MAGIC BULLET - Ask First, Shoot Later
If a stranger offers you the chance to get away with murder...
would you take it?
For a long while, Grissom sat on one of the obligatory benches at the station platform to the New York - New York rollercoaster, considering the innocuous attache case carefully.
Graves had been slick, composed, and cool in the face of delivering his threats to the CSI, managing to pull a weapon and hold it trained on Grissom despite a rollercoaster ride that had often been described as "rough" at best and "bone-jarring-whiplash-central" at worst. It suggested the psychological profile of a man who had both seen and/or committed acts that required extreme concentration, focus, and skill in negotiations, intimidation, and firearms training. It suggested things that Grissom didn't care to think about but implied that, no matter what, Graves was a person who could handle both himself and his firearm in extremely bad situations. Graves's threat to his team could not have been clearer. If anyone found out about the case and its supposed contents, Grissom would be responsible for whatever repercussions the mysterious agent had hinted at. Grissom knew from what little he had seen of Graves that the stranger could be capable of delivering such repercussions without issue. After what had happened to Warrick, it was a risk that the entomologist was must assuredly not willing to take.
Compliance to the rules of engagement seemed Grissom's only option when it came to directly handling Graves. That, however, was a bit of a problem. Grissom had always been a maverick in his own sort of way, subtly bending the rules to fit his needs in any situation. He had to play this game carefully now that there was so much at stake, and Grissom knew it.
Grissom handled the case carefully as he slipped from the train and settled down on one of the benches to think, overly cautious to avoid touching any place on the attache where Graves may had left prints. A migraine slowly loomed upon the horizon, perhaps still lingering affects from the one that had struck the day before. Grissom distantly wondered if it really had been just yesterday. It somehow felt both raw and tight to think about Warrick, as though it were both an extremely old wound and an entirely new one at the same exact time.
Before the ride attendant could shoo him away, the man pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, no where near as fresh as crisp as the one Graves had handed over. The man felt a small stab of pity that the poor kid had been saddled with the strange events of this night even as he paid the attendant off to buy some peace and quiet where he sat. Grissom had seen the boy on several nights, and the two of them had a respectful distance from one another. Grissom paid the kid well to just let him ride again and again without having to get on and off the coaster or go through lines over and over. The kid couldn't have been older than 21 or 22 in Grissom's estimates, and, judging from the text books he occasionally saw lurking about the turnstiles during these late shifts, he was just a college student, one that could use the money. Both Grissom and Graves had abused this fact, putting the boy in serious jeopardy.
The CSI sat and contemplated the case for a time and the words Graves had chosen to use. The man had put him into a predicament, surely. Grissom could ill afford to take any risks or poorly handle this considering both Graves's over threats and the possibility that the stranger had been telling the truth. Granted, the entomologist didn't truly relish the thought that the undersheriff really was Gedda's mole, especially granted what that would imply for the validity of all the cases that had involved McKeen. However, that wasn't what truly bothered Grissom. The fact that McKeen had immediate access and trust to be around his team while armed bothered Grissom. If McKeen really had killed Warrick, he could kill any of them whenever he wanted to, and no one, with perhaps the exception of Grissom now that Graves had suggested this, would be expecting it.
Grissom rested his forehead in his hands and listed his options mentally.
Call it in.
Meaning precisely that. Call and report the entire event, which meant that Grissom would be able to examine the case and its purported contents with the support of the lab. He'd also be able to secure a warrant and retrieve surveillance footage from the New York - New York Hotel & Casino to identify Graves off. However, Grissom knew he couldn't risk Graves's stern threat. Besides, as there was a distinct conflict of interest in Gil regarding both Warrick's death and Graves, he would be forced to recuse himself from the case, either by his own morals or by Ecklie, and Grissom knew instinctively that he had to see this through to the end. No. None of that made the possibility a workable solution.
Call Brass.
Again. Not an option. Granted, Graves had not seemed particularly concerned with the detective when it came to listing potential victims, but Grissom and Brass had always had a sort of loose friendship between one another. Any fool could see that, and Graves was certainly no fool unless the entomologist missed his guess. Again, a risk Grissom could not willing take.
Open the case. See the evidence. Take the offer?
The first two seemed entirely possible solutions, yet Grissom couldn't. He would not chance tampering with the evidence if it was as irrefutable as Graves said it was. Grissom needed to handle it carefully.
As per taking Graves up on the offer to get away with murder, that was right out of the question. Grissom knew himself better than that. Not matter how irrefutable the evidence, no matter how terrible McKeen seemed painted in that awful light. no matter how much Grissom might have wanted it, Gilbert Grissom was no murderer. he only carried a service weapon occasionally and out of necessity alone. Rarely had he ever pulled it, and Grissom could not accurately recall ever firing it except at the range. While Grissom had always fancied himself a stoic and almost emotionless man, murder required an embittered passion or a cold detachment, neither of which was in Gil, not by a long shot.
Run the evidence yourself.
Ah, now there was a potentially workable solution. However, there remained one small caveat. Grissom might, at that moment, be holding a highly illegal and unregistered firearm. Graves hadn't been too forth coming with his identity, so Grissom highly doubted the serial number would be intact. If he were to be caught strolling about the Lab with it, there was no question that it would be none other than Gilbert Grissom who would be put behind bars and not the killer.
Even worse, if Grissom worked the case at the Lab, it rose the very distinct concern of potentially tipping off whoever the mole was, whether actually McKeen or someone else. They could bolt and run or simply tamper with the evidence to make it inadmissible in court; the killer would get off scot free in that case without enough evidence to build a strong case. And, if any of the other CSIs got wrapped up in the case or caught on to it... again, Grissom couldn't possibly risk getting them involved between the lingering threats of both Graves and the mole.
Run the evidence yourself - at home.
Now there, that was a plan. Gil raised his head up and smiled slightly to himself, still feeling a bit unnerved and rattled by the sudden appearance and disappearance of Graves but reassured. That was a workable plan. Gil could survey the evidence at home. After all, when the man really got down to thinking abut it, no matter how irrefutable the evidence may have been, there was no controlled chain of custody. Anything Graves had handed him in relation to the Brown case had already been rendered inadmissible against the undersheriff. Yet Grissom could use the case and any evidence that Graves had left, work that without putting the Lab or his team in jeopardy. Perfect.
"No," Grissom corrected himself. "Not perfect"
"Maybe not perfect, but workable."
Grissom took the attache case in his hands, holding it from the edges and avoiding any contact with either the handle of the latches upon it. Hopefully, he could lift some prints from the case. Only then could he truly stand any chance at perhaps catching both his mystery man Graves and the mole.
He left, ready to work, but there was one stop he had to make. Grissom had left his kit and his vehicle at the Crime Lab after being so unceremoniously thrown out of the morgue. He would need to retrieve both before doing anything about the attache and its purported contents. Grissom made it back to the Lab and locked the attache in the trunk of his car, feeling only mild relief that he had made it to his work without incident before recalling that was the easy part. The hard part would be getting his kit out without notice and suspicion.
Everything had been going according to plan. Very few members of the night shift were in the Lab at the time, leaving the entomologist free to slip in and out of his office with the much needed supplies. The one thing he had not been expecting, however, in Grissom's grand plans to smuggle his own kit out of the lab, was running into the undersheriff himself. Worse, in fact, Grissom almost barreled right into McKeen as he rounded a corner.
"Grissom," McKeen greeted as he regrouped from having nearly been knocked to the ground. He smoothed his jacket before truly addressing the CSI. "Ecklie said he dismissed you for the shift."
Grissom gave pause to consider his reply cautiously before conceding that, at that moment, the truth was likely the best and only option he had at the time. "He did."
The undersheriff swallowed. "How are you doing?"
The question was not what caught Grissom off guard. In fact, the entomologist had been expecting it from everyone he ran into, if anyone. McKeen hadn't needed to elaborate. When Holly Gribbs died, no one had taken it well, really, save to plunge headfirst into as much of investigation as possible to find her killer. Any fool would know what McKeen had meant by the simple statement.
Instead, it was the tone of voice with which McKeen had asked it. Soft, and almost solemn. Grissom carefully studied McKeen's face, searching the subtle details and nuances of the undersheriff's features. The entomologist had been doing that so often during interviews to assess any potential clues dropped by suspects that it had become a subconscious part of his nature purely when speaking with people on even mundane matters. This time, it had been anything but subconscious, as Grissom desperately scanned McKeen's face for any hint of misdirection or fabrication.
There was none to be found there, and Grissom's heart sank slightly. In his sharp, driving and almost agonizing need to find Warrick's killer, he had played right into whatever trap Graves had been setting for him. Why would McKeen be so keen on persecuting the mob when he was really a mole for Gedda? Really? Grissom had known McKeen for a time now, and, while he couldn't say the undersheriff was an entirely honest man, he had never seemed the criminal type. It made little sense, save that the mysterious and calculating Graves had set Grissom up, perhaps either for revenge, like the time Nick had been kidnapped and buried alive, or perhaps by Gedda himself into bringing an explosive into the lab. Grissom could have kicked himself for even thinking about taking the case inside, but felt utterly thankful that he had locked the attache in his car.
"Grissom?"
He hadn't realized he'd drifted away mentally until McKeen called his name again; Grissom coughed, clearing his throat. "Sorry. I was just thinking."
"I could see that," the undersheriff replied, folding his arms across his chest.
Grissom shrugged. "It has been a long few days."
McKeen sighed heavily. "Perhaps you should take some time off."
"No, I can't." Grissom glanced down, feeling uncomfortable in his own lab for the first time ever, knowing the man could have him put on an involuntary leave of absence, clawing for any excuse. "I need to work, keep my mind off of things."
McKeen smiled strangely. "Warrick?"
Grissom avoided the undersheriff's gaze, leaving that to be his only answer.
"This must be hard on you, Grissom." The undersheriff glanced down. "He was a good investigator. He will be missed."
There was a sincerity there that Grissom hadn't expected, a sort of soft grieving as though it was as much as the undersheriff could allow himself, granted both his hard-ass nature and his position of authority. The CSI never really took to much of the authoritative figures that lurked about the lab, always poking their heads in at just the wrong moment or making life utterly miserable with protocol. Yet, for a moment, Grissom saw what could have been endearment from the undersheriff, more so than he'd even seen from Ecklie, and he had worked with Ecklie for years.
McKeen ran his fingers through his hair as though nervous and pained, perhaps much more upset by Warrick's death than he had initially seemed to be. "But I promise you, we're going to do everything in our power to bring his killer to justice."
Grissom cocked an eyebrow. Were he not already studying McKeen so intently out of instinct and trained habit, he might not have noticed it. In fact, most experienced CSIs and detectives might have missed it themselves. It was only the subtlest of gestures, a small flick of McKeen's gaze down and to the left. When accessing memory, people tended to look to the right. When fabricating or creating, such as for deception and misdirection, they looked to the left, as McKeen just had in his own, tiny motion. It was a barely perceptible thing, possibly just an eye twitch, but it was enough to put the smallest tremor of doubt into Gil Grissom. Something about his story...
Grissom didn't have a chance to think of it further as McKeen inquired knowingly, almost suspiciously, "So, what's with the kit?"
"Ah,'' Grissom glanced down and forced a faux, sheepish shrug. "Brushing up on my technique."
McKeen nodded thoughtfully. "Anything in particular?"
Grissom shook his head, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. "Just... keeping sharp."
And, as though on cue for saving him like always, Catherine Willows rounded the nearest corner. Grissom could breath a mental sigh of relief at the sight of her. The woman had an uncanny knack of knowing when he was drowning when it came to authority figures that outranked him about the Lab, often bailing him out. If he weren't such a scientific man, Grissom might have been tempted to call it a "sixth sense" of hers. Whatever it was, there was no denying that Catherine had saved him hundreds of times over the years.
"Ah, Catherine, just the woman I wanted to see."
He must have caught her off guard, because Catherine started visibly before greeting him flatly and in obvious confusion, "Gil." She eyed his case. "Though you had the rest of the shift off?"
Grissom nodded slowly. "Yes. But you and I need to catch up on some cases."
Catherine's gaze drifted to McKeen for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah." She furrowed her brow. "How about my office?" She shot him a knowing look of concern. "Actually, I have something to discuss with you... in private."
"Works for me." He smiled congenially at McKeen. "Until tomorrow, then."
McKeen gave a small, polite bob of his head and allowed the two CSIs to pass by. As they walked side by side, Catherine turned to Grissom, her eyes filled with curiosity and worry. The entomologist glanced over his shoulder and noted that, while McKeen did not seem all that interested in either CSI, the undersheriff seemed to be lingering in the middle of the hallway oddly. Grissom looked to Catherine, frowned, and merely gave his head a subtle shake to silence any questions and send a clear message. Not yet. Grissom kept his stride even and his face impassive as they walked though.
When they did finally reach her office, Catherine shut the door behind him before asking, "Now, what was that all about?"
Grissom looked down to his case, feeling the weight of his kit not all that different from the weight of a certain attache case. He couldn't tell Catherine. No matter how much she deserved to know, Grissom couldn't tell her until he was certain there wasn't any danger from both Graves and McKeen.
He sighed. "McKeen wanted to... talk."
"Emotions never were your strong suit, were they, Gil?" Catherine accused in a friendly, teasing voice, folding her arms across her chest.
Grissom smirked slightly, giving a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "It has been a frequent accusation."
"You have got to stop using me as an easy out. It's getting old, Gil. Real old."
He nodded, pursing his lips together. "Sorry, Catherine." The images of Graves bearing the ominous case, McKeen smiling too broadly for someone mourning, and Warrick bleeding out far too swiftly jumbled together in Grissom's mind for a moment; he forced it back to continue, "I don't particularly care for sharing personal things with people I know little to nothing about."
"Ah," Catherine breathed, a disappointment lingering on the word.
Grissom furrowed his brow at her. "What?"
The woman sighed, shaking her head and poking at some imaginary pebble at the floor. "Well, it's just... Warrick's family called. They were looking for someone to say something at the services." She paused, prodding a bit more violently at the nonexistent but nevertheless offending pebble. "They wanted you."
"Me?" In a movie, it might have come out as a blurted question, but, in Grissom's case, it sounded soft and hesitant, as though afraid.
Catherine sighed. "If you don't want to do it, I'll call hi-"
Grissom shook his head. "No. I'll do it."
XXXX
Author's Notes: By the by, Kalson, I'm very flattered by your review. Lex Talionis is one of my FAVORITE fics! I promise, more action shortly.