DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners. That being said, I tried really hard to stick to an accurate timeline, but there may be some small errors here and there to make the story work. Feedback is appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!
It starts with a simple kick.
Gil is handing out assignments for the day, his usual obliviousness at play, as he misses the head next to me loll to one side, the owner's eyes shut tight. I inch forward, my foot connecting with a firm calf muscle, rousing the body on my left to alertness.
"I got it!" Sara blurts out, her eyes still clouded, her speech heavy with sleep. Gil turns at the interruption, confused by her out of character eagerness.
"OK...You can team up with Catherine, then. Nick, that means you're with me. Good luck tonight everyone, and be safe." She bends to massage the point of impact on her leg, and when she hears my name, I notice the disappointment flash across her face.
Now, we're knee deep in trash and what I can only assume is human and animal waste, processing the scene of a dead body that was reported to the authorities by a local hoarder. I catch snippets of the conversation the cops are having with him, and am guessing he won't be living here much longer. I find Sara in the backyard, if you can call it that. Broken machines and boxes of papers stacked as high as a person make a maze of garbage, but the smell is what slaps you in the face.
"So, what's the verdict?"
"Definitely stabbed, but I'm not seeing any defensive wounds. There's what looks like a university ID stuck underneath her, but I'll wait until David gets here to grab it. I'd say she's well off or has somebody in her life who can afford the finer things though, judging by the shoes." I glance down, taking in the body fully for the first time, having spent the last thirty minutes trying to explain to the owner, a Mr. Shipp, that a dead body trumps his collection of litter boxes and no, he couldn't watch us work to ensure we didn't 'make a mess'. Sara's right. The victim's wearing a pair of Manolo's I'd give up a week's vacation to own. In fact, everything on the deceased woman is expensive, high end fashion.
"That or she wanted someone to think she was wealthy." Sara nods, returning to the body to collect some more trace elements and take photos. I scope out the perimeter, cursing the piles of junk at every turn. Trying to sort through all of this is going to be hell.
Back at the lab, I meet with Robbins in autopsy, Sara electing to start sifting through the mountain of fibers and random particulates recovered from the body and the surrounding area. She's in a quiet room towards the back of the building, her face buried in a microscope. I take a minute before I enter, admiring her dedication and drive. We may not always get along, but I wouldn't want anybody else with me on this one. I need her eyes, her unwavering focus. She looks up, no doubt from that eerie feeling of being watched, and gives me a quizzical look. I feel the heat inadvertently rise to my cheeks at being caught staring, and make my way into the room, relaying what I learned downstairs.
"COD was suffocation. Doc found these in the throat." I lay down the small bag with the white fiber in it next to Sara's already overflowing pile.
"The stabbing was post mortem. Fifteen knife wounds in total, all isolated to the front of the body. Whoever this guy is, he's full of rage." Sara motions to a piece of paper on her left.
"Hate too. He urinated on the body." My nose crinkles in disgust despite myself. The depths of depravity that exist in mankind can make your stomach churn. The utter disregard for another life is something I don't think I'll ever understand.
"Doc also found this," I say, passing her the folder tucked under my arm. "Looks like he burned four circles of varying size into her skin. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it." She stares at the picture, some unknown emotion flitting through her eyes.
"Where?"
"Left shoulder." She nods, tucking the photo back into its folder. "Any thoughts?" She shakes her head, and I find her gaze, searching for truth, but she lowers her eyes back to the microscope. I know Sara was abused as a child, and I can't begin to speculate as to what atrocities she was victim to, nor do I want to. I leave her alone, making for my office where mountains of paperwork wait for me mockingly.
I sit down at my desk with a thud, taking in the, at least, five new manila folders, no doubt left by Gil. I open whatever's closest to me and start the daunting task before me. I can't concentrate. My mind keeps going back to the haunted look on Sara's face when she saw that photograph. For a split second, she almost looked scared - which scares me. She's so guarded around me, and I can't say I haven't given her reasons to be. We're both 'sharp women', so it's no surprise we've butted heads in the past, but I wish we could move forward. Or left. Just move. We're stagnant in the roles we've carved out for ourselves, and it's not working anymore. I tell myself today is the last day I'll let us be distant. I'll make the effort to get closer if she will, but somehow, I don't think it's going to be easy.
"Sara!" I catch her just as she's leaving the building. "You wanna grab a coffee or something? Maybe hit the diner?" I try to play it cool, but I watch as confusion colors her face, morphing into wariness, before all emotion disappears from her features. I start doubting my decision when she shrugs.
"Sure. Meet you there in ten." She exits through the double doors, leaving me pleasantly surprised.
She's already at a booth, towards the back, nursing a steamy mug of liquid from between her hands.
"You must have more of a lead foot than me," I say, testing the waters of conversation as I toss my bag and sunglasses into the booth before me.
"Or maybe I wanted coffee more than you." A waitress appears at the table, jaw working on a large wad of gum that she pouches in her cheek while she takes our order. I go first, ordering a short stack of pancakes, mixed berries and yogurt, and a black coffee. Sara orders dry toast.
"Not too hungry, then?" She shrugs, and I fall into silence with her, my fingers nervously tapping the shiny Formica, my words lost somewhere between my throat and lips. The waitress returns with my coffee, and I add two sugars while we both absently stir the hot liquids before us, neither of us seeming to know what to do with our hands. The food arrives, and I'm grateful for the distraction, digging in immediately, unaware of how hungry I am. I'm half way through my pancakes when Sara's voice cuts through the tension at our table.
"Why did you invite me out?" I swallow, half choking on syrupy sweetness, taken aback by the combativeness wrapped around her words. I glance at her toast, untouched in front of her.
"Because you're a cheap date." I see the tug at the corner of her lips, but she suppresses the smile.
"Really, Catherine." I survey her defiant posture, hard eyes daring me to meet the challenge I find there. I settle for honesty, hoping that at least it will catch her off guard.
"I don't want to fight, Sara. I thought that we could put our past differences behind us and move forward. I'm not asking to be your best friend, but I am asking for a truce. I'm sick of this push and pull that exists between us, aren't you?" I see her struggle to trust what I'm saying, and I can relate, always waiting for that other shoe to drop myself.
The waitress returns and lays the check down in the center of the table. I reach for the small slip just as Sara does the same, her fingers sliding across the top of my hand before she jerks away. I shiver at the contact.
"I can pay for myself."
"Of course you can. But I invited. I pay." She looks like she's about to protest but bites her tongue and nods. I consider it the answer to my question from before and flash her a small smile. We walk out together, saying goodbye as we part for our vehicles. I squint against the vulgar morning sun, cursing when I realize I left my sunglasses in the booth. I make my way back through the restaurant in time to see our waitress clearing away our plates - and the ten dollar bill Sara slipped under her untouched breakfast. I sigh and retrieve the glasses. So much for small victories.
The next night at start of shift, I sit in my office, staring at the phone, dreading the call I know I have to make. The receiver is heavy in my hands, and I dial the numbers slowly. A woman answers on the first ring.
"Ally? Is that you? Honey?" The voice I hear is frantic and desperate, and it breaks my heart.
"No, ma'am. My name is Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab." There's a moment of silence, the static-y sounds of background noise the only indication she's still on the phone, before a piercing wail crashes against my eardrum. She knows.
"Hello? Who is this?" This time, it's a man voice, worry evident in his tone.
"Hello, sir. My name is Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Are you Mr. Ronald Korr?" He hesitates before answering, like it might change what he knows is coming next.
"Yes." It's barely a whisper.
"I'm sorry to have to ask you this, sir, but we need you to identify a body that was found last night."
After the phone call, I rest my head on my desk, folders and all, and take deep breaths to center myself. A knock at my door rouses me from my state.
"It's open." Sara enters, two small take out cups in her hand. She sets one down, nudging it slightly in my direction.
"For you." She says it softly, without making eye contact. I take the offering readily.
"Bless you for this. I just got off the phone with the Korrs. They're on their way in to do the identification." She nods, shifting uncomfortably.
"I'll be around if you need me."
"OK. I'll find you when I'm done." I thank her again for the coffee, wanting her to know the gesture is appreciated. I know this is her way of extending the olive branch, however small it may seem. I take a sip of the beverage and sigh with pleasure. It's heaven in a cup. I glance at the label, not recognizing the name of the cafe but noticing the scrawl in black sharpie close to the top: Blk/2 sug.
She must have noticed the way I take my coffee. The investigator in me isn't surprised, but the woman in me is flattered and touched by her thoughtfulness, smiling as I take a sip of my new favorite brew.