Title: Chapter and Verse

Author: Battus philenor

Disclaimer: Yeah, CSI and its characters are still not mine.

A/N: This is my first attempt at a case file. For those folks who are leery of reading WIPs for fear that they won't be finished; this whole story is written and in my marvelous beta's hands. Chapters will be posted as I get them back from her and complete the editing process. I'm hoping for one every few days. I have to thank CTB for her initial proof job and general ego boosting. Also thanks to Ghibli for her excellent beta skills. You two are the best!

She could no longer hold her breath as the salty sea water forced its way into her mouth, burning its way down into her lungs. Her head jerked back as if she were trying to suck in air and expel the nasty sea water at the same time. She succeeded at neither since his hand was entangled in her hair, still holding her under by her scalp. More of the foul tasting water poured into her body as she gagged, then mercifully started to lose consciousness. The light from the sun, which was filtered slightly by the murky water and her light brown hair floating aimlessly around, slowly started to fade to blackness. She no longer saw anything. She no longer tasted anything. She no longer felt anything. She no longer was anything.

He'd read those words once, years ago in a book by some guy whose name he could no longer remember. His palms were sweaty and his breathing was shallow as he laid there with images invading his mind that were so real, they had him reaching out to the victim's silky hair. That was what he wanted, what he hoped for his victims. He hoped to create, to cause those feelings that he'd read about so intently years before, that he'd actually held his breath as he read it; forgetting to breathe until he could feel the burn deep within his own lungs.

The time was now and it was calling to him, too great to ignore any longer. All his planning would finally come to fruition as it was finally time to begin to feel for the first time since reading those words.

After a painstakingly long process, he'd found the main character for chapter one. She had shoulder length brown hair to match the picture he'd conjured in his head after reading that mission-inspiring preface so long ago.

She would make a great introductory chapter for him. She was the perfect victim; innocent and sweet, yet sexy enough to draw you in for more. After watching her, he knew she would prove to be a challenge, but that was what made her special enough to be Chapter One. She was the one, and tomorrow would be the day to begin his masterpiece.

He still had to purchase a bag of some sort, to put all of his supplies in. Everyone knew it was best for an author to be both organized, as well as prepared. It would definitely help with his creativity to have everything that might be needed close at hand. With that in mind he thought of the most perfect bag.

All good authors had a brown leather shoulder bag; one with a flap. It would need to be the kind with a strap and brass colored clasps. He briefly thought about some sort of brimmed tweed cap and a pipe, but shrugged that idea off quickly, thinking it was a little too over the top, realizing that all good writers know that less is more. Going down his checklist, he realized all he needed was the bag. One quick trip to the mall and he would be all set.

Walking out into the chilly desert air, Melissa Tressle looked around cautiously as she always did when leaving the restaurant after closing. Even though it was right on the Strip, she knew the importance of being alert.

Her father had taught her well in that area; of course her mother had been the real teacher. When one loses a parent to a violent crime, lessons are learned quickly. Her friends had called her paranoid, at least the ones who didn't know the real story of how Melissa's mother had died.

But upon moving to Las Vegas nine years ago, it was easier just to leave it that she had died, period. Most people really didn't feel comfortable grilling an eleven year old on the details of her mother's death. The surprise of the attack along with the brutality had left Melissa with a deeply ingrained cautiousness and excellent self-defense skills.

Taking the bus to her off campus apartment had become a routine, but not one Melissa took lightly: Purse over her shoulder and gripped tightly by her arm, her small canister of mace always held tightly in one hand while her house keys were out and at the ready in the other, long before they would be needed.

Getting off the bus she looked both ways as she stepped down from the last step, as always. Nothing out of the ordinary; the street was pretty quiet away from the glitz of the neon circus only a few blocks away.

Looking for her apartment door in the building across the street, she scanned the area. Empty as usual, and she carried on. With no movement in the parking lot she breathed a small sigh of relief. Every night was the same; she got more comfortable the closer she got to her apartment.

As a sharp noise came from behind her, she turned quickly, taking in the area with wide eyes. The noise continued; a clicking and skidding sound that her brain recognized at the same time that her eyes spied the offending object.

A rock skipping along the surface of the macadam, she realized it as a diversionary tactic to draw one's attention away from what was really going on. Her heart began to race as she watched the large rock moving across the parking lot pavement, unable to take her eyes from the object even though she knew she had to.

A cold hand clamped down hard over her mouth from behind. A harsh burning weight was felt on her wrist which held the mace as the container fell from her fist. The metal vial rolling along the asphalt was the only noise she could hear through the rushing and pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears.

The air allowed entry through her nose was not enough to accommodate her fierce need as she tried to fight her attacker. She struggled, gasping, trying to move his hand from blocking her mouth and nostrils as her lungs began burning.

She could feel him panting, extravagantly wasting the air and expelling it onto the right side of her face. His hot breath in her ear gave her both the urge to vomit, and the courage to fight. The hand with the house keys flew, as if instinctively, up past her face towards the bastard's head.

Hearing his sharp intake of breath as the key hit home, she struggled harder, knowing this was an opportunity she needed to capitalize on. Hoping he was weak enough from the blow, she tried to move her other arm, but the burning weight grew stronger and sharp pain was shooting up her arm and down from her wrist into her hand.

And as her need for more air grew, so did her panic. She could feel herself losing strength as well as consciousness. She could see her mother's face clearly as the blackness overtook her.

Her body went limp in his arms, finally. He could feel the blood trickle down from his scalp before he saw it drip in front of his eye and down his cheek. He would make her pay for that later. Panting heavily he stood, momentarily unaware of his surroundings, just thankful that the struggle was over for the moment. Holding up Chapter One's body, he was suddenly reminded of his task and the importance of not being seen.

Dragging her to his van which was only a few feet away, his head whipped back and forth, making sure nobody was watching them. Pulling the roll of duct tape from a pocket in his new bag, he dropped the upper part of her body onto the floor of the van, leaving her bent over with her legs slightly bowed and her feet scraping the ground. Feeling her warm ass on his groin area, he took a moment to admire the shapely round form which was causing Hemingway to awaken.

While thinking about slamming Hemingway into that ass was almost overwhelming, he pulled himself together, reminding himself harshly of his purpose here. Grabbing her arms and pulling them behind her, he taped them together as he whispered, barely audibly to Hemingway, why he needed to calm down and get a hold of himself.

We need to concentrate here. We cannot be caught, not yet anyway. You know that the first chapter is the most important one. It sets the tone, and let's the critics know that we're important and we will be heard. That's it, calm down now. I'll let you play when we get to the lake, after the real work is done.

It was the beginning of shift on a Saturday night and they had a call for a DB out at Lake Mead. The jurisdiction surrounding Lake Mead was sometimes a little fuzzy. Given that the Lake itself was the border between Nevada and Arizona it really should come down to which side of the lake the body was found on. However, since there was no crime lab in Arizona anywhere near Lake Mead, typically Las Vegas was called no matter what. There were times when some politician would get territorial, but for the most part the Vegas crew got the call and this time was no different.

Grissom figured it was just a drop site and even given the distance from the lab to the lake, Grissom decided that he and Sara should be able to handle this one rather quickly. Also factoring into that was the realization that Catherine had the night off and both Nick and Warrick needed to continue to work on their case from last night, unless something new came in.

He just wasn't particularly looking forward to the long drive out there with Sara. Their relationship was not as strained over the last few weeks as it had been, but that long drive together with no work to capture their attention could be dangerous. She had such a knack for sensing his thoughts and then calling him on them.

He had only been driving about twenty minutes when Sara started to get antsy. Her foot was tapping nonstop and she was flipping through the radio stations. So quickly that Grissom knew there was no way she could tell what she was bypassing. Reaching out to remove her hand from the seek button her head looked as if it would fly off as she jumped so high she nearly hit the roof.

"Damn it Grissom!"

"Sorry, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just wasn't expecting you to grab me, sorry." She was blushing and he found it disarming in the situation given that he'd allowed himself to get stressed over this ride.

"That's okay, you just seem a little... anxious." Pausing, Grissom debated momentarily on whether he should ask the next question. Nervous as to her answer, he went ahead anyway. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, you know just too much caffeine. That and the drive to Lake Mead is so long. Sitting in a car this long without doing anything kind of drives me crazy." Blushing again, she turned to look out the window instead of facing his scrutiny any longer.

Relief flooded over Grissom, thankful he could handle this problem quite easily. "I know what you mean. You get in the mindset and prepare yourself for the crime scene. Did you know that it takes less than 15 minutes to arrive at almost every scene we get called to?"

She didn't answer him, but she did turn her head to look at him, her curiosity obviously piqued.

Shrugging, he continued on. "I have to do time studies every time they look at the budget. Anyway, it would stand to reason that a longer commute would cause some discomfort because it's out of the norm. I feel it too. I can drive out to the lake if I want to think, and the drive doesn't faze me at all. But here at work, driving to a crime scene where we do what we do, it seems like wasted time."

Sara was impressed that he'd given it that much thought. It probably shouldn't surprise her; he was always looking at things that way. Breaking everything down and looking at them under an entirely different light. That was what made him an excellent investigator. But this was a little different. This was something that had to do with things he was feeling, and things others were feeling. She really didn't think it was anything he'd give a second thought to.

Finally arriving at the lake, Sara immediately noticed a lack of crime scene tape cordoning off an area. She groaned as she realized that probably meant they had a hike ahead of them.

Twenty minutes later they walked upon the very remote crime scene. Laying face down in less than a foot of water was a young woman with brown hair floating like a halo around her head. The flood lights brought in to illuminate the scene gave an eerie angelic effect to the body.

Her hands were taped together behind her back and her legs were positioned deliberately, grossly spread apart. She was naked with the exception of her socks which were in desperate need of being pulled up, hanging precariously from her toes.

"It looks like she was killed here." Sara said softly.

"Tell me what you see Sara." Grissom asked, wanting to get her thinking about the job and not so much about the young life that had been snuffed out much too soon.

"This spot's too far out of the way for the ground to be this disturbed around her body. It looks like he dug his shoes in quite a bit to get traction."

"Yeah, she must have fought him hard." Grissom added.

"Good girl." Sara whispered under her breath.

Shaking her head she continued her assessment. "He held her under and waited. She was restrained. He obviously planned on restraining her; if he planned to restrain her why would he drown her? Why not bring a weapon or even strangle her? Something more... conventional. Even first timers plan enough to include the method Grissom."

"So maybe that was the method he'd planned all along. It's not as quick as a gunshot or stabbing. In fact, it's much slower and more personal."

"Son of a bitch. Well footprints are useless since they're washing away with the small waves, along with most trace evidence off her body." With that, Sara began to move closer taking pictures of the scene.

They processed what hadn't washed away and took their evidence back to the lab. There was no talking on the ride back and no restlessness evident in Sara's demeanor. She was lost in thoughts about the victim and Grissom was lost in thoughts of how the case was affecting Sara.

Her fingers squeezed into fists, thrust over her head and her teeth were clenched so tightly she wondered briefly if her jaw would hold under the pressure. That thought was quickly pushed to the back of her brain allowing her moment of fury to continue uninterrupted. The insurmountable anger coursing through her body eventually squeezed a single tear from her eye.

It rolled down her cheek, somehow taking the anger with it. The intensity of rage drained all of her energy as her arm collapsed to her side. Unfurling her fingers caused the blood flow to resume, creating a tingling sensation in her digits. The coolness of the air kissing her palms where her fingernails had dug into the skin signified she had drawn blood. She didn't need to look to corroborate that evidence: she accepted on faith that there were half-moon shaped divots filling with blood there.

Faith. A part of her laughed at the ridiculousness of that word. She was certain every dead woman she had ever processed had faith they would never be brutalized. People put too much faith in faith.

With one long deep breath she moved in front of the mirror and began a regimen she could now perform in her sleep. A testament to the sheer number of rape and murder victims she had processed over her four years in Vegas.

Ensuring any tear tracks were blotted away, leaving no evidence of themselves through the minimal make up she wore, Sara washed away the blood from the now permanent scars that had formed on her palms. Another deep breath and she was set to leave the washroom, prepared to return to work; to continue along the tedious path, finding the never-ending list of bastards.

TBC