Acknowledgements: Sometimes I think everyone I know has read all or parts of this story. These folks gave me a lot of support and critical feedback when the Muse went on her trip to Antarctica about halfway through writing the story: aflaminghalo, csishewolf, cuttingrmflr, foxtoast, phdelicious, slipofthepen, and the redoubtable dirtyvirgin.
Author's Note: Timeframe – takes place Season 6 before Rashomama. Contains detailed case references from CSI Season 2, Alter Boys; Season 4 episode, Homebodies, and Season 5 episode, Hollywood Brass.
This story is cross-posted at GeekFiction on Live Journal.
PROLOGUE
Fall 2003
It is a rare thing for the Las Vegas Crime Lab to have two related cases without a good outcome. They solve complex cases every day; putting bad people away is what the place is about. But, sometimes things go wrong and justice goes undone – for a long time.
Grissom pulled the door closed behind him and inspected the tiny space with his flashlight. There was nothing special about the closet – home to a few coats and the smell of moth balls – except Madeline Foster had died in here. He clicked off the light, a sad little movie playing in his head: an old woman cowers in fear, then claws at the door, and finally surrenders to the inevitable with a few mumbled prayers. Alone – she had died alone.
Shaking with frustration, he tapped out the message on his TTY terminal, "Mom, you cannot stay in that neighborhood. It's not safe anymore."
After a moment letters streamed across the display, "This is my home. I'm all right, just shaken up a little. We look after each other in this building. I'll be fine."
Knowing he would never convince her, he tried anyway, "How long until someone really gets hurt? This is the second robbery since the summer. Mr. Cavendish was mugged on the street in broad daylight and they broke his arm. You have no security there. I'm worried, Mom."
Grissom opened the closet door and hoped like hell his mother was safer than Maddie Foster.
>>>>>
Sara carefully traced teeth marks onto a sheet of acetate on a wall lined with photos of 16 year old Suzanna Kirkwood's wounds. There was an angry bite on the girl's left shoulder. She'd been unwilling to talk about the attack – afraid maybe – so Sara took extra care with documentation; her work might be all they'd ever have to present to the DA.
Based on the similar MO in the Foster and Kirkwood cases, they were trying to confirm a connection through evidence. Tracings completed, Sara found Grissom in the layout room finishing up his mold from the half-eaten chocolate cake left at the Foster scene. She spread a photo and a tracing out on the light table, "Once I pulled details, I shrank it back down to 100 percent. Here's the thing. Looks like the bite came from behind."
"Well, it was probably easier to subdue her in that position."
Comparing Sara's bite mark tracing to his mold, it was clear they were looking at the same perpetrator in both cases. Grissom's brain immediately started clicking away, considering occlusal planes and overlapped lateral incisors – it was a few moments before he noticed Sara silent beside him.
Far away – years ago – Sara remembered brushing her mother's hair and seeing a bite mark on her back. It was inflamed and angry, just like the one on Suzanna's shoulder.
"You OK?" he asked.
"Yeah," she replied, realizing her mom must have been easier to subdue from behind, too.
Nick and Warrick appeared just then with good news. Their two partial prints, one each lifted from the Foster and Kirkwood scenes, seem to equal one perpetrator: Steve Jansson. With luck, both cases could be closed by end of shift.
Luck in the Foster and Kirkwood cases had just run out.
>>>>>
It was a beautiful day: clear sky, temperature mild. Sara felt it should be rainy and cold – like the day she died. Hundreds of people had turned up for Suzanna Kirkwood's funeral; school friends, family, business acquaintances of the Kirkwood's, complete strangers who'd heard the tragic story and couldn't stay away – and Sara Sidle, lingering along the fringes at the cemetery. Emotional involvement with victims or victim's families was discouraged at the Crime Lab; it was unusual for CSIs to violate this boundary by attending a funeral. Professional detachment allowed them to concentrate clearly on evidence: without evidence, perpetrators could not be brought to justice, and without objectivity, evidence could be tainted and rendered useless.
Evidence, apparently, they were not going to get from Kelly James. They had been so confident when Steve Jansson's fingerprint and bite impression were linked to both the Foster and Kirkwood cases. But things had spun out of control after that with another perp revealed in the DNA from Suzanna Kirkwood's rape kit, the mischance of James recognizing Suzanna in the hall at the police station, the terrified girl who was unable to speak during a lineup, a DA who wouldn't file charges, and the senseless death of a teenager murdered because she'd been brave enough to do the right thing.
So Sara hung at the edge of the crowd, drawn to this memorial by a sense of duty and guilt. There was nothing more she could do. This gesture – this feeble gesture – was all she had left to give the girl. It was not enough. She wondered if this was one of the rabbits Grissom had warned she'd lose if she got too close to a victim. Well, screw Grissom. Soon after she was shocked to see him in the crowd leaving the cemetery.
Much later, after her shift at the Lab, indistinct cries drifted in the darkness, coming louder and closer together until a frantic hand found the lamp on the bedside table. Panting, Sara scrubbed her face with her fingers, hoping to erase the dream along with the grit in her eyes. She picked up the alarm clock, noted the time, and threw it across the room in frustration. This was the third time in a week her rest had been ruined by nightmares.
Hoping sleep was not out of reach, she turned off the light, fluffed up her pillow, and eased slowly and carefully into the soft cocoon of her duvet. Her one indulgence was this bed, made of some miracle material that cradled her like a lover's arms. It had done much to improve the hours she slept, going from almost none to four, sometimes five hours a day.
Except when the dreams came. Then she wished for a real lover's arms; someone who would stroke her hair and murmur softly that everything would be all right. Pam Adler, Kaye Shelton, Laura Sidle, Suzanna Kirkwood – all the faces would fade, she thought, if she didn't have to wake alone. Right then the faces would not leave her, so she got up and started her day too early.
>>>>>
There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist,
There is a hunger in the center of the chest,
There is a passage through the darkness and the mist,
And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest.
Shed a Little Light / James Taylor
CHAPTER 1
Spring 2006
Grissom frowned at the screen of his laptop – no new hits. "Damn," he muttered as he logged off the network. Every week he went through this little ritual, scanning the law enforcement databases for new leads on open cases. The faces on his Big Fish cork board gazed down at him: sometimes he felt they really were watching, waiting for him to find the missing piece that would resolve their case.
Today, the eyes felt particularly heavy. Brass had been called out that evening to Henderson on a 419. DB: Linda Kirkwood, suicide. Her picture would go up next to her daughter, Suzanna, and the elderly Madeline Foster, both gone three years now at the hands of Steve Jansson and his partner, Kelly James. No one knew where James was now – not in Vegas for at least a couple years – but he had put the pills in Mrs. Kirkwood's hand when he raped and murdered her daughter.
That case had been a disaster. One perp behind bars and the other set free in circumstances Grissom could never adequately explain to the girl's family. The DA would not indict James for the murder of Suzanna Kirkwood – she hadn't been able to identify him earlier that day in a lineup, he'd said, dismissing Sara's testimony that the girl's terrified reaction to James had been identification enough. All efforts to get DNA on James had been rejected and the case just evaporated. Long time friendships in the DA's office ended over that.
Grissom looked at his watch and wondered when Sara would show up for shift. It would be hard for her to hear about Linda Kirkwood's suicide. He even considered not telling her, but knew she would hear it in office gossip. No, he had to tell her. He just didn't know if he could handle the weight of her blame or one more set of eyes looking to him for answers he didn't have.
Ordinarily, a shift with no new cases was welcome, a relief from sorrow and ugliness – at the very least, a chance for everyone at the Lab to catch up and catch their breath. News of Linda Kirkwood's suicide cast a pall over the night. Nick and Warrick both went over the Foster and Kirkwood case files, hoping to find something they missed. Nothing. They had been very thorough three years ago. Still, the girl's death had been a horrible end to a seemingly open and shut case. They had not forgotten.
Sara had burst into Grissom's office with recriminations and left in tears. She knew there was nothing more they could have done. It had been the DA's decision and out of their hands. Seeking some channel for her frustration, Sara parked herself at a terminal and started combing through home invasion case files from neighboring jurisdictions, knowing it was probably wasted effort but needing to do something to feel useful.
Grissom went home feeling he had left something unfinished. He busied himself with homely tasks – made breakfast, did some laundry, paid the bills. He tried to distract himself with a journal; after he read the same page three times he tossed it aside and went to bed. That was useless, too, and he got up after an hour. Giving in to the inevitable, he got dressed and went out.
There was a funeral wreath on the front door of the Kirkwood home, but the whole place looked forlorn. The yard was unkempt and the trim needed to be scraped and painted. A ribbed glass windowpane next to the door was cracked, held together with crumbling masking tape. Grissom sat in his car for a long time trying to think of something to say to Michael Kirkwood. He knew no magic words were going to come to him, so he got out, walked to the door, rang the bell and waited.
When the door opened, Grissom was shocked at the change in the man – his hair was almost entirely gray, the flesh hung from his face and his eyes were flat. After especially harrowing cases he'd seen those same eyes staring back at him from the mirror – somewhere past anger and pain where the only relief was in the oblivion of drink…or death.
"Mr. Kirkwood – Gil Grissom, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I heard about your wife's death. I came by to offer my condolences."
It took a few moments before Kirkwood could place him, "Oh, I remember…come in please, Mr. Grissom."
They walked together into the living room and sat across from one another. Kirkwood suddenly looked startled and hopped up, obviously out of practice with visitors, "Can I get you some tea, Mr. Grissom…no, wait…I don't have tea…perhaps some coffee? No, I'm out of coffee, too…"
Interrupting, Grissom said, "I'm fine, Mr. Kirkwood…please…sit. I am so sorry for your loss…"
Kirkwood sat back down and stared out the window. For a moment Grissom wondered if he would speak. Finally he said, "Linda had been dead for a long time, you know…ever since Suzanna…she never came back from that. I think she killed herself so she'd finally be dead instead of just feeling dead."
"These last three years must have been very hard."
"We tried – we tried to go on. We tried to keep up with that man, Kelly James, but he left the area, and when our private detective lost him late last year, that was when Linda gave up hope."
"When is the service, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Saturday at Forest Lawn Mortuary. Two o'clock."
Grissom was surprised, "Not at St. Thomas More?"
Tears welled up in Kirkwood's eyes, "No, not at the church. She committed suicide – they won't hold a funeral Mass or bury her on consecrated ground. I went all the way to the Bishop, but this diocese…it's very conservative. I'm having her cremated."
"I'm sorry…it seems all I can say to you is I'm sorry…"
His words, bitter and desolate, fell like a weight between them, "The world is sorry, Mr. Grissom."
"Well, I should be going. I wanted to pay my respects in person, Mr. Kirkwood. I wish there were more I could do for you," he said as he stood to leave, offering his hand.
Kirkwood jumped up and left the room, calling back over his shoulder, "Wait…please, wait just a minute…" He returned carrying a storage box stuffed with papers. Setting it on the coffee table, he said, "These are all the files from our private detective. Would you look at them? Maybe you'll see something we missed. I don't have the heart for it anymore. Please – please take them…"
There were a hundred reasons why he shouldn't do this, but at the moment he couldn't think of one he cared about. "Of course. I don't know that I'll find anything, but I will go over them and get back to you. It's the least I can do." He took the box, relieved to have something concrete to offer the man – and something to satisfy those eyes looking down at him from the Big Fish cork board.
>>>>>
Kelly James stood hidden in a shadowed doorway watching an apartment building. No security guard, two entrances other than the lobby – one on the street and the other into an alley. The neighborhood was a little distressed: lots of check cashing places and Mom and Pop convenience marts. A fair number of other struggling storefronts. No significant police presence. Good…good.
He left his hiding place and walked the few blocks to Seventh Circle Pizza. Nodding to the front counter help he walked into the back and spoke to a slender, long haired man who was just putting some calzones in the oven.
"Hey, Rog. I found a good place to hit…I think it's time to come out of retirement."
>>>>>
Grissom sat at his dining table sorting through the box of documents he'd gotten from Michael Kirkwood. The detective had been thorough; there were detailed files going back to the week Clark County shelved Suzanna Kirkwood's case. Hundreds of pages: phone records, arrest reports, interview notes, surveillance logs – he'd tried to pick up where law enforcement left off. All this must have cost the Kirkwoods tens of thousands of dollars.
There were a number of photos, too. James had not changed much, nor gone far a field for day jobs – there were numerous pictures of him entering or leaving restaurants, always in an apron and once, in a pizza delivery tunic. It was this last that caught Grissom's eye; James and another man standing next to a car with a delivery sign on the roof. Then it dawned on him: Kelly James was standing next to Roger Jennings.
Five years ago they'd been called out on a body dump. One body had turned into two and the obvious suspect, Ben Jennings, turned out to be a naïve patsy for his brother. Grissom still remembered the dawning horror on Ben's face when he realized he was going down for the two men his brother Roger had killed at a local gas station. He couldn't do that kind of time, he'd said, but the evidence all pointed to Ben and there was nothing the CSIs could do. The case had ground through the courts until the boy escaped in the only way open to him: suicide. He'd chewed through his own wrists and bled to death before Grissom's eyes.
Father Powell, the family priest, had tried to help, but succeeded only in strengthening Grissom's resolve to give the Catholic Church a wide berth. What the Church was doing now to Michael Kirkwood – denying him the solace of the Sacraments for his wife – was criminal. Grissom shook his head; what people did in the name of religion and the wreckage they left in their wake.
Wiping his hands unconsciously on his slacks, he glanced back at the photo. Roger Jennings paired with Kelly James? This was very bad.
>>>>>
Sara turned over in bed and looked at the time. Noon. She lay there for a few more minutes before deciding sleep was a lost cause. Bad dreams hadn't disturbed her rest today; it was Linda Kirkwood's suicide.
Sara's worst cases were ones that left her feeling helpless. Action – any action – allowed her to circle the abyss of empathy without getting sucked down into it. When there was nothing left to do, helplessness pressed down on her like a suffocating weight.
While she was dressing, her thoughts turned to Grissom. He'd been affected by the case enough to attend Suzanna Kirkwood's funeral and she'd heard through the grapevine he'd gone to see Michael Kirkwood on a condolence call – he wasn't exactly maintaining pristine boundaries here.
She really needed to talk about this case with someone. Thinking about it some more as she ate her cereal she finally decided the worst she could do would be to get the supervisor rebuff. Piece of cake. Halfway through dialing his home number she realized a phone call was not going to do it. She grabbed her keys and headed out.
>>>>>
Police responded to a home invasion call in Venice. A young woman living alone had been brutally raped and locked in a closet, her apartment robbed. Neighbors noticed newspapers piling up at her door and asked the super to investigate. Seeing the mess inside he'd called the police, who had discovered the victim, Valerie Taylor, unconscious but breathing.
Detective Anne Kramer waited outside the curtained area as hospital staff collected a rape kit and photographed the woman's injuries. She was hoping Ms. Taylor would regain consciousness so she could tell them what happened and maybe, who did this to her.
>>>>>
Grissom was still musing over the implications of Kelly James associating with Roger Jennings when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch – 1:30 – and wondered who it could be. Thinking a moment he guessed Sara.
Sara smiled nervously as he opened the door. "Grissom…hey," she said, surprised at the amused expression on his face.
"Hey, Sara." She had the look – that look she got when she was obsessing about a case, "Come in."
Hands in her pockets, Sara walked past him and turned near the door, "Do you have some time to talk?"
Grissom shut the door and went back to the dining table, motioning for her to follow. "Sure, let me clear this stuff off the table." He started tidying up the Kirkwood files, putting them back in the storage box. Sara stood for a few moments idly looking at the things Grissom was putting away. She picked up a photo, "Hey, is this Kelly James?" She studied the man standing next to him in the picture and looked up at Grissom, "Oh my God, that's Roger Jennings."
"Yes, it is," he said as he took the photo from her and put it in the box.
"What are these files, Grissom? These aren't from the Lab."
Putting the last of the papers in the box, he looked carefully at Sara, "These came from Michael Kirkwood. They're files from three years of private investigation – he asked me to look them over." He put the lid on the box and set it in one of the dining chairs.
"You're working this case, aren't you?" she said, surprised.
"What did you want to talk about?" he said, trying to avert what he knew was coming. He'd known it was coming the day she stormed into his office, railing about Linda Kirkwood's suicide and justice undone for Suzanna Kirkwood and Maddie Foster. He'd managed to redirect her that time.
She faced him, hands clenched by her sides, "Please don't stand there acting like this is nothing, Grissom. You know how we felt at the Lab…how I feel…about this case and now Linda Kirkwood's suicide. I came over here because things had loosened up a little…I mean, we've had some pretty good conversations recently and I wanted to talk about all this pain, the faces that keep me awake…like Linda Kirkwood who hurt so bad she had to kill herself. I wanted to talk about coping, you know…how do you cope? I know you're not as upset by this stuff as I am, but it still gets to you…and don't say it doesn't because I saw you at Suzanna Kirkwood's funeral and you got those files from her dad when you paid that condolence call. And now I find out you're working the same fucking case? By yourself? Christ! What are you doing?"
Tears were standing in her eyes, her body stiff with anger…at him, at Kelly James…and she had a right to be angry. Hewas working the case, he realized, and he was doing it at least partly to manage his own ghosts. Looking over at her he could see she was still upset but spent – her face looked hot and she was sweating a little, breathing hard, eyes glittering…God help him, he was turned on. "Get a grip, Grissom."
He had no idea what to say to her. For a lot of years he'd done what he had to do; he didn't even think about how he managed it anymore, he just did it. And he still had dark nights of the soul – more than he liked to admit. He knew exactly what she was talking about, he just hid it better.
"Sara, I…"
She cut him off, "Please, don't cut me out. I know you think I get too involved in my cases, and honestly, if I were you looking at me right now, I wouldn't disagree. But I need to work…the work keeps me sane, Grissom. Every time we take some creep off the street I feel better and I know I can go on looking at all this pain…every day…every damn day…" Her eyes were pleading. "You understand, right?"
Something passed silently between them. "I do."
>>>>>
Jim Brass answered the phone in his office, "Brass"
"Hi, Jimmy. It's Anne Kramer. How are you?"
Brass grinned, "Annie! How are ya? Missin' me?"
"Always…it was good seeing you last year, Jimmy. Thanks for your advice, by the way. Vic Patterson went up for the murder of Sasha Reynolds. It hasn't gone through the courts yet, but we've got him. The evidence you guys put together is solid."
"You did good, Annie."
"It's been pretty chilly around here, but they didn't make me retire…How's Ellie?"
"She hasn't been in touch. I'm still hoping," he said quietly.
There was a pause, "How are you doing?"
Brass felt sick. "You heard? I'm OK. One day at a time."
Annie's voice was tender, "Jimmy, it happens. That's what you said when it happened to me. You do your best, but sometimes things get out of control…you didn't shoot him on purpose."
"Doesn't matter," he said, voice flat, "Officer Bell is still dead." He took a deep breath, "So Annie, I know you didn't call just to flirt with me…what's up?"
"We've got a home invasion case…brutal attack…beating, rape – multiple DNA donors in the rape kit, robbery…the victim didn't make it. All we've got is a partial print from some guy named Kelly James. He's got an arrest listed for the same thing in Vegas…three years ago, I think, but he was released. We're trying to get whatever we can on this guy. Can you send me a copy of the case file?"
"You have him in custody?"
"Not yet, but he's known to be in the area. We're hoping to pull him in any day now. Can you send the file?"
"Of course. I'll FedEx a copy today. Look, we've got some people here who really want to get this guy off the street. That case you mentioned, three years ago…the Kirkwood case? God, what a cluster fuck. DA wouldn't pursue it because the victim was too scared to identify James in a lineup…and she'd just passed him in the hall, so he knew she was going to make the identification. Anyway, we had to let him go and she was murdered later that day. DA still wouldn't send up a bill, so he walked."
"Jeez, Jimmy, I'm sorry," she said.
"Wait, it gets better. Victim's mom committed suicide three days ago. I took the call…the husband is a hanging by a thread. Yeah, anything we can do…let us know."
"Just send the file, Jimmy. That'll help."
"Annie, can you fax copies of what you've got so we can take a look at it? I know our guys just went over that case…maybe we'll see something."
"Sure, Jimmy. It's on its way. Thanks…and take care of yourself."
After he rang off, he took a deep breath and dialed Grissom's extension.
>>>>>
Grissom sat at his desk thinking about Sara. Their conversation the day before was strained and he felt unsettled. Against his better judgment he'd agreed to go over the files from Kirkwood's P.I. with her, thinking maybe two heads were better than one. Good in theory, but he couldn't help but worry he was violating a boundary that was better left intact. He didn't actually think that was much of a problem for her; once they'd started working the evidence they'd fallen into an easy camaraderie – something that was all too rare in recent years but which was surfacing more and more these days.
No, the problem was with him – and it was more than just that spike of lust when she'd been…what?...luminous with anger. He thought about her all the time. And the more their office relationship eased, the more pressing it became. Ever since she'd confided in him about her father's murder, she seemed to have turned some emotional corner. She'd grown – bloomed, really – and the desperation that had ruined her attraction to him before was gone. It was getting harder to keep her at arms length – his arms were getting tired. Now he was working with her outside the Lab.
"What was I thinking, offering to chase rabbits with her? This feels…wrong. Well, murdered teenagers and old dead school teachers are wrong, too. She can probably handle it."
Right.
The phone rang. It was Brass…something about Kelly James surfacing in Los Angeles. Another home invasion, rape with multiple DNA donors, victim didn't make it. He was out the door toward the Records Room before Brass could even ask for him to copy the file.
>>>>>
Brass looked at the stack of copies on his desk, "I'm going to need a bigger envelope."
Grissom paged through the fax Anne Kramer had sent with details of the evidence against Kelly James in their home invasion. "We need to tell L.A. that James may be teamed up with a Roger Jennings. Tell them they to have Trace look for 00 flour, the kind used in making pizzas, at their scene. I've included Jennings's file in the ones we're sending." He continued looking over the fax; suddenly his face went white and he stood up, fax bunched in his fist, "Jim, I've got to go. Tell Ecklie I'm taking leave…call Catherine for me so she can run Grave…"
Brass looked at his friend, shocked at his expression, "Jesus, Gil, what's wrong?"
"The victim in the L.A. home invasion…her address…it's my mother's building."
He turned to leave and bumped into Sara, then turned sideways through the door and was gone.
>>>>>
Sara arrived at Grissom's townhouse to find the door standing open. She knocked and got no answer. "Grissom? Grissom?" she called out as she went inside.
He was just coming down the hall with a suitcase, "I don't have time right now, Sara."
She stepped in front of him and he veered around her, "Grissom, wait, just a minute. Please."
He stopped and turned to face her, his expression closed, "Go home, Sara, or go back to the Lab. I have to go."
"I know you do. Your mom…have you talked to her?"
His eyes softened, "I just got off the phone with her. She didn't tell me because she didn't want to worry me. Can you believe it? Christ! They've had multiple robberies in her neighborhood over the last few years…I keep trying to get her to move but she won't hear of it…wants to stay near her friends…"
"So, you're going to L.A. to what? Move her against her will?"
His face was blank for a second. "I don't know. I just have to go," he said, and turned to leave.
"Don't you think it would be better to work the case there? Get James off the street, and Jennings, too, if they've hooked up?"
"I can't do that. It's out of our jurisdiction. You can't just show up to work a case."
"They might invite you if you took the time to talk to them. Brass knows the detective on the case, Anne Kramer. I'm sure they'd appreciate the help and a chance to go over Kirkwood's files from that P.I. C'mon, Grissom, think!"
The set of his shoulders eased and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "You may be right," he said. He put the suitcase down and went to the dining table to box up the Kirkwood files. When he was finished he smoothed out the fax from L.A., "Wonder if Kramer's cell phone number is on here? Brass would have it…"
"It's all set up. Brass called her when you blew out of the Lab. She's made reservations for us at the Ramada down the street from the station."
He nodded, then paused, eyebrow quirked upward, "Us?"
"Yeah, I'm going with you."
>>>>>
TBC – Chapters 2, 3, 4 and the Epilogue to Follow Shortly