Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Spoilers: through "Bull"
Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.
Again, many humble thanks to Cincoflex and Laura27md for keeping me on the straight and narrow.
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The jackals were back.
Sara rested her wrists on the top of her steering wheel and gazed out through the windshield. There were at least seven or eight members of the press gathered around the lab doors, waiting for someone to come in or go out. She couldn't blame them for lying in wait; the news that one of the lab's own stood accused of the latest string of serial murders was an extraordinarily juicy tidbit in a city glutted with outrages and celebrities.
Not to mention the fact that the criminalist handling the investigation just happened to be the suspect's fiancée...
Her head weighed a ton.
Sara steeled herself and got out of her car, pushing up her sunglasses against the noon light. Despite Reyes' words, it had only taken the lab's top brass about twelve hours to call her in for a debriefing, and she knew it was going to be messy.
She closed the car door and headed for the lab with a long stride, hoping to get through the small mob as efficiently as she had before, but this time they saw her coming. They swept towards her, a noisy, flashing wave, thrusting mikes at her face and yelling questions that were nothing but a jumble of sound and her name. Sara put her head down and bulled forward, not even bothering to reply "no comment" and trying to restrain the urge to kick a few of them out of her way.
Suddenly the crowd parted before a couple of burly cops who closed around her and all but carried Sara forward and through the doors, leaving the reporters outside. One of the patrolmen halted to make sure that none of the reporters came in, while the other--Stevens, she thought his name was--escorted her into the lobby with one hand lightly on her elbow.
"Next time, call from the car," he said, and she looked up to see a sort of grim sympathy on his face. "We'll come out and escort you in."
Unable to form a reply, Sara nodded.
The lab held a certain indefinable hush, not at all its usual Dayshift busy hum; clearly everyone was aware of what had happened the night before. There was no one at the front desk at just that moment--even receptionists had to take bathroom breaks, Sara guessed--but as she walked towards Ecklie's office she could feel eyes following her in the various labs and offices. It was like the first time she'd come back after her kidnapping, only worse.
And there was nothing to do but get through it.
Ecklie's office was crowded with its owner, Under-Sheriff McKeen, Reyes, and--somewhat to Sara's surprise--Sheriff Burdick himself. All looked grave, though Reyes also seemed worried. Ecklie, oddly enough, had an edge of exasperation.
"CSI Sidle, please sit down," Burdick said, waving her to one of the chairs in a circle in front of Ecklie's desk. No thanks for coming in; but then, she hadn't expected any. She sat, and so did everyone else.
"First off, I want to apologize for the cramped quarters, but I want this meeting to remain absolutely confidential," Burdick began. "CSI Sidle, I realize you have recused yourself from this case--which is exactly what you should have done--but I need you to go over the particulars one more time, so that we all understand them."
"Do you want your notes?" Reyes broke in, and some small part of Sara appreciated the unspoken support in her boss' glance.
But the data were engraved on her mind's eye, and Sara feared that she would never be able to get rid of them. "No."
Taking a deep breath, she began to explain the case for the third time in twenty-four hours. It was easier this time, but the dry recital of facts still made her sick to her stomach.
When she had finished, the four of them asked her various questions about processing and the scenes themselves; more to clarify things, she thought, than because they doubted her.
Besides, it's all in my reports, with Ronnie and Oguntayo and Nat to corroborate. This is a formality.
McKeen pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "It's still fairly circumstantial," he said thoughtfully.
Ecklie, whose exasperation had faded during Sara's recital but had not disappeared, sighed. "I find this all very hard to believe. Not your work, Sidle--" He waved a dismissing hand. "--But the implications. Gil Grissom is a brilliant, if eccentric, investigator, and I find him as annoying as anyone else, but a murderer...?"
Sara blinked, taken aback by support from this unexpected quarter.
Burdick shook his head. "It does seem unlikely, but stranger things have happened."
The platitude made Sara's jaw clench. Burdick seemed bemused by the evidence of Grissom's guilt, but not upset; Sara supposed bitterly that to him Grissom was just one more playing piece.
"This reflects very badly on the lab," McKeen sighed. "Not to mention the loss of his grants and so forth."
"He hasn't yet been arraigned, yet alone tried," Reyes pointed out quietly. "Most of the evidence is, as you say, circumstantial, and the D.A. may not want to go up against a man of Grissom's reputation and probity."
"She'll have to," Burdick said sourly. "The publicity's too high on this one."
"Be that as it may--" Reyes started, but Ecklie cut in, his eyes narrowing.
"Gentlemen, Dr. Reyes, if I may--do we have any further questions for CSI Sidle?"
McKeen and Burdick collected themselves, and Sara saw temper flashing in Reyes' eyes, but the glance Ecklie shot Sara's way was faintly sympathetic, surprising her yet again.
"No, not at this time," Burdick said, echoed by McKeen's headshake. "Thank you, Ms. Sidle. You can go, and I strongly suggest you take a few days off--paid leave, of course."
"Please remain local," McKeen added. "We may have more questions as the case progresses."
Sara managed to keep from screaming at him, and rose. Reyes stood as well. "I need a minute to speak with CSI Sidle," she told the others, not waiting for permission before taking Sara's arm and guiding her out of the office.
The corridor was empty; someone was looking their way from an office down the hall, but Reyes' glare made the face disappear quickly. "Congratulations on keeping your temper," she said softly, glancing back to make sure the door had closed behind them. "I'm having trouble with mine."
Sara let out a shaky breath, Reyes' words sapping some of her anger but bringing her closer to some other loss of control. "Yelling at them wouldn't help my career any, I guess."
Reyes glanced at her sharply. "Probably not, no." She hesitated. "Have you seen Grissom since his arrest?"
"...No." His lawyer had called twice, but Sara had not picked up the phone, only listening to the voice mails afterwards. The man's formal words and cool tone had given no hint of pleading, but the mere fact that Grissom had asked to see her made her heart ache unbearably.
Reyes sighed. "You can, you know; it's somewhat irregular, but since you're no longer working the case, your interest is strictly personal."
"I know." Sara looked away.
Reyes patted her arm. "All right. I have to get back in there, but if you need anything, or if you think of anything--case-related or not--give me a call at any time, you understand?"
Sara nodded distantly. Under other circumstances, she would have been touched by her boss' concern. "Okay."
Reyes sighed again, then let her go. "It's not your fault, Sara. Remember that."
Opening the door, she slipped back into Ecklie's office, from which spilled rising male voices. The closing door cut them off and left Sara in an empty hallway.
Her feet began to move before she thought about it, carrying her not towards the front doors but deeper into the building. Back when Sara had first arrived at the lab, she had been initiated into a small secret of the building by some of the other smokers; the back fire door that could be jimmied so that it could open without triggering an alarm.
She hadn't smoked in years, but she remembered the trick. The back parking lot looked odd; she was used to seeing it under night skies and yellow lights, not half-filled with vehicles and basking concretely in the sun. Sara let the door slip shut behind her and headed left.
It was a long walk around the building to where her car was parked, but it was infinitely preferable to running the gauntlet of press again, even with the two officers to guard her.
Though where she was going to go, Sara didn't know.
The phone rang several times during the long, quiet afternoon. Sara didn't budge from her spot on the couch, only staring blankly at the ceiling as the rings echoed through the main room and doing her very best to think about nothing at all. But eventually she forced herself upright to listen to the voicemail.
Three calls from reporters, asking for statements; one from Catherine, demanding an explanation; one each from Nick and Warrick, awkwardly asking if Sara was okay; and two more from Grissom's lawyer.
The mere quiet persistence of the latter told her how much Grissom wanted to see her, but guilt kept Sara on the sofa.
Guilt...and fear.
He should hate me for what I've done.
And she wasn't sure what would be worse: Grissom angry and accusing, or that eerie calm he'd displayed when she'd told him what she'd found.
As the afternoon waned into evening, Sara finally made herself get up, going into the kitchen to make herself some tea on the vague realization that she was getting dehydrated. Distracted and tired, she picked up the phone out of sheer habit when it rang again, only realizing what she'd done when she spoke into the receiver. "Hello?"
"Sara--" It was Brass, sounding annoyed. "I know you don't want to talk to anyone right now, but I'm being blackmailed."
Sara frowned down at the kettle as she filled it. "You're what?"
She heard a mutter that seemed distant from the receiver, and the small indistinct noises of a cellphone being moved, and then her name again.
In Grissom's voice.
"Don't hang up," he said quickly, a touch of pleading in his voice. "Please, Sara, just listen."
Her throat was too dry to answer, but Grissom seemed to take that as permission to continue. "This isn't your fault--you followed the evidence. Sara, do you understand me?"
The kettle was a fat and pleasing shape, resting squarely on the burner, implying the comfort of hot drinks and all that went with them--cocoa, tea, the seep of warmth through mugs and into hands. She couldn't take her eyes off it.
"You have to understand this," Grissom went on, the pleading sliding towards desperation. "I don't blame you, Sara. You did everything right. Sometimes the evidence just--"
She still couldn't force her voice to work. In the background she heard Brass. "Someone's coming, give me that!"
A confusion of voices, a complicated clatter, a final click. Grissom was gone.
Sara set the phone back in its cradle. What had he been trying to tell her? That he was guilty?
That she wasn't?
Sara traced one finger over the cold metal curve of the kettle, then left it to sit on the unlit stove. Grabbing her jacket, she left the silent house behind.
The thing about Vegas, Sara thought dully, was there was always something to do when one had insomnia. The bells and lights and crowd noises produced a sort of numbness, replacing thought and allowing a vague approximation of peace to creep in. She'd left analysis behind the night before, when the evidence could not be ignored, and all that remained was her aching tangle of doubt.
Sara didn't know how long she had been walking the Strip--hours, judging from the ache in her calves. She'd fled into the evening, looking for some place other than a bar to drown her thoughts. The Strip had served the purpose admirably, allowing her tight, endless circle of recrimination and disbelief to ease a little.
Now her dry eyes saw dawn starting to tinge the sky. She'd stopped for coffee at the Peppermill, to give her feet a break and warm up her chilled fingers, but it nonetheless surprised her that she was still walking.
Maybe if I go home I can sleep.
Yeah, right.
She had almost made up her mind to go see Grissom as soon as visiting hours permitted. Just the thought hurt her, but he had asked, and...she owed him.
Besides, some part of her craved the sight of him.
His behavior had left her deeply confused. He hadn't denied her charge, nor admitted it; he hadn't seemed panicked, or even very upset, except for the illicit call from Brass' phone.
I honestly don't know if that indicates guilt or not.
Gil...
She kept moving. Maybe if I get a motel room I'll be able to sleep. Nice anonymous sheets and mattress...
It was proof of her exhaustion that the idea didn't immediately nauseate her.
Sara was contemplating the idea of sleeping pills without much interest when her phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out, Sara read the message on the small screen.
Whr the hll r u?
It was from Greg.
Bemused, she stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, out of the main path of the crowd, and dialed his number. It picked up on the first ring. "Sara?"
"Yeah. What's the matter, Greg?"
His voice was impatient, excited. "You're not home, that's what's the matter. And you're not at the lab, or at the PD. I need to talk to you."
Sara sighed, not willing to face even her friends just yet. "Greg, I don't really want to--"
"I don't care." His harsh tone widened her eyes. "Sara, I needto talk to you. Get your butt home."
For a moment, Sara contemplated hanging up on him, but he didn't deserve that. "All right. Where are you?"
"At your house, duh," Greg said. "How d'you think I know you're not here?"
A faint glimmer of humor made her blink. "Right. I'll be there soon."
"Good." He sounded downright grumpy. "Hurry up, the coffee's getting cold."
Sara closed her phone, curiosity stirring slightly at Greg's uncharacteristic stridency. What bug crawled up his ass?
She was home within twenty minutes, a headache throbbing at the base of her skull and her temper shortening with the renewal of thought. Greg was sitting on the front steps, with Ronnie next to him, and Sara frowned in surprise and speculation. What's she doing here?
His VW was on her side of the driveway, so Sara parked next to it and climbed out. Greg was on his feet before she'd even gotten the door open, waving a thermos. Ronnie was carrying a doughnut box that Sara recognized as coming from the Fractured Prune, just down the street from the police department.
Sara crossed the expanse of sand and cobbles that served her and Grissom as a front yard, skirting the cacti with the ease of habit, and squinted at her visitors. "What the hell is going on, Greg?"
"Inside." At her frown, he gestured impatiently. "I'll explain as soon as we get in, I promise. C'mon, Sara, don't you trust me?"
He was excited, certainly, but the edge of manic humor was notably missing. And when you put it like that...
She unlocked the door and went in, letting them follow as they pleased. Greg strode in as if he'd been there more than twice, while Ronnie hung back near the door, looking around and still clutching the box.
Greg went straight over to the kitchen and unhooked three mismatched mugs from the mug tree, then filled them with the contents of the thermos. Rich coffee scent oozed out into the room, and all of a sudden Sara was aware of a sharp hunger.
"Here." Greg patted the breakfast bar, and Sara blinked, but he had been addressing Ronnie. She brought over the box and put it down, opening the lid to reveal the fresh warm doughnuts.
Greg handed each of them a mug. "To the creation of Operation Save Grissom," he said, lifting his own, and drank.
Automatically, Sara did likewise, and the hot dark flavor filled her mouth, sliding warmly down to her stomach in what felt like the first comfort she'd experienced in days.
It didn't make Greg's statement any clearer, though. "What are you talking about?"
"Jeez, Sara, you don't think we were just going to stand by and let this all happen, did you?" The look Greg bent on her was chiding. "Grissom needs us to figure out what's really going on."
Her tired brain couldn't quite make that compute, and it made her anger rise again. "What's really going on? All the evidence points to Grissom killing those kids, Greg, that's what's really going on." She set the mug down with a snap. "Either the evidence is right, and he did, or I fucked it up majorly and he--"
She choked off the words, closing her eyes tightly and trying to take a deep breath. As if from a long way away, she heard Ronnie ask something in a soft voice.
Greg's answer was almost as quiet. "Down the hall, first door on your right."
A moment later a cool hand gripped her wrist, and Sara opened her eyes to find herself being towed to the living room space. Greg made her sit on the couch and take her coffee mug back, then sat on the coffee table in front of her. "Drink."
She was too tired to argue with him. The coffee shrank the lump in her throat, even if it didn't get rid of it entirely, and Sara cradled the vessel in both hands, meeting Greg's eyes.
They were as solemn as ever she'd seen them. "Sara...can't you see it? Grissom's being framed."
Framed?
Her jaw loosened, but Greg's last three words lit a spark in her darkness, blossoming into a stunned, incredulous hope, breaking her out of her tight, tired loop of guilt and disbelief. Sara stared at him for what felt like forever, trying to process the idea, trying to take it in. Her heart snatched hungrily at it, an explanation that made all the pieces fit, not just the evidence.
Framed. Of course--what the hell--
"I can't believe I didn't think of that," she said at last. "Greg, how could I not thinkof that?"
Fury rose in her, acid anger at herself for not seeing the obvious, but before she could let it loose Greg patted her shoulder. His grin held an edge of glee, but his expression was sympathetic.
"It's been a rough week, Sar, cut yourself a break. We're trained to follow evidence, and this is just speculation." He puffed out a breath. "After all, it's been what, just a day since everything happened? And it's not like you haven't had, um, other stuff to think about."
With an effort Sara stilled the new clamor of guilt and anger, concentrating instead on the hope. "But you think it's true." Energy was returning to her, her muscles tightening with the urge toprove Grissom innocent right that very second.
"It's the only logical explanation," Greg said, spoofing slightly. "You and me and the others, we know Grissom. He's not a baby-killer. And he's got to have a million enemies after a career like his."
"This is true." Sara sipped absently at her coffee. "I don't know, Greg--where are we going to start? This guy is really, really good at what he does. I'm off the case, and they sure as hell aren't going to let you work it either--"
"--But Ronnie hasn't worked with Grissom," Greg cut in triumphantly. "Ecklie's handpicking a Dayshift team to take over the case, but Dr. Reyes insisted that Ronnie stay with it. So we have an inside source."
Sara shook her head, unable to keep back the protest. "That's highly unethical, we can't ask her to risk her career--"
"She volunteered," Greg said firmly. "And I'm going with 'it's easier to get forgiveness than permission' on this one. You know the lab doesn't want to lose him either, Sar--if we can prove he's innocent, they'll be grateful."
"Optimist," Sara muttered, meaning the odds of gratitude from the lab's top brass. At least they dropped that idiotic rule last year, the one about getting fired after an arrest.
Greg shrugged, and said nothing, waiting. Sara squeezed her eyes shut, and saw Grissom being led away in cuffs, every detail far too vivid.
Gil.
"Okay," she said abruptly. "Let's do this thing."
Greg whooped, and snatched her up into a hug that made the fact that she'd emptied her mug a good thing. Sara felt a smile starting, a real one, and her heart lifted.
"This is good, this is great," Greg said happily. "With three of the best brains in the lab on the case, we're gonna get this guy."
Sara extracted herself from his arms. "Three?" she asked in a low voice, slightly baffled; she knew Ronnie was smart, but--
"Yeah, have you seen her résumé? C'mon, let's get started." He bounced over to the breakfast bar to grab the box of doughnuts and gestured impatiently, and Sara followed. Hope was a dizzying elixir in her veins, and even though she had no idea what they could do to help Grissom, it was utter relief to have another explanation.
Ronnie was perched on the edge of Grissom's desk chair, tapping at her laptop; she had pushed aside Grissom's keyboard. Greg plucked a doughnut from the box and put the container down next to Ronnie, then leaned on the edge of the desk where he could see the screen.
"Don't get crumbs on his papers," Sara warned, and Greg sneered affably.
"We're saving his butt, he won't care. What have we got, CSI Lake?"
Ronnie straightened, glancing at Sara, who came to look over her other shoulder. "I managed to get almost all the Pied Piper case reports and photos onto one thumb drive." Ronnie gestured at the screen. "Tox reports, fingerprints, autopsies--"
Her confidence seemed to grow as no one interrupted. "I was thinking, we should reexamine all the evidence in light of our new hypothesis. I mean, you said--" She looked at Sara again. "--that we should make the theory fit the evidence, not the other way around, but all that does is lead us back to Dr. Grissom, so..."
Sara reached over Ronnie's head to whap the snickering Greg on the arm. "Ignore him, he doesn't appreciate a good quote. Sounds like a plan, Ronnie--we can look at each piece again and see where it takes us."
Ronnie beamed.
Grissom's printer hummed for a long time, and each of them took a stack of case reports out to the big main room, scribbling notes in the margins and trading files as they finished. The doughnuts disappeared rapidly, and when the midmorning sun was halfway across the floor, Sara climbed to her feet and went in search of the phone.
"What?" Greg asked distractedly, not even looking up from his work.
"We need serious pie if we're going to keep going," Sara answered, punching up the speed-dial for Tuscany Pizza. "Ronnie, what do you want on yours?"
When the doorbell rang Ronnie started to get up, but Sara shook her head, both at her colleague and at Greg's reach for his wallet. "I've got this."
The other two seemed to take the delivery as a sign that it was time for a break, standing and stretching. Sara fetched plates and drinks, and for a little while there was mostly just munching.
The hot food lifted the fog of Sara's exhaustion somewhat. "Did you guys tell anyone that you were coming here?"
Ronnie shook her head. "No," Greg said. "Why, you want Nick and Warrick and Cath in on this?"
"No," Sara said quickly, knowing that keeping their work clandestine would be difficult enough as it was. "No, I think it's better if it's just us three. But Ronnie, I don't think you should come here again."
"Why not?" Ronnie asked, looking puzzled.
"Because sooner or later you guys on the case are going to have to process this house," Sara pointed out. "Grissom's a suspect--the lab's going to tear this place apart looking for evidence."
"Oh. Right," Ronnie said. Greg winced.
"Shit. I'm sorry, Sara, I didn't even think of that."
Sara shrugged. "There's nothing we can do about it now. Did anyone see you when you were waiting for me?"
Ronnie wrinkled her nose, thinking. "A couple of cars drove by, but it was just dawn--I don't think anyone was really looking. Somebody did run by on the other side of the street, but he had a dog on a leash and it was taking his attention."
"And we have my car," Greg put in.
Sara nodded. "All right. You two need to get some sleep before shift, so let's see what we have, and then you should go."
"Well, the fingerprints could have been faked with the right materials," Ronnie began. "Either by lifting them directly or by making a set that covers the killer's fingers."
"Expensive, but possible," Greg agreed. "We're talking serious obsession, though."
"Pretty much," Sara said somberly.
Greg grimaced in agreement. "The hair could go either way--without a tag, it could actually be Grissom's or just from someone with similar hair."
Ronnie frowned again, this time in thought. "Mmm...excuse me a second?"
She put down her plate and went back into Grissom's study. Greg watched her go, then turned back to Sara. "The car fibers could have come from Grissom's car or just a similar model--I suppose we could check for rentals..."
"Not without a warrant," Sara pointed out. "We can keep it in mind."
"Was his car broken into recently?" Greg asked with sudden interest. Sara blinked.
"Not that I know of...and he would have mentioned it."
"Maybe we should look." Greg waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
The handles of the doors on Grissom's Mercedes looked untouched, but with the strength of Sara's magnifying glass they found minute, fresh scratches around the trunk lock.
"Grissom's not careless with his keys." Sara stared at the little lines--the first possible evidence that Greg's madcap theory might be right.
"We should open it, see if there's any trace inside," Greg said, but Sara shook her head sharply.
"No. We'll leave that to the lab."
Greg opened his mouth to argue, then slowly smiled. "Gotcha."
When they got back inside Ronnie was eating another slice of pizza, a fresh printout in front of her. Sara gave her a tight smile.
"Ron, when your team comes to process this house, I want you to pay special attention to Grissom's car. Particularly the trunk lock and interior."
Ronnie looked from Sara to Greg and back, and then nodded slowly, understanding. "Right."
She picked up the printout and passed it to Sara. "Here. I remembered seeing this online a while back."
It was a journal article announcing a new way of obtaining mitochondrial DNA from hair that lacked skin tags. Sara read it through quickly, impressed by the science, but looked up with regret.
"It's a great idea, but one short strand of hair probably isn't enough."
Ronnie grimaced. "I figured, but I thought you should see it anyway."
Greg held out a hand, and Sara gave him the article. "It could really be his hair, too," she said. "It could even still be cross-contamination--we just don't know."
"If the killer could get Grissom's prints, it shouldn't be too hard to get some hairs too," Greg commented absently as he read. "Might even be easier."
"And it looks as though the car fibers are planted as well," Sara added, and shook her head. "Whoever this is knows Grissom."
"Should we be making a list of possible suspects?" Ronnie asked hesitantly.
Sara shook her head again. "Too big. Grissom has dealt with thousands of suspects during his career, and it doesn't even have to be a perp--it could be a family member or a friend, or even someone whose attacker wasn't convicted, for instance."
"We need more data," Greg sighed, tossing down the paper.
"Well, whoever this is has to be kind of rich," Ronnie said. Sara cocked her head, and the younger woman elaborated. "You said to check out silver purchases, Sara. There's a lot of them, and I couldn't find anything to link to anyone, but it's not that cheap. Between the beads, the silver chains, and the medals, the chaplets probably cost a lot to make."
"Then why use such cheap crucifixes?" Greg complained, picking up the relevant report. "Real crystal beads, but pot metal crosses?"
Sara smiled, another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. "Because they're harder to trace, Greg. Beads and chain get sold in bulk all the time, but a bulk purchase of solid silver crucifixes is not only really expensive, but it stands out."
Ronnie sat back, tapping her lips with her pen, then scribbled another note. "I'll make sure to run Grissom's financial records," she said, and grinned at Sara's nod of approval.
"All right," Greg said, burying his face in his hands and rubbing wearily. His voice was muffled. "Whoever this guy is, he knows how Grissom feels about kids, and--as you said, Sara--keeps track of where he goes."
Greg dropped his hands, blinking; his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, but still bright. "Ronnie, you'd better add a tracking device to your search."
Sara sat up straight. "He drove a lab SUV to McGill."
"You think someone tagged all of the lab vehicles?" Ronnie asked, scribbling.
"No...that would be harder to do," Sara said, her shoulders slumping.
Greg narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, but all he would need was an inside track on lab assignments. That kid was taken from Moapa, right? So if the killer knew Grissom was going up there, all he would have to do was pick a victim and wait until he came through town."
"He'd have to know about the detour on 93," Sara pointed out, but Greg scoffed.
"Everyone would know about that, it was on the news. Do you think we're dealing with a lab insider here?"
They were all silent a moment; the thought was unpleasant in the extreme, and Sara didn't want to contemplate the idea of any of their colleagues murdering children, let alone setting up Grissom.
"Maybe," she said finally. "Obviously the killer understands forensics. But they could also have hacked into the admin system--didn't Archie say it had bad security?"
"'More holes than Swiss cheese'," Greg quoted dryly.
"And they know Grissom's Catholic," Ronnie added.
"Not...exactly," Sara said slowly. "He said himself that he's not really a Catholic any more."
"So the chaplets don't fit?" Greg asked.
Sara pursed her lips. "It depends on how you look at it, I guess...I mean, I thought he was doing it because he'd flipped out."
Greg shrugged, conceding. "But if he didn't..."
"Then the killer is working from a false assumption," Sara concluded. "And that means that they've made their first mistake."
"Second," Greg corrected, and grinned. "The first was pissing you off."
