A/N: More concerned Tim for you today...and I must confess, this is my favorite chapter so far. It practically wrote itself--I sat down at the computer and in a very short amount of time I had the first draft, presto! Just like that. I almost didn't even have to think--my fingers just kept typing. When I read the finished product I thought "wow, I really like that!"...and hopefully you will too :-)
Horatio snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, scanning the visible parts of the lab for Tim. Turning a corner, he poked his head into the Trace Lab and found his CSI bent over a microscope.
"Speed."
"Hey, H," Tim replied without lifting his eyes from the scope.
Horatio frowned, searching for the right words. "Speed, I just got off the phone with the prosecutor's office. They, uh…they want to do a lineup with Aaron Polanski."
Tim straightened up. "That's Allyson Brooks' attacker."
"Mmhmm."
Tim studied his boss's face, looking for any sign that he might be joking. He found none. "You can't be serious," he protested. "We've got a mountain of solid physical evidence on this guy—there is absolutely no doubt that he broke into her home and stabbed her four times. We don't need Allyson to ID him."
"Yes, I know," the elder man replied understandingly. "But juries like eyewitness testimony. They understand it, they're comfortable with it. And if she—a victim conscious during her attack—doesn't identify him, they're going to wonder why."
"The description she gave us in the hospital matches Polanski to a T," Tim persisted.
Horatio nodded. "Yes, but you and I both know that a description is not the same as a positive identification."
"So the State's Attorney is gonna make her come in and go through the whole attack again in her mind, just so he can make some jury feel better?" Tim could feel the heat rising in his face, his hands balling up into fists.
Horatio shifted his feet, making sure to look his subordinate in the eye as he spoke. "If the jury is sure, this guy never sees the light of day again. And that's the goal, isn't it? So he can't hurt anyone else."
"But to put her through that when we don't have to?" Tim continued, his voice rough. "It isn't right, H, and you know it."
"She's a resilient woman, Speed. You've told me so yourself a number of times."
"She is," Tim acquiesced. "But that shouldn't mean she has to suffer more just because she can handle it."
Horatio shook his head. "I agree with you, one hundred percent. But unfortunately, that isn't the prosecutor's position."
Tim's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Can I at least be there with her if she wants me to? Her parents are a wreck, and that friend of hers, Amanda, isn't much better off."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Speed. You're the lead CSI on her case…"
"PD does lineups, though," Tim interrupted. "I'd be totally hands-off for that, anyway." Horatio opened his mouth, but Tim kept going without giving him the chance to talk. "Come on, H., you know how hard identifications are for victims—Allyson's going to need someone to be there for her no matter how strong she is. And the three people that care most about her in the world are too fragile to support her. If the State's Attorney is going to compel her cooperation, I want the chance to be there with her if she needs me."
Horatio studied Tim, noting the hard set of his facial features, the stiffness of his posture. Frowning again, he made a decision. "Alright," he said. "If she wants you there, you can be there. I'll fix it with the prosecutor."
Momentarily confused at his small victory, Tim squinted at Horatio, looking for the catch. When he realized there wasn't one, he relaxed a bit. "Thanks."
"But you're wrong about one thing," Horatio added, making his way out of the room.
"What's that?"
He smiled kindly at the younger man. "There are four people that care the most about Allyson Brooks, not three."
———
That evening after his shift, Tim found himself standing on Amanda's front porch, ringing her doorbell.
When Allyson opened the door, she saw the expression on his face and knew something was wrong. Inviting him inside and leading him into the living room, she steeled herself for the blow. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"
His surprise at her ability to read him registered only briefly before he pushed it to the back of his mind. "We need you to come in for a lineup," he told her, keeping his voice even.
She stared blankly back at him. "What?"
"You need to come down to the police station and identify your attacker," he clarified.
She continued to stare, the wheels now turning in her mind as she processed his words. "I…I have…to face him…again?" she asked slowly.
He touched her arm, gesturing for her to sit down on the couch and taking a seat beside her. "You'll be in a room with a one-way window, just like you see on those crime shows on TV," he explained. "Six guys that all have the same general description will walk in to a room on the other side of the window, but they won't be able to see you. All you have to do is tell the detectives which one of the guys is the man who attacked you."
"I don't know if I can do it," she replied quietly, her head bent in contemplation.
"Yes you can," he answered. "Hey, look at me." Hooking a finger under her chin, he lifted her eyes to his. "Yes you can," he repeated firmly.
She saw the anger in his eyes, directed at the scum that had almost robbed her of her life. But she could also see faith there, his confidence in her, and she took comfort in it. "Thank you," she smiled softly.
His forehead wrinkled in response. "For what?"
"For not treating me like a child, like I can't take care of myself," she continued. "My parents and Amanda have been great, and they try so hard to make sure I'm okay, but they don't really know how to behave around me since the attack. So they treat me like a little girl, or like a…like a victim. You never do, though."
"You're a strong woman, and that's how I treat you," he replied simply, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. "Look, you told me that you felt like this guy had taken control of your life away from you. The lineup is a way for you to get some of it back. Yeah, it's gonna be tough. But you're tougher."
She smiled again, a small, appreciative smile. "Okay."
"You'll do it?"
"Yeah," she confirmed. "I'll do it. You're right—this is a way to get control of my life back, something I can do to help myself." She was silent for a moment, visualizing the identification in her mind, before she spoke again. "Can…can you be there with me? Will they let you do that?"
He nodded, thankful that he had won this concession, at least, from Horatio. "If you want me there."
"Even though you know who he is? You interrogated him."
"As a CSI, I won't have anything to do with the lineup; that's for the detectives to setup. So I can sit with you before you go in, and I can be in the room with you when you make the ID. I'll have to stand in the back, where you can't see me or pick up any type of signal from me, but I can be there."
The relief was evident on her face. "Good. I want you there."
"Okay," he said. "Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. I'll pick you up at eight thirty…unless you'd rather have your parents or Amanda take you."
"No," she responded. "This has been hard enough on them already. I don't want to make it worse."
"Okay," he repeated, rising from the couch. "I'll be here in the morning. Try and get some sleep tonight."
"I'll try." She rose as well and nodded. "You too."
He slipped out the door and across the street, climbing behind the wheel of his Hummer. Running a hand through his hair, he let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah. Me too."
———
Tim pulled into the driveway at the appointed hour the next morning, hoping his restless night didn't show too badly on his face. If she sees that I'm nervous, it's going to make her more nervous. And she's got enough to worry about. He rang the doorbell and tried to look encouraging when she answered it.
"Ready?" he asked.
Allyson pressed her lips together with tight resolve. "As I'll ever be."
The ride to PD was quiet, with only the sounds of the road and the music on the radio to break up the silence. Tim drove steadily along, glancing out of the corner of his eye every so often at Allyson in the passenger seat, trying to assure himself that bringing her in was the right thing to do. He noticed the distinct pallor of her skin, her hands resolutely clutching her purse in her lap, the distant look in her eyes as they watched but did not register the scenery flashing by the window. She's doing okay, he told himself. Not great, but okay. Calm.
When they arrived, he pulled into a parking space and helped her from the vehicle, her wounds still tender and the drop from the Hummer to the pavement a long one. Once on the ground, she looked into his dark eyes, gathering herself and drawing strength from him. He waited a moment, never breaking eye contact with her, until she gave him a little nod.
"Okay," he told her. "Here we go."
He guided her inside the vast building and through a series of corridors, stopping when they reached a doorway adjacent to a black metal bench. Motioning for her to sit, he followed suit beside her.
"What now?" she asked.
"Now," he answered, "we wait. The six guys will come in through a door from another hallway. When everything's ready, someone will come out and get you."
She nodded, fixing her gaze on the wall opposite her and taking slow, deep breaths to combat the tremors that began to manifest in her hands. Wordlessly, he reached over and took one of those hands, clasping it reassuringly in his. He didn't look at her, didn't even steal a peripheral glance, but he felt her hand grip his securely and the trembling begin to diminish.
Mercifully, it wasn't long before Detective Tripp appeared. "Showtime."
Allyson took one more deep breath and let it out slowly, smiling inwardly when Tim squeezed her hand. He really thinks I can do this. Glancing from him to Tripp, she nodded her consent. "Okay."
She rose from the bench, releasing Tim's hand, and entered the lineup room flanked by the two men. Behind her, she heard Tim move to the back of the room, off to the side with the prosecutor and Aaron Polanski's attorney, while Tripp shepherded her to the window.
"Now you're sure you haven't watched the news or read a newspaper since your attack?" he asked clearly, so that both lawyers could hear.
"That's right," Allyson answered resolutely. "I was there. I don't need to read about it in the paper."
That seemed to satisfy the detective. "Six men will come in to the room on the other side of this window," he explained. "I'll have them face the window, turn to their left, turn to their right, then face the window again. If you see the man that attacked you, write down the number he's wearing on this," he handed her a small pad of paper and a pen.
"Okay," she repeated, taking the paper and pen. Allyson faced the window and watched as six men, all approximately six feet tall with blond hair, filed into the room on the other side of the glass. When they were all inside, Tripp instructed them to turn first left, then right, then back to their starting positions. She went down the row, studying each one individually, trying to fit one of them to her memories of the attack.
When she got to the man wearing number four her hands began to shake, more violently this time than they had in the corridor. She knew instantly that this was the man that had tried to kill her. The terror she had felt that night came surging back, and she found herself unable to make her fingers hold the pen correctly.
Tim saw the panic in her body language, his eyes narrowing as the shaking spread from her hands to the rest of her limbs. He commanded himself to remain still, knowing that if he went to her he'd compromise the lineup and hamper the chances of putting this creep away, no matter how much evidence they had against him. Instead, he fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt, willing Allyson to stay strong. You can do it, Ally, I know you can.
She reacted then as though she could hear him, tearing her eyes away from the window and focusing instead on the pad of paper. She forced her fingers to grip the pen properly and wrote down the number "4", looking up for Detective Tripp.
"That's him?" he asked, taking the paper from her.
Her voice was more firm than he'd anticipated, her determination reclaiming her from her fear. "That's him."
Behind her, she heard Tim blow out a breath he'd been holding in anticipation. He didn't know yet who she'd identified, but he didn't care. She had made it though.
"Okay," Tripp replied. "Thank you for coming in." He flashed the note pad to the two lawyers. "That should do it."
Allyson turned, searching out Tim and smiling with weak triumph when she found him.
His expression was laced with relief as he walked toward her. When he reached her he took her hand again, the warm pressure comforting them both. "Home?" he asked.
She felt the energy draining out of her and closed her eyes, bowing her head against his shoulder. "Home."
