Things That Go Bump In The Night
By
A. Rhea King
There was an apprehensive, heavy silence in the court room. Greg Sanders sat in the witness chair, watching the DA to collect her thoughts before questioning him. She was an attractive brunette, but he wondered if she was even aware of that right now. He decidedly didn't care. He was just wanted to get back to the evidence he'd left the new tech.
Greg glanced at Nick Stokes, sitting in a chair directly behind the DA. Greg had to stop the smile that responded to how Nick had gone off about the trial. He believed Craig Toomey, a man that had bombed the clinic almost two months ago, should have gone to trial before he had a chance to commit suicide, and having it after his death was a waste of taxpayer's money. Greg knew better than to attempt to get Nick off track once he got started on something, because if he voiced that he disagreed, Nick would of dove into his argument wholeheartedly and become a road menace. It was best to let the storm blow over and then speak his peace.
Unfortunately, the storm was still raging all the way to the doors of the courtroom, so he never had the opportunity to point out that if the state won the Toomey estate, plaintiffs would walk away with about five thousand each. It wasn't much, but it would at least give them closure. That was good news, and good news is what the city needed right now. A serial killer had been running rampant for a week, murdering homeowners and EMS including police that responded to the calls. Whoever was doing this had somehow hacked into the Emergency Response computers and dispatching the EMS personnel to their deaths – and so far no one was able to distinguish a real dispatch from a fake one except to call their dispatch. But that took time, time that could cost people's lives and so the murders continued. The second problem was that every crime scene so far had evidence, but none that identified the killer's identity.
The DA stood and approached the stand.
"You were the second crime scene investigator in charge of inspecting the Centennial Hills Clinic?"
"Yes."
A jolt ran through Greg's body when his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He resisted grabbing it – a habit he'd grown into as he'd spent more time in this job.
"Did you find evidence that Craig Toomey had detonated the bombs on August twenty-first two thousand and seven?"
The phone started vibrating again.
"Yes. We found--" Greg hesitated when Grissom came into the courtroom. He quickly refocused on the DA. She was waiting for his answer.
"Yes. After we had taken several of the bomb fragments apart, we found DNA samples within them that had not been destroyed by the explosions."
Grissom sat down behind Nick and leaned forward on his chair, whispering. Nick's eyes enlarged slightly and he looked back. Greg could read him mouthing 'Another one? Grissom handed him a piece of paper and left. Nick looked back at Greg. His lips tightened slightly and even slighter he bobbed his head, all his tell-tale 'hurry up' signal.
"And the DNA sample. What was it?"
Greg refocused on the DA. "I'm sorry. Can you repeat that last question?"
He stayed focused on her now. He didn't feel like having the case blown because he was distracted by a conversation he was would soon be a part of.
Nick turned the SUV around a corner and met a street full of media and other people. "What is this?" he asked.
Greg was pulling a T-shirt over his head and hurried to pull it down to see.
"Wow."
"You can say that again."
Policemen saw the two and it took six push to push people back and make a path for Nick to drive through. Greg watched as they passed an ambulance. Then he looked ahead and saw two more and suddenly his heart sank.
"The EMS Killer strikes again." Greg sighed.
Nick glanced at him, then ahead. "How do you know?"
"There are too many ambulances on the wrong side of the tape."
Nick stopped at the tape and the two got out, pulling their vests on. Greg grabbed his field kit and headed for the house where police were coming and going. Assistant Corner David the door writing on a clipboard. Grissom and Ecklie were halfway up the sidewalk talking.
"Hey, CSI, when are you going to find this guy? When are you going to stop him?" someone yelled.
Greg glanced back. Nick had turned back and was walking up to the paramedic Greg assumed had shouted out. It was a man and woman team, and the woman was more buff than her male partner. Greg stopped, watching and waiting to see if Nick needed help. It was a lengthy conversation. It ended with Nick giving the woman a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He turned and caught up with Greg. Greg fell into step beside him.
"They said half the medics called out sick today. They're running on a skeleton crew of six ambulances in a city of over a million people. If we don't catch this guy soon, we won't have any firefighters, paramedics or police left to protect it."
"Not at night, anyway."
"Who's to say the killer won't change his m.o. to killing during the day? He's motives and patterns have even baffled the profiler. Even she thinks it's strange that this guy waits around for the EMS and kills them too."
Greg didn't argue. There was a lot about this serial killer that wasn't adding up, to everyone else. In his mind everything was, but he wanted evidence to back up his theory before he voiced it. If he could wait that long, anyway.
The two stopped next to Grissom, watching Ecklie head back toward the crowd.
"I want you," he motioned to Nick, "to sweep the basement. Be meticulous; let's see if we can't find something. Greg, go in the back and help Catherine. The property opens onto the desert so I want you two to do at least a mile radius. And we have to have this wrapped up by one. We're having an all teams meeting at two-thirty."
The two headed off to their assigned areas.
"Greg," Grissom called.
Greg turned back.
"Don't ever let another CSI distract you on the stand again."
Greg winced. Grissom had noticed that? "I won't."
Greg hurried away to avoid the subject from going further.
Greg walked into the break room. It was crowded with CSI and all the lab technicians. He found an open chair next to Archie. Everyone looked tired and beat. The case was beating them, wasn't it?
"Have any of you found anything?" Grissom asked.
Silence. Not exactly the response Grissom wanted from an entire team of CSI, Greg was certain of that. He looked up when the door opened and was surprised to see Sara. She pulled up a chair next to Grissom.
"I just got off my shift and thought I'd join this meeting since I missed my shift's meeting. How is everyone?"
They all said good, but the tone of voice everyone used betrayed their lie.
So Grissom spoke up, "What about evidence we've collected so far? We collected a piece of clothing at the last scene and I know we have other evidence bu--"
"Not to burst your bubbles, boss," Hodges piped up, "but don't you think if we actually got anything from any of the evidence someone here would have been doing a victory dance in the hallway?"
Greg rubbed his finger over his lips to keep from smiling and repress his laughter. Hodges had a funny way of making the not so happy answers funny – unfortunately that humor was lost on Grissom, and most of the rest of the team, right now.
"Thanks for that insight, Hodges," Grissom rebuked. "Does anyone else have anything constructive to offer?"
"How about theories of the killer's choice of location?" Sara asked.
"What's your idea?"
She smiled, her cheeks brightening the lightest shade of crimson. "Could he perhaps be targeting a certain type of house?"
Greg looked down. No. It wasn't the houses. His gut told him that.
"What do you mean?" someone asked.
"They all seem to be the same architecture and color."
"That's like saying it's the color and brand of lawnmower they all own," Catherine said.
"It was a guess."
For a few minutes the room was silent. Grissom cleared his throat.
"Any other ideas?"
Yes, Greg thought. He considered saying it, but he was nervous.
"Well, if that's all, then--"
"I think the killer is someone related to or close to the clinic bomber," Greg blurted.
The entire room turned to look at him, and the silence was heavy.
"Is there something you found that you haven't told us, Greg?" Grissom asked. There was a hint of accusation in the question. It wasn't something most people would hear, but it was something that months of working under the man had trained him to pick up.
"No," Greg answered. "It's just that..." Greg trailed off; noticing eyes hadn't left him yet. He wasn't sure he should even continue and was even less certain he should have said anything at all.
"Just what?" Catherine asked.
"Well... The killings started the same day Craig Toomey committed suicide just like the threat letters promised. And the letters all had personal information only someone related to, or close to, Toomey would know."
"We already checked his background, Greg," Catherine retorted. "He had an ex-wife and no family or friends."
"I still don't get why he bombed the clinic for his ex," Mandy commented.
Greg could get it. His dad still loved his mom and they had been divorced for eighteen years in December.
Warrick defended the accusation. "They refused his medical insurance and she died because she couldn't get treatment. The guy loved her, Mandy. Not saying he should have blown up a building and forty people, but at least his motive made sense." Warrick turned to Greg. "This serial killer's pattern is random, Greg. It may be rare, but that's what it is."
"But every serial killer has a pattern," Greg defensively argued. "Even if it's not obvious to us. It's there, Warrick. The killer is killing these people for a reason and I think they are somehow connected with Toomey."
"And all of this verbal banter is great, but it doesn't do anything to help us identify the killer, the motive, or the pattern," Grissom said. "So, if there is nothing else, let's get back to work. Keep digging. The m.o. is there, we just have to find it."
People got up from chairs and crowded toward the door. Nick and Warrick followed, talking about the piece of clothing Nick had found at the last crime scene. Greg sighed, staring at the floor. He looked at the pair of hiking boots that stopped next to his sneaker, and then up at Sara's face. She smiled.
"It's a good theory. More believable than mine."
"But there's no evidence."
She smiled, laying her hand on his arm. "Someone once told me that in a case without evidence, a theory is a good starting place."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks Sara."
She nodded, leaving him. Greg laid his head back against the wall. Every so often he imagined his job just might drive him insane.
Sara came out the door, finding Grissom waiting. The two started walking together.
"I overheard what you told Greg."
She smiled at him. "Did you?"
"Why would you do that? He needs to focus on the evidence."
"Because you told me that once, when I was a rookie. My theory was wrong, the evidence proved it, but I didn't feel so frustrated trying to solve the case."
"I told you that?"
"Yes. You."
Grissom smiled. "I'll have to remember I said that. For the next frustrated rookie."
Sara smiled lovingly at him, her hand brushing against his. "I hope she doesn't fall in love with you, too."
Grissom smiled, but didn't respond.
Greg entered the house behind Catherine and the two stopped, staring at the dead couple, three dead firemen, and two dead policemen. David was checking the body temperature of the nearest victim, a woman in her early forties.
"I'm beginning to feel like we're living in some horror movie," Catherine commented.
"You can leave the theater for a horror movie and you don't get blood on your jeans."
Catherine smiled, even chuckled.
"I'll go left, you go right?"
"Sure. We'll work our way back until David's done."
Greg sat his field case down next to David's case and pulled out his flashlight. With a point of light and slow steps, he started around the perimeter of the room, probing into every nook, every shadowed spot, and every place that could hide evidence. He crouched down to look under a chair, shining his flashlight under it. He froze. He heard someone breathing. It was light, like someone asleep, but he was definitely hearing breathing. He slowly looked up, expecting it to be Catherine or David. But Catherine had left the room and David was still with the corpse. Greg's eyes drifted down to the fireman next to him. He reached out and pushed his fingers against the man's throat. A strong, very much alive, heart pushed blood through the vein under his fingers, surprising him.
"WE HAVE A LIVE ONE!" Greg yelled, dropping his flashlight and moving next to the man.
David ran to the door, "WE NEED A MEDIC! PRONTO!"
David leapt over two bodies to get to them, falling to his knees. And then the two were still. This was the first live person they had found at an EMS Killer scene, and perhaps the first person who could tell them who they were looking for. Catherine ran into the room.
"He's alive?" she asked.
"Yes," Greg looked up at her. "We may have a witness."
Catherine's face told of her relief.
Brass's thoughts had wondered off without any structure, brought on by sheer boredom. The firefighter's doctor told Brass that Dario Ricci would be awake soon, five hours ago. Since then Brass had made a dozen trips to the coffee vending machine, three to the restroom just for some place to go, visited with every nurse on the floor, caught up on some national headlines in the newspaper, and finally sat down to play a game on his cell phone. But the game and phone sat in his hand forgotten as he thought about where the world would have been today without mobile entertainment and other very random thoughts.
Dario moved and that broke his thought trance. He looked at the man, watching him stir as he regained consciousness. Brass closed his phone and dropped it in his jacket pocket. He readjusted his position, giving the man time to figure out where he was. After all, he was a victim, which much the evidence pointed to, and Brass had respect for anyone willing to run into burning buildings to save people's lives. Dario opened his eyes and looked around the room, finally finding Brass. The detective smiled as he stood.
"Dario Ricci, I'm Detective Jim Brass. LVPD."
"Where am I?" Right away Brass heard Dario's thick Bronx or Queens accent. His guess that the man's skin color and bone structure hinted at Italian decent was further concreted.
"The hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?"
"We responded to a fire call and... There were three of us. Where is Danno and Brick?"
"Brick?"
"Richard. We call him Brick. Where are they?"
Brass hated this part of his job. "I'm sorry Dario, but Dan and Richard are dead. The EMS Killer succeeded in killing them, and two policemen."
"Ah no. No, no, no." Dario pushed his hand against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "That bastard!"
Brass couldn't agree more.
"Dario, I know you just woke up and this isn't exactly the news anyone wants, but it would really help us if you could tell me what happened at that house." Brass pulled out his notepad and pen from his shirt. He flipped it open to a blank page. "Central dispatch doesn't have any record of sending you three or those policemen on a call. But your station does have record of someone calling from dispatch with the call. Was there anything unusual when you got to the house?"
"Yeah!" Dario looked up at him, dropping his hand. "It was dark."
"Dark?" Brass poised his pen to start writing.
"No lights on at all. Even the street light was out. And that wasn't a neighborhood that a street light would be out. We saw smoke coming from a window, but we waited for our police backup like we were told to. They got there and we entered the house. The place was filled with smoke but... But it was all wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"The smoke... It felt... Clean."
"Clean? How do you get clean smoke?"
"It wasn't smoke from a fire, is what I'm saying. I didn't get my mask on until I got to the door and it felt different. It was cool; smoke isn't cool. And it felt moist."
"Cool, moist smoke? Don't they call that fog?"
"In a house?"
"Good point. So you three went in?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Then..." Dario stopped, his face going blank. "Then I remember hearing Brick scream get out. He kept screaming it but stopped all of a sudden. I heard a gun go off. Then I felt something poke my neck and then..." He looked back at Brass. "Then nothing. I don't remember nothin' except waking up here. Nothing else at all."
Brass sighed. He knew this was too easy. "You're sure? Nothing else?"
Dario shook his head. "Detective, that bastard killed two good friends and has made this city go crazy. If I remembered something, I'd tell you."
Brass put his notepad away. He dug out a business card and sat it on the table. "If you do remember something else, call me."
"In a New York minute."
Brass smiled. "Thank you."
Catherine was leaning over a map on the light table when Greg came into the layout room carrying a piece of paper. Paper flags tagged the map with her flowing handwriting on each of them.
"Back on the pattern map, huh?" he asked.
"Yeah. If I stare at it long enough I may actually solve this case."
Greg chuckled.
She glanced at the paper. "What'cha got?"
"Good news or bad news, depending on how you want to look at it." He sat the paper down and then sat down on a stool.
She picked it up, leaning her hip against the table. She let out a sigh, tossing the paper on the table.
"The firefighter was sedated?"
"Yep. Bras called me before I came over here. He said Dario remembers there was smoke when they got there. The interesting thing is the firefighter said the smoke was moist and clean."
"It was mist?"
"Maybe. What would cause that?"
Catherine smiled, tapping a finger on the light table. "A smoke machine. I used them and that's exactly how the smoke felt in my lungs."
Greg lifted his eyebrows.
"Not a word," Catherine warned.
He put his hands up in defense, laughing. "You brought it up."
"I'll make some calls and see if anyone's rented one lately." Catherine turned, picking up her folders. "He's one lucky fireman. The other two were dosed with enough sedative to drop an elephant."
"I think the dose was on purpose," Greg blurted before he could stop the words.
And when Catherine turned her head, staring at him, he was wishing his subconscious hadn't run away with his mouth.
"Course... I could be wrong," Greg quickly added.
She stopped, staring at him. "What do you think the dose wasn't meant to kill him?"
Greg shook it off, looking out into the hall. At the map. The floor, stools, anywhere but her.
"I just... Was thinking out loud. I have some more hair samples I have to get to DNA. If you--"
Catherine had already started working with the map again and asked in an almost absent minded tone, "You're still leaning heavy on your belief the killings have something to do with the bomber. Aren't you? Even though we have no evidence to prove it?"
"It'sbecause we don't have evidence that I'm sticking to it."
She smiled. "That's a good reason. So why do you think the killer let this guy live?"
"I'm not sure. Yet."
"Do you think the homes or the people are the connection?"
Greg didn't answer. She looked up at him, smiling. He knew it all too well. She was about to say something that wasn't supposed to hurt, but would.
"Until you have something to back up your theory, including motive, your theory just won't hold."
Greg nodded.
"Get to those DNA samples."
He left without arguing, but he felt like his mother had just sent him to his room after catching him sneaking in late.
Greg looked up from his microscope when a box full of evidence bags was sat down next to his arm. He looked up at Grissom. He was staring at the box, looking as if he were in deep thought about something.
"Were you able to pull anything from the hairs I gave you?" Grissom asked.
"They came from the homeowner's five cats, the victims, or all of the elimination evidence. None matched the policemen."
"What are you working on now?"
"Sara left me some fibers to look at. So far they're all ruled out." Greg looked at the microscope, adding in his head, 'As if this killer would actually leave something we could find. She hasn't in the last nine scenes.'
Grissom looked at the box of evidence and Greg followed his eyes.
"Do you know where Nick and Warrick are right now?" Grissom asked him.
"No. Sorry." Greg waved his hand at the box. "Do you need me to run this?"
"No. Catherine spoke to me before I went home yesterday. She said you still believing in your theory."
Greg didn't deny or confirm.
Grissom looked up at him. "I'll give this to day shift. Finish up what you're doing and then you have seventy-two hours to research Craig Toomey's background more. I don't want to see anything come across my desk that was already discovered. Everything has to be new. Everything."
Greg risked a smile and Grissom returned it.
"Good luck," Grissom told him.
"Thanks."
Grissom picked up the box and left.
Robinson looked up when the door opened and Grissom came in pushing a stretcher. He stopped, staring at the full morgue.
"If you can't find a space, park it in the hall."
"David's coming with two more and there's a fourth on its way."
"I hope you guys catch this killer soon. I'm putting in more overtime than the county would like."
Grissom smiled. He spotted a spot at the far end of the room and pushed the stretcher to it. He came back to stand next to Robinson.
"Anything new?"
Robinson shook his head. "This police officer was shot like the others."
"And I'm sure when we run ballistics; it'll be his own sidearm."
Robinson leaned on the table, looking at Grissom. "This is frustrating you."
"It's frustrating everyone, and we aren't seeing an end in sight. People are angry and they don't feel safe in the city while these murders are happening."
Robinson looked down at the man on his table. "I'm getting tired of greeting widows and widowers to identify corpses. I can understand that."
The door burst open as David pushed a stretcher in and pulled another. He stopped, looking around the room.
"Hall?" he asked Robinson.
"Yes. Make sure to turn the air up so they stay cool."
David nodded as he backed up with the stretchers.
Grissom's phone started ringing and he pulled it out. The message on the face made him frown.
"Another one?"
"Unfortunately. See you in a few hours."
Robinson nodded, watching him leave.
Grissom stopped his SUV outside an apartment building. Next to him Warrick was staring at the building, and he looked confused. He turned to Grissom.
"Are you sure this is the address?"
"Yes." Grissom got out and grabbed his kit. "The EMS Killer isn't the only one working, Warrick."
"Seems to be lately." Warrick reached between the seats and grabbed Grissom's field kit, handing it to him. He grabbed his own and the two got out, walking into the building. Grissom tapped the number five on the elevator and in silence they rode to the top floor. The doors opened and Brass smiled, stepping aside to let them out.
"It was the EMS Killer, and he changed his method."
"And location," Grissom added.
Brass led them to the apartment. Inside were three police officers and David hovering over the corpse. He smiled at Grissom as he entered.
"T.O.D. is around nine pm."
Grissom glanced at his watch. That was five hours.
"Girlfriend called it in," Brass told him with a slight motion at the woman sitting in a chair across the room.
"So why do you believe this is the EMS Killer?" Grissom asked Brass.
"This is Sergeant Johnson," Brass looked down at the corpse. "Retired three days ago, probably because of the killings. There are signs of forced entry and he was shot with his own side arm. Just like the other murdered police officers."
Grissom frowned at Brass when he looked up. "That doesn't make him an EMS victim and we don't know if the weapon used was his own sidearm."
"It will when you find no other evidence and ballistics matches the bullet in his head to his sidearm."
Grissom didn't feel that could even warrant a reply.
He and Warrick began processing the scene, and Grissom discovered quickly Brass had been right. There was absolutely no evidence in the apartment. When he found himself staring at a pristine kitchen, Grissom drew a frustrated breath.
"Warrick, I'm going to work on the elevator and stairwells."
"Alright," Warrick answered from somewhere behind him.
Grissom picked up his case and went into the hall. He walked to the elevator. The fire department had been right behind them and stopped the car on the fifth floor for them. Grissom sat his case outside and stepped in with a flashlight. He began searching along the edges of the car, collecting anything that might be linking evidence. From the buttons and the railing inside he pulled dozens of fingerprints. Grissom dropped the last of the print sheets into his kits and looked around the inside to the car one last time. His eyes stopped on a small camera mounted in the corner. He stepped back, looking down the hall. He saw another camera at the end, just inside the stairwell door. Grissom pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Brass, did the manager mention if their surveillance record to tape?"
"He never mentioned they had any."
"Wake someone up and get us a warrant in case he objects."
"I was asking when you said surveillance. You'll have it in twenty minutes."
Grissom smiled. Maybe they would finally get a break!
Focused on the documents displayed on the computer monitor, Greg didn't hear Grissom walk up behind him.
"Greg."
He turned to Grissom.
"Have you found anything?"
"A daughter. Well, step-daughter."
"Then why haven't we talked to her?"
"She's in Paris. She's a Vogue model and hasn't been state side for the last two months. I haven't had any luck getting in touch with her. Apparently LVPD's arm doesn't reach to Paris."
"Does she have a rap sheet?"
"No. But--"
"I have surveillance footage I need you to go through. I had it sent to the lab."
"Archie can--"
"He's working on street camera footage from another scene. I need you to go start on this, Greg."
"But I--"
"I gave you seventy-two hours, didn't I? And even though that was yesterday, I haven't bothered you because we didn't need you yet. We need you. I'm sorry your theory didn't pan out."
Greg slowly turned back to his computer and started closing down applications. "I'll get right on it, Grissom."
"Thank you. Let me know if you find anything."
Greg nodded. He listened to him leave, watched him walk around a corner, and then quickly pulled up a court records window. He jotted down the file number that it was showing and then closed everything and left to work on the footage.
Archie glanced back at Greg. He was slouched in the chair, staring blankly at the footage playing before him.
"Is that just the stairwell?"
"It's only been six hours of eighteen. No wonder I got this job."
"Nothing yet?"
"Oh yeah," Greg sarcastically answered. "An old lady in 5112 goes in and out of her apartment every time the elevator doors open, some guy in a robe that flashed the camera, and I think this guy in 5102 is cheating on his wife. She left for work, assuming from the waitress uniform, about nine pm and so far I've seen two women come and go from his apartment. But so far, no one's gone to the police officer's door since he got home at seven."
Archie laughed, turning back to his footage. "At least yours is somewhat entertaining. I have street camera footage and so far I haven't seen anything interesting."
The stairwell door opened and a person came out dressed in black boots, black cargo pants, and black turtleneck. Greg slowly sat up. Right away his instincts told him there was something off about the fat body. Maybe it was the black ski mask. The person walked to the police officer's door: 5104, and knocked. They pulled a needle out of the leg pocket of their cargo pants. The door opened and they rushed in, needle aimed. Several minutes passed. The masked figure walked out.
The old lady came out of her apartment and instantly shrunk back, but the murderer didn't stop. The man in 5102 came out of his apartment, staring at the murderer. He ran to the ex-officer's door and put his hand over his mouth. He suddenly ran after murder. The killer turned, pulling out a needle and flicking the cap. Greg's eyes followed it against the wall. The man took a swing but the killer moved faster. With moves he'd only seen in Kung Fu movies, the killer knocked the man out. The murder lifted her hand to jab the needle into the man but stopped. Greg noticed the old woman had come to the door and was speaking.
The killer stood, collected the needle cap and left. The older woman ran out and patted the man's face until he woke up. The two retreated to her apartment. Greg watched the time code and nearly forty minutes passed. The man returned to his apartment. Twenty minutes later, the policeman's girlfriend came off the elevator and entered the apartment. Greg stopped the tape and rewound it to the spot when the killer came out of the stairwell.
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Grissom.
"Grissom," he answered.
"Grissom, we need to bring the old lady in 5112 and the man from 5104 in for questioning. They may have seen the killer."
"Are you sure?"
"The old woman spoke to the killer. I think she stopped the killer from killing the man in 5104."
"I'll let you know when we get them."
Greg hung up. He felt something brush his arm and looked up. Archie was staring at the monitor.
"So that's him?" Archie asked. "Can't see how someone like that could be killing all these people."
Greg didn't answer. His instincts finally told him what was wrong. The outfit was too lumpy. This person was faking being fat just to throw them off. Greg got up and started walking. He pulled out his cell phone as he entered an empty waiting room and sat down on a chair. Greg went into his phone book and found a name: Squigy. He hit dial and lifted it to his ear.
On the other end a voice answered, "Adam speaking."
"Hey Squigy."
Adam laughed. "Pidge! Hey. How you doing?"
Greg smiled. "Ok. Hey, you remember when we were fifteen and your mom found those cigarettes you had hidden under your bed? And I told her they were mine?"
Adam laughed harder. "Oh yeah! You got in so much trouble. You dad was going to ground you for life!"
Greg laughed half-heartedly. "Yeah. Good times. Remember you said you'd do anything for me for that?"
Adam stopped laughing. "What do you want?"
"I need you to pull some strings with your boss for my case."
"Why aren't you going through your boss?"
"I'm not really supposed to be following this lead."
"Not really? With you it's more like not at all."
"Okay. So he told me to drop it, but I think I'm on to something."
"Does this have to do with that serial killer that's been in the news?"
"Yes."
"No favor needed. What do you need, cous?"
"I need them to find out what they can about a Petra O'Connor or Petra Toomey. She works for Vogue and I can't seem to get anywhere from Vegas. Maybe some local muscle can get me some answers. Think you can do that for me?"
Greg looked up when the door opened. Grissom poked his head in.
"I need you to go with Warrick."
On the phone Adam told him, "Sure. Mac's pretty cool and we haven't been too busy lately."
"Great. Let me know what the traces results are when you have them, okay?"
Adam laughed. "You're boss is there, isn't he? You are going to be so busted!"
"Whatever. Just do it." Greg told Adam as he stood.
"Fine. I'll see you in Warcraft tonight?"
"Yes. You too. And thank you." Greg hung up and hurried past Grissom, avoiding looking him in the eye. Because if he did, he knew he would be compelled to tell him what he was really up to.
Catherine stepped off the elevator heading for trace.
"Miss Willows?" the receptionist called.
She stopped and came back to the desk. "Yes?"
"I have a Detective Mac Taylor from NYPD CSI on the phone. He's asking for Greg, but I can't find Greg anywhere."
"He's in ballistics today, probably can't hear his phone ringing. Did the detective say what it was about?"
"He said it has to do with information his CSI found on a Petra O'Connor."
Catherine hid her disapproval. Grissom had told her he'd ordered Greg to abandon his theory; clearly Greg wasn't listening.
"I'll take it in my office. Give me five minutes."
"This also came for him. Do you want me to put it in his box?" The receptionist held up an internal mail envelope.
Catherine took it. "No. I'll take care of that too. Thank you." Catherine hurried to her office and sat down as the phone rang. She picked it up, hitting the line.
"This is Catherine Willows, Greg's supervisor."
"Hi. Greg isn't available?"
"We're in the middle of a big case right now, I'm not sure where he is at the moment. You said you had information on a Petra O'Connor."
"Yes. He had contacted us four days ago with a low priority investigation. A couple of my CSI had time yesterday and found some information for him. They contacted her manager. She's been in Las Vegas for the last two months. Also, her manager never spoke to a Greg Sanders with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. She said she'd remember a call like that."
Catherine leaned on her desk. "Greg told me that he spoke to a man that said he was Petra's manager."
"Petra's manager is a woman."
"That's very interesting." Catherine grabbed a notepad and jotted down notes. "Was there anything else?"
"Yes. He sent us a court order to obtain a handwriting sample. We didn't need it though. My detective found a manager who Petra fired when she went to Vogue. He was more than helpful and gave us a copy of her contract. I can fax it over if you can give me a phone number."
"Sure. The number here is 702-556-5556."
"I'll send it over as soon as we hang up."
"Can I ask how Greg convinced you to do all this?"
Mac Taylor chuckled. "He has a cousin in our lab and we had time. I hear you have your hands full with a serial killer. Any chance this is related?"
"It may be."
"Good luck catching your guy."
"We need all the luck we can get. Thank you."
"Good bye, Miss Willows."
Catherine hung up the phone, looking at the envelope on her desk. She grabbed it and hurried to the fax machine. She knew if Grissom saw any of this Greg could easily end up on suspension, and she'd rather talk to him about this since it appeared he may be onto something. Despite working behind their backs.
Catherine strolled into the lab carrying an internal mail envelope and a print out of something in her hands. She stopped next to Greg. He looked up from the microscope.
"Any luck?" she asked.
"No. It's the same fabric we've seen. It's a mixed cotton nylon cloth that could be used in any type of clothing and sold in pretty much any retail store across the state. All the hair and skin evidence matches all the donors and victim."
Catherine looked in Hodges's direction on the other side of the room.
"Hodges," she said.
"Yeah?" he muttered.
"You need a ten minute break."
"No I don't."
"Yes. You do. And shut the door on your way out."
Hodges glanced from Greg to her. He smiled and stood.
"I guess I do."
She flashed him a smile and waited until he shut the door.
"Didn't Grissom tell you to drop your theory?"
Greg sat back on the stool. "I did."
"No. You didn't." She sat the envelope and print out down at his elbow. "This was sent over from the DA's office and it's marked as a juvenile record. We aren't working any cases that require a juvenile record. And I just got a call from a Detective Taylor from the New York Police Department. Seems you have a cousin in the lab?"
Greg sheepishly grinned.
"You don't?" she asked.
"No. I do. I asked him if he could do me a favor. He owes me about a dozen."
"If Grissom finds out about this, Greg, he will hang you!"
Greg sat up. "I came up with a theory about the killer's motive. If this killer is Petra O'Connor, I think she's avenging her father's death because the killings started the day he committed suicide, just like the letters promised. I think she's killing off anyone who helped convict her father and that's a long list of EMS personnel." Greg looked past her, watching a technician pass. "And it's me and Nick, too. So I'm sticking with it because I don't feel like dying, and I don't think Nick does either."
Catherine sighed, looking at the envelope. She leaned close, looking him in the eyes.
"Okay. But you're going to let me in on everything from here on out. Otherwise Grissom will not be happy with you."
"All right."
She stood. "Now get that sample to Ronnie and then come to my office. If I'm going to cover for you, I want to know what's in her juvy record."
Greg stood, taking them as he left. "Thanks, Catherine."
"Yeah, yeah."
Greg hurried out. She turned, watching him. Sometimes she felt like she had several children instead of one.
Henry Andrews read the results from trace as he walked through the halls. He felt like he was reading the same results for one case, instead of one a dozen cases later. Sadly, it read the same as the others and would ultimately mean that they would still have no clue who the EMS Killer was.
"Excuse me?" someone said.
He looked up, turning until he found the speaker. A man his age held out a piece of paper.
"I'm looking for a Greg Sanders or Nick Stokes. Their boss gave me a message to give them."
"Oh. I know where Nick is. He's in ballistics."
The man smiled, holding up his hands. "I'm so new I don't even know where that is."
"I'll take it to one of them."
"Well... I don't know..."
"Grissom won't mind."
"Thanks." The man handed him the paper.
Henry took it and walked away. Had he turned back he would have seen the man's lips crease into a sadistic, evil smile.
Nick slowed the SUV to a stop at the curb in front of a dark house. Several minutes passed that he and Greg stared at the house, not speaking or moving. Any other time this wouldn't be such a foreboding sight, but given the current events, this was uncommonly terrifying.
Nick decided to break the silence and involuntarily hint at his fear by asking, "Where's the units?"
"Where's the lights?" Greg asked back.
Nick shook his head. "Let's go see what's up."
Nick got out and grabbed his field kit. He looked up, finding Greg staring at him.
"What?"
Greg looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end he grabbed his own field kit and got out. The two men started up the sidewalk toward the front door. For both of them, every step made the sidewalk seem longer than it really was. They were half way up it when fear stopped them both in their tracks and neither was willing to move without the other.
"Maybe now would be a good time to tell you about my theory," Greg said.
"Catherine already told me."
Silence passed for several minutes.
Nick finally voiced what had stopped them both, "What if the killer is in there?"
"We'd be walking right into a trap," Greg said.
They stood silent and still for several minutes. Nick shook his head, looking at Greg.
"I don't like this. I believe your theory is right and I don't like this at all."
"Which part?"
"All of it. I'm double checking this call." Nick pulled out his cell phone, half expecting Greg to argue.
Greg didn't. It was a little comforting for Nick to know his co-worker was as uneasy about the situation as he was.
The phone clicked twice and he looked at the phone. It showed 'Connecting...' He put it back to his ear and heard it ringing. The phone on the other end was picked up.
A man answered, "Las Vegas Dispatch. How may I direct your call?"
"Hey," Nick started. "This is CSI Nick Stokes. We were given an address to report to, but there's no cops, no lights. Can you confirm the address of our last dispatch?"
There was a pause and he could hear the man tapping keys.
"I'm showing your last dispatch is to 14652 Gunnison Way."
"So where are the uniforms, man? We're out here alone. With this crazy killer on the loose, there's no way we're going into this house alone."
"I'm showing units were dispatched. Let me check on their location. Please hold."
Nick frowned.
"What?" Greg asked.
"He says units were dispatched here."
"I think his computer has a glitch."
Nick smirked. He had to agree to that. The line softly popped and he looked at his phone again.
"Why do you keep looking at your phone?"
"This connection is awful! Must be working on the tower or something."
There was a soft rustle and the dispatcher was back. "The call came in about thirty minutes ago, but the units that were supposed to be dispatched didn't get it. We're having some issues with lag tonight. Let me dispatch them again. They'll be there in ten minutes."
Nick looked at the dark house. "Ok. Well, we're not going in until they get here. Tell them to put some fire under it."
"Will do."
Nick hung up.
"What they say?"
"He said the police will be here in ten minutes."
"Should we go in?"
"I'm not going in," Nick retorted, and immediately realized it put his fear on his sleeve.
Greg let out a soft breath. "I'm glad I'm not the only one that this is making nervous. So what do we do?"
Nick looked around them. "Well... No one's died outside of the houses, so... I'll take the back, you take the front. Let me know as soon as the units get here."
Greg nodded. Nick headed for the gate next to the house, pulling out his flashlight. Greg pulled his back out and started searching the yard for anything that caught his eye.
Glaring was an uncommon habit of Grissom's, even if he didn't consciously realize it, but he didn't know what else to do to the reports he was holding. All of them, every single one of the two hundred pages, reported the same damn thing. No evidence found, no match found, no reference match, no suspect. This meant they were no closer to catching the EMS Killer than they were when the killer started murdering a month ago. He sat the papers down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't have a headache, which normally made him pinch the bridge of his nose, but in response the stress, it felt good to squeeze the acupuncture point.
Grissom heard a soft knock on his door and looked up. Ronnie was leaning in, holding a file folder.
"Have you seen Catherine or Greg?" Ronnie asked.
"No."
"Well, if you see either of them, will you tell them I finished the analysis they asked for?" Ronnie turned to leave without an answer.
Grissom's thoughts moved at lightening speed. Analysis? For what? He hadn't given Greg or Catherine any questionable documents and neither mentioned they had any. It wasn't like them to withhold evidence, but what if he had talked Catherine into--
"Ronnie."
The man stopped, turning back.
"What analysis?"
"Oh, Greg brought me these two handwriting samples a couple days ago. He said they had to be put at the bottom of my list so I just got to them."
"Samples for what case?"
"The EMS Killer case."
Grissom sat up. "Greg has documents for that case?"
"He said he did." Ronnie hesitated. "Didn't he?"
He wasn't sure if he wanted to be angry or impressed with Greg. He didn't exactly condone the young man for going behind his back, but the tenacity Greg had about his theory was impressive.
"What comparisons did he give you?"
"The threat letters to a modeling contract."
Grissom immediately recognized he might be wrong. Completely, utterly, and wonderfully wrong. But before he let his excitement get the better of him--
"Do they match?"
"It's a ninety-eight point seven percent match."
Greg did it! Grissom's anger vanished, put out by the sudden hope they may have actually caught the person behind these killings. Grissom held his hand out for the folder. Ronnie approached, but didn't look ready to hand over the file.
"Greg said I was to give these to him or Catherine."
"I'm sure he did. Give them to me, Ronnie. He'll get them."
Ronnie handed over the folder. Grissom opened it and picked up the analysis report. Grissom stood and rushed out the door with it. Ronnie stared at the doorway.
"You're welcome," he told the empty room.
Catherine and Warrick were again studying the pattern map since they had already processed what little evidence on the EMS Killer case that had been brought in. Strangely, the killer had taken a night off and left the lab time to catch up. Neither saw Grissom rush by, and then come back to the door.
"Catherine, what do you know about the handwriting samples Greg gave to Ronnie?"
Catherine stood up, turning to him. "Greg may be on to something, Grissom. He found out that Toomey's step daughter was actually his adopted daughter and changed her last name when she turned seventeen. She was a violent child. There were several assault charges starting at age ten, she tried to set neighborhood pets on fire, and she threw a knife at a neighbor. She also had someone lie to Greg when he called to ask about her whereabouts a week ago; she's been in Vegas since the killings began."
"How did he get the contract for comparison?"
"A disgruntled manager in New York gave it to us."
"New York?"
"He had a contact with the NYPD CSI division and they found a disgruntled manager willing to hand over a copy of the contract. I know you told him to abandon his theory, but he was dead set on it. So I made him promise that if the handwriting came back with no match, he would."
"It's a very close match, enough to get a warrant."
She smiled. "Then his theory is worth pursuing?"
"I think so. Do you know where he is? I think I'd like to know more of what he found out about Petra O'Connor?"
Her brow furrowed. "You sent him and Nick on a call. Don't you remember?"
"No. I didn't."
Warrick leaned on the table. "They said Henry gave them a note some tech gave him. It wouldn't be the first time you've done that to us."
Grissom's stomach tied into a cold knot. This couldn't be happening; his CSI couldn't be the targets of a killer again. Not again!
"I did not send either of them on a call." Grissom pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. "Did they tell you where they were going?"
Catherine looked down, thinking for a moment. "I can't remember the house number, but it was on Gunnison somewhere."
On his phone a woman answered, "Las Vegas Dispatch. Angie speaking."
"This is CSI Grissom. Did you receive a call CSI tonight?"
He heard Angie typing in the background. "No, sir. We haven't had any calls for CSI. For once it's been pretty quiet."
Grissom closed his eyes, angry with himself for not listening to Greg sooner. "The EMS Killer is after my CSI. I need you to put an APB out for a CSI vehicle on Gunnison with license plate Bravo Tango X-ray nine four seven. It's a black SUV, no distinguishing marks. The CSI are Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders. Understood?'
"Yes. Dispatching all units now, sir."
"We have to go." Grissom dropped the folder on the table rushed back out.
Catherine and Warrick dropped what they were doing, following him.
Nick spotted a piece of fabric fluttering in the light night breeze. He crouched, setting his kit beside him and shined his flashlight on it. It looked unimportant, but he wasn't going to chance it was important. He dropped his flashlight in the grass to shine on the area and then pulled a marker out. He carefully placed it on the ground next to the fabric before lifting his camera and snapping off pictures.
He was unaware that a shadow behind him came to life. It moved stealthily along the deep shadow the privacy fence made. The steps it took were nearly silent, hidden by the soft breeze and low hum of the freeway half a mile away. Slowly it took human form as it separated from the shadows, directly behind Nick where it was hidden from his peripheral vision. The arms slowly lifted, fingers outstretched and moved as if they were already killing the soon-to-be victim, Nick Stokes. Making a powerful lunge, the shadow grabbed Nick by the throat and shoved him to the ground.
Nick's surprise was short lived by his realization he had misjudged the killer. Being outside didn't make him or Greg any safer than it had EMS that had been killed inside houses. He reached for his kit, determined to get it out of the killer's reach. He had a dozen different ways to murder someone in that kit and all of them would end his life very painful.
But the murderer wasn't interested in the kit. That was Nick's ultimate undoing because as he reached to tip or push the kit away, the killer grabbed the strap of his most used tool, his camera. It was a struggle for the killer to get it looped around Nick's throat before he realized, too late, what the killer's intent was. He grabbed at the strap to pull it away, but the killer had no intention of letting him win this struggle. The person jammed their knee in between his shoulder blades, shoving him flat to the ground. The killer grabbed the strap with both hands and hauled back, as if riding a powerful mustang into submission. Nick tried to turn, tried to fight back, but when the killer had shoved him down, his hand had also been trapped under him at a useless angle. The killer knew just how to drive their knee in between his shoulders to keep his free arm just as useless. He tried to scream for Greg, but the strap was so tight he could only manage a squeaky whisper.
He felt his hand brush against warm skin that wasn't his. Maybe it was anger, or maybe it was years as a CSI, but something made him realize that if he was going to die, he was going to take this killer down with him. Tensing his fingers into claws, he flung his hand back and when his fingertips touched skin, he pushed as hard as he could and scraped his fingernails along the skin. He felt the skin build under his fingernails and warm liquid wet his finger tips. The killer leaned forward with a grunt and he caught the scent of – perfume?
He didn't have time to think about that or his successful scratch. His brain was unable to cope with the loss of oxygen to it. With every strained breath, he wanted a deeper, fuller breath and as his throat was unable to give it to him, the numbness of asphyxiation was settling into his nerves. A dull, persistent ring was steadily growing louder in his ears. The grass under his face was lit by his flashlight – a silent witness to his murder. For a few more minutes he could see every single blade before him. His eyes began to tingle and slowly the green faded to black.
Greg came around the corner of the house. Five full seconds passed before he comprehended what he was seeing. There was a person dressed completely in black kneeling on Nick's back doing something. Then he realized the person, the EMS Killer, Petra O'Connor, was killing Nick. Greg dropped everything and charged the killer. Petra looked up, peering through the holes of her ski mask. Greg was about to tackle her when she leapt up and with a roundhouse kick he wasn't expecting, knocked him off his feet. Greg landed on his back, seeing the killer lunging at him.
Greg quickly rolled, but not quick enough. He was as determined to live as she was to kill him, and she was far more athletic and agile than he was. The killer caught him as he rolled onto his back, pinning his arms to his sides with her legs. Greg struggled and started screaming. The killer punched his throat, momentarily silencing him with pain. He felt the person grab his hands and pull off his gloves. Greg struggled and screamed for help – but the killer was anticipating this scream. She shoved his gloves in his mouth as far as they could before he snapped his teeth on her fingers. He almost swallowed but realized that would only lodge the latex deeper into his throat. The killer pulled tape from her clothes and slapped it over his mouth. She pulled another piece off and lowered it to tape his nose closed. Realizing the killer's intent Greg struggled, tossing his head. She punched his ear so hard it sent white light into his eyes. The daze was long enough for her to tape his nose shut.
Greg struggled harder as his lungs slowly began burning from carbon dioxide filling them. Greg suddenly had an idea and let his eyes slide shut as he stopped struggling. He waited, focusing his senses on the person that had him pinned down. She slowly moved away. As soon as he felt freedom he lunged to the left, knocking the killer off her feet. The person's hand grabbed his shoulder and he tried to resist being pulled back. He swung a punch and felt hair brush his hand. He quickly opened and closed his fingers around strands, ripping a handful of hair out.
She growled, pushing him onto his back. He looked up, in horror, finding her knee falling toward his chest. He didn't have to be a master sensei to know what that was going to do. But he couldn't move away and the knee landed on his sternum, knocking the wind out of him and the asphyxiation was sped up. Greg tried to pull away, unaware that his movements had become sluggish and shaky. The killer grabbed his face, covering his mouth and nose with their gloved hand, and pulled him back against their shoulder.
Noises were fading to his numbing ears. He couldn't make out the wind from the sirens. The killer's clothes felt strangely like grass and he could feel every blade of fiber.
In his subconscious he saw Grissom's worried face. He heard him say, "Greg, breathe. Greg, breathe! I NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!"
Then he saw the stars fade away into black.
Nick heard people talking before he was conscious of them. He'd felt this way only once before, when he was pulled from the ground after being buried alive. Someone took his hand and instantly he panicked and tried to pull away. He tried to scream at them too, but his throat hurt and all that came out was a very soft whimper.
Quietly Grissom's voice commanded, "No, Nicky, no. Hold still. It's me, it's Grissom. I'm collecting the skin and blood you took from your attacker."
His voice was all it took for him to relax, for his breathing to calm, and his heart to stop racing.
"Greg?" Nick meant for it to come out louder than the whisper it did, but to speak hurt. "Dead?"
"No. Greg's fine. Barely. The killer almost got his way."
His? Nick's mind tried to remember why he thought that was wrong. The memory came back as his eyes slowly opened.
"The killer is a woman," Nick whispered. "She was wearing perfume. It's on my shirt, Grissom. Ya gotta bag my shirt."
It was hard for him to find Grissom, even though he quickly recognized the confines of the ambulance, but when he did, Grissom was staring at him.
"And could you put a rush on the DNA comparisons before sundown tomorrow?"
"Yes. I'll make sure to put a rush on it, Nick." Grissom turned. "Warrick!"
He heard Warrick's faint reply. "Yeah?"
"Bag Greg's shirt. It may have odor trace."
"Alright."
Nick closed his eyes again. Finally, there was a promising end to this string of murders.
In a penthouse apartment of The Crescent Cove Apartments, a party had started around six that night. No one questioned Petra O'Connor about why she was wearing a hat, one that concealed a bald spot where Greg ripped out a handful of hair. She wore vinyl, thigh high boots that hid the deep scratch mark Nick had raked down her thigh, and a long sleeved. Her mid riff shirt that concealed the bruises she'd gotten from Greg tackling her. She had expertly obscured the bruises on her face and looked flawless to her guests. She walked out onto the balcony when the penthouse elevator doors opened and Brass, along with Grissom, Nick, Greg, and five police officers, walked off. Brass spotted her on the balcony and led his entourage. None of them acknowledged the people that stopped and stared, because tonight, Petra was all any of them could see. Brass motioned the CSI to hang back and continued on with two officers. He stopped behind her.
"Petra O'Connor?" Brass said.
Smiling, she turned. Her smile held in the face of the police.
"You're under arrest," Brass finished. "For murder and attempted murder."
All around her guests started whispering. Someone turned off the music.
"And everyone is to remain where you are until we have questioned you," Brass told her.
She almost responded but Nick coming through the people stopped her. Greg and Grissom followed him. Nick crossed his arm, smirking.
"You were about to say something?" Brass asked.
"You have to have a warrant and evidence to arrest me."
Brass produced the warrant.
"As for evidence, you were sloppy on your last murder attempt, Petra O'Connor. Or is it Petra Toomey? Wasn't the clinic bomber your stepfather once? Doesn't matter. What does is that you were stupid enough to attempt killing CSI. And when they've finished thoroughly searching your apartment, I'm sure we'll have a rock solid case to put you away for a couple lifetimes, minimum."
"Uhm... Sir... We found something," a policeman said behind them.
Nick and Grissom followed the officer. Greg stepped back a couple steps, still staring at her, before he followed too. He was having a hard time trying to figure out how someone this beautiful and with so much ahead of her, had allowed her anger to destroy her life. They walked through a silent apartment, ignoring the whispers humming around them.
The officer led them into the master bedroom's walk-in closet, and motioned to a display cabinet that had been pulled out.
"I noticed a wear pattern on the rug. You need to see what's in there, sir," the policeman told Grissom.
The three walked into the hidden room beyond. The walls are covered with newspaper clippings and photographs of the bombed clinic. Several hundred faces of EMS that were identifiable were circled.
Greg walked over to the photograph with his face that had been X'd out. They had come close to dying tonight, and only now did it really sink in. He didn't hear Grissom tell Nick to start processing the kitchen, leaving the two alone in the room. Grissom walked up to him, standing next to him and staring at the photo.
"I owe you an apology," Grissom told him.
Greg offered a slight shrug. "You couldn't have known."
"Perhaps I should have. I'm glad you stuck with your theory even after everyone dismissed it. Your persistence caught her."
Greg wasn't so sure congratulations were in order. Something about this ending was nagging; something about it was completely off. Distracted by that, he answered, "Thanks."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Greg nodded.
"Okay. We'll work this room first."
Greg nodded. Grissom went to one end and began photographing. Greg sat his case down and started at the other end of the room. He lifted his camera to photograph a shelf and through it saw a family photo. He slowly lowered his camera, staring at it. A teenage Petra, Craig Toomey, his ex-wife, and a young boy smiled at the world.
Greg reached out for the photo; unaware he was about to touch potential evidence without gloves. It wasn't something his mind could grasp. All it could grasp was how wrong everything was right now. If this was a family photo, if Toomey and his ex-wife were dead, if Petra was in jail, then who was this boy? Was this the accomplice?
Greg's hand started trembling.
Had he grown into the adult that had left a cryptic message on Greg's phone before they left CSI tonight, stating only one thing: two-fifteen a.m. It was a message promising Greg that one day at that time of day, this person was going to do something. Something that Greg may kill him.
The photo slipped from Greg's shaking hand and hit the floor, shattering the glass. Grissom turned, but Greg didn't notice.
"Greg? What's wrong?"
"I need some fresh air."
Greg almost ran from the room before Grissom could ask anything because he couldn't give him an answer. He'd learned many things during this case, including keeping his unsupported theories to himself until he had evidence to back them. But the cold stone his stomach had formed with the realization he may not live long enough to find supporting evidence for this theory.
Greg stared into the dark brown liquid in his coffee cup. The liquid had been in there for hours, but he didn't notice. He wondered, briefly, if it was possible to build a resistance to caffeine, because it didn't seem to keep him awake and away from his nightmares anymore. When Grissom had started prying why he'd fallen asleep at a crime scene, Greg requested a vacation. Grissom didn't ask questions, he just signed the paperwork and gave him the number of a good therapist. Greg recalled his thought even now, 'Too bad your therapist isn't psychic and can tell me who the accomplice is.'
Resting in his hand was a silver iPod Nano. His thumb slid across the face, slightly depressing the play button. The recordings on it began playing again.
"Hey," someone said.
Greg looked at the floor, at the cowboy boots standing next to his table. He slowly looked up at Nick's smiling face.
"What are you doing here, man? I thought you were on vacation." Uninvited, Nick sat down on the other side of the booth.
Greg looked back into his cup. "I am."
A waitress walked up with a cup and coffee pot and poured Nick a cup. Greg held out his cup and she topped it off. He pulled it back in front of him, watching the steam rise.
"You don't look any better then you did on that last case we were working. You feeling okay?"
"I haven't slept in a while."
"I'm guessing you mean more than just tonight."
Greg nodded again. Nick didn't say anything. Was he expecting a reply beyond that?
"What's going on, Greg? Talk to me, man."
Greg sipped his coffee. He was surprised by the tone Nick used. He heard him use that tone when he was concerned about a victim. It was a sincere interest in the person's welfare. Greg decided to share his problems with someone because he didn't have any idea of how to solve them on his own.
"Did you sleep much after you were kidnapped and buried?"
Nick leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the booth.
"Having nightmares?"
Greg nodded.
"It'll get better."
Greg shook his head. Nick made it sound so simple. A 'time heals all wounds' kind of thing, but it wasn't so simple. Greg had set things in motion that wouldn't keep the resolution so simple.
So he told Nick, "Not until this is over."
Nick leaned forward on the table. "Until what's over? What are you talking about?"
Greg looked up, looking him in the eyes. He had to make sure he understood what he was about to tell him, understand why the nightmares weren't going away anytime soon, why the nightmares stayed with him everywhere he went.
"I compared the dispatch recordings that sent EMS responders to the EMS Killer. It's the same person. Here. Listen."
Greg pulled his earbuds out and handed them to Nick. Nick slid them into his ears. Nick's eyes enlarged as he listened to the voice of the so-called dispatcher sending EMS responders to their deaths. Suddenly Nick yanked the earbuds out and threw them on the table. He stared at them as if they had turned into snakes about to strike him. But it was a response that told Greg his discovery wasn't a fear that he alone shared. Nick knew something about this, something that had left him ashen from hearing the voice.
"What's wrong?"
In a low, angry voice, Nick told him, "That's the asshole that pretended to be dispatch! He set us up, Greg! He sent us into that trap! Are you telling me this man's her accomplice?"
Greg wasn't surprised. "He was also the person that pretended to be Petra's manager. And he calls me every day until he gets my voice mail. He leaves a message with a time of day. Nothing else. This isn't over. We're not safe. You know that, right?"
Nick nodded. "He's doing that to me too."
"Is the number always blocked?"
He nodded again. "I've tried tracing it too, but it always comes back to a disposable cell phone."
"What are we gonna do, Nick?"
"I don't know. But... Whatever we're gonna do, we got do it before he does."
Greg nodded. Both men stared into the dark liquid of the coffee cups.
Outside the dark morning hours hid many things from people. A dirty, scruffy vagrant saw them frequently. He saw prostitutes dead in the street before CSI ever did. He found evidence tossed out before it could be recovered. He pushed his overfilled grocery cart down the alley, passing a car. He glanced inside; meeting eyes with the driver Blaine Juhl, then looked away. Years had taught the vagrant when someone was sitting in a car and planning something wicked. And this man was. The vagrant looked around, trying to figure out who the evil could be aimed at, but he didn't see anyone as he rounded the corner onto the sidewalk.
He didn't observe two CSI sitting in the diner across the street, oblivious that their soon-to-be killer was watching them. Not knowing that years, and his sister, had taught Blaine that in order to commit a perfect crime, patience and planning were crucial. This killer would patiently stalk his prey and taunt them until they made a fatal mistake.
As he sat watching the two, wearing a malevolent smile wrought from his immoral desires, he wondered how they would die. Which of the two men would die crying and which would die begging for his life – because in the end, before he allowed his victims to die, after he'd tortured them in ways not even a horror movie writer could dream of, they always did one or the other.