A/N: A bit more with the case here, and a little more interaction with out two principle characters. Again, the proceedure may not be letter-perfect, but it should be logical and plausible...and hopefully entertaining :-)


Tripp appeared at the lab bright and early the next morning, finding Tim in the break room guzzling a can of soda.

"Speedle."

"Frank," the CSI answered, tossing the can into the recycle bin. "Gettin' an early start today, are we?"

The detective ignored the mocking tone in Tim's voice. "Did the DNA come back from Polanski's swab yet?"

"Checked it first thing," Tim confirmed. "The DNA in the system from South Dakota matches the DNA from Polanski…which matches the male DNA from the samples we collected from Allyson's house and clothes."

"So he's the bastard that tried to kill her."

Tim nodded. "He's the bastard that tried to kill her."

"Okay, so we have the how," Tripp continued. "But we don't have the why yet, and Polanski's giving us nothing." He paused a moment, considering their options. "Let's see if we can get any answers from our victim."

"Back to the hospital?"

Tripp nodded. "Back to the hospital."

———

"Did you contact her next of kin?" Tim was asking as he and Tripp moved down the familiar hallway.

"Yeah," the detective replied. "Parents are flying in today. It was the first flight they could get—should be here in a couple of hours."

"Good." No one should be alone after an attack like that.

"Hospital said they collected a sexual assault kit, too," Tripp added. "After we left last time."

"And?"

"Nothing…she wasn't raped."

Tim let out the breath he'd unconsciously held. "Good," he repeated.

"Thank God for small favors, eh?" Tripp commented.

Tim nodded. Definitely.

He found the door they were looking for and knocked, hearing a faint "come in" in response. She was lying in bed, hooked up to the same medical equipment, in the same position she had been in during their first visit. This time, though, she looked more alert, raising her eyebrows questioningly when they entered the room.

"Do you remember us?" Tim asked.

Allyson nodded a little. "I remember your faces…that you're law enforcement."

"Detective Tripp, CSI Speedle," Tripp reminded her, following Tim in. "We'd like to ask you some more questions if we could."

"Of course," she answered softly, still weak from her injuries. "I know I wasn't much help last time."

"Actually, the evidence we collected from you helped a lot," Tim told her. "We just have a few things to clear up now."

Tripp took his cue. "Do you remember anything new about the attack?"

Allyson pressed her lips together. "I remember him kneeling over me…he was wearing black pants and a black shirt…and gloves, latex gloves. I remember the latex rubbing on my wrists when he was holding me down."

"Okay, good," Tripp encouraged her.

She thought some more, straining against the fear and pain the memories dredged up. "I remember…I remember he seemed surprised when I tried to get away."

"Surprised how?"

She frowned. "He stopped for a second…and he looked worried."

"Worried?" Tim wondered.

Tripp knew what she meant. "Like he was afraid he couldn't handle you if you were conscious."

Allyson nodded. "That fits, I suppose."

Tim felt his expression harden, but kept his thoughts to himself for the time being. Instead he asked another question. "Do you remember his face?"

"I tried," she explained. "I've been trying, but it's not coming to me."

"Maybe you're trying too hard," Tripp suggested.

"Too hard?"

That triggered an idea in Tim's mind. "Actually, yeah," he said. "You can concentrate too much on things sometimes, and push information away from your conscious thoughts."

"Like with the name of the band playing on the radio," she replied. "It'll be right on the tip of your tongue, but no matter how hard you try you can't remember who they are."

"Exactly," he told her. "So let's try this…close your eyes and try to relax."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"

"Just trust me on this, okay?" he ventured, pulling a chair beside her and lowering himself onto it. Behind him, he could feel Tripp's eyes on him, wondering, too, what he was doing.

She studied his face, judging his expression, his body language. After a long moment, she closed her eyes and lay back against her pillow. "Okay."

"Try to relax," he repeated. "Take a couple of slow, deep breaths."

She did as he instructed, resting one hand lightly on the bedrail and the other at her side.

"Now, I want you to describe me."

"Oh I get it," Tripp spoke up. "You get the memory working on something easy to warm it up, then you try to remember the thing you couldn't remember."

"That's right," Tim agreed. "And since you were just looking at me, Allyson, and you're pretty calm at the moment, it shouldn't be too hard to give a decent description of me. Then we can try one for your attacker."

"That makes sense," Allyson decided. "Alright, let's see……black pants…royal blue button-down shirt……short, dark hair—curls up a little at the base of your neck……fair skin…round cheeks…five o'clock shadow…dark brown eyes. Tired eyes," she observed. "You didn't get much sleep last night, did you?"

Her question surprised him. "Very perceptive," he told her. "Do you know what I ate for breakfast, too?"

Her eyes blinked open and she saw the gentle teasing in his expression. "That's good, CSI Speedle," she responded quietly. "Trying to make me feel comfortable so I won't freeze up."

He lowered his gaze to the tiled floor for the briefest of moments, a chagrined expression on his face, before lifting his eyes back to hers. "Is it working?" he asked.

She responded with a small smile. "Yes."

"Alright," he replied, relieved. "Then let's try your assailant."

Tripp pulled out his memo book and pen as Allyson closed her eyes again. Blowing out a breath, she searched the far reaches of her mind, replaying the attack. "Light hair," she began. "Blond…short, like a…like a crew cut, but not quite that short. Dark pants and shirt, black maybe…" Her hand gripped the bedrail tighter as an image formed. "Small eyes, close together……flattened nose, like he'd been hit in the face when he was little…" Her fingers curled around the stainless steel despite the oxygen monitor still clipped to her index finger, and her face betrayed the pain she felt, both physical and emotional.

Sitting closest to her, Tim was struck by the changes in her demeanor. She went from tranquil patient to frightened victim before his very eyes, struggling to maintain control. He flashed back to her nightgown, picturing it in his head covered with blood and ragged slices, and felt his outrage returning. That son of a bitch!

"…and thin lips," Allyson remembered. "He was grinning at me when I woke up, before I tried to get away."

Tripp caught Tim's eye and nodded. That's him. Aloud, he asked, "Did you recognize him at all?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed as though she were examining the picture in her mind. "I've never seen him before."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?" he continued.

She sighed harshly and opened her eyes, training them on the detective. "I'm a high school teacher from Buffalo, Detective Tripp. Before this week, the biggest problems I had were fending off sunburn and getting a good price on school supplies."

"How 'bout Aaron Polanski?" he tried again. "That name ring any bells?"

She pressed her lips together, attempting to regulate her breathing as she turned the name over in her thoughts. "No," she decided. "I don't know any Aaron Polanski. Is he the guy that attacked me?"

"We can't discuss the details with you just yet," Tripp answered. "But we'll be in touch."

Tim took a deep mental breath and rose along with Tripp, stealing one last look at Allyson. "Try to get some rest," he told her, a kind note in his voice.

"I will," she nodded, offering what tried to be a smile.

The two men waited until they were a safe distance from her room before they resumed discussing the case.

"Sounds like our guy," Tripp noted.

"Yeah," Tim agreed, his lips curling in repulsion. "And he was worried when she fought back. He wanted her unconscious because he wasn't strong enough to kill her while she was awake and resisting him."

Tripp frowned hard. "He's a real prize all right."

"But at least he's stupid," Tim countered. "He left behind a mountain of evidence—this guy's history."

———

The uniformed officer sat Polanski down in a chair across the table from Tim in the interrogation room. Frank had resumed his position behind the CSI, a not-so-subtle sneer on his lips as he stared at the prisoner.

"You ran my DNA?" Polanski asked.

"Oh we ran it alright," Tim informed him, pulling the results sheets from a file folder. He laid them out in front of the suspect and pointed as he spoke. "This one is you. This one is the DNA from South Dakota. And this one is the blood and hairs we collected from Allyson Brooks." He watched Polanski's eyes as they darted from one piece of paper to another, letting the reality of the situation sink in. "Notice how they're all the same."

Polanski shook his head, glancing defiantly from Tim to Tripp. "I didn't do it," he insisted.

"Well, sport, we don't need your confession," Tripp told him, contempt dripping from his voice. "Every piece of evidence we have says it was you without a doubt."

Tim retrieved the DNA results and stacked them back in their folder. "That's right," he seconded. "And felony attempted murder carries a minimum sentence of thirty years in Florida. You could even get life without parole. Either way, you're going to prison for a very long time."

Trip nodded to the uniformed officer who stepped forward and hoisted Polanski from his chair. "Aaron Polanski, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Allyson Brooks. You have the right to remain silent…"

Instead of fear, or anger, or any of the other typical reactions Tim and Tripp had seen on the job, Polanski merely smiled in response, a confident smile that spread slowly over his face as he was escorted from the room.

"A long time," he chuckled after the Miranda warning. "That's what they said before."

Tripp scowled back. "Get him outta here," he ordered, disgusted.

Tim silently watched him go, the words reverberating around in his head. That's what they said before. "What do you think he meant Frank?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"'That's what they said before.' What's that all about?"

Tripp waived his hand dismissively. "Probably referring to his stint in South Dakota. I'm sure they told him the same thing there, and then they weren't able to deliver. We will, though."

"Yeah," Tim agreed absently.

Tripp headed for the door. "Alright then, I'm gonna go book this dirtbag and get him locked up. You can tell Allyson he's off the street."

Tim nodded, still stuck on Polanski's parting words. "It's gotta be South Dakota," he muttered aloud, rising from his chair and making his way out of the room. "It's gotta be."