A/N: Right, so this is my first CSI story ever. And I'm a tad bit nervous. Mostly because, see, BTVS is no prob to write. Been watching the show a long time, easy stuff to pick up, and what you don't know, you make up and claim as lore/legend/whatever. CSI has tricky stuff. Been watching for a while now, yes, but not nearly as familiar with the characters, so it will be hard to write everyone else. I still haven't graduated into writing my BTVS fics from any of the real characters POVs. On that note, I will be bringing over one of my own OCs, a Slayer in the Buffyverse, Tia Catherine Quinn. Over here, though, she will have no supernatural powers, no witchiness or slayeryness. Going to be hard enough to just list the required credentials for CSI work. Two years of fieldwork after college, one year in New Orleans, college at Tulane. Her second year had been in Las Vegas, training under Grissom and the gang. So, to Jerry Bruckheimer - whom I adore for the Lethal Weapons and POTC, to name a few , I do sincerely apologize for any disservice I do to you and Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle, Catherine Willows, Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, Greg Sanders, Hodges, Jim Brass, Ronnie, Jacqui, and the many other parts/roles on CSI. Thanks for letting me borrow them and play for a bit! Oh, and the episode this past season where the vic was a Sara-ringer, "Butterflied"? Never happened, cuz I'm kind of stealing that idea, only it's going to be Tia. And this is assuming some flirting between Tia and Gris has already occurred, much to Greg's chagrin. Not to mention between Tia and Nick, much to Grissom's disliking. Sorry to Jorja Fox, whom I adore and whom I am so glad is back on CSI, so totally glad, but I am writing Sara out of this story. Not including her at all.
A rainy afternoon in Las Vegas, one of very few we see here. Over a year of living in this dry heat and I still wasn't used to it, compared with New Orleans' humidity. How I missed thunderstorms. I pulled my hood over my head and stepped out of my car, hoisted my bag over my shoulder and ran inside the building.
"Tia," Nick Stokes.
"Hey, Nick. What's up?" I greeted, peeling off my jacket. I shook my long blonde hair out.
"Nothing much, just dying to hear about your weekend?" he said, going to the coffee maker and pouring himself a cup. "You want?"
I shook my head.
"No, thank you. I'm good with a cherry Coke," I replied, retrieving a bottle from the vending machine. "As for the weekend, the usual. You know, work my second job as a showgirl." I winked at him.
"I didn't hear that," Grissom said as he entered the break room. I felt my face heating up. Great, making such a remark when Grissom walked in. And then blushing. Fortunately, no one else knew of my little crush. And I'd managed to keep it hidden for quite some time. Even back in New Orleans, when he had done a stint teaching some forensic science seminars. That was how I first met him. Then Brass, Grissom's superior, ran across my resume and invited me to work in the Vegas CSI department, the best crime lab in the country.
"So what's on the doing for today, Gris?" Catherine said. I broke out of my reverie. She must have come in while I was in La-la Land. Warrick was seated next to her.
"I need Warrick and Nick to finish the paperwork on the Davis case. Catherine, you get acquainted with our little arsonist friend. Tia, you're with me. New case at Desert Pines High School."
Everyone split up, leaving me standing with Grissom. Great.
"So what's the sitch at the high school?" I asked.
Grissom gave me a blank stare for a moment, then shook his head with an amused look.
"Sometimes you speak another language, Quinn." he chuckled. "Come on, I'll explain on the ride over. Grab your kit." We loaded everything into the van and headed over. Grissom's cell rang as he turned onto the road, and that kept him occupied for the ride. Once again, I had no clue what this one was about. He parked in the school lot and shut the motor off. The cops on-scene escorted us to a pair of doors on the side of the immense high school building.
"School opened these doors for us. Easier than traipsing through the rest of the building to get to the room. Usually they stay locked," Brass explained, meeting us on the sidewalk.
"They were locked all day?" Grissom wondered. Brass nodded.
"Doesn't make any difference. Students are in and out of the band room all the time."
"Band student?" I asked.
Brass nodded.
"Senior. Played the French horn," he replied. I surveyed the room as Brass answered.
"Wow. This scene is disgusting," I commented. My nose wrinkled.
A couple of officers stood at the back of a large room. Through a door to my right I could see a half-circled tier of chairs and a crowd of music stands. We were in the band locker room apparently, where the instruments were stored. Clothing littered the ground, along with textbooks, notebooks, candy wrappers, pencils, erasers, sheets of music, a couple of tennis shoes, and various other junk. One of the shoes was still on its owner. The vic lay halfway under a large shelf supporting a tuba case. She wore a pair of black dance pants and a pink tank top.
"I've called in Greg and Nick as well. They should be here anytime. This scene is going to take all of you to sort through the mess," Brass said, walking outside. I snapped some pictures of the immediate area.
Grissom knelt next to the dead girl. Greg and Nick appeared at my side and watched as he moved the papers away. He turned her head slightly sideways and shone a flashlight on the girl's face. Grissom started and Nick let out a low whistle.
"What? What is it?" I asked, peering around the other CSIs and trying to position myself to see the face. When I did, the blood rushed out of my head and I felt faint.
"You got a twin you've never mentioned?" Nick said.
"I, uh, oh, wow," I replied in shock.
"Grissom, who is the vic?" Nick asked. Grissom didn't answer. Instead, the head of the graveyard shift was staring straight at me. "Grissom?"
"Heather Masterson," Greg answered. He produced the girl's school ID and driver's license from a nearby wallet.
"Heather," I said softly. I took in her blonde hair and blue eyes, so like mine, and yet so different. Suddenly, Grissom stood.
"Greg, Nick, spread out and start collecting evidence. Tia...come with me." Grissom spoke in a tone that invited no argument, so I followed. We stopped just outside the band doors.
"Shouldn't these kids be in rehearsal? For marching band? Because, it's, like, summer," I babbled nervously. Heather played French horn. I had a cousin, Jasmine, who played flute. She was in marching band and concert band. Lived in Indiana. Since she'd started high school, Jasmine was all about band. Heck, even I had been in band in junior and senior high school. I'd played French horn. Which made this situation even more weird.
"Tia," Grissom said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sending you back to CSI. I want you to work with Catherine."
"I thought Brass said he needed all of us here."
"I'm quite sure he would agree. You and Warrick can switch."
"Tough. I'm staying on this case." I turned to walk back inside.
"Tia," I stopped, but didn't look back. "I believe this will be a conflict of interests."
I faced him. "I don't. The vic looks like me. So what? She's in high school, I'm not. I highly doubt the murder has anything to do with me. In fact, it would be in her best interest if I stayed. Why? Because I am definitely working my hardest to solve this case. And I'd just like to see you even try and keep me off it."
Grissom narrowed his eyes. "Tia, please, don't make me pull rank."
I continued glaring stubbornly at him.
"Fine. You can catch a ride back to CSI with Brass. Go on," Grissom instructed, his voice hard. "You can work with Catherine today."
"After that?" I replied, an edge to my voice as well now.
"We'll see." His eyes glinted. I wanted to cry. Instead, I glared back, tossed my head, and followed Brass to the parking lot. I was angry. Very angry. Taken off a case just because the victim happened to look like me. What did that have to do with anything? The entire ride back to work, I seethed silently. Brass tried to make conversation, but sensing my mood, he gave up.