A/N: Something that's been eating at my mind for a while and has to be put to use if I'm ever going to get started on a more extensive CSI fanfic.Thanks to my beta, Sammie!

Spoilers: Nesting Dolls

Summary: One late night in 1984, a seasoned criminalist from the San Francisco crime lab investigates the Sidle murder and grows attached to the little girl forced to suffer through it all.

My phone is ringing again.

I don't understand how Spaulding, the sharp-witted criminalist he is, can't grasp the fact that I need three hours of sleep to perform basic functions—processing a crime scene is certainly pushing it. Never mind the fact that I am virtually a single mother trying to care for my five-year-old son while my husband, an entertainer in a local country music band, keeps inane hours to help pay the mortgage. Regardless, the times I've told my boss that I can't have him calling me in for late cases—cases that should go to the night shift—haven't yet taken effect. I twist out of the blankets and pick up the phone with a certain amount of dread—oh Spaulding, what do you have for me this time?

"Carter," I all but mumble into the phone.

There's a ruffling on the other end as my boss pulls the phone closer to his face, its cord scraping at the base. He obviously didn't expect me to pick up. Finally, he replies in his odd, squeaky lilt, "Gina. I'm glad you answered."

I swallow to clear whatever groggy sleepiness is left in my voice, and mustering a smidgen of enthusiasm I chirp, "What've we got tonight?" I hope that my façade isn't as obvious to him as it is to me.

"You sound exhausted."

Damn, thanks, Jeremy Spaulding. I'm glad you noticed. That might not have anything to do with the fact that you're calling me after my own agonizing shift to cover someone else's ass while they go clubbing, now, would it? Or maybe it's because you interrupted what may have been a decent sleep that would have allowed me to wake up early in the morning to fix my son a nice breakfast? "Nah, I'm good." I'm an ace at lying through gritted teeth.

Jeremy sighs, and says quickly, "Meet me in Tamales Bay in two hours. When you get into town, radio me and I'll give you the address of our latest escapade."

I pause, gaping. "Jeremy, Tamales Bay is an hour and a half away!"

"Yes, but it is still covered by the San Francisco unit." He says it so matter-of-factly that I wish for once that I were daring enough to talk back to the boss man. But of course, I just agree and hang up, dialing the babysitter to take care of my son while I dedicate yet another one of my nights to a case.

It's nights like these I wonder whether or not I should just quit my job as an investigator for the San Francisco crime lab.

xxxxx

I'm singing along with the old AM in my car—the station's currently playing Thomas Dolby's "She Blinded Me with Science"—as I spot the 'Welcome to Tamales Bay' sign that looms like a warning signal in the darkness of the road. I pull out the radio near the dashboard and connect with Jeremy. Sans greetings, he spills the address of a 420, the static of the radio making his light voice seem deeper. The thought of Spaulding with a deep voice amuses me for a while as I turn down the road towards a bed and breakfast. I'm definitely relieved that the ride through Tamales Bay will be no longer than five minutes, as it's nothing interesting. I pass house after house on a winding road that is tunneled with bare trees—through which I can see the neighboring bay—and notice it's typically American here with detectable touches of the unique architecture of San Fran. Not poor, but it's certainly not the high scale area of the town, and a hair short of middle class.

In the dark shroud of night, I can already see the red-then-blue sirens of the cop cars and a small amount of adrenaline pulses through my system; the sensation has dulled over the years. I pull up quickly, shut off the radio, and exit the car, taking in the B and B that is barricaded with yellow tape. It's not too shabby—colorful but tacky in a way that suggests its owners never quite left the hippy era. It's a shame that a B and B in this part of town is the scene of a homicide. Then again, all homicides are shameful.

The homicide detective—Captain Ed Brody, a very tall man with an intimidating glare—makes his way over to me, shaking his head back and forth as he packs his notepad into his breast pocket. "It's a scene in there, all right," he begins, adding, "Spaulding is processing with another member of your team."

Thanks for waiting for me, Jeremy. "Oh? Does he want me to take perimeter or…"

"The kid." Ed half-shrugs as if in apology. "That's all he said. You know how he gets."

The kid.

I look around, and there's an increasing pang in my chest as I realize that Spaulding probably requested me out here because I'm the only mother—hell, the only woman investigator in our CSU. Still, before I even find out who or where the kid is, I need to know what exactly this 420 entails. So I ask. And when Ed explains, the pang in my chest does nothing but grow.

First blush is that there was quite the tiff between the owners of the bed and breakfast, a married couple by the names of Laura and Daniel Sidle. It went down in the bedroom—not any of the guest bedrooms, but the Sidles' own bedroom in their connecting bungalow. A late night argument got physical; slaps became shoves, shoves became punches, and eventually Laura Sidle lunged for a kitchen knife that she had stashed beneath her pillow and stabbed her husband just above the collarbone. Laura never left the scene and has been detained, and not much in terms of motive is known yet besides what could be gathered from a preliminary walkthrough. Ed says there is one theory and tells me that Spaulding wonders if domestic violence and abuse is common in the family, relaying that he would like me to focus on that aspect when I meet with the kid. As for the kid herself, Ed knows nothing besides that fact that she is being watched by a uniform near the driveway. I thank him and make my way to the squad car, my heartbeat pounding like a herd of mustangs in my ears.

Now the lights of the squad car are sending me into what feels like a drug-induced haze, and it's rather unsettling. Why is such a common case bothering me so much? I fear that this is a sign of burnout, but maybe it's something else. The whole feel of this case is whacked for a reason I can't yet pinpoint. The lack of facts at this time is bothering me, even though it's unlikely I'll know much until Spaulding catches me up to speed in another hour or so. In fact, I'm planning on checking out the scene for myself. I really want to talk to this kid—maybe I'm having some oddly harvested premonitions.

I walk up to the squad car. From the trunk I can see the driver's door is open and I don't get a chance to look around before the uniform taps me on the shoulder. I assure him I'll watch the girl and then face the car again, walking around from the back.

Then I see her, and realize that she's not exactly a kid.

Her feet are planted firmly on the stone driveway and her long, skinny legs are stone still, much like a student in a high-discipline parochial school. From her size, I'm assuming she's in her teens, but I cannot see her face as she seems preoccupied with the ground beneath her. All I can see are twisted locks of curls adorning her head, so dark that I almost can't make her out against the dim car interior. She doesn't seem to acknowledge my presence. I take another step forward, wondering how I should handle her. If she really is as old as I'm guessing then she'll most likely want space, but I don't have too much time to ponder my plan of action before the girl looks up a fraction of an inch. I'm dumbstruck by how pale white her face is; she's like a porcelain doll, her pallor contrasted only by the darkest, deepest brown eyes I've ever seen. But innocence radiates from her like from a Labrador puppy, and I settle her age as preteen.

I bend to kneel down before her, but the slightest twitch of a glare in her eyes causes me to stand up. I'm still staring at her, surely feeding to the awkwardness, but the siren lights are playing tricks on my eyes. Her face is constantly illuminated red and blue and I hope the dark splotches on her face are figments of my imagination. I hope.

She sighs deeply, the first sign of life I've gotten from her in the past minute. She probably wants to say something but certainly whatever she's seen happen in her home still has her in shock. So I help her out, saying, "Hi. I'm Gina Carter. I'm from the San Francisco crime lab."

She nods very slightly, her eyes never leaving the ground. She utters "hey" but nothing more.

"Um…" I almost wish that she'd start crying or something, something to give me more to work with. I eye the dark areas on her face and figure I've had enough of the sirens messing with my vision. I lean into the cruiser to flick the lights off, but on my way out I unintentionally nudge her shoulder—she's certainly a skinny young girl—and she noticeably flinches. I mutter an apology, whatever good that will do, and look at her face. I wasn't imagining things. This child is battered. I decide to start there.

"What…what happened to your face, sweetie?" I ask, and now she does muster up a glare, arching an eyebrow accusingly. Apparently "sweetie" doesn't fly with her. "I'm… I'm sorry."

"Yeah," she mutters with more clarity. She finally meets my eyes and I cannot believe the intensity of her gaze. She's world-weary and her depthless eyes seem angry, upset, scared, tired, and even relieved. I have to stop staring. She must feel incredibly uncomfortable as it is.

"Okay. Let's start over. I'm from the crime lab and I'm pretty sure you know why I'm here, right?"

"Yes." She looks at me, determination struggling to cover the fear and anxiety she's feeling, but her cover works only for a second before her eyes fall to the floor.

"Nothing that happened is your—I want to help you, Miss Sidle," I say soothingly.

"Sara."

"Okay, Sara. Can you tell—"

I stare after her as she all but leaps out of her seat and slowly walks down to the street, and then I follow, trying not to notice the slight limp in her gait. When I reach her side she looks directly at me, her eyes red—she wants to cry but I know she won't.

"It's nothing to worry about, okay? She…she was…it was going to happen some time," the words spill out as if Sara's on autopilot. She balls her hand into a fist and cracks her knuckles. "It wasn't an accident."

What wasn't an accident? Her injuries? The murder? "So your parents…"

She cringes, but nods for me to continue.

"They fight a lot?"

"People fight."

I sigh as a sliver of naiveté finally makes itself known in Sara's beyond-her-years front. "Yes, Sara, people do fight. But it doesn't… you know, have to end…" I stop. I don't want to sound callous and I have no idea what might set this young girl off. She looks at me curiously, and in this light I can see three bruises—one on her cheekbone by her eye and two smaller ones by her collarbone. They're fading now, but I wonder how bruised up she is under her clothing. I wish Sara had the chance to live like a little girl her age should.

I wonder if that's all I'll get out of Sara Sidle as she deliberately turns away from me. I'm about to leave her be and locate the officer to take over guardian patrol when a young cop bolts from the B and B looking deathly pale and launches himself into the street, gagging noises permeating the air. To think this little girl had a front row seat to whatever went down in that house, apparently a murder to make a cop lose control of his stomach, makes me wonder what Sara saw on a daily basis. I'm preoccupied by the worst case scenarios that have suddenly flooded my mind that I don't even notice when Sara makes a run for the direction of the crime scene, and for a moment I don't make a move to follow her.

It isn't until I hear a couple of cops shouting for the girl to stop that I turn. She's running under the crime scene tape without trepidation of the armed officers following her—she must know she's too fast for them. She seems set on the medical evac van…

…and the body that the coroners are loading into the back of the vehicle. I know I have to intervene. I can't let Sara see her father's body again—I can't figure out why she would want to expose herself to that torture for a second time. Isn't seeing his murder enough? Maybe she's confused. I can't let her see his body or that memory of his body, damn it, it's going to plague her until she dies. I'm calling out her name now, cursing my small stature for slowing me down, but Sara does nothing, not even pause until she reaches the van and stops completely.

The cops have stopped running now and are regarding Sara like a caged animal, and for some reason that pisses me off. I'm charging towards them now, yelling "get the hell away!" and assuring them I'll handle it, though not gently. The coroners are dumbstruck and are staring at the girl oddly, but at least they're keeping their mouths shut.

"Please, guys, the body?" I mutter quietly but I make wild gestures for them to take Daniel Sidle to the morgue as quickly as possible. Sara is just a few feet away from the gurney staring wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights and now I know it, I just know she's going to break down. I know it's entirely my fault—I should've made sure she stayed with me.

Sara begins to whimper and I swear it's the most urgent sound I've ever heard. Her eyes are glued to her father's body as it is rolled into the van. The van doors slam close and the coroners pile in and start up the engine, putting the can into gear and pulling away. Sara collapses into a heap on the driveway, choking sobs, and the pang in my chest is now rising into panic as my own sympathy for the child takes control of me.

"Sara!" She's practically curled up on the ground now, her arms wrapped tightly around her long, thin legs. I squat down, eye-level with the girl, and decide that any amount of determination and stubbornness can't outdo the horror of witnessing your mother stab your father to death. "Sara…" I pull Sara into my arms, sheltering her as bawls wreak havoc on her tiny frame, shaking her from head to toe like a dead leaf in a hurricane. She repeats something into my jacket over and over again, and it takes me a few tries to make it out. When I finally do, I pull Sara closer to me and try not to cry along with her.

"She said she saved us. She said she saved us and he would never come near me again. She said she saved us from him."

Spaulding doesn't have to wonder about his domestic abuse theory anymore.

xxxxx

My phone is ringing again.

It's Spaulding, and he's wondering if I have all of the evidence together for the Sidle murder trial next week. I tell him yes, I'm organizing it right now. I hang up.

The entire case file is spread out on my office desk like a hand of cards. I hope that passers-by in the hallway don't notice my smudged mascara, my red face. What would I tell them? Yes, I've been crying, but it's nothing to worry about. I've had this pang in my chest since the night I was called out to the Sidle Bed and Breakfast last month.

I'm staring at the photos on my desk. The group I'm looking over at the moment is of the crime scene itself. It's a small bedroom, typical of a bungalow. The bed and wall are covered in blood. So is the floor. There are three photos covering three angles of the murder weapon—a steak knife, rusty and old, also drenched in blood. The most disturbing of all is the least gory.

It's a ratty blue stuffed cow, sprinkled with blood spatter. It was found by the bedroom doorway.

It was Sara's.

I shift gears and take a paperclip off another group of photos, photos of Sara's injuries—proof of domestic abuse for the district attorney. Her injuries prove to be far more extensive than a few bruises, and are truly—even for a seasoned criminalist—hard to look at. Half are x-rays showing old broken bones, some of which were only just beginning to heal. The other half are close-ups of a few ugly purple bruises near her ribs and back…and a few near her chest, photos which inevitably show her face. A particular picture in which her heartbreaking doe eyes were captured by the camera lense brings back memories of the day I had to process the little girl.

She kept her eyes on the floor for the most part, nodding and agreeing and putting up no resistance as I removed her clothing and maneuvered her, taking photos as I went. I wanted to make it as painless—both physically and mentally—as possible for her, but she wouldn't hear my consolations. I wonder now if her reactions are acquired behaviors—just go along with what you're being asked to do and you won't get slammed into a table, kicked in the knees, or punched in the stomach until you cough up blood.

I wipe a tear from my eye before it can make its way down my face, and I close up the case file. I just don't understand the effect this case is having on me. I know I've seen identical, if not worse cases and I've always held up just fine in those instances. The word "burnout" is repeating over and over in my mind, but I'm quick to ignore the possibility. The potentiality of me finally growing tired of my career seems like a black mark, a failure to who I am.

But then, unconsciously, I turn my thoughts around. Images and memories of the Sidle crime scene are bombarding my mind and all I can think of, all I can see is Sara, bruised, battered, and tortured. The strong, stubborn orphan who witnessed what no person, young or old, should ever have to see. The kid who never let go of my hand, even when child services came to set her up in foster care.

I realize now that I can't quit. My job isn't only about law enforcement; it's about protection. After all, someone needs to investigate domestic crimes and lock up abusers. I'm not going to let law enforcement overlook domestic abuse anymore.

I'm not going to let there be another Sara Sidle.

End.