He could smell it. The thirst for blood. The press was a paradox- a hindrance to the investigation, but a powerful pack of animals to control if under the right hand. Lead with one, and you could corral them towards your main objective. Controlling reporters took not just skill but a certain type of personality; to think like them, stoop to their level. Politics was an art and unappreciated if not understood correctly.
It was time to manipulate and shine. Conrad took his note cards, stood to the plate and adjusted the microphone in front of the flashing bulbs. Always stare right in the center; the light didn't hurt the eyes and it made you look at them all. Captain Brass stood at attention a few feet away; always could count on the old boy. Grissom much further, out of reach of reporter ears. He remained ever the statue, face frowning in annoyance, as if this was a waste of time. The man preferred his precious test tubes, which was fine. He didn't have the finesse for this type of work.
He cleared his throat. "I'll make a formal statement, then allow a few minutes for questions." He stole a look to his right, watched as the Under Sheriff shifted uncomfortably. It was a risk to allow questions, but then again, those who weren't willing to take chances were left alone in the dust afterwards.
"Early this morning the Buckingham Bakery was the site of a failed attempt to kill innocent people and spread fear throughout the Vegas area." He paused long enough for drama. "The LVPD's bomb squad secured the device when the detonation trigger malfunctioned. The intent to maim and murder was thwarted by our finest and innocent lives were spared."
He knew how many asses were on the line to be roasted, and could hear the whispered voices of those determined to cover their own bacon against the wrath of an unsettled public. Time to stop playing defense and fight the war on their turf.
"I want to say foremost, that our deepest sympathy is with those who lost loved ones in these senseless acts, and our best wishes go out to those injured."
He made eye contact, steely and serious, connecting to those seeking a face of justice. He could be one if needed.
"And to the person or persons responsible for the deaths of innocent people, I will say this. Vegas' finest police and investigators are closing in on your mistakes."
The varied reporters scribbled in earnest, microphones jiggling, and he felt his heart beat faster. He ignored the deadly look sent his way by the Mayor's office flock of sheep, and his grin broadened at the unease shown by his former rival, Grissom. This is what separated the two of them. He could go for the jugular, needed the give and take of people's reactions to feed off of, while the entomologist felt more at ease around the dead.
Fighting crime meant communicating to the living, even if you stepped on some toes, ignoring a few yelps for the greater good.
"Believe me, you scum. We will hunt you down, track you down like the animals you are. We will make sure you get the needle for your cowardly acts of terrorism. You're amateurs; can't even cover your tracks. The hounds are after your scent."
The pack nipped at his heels, the throng swelling at his tone. He could hear the careers being made and destroyed by his words, but he knew which allies to maintain. He noticed how Captain Brass didn't look at him. He could feel Grissom's eyes; hear those self-righteous gears turning.
The camera shutters clicked, strobe lights muted by the sunshine outside. As the media swarmed, he moved in for the kill. "Whoever is responsible for these bombings will be caught. Your mistakes are mounting, the clock is ticking down. We know the targets are connected by British affiliation and we will do everything in our power to protect our allies and international business investments. Our experts have determined a pattern and we have the material makeup of the last device. This city and her proprietors will not bend to these cowards. "
He stood at attention and waved his hand to signal the first request.
"Mr. Ecklie, has the investigation turned up any suspects at this time?" the Vegas Times reporter inquired.
He smiled at her. "No, not at this time."
"Does the crime lab think this is the work of professional terrorists or international terror cells within the city?"
Ecklie made sure he faced the reporter from Channel Nine. "No, based on the planning and execution of the bombs, we do not think we're dealing with the work of professionals."
"What makes you say that?" the same man asked.
He scoffed. "The second bomb exploded at a brewery that was closed down for clean up, though the time was set during peak work hours. The third bomb had a major design flaw, which prevented it from detonating. We're dealing with someone who acts rashly, goes into areas of low security, and doesn't do deep background work with the targets."
The murmur and chatter increased.
"The first bombing did destroy its target!" a voice in the throng shouted, getting Conrad's attention.
He folded his arms. "Most of the occupants of The George were evacuated by LVPD's finest, preventing major loss of life."
"What about the death of Liam Balfour? The young kid that a witness claimed was chased back into The George by a member of the Vegas Crime Lab?"
His faced twitched and the next set of quiet whispers was those behind him. It was like the gossip of the Lab, only pricklier. The hair at the base of his neck stood on end from the discontent directed at his internal investigation. He'd love to turn around and dare any of them to speak aloud their disparaging thoughts, but this was his moment. There would be a better time to deal with the schoolyard rumor-spreading phone games of his employees.
"We are looking into that account as well as several other sets of witness testimony about the conduct of the members of the Vegas Crime Lab. It is part of our overall investigation."
Smiling for the camera, he pointed a finger at the next rabid dog before another one from the pound jumped up with another PR damning question.
"Is the investigation under local law enforcement or is Homeland Security in charge of the investigation?'
His chest swelled with pride. "We are working together with members of ATF, Homeland, and other agencies with every tool and source available to us. However, this case is under our purview. I have said that our suspect is not considered a national threat, but the work of a lowlife who happens to be able to read things off the Internet."
"One final question," Conrad announced, interrupting the frenzy that had started to get away from him. He reined them in, his temper in check, mother hen Grissom only slightly annoying him with that robotic gaze. He knew better than to sneak a look at his 'support.' They all wanted a piece of him, and they were sorely mistaken if they thought this press conference would spin out of his control.
"Do you think you will have a suspect in custody before another attack?"
A risky move to answer truthfully. "I know the minds in our lab are smarter than our targets. That is all."
He prepared for a deluge of another kind. He'd laid down the gauntlet and now he'd press his team for results. He never made a promise he couldn't back up. As a newly christened Assistant Director he would ensure his Lab came out on top, or use this as an opportunity to make much needed changes.
It was a good thing that he had the hallways memorized, his feet stepping automatically, just a game of dodging other moving objects. Didn't matter if those foreign things in his way were people. Warrick's thoughts were wrapped so tightly around the memory of being thrown out of Nick's room by the gathered medical personnel that it wouldn't have even registered in his brain if he had barreled over anyone.
The passage of time was supposed to heal all wounds, but it seemed Nick was immune to that old adage. It occurred to him to glance at his pager; three missed calls. Pointless really, considering he was back at the damn lab. It wouldn't be long before...
"Warrick!"
If it didn't have Catherine's irritated tone he might have missed being summoned. For tiny legs, that woman was swift, one hand propped on her hip, the other hand gripping a file. No doubt ready to smack him upside the head with it. Reports he'd forgotten to go over or sign. They all needed a custom stamp now for as many signatures as were required under Ecklie's triplicate memorandum.
He sulked along the hallway, all the warning signs in place for her to recognize and for Pete's sake take heed. Warrick adopted his game face, accented by his other loud as hell nonverbal signals. Catherine noticed them, her gruff, on the prowl attitude dropped for the moment.
"I've been paging you." Her voice was tamer than her body language.
"Been busy," he replied shortly.
His attitude didn't help keep things civil with all of them running on fumes and no sleep. Catherine's posture stiffened but miraculously her tone remained somewhat even.
"Yeah, I know. Visiting Nick." Her eyes softened and for some reason that just made the knot in his gut twist even more. He'd been good at the stone face routine at work. Hell, nailing this bomber had been a calming, driving force; relentless yes, but steady.
It put things in focus, gave life a sense of normalcy. Just another high profile case while racing the clock.
Catherine licked her lips, which was never a good sign, her face flickering in a microcosm of emotions. "About that..."
His body tensed at that hesitancy and he pulled to full height. "Yeah?"
Her fingers rubbed at the manila folder. "Nick's doctor called me. He wants me to contact his folks, said you... you wouldn't do it."
That last broken off bit held a hint of accusation. He heard his back pop as his shoulder blades ground together. "Yeah, that's right. Nick doesn't want his family to be bothered."
"Bothered, Warrick?" She looked at him in obvious disbelief.
"Cath--"
"Don't, Warrick." She held up her hand. "His parents should be here, they have the right to know."
"Yeah, well Nick doesn't want them to know. His family is dealing with a lot of----"
"Nothing compared to not knowing that their son is seriously injured." Catherine hissed.
People were milling around now, but that didn't deter him. "Its Nick's right. He asked me..." His voice lowered, jaw sliding back and forth. "Christ, Catherine, he begged me to lay off. I've had this argument with him already. He's made his choice, now it's up to us to respect it."
She changed tactics, breeching the gap, the mask of anger gone. "He's in bad shape, Warrick. His doctor says this is serious and if they can't--"
"I know that. Hell, I was with him when he couldn't suck in a breath. No matter how much air was pumped in him, he couldn't get enough!"
They had an audience now, his face flushing at the spreading of his partner's woes to the whole Lab, he spun around. "Don't all of you have work to do?" he growled.
The gossipers scattered under his wrath.
Her hand went to his shoulder, trying to guide them out of the corridor and somewhere more private. Warrick stood his ground for the man who couldn't speak for himself. He shook off her intentions. "Nick's going to be fine. Just one more hill he's got to climb. My boy ain't gonna let this keep him down for long. Why don't you give him the benefit of the doubt and stop trying to make arrangements for the worst."
He made her eyes well up, a drop staining her left cheek. Warrick brushed it way, his voice softer, "That his personnel file?"
She nodded, too upset to talk. Warrick reached out and with a slight tug, slipped it out her grasp. Catherine looked him deep in the eyes and allowed it to leave her fingers, a responsibility unburdened from her shoulders.
"We're not going to need this." His voice held an undeniable conviction.
"I hope so."
He dropped the file to his hip. "I know it."
Catherine dabbed at her eyes. "I'm gonna get some coffee before meeting up with Sara for an update on her case."
His brow crinkled.
She laughed. "Hit and run. Crime doesn't stop for one asshole."
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "When's our lord gonna have his press conference?"
Catherine snorted. "It was this morning. Gil had to be there."
With the name of their supervisor his scowl was firmly back in place. "Where is he?"
"Grissom?"
"Yeah."
"In his office." Her tone turned suspicious. "Why?"
"Got a bone to pick with him," and he darted down the hall without a word.
He left Catherine with her wheels turning and missed the slithery shadow of Ecklie who came out of his corner after the tense argument.
The door clicked closed behind him, louder than he intended. Okay, clicked wasn't the proper word. The slam of wood and forceful impact caused every terrarium to rattle. The man that he wanted to gain attention from tore his reading glasses away and knocked his chair back as he rose from his seat. Grissom's blue eyes were startled and he hastily put the phone receiver back in its cradle. Any nervousness created by Warrick's sudden and noisy entrance was now carefully hidden.
His supervisor peered at him, as if reading the emotions he wore like an open book. The stoicism slipped back in place and he casually folded up his spectacles and slouched back into his seat.
"Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"
Warrick hated how the man's voice could make him feel like the guilty party. "Yeah, it's about Nick."
The chair creaked as his boss shifted in it, his eyes drifting to an open journal on his desk for a moment than back up to his visitor's face. "I just spoke to someone at the hospital. I know about the pneumonia." His voice was casual, much like when discussing a case.
It deepened Warrick's frustration. "So you know." It was a thinly veiled accusation, even if the supervisor didn't note it.
"Yes, I do." The man was so damn calm, like the object of discussion was a chemical compound.
Warrick erupted, nowhere else to go and especially no one else to vent all his anger and fear to. "And what could you possible know, Gris? Talked to him lately have ya?" He fumed and paced the tiny space in front of the desk.
"I've kept tabs on the situation."
It hurt more than it pissed him off, referring to Nick's struggle as just some issue. "Yeah, right," he huffed.
Grissom arched an eyebrow. "I know they have him on a BiPap instead of normal mechanical intubation."
The use of science and cold hard facts shouldn't have shaken him, but it was still more than he'd known before busting down the man's door. Warrick took a moment to glance at the journal Grissom had been unable to conceal at his abrupt entrance. It was a medical one.
Warrick crossed his arms. "Yeah, and what does that mean?"
Grissom stole a piece of control away, but still exhaled deeply. "It's a less intrusive way to deliver him oxygen. It monitors inhalations and exhalations, then varies its response based on the patient's distress." He paused for a moment reflecting. "A BiPap means less chance of complications."
Although the information both calmed Warrick a little and let him know that Grissom was indeed paying attention, it only fueled his bitterness. "So you know that he's fighting for every fucking breath."
He stared and got no response. "Huh, but as long as you know all about the inner workings of the machine… then you're satisfied."
With no reaction, he really let him have it. "Damn it, Grissom! Have you even been to see him? Take a good look at what a concussive force does to the human body? To a friend you work with every damn day?"
"I've gone there and spoken to his doctor several times." Grissom's tone remained neutral.
"Learn a lot did ya?"
That earned him a reaction. The slow way that his supervisor worked his jaw muscles, choosing words, taking his time. It was the precursor to a full-blown ass chewing or a carefully phrased mind fuck. Gil Grissom was the mastermind of explaining his actions in a way that left you feeling small and incompetent for even questioning his reasons.
"When Nick was transferred out of the ICU, he had a steady flow of people to keep him company. As you like to bring to my attention, my ability to offer comfort is somewhat inadequate." He slid his research out of sight into a drawer and relaxed visibly. "Let's not forget that things haven't exactly been slow around here. During the first twenty-four hours after the bombings I had my hands full."
The excuse battled the voice in Warrick's head that told him it was a reasonable explanation. But it had nothing on his id- the side of his mind that was in the driver's seat, mashing the accelerator pedal. "We all did, and all of us still found the time to make it past the nurses' station."
"I'm more effective by catching the guy who did this. Who killed a bunch of innocent people and whose obvious sociopathic behavior leads me to believe there will be a lot more. It's been simple dumb luck that we haven't dealt with massive casualties on a much grander scale. I think I'd have Nick's blessing to pursue this case in every waking hour until the suspect is caught. Before he maims or kills again."
That little speech knocked him down a peg or two, but there was still a lot gnawing away at his gut. Instead of screaming, Warrick knew a steady voice was more effective with Grissom. He leaned over the desk, dropped his voice an octave lower. "Does that include sitting silently while Nick's name is tarnished by the news and Ecklie's slithering around to try to dig up dirt on him?"
Grissom's brow furrowed, but Warrick wasn't quite done. "Because while the media sells more papers by trying to pin the death of that kid on the back of a man barely holdin' on, Nick has no choice but to believe in all those lies. With no memory of the explosion he's more worried over the fact that you think its true."
"That's ridiculous."
Warrick ran his teeth over his bottom lip. "It may be to you and to me. However, Nick's got nothin' but time on his hands. And my bro has it in that thick skull of his that he did chase that kid back in there. And instead of working to get better, he's too busy helping the reaper dig an early Grave."
He straightened to his full height and shook his head. "Nick's a prizefighter, but it does him no good when he's beating up on himself and convinced that your absence supports that screwed up theory."
With anger spent, Warrick turned around to leave the air heavy with his parting words. His supervisor was left blinking in an empty office.
He stood outside the room, folder beating against his hip in time to the opening measures of the first movement of Josef Haydn's Opus 33, No. 3 in C major that ran through his head. The local classical station, KSNZ, was on of only two buttons programmed on the radio in his Denali, the other being an NPR station.
The entomologist smiled briefly as he recalled how Nick always referred to it as K-Snooze whenever he rode with his boss.
What few understood, and certainly none of his fellow lab denizens, was how perfectly Haydn had written it. In the first three measures, Haydn had, with the simplest means, presented the listener with the primary divisions of the octave in a condensed idea (the fifth, fourth, major third, minor third, major sixth, minor sixth, half-step, and whole-step). In measures four, five, and six, these divisions were simply unfolded with the addition of the cello to the viola and violins that began the piece. It was mathematically pristine, calculated down to the eighth note.
Every note had its place, every instrument held its important role in fulfilling the precepts of the equation. Take violin three out and the whole work suffered irrevocably.
Of course, real life was rarely as neat as musical composition.
There was work to be done back at the lab that needed his attention. Everything needed his attention. Or at least he once thought.
Now he had Ecklie taking the reins on the PR end of things. Catherine had admirably stepped up and stepped in whenever and wherever needed, in spite of the toll he knew it was taking on things with her and Lindsey. Sara and Warrick were taking the initiative on more things, running on results, processing evidence by the roomful, reports landing on his desk hours later and after they were complete and had already been deemed useless.
Even poor Greg, thrown into the maelstrom of multiple bombings, the media eye, and the tyrannical rule of Conrad Ecklie, was emerging as a top-notch CSI. The newbie was earning his wings.
Normally all hands on deck and flat-out running through evidence processing had an adrenalizing affect on the lab. Theories and observations flew fast and furiously, peppered with jokes and jabs, over tables piled high with evidence or empty takeout containers. Heads popped into doorways with offers of help or sharing the newest findings. Second most effective lab in the country, or so they were told. And Quantico had the power and the dollars and the resources of the federal government behind it. They had Conrad Ecklie and a city budget more concerned with building casinos and attracting tourists than catching criminals.
The absence of one of their nearest and dearest was like a black pall, choking back the witty banter and corny geek humor, replacing it with downcast looks and sad smiles whenever a country song came on the radio or they had pancakes for breakfast. The crushing workload and long hours dragged on everyone, including himself, if he was admitting things.
And the rumor mill was churning out bitter grist day and night. There were rumblings that Ecklie was gunning for Nick. Some thought the actual target in his sights was Grissom himself and his precious grave shift. The last wild story he had heard was that Conrad was planning on splitting up Grave and putting someone in charge of Swing. Most likely Sofia, since she was the favored child.
It had never occurred to him that Nick, sheltered, or so he thought, from all the crap going on at the lab, would be tainted by it all. He should have known better. Gossip spread like poison in the waters, and the media fed into it with dubious witnesses crawling out of the woodwork to join in the madness.
There was only one way to make things right. Or at least as close to right as this whole nightmare could be put. He knew his limitations, had told Warrick as much. But this time, he thought he had the problem solved.
The room was quiet but for the mechanical hissing of the equipment breathing life into the man in the bed. Nick lay with his head raised, hands on the bedcovers open as if in supplication.
The injury and illness had taken a terrible toll on him. A week without more than the smallest bites of food, most of that victim to the nausea the concussion had afflicted him with, had the normally bulkily muscled man down several pounds already. His gym-enhanced physique had already done away with most of his body fat, and without that energy source to turn to his body was breaking down the muscle, taxing his already weakened system further. The flesh that wasn't swathed in bandages or gauze was alabaster pale but for the rosy flush of fever in his face and the yellowing purple bruising painted over his left side, his torso and still swollen knee in particular.
It was while he was taking this gruesome and macabre accounting of Nick's physical appearance that he saw the hands twitch and close. At first he put it down to involuntary movement, but then his eyes fluttered open to stare at him. Blinking repeatedly, then squinting.
Recalling that the doctor had mentioned a continued problem in Nick's vision, another concern courtesy of the concussion he had suffered and the damage to his left temple, Grissom stepped closer, realizing that the Texan was probably seeing little more than a blur.
His face obscured by the cumbersome BiPap mask, his eyes were all he had with which to communicate. And what the older man read there knotted his stomach, and perversely cemented in him his relief that he had come.
He read fear and pain and exhaustion. And he read trepidation. The injured man's brow knit in concern at his supervisor's presence.
Taking another step closer to the bed, Grissom offered a weak smile that was meant to offer comfort. But he knew where true comfort lay for the CSI. In answers.
"I want to read you something, Nick." He opened up the plain manila folder, then pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and perched them on his nose.
"This is from Detective Vartann's official report.
At this point CSI Stokes, heedless to his own well being, re-entered the building, emerging moments later with the remaining occupants. CSI Stokes had managed to get the five civilians from the building safely and was clearing the area when one of the civilians expressed concern for a 'lucky scarf', rushing past CSI Stokes and entering the building, despite CSI Stokes' attempt to stop him from doing so. The building then exploded, causing grievous harm to CSI Stokes and the loss of life of Officer Miles Taylor and four other civilians along with a dozen casualties."
He closed the folder up with a formal flourish and removed his glasses, as if to remove even the transparent barrier between the two men.
"If you think for one moment that I would take the word of a drunken fool over that of an LVPD detective ... Nick, I cannot conceive of a scenario in which you would deliberately 'chase' a suspect or place them in harm's way. Not even inadvertently.
I never even entertained the belief that you were responsible in any way for that boy's death. And I don't want you to either."
His piece said, he waited to see if his words had made it through to the injured man, if his fevered brain was able to process what he was trying to do.
With a sigh and a nod, a tremendous weight lifted off the older man's shoulders as he saw a single tear course down Nick's cheek, stopped by the horrible, wonderful plastic contraption.
Nick nodded his acceptance, then closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows, his whole body visibly relaxing.
Grissom reached out and squeezed his arm. Bent to murmur in Nick's ear, only loud enough to be heard over the bellows sound of the vent.
"Stop wasting energy on worrying, Nick, and concentrate on getting better. Consider it an order from your supervisor."
Although there was no response from the man in the bed, Grissom left, humming the same measures of the Haydn opus, reassured that things would work out.
Because Nick Stokes had never let him down before.