Chapter Five

"Gil and Nick, you take the 419 at the Mirage," Jim said. "Seems like suspicious circs, could probably use both of you."

"Jim, I was hoping to –"

"No, Gil," Jim interrupted me firmly. "Sara's case is cold. This one is fresh, and I'm sure the family of the vic would appreciate your best efforts on it."

Despite his stinging words, I felt just a little triumphant, for the little things. Sara's case – usually we refer to cases by the victim's last names, the Harris case, the Johnson case, etc. Sara's case had become so personal to me that it had eventually, by osmosis, become personal to the rest of the team too. Nick oftentimes referred to Sara as "the sister I've never met".

My fleeting moment of joy was just that – fleeting – as the rest of Jim's words settled over me. It had been almost two months since Sara disappeared, but while I held out hope, he thought Sara's case was cold and closed. That we'd never find her. I was about to open my mouth and argue with him, but Nick, probably thankfully, stopped me.

"Come on, Griss," he said. "Traffic will be a nightmare at this time of night, we should probably get going."

We grabbed our kits and keys and headed to the scene, where we were greeted with an obviously redressed male DB, sitting slumped against the rail bars outside the artificial volcano.

"Well, I can see why they called suspicious circs," Nick said as he pulled on a pair of gloves. "Is that dirt crammed into his mouth?"

I knelt beside Nick, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves of my own. I pried a finger between his lips.

"Yep," I confirmed, staring at the brownish powder on my finger.

"So… what?" Nick said. "Body dump? Killed in the desert and brought here?"

"That's what we get to find out," I grinned.

We pulled out our cameras to begin our preliminary crime scene photographs when a scuffle coming from behind us diverted our attention. An older lady in the driver's seat of a car was leaning out the window, calling at the cops for their attention. The uniforms were calling back at her to move along and keep the road around the scene clear.

I raised my eyebrow at Nick.

"I'll be right back."

I approached the car, a red sedan, peering at the driver inside.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I asked.

"Are you a cop?" she jumped in.

"No," I said calmly. "A crime scene investigator. Is there something we can do to help you?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," she said, leaning back into her seat to reveal her passenger – a dirty, beat-up, bloody, apparently unconscious woman.

As my mouth hung open in shock, the woman continued to explain.

"I found her wandering down Route 564, looking like this," she said. "I only had time to get her into the car before she passed out. She didn't even tell me her name."

I took a few more steps towards the car. The passenger's hair was matted with dirt, but I could tell it was blonde, and from underneath it, guessed her age in the mid-twenties. I took a few more steps. With proximity, I could tell the driver was shaken and nervous.

"Where are you headed?"

"The hospital," she answered. "But I saw the lights and thought that you might be able to help."

"You thought right," I said, motioning for the still-lingering paramedics to get over to the car.

One of them reached through the window to feel for a pulse, and found a weak one. They swooped in and put the girl on a stretcher, firing up the ambulance to take her to the hospital.

"Hold up, I'm going to come with," I called to them before turning back to the driver. "Ma'am, I'm going to need you to go with an officer to give your statement."

"I found her like that, I swear—"

"I know," I reassured her. "It's just protocol. You did nothing wrong. I'd go with you if I could, but I need to process this young woman. Okay?"

The woman took a deep breath.

"Okay."

The 419 at the Mirage quickly became Nick's solo when I phoned Jim to let him know I was accompanying this mystery victim to the hospital. I waited while she was checked out, and before I entered her room, the doctor briefed me on her condition.

"She's pretty banged up," he said. "Four broken ribs, a sprained wrist and a minor concussion. But at least she's conscious."

"Jesus."

"That's not all," he continued. "There's evidence of repeated sexual assault."

"Does she remember anything about what happened?"

"She hasn't said a word to me since she woke up except her name. Maybe you'll have more luck."

"Thanks, doc," I said. "Hey – what is her name?"

"Allison Shepherd."

I knocked quietly on Allison's door before stepping into the quiet room.

"Allison?" I asked. "I'm Gil Grissom, from the crime lab. I'm the one who came with you here, remember?"

If she did, she gave no acknowledgment. Her big, blank eyes stared a hole into the wall over my shoulder.

"I'm here to find out who did this to you," I continued. "Can you remember anything about what happened?"

I sat tenderly on a stool beside her bed. She was taking slow, deep breaths, in and out, and still refused to look at me, but I didn't press her any more. I knew that oftentimes, the best way to get victims to talk was with silence, letting them take their time. And sure enough, Allison Shepherd began speaking, softly.

"He kept me in a room," she said. "It was empty, except for a bed. He only took off the handcuffs for me to pee. I don't know how long I was there. I tried to count the days, but I started getting confused. He didn't feed me much, just enough to keep me alive so that he could…"

"Allison," I said softly but firmly. "It's okay. You're safe now, and we're going to do everything we can to find this guy. What can you tell me about him?"

The girl sniffled.

"He was tall," she said. "Really tall. And big, but not… big, big… muscular. He was strong. His ears were pierced. I kinda remember his face, but the details are fuzzy…"

"Do you think you could describe him to a forensics artist?" I asked gently. "If we put together a good picture of his face, it would help us find him."

"I…I think so."

I put my palm over hers and squeezed her fingers for encouragement.

"How long ago were you kidnapped?"

She shook her head in frustration.

"Months… I… I think I lost track of the days after a while."

"How did he take you?"

"I was at a bar with my friends," she said. "All I remember was him buying me a drink, and then…"

I nodded, hoping it would encourage her. I wanted to get as many details from her as I possibly could, while they were still fresh in her mind. But she stayed silent.

"What about the place he kept you?" I prompted. "Do you remember anything about it? Where it might be?"

"I… I woke up there, I can't remember how I got there," she started, stuttering. "But, it wasn't too big… wooden floors… like a cabin of some sorts, and probably out in the middle of nowhere, because I never heard anyone outside, and no one ever came by."

"Allison, how did you get away?"

"Two days ago, he let me out to use the bathroom," she said. "Another girl was getting sick in the one I usually used, so he let me in his, upstairs. He forgot there was a window in there, so while he was busy with the other girl, I climbed out. There were bars on it, but he starved me so much I was thin enough to slip through them."

I was awe-stricken with her story, noticing that the dullness in her eyes must be reflecting the numbness that she was feeling.

"And then what happened?"

"I stayed up on the roof for a few hours, while he looked for me," she answered. "And when he gave up, in the middle of the night, I climbed down and just started running."

"Where did you go?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I was tired and hungry and dizzy, but I told myself to just keep running. I had to get away. I can't… I can't remember the details but… I remember a car stopping and… I must have gotten in."

She looked at me with teary eyes.

"I'm sorry," she breathed.

"It's okay," I said gently. "You're doing so well. And you're safe now. We're not going to let anyone else hurt you. We'll find the man who did this to you."

Allison nodded appreciatively as I glanced at the notes I'd taken so far. She hadn't given much on the details of her kidnapper or her place of imprisonment. But one thing jumped out at me as I read back through her testimony.

"Allison," I began slowly. "You said there was another girl there with you… was this man keeping many women? Was he… preparing to sell you into an industry of some sort?"

"I don't know," she whispered again. "There was at least one other. Maybe more. I don't know what he planned to do with us. I think he just liked being able to do whatever he wanted with me. I think that's what… e-excited him."

"But you never saw the other girl?"

"No," Allison said softly. "I never saw her, we were kept in separate rooms. Sometimes I heard her though, when he was with her. She probably heard me, too. It was a comfort just knowing I wasn't there alone, but… there wasn't any way to get her when I ran away. It was my only chance."

"I understand," I said. "No one is blaming you for anything. It's just, if there's another girl still there with him, we need to find her before he does something to hurt her."

"You need to find her as soon as you can," Allison pleaded. "He had a temper, and I'm sure he's taking losing me out on her."

"In that case… would you mind seeing the forensic artist now?" I asked hopefully. "I know you've been through a lot, but we may have only a small window of time to find her…"

"Yes," Allison answered, boldness in her voice for the first time since we'd been speaking. "Yes. I'll do it now. Please, you just have to find her. It's… he's…"

"It's okay," I assured her. "Like I said, you're safe now. I'm going to leave for a moment, but this officer will stay with you, okay?"

"Okay."

I smiled at her encouragingly and stepped into the hall, pressing my back against the wall. It was only towards the end of Allison's testimony that a sudden thought struck my mind, and now, my heart was pounding against my chest. What if the other victim Allison heard was Sara? It was a long shot, and I didn't want to jump to any conclusions. But Sara was still on my mind constantly, and I couldn't help but hold on to the slim possibility that her and Allison's cases were related.

I pulled out my phone and hit speed dial.

"Jim, I need a forensics artist at Desert Palm a.s.a.p.," I said.

"Geez, Gil, where's the fire?"

"This could be an eventual search and rescue," I said, remembering his words from earlier and holding back my theory for now. "Just get someone here."

It was impressive how fast the police could move when rallied. The artist arrived within the hour, and I stood calmly by Allison's bedside while she described the face of her kidnapper and attacker to her. She had a hard time – broke down at several points – but she came through in the end, and the real fear in her eyes when she looked at the final product told me that the artist had gotten it right.

I took the picture and faxed it to Jim, who sent it to P.D., who put an alert out over every frequency and to every news station. I processed Allison, but then headed straight back to the lab, hoping that by the time I got there, we'd have a lead. No such luck.

"Nothing yet, Gil," Jim said when he saw me, noticing the anxiously excited look on my face.

"What?" I exclaimed. "How? The alert has been out for –"

"An hour," Jim finished. "Give it time."

I tried to stay calm, but inside, I was reeling. I was going to give it thirty minutes before I took to the streets and started hunting down this guy myself, but to my surprise and relief, I didn't even have to wait that long. A caller who had recognized the picture on the news had dialed the hotline, saying that the picture looked eerily like her neighbor.

A cavalcade of police cars, sirens blaring, made their way to the address of the caller's neighbor. After no answer at the front door, uniforms busted their way in… only to clear the scene.

"There's nobody home, sir," a uniform told Jim.

Jim looked at me, expecting to see disappointment in my eyes, but there was none to be found. My fire had flamed up again, and I was certain that there was something, anything, here that would lead us to whomever it was that kidnapped Allison. Jim and I were just beginning to process the body and the house when Catherine called. She was at the lab, doing background checks and research on the R.O. of the house.

"His name is Thomas Moore, and he's an English teacher at WLVU," she said.

"Allison's a graduate student there," I noted. "That must be where they ran into each other."

"He's the registered owner of a Chevy," she continued. "I'll have PD put out a broadcast for it."

"It doesn't look like he's been here in months," I said, noting the thick layer of dust everywhere. "And there's no evidence that he kept Allison here. No hairs, no blood, no marks at all."

I stilled, suddenly feeling that we were in the wrong place. Allison was found along Route 564, almost in the middle of nowhere. And this house – smack in the middle of residential Vegas – was nothing like the deserted isolation Allison described.

On the other end of the line, I heard Catherine flip through the stack of papers she had printed.

"Gil."

"What?" I asked, stopping dead in my tracks at the urgency in her voice.

"He owns property up near Lake Mead."

And the Calvary was off. It was a web of phone calls on our way there – Catherine called Nick to get to the hospital and get Allison to tell him any details she could about the house. Nick relayed them to Jim, who shouted directions to the head of the rescue brigade. The line of police cars pulled to a roaring stop in front of a two-story wooden house, so old and worn down, I'd have thought it to be abandoned. Uniforms rushed ahead and pounded on the door.

"LVPD, open up!"

When no answer came, they burst through the doorway and were met with gunfire. Jim and I ducked behind the cars we were waiting next to, but it was over in seconds. Thomas Moore's one shotgun was no match for the LVPD.

"He's dead," one of the officers called.

"First floor's clear," another shouted from deeper within the house.

Before Jim could say a word to me, I barged into the house, past Thomas Moore's body laying at the entrance to a shabby looking kitchen, and up crooked stairs. I frantically peeked in every door in the hallway, each only revealing empty, dilapidated rooms, many stained with what looked like dried blood, until only one remained. I pushed the door open, and there, handcuffed to a grungy-looking mattress in the middle of the room, was a still, starved and half-broken version of the girl whose picture I had become so well acquainted with in the last eight weeks.

Sara Sidle.