Twisted

Chapter Two

"Welcome to Paradise."

That was the last thing intelligible that I had heard before I slipped into a pleasant state of numbness. It usually ebbed away after a while, but it was associated in my mind with the crime scenes. Every time I was at work – serious work, like this – either searching crime scenes, attending autopsies, or anything of the sort, my mind took it upon itself to make me feelingless, emotionless toward my surroundings. I couldn't hear much for a few seconds, as if my mind had secured me in a prison – soundless and dull.

I took it that I had been standing there, still, as it had happened, because I noticed Greg staring back at me, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. "Are you afraid to come, or something?" He asked me, and I think he was smiling.

"No." I said flatly, becoming conscious of my surroundings. "I'm not afraid of anything in there."

"If you say so…" He didn't seem too convinced, but seemed content on ignoring me as we filed into the house. It was an interesting house, and it belonged to somebody who definitely had quite a bit of money that they were perched pleasantly – until today, I assume – upon. The front room was decorated in a modern style, white carpet, a flat, square-shaped couch which was white as well, there was even a rug on the floor – wool or fur, of some sort – that was white. The staircase was glass, and clear, which seemed to complement the room, or at least I thought so.

Though there was nothing unusual here, lest you had an issue with white.

I saw Grissom standing near Sara, in a doorway that was to the back right of the room. You see, when you walked in, you were surrounded by white tile. To the left of the tile was the stairs, the far left wall had a wooden door – white, or oak – and there was two doors on the right wall. One close to the door, one far from it. And directly across from the front door were two glass doors, surrounded by two glass windows. One of the patio doors, however, was broken.

"Point of entry?" I suggested to no one in particular, making myself useful as I flashed two pictures of the glass before carefully picking up a shard and examining it. They were small pieces, very tiny in fact, suggesting the door was broken by a something small, moving at a very quick speed. A pipe, bat, or anything blunt and long would probably have been used. I looked up at Grissom and Sara, wondering what they were looking at.

It turned out that the doorway on the far right wall was the kitchen, the one across from it was a den – or formally used as a gambling room, and the one on the closer right wall was actually a dining room. Just to give you a little description here. Sara made herself useful in the kitchen, examining things near the point of entry, and possible departure as well. Grissom took the den and dining room, and I was upstairs. I had utterly no clue where the heck Greg was, but I honestly didn't care, either.

So I trudged upstairs, staring as the white walls – to match the entry room – were soaked in splotches of blood. "Hey guys," I called downstairs, poking my head out from the floor space; which I'm sure looked very odd. "We've got blood up here. And a lot of it."

I guess Greg was going to take the kitchen, because Sara came upstairs with me. So together, we took photos of the blood, samples of the blood, and examined it very carefully before moving down the hall, where we discovered the coroner leaving. "Liver temp. was low, suggesting death was two days ago, earlier – like maybe around two or three in the morning."

Two days, that long to be away? Interesting… I thought to myself, not really caring too much about what the person who found the body's motives for leaving the house where, but yeah. I had no room to suggest, I didn't even know who found the body.

"Who found the body?" I asked Sara, after the coroner left. I was so creative with wording.

"The owner of the house," She said, snapping pictures of the body. "He was away on business, came home, and found his wife dead."

"Pity." I mumbled nonchalantly as I pulled open a door to what appeared to be a master bedroom. It was tidily kept, decorated in warm, Starbucks-esque colors. The carpet was a cream soda color, while the walls were divided in half by a sort of paneling, the lower half was a brown, earthy color, whilst the top was a nice, warm red. The bedding matched the lower paneling, the underside of it being cream. It was pretty neat, too, folded back just precisely – indicating the fact that there had been no use.

"Do we have a story on the vic.?" I asked Sara, photographing the bedspread.

"She was home the whole time, though four days ago, she was with friends. Other than that…"

"Any reason to leave a bed nicely made?" I asked, moving to the nightstand and examining the contents on and around it. "It seems suspicious, considering you don't make your bed at three in the morning."

She remained silent to my comments, so I accepted the fact that maybe she didn't hear me, or perhaps she was busy with something else. Instead, I found some sleeping pills on the nightstand and photographed them, not really having a need to pick them up. They were standard, anyways. And she hadn't died of an overdose, or at least not immediately, considering the blood and the stab wounds. I moved on, taking note of the dresser, the cabinets, the carpet, the pillows – moving back to the bed, of course – and I double checked everything, just to be sure.

Eventually I moved to the room north of the master bed, which was the master bathroom. It was glassy, the tile was nice though. It was white and black-checkered, the shower was glass, though tinted, so in essence anybody with the light on couldn't see something in it. Hiding spot? I thought numbly to myself, opening the door carefully. There was dirt in it, a lot of it too. Caking mud, and very untidy. Though I looked around the bathroom, examining the floor. "No mud, dirt or anything…" I mumbled, walking back into the bedroom.

I tramped back into the hall, downstairs, and to the door, carefully examining it. Grissom took note of my examining…ness, and walked up behind me, waiting for me to explain my quest for dirt, or something. "There's dirt in the tinted shower, but from here, on the white carpet, to the bedroom, there is no track, no trace, or anything of dirt, mud, or outside belongings." I stated, peeking my head out back. Though as I looked, there was not a single flower bed, grass spot, or place where dirt would plausibly be.

"They didn't come in from here." I said, finally.

"Then where did they come from?" I heard him ask me, and I thought about this for a minute. "There was a bathroom window, and there was a large one in the master bedroom, but I didn't find anything dirty on the carpet or tile there."

"Which is easier to clean, then; the tile, or the carpet? And which room is it in?" I listened to him, pondering this. The carpet in the bedroom was cream, which is easier to clean than white, yes, but it is still pretty difficult.

"The bathroom's tile." I said after a while, understanding his question. "Their point of entry?"

"Precisely."

I nodded as I abandoned the downstairs part of the house, trudging back up the glass staircase and into the master bedroom. Sara was there, examining the shower door that I had left open. "The suspect was probably in there," I had a very hard time stopping myself from saying 'he,' you see I'm very prejudice, and I seem to always think murders are done by males. Don't ask, it's my brain's fault. "So the window was his most plausible point of entry. He could have masked his footsteps." I explained, though Sara remained quiet, so I felt like I was rather talking to a wall instead of a person.

Either way, I made my way to the window frame and examined it. On the outside it hadn't looked so special, just a brick window frame, but from the bathroom, it was lined in expensive looking marble. Fumbling for the briefcase I had left in here, I found my powder and duster, dipping it carefully in the substance and starting the daunting task of fingerprinting.

A few hours passed, and I wiped my forehead with my sleeve, having easily forgotten the work involved in my field. Moving does that to you, it eliminates everything you knew down to a pin at your previous location. Grocery lists that you had memorized and used every time you went to the store somehow went 'poof' in an air of mockery, and just left your mind. You quickly forgot roads, plans, things that proved useless in your new life. Focusing on the new destination was much more important than little things. And in that haste, I had forgotten the work it took to investigate.

Not all of it was fatigue, however. Physical wear wasn't very evident to me, at least not now. It was more of my mindset, I felt tired. You see, you have to think; and you have to think a lot. People seem to underestimate our job greatly, which at times makes me angry at them, people seem to get ungrateful at times. But truth be told, it is actually very tiring on your brain. It makes sleep pretty easy, or at least it did for me.

After those hours had passed, I had taken a picture of a partial footprint I had found in the shower, lifted fingerprints, examined bedclothes and bedrooms for guests, taken care of studies, examined books, printed books, and done other tasks that involved things very much related to the previous topics.

I yawned as I gazed out the window I was nearest to, which happened to be the kitchen one. It was facing east, so of course outside was needless to say, very dark. Although the lights from the city took that all away, and so it was nearly mock-daylight. I sighed, carefully avoiding the instinct to lean against the counter, not wanting to screw anything up. It's amazing how careful you have to be in places like these. Though things were packing up, the body had been moved out an hour or so ago, and was being processed; meaning we were due back at the lab. Grissom and Sara were going to attend the autopsy, though I was quite positive I wanted to watch them – to get the hang of things here, in Vegas. It's not much different from San Jose, but heck, they might have different styles here. So who knew?

I got into Sara's car after Grissom and Greg had left, rubbing my eyes. They became fuzzy from the touch, which I had expected, but I didn't have too much of a problem with it. Instead I focused blurrily on the road ahead of us as Sara ignited the engine and drove off. We made it back to the lab pretty quickly, and I made sure to follow them into the autopsy room, with permission and only after suiting up, of course.

It was going to be a very long night.

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A/N: Okay, I had, what 300-some-odd hits, and only two reviews. Come on, people, it's not that hard to press a single button, give a comment or some constructive (flames are stupid, seeing as there is nothing productive in them whatsoever) critism, and press another little button. So go ahead, and look at the pleasant little "Go" button...

Thank you to PinkTank and BonnieAW for actually reviewing.