Disclaimer: I've no ties to the CSI TV shows or any of the characters. Thank you.
The crime scene was in the middle inner city New York, where people who were down and out on their luck pawned anything and everything they could. The area was rife with gang violence, drugs and sex for money, and it was not Danny's favourite part of New York City. Arriving on scene, he saw that Mac and Lindsey, along with Stella and Hakes, were already in front of the hi-rise low rent apartment building. Stepping out of his car, he approached his co-workers.
"This must be the place," he said by way of greeting, reading the black numbers painted on the grimy white door frame.
"Eleven Eleven Eleventh Street. How often does that happen, huh?" He grinned at Lindsey, who returned it with a shy smile before looking up at the building.
Mac raised an eyebrow, a half-grin on his own face.
"You'll never guess what apartment number," he told Danny, and watched the young CSI check through his field kit.
"Don't tell
me: Eleven?" he asked, and Mac nodded.
"Eleven seems to
be the number of the day," he said, and Danny shot a disbelieving
look his boss's direction.
"You gotta be kidding," he said, and Stella shook her head.
"We're not," she said, and followed Mac into the building.
Eleven steps led to the first row of units, and Danny began to wonder if this were some sort of numerological joke. Behind him, he could hear Lindsey counting the steps under her breath, just as he had.
The door to apartment eleven was standing ajar, and the foursome walked cautiously inside, with Hawkes bringing up the rear. The room was bare, save for a stained, broken overstuffed chair with the stuffing placed in a box beside it. The hardwood floor was dull and stained from years of neglect, and the curtains against the window were tattered and ripped. The temperature in the room was well over h hundred, even with the door standing open.
"Nice place," Stella's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"I think whoever lives here needs to fire their decorator," Danny quipped, as he walked into the hall.
"Body's in the bedroom," Mac said, and Danny turned right, walking through the door and into the small room.
The sight before him was one that he'd seen too often, but one that never ceased to shock him. The room was as stark as the living room, with peeling wallpaper and sagging curtains. A lone twin bed stood against the far wall, and the body of a middle aged woman lay across it, her unseeing eyes staeing at the ceiling. Her chest, covered only by her bra, was soaked with blood, and her once-white bra was stained with rust coloured patches of dried, week-old blood. The smell of decomp was strong, and it assaulted Danny's nostrils with it's sickly sweet, heavy scent.
"Landlord found her when he came by to collect the rent," Mac said, his voice echoing against the bare walls.
"She'd not been seen or heard from for at least a week, maybe ten days."
Danny rubbed his nose with the back of his gloved hand.
"Smells like she's been here at least that long," he said, and Hawkes grimaced.
"Without air conditioning, the putrifaction was accelerated. We'll have a more accurate TOD when we get her back to the lab, he said, and paled as he pointed at the wall.
"Unless that's it," he said, and the three other CSIs turned to look.
Hanging on the wall was a round kitchen clock, the plug dangling down the side, and the hands stopped at exactly 11:00.