Disclaimer: CSI and its associated titles belong to Anthony E Zuiker and CBS, although the characters herein are my own. The following characters and events are fictional, and should not be taken otherwise. The story also takes advantage of so-called 'CSI science', namely some methods take far less time than they would in reality, but this is fiction, and intended to be taken as such.
CSI: GLASGOW
"When you hear the sound a-coming,
Hear the drummers drumming,
I want you to join together with the band."
The Who, Join Together.
"Without music, life would be an error."
Friedrich Nietzsche.
CHAPTER 1: JOIN TOGETHER
She was going to kill him, that he was sure of.
He cursed loudly to himself as his Mercedes switched lanes, the tarmac greasy under his wheels from the morning's light rainfall. The evening promised nothing better in the way of weather, dark clouds gathering ominously in patches on the horizon, towards the west, the direction in which he now headed.
Maybe they were her doing, he thought.
Satisfied there were no cars close to him - after all, the Mercedes was brand new and the last thing he needed was some idiotic excuse for a driver taking his paintwork off - he grabbed his Motorola phone from the dash, flipping the screen open. The display did not reassure him; three text messages in store for him, and he could already tell their contents.
The first was probably sent five minutes before he was due to get home, informing him that dinner was almost ready, their night was going to be great.
The second would've come ten minutes later, maybe fifteen, asking if he was okay. She was worried, just let her know what was going on, she'd see him soon.
The third would have come half an hour after that, full of furious content that he'd stayed late at the office again, missed an anniversary dinner again, she was going to stay with her sister, again. Dinner would be in the dog.
Maybe dinner was the dog.
Cursing again, he scrolled through the numbers in his phonebook, settling on her name, his thumb about to press the dial button when the sudden flash distracted him, his head whipping up as he expected to see the flared brake lights of the car in front.
Wrong.
It certainly wasn't what he had expected at all.
It was like nothing he had ever seen before.
And for the final split-second of his life, he was terrified.
X X X
She suppressed a yawn as she strode through the terminal, dragging her wheeled hand luggage behind her, the takeaway, overly-milky coffee in her other hand doing little to wake her. Though the transatlantic flight had been shorter than expected by forty-five minutes thanks to tail winds, it had still knocked the stuffing out of her, resulting in her dozing off immediately after the in-flight meal some joker had decided to term as chicken.
The resulting face that had met her in the arrivals lounge's bathroom mirror was certainly the one of a sleepy transatlantic passenger, but certainly not the one she had wished to present to the world. Shoulder-length blonde hair kinked by the headrest, puffy bags under her emerald eyes that the weak coffee was doing nothing to disperse.
Great, she thought. A new job, a new country, and I arrive looking like I swam here.
Chicago, Illinois to Glasgow, Scotland; one hell of a different posting for a junior crime scene investigator with a speciality in ballistics, the science of firearms. Six months out of the academy and they hadn't just posted her to a different city, they had posted her to a different continent.
She wasn't entirely sure whether that showed they had great confidence in her or none at all.
A year-long switch with one of the Glasgow locals taking her place back home; "An opportunity to share theories and methods between us and our friends," her supervisor had said, somewhat over-enthusiastically, trying the hard sell. for a start, it was unnecessary; her transfer here was an order, not an offer. Yeah, some opportunity for her to learn, more like a PR opportunity for the local force and a bum deal for her. She was work experience over here, nothing more. An entire year of trailing around, acting the good junior investigator and smiling at every weak joke she came across, no doubt every single one aimed at the fact she was a Yank.
From the millions of citizens in Chicago to less than 600,000 in Glasgow, it was another amusing example of what the Brits termed a city. After all, there were less people living in the whole of Scotland then in New York City alone. If anything, it was going to be a boring twelve months.
And cold, she thought as she stepped out of Glasgow International's lounge and into the bleakest day she had ever had the misfortune to see. A deathly-grey sky blanketed everything, while a cold drizzle whipped past intermittently, chilling her to the bone even under her thick brown wool coat. It was like the bleak winter days so common in Chicago, but a thousand times more depressing somehow.
It just gets better... she grumbled to herself as a young uniformed police officer stepped out of the crowd towards her, seemingly content in black shirt-sleeves and stab-proof vest despite the weather. His all-black uniform was similar to U.S. patrol officers in almost every way, except that on his right hip, instead of the automatic pistol that American officers carried and were so dependant on, all the young officer was armed with was a small can of mace. Leaving her firearm behind, that was another thing she would have to get used to, and wasn't relishing. At the academy, the cadets were reminded on every available occasions to always make sure their sidearm was carried and maintained, and had been regaled with numerous stories of CSI's, both novice and experienced, that had been injured or killed after forgetting or neglecting their weapons.
"Abby Parker?" the young officer addressed her. At least he'd gotten her name right, and she'd been able to understand the locals. The Scots were famed for their quick speech, rendering them almost incomprehensible to others, or at least Abby had been informed so.
She nodded and smiled, seeing no need to take her displeasure on her posting out on a charming enough guy. After all, being a bitch wouldn't help her one bit; the Scots were almost as famous for their limited capacity for accepting bull as they were for their speech, or again, as she had been told.
The officer took her case without prompt, placing it in the trunk - or boot as the Brits termed it - of the waiting squad car; a white Ford with blue and yellow markings, before opening the passenger door for Abby. Twenty seconds later, the two officers were making their run out of the airport's short-term car park, the grey concrete paving matching the sky wonderfully. The fact the the young Scots policeman, who had introduced himself as Police Constable (P.C.) Phil Ferguson, was driving on the left-hand side of the road unnerved Abby greatly, despite the fact that this was another thing the Brits did. As far as she was concerned, they were on the wrong side of the road, and it was yet another thing she was going to have to get used to.
"So, good flight?" Ferguson asked.
"Yeah, I've had worse," Abby replied, glancing up onto the freeway, no, motorway - another Briticism - that they were pulling on to. Backed-up traffic moved slowly, snarling its way along the road, no doubt delaying further her arrival at her new apartment, her belongings sent ahead of time already waiting for her there. Of course, that was a blessing, but it did mean that she still had the joys of unpacking to look forward to.
And then there was the big first meeting with her new boss, that very evening. A quick informal chat had been promised, nothing holding her up too much. Still, it was her big make-or-break moment, her chance to prove how keen she actually was, underneath the scepticism and jetlag, and she wasn't prepared to blow it.
Searching for a joke to crack, she nodded ahead to the snarled up traffic that faced them as they eased onto the motorway. "I guess Scots drivers are just as lousy as we are back in the U.S., huh?" she smiled.
"Something like that," Ferguson replied with a knowing smile, flicking on the car's lights and sirens as he eased the vehicle onto the shoulder before speeding past the stationary traffic.
X X X
It had been, until very recently, a functioning helicopter.
Damaged beyond almost all recognition, it lay scattered and mangled across the westbound lanes of the motorway, the tail section lying a good twenty feet from the main body of the chopper, which was partially blackened from some kind of fire or explosion, and resting flush on top of one unfortunate car which had been almost crushed flat with the impact.
Abby Parker could only hope the driver had been fortunate enough to escape somehow, but one thing she had learned already as a CSI was that happy endings and last-second escapes were very, very rare indeed. Also rare were her chances of getting home tonight; it seemed that her introduction to the crime lab staff had been instructed by someone to begin as soon as possible.
Various twisted pieces of the aircraft lay in a shallow pool of foam, the fire department having blanketed the crash site in the fire-retardant material, although as far as Abby could see, there looked as if there had been relatively little fire damage to the aircraft, externally at least. White plastic screens had been erected to shield off the crash site from the prying eyes of the drivers that were being diverted around the scene, as well as similar open-ended tents that offered protection from any rain that would fall.
The police Ford came to a halt at the edge of the demarked crime scene, blue tape roping off the area while a number of figures went about their duties, from police to paramedics. Abby was out as soon as it stopped, her curiosity perked already.
Maybe not such a boring place to work after all, she thought.
"Hell of a welcome we put on for you," the voice said. She whirled to be greeted with a smile from a young man, late twenties, with a smooth dark complexion and thick black hair cut and styled fashionably messy. "We don't just give this to all our new arrivals."
"What, this is some kind of exercise?" she asked.
"I wish," the young Scot replied. "I'm Rav," he said, offering his hand, "Rav Passenar, I'm part of the crime lab team you're attached to for your stay. I know I'm not the boss, but I guess I'm the best you're getting at the moment..." he cast his hand towards the wreckage. "Sorry," he smiled.
"No problem," she replied. "Abby Parker, but you knew that already, didn't you?"
"Wouldn't be in this job otherwise, would I? I know this isn't what you were expecting, but here's your welcome gift," Rav said, producing a pair of elasticated booties, used by investigative personnel to avoid taking contaminants into crime scenes. With cases that sometimes depend on a tiny spec of dirt of single fibre, it was of the highest importance to any CSI to ensure that no shred of evidence could be called into question. One mistake could be enough to release almost any defendant.
"I'm going in already?" Abby asked. She was tired, unprepared, hardly the best condition to be collecting evidence.
"Just for a moment, to meet the boss," Rav answered.
"You sure he won't mind being disturbed?"
"Nah, it was him that asked for you to be brought here anyway."
She slipped on the booties and stepped under the tape, slightly hesitantly, before realising Rav wasn't moving.
"Not coming?" she called.
"Not my case, got something else to finish off. But I'll meet you when you're back, give you a quick tour of the lab before we get you home."
"Thanks. Anything else I should know?"
"Don't eat yellow snow," Rav laughed. "Oh, and watch that first question... It really is a bitch."
"First question?"
"You'll find out."
With that, an officer escorted Abby through the crash site, bypassing minute pieces of evidence, whether they were glass shards, metal fragments or undetermined burnt objects, each marked with numbered yellow markers. She had never seen a crime scene on this level before, at least in the flesh. Most junior investigators hadn't either, and each time their feelings were the same; complete disorientation.
The officer stopped short of the mangle of steel, a plastic tent protecting the wreckage. Harsh reality struck Abby as she noticed part of a corpse lying beside the crushed Mercedes, possibly part of a forearm, although without closer inspection she couldn't be sure.
The figure hunched next to the wreckage, however, was paying no attention to the body part resting on the ground, instead swabbing the inner window frame of the helicopter before placing the cotton-tipped swab in a glass tube, itself marked with a handwritten label.
Abby recalled the basic facts she knew about him before abruptly noticing the thin wire that ran from a plastic bud in his right ear down into his shirt. At first she thought it was part of a radio device or hearing aid before realising that it was in fact the headphones of some kind of music player.
"Dr Faulds?" Abby offered, not quite sure if he would hear her or not.
"Cameron's fine," he said in his soft Scots burr, smiling as he stood.
Dr Cameron Faulds; a thin, boyishly-handsome face, short sandy brown hair, and a pair of stylish jeans and plastic booty-encased running shoes complimenting his investigator's uniform could have made him pass for a whole decade younger than his real age of 35, which was in itself an exceptionally young age to be a CSI department head, no matter where.
But then, some said Faulds was an exceptional CSI.
With a doctorate in behavioural sciences and criminal psychology, Faulds was one of that rare breed of officers that not only knows how criminals act, but also how they think; a manhunter. According to the varied stories Abby had heard about Faulds, he had an uncanny ability to put himself in the mind of a killer, to second-guess their actions, to know with absolute certainty what they had done and how they had felt where others just guessed. A couple of his textbooks had even been required reading at the academy.
Even now she could still recall the quotation that Faulds had begun his first book with; 'To know the artist, first study his art'.
But putting yourself in the mind of a killer is not the best place to be for a healthy, rational mind. There were rumours, only rumours, that his job had taken its toll on him in many ways. Most had been wild flights of fancy, but Abby guessed that once someone truly realised the darkness in others, a normal life was never possible.
CSIs and police across the world shared the same common hatred; that of so-called 'motiveless' crimes. When everything else was said and done, all evidence collected and analysed, the case closed, it itched away at many investigators that there was occasionally no given reason for a man to open fire with a shotgun in a crowded bar, or for a woman to poison her children with household chemicals, or for a businessman to torch his office with the staff inside. Of course, there never could be a good reason for murder, but criminals and criminalists alike usually sided with motives of revenge or greed or mental illness, but there were some that just did it for no reason in the world.
They just wanted to.
They had to.
They needed it like oxygen or food.
Faulds had apparently built his career on these insights, able to put himself in the mind of these unreadable killers, able to think like them, plot out their next move, and move in to make the arrest.
That was the rumour anyway.
Abby went to shake Faulds' gloved hand before realising her mistake; any external materials, however small, could compromise any investigation. Even if it did not affect the findings in any way, a good defence lawyer would pounce on the validity of evidence collected by a sloppy CSI.
"Welcome to Scotland, and welcome to your new patch. I've had the pleasure of working with you guys back in the States, so I know the culture shock you'll be feeling just now."
Abby smiled, almost out of relief. At least someone had an idea of how she felt.
"There's a lot to get your head around; different justice system, different laws, different methods of procedure, so if it gets too much for you at any point, don't be afraid to put your hand up and ask anything at any time, okay?" Faulds gestured back at the city skyline behind him, barely visible through the low cloud. "I know we'll seem small, but the worst mistake you can make here is to underestimate this city."
"Oh, I won't…" Abby blurted out before she realised Faulds was simply giving her a heads-up, not a rebuke.
He nodded. "We may be small, but this is like no city in the world, believe me. We have a higher murder rate per capita than New York City, we have the highest murder rate in Western Europe, the highest rate of serious knife crime in Britain. Within a mile of each other you'll find some of the richest and the poorest communities in the UK, and if you have any Classical Criminology beliefs of free will, when you see some of the deprivation we've got there, those beliefs will be tested. One of our biggest problems is sectarian-related crimes, between the Catholic and Protestant communities in the city, or more specifically, the football teams related to them." Faulds paused for a second. "Soccer, I mean. Not the American kind, which I have to confess that I just don't get."
Abby shrugged. "I don't get kicking a ball when you've got two perfectly good hands."
He grinned, showing a wide toothy smile. "Can't argue with that logic, I guess. Anyway, we have a growing community of refugees and asylum seekers, and although things are usually quiet, all it takes is one assault, robbery or murder to really get all hell breaking loose. There's also four major universities as well as numerous colleges, so we have a large, diverse student population, on top of a commuting workforce that travels to the city's various industries, which take in everything from financial services, heavy shipbuilding and biosciences to retail, healthcare and communications.
"As for gangs, we deal with groups affiliated to both sides of the Irish divide, while the Chinese Triads are slowly moving in on territory held by Arabic gangs. That's not discounting the Scottish crime families who have their fingers in everything from protection rackets, drugs and illegal security to gun running, armed robbery and fraud. Every once in a while a turf war breaks out over one of these areas, and that's when it gets messy. Public executions, firebombing family homes, it all goes on in Glasgow."
Abby inhaled deeply. It certainly wasn't what she'd been expecting by ways of an introduction. Certainly not next to a crashed helicopter.
Faulds smiled, doing his best to reassure the nervous young CSI. "Listen, I know it's a lot to take in, but I also know you'll be fine. You've got the best investigators and support staff in the country working alongside you, although I'm not sure if other cities will agree with me on that one. Abby, no-one expects you to prove yourself here, no-one wants you to burn yourself out in your first week by breaking every case and regaling us with your new-found knowledge of Glasgow. You're a member of my team now, and that means if you've got a problem or a complaint, we've all got it.
"All I can do on my part is to promise you that you will never be left out of anything, you'll never be burdened with anything, and I'll do my very best to help you with whatever you need. Now, duty unfortunately calls."
They said their goodbyes as Faulds turned back to the crashed chopper, Abby turning on her heel before his voice interrupted her.
"Just one thing before you go."
"Yeah?" she asked, turning back.
"Who's the best drummer ever?"
She blinked once, Faulds still keenly investigating the wreckage, but clearly expecting a reply.
"Uh, well..." she offered, the question having completely thrown her. After all, Rav's warning had her expecting a routine quiz on scene quartering, or procedure, or anything, apart from drummers.
"Time's running out, Abby."
"Dave Grohl," she blurted, the only drummer she could possibly think of. Whether he was the best or not, that was a different matter.
"Hmm," was all that Faulds replied, rising to his feet.
"So, did I get it right?"
"We'll see. Sorry for the brief introduction, and sorry for hitting you with the worst the city has to offer, but in this job it pays to be prepared. But don't worry, Rav'll take good care of you. Hopefully you'll even have enough time to get some food before you get the call."
"No rest for the wicked, huh?"
"Or for those that have to catch them. Listen, Rav'll give you the full tour and I'll introduce you to the rest of the team later, but I'm looking forward to working with you tomorrow morning."
"Me too. And no offence, but I'm looking forward to getting home, too, wherever it is." She paused, realising that the furthest she'd got from the airport was a mile. "Hell, I don't even know where we are right now."
"Don't you listen to AC/DC?" he asked with a wry smile, motioning towards the wreckage and bodies as he slipped his earphones back on. "We're on the highway to hell."