Ten: Following the Evidence

"So what do we know?" Catherine Willows asked the group collected about the lab table.

"His last text was at 7:34 this morning," said Morgan. "They picked up Hannah around noon. That leaves what? Nearly four and a half hours to pick up Grissom, drop off his phone at the house and then stash him who knows where before ditching whatever car she's been using.

"All with plenty of time to spare to spend forty minutes calmly sipping a latte at her local Starbucks."

"Vegas isn't that big," Greg had to concede. "Even an hour can be an eternity if you're a local and you know what you're doing."

"Plus, with yesterday's holiday, traffic's bound to be lighter," Lindsey added. "As long as you avoid the Black Friday shoppers."

"Hannah was born and raised here," said Catherine. "She'd know the ins and outs better than anyone. Which means she could have taken him anywhere."

Which was not a promising thought. Las Vegas and its surrounding environs were famous for places for keeping people and things you wanted to keep hidden hidden: old abandoned mine shafts, miles of storage facilities, half completed construction sites, vacant foreclosed homes - any and all perfect places and harder than heck to trace.

"Still," said Morgan, "it was a pretty brazen move. Taking him out of the park like that."

"At that hour the park was probably empty. Too late for runners or dog walkers; too early for kids," Lindsey countered.

"But Grissom's too smart to just go with her," Greg protested. "She had to have incapacitated him somehow. Epinephrine wouldn't do that."

"We can answer that," chimed in Hodges as he and Henry strode into the room file folders in hand.

"It may look like an EpiPen, work like an EpiPen. Not an EpiPen. No epinephrine," Henry supplied.

"Big surprise," grumbled Greg.

Henry ignored this. "Tox came up negative for narcotics, hypnotics, barbiturates, opiates and hallucinogens. No sign of any known street drugs."

"Please," implored Catherine, "tell me Hannah's not cooking up her own concoctions."

"She is a chemistry post doc," said Morgan.

"Trace wasn't chemical," Henry replied. "Biochemical. Came back positive for heavy proteins."

"Which FTIR identified as tamapin, noxiustoxin and maurotoxin," Hodges piped in helpfully.

"Translation, Hodges," Catherine insisted.

"Venom."

"Venom?" echoed Morgan.

Hodges nodded sagely. "Scorpion venom.

"Specifically that of Centruroides sculpturatus or the Arizona bark scorpion, the most toxic species in the United States. Though it's got nothing on the either the Arabian or the yellow fat-tailed scorpion -

"They're both deadly."

Perhaps he should have left that last part out, if his colleagues' stricken expressions were any indication.

"Except where do you get scorpion venom?" Morgan asked.

"It's more like how," Hodges replied. "Despite its name, the species is actually endemic to Las Vegas. You can catch them yourself.

"They're not that hard to find out in the desert, particularly at night as they glow under black light.

"All you need to milk them is an electrical kit, a pair of forceps, a tea strainer and a micropipette."

This time they all really were staring at him. Well, everyone apart from Henry who was far too used to Hodges' grandstanding to bat an eye.

"Internet," provided Hodges by way of an attempt at an explanation. "There's a guy over at the University of Arizona who has a whole how-to video on YouTube."

Which begged far too many questions that none of them had time for at the moment.

At this, Henry opted to step in. "But you'd probably need to milk more than a hundred individuals for a dose this large," he said.

"That's a lot of patience." Lindsey looked distressed at this.

"Or," Hodges added as he extracted a printout from one of his files with all the flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from out of hat, "you can order the stuff online from a chemical supply company for around five hundred bucks. Bargain actually.

"Turns out scorpion venom can be one of the most expensive liquids on earth. In Pakistan, the venom of certain species can go for upwards of $38 million a gallon."

"And I thought gas was expensive," Morgan muttered.

Catherine stepped in. "We'll get a warrant for Hannah's financials. See if she's made any interesting purchases lately." She turned to Henry. "What were you saying about the dosage?"

"About thirty milligrams. The equivalent of about a hundred stings."

Ouch, they all thought, but only Greg said.

"Lethal?" Catherine was almost afraid to ask.

Henry shook his head. "Not at that concentration. Closer to a 100 mg, maybe.

"At thirty, the neurotoxins wouldn't even knock you completely unconscious, just leave you pretty incoherent. Blurred vision. Slurred speech, that sort of thing.

"Although between the possible pain, vomiting or fever and potential tachycardia, seizures and acute respiratory distress, you might wish you were for the next 24 to 72 hours."

"Smart," Lindsey had to, however reluctantly, admit. "Knock someone out and they're dead weight, but incapacitate them just enough and they're still mobile and a lot more biddable.

"She really does her homework."

"Hannah always does her homework," rued Catherine.

"But why scorpion venom?" Morgan asked.

Greg shrugged. "Why not? Effective. Relatively easy to obtain and difficult to trace."

"It's probably simpler than that," Catherine said. "Think about it. What weapon would you use against a bug man? Bugs."

Lindsey nodded. "She knew."

"She seems to somehow know everything else. What about Hank?"

Henry glanced down at the printout in his hand. "The boxer's blood work tested positive for ACP or Acepromazine. Used in the 1950s as an antipsychotic for humans, today it's used almost exclusively as an animal sedative."

"She fed it to him?" Catherine asked. "Sara says Hank's a sucker for people food. That and he's never met a stranger."

"Possible. It does come in an oral preparation, but was more likely administered via injection. Ingestion would have taken too long to take effect."

"Probably used the same EpiPen delivery system," said Greg. "Though we only ever found the one pen in the park."

"Hank was lucky," added Henry. "Turns out ACP shouldn't be used with boxers, particularly boxers his age. It can over slow down the heart and cause a sudden, sometimes fatal drop in blood pressure."

"And there's no doubt Hannah knew that, too."

Equally there was absolutely no mistaking the bitterness in Catherine's tone.

"Maybe leave that part out when you tell Sara," insisted Lindsey.

Quietly, Henry offered, "She already knows."

No one had much to say after that.

"So," Catherine said once she'd been able to get her mind to return to the task at hand, "Hannah probably drugged Grissom, then Hank. Waited for both to take effect -"

"It probably wouldn't have taken long," speculated Henry.

"But even incapacitated, Grissom isn't exactly a small guy," remarked Greg. "And Hannah weighs what, 75 pounds wet?"

"If that," Morgan replied.

"Brains over brawn," Catherine spat. "Physics, just like before."

"Having a Good Samaritan turn up doesn't hurt," offered Ecklie as he entered. "Call came in on the hotline twenty minutes ago."

P.D.'s delay in relaying this bit of information, however irritating, was understandable. Hotlines were all about fishing. Sometimes you got lucky and caught a break sooner rather than later. Sometimes all you caught were crazies. Sometimes you caught nothing at all. Better to check and confirm anything and everything before getting people's hopes up.

"Caller says Hannah told him her grandfather had the bad habit of wandering off after going on a bender."

"Grandfather?" gulped Greg. "Definitely leave that part out when you tell Sara."

Ignoring this Ecklie continued, "Wit said Grissom - Hannah told him his name was Bill - was stumbling about, slurring his words. Even smelled like he'd had a few too many. Holidays brought out the worst in some people and all. Guy felt sorry for the kid. Said she barely looked old enough to drive."

"'Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it,'" Catherine quoted absently.

It was her turn to garner curious looks.

"I heard Grissom say something like that once," she supplied.

"Anyway," Ecklie interjected, "Hannah claimed granddad would be fine once she got him home to sleep it off.

"Our Good Samaritan helped lead him to her vehicle, even helped with the seat belt."

"What about Hank?" asked Lindsey. "He didn't notice the dog?"

"Apparently not."

Morgan let out a pursed lipped "Even caught in the act, Hannah manages to turn it into a positive."

"He give you anything else?" Catherine asked.

"Vehicle's a white cargo van -"

Which meant nothing and they all knew it.

Lindsey was the one who uttered what they all were thinking, "There have to be thousands of white cargo vans registered in Vegas -"

"He did have a partial Nevada plate. P.D. is trying to track it down now."

"Well," said Catherine, "that explains how she got him out of the park. But not where she took him."

Hodges who'd been uncharacteristically quiet asked, "But why go through all that trouble? We already know she knows how to get away with murder. Why not just kill him?"

The subsequent silence proved practically deafening.

Ultimately, it was Morgan who regained the ability of speech first. "Hodges!" she exclaimed, while the others continued to gape at his callous faux pas.

Hodges blanched as if the full extent of what he'd just said had only just dawned on him.

His mouth was moving with the start of an apology when Ecklie and Catherine's phones buzzed in quick succession.

"Actually," Ecklie ruefully admitted as he peered down at the incoming text, "that's a valid question. And we could stand here all day and speculate. Or, we could just ask her instead.

"Hannah's lawyer's finally arrived."

xxxxxxx

Outside interrogation room two, Sara Sidle waited not that entirely patiently. Her previous failure, coupled with all those photos on Hannah's cell weighing heavy on her heart, she was eager, more than eager, to get another chance to try to get something useful out of Hannah West.

Worrying her wedding ring, she silently asked, Gil, where are you?

That wasn't the first time that day she had sent that query into the universe hoping for a reply. Then, as now, all that returned was silence.

Sara's relief at seeing Ecklie and Catherine finally stride up the hall however proved short lived. While Ecklie attempted to look apologetic, Catherine did a better job, but then it was the sheriff who bore the brunt of having to break the bad news.

"We're taking this one," he said. "Lawyer's now claiming conflict of interest. Amongst other things."

Sara scoffed. "After she's on the record specifically asking for me?"

"She certainly doesn't want you now."

"Cat and mouse," Sara murmured nearly under her breath.

Catherine nodded. "And you're the mouse."

"Yeah, well I've never been all that fond of cats."

"Only it's the cat who usually wins."

"Tell that to Tom and Jerry," Sara countered.

Catherine's tone turned gentle, "Sara -"

Sara brushed Catherine's concern aside. "Go on. We wouldn't want to keep her waiting.

"I'll just be -" said Sara, indicating the door to the observation room.

xxxxxxx

"So what did you do with the body?"

Sheriff Conrad Ecklie's voice boomed over the observation room's speakers as Sara took her place on the other side of the glass. Apparently, he wasn't in the mood to waste time with the usual niceties.

"What body?" came Hannah's innocent reply.

Catherine slapped a photograph onto the table. With a start, Sara registered it as a hard copy of the picture she had forwarded to Ecklie for the A.P.B..

"This jog your memory?" demanded Catherine. "You can't tell me you don't recognize him."

"I never said I didn't."

"Look, we already know you have a thing for bodies. Like to dress them up. Leave them out for people to find."

Hannah's lawyer, a tall, middle-aged blonde man decked out in an obviously expensive dark designer suit and crimson tie and exuding all the arrogance he believed his law degree entitled him to - Sara had instantly pegged him as pretty boy, frat jock, BMOC in a younger life who had unfortunately aged into Ivy League entitlement - questioned a little too calm and collectedly: "Are you actually charging my client with something?"

"Don't worry," Ecklie assured him. "We've already read her her rights."

"Hence the handcuffs?"

Not that Hannah seemed to mind. Quite the contrary. She bore the metal bracelets with a sick and twisted sort of pride.

"Grand theft for starters," Catherine began.

The lawyer laughed. "For a couple of cadavers? They're worth what? Four hundred dollars a piece on the open market? Maybe. Makes it a misdemeanor charge at worst."

"True," Catherine readily conceded. "But dumping a body is a class D felony."

"Then how about we throw in some illegal wiretapping. Stalking. Harassment. B. and E.. Kidnap. Murder. You want me to keep going?" Ecklie asked.

To both Ecklie and Catherine's surprise it was Hannah who replied.

"Who said anything about murder?"

"You mean he's alive?"

Despite her best attempts, Catherine was unable to conceal her relief.

"Last time I saw him."

"Which was where and when?" demanded Ecklie.

"You don't have to answer that," Hannah's lawyer cautioned.

"Actually," Ecklie maintained, "you do."

"Wow," the lawyer mirthlessly laughed again, "you guys don't quit do you? Bad cop, good cop. Bad cop, bad cop. Does that ever really get you anywhere?"

Neither replied.

"We're done," he continued firmly, "with all the harassment. Wasn't it bad enough you harassed her poor brother to death?"

Wow, thought Sara, that was the most impressive display of spin of she'd ever heard. But then Hannah did blame Sara. Somehow over the years what really had happened to Marlon West had shifted in his sister's mind to something else entirely.

It wasn't Hannah's fault, Marlon's suicide. It was Sara's. And now it was Sara's turn to pay. Sara took away the only person Hannah had ever really loved; Hannah intended to do the same.

As for Mr. Ivy League Law Degree, Sara understood how Shakespeare could have once written: "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

From the look of barely contained fury on Catherine's face, Sara was sure she felt the same.

"The way I see it," the lawyer was continuing to say, supercilious as ever, "you haven't presented a single shred of evidence linking my client to these charges.

"So I'm officially petitioning for her immediate release."

"How do you sleep at night?"

The man eyed Catherine intently before replying, "Better than you apparently."

Then rising to his feet, he said, "We're done here."

Conrad Ecklie banged his fist so hard on the table it startled them all into staring.

"We're not done until I say we're done," he hissed, wholly uninterested in playing nice anymore.

Hannah's lawyer simply smirked.

"Threats usually work for you, Sheriff?

"Keep in mind anyone here so much as harms one hair on my client's head and you might as well resolve yourself to a mistrial right then and there. So why don't you just spare us all the trouble?"

"You know what doesn't make sense?" Catherine asked, in a quiet voice at odds with her usual fiery temper. "Why? I mean why now? It's not Marlon's birthday. You're a few weeks late for the anniversary of his death.

"And then why didn't you just kill him in the park when you had the chance?"

The lawyer rested a cautionary hand on Hannah's shoulder. "Don't answer that."

Disregarding this, Hannah leant forward.

"You really want to know?"

In the observation room, Sara held her breath.

"Either of you speak French?" Hannah asked.

Catherine shook her head while Ecklie replied, "I've never had much use for it."

"That's too bad," Hannah simpered, ultimately unconcerned. It didn't matter in the slightest that they didn't. Sara did. And Hannah knew she did.

As if she could see right through the mirrored glass, Hannah's eyes found Sara's.

"It's simple really: La vengeance se mange très-bien froide."

When her examiners continued to regard her blankly, Hannah added, attempting to be as helpful as ever, "Loosely translated: 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.'"

And Sara certainly felt it.

"Perhaps, you might prefer Robert Frost?" Hannah suggested, not removing her gaze from the glass.

"'Some say the world will end in fire; Some say in ice,'" Hannah began.

Sara recognized the poem, Grissom having once quoted it to her. Originally a riff on Dante's Inferno and astronomer Harlow Shapley's apocalyptic imaginings, in her husband's rhythmic resonating tones, the lines sounded profoundly, almost hypnotically, beautiful.

In Hannah's compact unpretentiousness, they chilled her to the bone.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To know that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

"I'd say you've got four, maybe five hours left. Tops." Hannah grinned.

"Not nearly enough time to work it out at the rate you're going."

To be Continued in Left Out in the Cold

xxxxxxx

A/N: Hodges' how to milk a scorpion video really does exist on YouTube. And yes, I watched the whole thing. Worst of all, I did find it oddly stimulating... Intellectually speaking of course...

And in an odd bit of happenstance, what did I happen to spy this week at the local Insectarium as part of their Holloween festivities? An Arizona bark scorpion under black light. They really do glow the most eerie shade of almost green. It was - at least to me - very, very cool.

Also, for more about the case which brought Grissom and Sara back to Vegas in the first place, see (Not) Your Usual Ups and Downs.