Chapter 7: Wild Goose Chase
"Look buddy, you're barkin' up the wrong tree." Max Zudor said as he stared coldly at Detective Jim Brass from across the metal table in the interrogation room.
"No, I think I'm barking up the right tree." Brass retorted. "Please explain why we found your DNA at the crime scene."
"And I'm telling you for the one hundredth time - I don't know what you're talking about." Max readjusted the collar on his green Hawaiian shirt. He folded his hairy arms across his chest and sat low on his seat.
Brass was starting to get impatient with his only suspect. It had been a long day and Brass was both mentally and physically exhausted. The interrogation had only just begun and Brass already wished he could condemn this man for the murder of Nadine Sharp and the attempted murder of CSI Greg Sanders. Brass could smell a scumbag a mile away and Max Zudor fell into that category.
"The sooner you tell me the truth, the sooner you can be on your way." Brass said. "Hey, there's nothing on my agenda. We have all night." He bluffed.
"You pigs can't pin nothing on me. I didn't do anything." Max rebutted. He flicked his stringy bleach-blond hair back with a palm.
"Your DNA puts you at the crime scene." Brass was bored of this cat-and-mouse game. "It's the same crime scene where we found Nadine Sharp shot to death. That doesn't look good for you." He reminded.
Max said nothing. His deeply wrinkled hollow eyes only stared at the stack of files that were sitting in front of Brass. The silence maintained itself for the next eight seconds. Brass, then, opened one of the files and casually began perusing its contents.
Brass thumbed through the papers and took out a photograph. He pushed it towards Max without saying a word.
"What's this?" Max said as he leaned forward to have a look. It was a picture of the stub of a used cigarette butt.
Max gave out a whole-hearted laugh. "So, this is all about a cigarette butt?! Oh, I can't believe you guys! You find one little cig butt and suddenly the blame's on me. Unreal!" He laughed again like as if it was the best knee-slapping joke he'd ever heard in his life. "I'm sure your brainy CSIs or whatever have already found out by now that Nadine and I are related – she's my half-sister. So it's not unnatural to find one of my cigarette butts in her house, wouldn't you say? Detective?" He mocked.
Brass cleared his throat. "This cigarette butt was found inside the victim's panic room. Now, how is that possible?"
"That's because I helped her built the damn thing some years back." Max said. "If you bothered to check my records, you'll know that after doing time in the state prison, I started working for a contractor. Nadine may have been my half-sister but she was a lunatic with major safety issues. She's got more than just a couple screws loose, if ya know what I mean." He tapped his temple with his index finger implying his sister's frame of mind. "She was paranoid and obsessed with people breaking into her house. So, she asked me to build her a panic room and that's what I did."
"Somehow, I doubt you'd be the type who would do it out of the kindness of your own heart." Brass said.
"I was in it for the money." Max admitted. He grinned to show a row of rotted teeth. The drunken beachcomber-look kicked in.
"Obviously." Brass sighed.
"She was willin' to pay me double of what someone else would've charged for the same job."
"It was too good an offer to pass up." Brass toyed nonchalantly.
"Exactly." Max nodded. "Look, it's not like the nut case really minded. And it wasn't like as if it'd break her bank either. Her father left her with a pretty good amount of money after he died. I would say she's well taken care of."
"You're feeding off of her fear." Brass said.
"Ain't a crime. She got what she wanted and I got what I wanted. All's fair." Max shrugged indifferently. "I had a smoke while on the job. Last I checked, that ain't a crime."
"No, but murder is. So, where were you on the night of the 27th?" Brass decided to just cut to the chase.
"I was at home alone making friends with the beer." Max said smugly. "And watchin' the game on TV."
"Can anyone vouch for that?" Brass asked.
"Yea, Vinny."
"Vinny?"
"My pit bull." Max said.
"So, what was the score?" Brass asked. He was trying to see if Max really was at home watching the game.
"Those dang Yanks beat the A's 6 to 3. Can you believe that?" Max suddenly sprang to life. "I've never seen a worst lost than that. Fucking humiliating. But I gotta tell you, with two home runs under their belts in the second inning, I thought the A's had a fighting chance at winning. But no. The Yanks beat 'em anyway." He suddenly stopped, realizing he was talking way too much.
"Basically, you don't really have an alibi for the night of the murder." Brass drummed his fingers on the table. "Aside from Vinny."
"Oh wait – at around 7:30, the pizza delivery guy came to deliver my pizza. It's from the pizzeria on Flamingo Road. It's called um…uh…" Max said as he tried to recall the name of the eatery. "Ah! Luigi's. That's it! Luigi's. L-U-I-G…"
"I know how it's spelt." Brass cut in, feeling annoyed.
"Go ask 'em. I ordered a supreme with no mushrooms. They'll tell ya I was home that night." Max blabbered.
"I will." Brass said. He was disappointed that Max may be telling the truth. Perhaps he really wasn't the scumbag who killed Nadine Sharp and put a bullet into Greg's chest. "Did your sister have any enemies? Boyfriends, ex-boyfriends? Anyone at all that might benefit from her being killed?" He finally asked, desperate for answers.
"First of all, she's my half-sister. The only thing we have in common is our mother. I don't keep tabs on her life and she doesn't keep tabs on mine. We're very distant relatives." Max seemed offended. It was pretty obvious that he and Nadine did not get along.
"You don't care that she's lying in the morgue right now?" Brass questioned.
"Not really." Max puffed. His cold-hearted ambivalence was uncanny. "Look, all I know is, she'd been spending a lot of her time at a bar called Shimmy. My buddies have seen her there on quite a few occasions. Don't let her innocent looks fool you. She ain't as virginal as you think." He cackled with insane laughter.
"I'm surprised you haven't asked for a lawyer yet." Brass tested.
"Don't need one. 'Cause I ain't done nothing. 'Sides, lawyers are leeches. They'll suck your blood dry then leave you hanging. Look where it got me." Max said referring to the conviction on his drug charge. He shifted in his chair. "Is there anything else, detective? Can I go now?" He sounded annoyed.
"Alright, but don't even think about skippin' town." Brass said. "We're done here."
Somehow, Grissom was not going to be pleased. Their only suspect was now no longer a suspect. They were back to square one. Brass' only hope was that something miraculous will turn up at Shimmy.
Grissom was on his way to the trace lab to see if Hodges had anything on the torn piece of fabric that was found in the sewers. He sauntered pass the lounge where Nick just finished pouring himself some coffee into a paper cup. Seeing Grissom walk by, Nick jogged up to meet him.
"Hey Griss." Nick called him from behind. "Mind if I walk with you?"
"Not at all." Grissom said. "Still drinking that?" He nodded to what he often referred to as "acid coffee."
"It's pretty bad, isn't it?" Nick frowned while looking into his coffee cup.
"You miss Greg's Blue Hawaiian, don't you?" Grissom tried to smile.
"Mmm, that was good coffee." Nick relished. "Hand-picked according to Greg, you know." He added humorously.
"Only forty bucks a pound." Grissom recalled and they chuckled lightly.
"Have you seen Greg? How's he doing?" Nick asked and the somber mode returned.
Judging by Grissom's frown, Nick figured it wasn't good. "Last I was there, he was running a high fever." Grissom explained.
"Sounds dangerous." Nick said in a serious tone.
"They're trying to keep him as comfortable as possible. His fever did go down slightly before I left." Grissom said. "Cool wet towels and ice."
"Greg seems to be having an awful hard time with this recovering." Nick shook his head.
"He's weak but at least he's getting better each day." Grissom replied.
"I'm going to swing by the hospital later and see him." Nick said as he took a sip of his coffee.
Grissom and Nick turned the corridor and arrived at the trace lab, where Hodges was waiting patiently for Grissom's arrival. His ability to know exactly when Grissom was coming always freaked everyone out. It was like as if he had some sort of weird "Grissom Radar" built into his brain.
Hodges had an unnatural way of putting Grissom on a pedestal. Not only did he desperately want to gain Grissom's favor, but he also intended to "out-shine" the entire crime lab. He was smart, and he knew it. But because he also allowed his ego to out-shine his ability, he was not always well-liked by the team. The team often put up with his sarcasm in order to solve the case. They believed Hodges to be one of those characters that they could never figure out. One minute, he was pompous and arrogant, and the next, he was compassionate.
Hodges was casually resting an elbow on the counter and staring straight at the door when Grissom entered. His mousy face lit up when he saw Grissom. But immediately frowned when he saw Nick shortly behind.
"I was expecting you." Hodges said to Grissom as he straightened the sleeve of his white lab coat. "By the way, you look very dashing today."
Nick shot an amused glance at Grissom's direction and forced himself to take another sip of that awful coffee.
"Did you get anything off that piece of fabric?" Grissom said after clearing his throat.
It was clearer than crystal that Hodges always sucked up to Grissom. Perhaps just about everyone knew. Unlike other supervisors and the higher-ups, Grissom didn't like the extra attention. Through Grissom's eyes, preferred treatment was not necessary. All any one had to do to gain his approval, was to do the work that was asked of him.
"The crud stuck on the fabric had high concentrations of petroleum hydrocarbon." Hodges began and was about to continue when Nick interrupted.
"Motor oil." Nick cut to the chase.
"I was just getting to that." Hodges puffed. He seemed annoyed at Nick's sudden outburst.
"I know my cars." Nick shrugged, secretly delighted that he stepped on Hodges' toe.
"It's Penzzoil, to be exact. Know anyone that uses Penzzoil?" Hodges squinted at Nick quizzically.
"Ahem." Grissom cleared his throat again, giving a hint to get things back on track.
"Would you like a cough drop?" Hodges said politely to Grissom, while ignoring Nick. "Really, you should take care of that raspy throat." He rambled.
"Is that all your findings?" Grissom said, growing more and more impatient.
"I ran some tests on the fabric and it's a durable canvas-like material – most likely found in denim or heavy duty work shirts." Hodges darted a mean look at Nick then softened again when he looked at Grissom. "And I found a small trace of blood absorbed into the weaves of the fabric. I sent it up to DNA."
"Anything else?" Grissom asked.
"No, that's about it." Hodges replied.
"Thank you, Hodges." Grissom said mechanically as he walked out of the lab, without giving Hodges the opportunity to suck up further. Nick followed Grissom out the door and gave Hodges a childish I-got-the-last-laugh grin before exiting. Hodges was left with mouth hanging as he watched the empty doorframe.
"Honey, what are you looking for?" Ingrid said to a restless Greg.
Ingrid glanced over in the direction that distracted her son. Apparently, he was looking at the table adjacent to where his mother sat. There was a wide table that resembled some sort of metal cabinet taking up nearly the entire stretch from the bed to the door. A few drawers with silver handles ran underneath the flat counter. No doubt they held emergency medical supplies and other hospital items.
On top of the table were a vast display of Get Well cards of all sizes and colors, along with flowers in a vase and a couple of teddy bears that the people back at the lab had sent him to cheer him up and wish him a speedy recovery.
"I wanted to see if there were any new cards that came." Greg said as he craned his neck to get a better look at the display.
"Don't you think that if you did, I would have told you?" Ingrid said rather humorously.
Greg made a mental count of which card was sent by whom and matched each card to a name…Grissom, Nick, Warrick, Catherine and Lindsay, Wendy, Archie, Mandy, Henry, Hodges, plus other lab rats that known Greg, as well as several people from the administration department. He even got one from Ecklie – which was a complete surprise. Greg guessed Ecklie did it not because he had a kind and sympathetic soul but because he was afraid his bureaucratic ass might get sued or something.
After a few more minutes of deciphering, Greg realized he couldn't find what he was looking for and gave up. Feeling slightly depressed, he stared down at the IV that was stuck in the crook of his arm.
"Was it a card in particular?" Ingrid finally asked.
"I – I was looking to see if dad sent me a card." Greg's voice reduced to a mumble.
"Oh." Ingrid said, not expecting Greg to say such a thing. "No. Not yet." She tried to sound hopeful.
"Well, I won't bank on it." Greg shrugged. He refused eye contact with his mother. "I mean what was I thinking anyway? Like he'd actually care?"
"Greg, don't say such things. There are lots of people who DO care about you. Focus on that."
"Mom, does he even know what happened to me?" Greg asked as he looked squarely into Ingrid's eyes to see if she would lie. "Honest, mom."
Ingrid sighed. "He knows. I called him." She hurried. This obviously wasn't good enough for Greg.
"Did he pick up the phone or was it his voice mail?" Greg pressed.
"Greg…" Ingrid said nervously, insisting him to stop doing this.
"How many times did you call him before you got through?" Greg's voice shook. Sometimes, it hurt to breath. The air he forced into his lungs burned his insides.
"Is this really necessary?" Ingrid's tone grew a notch louder.
"I just wanna know." Greg said stubbornly. "The truth. How many times?"
"Maybe ten or eleven times. I can't be certain. I was so distraught that day." Ingrid said in a small voice.
Greg was silent as he digested the answer.
"Why are you always hoping that man will wake up one day and welcome you back into his life with open arms?" Ingrid said.
"What did he say?" Greg asked, while ignoring his mother's question. "Tell me."
"Fine." Ingrid felt defeated. "When I got him on the phone, he was in the middle of a board meeting. I told him what happened. At first, he sounded concerned but then I heard a door slam in the background, then his manner changed. There must've been other people in the room when his secretary patched in the call. Afterwards, he just seemed sort of annoyed that I interrupted his meeting. There, you happy now?"
"Did he ask if I was alright?" Greg said.
"I told him you were in intensive care and at the time, things were looking grim." Ingrid stammered, her Norwegian accent getting a little thicker as she spoke. This often happened when she got nervous.
"Did he ask about me?" Greg repeated.
"He didn't have to. I already explained the situation to him." She said.
"I guess that's a no then." He answered his own question solemnly. "Well, if he did care at least a little bit, I would've heard from him by now."
"Greg, don't do this to yourself." Ingrid warned. "It's not worth it. He hasn't been in our lives for so many years already and we've gotten along fine without him. You should forget him."
"Since I almost died, I figured this might be a good incentive for him to see me. Thought I could've used this whole getting shot situation to my advantage. You know, rekindle our father-son relationship. I – I probably would've forgiven him too. But I was foolish to think that. This just proves it. You're right mom, I should forget dear old dad. It's pretty obvious now, that he doesn't care if I live or die."
Greg tried to appear unaffected by it but tears were already welling up in his eyes. He looked towards the window and pretended to be suddenly interested in a crow that was circling the sky – weaving in and out of view.
He wondered why life had to be so damn hard. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, to be liked, to belong somewhere. Being rejected by his own father was something of a final blow.
Ingrid noticed Greg quickly wiping a tear or two away with his left hand. It was bad enough he couldn't move his right arm. "Greg." Ingrid called. When Greg didn't listen she cupped each hand on his semi-wet cheeks gently and said, "Sweetheart, I want you to look at that table." She directed Greg's face towards the table displaying the cards and various gift items.
"Look at that table." Ingrid instructed. "Those are all the people who care about you. They are the ones who gave a damn if you live or die." She pointed to the cards. "Don't let one man's neglect blind you in realizing what you do have."
"I can't help but feel a little sorry for myself." Greg muttered. "I mean, they're great friends and somehow, I realized this more so now after all this. I can even feel that they've changed. I'm not used to the special treatment. I'd much rather be kicked around and under their thumb."
"You don't mean that."
"I kinda do." Greg said. "It's a comfort zone thing. You wouldn't understand, mom."
"I think Grissom, Nick, Warrick, and Catherine are good people and they mean well. They care about you as much as I do. I've seen their reactions and they are genuine."
Greg sighed heavily – and doing that was painful. He made a mental note not to breathe so hard until his lungs healed. They just weren't as strong as they used to be. "Well, it would've been nice if I got a card from dad at the very least. I wouldn't be so disappointed." He managed a little smile. When he saw his mother's cold stare at those words, he quickly said, "But I know I was just getting my hopes up. Hurts."
"I know it does, but we get over it eventually."
"I guess."
"Now, I don't want any more tears out of you." Ingrid ordered. "There will be no more talk about your father. We don't need to be reminded of him. We're gonna concentrate on the future, ok? You're going to get well and get back into the swing of things." She kissed the back of Greg's hand.
They were interrupted by a small knock on the door. The door swung open slowly and a head peaked in.
"Hey, hope I didn't come in a bad time," came the cheerful voice of Nick Stokes. "I brought us some lunch." He held out a large paper bag.
"Nick!" Greg winced, he breathed too deeply again. Once the pain went away, he continued. "I didn't think you'd come by until later."
"Naw, thought I'd come early today and bring lunch. Figured you're sick of this crappy hospital food. I went to Chipotle." Nick said as he walked to the middle of the room and set the paper bag down on the rolling table. He exchanged pleasantries with Ingrid and took the items out of the bag.
"I really hope y'all are hungry. I got plenty of food here." Nick said.
"Smells great." Greg said as he caught the strong aroma of spices, refried beans, and hot meat. He'd forgotten how hungry he was. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he felt this hungry. When the hospital food came round, he usually picked at it endlessly yet had no desire to eat it. His refusal to eat caused the doctors put him on the IV.
"I'm glad you think so," replied Nick. "Hope a chicken quesadilla's ok? I know you love those spicy jumbo cheese-n-beef guacamole burritos but I think it's gonna go rough on your stomach. You need to go easy and then build."
"It's fine." Greg said.
Greg thought it was interesting how Nick paid so much attention to detail. He was one of the few who actually gave a damn. Nick was the big brother that he never had. Even through his teasing and mocking, Nick was always there looking out for him and protecting him. Greg understood how all this must've affected Nick.
Greg watched Ingrid and Nick digging the bottom of the bag for forks and knives, set the food, take out napkins and distributing paper plates. Before the meal started, the ker-plunk sounds of soda cans opening filled the room. And because Greg was one arm short of use, Ingrid helped Greg cut the quesadilla into smaller pieces.
He hated to be spoon fed in front of Nick but after two or three tries on his own, he felt the debilitating pain. He was shot in the chest but all the muscles and nerves seem to be connected to each other in some insane way. When he moved his right usable arm, it hurt - when he breathed, it hurt – when he tried to move to a better position, it hurt – when he moved his hips, it hurt – when he moved his legs, it hurt. It was downright frustrating.
Ingrid noticed it before Nick. She was already aware of her son's physical limitations. Without saying a word, she proceeded to help Greg. She fed him forkfuls of food.
"You in pain?" Nick asked in between bites.
"Yea." Greg admitted. "I'm so wasted I can't even feed myself. How pathetic is that?"
"Ain't no shame in it. You've been through helluva lot and it's ok to let someone help you out." Nick said while chewing.
Greg shrugged and stared at his napkin.
"Well, thank you Nick, for bringing over lunch." Ingrid said cheerfully. "It was very thoughtful of you."
"Aw, it was nothing." Nick said. Greg could've sworn he saw Nick blush.
Greg ate his fill of food. It was probably more food than he had eaten in the last few days. Perhaps his appetite was creeping back. The Mexican food really hit the spot. He didn't even remember a chicken quesadilla tasting quite so delicious.
"Nick, I wanna ask you something." Greg said after the meal was finished.
"Shoot." Nick said while taking a sip from his can of soda.
"What's Grissom's plan?"
"What do you mean?" Nick sounded lost.
"Is – Is he gonna find a replacement for me?" Greg said in a low tone. Ingrid was busy cleaning up the garbage and was not within earshot.
"Replace you?! Why would he do that?" Nick said.
"Come on Nick. Be a pal. Just let me know if that's what he's gonna do."
"Wait – hold on a minute." Nick said with a laugh. "You've got it all wrong here."
"Isn't it obvious? I'm busted up real bad with getting shot and all. It's gonna take weeks of therapy before I get back up to speed with you guys. Then, he's gonna make me go get a psyche evaluation with the department shrink, which will then determine that I'm psychologically inept and so, I won't be allowed to come back to work."
"Whoa, Greg. You're jumping way ahead of yourself." Nick said. "Before you condemn yourself, let me tell you this. You are an important part of this team and you should know by now that we – Griss, Catherine, Warrick, me, you – we're more than a team. We're a family and we look out for each other. You're a part of us, Greg. We wouldn't just abandon you."
Greg should be worrying more about his health than his job security. His recovery was inching along at a slow pace. It was hard for him to realize what was happening, especially since everyone kept this from him. They felt there was no need to get him stressed out. Greg had a weak body since birth and the doctors were right. It seemed to take him longer to heal from wounds and recover from illnesses. This was the Greg that his mother knew.
Suffering from a near fatal gunshot wound to the chest was a far cry from a cold or a skinned knee. Gunshot injuries were no joke. Someone as weak as Greg was extremely lucky to have survived at all. Just about everyone knew that.
"So, Grissom has no intentions of replacing me?" Greg said sheepishly, feeling quite foolish.
"No, so you can relax. We won't trade you in for something new and shiny. Promise." Nick teased and laughed.
Looking quite pale still, Greg smiled and leaned the back of his head against his pillow.
End of Chapter 7
Author's Note: Thanks for reading!! Please sign a review if you get a chance!
