A/N: The author of this work does not in any way profit from the story. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s). CSI:Crime Scene Investigation is the property of CBS
This story was written for the Fourth Nick Fic Song Challenge and was inspired by the song The Eleventh Commandment written by Karen Taylor-Good & Lisa Aschmann as performed by Collin Raye
Warning: Graphic violence, graphic sexual violence and depiction of child abuse.
Faith
~March 2003~
It was grim. Even from outside the house Nick could tell this case was going to be a difficult one. He took a quick breath to steady himself then opened the door of his Denali to hop out, quickly grabbing his kit from the back.
Passing cops on the sidewalk the scene took on an eerie quality. Police lights flashed red and blue, briefly illuminating sombre faces before plunging them back into darkness. Voices were hushed, movements slow and deliberate.
There was an air of deep anger and regret so palpable that Nick set his shoulders as he walked towards the house. For permeating the entire scene rose the wail of a crying child.
The cry grew louder as he walked inside, surveying the scene which could only be called a bloodbath.
Inside the house was filthy, strewn with rotting garbage and ratty furniture. The tang of copper in the air barely concealed the stench of neglect. Nick moved through the front room, past the two bodies lying on the floor soaked in blood.
"Warrick," he greeted his colleague as he carefully skirted a pool of blood. "What've we got?"
Warrick took a quick shallow breath though his mouth before answering, "Looks pretty clear cut, seems the parents killed each other and left the kid behind." His voice was hushed and the look on his face was sheer disgust. "That's not all they left," he continued.
"Huh?" Nick questioned as Warrick turned to look in the direction of the hallway.
"One kid survived, a girl maybe 3, 4 years old? The baby boy didn't." Warrick grimaced.
Nick bristled as the reality of the scene set in. The child's wails were getting louder and all of a sudden he couldn't stand it.
"Why isn't anyone looking after her?" Nick's voice was laced with indignation as he strode towards the room where the girl stood in a dirty playpen. She wore a thin summer dress, dirty and full of holes and not at all appropriate for a cool spring night.
"Nick," Warrick warned.
Nick whirled to face him, "She's obviously scared Warrick, I can't just stand here and listen to her cry."
"Nick," Warrick said again as Nick turned back to the child, "We can't touch her until social services gets here," his voice trailed off as Nick bent to pick up the girl.
It was like lifting a dirty feather Nick thought as he swung the child up into his arms.
She was so small and the smell coming off her matted hair would have turned Nick's stomach if not for the overpowering but familiar scent of blood filling the house. The girl kept crying, even though her skinny, bruised arms were clasped tightly around Nick's neck.
With one arm easily supporting her Nick patted her trembling back, gently bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walked around the small room.
"Shhh," he crooned softly into her ear, "Shhhh. You'll be ok, little girl."
Eventually the girl's crying descended into muffled sobs, broken only by the occasional hiccup.
Nick kept rocking and pacing as the girl calmed and her crying finally ceased. She lay her head on Nick's shoulder and sighed, then hiccupped so loudly her body shook.
Nick laughed out loud, throwing a glace at Warrick who had begun to process the room. He grinned and the girl raised her head to stare quizzically at Nick. She hiccupped again then giggled, covering her mouth as though astonished at the sound of her own laughter.
Nick sobered as he realised she had little occasion or reason to laugh. He continued pacing the length of the room, holding the girl as he waited for the social worker to arrive.
When she finally did show, the girl was fast asleep, her hands balled into fists clutching the fabric of Nick's jacket. Her breathing was loud and raspy in his ears, her nose full of snot from her bout of tears.
"Hey. Hey sweetie," Nick gently shook the child awake. She roused, her eyes already old and wary until she saw she was still in Nick's arms. She smiled shyly as she rubbed one grubby hand into her eye.
"The nice lady's gonna take you, get you cleaned up and find you a nice family to live with," Nick began to explain to the girl as he walked through the house, trying to shield her eyes from the horror of her dead parents.
"You'll be alright," he continued to croon softly as he exited the house, turning to give the girl to the social worker who had waited outside. The woman shook her head as she took the girl who whimpered softly.
"Don't be so sure," the social worker replied tiredly. "There aren't many that make it outta the system," she turned to march down the sidewalk towards the waiting police car.
Nick glanced at Warrick who had come up behind them.
"You get the kid's name 'Rick?"
"Nope," Warrick answered regretfully, "Couldn't find a trace and neighbours don't know it either."
Nick watched as the girl was carried further away from him, convinced he needed to do something but unsure of what. He stood staring indecisively until something inside him broke.
"Wait. Wait a sec!" Running down the sidewalk he caught up to the social worker, tugging on her arm to turn her around.
"Can I name her?" He asked, knowing it was a long shot.
The woman sighed and shifted the girl in her arms.
"If you like. Can't do any harm."
Nick reached out to stroke the girl's hair once more. What kind of name could he give her? She needed a name to take her away from the trauma of her situation, to bring her into something new, and hopefully better. He grinned then and the girl smiled back at him.
"Faith," He said simply. "Faith Stokes. Would that be alright?"
The social worker's eyes dropped to the name stitched on his jacket. She shrugged and hefted the girl again.
"It'll do," she replied as she continued to the police car, settling in the backseat with the girl on her lap.
Hands on his hips Nick stood and watched until the car turned a corner, taillights disappearing around a corner. The last thing Nick saw was a tiny, grubby hand pressed against the window.
~May 2009~
It was grim. Nick knew from listening to the police reports on his way to the crime scene; this one was going to be bad. It didn't help that he had been in a bad mood since he woke up and his temper was only getting worse as he drove, listening to the chatter. The sky was dark, grey clouds obscuring the sun as if nature itself was depressed. Nick gritted his teeth as he parked outside the house, getting out of the Denali and grabbing his kit.
A strange hush seemed to cover the scene, cops and detectives standing with set shoulders and clenched jaws. Faces were sombre, one or two twisted in helpless anger. Nick shook his head and steeled himself as he went inside the house.
Nick made his way down a short hall, picking his way past more cops and a coroner's assistant until he came to a bedroom. He stood in the doorway, nostrils flaring as the full impact of the scene hit him.
He only had a momentary glimpse of a small body lying on the bed; with her eyes closed she could have been asleep, it was the protruding tongue and bluish cast to her skin that gave it away.
Suddenly David Philips stood in front of Nick, blocking his view.
"Nick, I don't….," he stopped nervously, "Catherine didn't get my message?"
"No," Nick replied testily. "Just spit it out Dave."
"You shouldn't be here," Dave swallowed audibly.
Nick made a move to brush past, "Its ok Dave. I can handle it."
"You don't understand," Dave put a hand on Nick's arm to stop him. "I think this is a relative of yours."
Nick stilled, craning his neck to try and see past the coroner. Dave stood his ground, unmoving and unwilling to let Nick see the victim.
"No," Nick replied slowly shaking his head. "I don't have any relatives in Vegas."
Dave looked back towards the bed then turned to fix Nick with a sympathetic gaze. Dropping his hand he leaned in, his voice quiet.
"Her name is Faith. Faith Stokes?" His voice rose on the question.
Nick simply stared at him, uncomprehending until suddenly the memory flooded in and he was holding a crying child in his arms, laughing with her as she hiccupped, running after her to give her a name. His name.
Faith was dead.
Nick's surly mood evaporated into something darker; despair, grief and anger all jumbled together until his stomach roiled in protest and he stepped back, gripping the doorway.
Dave flinched at the look in Nick's eye then exhaled loudly in relief as Nick turned on his heel, walking straight into Brass. Tight lipped and seething, Nick ground out a single question.
"You got the guy?"
Brass nodded, "He's in custody, Nick."
Nick stayed silent, simply staring Brass down until the Captain sighed loudly and flipped his notebook open. Scratching his cheek with a thumb he read from the page, his notes short and succinct.
"16. Foster kid. He's been abusing the girl since she arrived two months ago."
"Faith," Nick interrupted.
"Excuse me?" Brass raised an eyebrow.
"Her name is Faith."
Brass took a deep breath before he continued quietly, "Faith wasn't the first one he abused, but she was the first one he killed." The Captain abruptly stopped reading; flipping his notebook shut he shoved it in his pocket.
Nick stood in the hall, his body tense with anger as he digested the report. He could hear Dave dictating notes in the bedroom, one voice out of many in the house.
"I'm going with Dave," he announced, then brushed past Brass to wait outside.
"Nick, I'm sorry," Brass murmured as Nick moved past him. With a deep sigh he pulled out his cellphone, making the call to Catherine to send another CSI to the scene.
xXxXx
Nick paced outside the morgue, biting the nail of his thumb as he waited. Unwilling to watch the autopsy he still had to know what had happened to Faith. Stopping to stand and stare out a frosted window he could only contemplate his own reflection. Turning away from the sorrow in his eyes he kept up his pacing until the doors opened and Doc Robbins joined him in the hall.
Nick stayed quiet while the coroner took his glasses off with a sigh, cleaning them on his lab coat. Robbins took a deep breath and when he spoke his voice was full of regret.
"Cause of death is asphyxiation by strangulation. She was also raped, Nick." he stopped then sighed heavily before continuing. "She didn't have an easy life. Malnourished, dehydrated. Numerous broken bones, not all of them healed properly. Deep bruising indicates a regular pattern of abuse. She…"
Nick held up a hand to stop the recitation, unable to hear anymore.
"She never had a chance, did she?" Nick asked hoarsely, his heart breaking.
"I'm sorry Nick," Doc said simply as he rested a hand on Nick's shoulder.
Nick shook his head and pressed his fingers to his eyes, a futile effort to stave off the grief.
"I'll look after the funeral arrangements," he managed then turned away from the Doc, walking through the morgue with a heavy heart. His anger rose with each step, he couldn't have stopped the tide even if he wanted too. Suddenly he spun and punched a wall with his fist, welcoming the blossoming pain in his hand. Shaking his fingers he leaned back against the wall, dropping his head back and raising his eyes to the ceiling.
His anger and disbelief stemmed from one heartbreaking thought. He grieved for Faith who had never known a moment of happiness, had never been safe or cared for, never been loved.
~Epilogue~
She's too small and weak to fight anyone off. In all her foster homes and halfway houses, it's usually a hand she can't avoid; a fist swinging hard and heavy, connecting with her frail body until she ends up on the floor in a heap. She can never figure out what she did wrong. She doesn't think she ever will.
She learned quickly not to fight the bigger boy in this house; although it isn't his fist she first tried to fight off. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to ignore the burning press between her legs, the heavy weight above her and the ugly grunts in her ears. His breath is rancid across her face and she turns her head to the side, biting her lip to keep from crying out. He'll slap her if she makes a sound so she stifles her cries, clenching the sheets into her fists.
She starts to sing to herself, in her mind; a nonsense song of made up words that drowns out the filthy words and groans above her.
As she sings she begins to daydream. She dreams of a time when she was floating, somehow being lifted into the air; taken from a place of cold to snuggle into warmth. Her mind drifts into the dream and suddenly she's surrounded by a strong pair of arms, warm and gentle with hands as tender as she has ever felt.
A soothing voice whispers to her.
'Shhhhh,' it says, 'you'll be ok little girl.' She can feel the rumble of this deep voice in her body, and it only makes her feel safe.
She knows it's a memory, even if it is vague. She thinks maybe it was an angel who picked her up, cradled her and spoke to her. It's the only time she ever felt safe. She even dares to think she may have felt happy. The feeling, the memory is so fleeting that she rarely thinks about it. She saves it for the worst moments of brutality when her mind needs to escape from reality.
She drifts while she waits for the brute on top of her to finish, she doesn't notice the pressure on her throat as her dream turns white and hazy. Her body begins to gasp for air, tongue protruding, struggling against the forearm pressing down on her windpipe, the burning in her lungs match the searing pain between her legs.
'Shhhhh,' she hears her angel's voice in her mind and she turns to follow it into a white void where her body doesn't hurt anymore. She is floating as light as a feather, being carried by strong arms into a place where she is finally safe, finally at peace.
As her world condenses to a single, bright point of white she can hear laughter. It is the sweetest sound she has ever heard. For the second time in her short and brutal life, Faith laughs with an angel.
xXxXx