Chapter 7
People, Sara mused, respond to stressors in unique and unpredictable ways. In the aftermath of Nick's kidnapping and rescue Ecklie had restored the graveyard shift, Warrick had gotten married, Hodges had revealed himself to be a team member who truly cared about his colleagues (who ever would have guessed?) and she and Grissom had gotten a dog. Priorities being what they were, Grissom had been laser focused on rescuing Nick, but once Nick was safe, and he had his team – his little family – back together, the dogs Walter Gordon had killed really bothered him. The first time she's awoken to find him standing staring out the window, she thought maybe he'd had a nightmare about Nick, until he turned to her.
"He suffocated one, and vivisected the other. Complete innocents, not involved in what happened to his daughter. What kind of person does that?"
"The same kind who kidnaps a criminologist and buries him underground in a Plexiglas coffin."
"I suppose." But it was obvious the answer didn't satisfy him. With all the horrible things they'd seen people do to people, it wasn't clear to Sara what it was about this particular act that so stuck in his craw, but she was well aware that sometimes it's the littlest thing that makes a situation intolerable. While there's no explaining it, there's no getting around it either. Eventually she concluded that part of what bothered Grissom so much was that Gordon had gotten the dogs at the Humane Society.
"They're supposed to protect the animals, to help them find a better life. Not to hand them over to someone who is going to cut them up while still alive, just to get entrails to use as bait," he tried to explain. It was Tuesday morning, fifteen minutes after walking through the door at the end of a long shift. They were shoulder to shoulder, slumped on the couch, coffee cups in hand, still wound up from work and not nearly ready for sleep, but too tired to do much of anything else. While the night shift had been restored on paper, actually shifting people's work schedules around was taking a bit of time. Plus, Nick was still in the hospital and weeks away from returning to work. Therefore, at least for a little while longer they continued to be off together on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
"Hey, Gris?""
"Hmmm?"
"What if we went to the Humane Society this morning and picked out a dog? We can't save the two dogs murdered by Gordon, but we can make sure another one is safe and loved."
"I always wanted a dog when I was a kid."
"I know someone who does doggy daycare, open 24-7."
"Gotta love Vegas…"
"And we could put a dog door into the back yard. It's already fenced. Starting as soon as we get everything straightened out, we're going to be back on shifting schedules so that three or four nights a week one or the other of us should be here. Working out the logistics won't be hard. What do you say? Should we go look?"
The old fashioned brindle boxer had been in the last kennel they'd looked in. Not a puppy any more, although not an old dog, he'd been passed over by all the people looking for babies.
"An adult dog is better for us anyway. Look, it says he's house broken, already obedience trained, good with kids, other animals, new people…" Sara read off his information. Grissom watched him thoughtfully. The dog sat and studied him in return.
"My uncle had a Boxer. I've always really liked them." He pondered the dog some more. "I'm not sure he likes us, though."
Sara smiled sadly at him. "That's because you've never been in a situation where you were waiting, hoping for someone to take you home. He's not unfriendly, he's reserved. He's trying not to get his hopes up again, so that they won't be dashed. I've got a feeling about this dog, Grissom. I think this is our dog."
So he'd gone to find an attendant and they'd spent a half hour getting to know the dog. He warmed up to Sara first, but she saw the same recognition she herself had felt the first time she met Grissom reflected in the dog's eyes. "This man is special, and if only someday he thought I was special too…" There was no doubt in her mind that while the dog would love her too, his heart already belonged to Gris.
Grissom filled out the adoption paperwork and paid the fee. Sara walked the dog to the car.
"We need a crate, a seat belt, a bed, a leash and collar, bowls, dog food, a dog door, some toys…" She ticked off a mental list as they drove to Petco.
"I thought you said the logistics would be easy?"
"Easy, I said, not inexpensive."
But Grissom's smile and the frequent glances he cast in the rear view mirror, watching their new companion sitting politely watching out the window as the car rolled down the street belied his complaint.
"What do you think we should name him?" Sara asked. "Something literary? Something entomologic?"
"I already named him," Grissom replied.
"Really?"
"Really."
"And?"
"His name is Hank." And for the first time, Sara realized just how long Grissom could carry a grudge. She had dated paramedic Hank Pettigrew for about fifteen months after Grissom had all but pushed her into his arms, but had broken things off abruptly after learning that Pettigrew was engaged to another woman. It had been her one attempt at a relationship with anyone else since the day she first met Grissom. She caught him watching her, hesitation that had not been in his voice reflected in his eyes. She grinned back at him.
"Not that I don't already know, but—"
"Because he's a son of a bitch," Grissom responded firmly. Sara nodded, laughing softly.
"Okay, Hank it is."
Grissom would look back on that instant as a moment out of time, a minute of perfect happiness: his own dog in the back seat, Sara grinning at him, he himself free to finally let her know how much he hated Hank Pettigrew for hurting her, and for being willing to get involved with Sara before he himself had been. It was one short week later that his world came crashing down around his ears, and more than once he gave thanks for having Sara in his life, and really Hank too, because without her, without them, he wasn't sure how he would have made it through.
Grissom had been in his office and had barely spared any attention to the phone when it rang, picking it up distractedly, continuing to read the National Geographic article he was immersed in.
"Grissom."
"Gil? It's Carl Schmidt." The name pulled Grissom's attention fully from the world of Spotted Hyenas. He and Carl Schmidt had worked together at the LA Coroner's office a million years ago, when they'd both been kids, before Carl had gone to medical school, become a forensic pathologist, and eventually gone to work at the Wayne County Coroner's Office in Detroit. Carl was now back as Chief Medial Examiner for the County of Los Angeles. They'd lost touch over the years, but Grissom considered him a friend. He'd been one of the few people who treated the young entomologist as an equal from the beginning.
"Carl, what can I do for you?"
"Gil, I'm sorry, I've got some bad news. Your mother was found today in her gallery. She suffered a massive coronary. She wouldn't have known what hit her, Gil. I think she was dead before she hit the floor." If Carl kept talking, Grissom didn't hear him. Somehow he managed to utter some sort of pleasantries, thanks for the notification, he'd be in touch with plans, it was nice to hear from Carl, despite the circumstances… and whatever he said seemed to satisfy his friend because after one more expression of sympathy, Dr. Schmidt rang off. Grissom sat dumbly at his desk for a minute, then called Catherine.
"Cath, I'm not feeling very well. You're in charge." He got into his car in the lot and started driving blindly, vaguely intending to head for home, but found himself instead arriving at the crime scene Sara was processing with Greg. Sara took one look at him as he climbed out of the vehicle and put down her kit.
"Greg, I'll be right back."
She hurried over to the truck.
"Gil, what's the matter?"
"A friend from the LA Coroner's office called," he told her. "My mother---" He couldn't say any more, but Sara understood.
"You wait here. I'll be right back."
She strode back to Greg. "Hey, G? I need to go with Grissom. Are you going to be okay finishing up here by yourself?"
"Sure, Sara. Is everything all right?"
"Yeah, it's just fine. All of my evidence is labeled and logged. Make sure it makes it back to the lab, okay?" She flipped him the keys. Greg watched as she made her way back to Grissom's Yukon and slid into the driver's seat.
"Come on. First, let's get you home, then we can decide what we need to do."
Sara made it four blocks from the crime scene before pulling over onto a side street and around a corner, out of sight of any of the cops leaving the scene behind them. Tears had begun running silently down Grissom's face before she'd cleared the parking space, and she couldn't wait any longer to pull him into her arms.
"I know. It's okay," she crooned softly. "Cry all you want. I've got you."
They sat there a long time, not talking, Grissom sobbing on her shoulder as she held him tight. Gradually the sobs slowed as she rubbed his back in gentle circles. Finally he pulled back from her and turned away, looking out the window.
"I'm sorry about that, Sara," he muttered.
She reached out and grabbed his hand tightly, holding on for dear life as he had the first time she'd cried in front of him.
"Sorry for what? Being here for each other? That's what this is all about, isn't it? I love you, Gil, and I'm so sorry about your mom. Are you ready to go home now, or would you like to sit here for awhile?"
He looked back at her sideways, and gave her the ghost of a grateful, yet ruefully sad smile.
"Let's go home, Sara. We need to pack."
