From Grissom

Part two

The Under Sheriff frowned as if doubted he'd heard correctly. The mocking smile remained, but it looked forced now.

"Did you just say…?" and he let the word trail off.

Grissom didn't immediately reply. He was thinking of Brass, and his last-minute advice: 'Don't reveal more than you need to,' he said, 'Your job tonight is to keep McKeen busy. That's all. Just keep it together and you'll be fine.'

Keep it together? Easier said than done. Grissom was just too tired; exhausted, in fact. Keeping the truth to himself had cost him more than he thought. True, he'd shared the information with Brass and a couple of other people but the burden was still his and his alone. Even saying the words out loud tonight didn't help. 'Truth brings closure,' he used to say, and, oh, how wrong he was!

Suddenly, his hands start to shake. He laid them flat on the table and as he did, he stole a glance at his watch. Three-thirty. Three-thirty! So much later than he thought.

'Two hours, tops,' Brass had said. 'It won't take us longer than that. Just remember: The least you say, the better.' The thought almost made Gil smile.

If Brass were there, he'd be giving him hell right now.

But Brass wasn't there. Nor would he, if their botched timetable was any indication.

Grissom met the Sheriff's gaze.

"Yes," he said, answering the sheriff's unfinished question. Then, "There was a witness."

He watched as Mckeen –a poker player to the end- carefully mastered what must have been an urgent need to lean over and grab him by the throat till he spilled everything he knew.

McKeen cautiously shifted in his seat.

"A witness," he said slowly. "And why wasn't I made aware of this, er, fact?"

"Well, it was decided that disclosing the information would probably work against our best interests," Gil said, purposefully mocking the kind of language the Under Sheriff used in his briefings with the police. Then he added, "Surely, you understand why."

"The Mole," Mckeen said mechanically. Gil nodded. "And can you guarantee this witness' protection?"

"Well, nothing's happened so far," Gil said casually.

McKeen leant forward. "And this... witness. Is he credible? After all, Warrick was killed near a bar. I can imagine that area was swarming with low-lifes -"

Gil smiled.

"Well, it isn't a matter of personal credibility," he said matter-of-factly. "Witnesses' testimonies are basically useless, unless we have the evidence to back it up. That's why we decided to wait."

"'We,'" the sheriff repeated. "Who else is involved in this cover-up?"

"Well, there's no 'we', actually," Gil conceded. "It's been me, all along. I decided to wait –at least, till I knew what we were dealing with."

"You mean, the mole."

"I mean the people surrounding the mole," Gil replied. "Accomplices, backers..." he let the word trail off.

"That's a huge amount of work, Gil. And yet, you didn't ask your people for help." McKeen threw him a penetrating look. "I find that hard to believe; I mean why not use the lab's resources, when -"

"As I said before," Gil interrupted, "I didn't want to risk my people's lives."

"Or your own, I suppose," McKeen noted ironically. He leant back in his chair and studied Gil for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was serious. "Of course, you realize that as an officer of the law, you were duty-bound to submit every piece of information that fell into your hands -"

"Yes."

"- and by not doing so, you could face serious charges for obstruction." He kept his gaze on Grissom. "Now, I am willing to cut you some slack, Gil; what you ought to do is bring forward this witness of yours. If he can ID Warrick's killer, then he can very well lead us to the mole -"

"Oh, I already know who the mole is, Sheriff."

Again, the sheriff paused.

"Well, well, Gil. You keep surprising me, tonight. You know who the mole is."

"Yeah," Grissom said matter-of-factly. "It's you."

Mckeen didn't move a muscle.

"That is quite an accusation, Grissom," he said at last. "I am not even going to ask what your evidence is -there is none. I am not the mole."

"You are," Gil said softly. "And you killed Warrick."

The sheriff shook his head very slowly.

"Poor Gil -" he said. "Grief has affected you more than I was led to believe. But then, it's been a tough year for you; first, Sara Sidle left; then Warrick died. No wonder you've been acting erratically. Even Ecklie, who's always had a grudging respect for you, says you're being careless in your every-day duties. And now, you come up with these wild accusations -"

"There was a witness, sheriff," Gil retorted. "Remember? He saw you, that night."

"I was nowhere near that bar, Gil," the sheriff said patiently, as if it pained him to point the fact to Gil. But his eyes were cold and watchful.

Gil's tone mimicked the sheriff's. "He saw you, Sheriff," he said, "He saw you following Warrick."

Gil's gaze was on McKeen, but it wasn't him he was really looking at. In his mind, he was back in the bar, saying goodbye to Warrick and the others. He remembered every word he exchanged with Warrick, and how he almost told the younger man to take it easy but didn't, because the last thing Warrick needed was a speech.

Instead, he'd walked away; smiling, because their laughs were so loud, he could hear them all the way to the door…

Then, the noises in the street engulfed him, and he couldn't hear their voices anymore.

And then, he drove away.

"He saw you, Sheriff," Gil said softly. "He thought, 'There goes Sheriff Mckeen. He's going to have a quiet conversation with Warrick, now. He's probably going to give him a piece of his mind and a warning not to mess up again, but that's ok; Warrick had it coming.' And so, instead of following you two, I -" Gil faltered a little now. "I decided to let you have a moment alone with him."

"You -"

McKeen half-rose from his seat, then checked himself almost immediately. He carefully sat back again, but it didn't matter; he had betrayed himself.

"I went back to the bar that night," Gil said. He didn't explain why. He didn't want the sheriff to know that he didn't think leaving Warrick in a bar was such a good idea, even with Nick there. He drove back, then. He didn't intent to actually go inside the bar and drag Warrick out; he just wanted to hang around, watch out for Warrick in case he drank too much and needed a ride home.

But Warrick didn't intend to get drunk that night.

"Warrick was already walking away when I got there," Gil said, and he almost smiled at the memory. Warrick's healthy attitude had made him so proud…

"I almost called out but didn't," Gil said softly. "I guess I didn't want him to think I didn't trust him enough," he added, almost to himself. "But there was another reason," he added, looking at the sheriff again. "You were there. You came out of the shadows the minute Warrick left the bar. And I was glad," Gil said, in disbelief. He still couldn't believe his instinct for danger had failed him so grossly that night. He truly believed the sheriff wanted to give Warrick some fatherly advice, maybe a strong warning to keep on the straight and narrow. Well, he was wrong, and the magnitude of this mistake would haunt him the rest of his life. "I really thought I was doing you both a favor."

Suddenly, Gil winced. The pain was back, only, instead of ebbing away like it always did, it stayed. It felt as if a living entity were working its way inside, probing him -testing his endurance.

Grissom took a deep breath. 'Keep it together,' he thought, 'Keep it together…' but Brass' mantra didn't help.

Determined not to break down in front of the sheriff, Grissom pushed away from the table and rose from his seat. He somehow managed to reach the sideboard and leant on it for a moment, trying to regain some control.

He looked down. Bottles of whisky and rum and soda crowded the board, along with a dozen half-opened gifts. His own gift was there: a thick book that McKeen had barely looked at because Ecklie insisted he opened the rest of his gifts.

For Gil, the book was evidence of his capacity for duplicity: He'd carefully shopped for the book; he'd smiled along with the others as he added it to the gift pile, and finally, he'd even joined his colleagues in a raucous rendering of 'For he's a jolly good-fellow'… And all along he'd known what the Sheriff had done. And what was about to happen.

If it got to happen. Gil didn't believe it would, anymore.

Behind him, the sheriff spoke at last.

"So, Gil. According to your own statement, you didn't follow Warrick. You didn't see him get shot."

Grissom took a deep breath. The pain was fading, and after a moment he was able to turn and face the sheriff.

"I saw you follow him," he said, "I saw you walk away afterwards -"

"You didn't see much, Gil. And I wasn't there, anyway." McKeen smiled. "There is no way for you to prove otherwise." Careful as he'd been to conceal his emotions, he couldn't help letting his relief show through.

Grissom didn't reply. He merely leant on the sideboard and stared at the Under Sheriff as if he were waiting for something.

His attitude made the sheriff impatient.

"What?" he asked, "Really, Gil, what is all this about? I mean, unless you can manufacture evidence against me -and God knows you'd have the ability- I don't understand what you expect from all this. Is it a confession you want? Or a careless statement that might be used against me -" Suddenly, he looked up sharply. Without another word, he rose from his seat, crossed the room and unceremoniously started patting Gil up and down.

Grissom let him; he even helped by raising his arms.

"I'm not wired, Sheriff," he said patiently.

The Sheriff didn't seem convinced. He glanced around searchingly; when he saw Gil's gift, still in its box, his eyes widened in sudden comprehension.

"The book," he said hoarsely. "The Aeneid," he added. "Of course -The Greek army inside the Trojan Horse -" He looked up, "This is one theatrical touch I didn't expect from you, Gil."

Grissom was frankly surprised at the sheriff's reasoning.

"There's nothing inside the book, sheriff. You know as well as I do that any conversation obtained by illegal means would never get past the DA," he said, enjoying the chance to lecture the sheriff. "Besides, I don't need you to incriminate yourself. I have all the evidence I need. I gathered it on my own," he added. "While you were keeping an eye on my crew. It took me two whole months, but knowing who to look out for made it easier."

It was keeping the investigation a secret from his friends that cost him. Catherine's open disapproval had made his life hell all along, but it was Greg and Nick's silent disappointment that hurt the most. They wanted to find Warrick's killer; they couldn't understand why Grissom would want to wait.

"You're bluffing," McKeen said, "You don't have anything on me. You can't."

"You've been careless lately, sheriff. Some of your decisions point to a gradual loss of control. The way you killed Gedda, for instance. Trying to frame Warrick for it -" he faltered. All his life, he'd somehow made sense out of the most senseless acts committed by man; but the sheriff's actions were still incomprehensible to him. "Why did you do that?" he asked, though he didn't really expect an answer. "You didn't have to kill Warrick. All you had to do was put him under suspension -"

The sheriff scoffed.

"Gil, Gil…" he shook his head, as if Grissom's question disappointed him. "You're so wrong, there. I thought that as a supervisor you would understand." He stared at Grissom for a moment longer, then shrugged, "All right. I did it. I had to kill him -he was asking for it, if you think about it."

Grissom was amazed at the sudden admission. And now that the mask was finally off, the sheriff seemed eager to talk.

"He yelled at me, Grissom. He confronted me right in front of everybody –what did he expect me to do, forgive and forget? Rotten scum from the ghetto, who the hell did he think he was? Being a CSI really got to his head -and I blame you for that, Grissom. You let him get away with plenty, all these years. It gave him ideas. It let him believe he was someone just because he carried a badge.

"He was nothing," he said, and it was staggering, the amount of hate he could pack in that single word. "He thought he'd got out of the gutter but look how easily he fell back in. All I had to do was throw him some tail, and -"

"And what about you," Gil retorted, "You were friends with Gedda -"

"Well, I'm not saying rotten scum doesn't have its uses," the sheriff said with a shrug. "But I'm the first to admit that dealing with the Geddas of the world bring unforeseen problems," he conceded. "People like him tend to forget about boundaries, sometimes; which is why they must be continually replaced," he added philosophically. Then he blinked, as if he'd just remembered who he was talking to.

He looked curiously at Gil, "So, so you've known, all this time. Poor Grissom. That must have been hard for you; I wonder how many hours you've spent plotting revenge against me. But don't tell me you really believed you could get me trapped. I'd be really disappointed if you did."

"I have proof, sheriff."

"You're bluffing, Gil." He leant back in his seat, "If you had any proof, then we wouldn't be having this cozy conversation in my dining room, would we? We'd be in an interrogation room. But let's say it's true; let's say you do have proof. Do you know any DA who's stupid enough to risk his career over this? And even if you do -even if you somehow convinced him to go to judge -" he paused and looked pointedly at Grissom, who nodded slowly.

"Even then, no judge would sign the warrant," Gil said reluctantly. "Most judges in town owe you a favor, after all."

"Well, I wouldn't say that most of them do," McKeen shrugged modestly. "But there's a fair number, yes."

"Yes," Gil nodded again. "Of course, we could luck out and find one who hates your guts," he said casually. "There are some, believe it or not."

McKeen paused as if he were considering Gil's statement, but it was only a theatrical gesture. He shook his head.

"It still wouldn't do, Gil. Even if you could convince a judge, how long do you think I'd be under arrest? I'm the Mayor's right hand; I've saved his ass more times than he'd care to admit. There's no way I'd spend more than a few hours in lock-up, if any."

"You're right," Gil said quietly. "You do have many influential friends in town –both in the gutter and out of it." There was a gleam in his eyes as he added, "On the other hand...Think about it. Once the word gets around that you're under scrutiny, how long is it going to be before one of them starts considering you a liability? At the very least, you'd have to leave town, sheriff."

"With a one-way ticket to Palm Beach," the Under Sheriff said triumphantly. "That doesn't sound too bad. Either way, I win."

Grissom nodded mechanically.

"I see," he said softly.

"Do you really, Grissom?" The sheriff leant forward again. "Do you see just how stupid you've been?" He shook his head in disappointment. "You know, there's something I've learned after years dealing with the best brains in law enforcement: smart people make dumb choices. You see it every time: smart broads pairing off with jerks, smart guys marrying stupid cows... Others fuck up their careers," and he waved at Gil in a silent, 'case in point' gesture. "You should have kept your mouth shut, Grissom."

Grissom nodded again. There was no use arguing; he should have kept his mouth shut. And now, it was too late. God, it was really too late. They'd failed, plain and simple. The DA didn't get the judge to sign a warrant, and Brass failed to appear.

Grissom had never felt so alone.

"So," he said quietly, "What happens now?"

"I think we both know what's going to happen now," the Under Sheriff said quietly.

Ominously.

Grissom smiled ironically.

"A bullet in the head, in a dark alley -"

Mckeen scoffed.

"Nothing as dramatic as that, Grissom. It's obvious to me that you're not fit to do your job anymore; there's really only one option here. You're fired."

Gil winced. He couldn't help it; no one had ever said those words to him before.

"I guess to you, a bullet in the head would me more merciful," the Under Sheriff noted, "You're nothing without this job."

"That's all right," Gil said. "I could never go back to the lab; not now that I know what I know," he added softly, almost to himself. "Everything that I believed in... everything I fought for..." He let the word trail off. He was lost in thought for a moment, and then he looked up. "I can't let you win, sheriff."

Mckeen shook his head in mock disapproval.

"Gil, Gil..." he said, "This is the kind of talk that got Warrick killed, you know. " He stared at Gil for a moment. "You know, I really liked you, Gil. Believe it or not, I really did. You were always a condescending motherfucker and a thorn on my side but for some reason I never held it against you."

Grissom winced; the sheriff was already talking about him in the past tense.

"After all," the sheriff continued, "I knew better, didn't I? I mean, you didn't have a clue all these years. You didn't know I was behind the scenes, letting you solve some crimes while carefully steering you away from others. I've got to admit, there were times when I almost wished I could say something, just to see the shock on your face. But I didn't want to mess up things. Believe me, Gil," he said, patting his pockets, "This isn't how I envisioned things to happen."

Grissom narrowed his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I need my phone," the sheriff said, patting his pockets and glancing around too. "I turned it off for the game and now I seem to have misplaced it."

Gil instinctively looked around too, but the minute he took his eyes off McKeen, he knew it was a mistake.

And then he heard it; a short popping sound, much like the sound of the bottle of champagne they'd opened earlier tonight; and then, he felt it: a sudden stab of pain on the back. He knew what it was; he could easily visualize the fiery hot metal tearing into muscle and bone, yet part of him didn't quite believe this was happening to him.

The impact forced him forward; he would have fallen if the sideboard hadn't been there. He frantically grabbed its edge; slowly, he turned.

McKeen was still pointing the gun at him.

"See?" he said, "That's what I meant when I said smart guys do the stupidest things. You can't just turn your back on your enemy, Grissom," he scolded.

Mckeen took a step closer and studied Gil's face for a moment. "You know…" he said slowly. "This is so much better. That night, I never got to see the look on Warrick's face. I didn't think any of it then, but later, it started to bother me; I started to wish I'd waited a little bit between the shots, so I could see the actual process of dying –not to mention the dumb look of surprise on his face. That would have been priceless."

He smiled in satisfaction. "But looking at you will be the next best thing, Grissom."

Grissom looked up in amazement. He'd met evil men before, but they'd always been strangers to him. This time, it was a coworker talking; someone he'd trusted at a time. Gil tried to speak but couldn't; he was breathless. He was in pain.

"I guess I'll regret this in the morning, though," the sheriff said, almost to himself. "A suicide would have been easier to arrange, especially with your recent behavior." He paused for a moment, and then he looked back at Gil. "Does it hurt?" he asked with genuine curiosity, "You're not bleeding too much, are you? These carpets aren't cheap, you know. Ah, shit, I should have thought about that before, but -"

Suddenly, Grissom lunged. It was a desperate move, completely unexpected, and it worked, at least momentarily; he grabbed the gun and managed to point the nuzzle away, but the sheriff reacted just as quickly, and refused to let go of it. They held on to the gun, each trying to overpower the other.

"What the fuck're you doing," the sheriff hissed. "You can't -"

"Shut the fuck up," Grissom gasped, and they crashed over the sideboard, sending bottles and gifts flying.

The fight was even; the sheriff was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but he hadn't practiced in a long time, and he'd relied on guns and other people's muscles for too long. He'd underestimated Grissom, too. That Grissom might go to a gym and be fit was something he'd never imagined.

Still, the sheriff was more annoyed than afraid. He taunted the CSI supervisor even as they fell on the floor.

"I'm gonna enjoy putting a bullet in your brain, Grissom," he gasped, "But first -" And he punched Grissom's damaged shoulder.

Grissom screamed. His shoulder was on fire, and now, the old, familiar pain in his gut returned with a vengeance.

"Ah, shit," he gasped.

And suddenly, he knew. This was the end. There was something inside him that was probably killing him; he'd ignored the signs all along, but now he knew…

He didn't fight the feeling; on the contrary, he embraced it. The certainty that things were coming to an end gave him a degree of peace he hadn't known in a long time. Even the pain didn't matter anymore; it was like a cleansing.

He was getting tired, though; so very tired, he didn't know how long he could keep his hold on the sheriff –

Noticing the hesitation, the sheriff quickly managed to wrestle his hand free. He quickly pointed the gun at Grissom, but Gil reacted quickly; despite the pain, he managed to close his hand over the sheriff's in an iron grip. Only, this time he pointed the nuzzle of the gun in the sheriff's direction till it touched his temple. With his fingers firmly wrapped around the sheriff's, all he had to do was apply a little pressure.

The sheriff's eyes widened.

"Click," Grissom whispered.

McKeen managed a chuckle. He thought Grissom was joking, but when Grissom didn't let go off the gun, he realized things were serious.

"You don't mean it."

"Don't I?" Grissom retorted. He was breathing harshly, now. It seemed his whole body was in pain. But he was still alive, he could still do things. Others weren't that lucky. "Why," he whispered. The sheriff had already explained, but he still couldn't understand why he'd killed Warrick. "He was still breathing when I found him," Gil whispered.

The memory of it hurt more than a bullet ever could.

Despite the multiple wounds, Warrick was still alive when Gil found him. He'd responded weakly to Grissom's slight pressure on his hand. He'd even tried to speak, too, but what little life he had was in his eyes. As blood poured from his mouth in weak spurts, Warrick's eyes had remained on Grissom.

"Why -" Words couldn't express what he was feeling, and out of frustration, he pressed the gun against the sheriff's temple again. But he couldn't make himself take the next step.

"Gil," the sheriff said, "You won't survive for long if you do this. Do yourself a favor and drop the gun now. Maybe we can work out a deal, here."

"No deal, sheriff."

"You'd never shoot a human being."

"You don't know me, sheriff. You don't know what I'm capable of."

"It's not in you, Grissom," the Under Sheriff said calmly. "You've upheld the law your whole life -above everything else. You've fought for it; you've even eschewed relationships for it."

Grissom vaguely noticed that the sheriff was glancing to his left as he spoke. He'd either seen or heard something, but Grissom couldn't hear anything, except the frantic beating of his own heart. He was losing strength; that was for sure. Soon, the sheriff would take the gun from him –

And suddenly, the doors burst open. Someone had entered the room.

"Help!" The sheriff yelled. "He's got a gun!"

Grissom frowned. He could hear it, now; steps, as if from a dozen people rushing into the room. Sudddenly, hands lifted him and carefully laid him on his side. Someone pried his fingers from the sheriff's.

The sheriff sprang on his feet.

"He tried to kill me! I want to press charges -"

"Shut up, sir," someone ordered.

"What?"

"What?" Gil muttered, echoing the sheriff. He tried to look, but someone had turned on all the lights, and he had to close his eyes for a moment.

The person who had removed him from the sheriff now opened his shirt and frantically examined his wound.

"Oh, you son of a bitch, what did you do?"

Grissom recognized Brass' voice. Funny, though; the words didn't seem directed to the sheriff, but to him.

"Where did he shot you?"

"Should-er," Gil whispered.

"Ah, shit." Brass groaned. "Jesus, Gil, why? Why? The damn DA took too long in getting us the subpoena," he said, supplying the answer himself. "I'm so sorry -"

Gil was trying to look behind him.

"Here, let me," Brass said, helping him sit up. "You deserve to see this."

Mckeen was looking incredulously at a sheet of paper that the DA had just handed him.

"What is this," he asked.

"We're putting you under arrest, sir."

"Arrest me? Me? What about Grissom? He threatened me with a gun!"

"You shot him first," Ecklie retorted from the opposite side of the room. He was holding the door open for the EMTs entering the room, and he waved them in Grissom's direction.

Brass stepped back so they could work on Gil.

"You're gonna be ok, buddy."

Grissom shook his head. It didn't matter any more, but Brass kept praising him.

"Thanks for keeping the sheriff away from the phone," he said at one point. "It turned out a clerk from the DA's office made about twelve calls to him tonight. She was trying to warn him about our little plan."

Gil glanced at the sheriff one last time before the EMTs put him in a stretcher.

"He put the gun to my temple!" Mckeen was saying, even as the cop read him his rights. "You'll find his fingertips all over it!"

Grissom smiled as he heard this. Yes, he'd touched the gun as he pointed it on the sheriff, but he'd never actually touched the trigger. The only fingerprints there were the sheriff's.

So, even if all else failed, threatening the life of a respected CSI supervisor seemed like a good reason to put the sheriff in behind bars.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't mind dying, now.

TBC