Summary: Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.
A/N: Special thanks to my friends csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan and mingsmommy who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.
This story is a crossover between CSI and Manhunter (Red Dragon). William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. Dead Ringer throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 2:00 am – Quantico
One by one, members of the team had to give it up for the night. Mason and Miranda left together for their rooms at eleven. At midnight Foster poked his dad to let him know he was leaving. Graham set out for his hotel a few minutes later, which left Grissom and Sara alone in the conference room.Sara stood and eased her back. "Long day. We should get some sleep."
Grissom set the file he was studying on the table, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I've read this page at least three times...I can't think anymore." He looked around the room, puzzled. "Where is everybody?"
Sara rolled her eyes, "They left...hours ago. You didn't hear any of that?"
"I was reading?"
"Let's go," she grinned, picking up her coat and holding his out to him.
Grissom stood, scanned the file one more time before closing it reluctantly and placing it on top of his stack. He shrugged into his overcoat and helped Sara on with hers.
"May I walk you home, miss?" he said, offering his arm.
"Why, thank you, sir."
They were almost out the door when he turned back and grabbed the file he'd been studying.
In moonlight, the snow dusted compound was quiet; a pristine quilt in shades of blue. They made their way to the dorm hand in hand, marveling at this taste of winter. Still, it was nice to reach the warmth of their room.
"What's this?" Sara asked, pointing toward several shopping bags on the bed.
Grissom, busy hanging up his overcoat, glanced over his shoulder, "Will and I stopped at Target on our way back from DC. I picked up a few things."
There was a flurry of crackling as the bags were emptied. Gil turned to see a smiling Sara holding a tall, wobbling stack of towels. "Are there any left in the store?" she said, words muffled a bit by the terry cloth.
He went quickly to her and plucked half the towels out of her arms, then leaned in for a kiss. "There are, actually. Do we need more?"
"Oh, I think we have enough…for now." When they'd put them all away, Sara turned at looked at him with a smirk. "I'm going take a shower." Stepping close to put her arms around his neck, she gave him a big kiss. "Thank you."
They stood a moment, enjoying the comfort of being close. Gil kissed her neck and whispered, "You're welcome."
xxxx
Sara stood wrapped in a towel looking down at Grissom where he'd dozed on the bed; glasses askew, case file fallen to the floor. He'd been going out of his way to look after her on this trip…something he couldn't do in Las Vegas. At home, he'd brought her lunch from time to time and made sure she left at the end of shift when he knew she was overtired, but he was careful of appearances – aware that accusations of favoritism would unnecessarily complicate their lives. He didn't have to worry about that here. It was nice.
Smiling, she retrieved the folder from the floor and put it on the bedside table. When she tried to remove his glasses, he woke with a start. "Whuh?"
"Go back to sleep, Griss…it's late."
He yawned and stretched a bit, then sat up on the side of the bed and looked at her appreciatively. "So, are these towels any better?"
Sara stepped into his arms, "See for yourself."
Grissom rubbed his cheek on her towel clad belly. "Oh yes, much better." Still yawning, he held her in his arms and closed his eyes. When he remained still, Sara bent slightly and realized he'd fallen asleep. The vibrations of her laugh made him lift his head and gaze up at her owlishly.
Shaking him gently, she said, "Hey…Gil…ravish me in the morning."
"It's a date," he said sleepily.
And it was.
Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 4:00 am – Metropolitan Police Department – Washington, DC
Horace Edwards was bored. The graveyard shift in the Street Surveillance Office was anything but exciting. The monitors he was supposed to be watching didn't show much at this time of morning. Still, you never knew. They'd caught a Kennedy on a DUI a few weeks ago…anything could happen.
Edwards had a few games he played with himself in order to stay alert. Counting hookers was one of his favorites. When he was assigned the Vermont Avenue watch, like this morning, he kept track of how many blondes, brunettes and redheads were out strutting their stuff. Since the feed was black and white, this could be a bit of a challenge. At least it kept him awake.
He also liked to keep track of customers, a surprising number of whom were recognizable. If he wasn't sure it would land him in jail, he might just forward a few screen shots to The Washington Post…or The National Enquirer. Not for the money, of course. No, it would be to watch the feathers fly. Oh well, it was fun to think about.
Movement on one of the monitors caught his eye. "Hey, Fred…The Regular is back…come look."
On screen, a middle aged man had just walked into the top of the frame. He was a sort of rugged looking Caucasian, light hair, confident stride…and no coat. It was 28 degrees outside. Edwards couldn't think what was up with this guy that he'd stroll around on the street in the middle of winter without a jacket or overcoat.
Fred Grey pulled up a chair. "That's him, all right. How many times has he cruised the block this morning?"
"Only once since I've been on…man, this guy is a machine," marveled Edwards.
Both men watched as the man went from girl to girl, chatting briefly but never staying long. They knew from experience he'd work the girls until he found what he wanted.
Horace frowned and scratched his head. "You know, I think I saw this guy somewhere else today…where was it?"
Fred took the joystick and zoomed in on the man as he crossed the street, still looking for the right girl. "He should be on Ripley's Believe It or Not…I've never seen anyone do so many hookers…uh oh, look…I think he's found one."
On the screen, the man offered his arm to a slim, dark haired woman, who cuddled up to him and practically pranced by his side. They walked out of the frame arm in arm.
Edwards checked his watch. "How long until he comes back? Hour? Half hour?"
Making a note of the time, Fred grinned. "Half hour if this is the first time you've seem him this morning. Ten bucks?"
"Deal," said Horace. "And an extra ten if he's changed his clothes."
The men shook hands and went back to their regular work, wondering idly why The Regular always changed outfits between women. Weird.
Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 9:00 am – Quantico
Jack Crawford entered conference room 1516 to find his Task Force already poring over stacks of case files. "Good morning, everyone. Sorry I wasn't able to get back out here last night."
One by one, faces disengaged from file folders to nod at the director. Agent Foster said, "We've separated the old material into individual cases which worked out to one apiece...well, Grissom took two: the Milwaukee Jane Doe and the first case from Duluth. We're going to present in about an hour. What do you have for us?"
"Would you set up the video system, William?" Crawford asked, taking a DVD out of his breast pocket and handing it to the younger man. "We've made an identification of the victim: Penny O'Brien, age 29…known prostitute, street name Bliss…we matched her prints in AFIS."
Foster opened a cabinet at the back of the room. A large screen descended from the ceiling and the lights dimmed. "What are we looking at, Jack?" Foster said as the disc engaged.
Grainy black and white surveillance video filled the screen, time stamped 6:00 p.m., January 3, 2007. "I pried this video out of DC Police Chief Chuck Davenport. It's from the area near the Sculpture Garden the evening of the murder." Crawford walked over to the cabinet Foster had opened and punched a few buttons on the control panel. "Let me fast forward to the relevant section."
When the film settled down again, the time stamp read 5:30 a.m., January 4, 2007.
A National Park Service van pulled into the frame. A uniformed man exited the driver's side and strolled around to open the rear gate, where he took out a hand truck. He then removed several heavy sacks marked Green Fire and placed them on the dolly.
Crawford said, "Green Fire Pellet Ice Melt is what the Park Service uses to treat the walkways around the Mall..."
Next, the man removed something wrapped in a tarpaulin from the van and set it atop the bags of ice melt. He casually wheeled the hand truck into the Sculpture Garden, wrestled the bundle into his arms and walked into Magdalena Abakanowicz's installation, Girls, over the ground cover on the left hand side. Setting his burden down on the sturdy plants, he unwrapped the body of a dark haired woman. Lifting her into his arms, he stood for a moment at the verge before tossing her among the little headless figures already standing there. The man stood for a few moments looking down at the woman as she lay before him.
Everyone in the room knew the last victim had been alive when brought to the dump site, but when the woman on the screen started to move sluggishly as if slowly regaining consciousness, they all gasped. Mason whispered, "Holy Mother of God."
"Jesus, Jack...is this going where I think it's going?" Miranda groaned.
"I'm afraid so," Crawford said quietly.
Grissom glanced at Sara, who was squirming in her chair next to him, grimacing in pain. Just as he was about to speak, Graham said, "Stop it, please. We don't need to see that." Gil looked up to see Graham nearly as white-faced as Sara.
Crawford paused the playback. "He folds up the tarp and takes it and the hand truck back to the van at that point, reloading the bags of ice melt into the cargo area. When he returns to the woman, he's carrying a wooden stake...from that snow fencing on the opposite side of the walkway, cutting it free with what are probably wire cutters. He kneels beside her, patting her face a few times as if to get her to focus. He pauses for a few moments…we speculate he is speaking to her because she shakes her head vigorously and tries to hold him off, but he positions the stake and uses the weight of his body to impale her. She struggles briefly then is still."
Graham, his eyes slightly unfocused, mused, "Then he walks toward the hedge at the back of the installation, removes something from his pocket and bends briefly...you can't see what he's doing. He hops the hedge and leaves the scene."
Crawford's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes, that's exactly what he does,"
Grissom leaned forward in his seat. "He impaled a cricket on a thorn in that hedge."
Crawford pulled a chair out and sat down.
Sara added, "There was a mouse impaled on a pyracantha thorn at the first scene. That one was natural, not planted by the killer."
Looking from Graham to Grissom, who both nodded, Crawford asked, "Another Shrike?"
"I don't know how...that detail was never released, Jack...but we have to consider the possibility," Graham said, reeling himself back in from that place horrors like this carried him. He took a deep breath, "It's unlikely this particular signature would repeat. I know Hobbs is dead..." because I shot him on the stairs...emptied a magazine into him... "but there has to be a connection. I feel it."
And just like that, it was back...that thing he did. That thing Will had been running from for more than 20 years was crouched in the room like a cat. Grissom rubbed the back of his neck, forcing down hair that was standing straight up. He looked over at Graham who was staring at his hands. The man suddenly glanced at Gil, holding his gaze. That weird twinning he'd felt the first time he laid eyes on Graham was back, too. Then Crawford coughed and the connection was broken.
"I have one more thing to show you," Jack said quietly, pressing a few keys on the control panel. "We pulled this off the end of the video feed."
One frame filled the screen in front of the Task Force. The man in the Park Service uniform had been caught facing the camera only once.
Miranda murmured, "Culpepper."
Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 10:30 am – Duluth, Minnesota
At 66, Dorothy Culpepper had settled into her life, but the joy had gone out of it years ago. When she'd imagined her retirement, she'd seen it filled with children, grandchildren and the man she loved. Instead she was a widow estranged from her only child...and grandchildren? They were only ever a dream.
So, she volunteered at Easter Seals, ate lunch with the friends she had left, read books Oprah recommended, and watched Montel, Maury and Dr. Phil.
Dorothy thought about her day and realized she wouldn't be home for Dr. Phil today. It was a show about siblings and she didn't want to miss it. She had the phone in her hand, intending to call her friend Patricia to cancel their plans, when it rang startling her.
She managed to retrieve it from where it fell and answer on the fifth ring. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Dorothy Culpepper?"
"Yes."
"You have a collect call from Rick Culpepper. Will you accept the charges?"
Brow creased in concern, she said, "Yes...I'll accept the charges."
The operator said, "Go ahead, sir."
"Mom?"
"Rick...Rick, is that you? Are you all right?" Dorothy asked, hearing only faint static on the line. "Rick?"
"Dad said don't call if I was in trouble...and you know I never did...I never did."
Dorothy Culpepper had rarely heard her son's voice so small. He was all about big...big plans, big dreams, big ambitions...and a very big opinion of himself. After her husband's death, Rick had fulminated over the ineptitude of the local police and stormed out of town, swearing to solve the crime himself. But he hadn't and his calls came less and less often until they only came on holidays. She knew it was because he couldn't bear to fail...his father had taught him that...but the price he paid was high. Now, all her son had was his identity in the FBI and his sense of bigness. Not what she'd imagined for him at all.
Culpepper said, "Mom...you there?"
Shaken from her reverie, Dorothy braced herself for whatever reason had made her son call sounding so lost. "Your father isn't here anymore, Rick..."
To Be Continued...Chapter 11 to follow shortly.