"How the Corpse Stole Christmas"
by 'Grissom'
12-01-04
A/N: As usual, I must thank my friend and beta, Grissomgal71 for her dedicated work, even when I send her other, non-related materials on a whim. Thanks a ton! Any remaining mistakes can either be blamed on me, or the person who decided to schedule my finals. Your choice.
Grissom frowned as he approached his office. The door was cracked and though the lights were off, a strange glow still emanated from the room. He set his briefcase onto the floor and slowly pushed the door open the rest of the way.
Someone had taken Christmas lights and laced them through his shelves and jars of embalmed critters.
For a long time, he watched as the lights blinked on and off, on and off. Then he sighed and shuffled to his desk, flipping on the desk lamp. There was the usual array of Christmas cards tossed onto his desk. Many were from lab techs he was sure he'd never met, many of whom wanted either a pay raise or a good word to Cavallo.
Grissom opened a drawer and shoved all of the envelopes inside. He wouldn't have time to read them until he finished his shift.
He was pulling out the assignment sheets when there was a soft knock on his door. He glanced up at Sara briefly before scribbling something onto the papers. "How many do we have?" he asked.
"You, me, Greg, Warrick-"
"And a partridge in a pear tree," Greg suddenly interrupted, bounding into Grissom's office with a bounce that they hadn't seen in him for a while. The holiday season had to be getting to his head.
Sara glared at him, and Grissom simply stared at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Sorry," Greg said, feeling a little dejected.
Sara turned back to Grissom. "Hodges, Bobby, and Mia. Everyone else took off for Christmas."
Grissom nodded. "So we're running on a skeleton crew. Lucky for us, the criminals must be in the holiday spirit. Only one smash and grab and one 419."
"Dead body? Who gets that case?" Sara asked, not eager to be the one stuck with the smash and grab.
"You, me, and Junior," he replied, indicating Greg, who grinned and pumped his fist in the air. Grissom ignored him. "Warrick can get the other case. He's already maxed out on overtime from the Santa shootout."
He stood up from his chair and began walking out. Sara and Greg fell into step with him, Greg not as naturally as Sara. Grissom glanced at his notes as they walked. "We've got a dead, female body found in an old abandoned house. Found by a couple of kids when they broke inside. Apparently, the house is supposed to be haunted, and the kids wanted to awaken the ghosts." He shrugged. "Brass is there waiting on us."
Brass leaned against the hood of his Taurus, staring at the home that loomed above him, eerily silhouetted against the cloudy sky. A young cop came down from the front steps – trying hard not to look afraid – and gave the detective a thumbs-up. The house was clear. Brass nodded in return, then stole a glance at his watch.
Ten-thirty. Grissom and his gang would be here any minute, ready to sniff out the clues. He looked over at the small entourage that had gathered about the abandoned home. Two cops and the assistant coroner. Everyone else was either assigned to another area or off for the holiday. While Brass had nothing against St. Nick, he hated the holidays. Mostly because he was stuck with a half-a-dozen rookies to work with. He couldn't wait for Christmas to be over so he could get back to a full staff.
He caught one of the young cops staring at his watch sadly. Blake Redden, Brass recalled. Redden had a wife and baby waiting for him to come home. Brass couldn't help but envy him a little bit. All that waited for him at home was a sappy Christmas movie on cable and a bottle of Jack Daniels…
Such had become his holiday tradition over the years. Work, go home, drink until he couldn't drink anymore, and deal with the hangover the next day. At one time, he had sent Ellie gifts, odd little things he'd hope she liked, but that had stopped when the packages kept being returned to sender. So now he had an odd assortment of women's sweatshirts and t-shirts shoved into an extra closet, still in the boxes they'd been mailed in.
He pulled himself out of his thoughts when he heard the CSIs' SUV pull up. He pushed himself away from the hood and habitually straightened his suit jacket, which was all but hidden beneath a brown coat.
Grissom, Sara, and Greg all stepped out of the car, retrieving their field kits before turning their attention to the house.
"Wow…" Greg said, his mouth hanging open slightly.
Brass smirked and stepped toward the CSIs. "Reminds me of the House of Usher," he commented, getting a matching smirk from Sara, a nod from Grissom, and a confused look from Greg.
"Usher? I didn't know he lived in Vegas," Greg commented. Then he scoffed. "Seems like he would have picked better digs than this…"
For a long time, Grissom, Brass, and Sara just stared at him.
"Edgar Allen Poe, Greg. Not the singer," Sara finally said, rolling her eyes.
"Great, the one time I make a literary reference, little Greggy has to ruin it," Brass quipped. Greg shook his head in annoyance.
"What do we have, Jim?" Grissom asked, pulling the attention away from the embarrassed Greg.
Brass flipped open his small notebook. "Jenni Compton, twenty-eight. Couple of junior high kids found her while playing ghostbuster. David's in there now, but it looks like she was shot."
"How old is this house?" Greg asked, his mouth hanging open again.
"As old as Vegas. The people who lived here moved out about five years ago. Never sold the property, and no one's lived in it since," Brass told them, shoving the notebook back into his pocket. "The place is huge. You could probably fit the lab inside."
Grissom raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Where's the body?"
"In a living room," the detective replied, turning to walk inside and knowing that the CSI's would follow.
After a few minutes of fighting through cobwebs and coughing up dust, they found David Phillips leaning over a female body. He jumped a little as the group stepped up behind him. He took a moment to catch his breath, then turned to them.
"Body's been here about a day. Rigor mortis is set, so is lividity." He pointed to a hole in the torso. "Entry wound." He turned the body over and pointed to a larger wound on the back. "The bullet exited less than an inch from the spine."
Grissom peered closely at the entrance wound. "Unburnt gunpowder." He looked up at Greg. "And what does that mean, Sanders?"
"Um…"Greg took a moment to search his brain, the little 'pop quiz' taking him by surprise, as was intended. "It means the vic was shot at closer range."
"Good. But it wasn't a contact shot, or else there would be burn marks on the skin." He picked up the vic's hand, studying the cuts and bruises. "Looks like defensive wounds on the hands. She fought back."
Sara turned on her Maglite and looked around the room. "Looks like an end table was knocked over in the struggle, judging from the void in the dust."
"Got a bloody handprint on the wall," Greg commented, snapping a few pictures before taking a swab.
"Well, there's no blood on her hands, so it must be from the killer," Sara said.
"Or another victim," Grissom added with a raised brow. "See if you can get any ridge detail."
"None of my guys saw another body, but it is a big house," Brass said, stepping out of Sara's way as she scanned the rest of the room. "Only the front door was open."
Grissom searched the body for a few more minutes, but found nothing else. He nodded at David. "All yours, David."
The assistant coroner nodded in return, then stepped out for a moment, returning with a gurney and another assistant. They loaded up the body, strapped it in, and wheeled it out.
Brass took this time to follow them out, studying the young cops again. Finally, he sighed and made his way over to Redden. The rookie straightened up and cast a frightened glance in his friend's direction.
"What time does your shift end?" Brass asked the young man.
"Uh…about eleven-thirty, sir. But that was before I took this call." He searched the captain's tired face, trying to see if his answer had been the correct one.
Brass nodded, shifting on his feet. "Why don't you go ahead and head on home? I'm sure your wife would like to see you, and you got that kid to worry about." He gave the young man a terse smile. "Wouldn't want to miss her first Christmas, get off on the wrong foot." Because I know I did...
Redden stared at him for a moment, searching for words. Brass smiled again, patting the man's shoulder. "Go on. Go see your family."
"Are you sure, sir? I mean…somebody's gotta stay while the CSI's do their work."
"Hey, calm down. I'll be here, and I'll put Smitty there at the front door," he said, waving his hand at the other rookie, Marcus Smith.
Redden glanced at Smith, who looked half asleep himself, then back at Brass. He nodded, then turned to walk back to his patrol car.
"Have fun," Brass called, shaking his head as he turned to go back to the house. He watched the coroner's van drive off, leaving only his Taurus, the CSIs' SUV, and Smith's patrol, lights flashing. He motioned for Smith to go stand by the door, then went back inside.
He stepped through the dust and cobwebs again to where the CSI's were busy collecting what little evidence they could find. Sara was scanning the dusty couch, Grissom was looking through the bookshelves, and Greg had taken to crawling across the floor, flashlight in hand.
Brass sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, contemplating going to wait outside. He shook the idea off, knowing that it was against protocol.
Just then, the quartet heard slamming from deep within the house, getting closer and closer to them. Brass had his gun out in an instant, though he was unsure of where he should be pointing it. The noise seemed to come from all around them…Then it reached the room they stood in.
All of the doors in the room suddenly swung shut, one at a time, the noise echoing in their ears. Brass' eyes were wide as he swung his gun from one door to another. Greg slowly backed away from the walls, standing up. Grissom put an arm around Sara, instinctively pulling her closer as if to protect her.
Finally, all of the slamming stopped, plunging the house into a dead silence, save for the group's frantic breathing. Brass kept his gun out, but relaxed a little bit. It wouldn't do him any good to be tense with his finger still on the trigger.
"Everybody okay?" he asked, scanning the room.
"Yeah," Greg called out, his voice a little shaky.
Grissom looked at Sara, who nodded, but did not remove his hand from her back. "We're fine, Jim. What the hell is going on?"
"I dunno…" the detective replied, stepping towards one of the doors. He pressed his back against the wall, leaning his head closer. He listened for a moment, then looked up at the CSI's. "Voices," he mouthed, reaching for the door knob. He glanced once more at the CSI's, watching as Grissom pulled out his own weapon, then grasped the knob, ready for anything that could be on the other side.
But when his hand closed over the knob, he felt a searing pain spread through his hand. He cried out, jerking away and pushing himself from the wall. He staggered over to where the CSI's were standing, dropping his gun along the way.
"What happened?" Sara asked, studying the captain's pained expression and clenched teeth. He didn't reply; he just shook his head. He tried to walk past her, holding his wounded hand in the other.
Sara entertained the thought of letting him go and deal with the pain on his own, but it was against her nature. She reluctantly pulled away from Grissom, grabbed Brass' shoulder, and forced him to turn around.
"Let me see," she demanded, the tone of her voice leaving no room for argument. Grissom wanted to laugh at the expression on Brass' face as he let Sara look at his hand, but sobered when he saw the condition of his friend's palm.
The skin was red, and already blistering. Sara made a face. "Looks like a second-degree burn," she commented.
Grissom frowned, then kneeled down to open his field kit. He sifted through the bottom for a moment and stood up with a nearly empty roll of gauze. He handed it to Sara, shrugging at her questioning gaze. "You never know when it'll come in handy."
Sara smirked and turned her attention back to Brass, whose expression reminded her of a wounded five-year-old. "This will only be a temporary fix. Enough to keep the dust and dirt out. Normally you'd let cool water run over it, but we don't have any here, and I really doubt you'd want to touch the water here if the pipes did work."
Brass watched as Sara emptied the roll, wrapping it around his hand and making sure that it stuck. She released his hand, and he habitually rubbed the back of it.
"Thanks," he said softly, more embarrassed than anything.
Sara nodded, then turned her attention back to Grissom, who was peering closely at the door. He tapped his fingers on the knob a few times, then put his whole hand on it. He looked up at Sara and Jim.
"It's cold. Ice cold."
Brass frowned, then stepped forward to press his good hand against the knob. He looked up at Grissom, shocked. "It is."
"How can that be?" Sara asked. "I mean, you saw his hand. He didn't just make it up."
Grissom shrugged. "I don't know what happened. But I really think we should get out of this house."
"Do you think the officers missed someone hiding in here?" Greg asked.
Grissom's eyes scanned the room. "Let's just say…I don't think we're welcome here."
Greg's eyes darted about the large room, eventually falling on Brass' gun, still lying on the floor. He stepped forward and scooped it up, then went to where Brass was standing. Jim had taken to leaning against a dusty chair, wincing as he moved his fingers on his right hand. He looked up as the CSI approached.
"You…uh…dropped this," Greg said, always seeming to be unnerved around the judgmental captain.
Brass reached out with his good hand and grabbed the gun. He flipped the safety on, then reholstered it. He nodded his thanks.
"All right," Grissom was saying as he snapped his field kit shut. "We're going to call it a night here. We'll take what we have to the lab and come back in the morning." He turned to Brass. "Keep an officer on the look-out in case there is somebody inside the house. And you'll need to get that hand looked at."
Brass rolled his eyes. "Okay, mom."
Grissom just shook his head and picked up his kit. "You guys go ahead and gather up all the bags. I'm going to let the officer know what's going on."
Sara watched as Grissom disappeared around a corner, then knelt down to pack up her kit. She snapped it shut after getting everything in place and made sure that Greg did the same. Her gaze then shifted to Brass, who was making a face as he stared at his wrapped hand.
"How you doing over there, Brass?" she asked.
He sighed and shrugged. "Hurts like hell."
She smirked. "Don't worry. You'll live."
Brass smiled, and Sara could practically hear the gears turning in his head, formulating all kinds of sarcastic remarks. But before he could let one of them out, Grissom rushed back into the room.
He jerked a thumb towards the front of the house. "The door's stuck. It's unlocked and nothing's in the way, but it won't budge."
Brass gave Grissom a confused frown. "Huh?"
"The door won't open," Grissom repeated pointedly.
"I heard you," Brass growled, stepping past Grissom to check for himself. Grissom sighed and followed the detective; Greg and Sara were close behind.
Brass tapped the handle a few times, still very wary, then turned the knob and pulled. Nothing. He put his other hand on the knob gently and pulled again. He kept pulling until his face was red. Finally, his hands slipped, and an embarrassed Brass found himself sitting on the floor. Greg suppressed a laugh, remembering that he had given the captain his gun back.
Brass groaned as he stood up and pounded his fist on the door. "Officer Smith!" he shouted, knowing that neither the door nor the walls were thick enough to mute his shouts. "Officer Smith!"
"Is he still out there?" Greg asked.
"He'd better be," Brass replied, pounding once more.
Sara glanced at Grissom, who was looking down the hall with an odd expression on his face. She put a hand on his arm, startling him. "What is it?"
"Nothing. I just…" He sighed, shaking his head. "I feel like we're not alone. We're not welcome."
"If we're not welcome, why can't we open the door? Why keep us in here?"
"We took too long. What happened to Brass was a warning."
"Hate to interrupt your little séance, Grissom, but we can't get the door open." Greg had suddenly appeared behind them, looking understandably stressed.
Grissom glanced at the door, where Brass had taken to picking the lock with his pocket knife. He stepped over to him to check the progress. "It's amazing what they teach cops these days," he quipped.
Brass grinned, his wrapped hand fumbling with the utensil. "They teach you some of this stuff. Most of it you learn on your own."
"When did you learn how to pick locks?"
"Initially? At sixteen. Me and a group of guys busted into an old warehouse. It was fun," he said, shrugging, "until we got caught."
Sara smiled and leaned forward into their vision. "Why do I have a hard time picturing you as a juvenile delinquent?"
"Oh yeah. I was a little hell raiser for a while there. Then I got to spend a night in jail. Sobered me right up." He sighed and shut the pocket knife. "This door's not moving." He tried the knob again to prove his point.
Grissom frowned and turned to peer down the hall way again. "Maybe there's a back door. Or, as a last resort, we can break a window." He glanced back at the trio and stood up. "Come on."
Grudgingly, Sara, Brass, and Greg followed Grissom deeper into the dark house, with Greg whistling the 'X-Files' theme song as he walked.
TBC