Finding Mr. Hyde
Summary: CSI responds to a quadruple homicide in suburbia. When one of them goes missing and another gets mauled, the case becomes a disturbing literary allusion and chillingly personal.
Author's Note: I haven't done this in a while so bear with me, and that is actually posting this story without being at least a few chapters ahead of the game. This is probably not a good idea, and will, with the help of your reviews, be edited. But the concept for this story just popped into my head when I woke up this morning and I just had to write it down and when I finished I was too excited not to post it. So yes, this is hot-off-the-press material, but it will be edited and revised as the story. Unlike my other CSI story, Slither, this one starts out rated-M, mostly for its excess of blood and gore. I'll try to keep the language to a minimum, however.
The night was dark and unforgiving as the raindrops crashed on the roof like the staccato notes of a well-played violin. The smell of fresh rain filled the modest suburban home. The warm glow from the kitchen spilt out into the cozy living room as the twins pounded video game controllers furiously. His wife and daughter were playing a quiet game of chess over the coffee table. His wife was on the couch, while Abigail was kneeling on the other side of the coffee table.
He sat in an armchair, reading the Sunday paper on a Wednesday night, mostly because he had run out of other interesting things to read in the house. Reading was the only way he could focus when he found himself around his family on nights such as these. There were times when he wanted to scoop up the twins and just start tickling them madly. Sometimes, he did, and they got into a miniature wrestling match, the boys against the man. But Katy had told him to be careful with them. Sometimes, he hurt them, and they bruised easily. After Adam broke his finger and Aaron split his lip, Katy had forbidden their wrestling matches altogether.
He couldn't help loving them so much. He didn't know his own strength.
"Sweetheart, would you get Abby some hot cocoa?" Katy asked. "She beat me again, and I promised."
He looked over at her and smiled. "Of course." He slowly rose to his feat and folded the newspaper neatly on the chair.
"I don't say this often," Sara said as she took in the scene. "But this is absolutely disgusting."
Greg was kneeling over one of the bodies and shaking his head. "Who would do this to a child?" he asked. "Three children. Eviscerated like this? If you ask me, this is some sort of twisted cult ritual."
"There's no pattern," Grissom said, seeming fascinated by the blood on the walls. "I mean, they aren't assembled in a ritualistic way. They were just left here, like an animal attacked them."
"Werewolves," Greg muttered.
"What?" Sara said, flatly.
Greg looked up at her. "Full moon. Werewolves."
"There's no such thing as werewolves, Greg," Grissom said absently, still staring at the walls.
"Grissom," Greg said, looking closer at the little girl. "There are teeth marks here." He took a photo.
Catherine and Nick entered from the kitchen. "You can barely tell what the original wall color was in there," Catherine said. "There's blood everywhere."
"Our killer probably tracked it outside, too," said Nick, "but the rain has washed any hope of evidence away from there."
"These children have parents?" Greg asked.
"Our prime suspects," said Grissom. "Warrick and Brass are talking to the neighbors to get a feel for the family's personality."
"I'm going to check out the basement," Sara said. "Follow the blood trail."
Grissom was watching Greg as he stared at the disemboweled children. "Greg," he said, sharply. "Go with her."
Greg looked up at him with sad eyes. "Can't I stay here and—"
"Go with Sara into the basement," Grissom said. "Nick, Catherine and I have things covered up here."
Greg got to his feet. He was shaking. Sara put a kind hand on his shoulder. "Come on," she whispered. He nodded absently and followed her like a zombie down the hall, following the bloody floor boards where it looked like another body had been dragged. Greg said nothing as they walked single file down the hall. Sara looked over her shoulder to check on him every now and then. The sight of the three children had made all the color drain from his face. She opened the door to the basement and began to go inside when Greg grabbed her by the shoulder.
"I'll go first," he insisted, his eyes fierce.
Sara frowned, confused, having never seen him like this before, but acquiesced none the less as she stepped aside. He floated in front of her like a ghost as they made their way down the stairs and into the concrete basement. When they reached the bottom, both pairs of eyes were on the blood trail, following it to a pool of it, into which more blood was dripping.
Greg saw it first and grabbed Sara's hand. His action made her look up and she gasped.
"I think we just found Katerina Samson," she said in awe.
"That looks ritualistic to me," Greg said.
The woman had been hung from the rafters from two wires that were tied around her wrists and cut into them. The blood dripped down her forearms and stained her white, toga like dress. There was a third wire which hung in the middle with a circular loop, which Sara and Greg deduced simultaneously must have been attached to the head, at least when it was still on her neck. The wire had sliced clear through her jugular and the head lay forgotten on the floor, her eyes as glassy as a porcelain doll's. Her head was crowned with laurel leaves. Greg's hand slipped away from Sara's grip as he squatted down to inspect the head.
"These leaves are dead and brown," he said. "Not something you usually use to make a wreath with."
"Uh huh…" Sara said, unable to take her eyes off the severed neck, upon which a crust of blood had solidified.
Greg looked up at Sara from the ground. "You OK?" Slowly, Sara shook her head. "Me neither."
"Grissom?" Sara called.
They heard the door close. Greg jumped to his feet and spun around. "What was that?"
Sara shrugged. "Maybe Grissom?"
"You call his name and he shuts the door?" Greg said. "Not likely."
"Start processing the scene…" Sara said, staring up at the door, her mind elsewhere. "I forgot my kit upstairs, I need to go get it."
She began to walk toward the stairs when Greg latched onto her hand again. She turned and gave him a puzzled look.
"Don't go up there," he pleaded.
"Oh please, Greg," Sara said, seeming to come out of whatever trance she had been in. "You'll be fine down here."
"It's not her I'm worried about," Greg said, nodding at the hanging corpse. "Are we sure this house is empty?"
Sara sighed and rolled her eyes. "I'm going upstairs."
"Let me go, you can use my kit," Greg said. She took a deep breath, looking frustrated, so he added quickly and desperately, "Please?"
Sara stared at the ceiling and sighed. "OK," she said. "Give me the camera too."
He did so, and she opened up the kit on a nearby tool bench as he made his way to the stairs. She listened to his footsteps as he walked up the concrete stairs, the rubber of his sneakers creating a smacking echo in the cold basement.
Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.
She began to hum as she snapped photographs of the body and the pools of blood surrounding it. She took photos of the rafters, wondering how the perp could have gotten up there in the first out.
Greg's smacking shoes had stopped. She heard the door open and close again and she was left completely alone. She tried to concentrate at the task at hand, but something about the basement put her ill at ease. She found a kitchen knife in the middle of the pool of blood and wondered at its purpose as the wounds inflicted on Katerina Samson were probably caused by the wires. When she was done gathering all the evidence, she looked for a chair or something to stand on to get to the rafters. She found none, which brought the question to mind again about how the killer did it. She put her hands on her hips as she contemplated trying to move the heavy work bench Greg's kit rested on. She heard the door again, but didn't look towards it.
"Greg?" she called over her shoulder.
There was no reply. She looked at her watch, then up at the body. Greg had been gone for ten minutes. That was more than enough time to get her kit. Unless he was briefing Grissom. Maybe that was what was taking him. She stood there with her hands on her hips staring at the body for a very long time.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end when she heard heavy breathing coming from somewhere else in the room. She spun around and looked in the dim light cast by the single light bulb which swung precariously from the ceiling.
"Greg?" she called out nervously. "Is that you?"
He stepped out from beneath the stairs and slowly grinned at her with teeth that glinted sinisterly in the faint light. He wore jeans and a button down shirt, and his face was neatly shaven. His bright blue eyes reflected his intentions as he slowly strode towards her without a word. She backed away and ended up right against the hanging corpse of Katerina Samson, but she didn't care. She dug her nails into Katerina's white frock. He wielded no weapon that Sara could see, but just the sight of him frightened her.
She reached for her gun.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stay where you are," she said, pulling it out and aiming it at him. She felt something wet fall on her hair, like raindrops, and knew it must be Katerina's blood. He continued to advance. "Sir!" Sara said more firmly, getting a better grip on her gun. "I'm from the Las Vegas Crime Lab and if you don't cooperate, I will shoot!"
He did not seem intimidated by her threats. She narrowed her eyes and prepared to shoot. "Suit yourself," she said.
It was as though he'd known she was at the end of his patience. He leapt at her like a panther as she pulled the trigger. There was the sound of breaking glass and the lights went out. The gun flew out of her hands. She fell to the floor and he was on top of her, clawing at her like some sort of rabid animal, leaving deep scratch marks all over her arms and shoulders. He pinned down her shoulders and bit her hard. She screamed as loud as she could as the pain radiated from her shoulder into the rest of her body. He ripped her shirt open and began clawing at her stomach, his nails reaching deeper. Her tears began to mingle with the blood as she struggled against him, but he was stronger than her. Much stronger.
"Sara!"
Shots were fired and like a frightened cat, her attacker went rigid and then fled out the small window leading outside.
Sara stared up at Katerina Samson as she loomed over her like a bloody angel and panted hard. A drop of Katerina's blood fell onto the corner of Sara lips and she wiped it away with the arm she could move. Her shoulder was throbbing and her stomach felt cold and raw as the blood dripped down her sides. The scratches on her arms stung madly, like a chorus of bells screaming in her head.
Catherine and Grissom were standing over her and she was briefly aware of Nick by the window, trying to chase Sara's attacker. Sara looked from Catherine to Grissom in a daze, her eyes wide.
"What the hell was that?!" she demanded of them.
Catherine swallowed, her blue eyes wide and her expression clueless as she shook her head. She tried to speak but found no words and decided to bite her lip.
"Are you OK?" Grissom asked.
It seemed a stupid question to Sara. No she wasn't OK. "I'll live," she replied instead, still breathing heavily.
"Greg!" Grissom called over his shoulder. "Get the paramedics!" He turned back to Sara. "We'll get you fixed up," he promised her.
"And we'll find the guy that did this," Catherine added firmly, finally finding her voice.
"Did you get him?" Sara asked, suddenly feeling very lightheaded. She blinked. "I mean, did he get shot? By you?"
"I don't think so," Catherine replied. "I was kinda shooting in the dark there, literally. I aimed above your heads so as to avoid hitting you by mistake."
"Greg!" Grissom called again, sounding irked that he hadn't responded. "Paramedics!"
Sara felt very cold. "Greg wasn't with you…?" she asked, breathless.
Grissom blinked at her. "No, sweetie, he was down here with you processing the scene, remember?"
Sara shook her head, exhausted. "No," she insisted. "No, no, he was up with you…"
"She's losing a lot of blood," Catherine said to Grissom in a low whisper and her voice sounded very far away.
Sara's head fell to the side and she closed her eyes. But something was very wrong. And more than just the fact that she was laying in a pool of someone else's blood with her own spilling out into the mess. "Greg…" she muttered, wondering what had happened to the boy, before she finally lost consciousness.
They had been out of marshmallows. But Abigail always liked her hot cocoa with marshmallows. It was the least he could do for his little genius. In fact, he refused to give her anything less. So he grabbed his coat and told them he was going to the store and would be back right away. He'd received an enthusiastic goodbye from his little girl who hugged his waist and two identical smiles from his boys. His wife blew him a kiss on his way out.
On his way to the car he couldn't help thinking that he had the world's perfect family. He had never laid eyes on a woman more beautiful than Katerina Stewart, and never met a more driven corporate attorney. Their children were priceless and talented. Abby had skipped two grades already, becoming the youngest seventh grader in her school's history. She was really coming along with her piano and singing lessons. Adam had proven his prowess in theater by snagging the lead in the second grade production of Peter Pan. And Aaron's paintings were full of bright colors and shapes. He knew that with training, all his children could be prodigies.
It all boiled down to good genes, he told himself. His wife had them, and he told himself that he had them too. And together, they had produced the most adorable progeny the world had ever seen.
The nearest store that was still open at ten o'clock at night was a good fifteen minute drive away from home, but it was worth it. He would go to the ends of the Earth to make Abby smile.
Something flickered in his mind, like a television set receiving conflicting signals. But it didn't last long. Before he knew it, he was back at the house.
He saw intruders. Thieves. They wore black and had masks on. They carried guns. They were going to hurt his family. He didn't know what to do. He looked around. Should he call the police? What if they'd already hurt his family?
He held his chin high and resolved to be a hero as he strolled back into his house.
And after that, he remembered nothing.