With thanks to Emma (Binx) for the beta & Becs (remotecontrolprincess) for everything else. Also, for Laney and Rach, and they know why. Lyrics in italics belong to 'Fairytale of New York' by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl. Bold italic text is a flashback. Concrit is appreciated. Praise and cookies are cherished. Carmine Giovinazzo or Gary Sinise on my doorstep and you'll be forever worshipped.
Fairytale In New York
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It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank; an old man said to me, 'won't see another one'.
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"You workin' Christmas too?"
"Ain't got nothin' else t'do."
The conversation ended there and the pair fell into a comfortable silence as they swabbed every inch of a torn coat for trace evidence. Only an hour and a half earlier in the fading light of the late afternoon, they'd been crawling around on their hands and knees on the sidewalks of the city, searching for the bullet that fatally wounded a homeless man. There were signs of a struggle, so they hoped that the attacker had left some sort of evidence behind – epithelials maybe, or even blood if the deceased had fought back.
"Christmas in New York, just another murder, huh?"
"Don't think this guy woke up this mornin' expecting not to live to see it."
Christmas eve in New York City, grey skies, puddles on the sidewalk, the odd snowflake attempting to fall here and there.
"I tolds 'im, I did!" Jerry, surname unknown, waved his arms in the air as Detective Don Flack led Aiden Burn and Danny Messer towards a corpse lying amidst destroyed cardboard boxes.
"Wha' did'ya tell him, Jerry?" Danny called, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
"I tolds 'im 'e wouldn't see this Christmas!"
"Why's'at, Jerry?"
"I d'know, maybe I'm psychics or somethin', fifth sense."
"It's sixth sense, Jerry. Did'ya see what happened?"
"Bobby got shot."
"No shit, Sherlock. That'd be why he has a couple'a great big bullet holes in 'is chest." Flack muttered under his breath.
"Yeah, I see that. Did'ya see who shot him?"
"Nope."
"You sure?"
"I didn't do nothin'!"
"We're not accusin' you of anythin' Jerry, we just wanna find out what happened to Bobby, 'kay?" Aiden Burn spoke up. She was crouched over the body, snapping photos with her camera.
Jerry paced back and forth, a paper bag in his hand. He brought it to his mouth and tipped his head back – Danny thought he probably had some sort of alcohol in there. He wasn't surprised – the odd dollar someone dropped or tossed into an old hat usually went on alcohol or tobacco, or if they were patient and saved enough, drugs to keep them warm over the winter.
"'E was shot."
Aiden sighed impatiently. "We know that, Jerry…"
"So what'cha doin' now?"
"Tryin'a see if we can find the bastard who shot 'im."
"Why'd ya wanna do that?"
"'Cause, Jerry, murder's still a crime."
Aiden's patience was wearing thin, Flack noticed, so he took over. Standing guard at the edge of the yellow tape around the body, Flack shouted orders to rookie detectives in one direction, called over his shoulder to Danny and Aiden in another and spoke bluntly to Jerry by his side.
"Danny!" Aiden called, snapping photographs furiously. "Gotta bullet!"
Danny spun around and crouched beside Aiden.
"Under that box right there."
Aiden shivered in the cold evening air as Danny retrieved the bullet with a pair of tweezers and dropped it into a small envelope.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, s'cold, that's all."
"S'December. S'New York."
"Coldest winter in thirty years."
"And you come out with a thin jacket."
"Messer?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"Looks like it's gonna be another double, huh?"
"I know who's signin' my overtime sheet."
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They've got cars big as bars, they've got rivers of gold but the wind goes right through you, it's no place for the old; when you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve, you promised me Broadway was waiting for me.
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"Cause of death?" Stella took a deep breath and tried not to vomit when she glanced at the victim on the ME's table. She berated herself for being stupid – she'd seen many victims look like this – worse, even – but this one – this was different. Stella could have sworn the victim was Shirley. Shirley was like a sister to Stella in the orphanage. They shared the same birthday, they did everything together. Until… until Shirley mixed with the wrong people. Drugs left her without parents, drugs left her without a life. Shirley died on Christmas Eve, Stella found her in the bathroom with a needle still stuck in her arm.
"Anaphylaxis. Tox report shows penicillin, she has a bracelet with an allergy alert on it. My money's on that."
"So someone knew she was allergic…"
"That, or tried to help her. She had a slight ear infection."
"Somethin's not right." Mac Taylor tossed ideas around with Stella Bonasera and Sheldon Hawkes – the ME, CSI wannabe. Their victim was an unidentified female found at the back of a seedy nightclub, looking like she'd not long since come off the stage.
"Any signs of a struggle?"
"Some bruising on her arms… thighs, too – could be a user."
"Who isn't?"
"So, Jane Doe is found at the bottom of the concrete stairs out back of Tangos with a couple'a black eyes and cuts on her face from the fall, she died moments later of anaphylaxis due to penicillin and is a likely druggie. Well, that gives us a lot to go on."
"Kelly's running her prints through the system, maybe she'll be in there."
"Yeah, and maybe pigs'll fly."
"If she's a user, she could'a been picked up for possession."
"And if she's not, if she was just beat up by her alcoholic boyfriend every night?"
"Then we look to plan B. Stella, what's gotten into you over this case?"
"Nothin', I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You don't usually act like this over a case."
"Mac, I said I'm fine." She turned and stalked off, not quite angry but definitely not her usual cheery self.
Sheldon looked questioningly at Mac, who shrugged his shoulders as Stella left.
"She okay?"
"Clearly not."
"Want me to try and talk to her?"
"No… no, I'll talk to her."
"Sure?"
"Yeah."
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The boys of the NYPD choir were singing 'Galway Bay' and the bells were ringing out for Christmas day.
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Even over the bustle of the city, Christmas carols could be heard somewhere in the distance. Flack smiled and shook his head as he entered CSI HQ, idly hoping that someone had just put on a fresh pot of coffee.
The Christmas carols were louder inside than out, he discovered, before spotting the portable stereo behind the reception desk switched on and playing. With a grin, he leant over to the shelf beneath it and hit the stop button. He jumped back and continued to walk on as the receptionist turned around suddenly, confused.
She smiled when she saw Flack trying to hide a grin as he glanced discreetly over his shoulder.
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You're a bum, you're a punk, you're an old slut on junk, lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed; you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, happy Christmas your arse, I pray God It's our last.
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"So she's definitely a user then."
"Busted ten months ago for possession with intent to supply. Heroin, cocaine – the works. Katy Lassiter, known as Melody. Works the nightclubs."
Danny walked in, looking from a printed ballistics report to Mac and Stella, and back at the report.
"Your vic – Katy Lassiter, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
"She's'a registered owner of the gun that killed Bobby."
"Was it reported stolen?"
"No, got word from the shootin' range that she was there with her gun yesterday afternoon practisin' her shots."
"Was Bobby usin' anythin'?"
"Probably – who isn't?"
"If Katy was dealin' to Bobby and broke a deal for whatever reason, that's motive enough for him to kill her – slip her a couple of pills, penicillin ain't that hard to come by."
"Why would she shoot him?"
"Maybe he was naggin' her? Threatenin' her maybe, maybe she bit off more than she could chew with him?" Aiden suggested, sidling up beside Danny.
"It'd make sense I guess."
Stella excused herself and headed to the morgue, where she ran a GSR test on Katy Lassiter's clothing. It was positive, but then, she'd expected it to be. Katy had supposedly fired a gun the previous day at the shooting range.
A sudden brainwave hit and after enlisting the help of Sheldon, slightly taller than she, and less likely to fall due to the lack of high heels, she opened the box containing Bobby's personal effects and rummaged through them, wrinkling her nose as she did so. Pieces of broken glass, crumpled cards and bottle tops featured most often in the collection.
"Bingo!" she announced, unfolding a piece of card to find Katy's name and a contact number on it. "Damn, I'm spendin' too much time with Messer."
She informed Hawkes that she was done and ran back through the maze of corridors, heels clipping against the floor and humming "B-I-N-G-O and bingo was his name-o" along the way.
"Bobby had Katy's card in his personal effects," she informed the group upon her return. "It's enough to say she did it and close the case."
Mac smiled. "Nice work, Stella."
Danny patted her shoulder and Aiden grinned tiredly. It was just past eleven and their overtime sheets were in desperate need of Mac's autograph.
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I could have been someone -- well so could anyone -- you took my dreams from me when I first found you -- I kept them with me babe, I put them with my own, can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you.
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"Stella, you okay?" Mac closed the door to his office on his way out, in desperate search of coffee and respite from the mountain of paperwork stacked up on his desk.
"Yeah, yeah I'm good."
"Anything you wanna talk about?"
"Nope."
He hesitated. "If there is… you know where to find me, right?"
"Right." She smiled, her chestnut curls bouncing on her shoulders as she nodded her head.
"You're a good cop, Stella. Shit happens, you know that better than anyone. You don't usually let it get to you like this – don't start now."
Still smiling, she touched him on the arm by way of acknowledgement as she silently excused herself. She stopped at the desk only to sign herself out of the building. Four minutes past midnight, another Christmas in New York officially over. It had never been Stella's favourite day of the year, anyway.
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The boys of the NYPD choir were singing 'Galway Bay' and the bells were ringing out for Christmas day.
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