Grissom glared at the file on his desk and dropped his pen. Hours of pouring over the reports of findings on his newest case had produced almost nothing. The hair he had found was human, but the DNA was not in CODIS. There were no prints found at the scene, nothing to tell them who the killer was.
On the other hand, the tox screen had come back with high levels of PCP. This did nothing to lead them towards a suspect; PCP was readily available and many junkies used it. What interested Grissom was the fact that the levels of PCP in the victim's system were lethal, yet he had been killed before the drug could take its course. This indicated that the overdose was used only as a method of torture, not a means of murder.
Doc Robbins had explained that the cause of death was actually exsanguination.
"This laceration across the throat caused him to bleed out within minutes. The other lacerations were antemortem, as were the bruises," Doc Robbins gestured at the rest of the body, which was dark with bruises, and crisscrossed cuts.
"So the body was left as it was after death?" Grissom questioned.
"Yes. The lividity is consistent with the positioning of the body."
"How extensive was the damage antemortem?" Grissom asked, taking in the severe injuries showing just on the surface.
Doc Robbins shook his head. "The spleen was ruptured, one lung punctured, deep tissue bruising on about fifty percent of the body. There are ligature marks on the wrists, ankles, and across the chest. He was tied up."
"And the needle mark on his arm?"
"I sent some blood to tox, but it seems some sort of chemical restraint was used. Possibly an overdose. His stomach was basically empty, indicating he had been vomiting repeatedly."
None of this gave him much to go on. Many victims were tied up, or even drugged.
The lack of a hypodermic needle at the scene intrigued him, though. If there was no needle at the scene, then the killer must have taken it with him. If he could find the syringe, he could use DNA testing to link it to the murder. But he had no idea where to look for it.
Grissom picked up his pen, and promptly dropped it again. He had nothing new to write.
As he stared at the file, his thoughts began to drift towards Nick. He had pushed his musings over Nick's well-being to the back of his mind a few days ago at the scene, but now it filled his mind again.
At the time of the Hendler case, Grissom had assumed Nick would be fine. He had helped the police escort Amy Hendler out of the house, after only a brief "You okay, Nick?" He had disregarded the choked sound of Nick's reply, and left.
Later, he had called Nick to his office to ask him if things were okay. Nick had very quickly said that everything was fine, but he had some paperwork to finish, and had dashed out of the room before Grissom could get another word in.
Did he really have paperwork? Or was he avoiding the question?
Grissom's thoughts were interrupted as Warrick came into his office. "Hey, Gris. Did you get anything from Doc Robbins?"
"No, not really." Grissom pushed the file towards Warrick. "I think I' m going to go back to the scene and see if there's anything we missed."
"All right. I'm, uh, at the end of shift, so I thought…" Warrick hesitated.
"Of course, Warrick. Go home. You deserve a break," Grissom said, smiling a little.
"So do you, man," Warrick replied. "Why don't you take one now and again?"
Nick ran his hands over the cool metal of the outside of his kit, avoiding looking inside at the things he hadn't seen since that night. He sat in the middle of his living room, on the floor, his CSI kit in front of him.
Get a grip, Stokes. You gotta do this some time, might as well be now. You got nothing better to do, he reminded himself, reaching down and snapping open the clasp of the case before he could talk himself out of it.
Inside was all the things he had expected. Swabs, tape, tweezers, bindles, his ALS… Everything in the right place.
Nick carefully removed all of the tools and began to sterilize them. He knew someone had probably already done that, but he liked to do this himself. It felt as though, as he removed all traces of the case from his tools, he removed it from his life.
After replacing the tools, he added something else. Two epi-pens, provided by his doctor, in case he ever came in contact with poisonous insect bites again.
One last glance to make sure everything was in order, then Nick closed the case and stood up. He crossed his living room quickly, and went outside, carrying his kit out to his truck. He set his kit in the backseat and slid into the driver's seat, avoiding jostling his shoulder. He no longer had to wear the sling, but he still wasn't allowed to do much with it, and it still hurt.
Sighing as he turned the key in the ignition, Nick steeled himself to face everyone at the lab. No doubt they would stare, whispering, talking, wondering about him. Grissom and Catherine would try to tell him he couldn't be back at work yet, that three weeks couldn't possibly be long enough to… recover.
If I don't get out of the house, I'll go crazy. How would that be recovering? he justified. If they don't want me there, that's just too bad.
The pen clattered across the table, and Warrick rubbed his eyes tiredly. His frustration at the utter lack of evidence in this case made him want to throw more than his pen, but he abstained.
Warrick rested his forehead on his palm, elbow on the table. Maybe I should take a break…
He stood and walked over to the coffee machine, leaning against the counter, eyes closed, as he waited for it to spit out some more of the bitter sludge the lab seemed to run on.
"Hey, man, how's it goin'?"
Warrick's eyes snapped open and zeroed in on Nick standing in the doorway of the break room.
"What the hell are you doin' here?" Warrick demanded.
Nick cringed. "What kind of a welcome back is that?"
"It isn't one. There won't be a 'welcome back.' You shouldn't be back!"
"I just want to work in the lab or something. No field work, or anything like that. Just…something to get out of the house, ya know?" Nick still stood in the doorway, fidgeting uncomfortably.
"Man, it's only been three weeks… you sure you want to be back already?" Warrick felt himself beginning to cave. His friend looked so nervous, like a little kid, standing like that, hoping to escape a lecture.
"Yeah! I'm sure. I don't wanna sit around my house and the doc says I still have to take it easy on the shoulder, so there's not much else I can do, outside of the lab." Nick grinned a little bit, in an apparent effort to convince Warrick he was well enough to work.
"You'll have to talk to Catherine and Grissom," Warrick conceded, noting Nick's smile widen in happiness that Warrick wasn't going to yell at him.
"Sure, of course." Warrick mentally kicked himself for giving in so easily. But it wasn't his job to tell people when they could and couldn't work. Not his job as a CSI, anyway. As a friend though….
Warrick shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts, and smiled at Nick. "They're out right now. But, uh, I think they need some help in trace…"
Nick gasped in mock horror. "Near Hodges? Noooo!"
Warrick laughed, glad to see that Nick seemed to be putting the past behind him.
"Absolutely not."
"But, Cath, I –" Nick began to protest.
"No," she cut him off, glaring.
"It's been three weeks!" Nick argued.
"Which is not nearly long enough." Catherine stood up and walked around her desk, so that she and Nick stood face to face.
"Just lab work, c'mon Cath. What am I supposed to do at home all day, every day?" Nick questioned, as Grissom stuck his head in the office.
"Cath- oh, hi Nick – I need your help on a 419 out on the strip," Grissom squinted at them. "What's wrong?"
"I wanna work in the lab," Nick said immediately.
"Okay, go help Bobby Dawson," Grissom said. Nick grinned widely, and rushed off before anyone could say otherwise.
"Gil!" Catherine objected.
"What? Look, can we talk about it on the way? We need to get to the scene."
With an exasperated sigh, Catherine followed Grissom out of the office. Immediately, Grissom began filling her in on the case.
"It looks very similar to that homicide a couple weeks ago, the one who died of exsanguination. Same COD, and similar signs of antemorten torture-"
"Grissom!" Catherine interrupted. "Are we going to talk about it?"
"About what?" Grissom asked, cluelessly.
"About you letting Nick come back to work." Catherine scowled, as they pushed open the doors out to the parking lot.
"Oh. If Nick thinks he's ready, I don't see any reason he can't work in the lab. Anyways, so the vic was a Caucasian male once again-"
"Gil!"
"What?" Grissom's frustration at the interruptions of his report seeped into his voice, but Catherine didn't care.
"It's only been three weeks! He's not ready to be back!" Catherine's own voice betrayed her annoyance, and maybe, though she wouldn't admit it, a tiny bit of fear. She slammed her car door rather harder than was strictly necessary, and glared as Grissom took his time settling himself into his own seat.
"Being back at the lab won't hurt him. There were ligature marks and –"
"Why are you avoiding the issue?" Catherine asked abruptly.
"I'm not. I don't think there is any issue. As I was saying, ligature marks and –" Catherine tuned him out, leaning against the window, staring out at the strip, making no attempt to conceal the fact that she was no longer listening.
Grissom, however, was unaware of Catherine's insolence, continuing to explain the scene. But then, as Catherine thought darkly, Grissom was oblivious to most things when it came to his team, wasn't he?
