Many kinds of insects, including flies, beetles, wasps, bees, and butterflies are known to congregate at locations termed leks, where there is no food, water or beneficial resource other than individuals of the same species.
II
Many kinds of insects, including flies, beetles, wasps, bees, and butterflies are known to congregate at locations termed leks, where there is no food, water or beneficial resource other than individuals of the same species.
II
The first time Daniel Fossum met Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom was a sunny day in San Francisco, the wind lazy and the sea not. He didn't know their names, didn't ask them, and would have forgotten them even if he knew. He didn't know what was to come, didn't know how much his name would become important to them in a still faint future, and had he known, he would have done all he could to avoid it.
As it was, he was doing all he could to avoid being late. Lisa didn't like that, and he still did care what Lisa liked or not. Lisa, he was sure, would be the love of his life and life was going to be grand.
It was easy to feel that way on the day he was experiencing, bright and fair and spring. In the distance, light gleamed off the Conservatory of Flowers, tore through the air and fell on the couple ahead of him, their footsteps an awkward dance of symmetry.
"Not many are attracted to the field of entomology," the male said, the voice of a teacher.
"Must be all the bugs," the female answered, her grin charming, but imperfect.
Daniel didn't hear the answer, but he knew it didn't really matter. Flirting wasn't about what you said, but how you said it, and how you communicated all the little things you didn't say. Bugs, music, flowers or weather, it was all the same, a way into another person. Still, he did prefer the weather. Bugs were so creepy, and the thought of some of them on his skin made him feel cold even in the spring sun.
He hurried on, forgetting. The pair vanished behind him, and he never saw them again, never bothered to look back and follow their mating dance. It didn't seem important to him. The world was full of couples that might or might not work out, full of those looking for the one, the match.
Daniel thought he'd already had his.
Life went on, and time passed.
Lisa wasn't a match, it turned out. Rebecca wasn't a match. Rita wasn't a match, Rita's sister wasn't a match, Jenny wasn't a match, and Rita wasn't a match again. In the end, life wasn't a match anymore either.
The second time Daniel Fossum met Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom, he was dead.
II
Night in Las Vegas, the faint future come to present. The sun had long since set, and without its warmth, the desert felt cold and dark.
Grissom wasn't bothered by the dark, had never been. He knew many species preferred the dark to hunt, and some lived their entire lives almost devoid of sun, coming out with the twilight.
Sometimes, that felt like his life. Dancing with the dead, ever in the dark. And sometimes, just sometimes, finding someone else just the same.
"You're late," a familiar voice called to him, and he looked past the yellow tape to see Sara looking at him, her eyes dark, but her voice amused.
"Sheriff," he said apologetically, making his way over to her. "What do we have?"
"Male, in his 30s. Hard to tell much beyond that due to decomp. No ID," Sara said, and he nodded, taking in all the various specimens she had already collected. "He's been out here a while. I've collected friends for you."
"Hello friends," he said, picking up a glass and watching the larvae within squirm. "You've scared him."
"I don't have bug hands as gentle as yours."
He shot her a look, noticing the shadows playing across her face and how easily she slipped into them. "I can teach you."
"Bug hands?"
"Bug hands," he confirmed, and stood up. "Perimeter?"
"Some old tire tracks. Some paint on the tree over there. Possibly transfer. Boot prints, probably our body spotter. A used condom, could be unrelated."
"You hardly need me at all."
She gave him a look he couldn't quite read, and the smile seemed more at some secret amusement of her own rather than directed at him. He still found it lovely, and didn't tell her that.
They worked the body in silence, bagging some trace evidence that could break the case, or simply be nothing. The thrill was always to discover which.
He had a good feeling about his bugs, however.
II
In California, the mother of Daniel Fossum was sleeping, dreaming of nothing of particular importance. She always told people later it was a nightmare, that it came with a premition of despair, but that was a lie she would believe true. She dreamt of hummingbirds and butterflies and snow, and as dreams go, it was peaceful.
It was a peaceful night, and her window was half open, a wind slinking in, ruffling curtains and flowers and papers. One sheet was lifted up and then down again, falling to the floor. A printed e-mail from weeks ago, the last sign of life from a son she was fairly sure she had loved.
Mom, it read. Have arrived in Las Vegas. Staying at the Monaco. I know you don't approve, but I have to do this. Love to Daphne. I'll call when I get back and we'll sort this out. Daniel.
As final messages went, it resolved nothing and left much unsaid, as final messages were wont to do when the sender did not know them to be last. No parting words of love, no declaration of loss for what would no longer be. As final messages went, it didn't feel final at all. And Daniel's mother would imagine him sending a whole different message if he had known, something that was final, and she would cling to it.
Avenge me, mom. I love you.
The wind picked up with a vengeance, slamming against the window, and the mother bereft of a son turned slightly in her bed before sleeping on, still dreaming of hummingbirds.
II
The sky had turned a lighter shade of grey, heralding morning to come by the time Grissom found himself in the Las Vegas lab again. It was as ever buzzing quietly with work, an anthill that never rested, feeding justice with evidence and still coming up short far too often. He had long since learned to live from case to case, always telling himself this one, this one would be solved.
This one he would solve, and he could feel Sara's agreement in the way she held her head. He'd watched her long enough to learn a few things, and he was watching her still, her body curved as she leaned over the table, examining the victim's clothing carefully. Skin drawn, he noted, another sign that she was still working too much. But then, so was he.
"Got some blood," she observed, and he leaned in to see what she saw, feeling the warmth of her as he did.
"Could indicate violence before death," he noted. "We'll have to wait on cause of death."
"The good doctor will only be too eager to tell, knowing him."
"Doctor who?"
"Doc Robbins, are you..." She paused, and turned her head slightly to look at him. "This is Grissom humour again, isn't it?"
He didn't reply, and after a moment Sara just shook her head a little and looked down at the table again. A death in traces, laid out before them. Evidence waiting to make sense, a puzzle waiting for the first piece.
He still wasn't sure even after all these years if it was the moment before the puzzle was laid or after it was finished that felt to him the most exciting. Anticipation versus resolution, and he could never have both.
"So, what do you think - body dumped there, or was he killed there?" Sara asked, and he looked at her. "Seems a desolate spot. Good for a body dump."
"Good for other things too," he replied, lifting up one particular piece of evidence and dangling it before her. She smiled faintly.
"Used condom. 'Mating' spot?"
"Some do like it private."
"Some do like it comfortable," she replied, and he wondered at her words. "A long way to travel just for a romantic encounter."
"People have travelled further."
"Yes," she agreed. "They have. I'll get this to Hodges. Heighten his sense of self-importance by doing some actual work."
She left, and he stayed, watching John Doe's meager belongings. No ID, no distinctive clothes, no shoes that could be easily tracked. DNA and dental records should do the identifying job eventually, but for now, still a stranger, still no pieces in the puzzle put in place.
"Who were you?" he wondered, and the silence offered a million theories.
II
In the silence of a Las Vegas hotel room, a muted TV flashing the news that a body had been found in the desert, Daniel Fossum's girlfriend knew everything had gone wrong, and she couldn't cry, couldn't grieve, could only think of the last time he had kissed her and wonder if her lips now tasted of death.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be, but time didn't bend to will, and she couldn't go back.
Daniel was dead.
Her life was about to be shaped by it, and no emotion felt strong enough to capture it all, so she just sat there, feeling nothing at all until the silence was a roar inside her.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be at all.
II
Grissom's office always had a certain sense of hush in it, and Grissom wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps it was his own illusion, but the noises of the lab always felt fainter within, almost as if the office was a cocoon, sheltering.
What the others thought, he hadn't asked, but he always knew when Sara was entering his cocoon from the way she would walk just a little softer the moment she approached his door.
"Doctor Robbins wants to see you," she said now, her voice also soft.
"The good doctor comes through."
He knew she was smiling even without looking up from his paperwork, even without hearing her voice. She just would smile at that.
"So, what does an entomologist enjoy about a British science fiction show with time-travelling alien?" she asked, and he looked up. "Doctor Who. I looked it up."
"Are you sure you don't want to transfer to detective work?" he asked, knowing he would never lose her to that. A million other things perhaps, but not that. She was too like him for that.
"I'd miss the bugs," she said lightly.
"They'd miss you," he said equally lightly, and it was a sort of half-truth. "I liked that time wasn't linear. I liked that the hero was a doctor and a scientist. I liked his desire for knowledge."
"Here's some knowledge you may desire," she replied. "Brass may have a lead on our John Doe. Woman called, just gave a name she claimed was the dead guy, and then hung up. A Daniel Fossum. Brass is looking into it."
"You do know my desires."
"Yes," she agreed, seriously. "You don't deserve me."
"I don't," he agreed, but she remained still, and didn't walk away. "So why are you still here?"
"The world has never been fair."
And then she was gone, and he was looking at the empty doorway, wondering.
The mating habits of butterflies, moths, mosquitoes, even ants came explained in textbooks and colour illustrations for easy reference. Suddenly, he wished hers did too. "The Mating Habits of Sara Sidle", all the patterns of her captured within for him to read and understand.
Maybe it would be easier then.
Maybe it wasn't meant to be.
He turned off the light and left, and the dark lingered, as it always did.