Title: Reflective Observation.
Summary: The one who commits the crime observes those who investigate her, and makes some observations on the interactions between Grissom and Sara as well.
Disclaimer: I pretty much don't own anything, and that includes these characters, the show, the airport, and, well, according to Jung this idea probably isn't mine either.
A/N: Thanks to Catharina for the constructive criticism and for telling me to at least finish the story.
The knife is in my hand, a cold blade pressed against my flesh and the blood a murky reminder of my actions. I don't like to be rushed, and the calming silence surrounds me as I turn my head and look at the man lying on the bed next to me. It's freezing in the room, I can feel the chill on my lips as I draw in a small breath. He probably turned the temperature down before going to bed.
I rise slowly, standing in the crisp air and walking to the windows. The blinds are open, and I can see the city waking, the drudgery of the streets being overturned, a fresh surface to be soiled by the ugly reality of another day.
I absentmindedly finger the lace cuff on the teddy that I'm wearing, a simple black thing that doesn't hide much, but draws attention away from my intentions. I glance back towards the bed, towards the naked body lying there. I hope he enjoyed his last fuck. I did, made it much easier for my knife to find its way home. And for that split second, when he realized that I was there to kill him, well, I've never had an orgasm like that before.
This isn't a bad room, probably paid for by this guy's work as he was here on a conference. Las Vegas, the capital of conferences. Those seem to be the catch all excuse for a trip, and more than once I've killed an errant spouse while "at a conference." I walk to the dresser, regarding my reflection in the mirror, pleased with what I see. I'm not a young woman, but I've kept myself in good shape. I've been told that I have a mysterious air about me, though I know it's because I never reveal anything about myself. In this line of work, I can't afford to.
I adjust the wig that had become tussled during the action of the night. The faded blood- red lipstick is reapplied, the dark tone standing out against my skin. My neck bares a mark, a slight annoyance that will go away in a few days; a scarf will surely hide it. I've just killed a man, and I'm annoyed by the small hickey that he dared to leave on me. I shake my head and smirk to myself, gathering up the evidence of my having been in the room.
It's not that I'm a cold woman, nor that I have any disrespect for my fellow man. But it's hard to care anymore; this is nothing but a pay cheque, typewritten numbers smelling of heavy ink, not unlike the spilled blood of my victims. I try not to get involved, but some of the dossiers gathered on them by my clients could be classified as justification for their end.
I move to the edge of the bed, gathering my black slacks and slipping them on. I search around for my blouse, my hands reaching for it and then stopping. Damn bloodstains, sometimes I forget they're even there. I walk to the bathroom to wash them, taking the bar of soap to throw in the trash as well. The slightly calloused skin of my hands smells lavendery now, no longer the copper smell of coagulated blood.
I return to my blouse, slipping it over the teddy and buttoning it up. The silky material feels even colder through the lingerie in the chilled room, but I'm not going to be here long enough to care about that. Besides, with the cold temperature the body won't smell as strongly throughout the day. My flight doesn't leave until two this afternoon, so ideally I'd like to delay the discovery of his body.
Almost ready to go, I survey the room, looking for something small that I may have missed. This is mechanical, not really out of a fear of getting caught. There's no panic either, I knew exactly what I planned to do when I came here. My mentor used to say that panic was the right hand of the devil, driving most to madness and those who might have been perfection to paranoia. It's my theory that panic belongs in the realm of emotion, as does the definition between good and evil. Thus I shall never be classified as either in my actions, because terminating my mark's life is akin to making a trip to the grocery store. Nothing special, just something that needs to be done.
I pay for my coffee and walk through the concourse, the enchanting smell carrying me back to my seat as I take in my surroundings again. Weary passengers are milling about, the small children running around. We're going to Miami and I anticipated the slightly higher vacationer to business traveler ratio. It doesn't bother me though, and as I stir the sweetener in the mug I can't help but glance down, staring into the black swirling liquid. My father always said my eyes were a mysterious brown, the same shade as coffee with a drop of milk, but I never understood where the mystery lay.
My eyes then sweep the sitting area again, a casual glance to most, but I've trained myself to be observant of my surroundings. I find it rather inconvenient to be startled, and it's only happened once while on the job. I completed my task, and learned a lesson in the process. It's one in the afternoon, according to the wall clock to the left of me, so I've only got thirty minutes or so to fill before they start boarding the plane. Another job done, another day over, I tell myself, focusing on a young man dressed in a dark navy suit and worriedly glancing down at the cellphone in his hand. I start to wonder how bad he'll startle if it actually rings when a police officer appears a small distance behind him. Another one appears, and I'm immediately alert.
They're followed by two people not dressed in uniform, though each carry identical silver cases. The woman, tall and lanky, brown hair and a sigh slouch to her stature as she's walking is conversing with one of the officers while the older man appears to be taking in his surroundings. He's got a navy blue windbreaker on, though the airport is uncharacteristically hot and I expect it will be removed soon. They stop at a little concession stand across and a little down from where I'd just bought my coffee. It's been roped off and labeled a crime scene, and two rent-a-cops that appear to work for the airport are guarding it. The cash register has been broken into, and there's apparently something else of interest on the floor which is obscured by the fake carved wood of the counter, because the brown haired woman is scrutinizing a spot invisible to most.
The man finishes his conversation with the officer, who leaves them and stands aside with his partner, somewhat guarding the scene. However, with the amount of people in the concourse there's not much threat of if being compromised. I glance down at my watch and take another sip of coffee, the steaming liquid burning my lips a little but pleasing my taste buds greatly. Twenty minutes before they start calling passengers. Five minutes before the second half of my fee is to be wired to my account.
The thought makes me smile as my gaze returns to the investigators, who by all intents and purposes appear to be lost in their work. I wonder if anyone has found that man yet, and if they're as dedicated to their work as these two. I pride myself in being careful with what evidence is left behind, for I know that each scene is scrutinized to find out my identity and the motives for my actions. It seems like almost morbid fascination that I should be watching them now, knowing that if I'm ever entered into a database that it'll be these people who bring me to an end. I'm not afraid of police officers in that respect, because for the most part they mix hunches (in) with fact. But one cannot escape solid evidence.
Using tweezers, I watch the man deftly snatch a small piece of what appears to be fluff, snagged on a rough edge. He's got short hair, and from this distance it appears to be curly. The salt and pepper coloring to it suits him well, however his mostly dark beard seems slightly out of place. His concentration is precise as he goes about his job, and he doesn't notice the slight glances his companion gives him, but he does notice her slight grin at whatever comment he's made. It's a subtle flirt, and I'm not sure if both of them realize they're doing it. I had originally thought they were sleeping together, based on their interaction with each other, but now I can see it's not so. Even friends with benefits aren't that comfortably awkward around each other.
My body flinches a little as I hear the slight buzz from my pager, which is hidden in my small purse. The money has been transferred correctly, and the job is in the final stage of completion. A quick glance to the window reveals the actual final step, where the plane waits patiently for the airline employees to commence loading passengers. A few attendants rustle paper behind the counter, and families with young children start gathering their bags. Boarding time.
I finish the last few drops of my coffee and survey the room again, falling back onto the two scientists snooping through the carpet. There must be small fragments of something scattered about, because they're both searching for miniscule pieces with their tweezers, and a stack of little evidence envelopes. I don't consider them my enemy, but am rather intrigued to watch them. I enjoy studying the methods of others, and something exists between these two that places an odd form of synchrony in their actions. At the moment they're slowly shifting around, collecting small objects unseen to me; to all outward appearances, in a completely random pattern.
People are beginning to ignore the announcements of the flight attendants and have started gathering in front of the gate, much to the annoyance of the staff. I'll wait a few more moments, until my section of the plane is called. No need for unnecessary attention. Over at the crime scene they've left the carpet, and I watch as the man stands, and hesitates. I think he's trying to decide whether to offer his hand to help her up, but she rises on her own, seemingly unaware of his slight conundrum. Something has caught her attention behind the large sign above the shop and as she climbs up upon the small windowsill behind the booth I note how he watches her, not just out of curiosity for what she's looking for.
They call my section and I rise, grabbing my small handbag and my coffee cup to take on the plane with me, for I'm not sure how often the garbages are cleared and I'd rather not leave it behind. The zipper of my purse is quiet as I open it. Pulling out my ticket I steal a subtle glance, as well as at my passport. I double check the papers to see that the name matches on all of them, though I know it does. It's a form of professional paranoia, I suppose, because I'm forever checking such things.
I walk towards the line-up that's starting to snake around the chairs and come within listening distance of the crime scene. I can hear them talking, the woman's long drawn out syllables falling in an almost random pattern, intriguing to me and also to her partner, it appears. I like the accent, and it fits with the personality I'm going to be today. My tongue rolls softly in my mouth, playing with vowels while she discusses a motive with him, and I don't need to look to see the grin that I can hear in her tone. He's challenged her to a race of some sort, over the hatching of flies. I'm curious as to what type of race, but the announcement warning of last call for boarding obscures the next bit of conversation.
I wonder it started as an inside joke, or that these people are entomologists, because that's a little over the top of loving your job in my books. As luck has it, the business suit from earlier who was willing his cell phone to ring is standing in front of me, and has decided to turn around and talk while we wait. This annoys me most of the time, but I can practice my accent with him. I introduce myself to him as Rachel Thatcher, a name I got from a phone book, I believe. My mentor wisely suggested once to never choose names related to those around you, for in the clever trickery a trap is laid for oneself. I'd rather not leave a trail back to myself in the form of a puzzle, and the white pages have always been good to me.
A cell phone rings and I'm slightly amused as more than a few people search through pockets and fanny packs, but it's actually one the CSIs it belongs to, the man's. I tune out the guy in front of me, pretending to look for my ticket and instead listen in to the phone conversation. He answers with a gruff "Grissom", which must be his name. Our line advances, the attendant checking the tiny type on each ticket to ensure we're at the right gate, while in the corner of my eye I see the woman labelling the evidence envelopes she's just filled. I'm watching them intently, though I'm not the only one and so it doesn't seem out of place. I can still pick up a few words of the conversation, and my ears perk up along with his partner's as the man, Grissom, repeats that a body has been found at the New York, New York hotel.
The woman smiles as I hand my boarding pass to be checked. He calls her name, a pretty one in my humble opinion and tells her they're off to the new scene. Sara's case clicks closed as Grissom shrugs his navy jacket back on, and the flight attendant wishes Ms. Thatcher a good flight. It takes a few seconds to realize that's me, but by then I've stepped towards the gate and she's moved on to the next passenger. The investigators are walking together towards the doors at the end of the concourse, Grissom most likely filling in Sara on the new case, and the last thing I notice is him holding open the door for her. I walk down the mechanical tunnel to the plane, smiling to myself.
They're off to investigate and scrutinize the place I came from, and I find it rather ironic that I got to observe them in fairly close quarters for a good half hour in return. All's fair though, I suppose. But for now, I am enjoying this feeling of power and accomplishment that I have, and hope it's never reciprocated on their end, at least during this case.
The End.