99.9 percent.
Dust. Layer upon layer everywhere; a fine coat covered every surface. Fingertip evidence; every inch needed to be scoured with a fine toothed comb. The larger debris had been moved to a central location to be tagged and examined. The rest?
99.9 percent useless. Statistically speaking, no matter how much manpower or sheer number of meticulous tests, that was the percentage of how much meaningless material had to be covered.
Grissom felt every year of his age; knees bent too long, hand frozen over his flashlight, knowing that under the rubble were the tiniest pieces of bomb casing and the trigger device. Under all the dirt, burned and cindered material- hundreds of pounds of it- lay fragments detectable only by a microscope. He had begun in the back, near a blast crater in the rear wall; a silent witness to the detonation point. Dark scorch marks like splattered black paint covered the few feet in front of him as he breathed in air still heavy with fumes and smoke.
Melted metal and incinerated wood; signs of the flashpoint. Grissom raised his beam of light, spreading its glow over a wider area. His eyes traced the gutted out roof, support beams still mostly in place, ragged metal fabrication blown to bits. He narrowed his eyes, thinking, when crunching sounds disturbed his visual assessment.
Sara had lifted a piece of rubble out of the way to begin filtering out the next square foot. "We need more people here."
They were the first real words she'd spoken since her arrival. Grissom used his light like a laser pointer, imagining the possible bomb blast. "ATF and Homeland Security are on their way."
She raised an eyebrow in concern. "Grissom, we can't--"
He turned to face her, his posture stiff and wooden. It spoke volumes, despite the edge to his voice. "It's under our jurisdiction. They'll be working for us."
"For now."
Both CSIs glared at the voice that intruded on their conversation. Ecklie scanned the area of utter destruction, seeing it as more of an annoyance than the complex puzzle that it was. "We don't know what happened here. I've fed the press the usual vague scenarios: gas leak, possible electrical fire under extreme conditions."
"Vartann said that Nick warned of a bomb before the place exploded," Sara snapped.
The Assistant Director glared at her coolly, then ignored her completely, addressing the other man. "You need to teach your team to watch their tone with superiors."
Sara muttered, loudly enough for Ecklie to hear, "Doesn't change the fact that Nick---"
"We don't know anything that Stokes saw or heard." Ecklie's voice bounced around the now hollowed out bar.
Fire glinted under the entomologist's glasses and Sara swore she witnessed a rare slip of control as he crossed the distance towards the weasel.
"There's no statement because he's not out of surgery yet, Conrad." He hissed the man's name with thinly-veiled malice.
The meaning in the supervisor's words bounced off of Ecklie's thick armor. "What is it that you say, Gil? Let the room speak to you."
Grissom stood silently, then returned to his inspection without another word, obviously stifling the reaction the other man had hoped for.
Ecklie sighed heavily. "You'd better make good headway on this case. We can't afford to let this lab come under scrutiny because of sloppy procedures and poor leadership. Then they'll have no choice but to let the Feds take over."
With his subordinate's back effectively towards him Ecklie took one final look around, shaking his head. As he left he spoke over his shoulder. "By the way, rein in Brown. He needs to do his job and stop letting emotions cloud his judgment."
"His best friend was nearly blown up," Sara gritted out between clenched teeth.
"And five other people were killed." With a hand through his thinning hair, the man's voice softened, just a tad. "Also all the more reason to keep focused."
"Last one, Greg. How are you holding up?"
"I'm good, Cath. At least this guy wasn't too bad. Said he might even go home tomorrow."
"He have anything we can use?"
"Well, he had a chunk of the building lodged in his...in his... Let's just say, where it didn't belong. Doc gave it to me to log just in case. How was your guy?"
"Loud. Drunk. And handsy. Nothing I haven't dealt with a hundred times before," she said with a knowing, I-used-to-strip-for-a-living smile. "He was knocked down from the blast but was farther away. Nothing I could get outa him but he did offer to take me to Hawaii on his next business trip."
"You thinking of taking him up on it, Cath?" Greg asked with a small waggle of his eyebrows.
"Nope. He flashed me what was under his johnnie. As if that would help seal the deal," she snorted as she handed a sealed and labeled grocery bag to Greg. "Here are his clothes to add to the pile."
"So," the rookie sighed. "That makes an even dozen injured we've processed. There are five waiting for us with Doc Robbins."
"Five? I thought there were four: the three outside and the kid from inside."
"They found a guy behind the pub. EMTs said he looked taken out in the initial blast."
"Greg, that's huge! Why didn't you tell me? He could be our bomber!"
Greg smiled ruefully. "His buddy ID'd him on the scene. Said he had gone around back to take a leak while they were emptying the building. LVFD guy found him with his fly down. How shitty is that, huh? Going out in mid-pee?"
"Pretty shitty, Greg. You're right." She rubbed a hand on Greg's shoulder.
"So…Nick's lucky number thirteen." She saw Greg straighten as if in preparation for going in, then glanced at the slim gold face of her watch. "Nurse said he was in recovery about an hour ago. Would you mind packing up the Denali with what we have already? I am beat." To illustrate she huffed out a breath and made a point of rubbing a hand across her brow.
Greg wasn't fooled one minute but took the pretense offered. "No problem. Just catching my second wind." He rubbed her shoulder in a tentative attempt at returning her reassurances. "I'll be out in the truck with the air on for when you get back. If he's up, you tell him I said, hey, okay?"
"Of course," she said, smiling sadly. She watched the young man stride down the quiet hallway laden down with evidence pulled from a dozen burned and damaged bodies, then turned on her heel and followed the yellow line on the hospital floor towards the surgical unit.
"Excuse me, I'm Catherine Willows with the Crime Lab. I'm here to see a patient from the explosion at The George." She rested her open wallet on the station desk for the nurse behind the counter to see.
After a more than perfunctory look at her ID the nurse nodded then tilted her head over towards three plastic chairs lined up outside the recovery room. "The doctor's in with Mr. Stokes now. You can talk to him about seeing the patient when he 's done."
Catherine tried warming up the coolly professional woman with her most ingratiating smile. "Mr. Stokes isn't just a case. He's a friend. He works with me…with us…at the Crime Lab. Can you tell me how he's doing?"
The nurse appeared to consider the question for a moment, then shook her head shortly. "It would be best if you asked the doctor that." She relented slightly. "Dr. Singh's pretty cool. Give him a few minutes and I'm sure he'll be glad to talk to you."
Catherine gave her a grateful look then walked over and cooled her heels in the plastic chair. It was longer than a few minutes, she noted, checking her watch frequently. Horrible scenarios started running through her head and she started every time a bell rang or a monitor beeped from the rooms around her.
Gil had warned her something bad would come from being so shorthanded. If Nick and Vartann had had the assistance they needed… Damn Conrad for wooing her with visions of dollar signs and promotions. And when did she start putting money ahead of the job? Ahead of her friends? Christ, it's not like she really even needed the damn money. Sam's check was sitting in an account, collecting interest, waiting for Lindsey's college years, to be dipped into when needed. When needed. So if braces were needed, the money was there.
Of course, the promotion wasn't all about money. A lot of it was pride. Knowing she was a damn good CSI, her personal history be hanged. Her fear was of always being hanged by that same history. Held back, crushed under the heel of the powers that be. Graying men who figured there was no way a former dancer would ever be good enough.
A rich and exotic voice calling her name roused her from her inner monologue. A tall dark man in a navy blue turban was standing at the nurses' station. The same nurse she'd spoken to earlier looked over and smiled, pointing at the doctor.
He walked over as Catherine rose from her seat to shake an extended hand.
"Thanks for your time, doctor. I'm here to find out about Mr. Stokes. I'm processing evidence from the explosion."
"I'm afraid Mr. Stokes won't be aiding your investigation, Ms. Willows. There was no projectile injury or injury from the explosion itself. Rather Mr. Stokes was blown free from the blast and sustained his injuries when he struck the pavement with some force. In fact, his injuries are remarkably similar to those we see in motorcycle accidents. The broken ribs, the road rash, as they call it."
"Dr. Singh, I'm not just here as a criminalist. Nick works with us. He was at the pub working a scene when the explosion occurred."
"I see. I was led to believe by the news that it was a bomb of some sort?"
"We're not sure yet what happened. I suppose we could find it was a gas explosion, but yes, we are working under the supposition that it was a bombing. In fact, an officer on the scene reports Nick shouting something about a bomb minutes before the explosion. Has he woken up at all for us to talk to him? He may have seen something or someone…"
The doctor was already shaking his head. "He has yet to waken, but Mr. Stokes sustained a concussion. I'm waiting on his MRI results to get a better picture of the damage, and his records indicate this wasn't the first concussion he's suffered."
Catherine paused, then remembered. "Yeah, he um, had an incident at a scene. His assailant threw him through a second story window."
"You folks seem to have a dangerous job," the doctor commented. Catherine bit back the response on her lips, flashing to her own on scene run-in and that of poor Holly Gribbs. Instead she smiled briefly and nodded. "The officer on the scene said Nick was having trouble breathing, and you mentioned some broken ribs?"
"Ah, yes. He broke several ribs on the left side of his chest. The fractures were severe, essentially breaking free and falling into his chest cavity, a condition we call flail chest. One of the ribs punctured a lung."
Catherine paled and raised a hand to her mouth, manicured nails running along her bottom lip. "We saw him, in the ER. But they rushed him away so fast…" Her eyes dampened.
The doctor smiled gently within his dark, sharply trimmed beard. "We repaired the puncture, Ms. Willows. In fact, rather serendipitously, we were able to enter his chest cavity through the break in his ribcage instead of having to crack his sternum. It will save him quite the scar."
His smile sobered. "He's stable. He still has a long road ahead of him, but he's a young man and was in peak physical condition before the injuries and that will aid him greatly in the weeks and months to come."
"Months," Catherine breathed incredulously.
"Yes, ma'am. The body doesn't jump right back from a second concussion, and the damage to his chest was quite severe. He also dislocated his patella, his kneecap. It will be painful, but with bracing and physical therapy he should regain most usage of it. Has Mr. Stokes' family been notified?"
She ran a hand through her hair. "No…not yet. I think we were waiting to know more before calling them."
"Perhaps it would be best if you were to call them and let them know. His recovery will be long and painful and he will need his family to help him with it."
Catherine straightened, mama bear look flashing in her eyes. "We're his family. And we'll get him through this."
The doctor nodded and waved a hand towards the door to the room. "Perhaps you would like to see him now?"
The only time Catherine had seen Nick lying in a hospital bed was right after his fall. A small neat square of white gauze on his forehead was the only outward sign that he was anything but catching a cat nap. A few hours later he'd been sent home with a wrist brace and some pain pills and he'd been back to work the next week.
The square of gauze was in a similar place on his brow, snugged up further into the start of his hairline. His already buzzed hair had been shorn down further in a few inches to allow for a three by three bandage to be taped down. The eye below it was purpling and swelling.
More bandages covered his left ear, the abrasions on his cheek and jaw left exposed, red and weepy. The light white gauze continued on his left arm from his elbow down to his hand where a metal brace was wrapped around his pinky finger.
As she drew closer her feet grew heavier. It was astounding the amount of abuse a body could take and still continue to function.
He was cradled in the bed, pillow under each arm, bracing his chest on both sides. Pinky-gray Ace bandages had been wrapped around his chest over another large square of white gauze. His flesh was stained saffron yellow with surgical iodine.
A sheet and blanket covered one leg up to his lap, the other leg raised and uncovered, his knee wrapped in more of the taupe fabric around ice packs set on both sides of the black and purple joint. More tubes and wires ran from his body than Catherine could decipher.
She took another step closer to the bed. The lingering medicinal smells of alcohol, ether and iodine clung to him.
A larger than normal mask had been strapped around his face covering his mouth, and a hissing bellows-like sound issued from it every few seconds.
"It's a BiPap," a voice said quietly from behind her, startling her in its unexpectedness and the uncanny way the speaker had known what she was looking at. She turned to find the doctor at her side.
"It's like an external ventilator. Helps him breathe where a vent would be too strong for his damaged lung."
She returned her gaze to Nick's damaged body. "God, it's so much …" She trailed off.
"We'll know more once he wakes up. We'll be able to get a better gauge on his brain function and how his lung is handling the surgery. And, I'm afraid I have to ask you to go now. It's late and he needs to rest undisturbed."
She resisted the urge to touch Nick's hand, one of the few unharmed parts of his body but for the IV inserted in it.
"Leave your contact information at the desk, Ms. Willows. Come back and see him in the morning."
She nodded, her voice swallowed up in held back tears. "Thank you," she whispered, then hurried out the door, moisture streaming down her cheeks as she made her way through the maze and out to the parking lot. Greg would be waiting for her, and it wouldn't do to have him see her weeping like a soap actress. She hurriedly dashed her hands across her eyes and pasted on her all business face. She opened up the truck door and clambered in, Greg turning with appraising eyes trying to read her expression.
"He's gonna be fine, Greg. Let's get this stuff to the lab and maybe I'll see home sometime in the next day, huh?"
Greg opened his mouth, then closed it, nodded, put the truck in drive and pulled away.
Jim Brass juggled three cups of coffee as he kept from bumping into any officers left at the scene. The press had been moved back, but several people from the crowd still remained, waiting in some version of a line for a statement. Even with the number of other detectives and patrolmen, it had been a difficult process deciphering drunken accounts and then trying to diffuse hangover- induced short tempers.
The Captain'd had enough chowder-mixed-with-beer breath to last a lifetime, and he had done little interview duty. Alex Vartann needed an IV of caffeine for his slumped form, head rested wearily against one elbow on knee-supported palm.
"It's not the gourmet crap espresso you usually order, but this should help a bit." Brass held his full load out to be relieved of one cup before the hot liquid ruined his sleeves.
The dark-haired detective mumbled a thanks and blew slowly over the lid.
"Stuff's not that hot. Had to go across the street and got stopped a dozen times on my way back," the Captain mused, taking a sip of his own with his right hand.
"It could be instant for all I care." Vartann took a couple large swallows and closed his eyes as the warmth brought color to his pale and drawn features. "Hell of a day."
Brass snorted. "We still have morning to deal with -- news conference."
The younger cop growled. "Fuck that." Then rubbed at some tension in his knotted-up neck. "Who's the other cup for?'
The older man nodded in the direction of the makeshift tent erected for the first stage of evidence cataloging before transport to the lab.
Vartann shook his head. "I don't think Brown needs any of this. He's too keyed up as it is."
"Yeah, let him work off steam hauling around chunks of building and sorting through paint cans filled with fragment pieces." Brass cleared his throat. "Sheriff actually informed Taylor's wife-- the bullpen will handle any immediate needs for bills and care for the kids."
The younger detective chewed on his lip. "He didn't even know what hit him. His role was crowd control, a rookie's gig." Vartann let exhaustion fuel his tirade. "That pub was filled with nearly a hundred people. Who the hell would want to kill a bunch of drunken businessmen and football fans?"
The Styrofoam cup dropped to the asphalt; a slew of curses flew from the normally easy-going man. "This could have been a massacre, Jim!"
Brass placed both cups of joe on the ground since there was nothing around to rest them on and grabbed the other man's shoulder. "It wasn't. Hear me? You and Nick got nearly everyone out and saved a lot of lives."
"You know how long it took to clear that scene?" Vartann stared at his boss, then back at the gutted tavern; nothing of the quaint charm remained. The owner still wandered around looking lost among his property.
"He told me to get everyone out, then the fool went right back in."
Brass barely heard the mumble under his guy's breath, and wished for a flask of scotch instead of cooling coffee.
Vartann wrestled back control of his emotions and seemed embarrassed by his outburst, looking sadly at the spill. "Sorry about the drink."
"You can have Warrick's."
Jim handed him the other cup, and Vartann looked past his shoulder. "Speaking of..."
The lanky criminalist had slipped on coveralls for the dirty kind of work that had kept him centered and on task. He pulled off a pair of work gloves and breathed in the night, only to have his face scrunch up from the acidic air.
"How goes it?" Brass inquired, shrugging his shoulders at the scowl at needless small talk he received. "Okaaaay, how's your belly? Full from chewed-out asses?"
Warrick grumbled, tossing one of the work gloves in the air and snatching it back. "Dropping crap off with no rhyme or reason only creates double the work."
"These are beat cops just trying to give a hand," Vartann argued, defending his squad.
The criminalist didn't seem to hear him. "Protocol needs to be followed. This all may seem like scraps of junk, but it's all important. I have several areas marked for different types of debris," he argued.
"Yeah? Well, it all looks like garbage to me. Guess we don't all have the abilities to determine atomic makeup at first glance like you do, Mr. Wizard."
Warrick glared at the Captain, not amused by the ribbing. His face fell after along silent moment, then he ambled over and stared at both cups of coffee. "Wish I had one of those."
"Jim dropped yours." Vartann pointed to the ruined mess on the ground.
Warrick rolled his eyes and missed the glare sent the detective's way. "I might stretch my legs, go across the street," he said distractedly, glancing at his watch.
"Got a date you're missing out on?" Brass asked, with every bit of sarcasm and dry humor.
"Nah." But there was a deeper meaning to that discouraged answer.
Vartann was still staring at his coffee cup. "How long you think before there's another?"
Brass and Warrick were both caught off guard by the question.
Vartann searched their faces. "It's never just one. There's always a pattern, and with this plan foiled, we're bound to be up against another one."
"It's up to us to find the sonuvabitch and stop him before he can find a new target." The Captain's words were deadly serious.
Before one of them could further contemplate the cold reality, Warrick's cell rang. He hurriedly answered it, walking away on seeing the caller ID. Neither cop dared break the tension as the criminalist stalked back and forth, his questions quiet but his body a mirror of twisted-up insides concealed by a sharp tongue.
Brass tried to occupy his time by returning to the sludge of his pick-me-up, but looked downcast at the drink and poured the rest out. His hands were left to fiddle with the now empty cup, when the conversation ended quickly, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
The two detectives went over to the CSI, when he didn't appear to be coming back to their previous resting place.
Warrick met two worried expressions and plastered on a usual game face, one that had been absent the past few hours. "That was Catherine. Nick came out of surgery all right."
"She called you first?" Vartann asked before realizing it.
"There's more than one number on her speed dial," was the man's reply.
"That's good news." The older man rallied. "They must put something in the water in Texas that makes them so ornery and tough."
The younger man nodded, emotions leaking out of the vice clamp hold. "He's not awake, but he should be in the morning. Cath and Greg are going to the Lab to drop off all the victims' belongings." The worried partner stood without any further words, mind going over every possible bad scenario still possible even after encouraging news.
Jim rolled his neck and got a certain look in his eyes. "We've got plenty of time to visit Nicky tomorrow; let him get his beauty rest and let's nail the bastards that did this."
The desire for vengeance was an ugly little emotion that few ever spoke out loud of but still burned deeply inside each of them. All three men nodded and picked up the torch for another long night and morning of work.