Deadening the Pain
"One of the most frustrating factors in dealing with alcoholism, as a relative, friend or professional, is it is almost always accompanied by a phenomenon known as "denial." If someone tries to discuss his drinking with him, he simply refuses to talk about it, or dismisses it as not a real problem. After all, he's a big boy now and he can drink if he wants to, it's nobody else's business."
Quoted from an article written by Dr. Steven Gans, board certified in psychiatry and forensic psychiatry. Dr. Gans is an instructor in psychiatry at Harvard Medical School, and is also in private practice.
A/N; Thank you Cheryl for the beta. I may not know English, but I can help you with math anytime.
ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
The message indicator light glowed red and my heart skipped a beat. Without conscious thought, I depress the speaker and voicemail buttons in series.
The mechanical voice begins to give me instructions, instructions I've heard a million times before.
"Please enter your…" Without waiting for the end of the sentence, I enter my personal series of numbers.
"You have two new messages, to listen to…," beep. "To play your…," beep.
"Gil," Brass' voice sounds tinny coming from the machine's speaker. "Jim. Call me when you get this message."
There is a momentary silence, then the mechanical voice again. "To delete this mess…," beep. "Message deleted. Next new message."
"Hi, it's me." My eyes slammed shut as Sara's voice reached out to me from across the miles. "I tried to call you last night, no answer. I'll try again after work."
Another silence and then, "To delete this message, press 3. To save this message press 7…," beep. "Message saved."
My knees buckle slightly when I realize I missed her call. "Dammit," I mutter, "I have to get home earlier tonight." Still berating myself, I begin to unpack my laptop and hook up all the relative wiring. Logging on to the system, I download and print the assignments for the night. There are two B and E's and another case of grave robbing. That means the one from three days ago is no longer an isolated incident. Walking to the break room to hand out assignments, I look at my watch.
"Ok, we have a B&E in North Summerlin. Catherine, Greg, Happy New Year. Nick, you and Warrick cover the other B&E on Suburban Road. I'll take the grave robbing at Woodlawn."
Warrick extends his hand to accept the assignment, "Yeah…figures…bugs," he says, rolling his eyes as he smirks.
As the team moves in different directions, Grissom's cell phone rings. Brass shows on the Caller I.D. Flipping the phone open, I snap, "Grissom."
"Gil, I'm at the Woodlawn Cemetery. Same MO as the previous one, but it looks like they were interrupted."
"On my way, Jim." I close the phone with a snap. I realize this night is going to busy and I can't hold back my sigh.
Arriving at the cemetery, Brass meets me with a nod. While recapping his initial walk through Brass offers, "Three sets of footprints found entering and exiting the grave site. The perps entered from East Owens and left in a hurry towards Foremaster. The victim is Janice Tarpin. Twenty-two years old, killed in a motorcycle accident. Buried a week ago."
I stare off toward the passing traffic on Foremaster Lane, letting my mind play over his words.
"Look, Gil, you didn't return my call. We need to talk," Brass murmurs lowly.
"Later Jim," I say, turning my attention back to the detective. "There's a lot to process and I'm down one CSI you know."
"Yeah, yeah, you don't have to tell me. It's the way you're handling it that bothers me. It's self destructive, been there, done that," Jim replies.
I place my kit on the ground and bend to open it. "I'm fine, Jim. Now let me get to work."
Night turns into day and day into night. I process everything necessary to start a serial case file. During that entire time my cell only rings twice. One call is from Catherine. The other is from Ecklie wanting to know if I need help. I don't bother to return either call but I can't stop thinking that I don't need help, I need Sara."
Driving home from dropping off the evidence, I check the volume on my phone. Then I check to see how much battery is left. The meter shows full.
I pull into the garage and the door closes behind me with a groan of grinding gears and rotating chain. My mind and body tell me I need to rest and I nod as I reach for the liquid narcotic wrapped in brown paper. "Rest," I murmur, "rest."