Author's Note: Before you read this chapter I just want to say for the record, I really do adore Jim Brass. I think he's a good man and a great cop. It's just that watching he and Heather have one of their dust ups always makes me giggle. They're cute… in a perverse sort of way. If he ever decided to give her break, or she him, for that matter; I think they might actually be friends. But that's just my take on it.


The Road to Africa

Chapter two

Cool metal and automotive glass at her back make her aware of her slouched posture and her knees which, rather annoyingly, seem to be quivering slightly. Choosing to lean casually, rather than slouch, Amelia straightens up a bit; not feeling quite so deflated by the present circumstances as she did only moments ago.

She can feel a kind of quiet strength emanating from the striking woman before her, and although it doesn't completely take away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, it helps her considerably. She draws comfort from it almost as if Heather is voluntarily sharing it with her.

So she leans casually against the rear bumper of Heather's Mercedes M class; her slender arms folded over her chest in an attempt to ward off the chill that seems to be invading her core. She notices Heather watching her closely and she feels a small flicker of panic rise when the brunette steps away momentarily without comment.

Amelia peers around the side of the vehicle when she hears a car door open and a second later Heather returns and quietly drapes her own leather jacket around the girl's shoulders.

Amelia smiles and gratefully tucks her arms inside the jacket. "Thanks; you sure you don't want it? I thought it was just me, but I guess it's cold out here."

Heather shakes her head. "I'm fine. You have goose bumps on your arms."

Surprised, Amelia extracts an arm from inside the jacket and glances down at it confirming what has just been said before snuggling more deeply into the heavy garment with its warm inner lining "I didn't even notice." She chuckles self-consciously.

They are face to face and Amelia becomes aware that Heather's position in front of her is at least partially blocking her view of the car across the lot and it's deceased occupant. She doubts this is unintentional. She doubts this woman does anything by accident. Ordinarily, a virtual stranger playing mother-hen would irritate Amelia. Ordinarily, she doesn't need to be looked after. She's fairly self- sufficient, she knows, when compared to her peers, but tonight she's grateful for the shoulder Heather somehow effortlessly manages to offer without smothering her.

Amelia does not feel the need to maintain eye contact. Instead; she looks over Heather's shoulder, watching quietly as campus security and the first wave of responding police string yellow tape around a generous section of UNLV's main parking lot.

One thirty-something campus security rent-a-cop in particular has the lion's share of the girl's attention. She watches him gaze uneasily at what's inside the dark blue Camry despite her partially obstructed view. She watches his pallor go a sickly jaundice yellow and notices the overactive muscles in his neck; no doubt working against a rising tide of bile.

For Heather's ears only she whispers, "He's gonna hurl."

Heather barely glances over her shoulder. She doesn't need more than the briefest of glances to know that Amelia is right. "Let's just hope he doesn't do it that close to the car."

Mere seconds pass and the unseasoned security officer clumsily lurches only a few steps away from the vehicle in question before regurgitating his last meal.

Heather doesn't bother glancing over her shoulder a second time. She doesn't need to. Instead she sighs, "The boys and girls from swing shift are not going to be happy." She whispers; more to herself than to Amelia.

Amelia raises a curious eyebrow, but before she can ask for more information a police cruiser pulls to a stop a few yards away from them. A middle aged cop, broad in the shoulders and belly with close cropped hair opens the driver's door and exits the vehicle. With an enthusiastic, if less than friendly, tone in his voice, he reminds Amelia of a surly bulldog – squat and beefy in build; noisy, with a cantankerous and occasionally unpleasant temperament – when he says, "Well, well, well Lady Heather." He rubs his palms together as he approaches and Amelia glances at Heather with an unspoken question in her eyes.

Heather responds as if she's bored as she turns her gaze to the man. She matches his eager yet less than friendly greeting with an icy one of her own. "Captain Brass."

Another vehicle arrives and when the driver steps out, Amelia could swear she sees the faintest flicker of surprise in her classmate's green eyes. Surprise… and something else… Something… visceral, but the flicker is gone; extinguished and promptly hidden away before she has time to fully identify it, much less question it.

The one called Brass continues; undeterred by Heather's lack of warmth. "Anybody ever tell you you're like a bad penny? You just keep turning up. What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Still bored, Heather returns fire. "Anyone ever tell you that you're shortsighted, narrow minded, easily lead, and generally disagreeable?"

Brass splays a big hand across his chest; his voice dripping sarcasm as he says, "I'm wounded."

"I'm sure."

Amelia guesses that they are old rivals. This little sparring match seems to be comfortable in its familiarity, even if unpleasant, for the both of them.

The newcomer with the handsome face is probably 50-something and he's bearded. As if this little exchange is nothing new to him either, he grimaces but his tired blue eyes twinkle with something that can't quite be called mirth as he interrupts their tete-a-tete.

"Play nice kids." He says drolly upon approach. "Don't make me send you to your rooms."

Amelia watches the corners of Heather's mouth turn upward in the slightest of smiles and without any fear of recrimination, she announces as she steps nearer to him, "I'll go happily." When they stand shoulder to shoulder she drops her voice to a whisper and flirtatiously adds, "Care to join me?"

Although Heather's quiet question could have only partially registered with his ears, Amelia watches Brass roll his eyes and scowl in response to what he thinks she might have said as well as in response to, the pair's body language. Amelia fears that the cop may be sick himself at any moment. She also notices that the other man gives Heather a somewhat stern look, but there isn't the slightest hint of objection to her question in his voice when he responds with a simple, friendly, "Hello Heather."

With a satisfied smile; she replies in turn. "Hello Gil."

Brass gestures to the scene around them, uncomfortable with his awareness of the almost palpable attraction that hums between the two friends. He decides it's time to redirect their attention; get down to business. "Who found the victim?"

Heather gestures toward the young girl as she answers. "Amelia did initially. I was here in parking lot and I was concerned about her so I walked over. Shortly after, I placed the call that brought you out."

Brass raises an eyebrow. "And what brings you out?"

"Amelia and I are classmates. Tonight's last classes let out a short time before I phoned."

"You're taking classes? Oh right." Tongue in cheek, Brass makes the tsking sound. "Grissom mentioned something about you getting a Master's degree last year. No more Dominion. Sex therapy?"

"Yes, that was last year. I'm working toward my doctorate now."

"Really? From Lady Heather to Dr. Heather?"

Amelia notices that while the cop sneers, the other man receives this news with something akin to quiet approval, and he doesn't laugh, but she senses that he might want to when Heather answers calmly. "Yes, drop by sometime. I'll schedule you an appointment."

No longer interested in the insults, and before Brass can say something predictably snarky, Heather returns her attention to her classmate and the cop's more agreeable companion.

"Amelia this is Dr. Gil Grissom, night shift supervisor at the crime lab. Gil, what are you doing here? It's not midnight yet. I was expecting someone I wouldn't recognize; someone from swing shift."

"Swing shift is short staffed. I'm pitching in."

He doesn't have to voice his discontent over the fact for Heather to be aware of it. His tired eyes and the subtle deepening of the lines around them speak volumes to her, and she worries about him as he extends his hand to the young woman with her.

She shakes the hand he offers. "Amelia Rose."

The strength of her grip catches him slightly by surprise as he makes a cursory inspection. She's tall and lean with well-defined musculature. She'd be a good two inches taller than Heather if it weren't for the heels. She's an athlete; a runner maybe. He tips his head to one side and inquires politely, "Rose, like the flower?"

"By any other name I'd smell just as sweet." She tries to smile kindly; as though she's used to, and weary of, this old joke where her surname is concerned.

"And you found the victim?"

"It's more precise to say I saw him, as opposed to found him; but yes." She glances at the Camry uncomfortably. "Heather was right here. Thank goodness. I didn't have to touch him. She wouldn't let me… did it for me… so I wouldn't have to."

Grissom turns his gaze back to Heather. "You touched him?"

She nods. "Briefly, and only to confirm that he did not have a pulse. I knew he was dead before I opened the car door, but confirmation was best. If I had been wrong about his condition, I would've called for a medic ahead of you. I hoped I was wrong. I hoped he was only circling the drain, not down it." She sighs regretfully. "Grissom, I was very careful, but I'm afraid, not careful enough."

Grissom raises an eyebrow.

"I did not see the murder weapon at first. I'm afraid I came into contact with it while checking for a pulse. I may have left a print, or contaminated the scene in some other way. I apologize if I've made things difficult for you. I only wanted to be absolutely certain there was nothing that could be done for him."

Grissom frowns but nods and decides to withhold comment until he has a better understanding of things.

Brass is quick to duck under the crime scene tape to go and have a better look. He approaches the vehicle from the right; the way a passenger would, leans over and peers in.

"You wanna tell me how you didn't see this honkin' big screwdriver sticking out of the side of his neck?"

Confused by the question at first, Heather turns and gazes at where Brass is in relation to the car. With mild annoyance in her voice she answers, "My approach was from the left… driver's side door… The one that's already open."

"Was it open when you found him?"

"No. I opened it myself. It was unlocked. I barely touched it. Used a handkerchief. Didn't touch anything I didn't have to… except for my unintentional contact with the screwdriver."

"Are you certain of that Heather?" Grissom asks patiently.

She nods. "I am."

Rising to his full height beside the car Brass says, "Looks like the weapon punctured the carotid. Should be more blood… Unless the tool acted like a plug. Putting its own pressure on the wound it created, but I'm still not certain how you missed this Lady Heather. The screwdriver is located towards the back of the neck, positioned at a back to front angle."

Heather nods her head with exasperation. "Yes, as if whoever stabbed him was sitting in the back seat; reaching forward."

"Oh really? Funny how you know that."

Heather sighs. "I know that because I'm neither ignorant, nor blind."

Brass smirks. "You sure about that? The way this thing is positioned, it should've been plainly visible even from the driver's side door."

For the first time since stepping away from the car, nearly half an hour ago, Heather deliberately looks at the body of the young man in the driver's seat. She frowns, squints, and moves closer until she feels the light pressure of Grissom's hand on her arm. Without being told, she knows he's trying to preserve whatever integrity is left in the crime scene.

"Sorry, I'll stay here… But that's not right. He wasn't like that. I haven't looked at him since coming back over here. Somebody's moved him."

Brass grunts. "Somebody moved him… or you moved him?"

Heather shakes her head adamantly and speaks her next words concisely, as if speaking more clearly, more slowly, will somehow make it easier for Brass to understand.

"I did not move him. I barely touched him, and I tried to do even that with extreme care. When Amelia and I found him, he was slouched down in the seat, like he was sleeping off a bender, with his head against the headrest. He was not leaning forward with his face against the steering wheel. His back was not plainly visible. I didn't see the screwdriver… not until I went looking for it, after I checked for a pulse and brushed up against it. I was crouched on my heels beside the driver's door and I had to lean in further to see the screwdriver."

Amelia nods. "I was here. She didn't move him. She tried really hard not to disturb anything. She hardly touched him at all Mr. Brass… I'm sorry… I meant no disrespect, Captain. I wanted to close the door for him. You know, so people wouldn't be walking by gawking at him. Heather said no. She said it was better not to change things any more than we already had. She told me to back up, stand away from the car. Then she brought me over here after she checked on him…. I did tap on the window… earlier, when I thought he might just be asleep or passed out. I didn't see the screwdriver in his neck. That would've freaked me out. I didn't even know there was a screwdriver… until you guys got here. She didn't tell me about it." Amelia frowns, her brow furrowing deeply, and hugs herself as if she's cold or nauseous.

Heather places a comforting arm around the girl's shoulders.

Grissom recalls that Amelia did look a little less anxious before the mention of the screwdriver. She's having a hard time with this, but she's holding herself together fairly well. He raises his voice to a notch above its normal level. "Okay, which one of you guys moved the body?"

A young campus security officer, who looks barely old enough to of graduated college himself, tentatively raises his hand. "Sorry Sir. I only wanted to make certain he was really gone."

"Didn't Ms. Kessler tell you that?"

"Yes Sir, she did. I just wanted to double check. It's my fault. I moved him. Not her."

Before stepping away, Grissom turns his gaze to Heather. "You'll stay here?"

She nods her agreement, and he trots away to go and have his own look at things.

Once kneeling in a similar position to the one Heather had taken, he eases the body back into an approximation of its original position. He's quiet for several seconds, making lightning fast mental notes about the car's interior, before he asks, "Was his seatbelt on or off?"

"Uncomfortably, the campus security guard admits, "Gosh, I don't know."

Grissom glances back over his shoulder and resists the urge to glare at the young man. "Well, do you remember unbuckling his seatbelt when you checked on him?"

The guy shrugs; obviously embarrassed. Hesitantly, he admits, "I don't know whether I did or not."

Heather is already shaking her head when Grissom turns his attention to her once more. "The buckle of his seat belt was pulled halfway across his body, resting between his thumb and forefinger as if he'd been in the process of buckling up when whatever happened… happened. Based on what I saw, I think it's plausible that he didn't know he wasn't alone in the vehicle. I think somebody caught him by surprise. He had enough time to get in, to close the door, and put the key in the ignition. He was buckling up before starting the engine."

Brass snags a rubber glove from Grissom's hand and holds it between his fingers as he tests the back door on the driver's side. He smirks when the handle lifts. "It's unlocked… And, okay yeah, hers is a possible theory; but it could've happened just as easily the other way around. She could have it backwards. Maybe he drove up in the parking lot, and somebody got in before he could get out.

Heather smiles; knowing instinctually that he would just love to prove her wrong. "Maybe so, but I'm afraid that's less likely. The last class of the night was letting out to. It's much more plausible that he was going, not coming. Why come here minutes before the last class of the night lets out?"

"Who knows how long he was sitting out here. Could've been awhile."

She shakes her head again. "Somebody would've noticed. Amelia did."

"You didn't." Brass counters.

"No, I didn't." she admits; suddenly no longer quite as bored with their rivalry. "However, it's a cold night. He was still warm when I touched him. So, he hasn't been sitting out here for any significant length of time. It's a busy college campus. Whoever did this… and no matter how much you might like for it to be, it wasn't me…" She pauses to flash him a saccharine smile. "Whoever did this was probably lying in wait, tucked down out of sight in the back seat. It was probably quick and dirty, because they were gone before the mass exodus of students and faculty from the building."

Jim Brass flashes a wide grin. "Okay." He says, his snide tone losing some of its vinegar. "So what do you want, a job?"

"What? So you and I can do this on a nightly basis? No thank you. I'll pass."