara said.
"What makes you so sure?" Nick asked.
"Noah isn't an Arabic name," Sara explained. She rose and took the phone out of Nick's hands and frowned at it. "You should check up on both of them. Her address is on her driver's license, Brass and I can handle that."
"OK…" Nick said. "I'll take the evidence back to the lab and call this Noah guy and figure out how he knows her."
"By the name, my bet is he's from the JFP," Sara said.
Nick nodded. "Good guess, I'll let you know."
It didn't take Sara and Brass long to find her home. It was only a ten minute drive from the strip. It was an old and dilapidated apartment building with a bad cockroach problem that Sara tried to ignore. They stood outside the door on a ratty door mat as they waited for an answer from someone inside.
A man answered the door bouncing a toddler on his shoulder who was sucking on a lollypop. She stared at Sara with large curious eyes, her dark brown hair delicately wispy. Sara smiled at her, then looked at the man.
"Mr. Ibrahim?" Sara assumed.
He nodded, looking at the two of them curiously. "Yes… Hassan Ibrahim. And you are?"
Brass flashed his badge. "I'm Captain Brass, this is Sara Sidle from the Crime Lab."
Hassan began shaking his head slowly. "Oh no, I'm sorry, you're wrong, I've been with my children all night, I couldn't have done anything."
"No, sir," Brass said quickly. "We're actually here about your wife, Farah?"
Hassan frowned. "Farah? Oh now I know you're mistaken, she's a solid member of the community, she would never do anything to—"
"Mr. Ibrahim," Sara interrupted quickly. "Could you maybe put your daughter down for a moment so we can speak with you?"
Hassan looked shocked at his daughter before whispering in her ear in Arabic. She giggled and struggled in his grip until he let her down and she scampered back into the house, where two other children were laughing loudly. He looked back up at Brass and Sara. "It wouldn't have mattered, she doesn't speak English yet anyways."
"I'm sorry to tell you this," Sara began slowly, "but your wife was found on the side of the strip… She's dead."
Hassan simply stood there, his gaze stony as he nodded. "OK… Thank you…" He tried to close the door, but Brass stopped him.
"We're going to have to ask you a few questions about your wife," Brass said.
Hassan blinked at him. "What? Oh. Yes. Of course…"
"Aren't you curious to know how she died?" Sara asked, confused at his seemingly calm and dazed reaction.
Hassan looked very tired, but he didn't take his eyes off Sara. "Miss… Sidle, is it? You have to understand. I am Palestinian. I grew up in Gaza. Growing up, death wasn't some ambiguous far off nightmare. It was omnipresent. It was everyday life. I watched my parents shot and killed by Israeli forces when I was sixteen, during the first intifada. It was then that I swore I would get out of there. I damn near died trying, but I made it. Do you know how hard it is to escape an occupied territory, Miss Sidle? After the al-Aqsa intifada began I knew I needed to get out of there. It cost me everything I had, and some great help from some very kind human rights activists, but I finally got out of that place. I saw death every day over there. Do not mistake my expression for one of apathy, Miss Sidle. My emotions run far deeper than my eyes will betray." He looked at Brass and heaved a sigh. "I'll do what I can to help," he said. "But I moved to America to escape death only to find that it followed me here. If you think I killed my wife, then you are wrong."
Sara was stunned as she blinked at the man, her mouth partly open, obviously deeply affected by his words.
Brass, on the other hand, remained detached. "When did you last see your wife, Mr. Ibrahim?"
Hassan closed his eyes, remembering. "She left here around six o'clock, after a large meal with the children. She was on her way to celebrate the Eid with her sister, Amira, and her family."
"Her sister?" Brass called.
"Yes," Hassan said. "Amira Osman and her husband, Kareem."
Brass wrote it down. "Could you tell me where they live?"
Hassan nodded. "Yes, they're right downstairs… Apartment 26."
"And you were here," Brass said. "With the children?"
Hassan nodded. "Yes, I assure you. It was something Farah insisted upon. She liked spending time alone with her sister every week or so. It was just what she did, so I stayed home and watched the kids."
"Did you or your wife receive any threats recently or have any enemies?" Brass continued.
Hassan began to shake his head then stopped. His eyes looked far away. "There is a man… His name is Noah, he calls Farah constantly. He's always trying to persuade her to join his group. He calls it 'Joint Faiths for Peace.' I forbid her from talking to him. He would frighten her at times. I think… I think he is trying to turn her against her country, and her faith."
"Sir…" Brass began. "With all due respect, that is a non-violent organization which was established to promote knowledge of the conflict in the Middle East."
Hassan's eyes narrowed at Brass angrily. " 'Conflict in the Middle East…' You speak of it like it is something far from you, Captain Brass, something that exists in a fairy world. Vague and symbolic. It is not like this for me. What you call a 'conflict' is a massacre. And what you call 'non-violent organizations' are the most dangerous of terrorist sects. Americans today accuse Islam of being a violent, backwards religion. They say that we are evil. But evil begets evil, Captain. America supports Israel. My family was killed by guns bought on their coin. My brother was crushed by a tank manufactured in this country. And for what? Was he a terrorist? He was cradling the body of his seven-year-old son. He had been shot dead on his way to school. Was he a terrorist? My brother, he just wanted to take his son's body home, to bury him. They told him to move, to leave the boy. When he didn't, they advanced. Do not speak to me about non-violent organizations and peace, Captain Brass. It has been my experience that there are no such things. There is no such thing as progress without violence. No one will listen to you. And humanity is incapable of peace."
He made to close the door when Sara caught it and said something Brass didn't understand. Hassan was caught off guard. She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Min fadlak?"
Slowly, Hassan nodded and opened the door again. Sara beamed at him and bowed her head. "Shokran," she whispered.
He looked at Brass. "If you need anything more from me," he said to him coldly. "You will have her speak with me. Are we done here?"
Brass swallowed. He wasn't sure what it was about the man that intimidated him. It might have been his size, for he was fairly tall and broad shouldered. Or it could have been that glint of death in his eyes for a man who had seen so much of it that it had become a part of him. But whatever it was, Brass was uneasy in his presence. "Yes, I think we are. Go back to your children. We will call you when we have more information."
Hassan nodded, giving Sara one last fleeting glance before disappearing behind the chipped and faded wooden door. As they walked down the hall, Brass looked at Sara curiously.
"Opinionated, isn't he?" Brass muttered.
"Well you would be too if you grew up in a war zone," Sara pointed out.
"What did you say to him?"
Sara shrugged. "I think I said 'May God bless you…' But I'm not sure. I might have said 'May God eat you.' It's been a while. Apparently, I got some kind of message across. I said please and thank you when he reacted."
"Where did you learn that?" Brass asked as they descended the stairs.
"My roommate in college," Sara explained. "She was from Dubai. Very rich, and a very strict Muslim. We didn't get along at first. I thought she was a stuck up airhead and she thought I was a racist nerd. Then I found she was in my advanced physics class and it wasn't her money that got her into Harvard after all. We bonded over a conversation of quantum theory and she taught me a lot about her culture. It inspired me to take a semester in Cairo, where I stayed with an Egyptian family who were nothing but sweet to me, and very amusing at times."
"So you know Arabic?" Brass sounded surprised.
Sara rolled her eyes. "No, my roommate just taught me a few helpful phrases. And as the Egyptian family constantly pointed out, I have a terrible accent. I can direct a taxi cab, introduce myself, and tell someone to fuck off, but beyond that, I'm pretty hopeless."
Brass smiled. "And here I was all impressed that you knew such a complicated language."
"It's not that complicated," Sara explained as they came up to apartment 26. "I mean, for English speakers, sure it is. New alphabet, new sounds, completely different root words than we're used to… but how do you think it's like for them to learn English? It's the exact same. And let me tell you, the Egyptian family I stayed with put me to shame with their fantastic English grammar."
Brass knocked on the door and nodded. "I guess you're right," he said.
No one answered for a long time. Brass and Sara exchanged looks before listening in on the door. Brass tried again. "Las Vegas PD, open up!" he called.
Still no answer.
"Maybe they're not home?" Sara suggested.
"Or maybe they ditched town after killing Farah," Brass muttered.
"Regardless, we don't have a warrant," Sara said. "So why don't we just head back and leave them a phone message. Come back later or something."
Brass agreed and they headed back outside.
When Nick returned to the lab, he was ambushed by Greg who caught up with him in the hall.
"Hey," he said quickly. "You need help with your case?"
Nick frowned at him as he continued to walk down the hall. "Why?" he said. "What's wrong with yours?"
"Dude, it was a shop owner trying to scam his insurance companies," Greg said. "The idiot didn't even think to turn off his security cameras. I got the whole thing showing how he stole the money and then rang the silent alarm. He even broke his own window. World's Dumbest Criminals, here he comes."
Nick cracked a smile and shrugged. "Grissom doesn't have you on another case?"
"As of yet, he's still out on that triple homicide with Catherine and Warrick," Greg said. "So I'm free until they get back."
"Great, you can help me track down this Noah guy," Nick said. "Farah Ibrahim's planner said that the JFP was having a late night celebration tonight in honor of the Muslim Eid."
Greg blinked at him. "I don't know what that is," he said. "But do you want me to check out the party?"
Nick nodded. "I'll go with you as soon as I call this Noah guy. Do me a favor, go check with Doc Robbins on the body, would you?"
Greg saluted him and jogged off down the hall, rounding the corner and entering the autopsy room where he found Dr. Robbins cracking a corpse's chest. He looked up upon Greg's entrance.
"I thought this was Nick's case," he said.
Greg nodded. "Yeah, I'm helping out now. So what happened to her?"
"Well I just got my paws on her twenty minutes ago…" he muttered staring down at her. "But COD seems to be multiple blunt force traumas to the head."
"And now you're cracking her chest?" Greg noted. Dr. Robbins held up an evidence jar. Greg squinted at it as he took it from him. "Is that skin?"
"I found it in her molars," Dr. Robbins explained. "I don't think it's hers. I figured if this was in there, maybe she swallowed something else."
"You think she bit her attacker?" Greg said. "But how did she get it in her molars?"
"He'd have to be pretty far in her mouth for her to do that…" Dr. Robbins began slowly.
At first, Greg frowned. "But why shove your fist in…" As realization dawned he trailed off and his features grew hard. "Ouch."
"For her or for him?" Dr. Robbins asked.
"Both," Greg said. "A girl snapping shut on a guy like that? That's got to make him angry."
"Mm hm," Dr. Robbins said. "It probably incited this hit here…" He pointed at a large bump on the side of her head. "It came from a fist most likely, but the trajectory says it came from above her. After that, it looks like a free-for-all… Kicks in the abdomen, between the legs, on the neck and head, multiple shoe impressions… I don't think this was one person."
"Shit…" Greg muttered, suddenly having disturbing memories flooding the back of his mind's eye. He shook them off and tried to focus on the present. "Uh… between the legs? So we know this was a sexual assault because of the skin in her teeth, but did they—"
"The genital area is bruised from a physical assault," Dr. Robbins said, "but there's also tearing of the labia as well as lubricant on her anus. No spermicide or sperm in either the vaginal vault or rectum however and judging by the severe trauma to her uterine wall and anal cavity, it was probably a foreign object."
Greg shook his head. "Is there anything they didn't do to her?"
Dr. Robbins frowned, thinking. "They didn't shoot her," he said with a shrug. "Or use any weapon other than their hands and feet… Except maybe a baseball bat, or some other such cylindrical object… You see the indentation here on her side?"
Greg nodded. "Great. I'll relate all this to Nick. Page me if you find anything in her stomach."
"Will do," Dr. Robbins said as Greg skipped off.
Greg found Nick in the AV lab. He had picked up a phone and was dialing the number on Farah Ibrahim's cell phone.
"You haven't done that yet?" Greg said surprised. "I got a full report from Doc Robbins already."
"Yeah, well I needed coffee," Nick snapped.
Greg smirked and held up his hands. "Yeah, I can tell."
Nick rolled his eyes as the phone continued to ring.
"Hello?" The voice was laughing and there was Middle Eastern music playing loudly in the background.
"Hi, who is this?" Nick asked.
"Noah Berkowitz, and who is this?"
"This is Nick Stokes, I'm from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Nick explained. "I need to talk to you about Farah Ibrahim?"
"Farah?" Noah sounded surprise. "I can't imagine Farah to be getting into any trouble…"
"Where are you right now, sir?" Nick asked.
"I'm down at the JFP. We're having a party. Look, did something happen to Farah? She was supposed to be here hours ago and she never showed."
"I'm afraid something did happen, Mr. Berkowitz," Nick said. "She's dead."
Noah gasped and didn't speak for a moment. He seemed to regain his thoughts. All the laughter was gone from his voice and he spoke with a stutter. "Th-that's terrible. How d-did it happen?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out, sir," Nick said. "My colleague and I are going to swing by and question you and your friends, so stay where you are."
Greg nudged him. "Shouldn't we call Brass or something—"
Nick hushed him.
"Yes," Noah said, sounding stunned. "I mean, of course. Anything… Dead? Farah? Are you sure it was her? My God, she was so sweet… Oh wow…"
"Yes, it was her," Nick said. "Her husband is being informed as we speak."
"Oh, he won't like that," Noah said, sounding bitterly.
"Excuse me?" Nick inquired, his interest piqued.
"Hassan is very possessive of her. He won't let her do anything without his consent. Every time she comes here, she tells him she's visiting her sister, Amira. It's not a lie—Amira and her husband Kareem are part of the JFP too. She's here too, I… Oh God, I have to tell her… Those two are very close."
"Great," Nick said. "Keep her there too, we'll be down there in twenty minutes."
"Nick…" Greg said slowly, biting his lip. "We should wait for Brass and Sara."
Nick looked at his watch. "Brass called while I was getting coffee," he said. "I said I might need him in interviewing this Noah guy. He told us to go on ahead, he was gonna meet us there."
Shrugging, Greg followed Nick out.
By the time Sara returned to the lab, the events that would devastate dozens of families had already been set into motion. Sara headed down the hall, pulling out her cell phone to call Nick and ask if he'd interviewed Noah Berkowitz yet. She ran into Grissom in the hall and hung up suddenly.
"Sara," Grissom said, sounding glad to see her. "Have you seen Greg? I have a new case for him."
Sara bit her lip. "Um… I think Nick told Brass that Greg was helping us with our case."
Grissom frowned and looked at the file in his hand. "Oh. Well then I guess I'll call him and tell him to come on back. 419 in an alley in Henderson. It's not going to solve itself, and I'm running out of guys."
Sara's phone rang and she looked down at the caller ID. "Hold on, Grissom, it's Nick." She answered. "Hey."
"You called?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, actually," Sara said. "I was wondering if you've talked to anyone yet. Brass is on his way to meet you."
"We just got here," Nick said. "We're on our way in. What did you find at her house?"
"A not very happy husband and an adorable family," Sara replied. "He was with the kids all night. He said his wife was out visiting his sister in law who lived downstairs, but she wasn't home."
"Yeah, she's at this party," Nick explained. "The JFP is celebrating the first day of the Muslim Eid."
"Oh shit, yeah," Sara said. "Is it the Eid already?"
"I don't know," Nick said. "But according to Noah, she was supposed to be here. Her sister is here too with her husband. Kareem and Amira Osman."
"I need to send Maha an e-mail…" Sara muttered absently. "OK, I'll check on our evidence."
Grissom waved to get Sara's attention. "Tell him to tell Greg to get back here as soon as he's done over there and tell him to call me. I have a new case for him." Sara nodded and relayed the information to Nick.
"Gotchya," Nick agreed. "Call you when we're on our way back."
"See you soon."
If Sara had known that would be the last contact she had with Nick, she might have tried to say something more worthwhile than that. But there was no way she could have known. There was no way any of them could have known.
No one, least of all Hassan Ibrahim, could prepare for the events that followed…