Author's note: As promised, a longer chapter. Which (unintentionally) turned out to be a sort of summary of the case so far. A recapping of the evidence. And you always have to follow the evidence, right?


Chapter 11

"Hey, Sar," Nick offers in greeting, as he strolls into the breakroom. "Heard you had some sort of crazy love-triangle-turned-homicide out in Henderson last night."

"More like a love-quadrilateral," I dryly quip.

"Actually," Greg contradicts as he bounds in, his usual effervescent bundle of barely-restrained energy, "Our triangle-turned-square just became a pentagon, according to Brass."

Turning to me, he clarifies, "Apparently, Hubby's girlfriend's ex just re-entered the scene a few days ago, wanting reconciliation."

"Well, looks like our list of suspects just got one longer."

Nick chuckles, quickly morphing his amusement into a muffled cough when I direct a glare at him.

"And how's that double-homicide gang shoot-out of yours going, Nick?" I inquire, with faux-innocence.

He groans in response. "Bobbie's threatened to emascu… Well, he threatened grave bodily injury, if I come within 50 yards of Ballistics in the next two days."

"How many did ya give him?" Greg curiously asks.

"Twenty-three bullets and thirty-nine casings," comes the reply.

Greg winces in sympathy.

"Plus, eight firearms, half of them with altered barrels."

"Yeouch," Greg yelps.

"I'd steer clear for at least a week," I advise.

"And, peace offerings," Greg counsels. "Bribery. Pay-offs. A little sumthin' under the table. Bobbie's fond of Toblerone chocolate," he supplies helpfully.

"Dude, I'm not gonna ask how you know that," Nick drawls with a teasing grin.

Deflecting the conversation, Greg asks, "So, you drew the short straw, presenting this mess to Bobbie?"

"Warrick is damn lucky," Nick bemoans.

"Warrick is damn good at 'Rock, paper, scissors,'" the man in question jibes, coolly strolling in at that moment, Catherine a half-step behind.

"Hey Cath, how'd that doghouse-arson of yours turn out?" Greg inquires.

"Argh," comes her frustrated response, as she collapses bitterly into one of the breakroom chairs. "I am gonna strangle Grissom. One of the neighbors wanted to get the ASPCA involved. 'Dog endangerment,' he kept insisting."

Leaning back slightly in my chair, shifting roles from participant to observer, I allow the easy, joking banter to envelope me. The friendly atmosphere is a welcome buffer, separating me from the oppressive darkness of my demons, serving to deflect my thoughts from Mandy Hudson and her father.

From my past and my father.

Grissom ambles in at that moment, head bowed, absorbedly reading the dispatch slips in his hand. His arrival goes unnoticed by the rest of the team, as the teasing conversation flows around the breakroom table.

Although his eyes remain focused on the papers, a complacent half-quirk transiently uplifts one corner of his mouth, when laughter erupts following a joke by Warrick, with Greg evidently serving as the punch-line, based on his shame-faced expression.

As Grissom clears his throat, the chatter immediately subsides, everyone assuming a mien of professionalism, mentally adjusting and preparing for the upcoming shift.

As usual, Grissom begins the dispensation of assignments without prelude:

"Sara, Greg, and I are still working the Hudson case tonight. Catherine—"

"Another doghouse burn down, Grissom?" she acidly inquires.

"No," comes his puzzled rebuttal, with a confused crease appearing between his eyebrows at her aggravated tone. "A DB, in one of the elevator shafts at Caesar's Palace."

Her expression relaxes, easing even further upon Grissom's, "Take Nick or Warrick with you."

Turning to the duo, he adds, "Whoever isn't with Catherine, stays on the shoot-out from last night."

As the boys leave the breakroom, Warrick holds out a closed fist toward Nick, challenging, "Best out of three, Nicky?"

Nick groans.


Directing his attention to Greg and me, Grissom inquires, "What happened at the gatehouse this morning, Greg?"

"I had a lengthy chat," firing a mock-glare at Grissom, "With Chuck, the night security guard for Pendleton Heights. Who, may I say, is not an advocate in the use of personal deodorant," releasing an aggrieved sigh.

Grissom blinks implacably.

Greg continues, "All residents have 24-hour access to the community, by entering a 4-digit code into the keypad at the gate." Pre-empting Grissom, Greg holds aloft a sheaf of printouts. "I have the keypad log going back to 8 hours before the murder. I also have video footage of the entrance gate, for the same time period.

"The guardhouse booth is unoccupied, between 11pm and 5am – not a lot of visitors, apparently, during those hours. So, of course, the natural question is – What does one do, if one does not possess a convenient 4-digit pin, and happens to arrive at the inconvenient hour of 3 o'clock in the morning?"

Clearly viewing the question as rhetorical, Greg glibly answers himself, "Being the thorough CSI that I am…" dramatically bringing his hand to his chest, "…though currently only a Level I…" coughing none-too-subtly here.

"Greg," Grissom utters warningly.

He hurriedly proceeds, "Well, there is a most-convenient 'page' function on the keypad, via which one can alert the on-duty guard to come down and manually log you in. There were…" pausing for theatrical effect, "…no manual log-ins last night."

"Thank you, Gr—" Grissom begins.

"However," Greg interrupts, holding one index finger aloft, "There is also a convenient walk-through gate access, immediately adjacent to the guardhouse. And that entrance requires but a simple key. The lock of which is, most inconveniently, broken."

"So," I discouragedly note, "Anyone could have entered the community, on foot."

"Sara…" Grissom says, in a mollifying tone.

"I'll head down to the A/V lab, start processing the video with Archie," I consentingly reply.

Offering an acknowledging nod, Grissom then asks, "What's the status on the rest of the evidence?"

"Long brown hairs, found in the master bedroom—" Greg starts.

"Found in the master bed," I correct.

"The master bed," Greg obligingly amends. "No follicular tags, but they were consistent with the sample collected from the daughter."

"And Mommy Dearest is a blond," Brass adds, strolling casually into the breakroom, "Who admittedly hasn't shared a room with hubby for more than a year."

Nodding my silent hello to Brass, I relate in a tightly restrained monotone, my anger coiling within me like black smoke from a black flame, "The daughter has been physically and sexually abused."

"Meaning that we have a new motive," concedes Brass, with a thoughtful nod. "If Daddy was the abuser, then Mommy Dearest could have conscripted some assistance in eliminating the problem."

"But if Daddy found out," Greg jumps in, "Then…"

"…then we could be looking for a homicidal sexual predator," Grissom concludes.

"Ah, my favorite kind of perp," Brass dryly comments.

"So, we actually have two cases here – the murder of Dennis Hudson, and the physical and sexual abuse of his daughter," Grissom notes, removing his glasses and bringing one of the stems to rest on his lower lip. Following a brief pause, he declares, "For now, let's treat them as the same case, until more evidence comes in."

We all nod our agreement to this decision.

His gaze passing over the three of us, Grissom asks, "Anything else on the evidence?"

"The results from Mandy's SART exam are in DNA," I supply, "Although I'm not expecting any viable samples. And Hodges is analyzing the trace from under her fingernails."

Greg contributes, "There was absolutely nothing probative on the nightlight – no prints, no trace, nothing."

"Indicating that the attacker was probably wearing gloves," I speculate.

"What about the print on the back door?" Grissom asks.

"Jacquie's still working with it. It was pretty smudged, and only a partial," Greg defends. "Plus, Nick swamped her with prints, from all of the bullets and casings in their shoot-out case."

"And the cigarette?"

"Still in DNA," hesitantly adding, "As are most of the blood samples."

At Grissom's exasperated sigh, Greg rushes to explain, "There's a huge backlog in DNA, because of the contamination incident yesterday. Wendy's doing the best she can…"

Releasing an aggravated huff, Grissom relents, "Alright. Greg, help Wendy work through the overflow."

With a mock-salute, Greg obligingly trots off to his old turf, for the second time in two shifts.

"And I'm off to see a man about a movie," I say, gathering the files in front of me as I propel myself out of the breakroom chair.


Wandering down to the A/V lab, I find Archie thoroughly fixated on the monitor in front of him, eyes glazed in that hypnotic trance that LCD screens induce. I offer a quiet, "Hey Archie," to ease his transition back to reality.

He starts guiltily, his hand snaking out to rapidly input something onto the keyboard. As I maneuver around the bank of electronic equipment, I catch a flicker of a simulation game – something involving guns and large explosions – before the monitor display shifts to an image of the familiar entrance gate to Pendleton Heights.

Biting his lower lip, Archie darts a nervous glance at me from the corner of his eye, like a teenage boy caught with an adult magazine.

"Relax, Arch," I say, suppressing a chuckle. "We all need our breaks." Adding slyly, "We all have our vices…"

And he blushes while ducking his head. He really is an adolescent, in some respects.

"So," reverting his attention to the case at hand, I ask, "What've ya got?"

"Well," he begins, "For being such a high-class, upscale community, they sure skimped on their surveillance system."

"Explain," elevating one eyebrow in inquiry.

"For starters, they have a grand total of two cameras, along their entire perimeter," shaking his head disgustedly. "Fortunately for us," with a self-satisfied smirk, "…both cameras were directed at the entrance gates – one for the drive-in access, and one on the walk-through.

"Unfortunately," he continues, "The video from the latter is totally unviable, the tape irreparably damaged. And probably has been for several days, not that anybody noticed," he mutters, with a rueful sigh. "But, there's no recoverable data on it, definitely none from last night."

"And the other tape?"

"Ah, yes," he says, swiveling in his chair to cue up the relevant video. "Better news there."

"The tentative TOD is between 12:30 and 2:30, so why don't you start running at 11pm?" I suggest. "That should go back far enough to catch the arrival of our perp, if he's from outside the community."

Archie nods absently, while his fingers play a piano sonata across the keyboard. After a few seconds, the requested footage obligingly appears on the bank of monitors. One final keystroke, and the timestamp begins advancing.

Consulting the logs from the gatehouse entrance, I observe, "There were no recorded entries into the keypad, between 10:47pm, when the 4-digit code of a Mr. McAllister was input, until 3:17am, the pin registered to the Las Vegas Review Journal… Must be the newspaper delivery carrier," I postulate.

Scoffing slightly, Archie remarks, "Pretty boring 'hood – everybody home and in bed before 11 o'clock."

We watch the dormant gate in silence for several moments, the timestamp inexorably accruing interest.

At 11:37, an aged Toyota pick-up approaches the gate. From inside the community. We both instinctively lean forward in our chairs, seeking an improved angle.

"A dirt-spattered '80s model?" Archie observes. "Doesn't exactly fit the profile of your hoity-toity SUV-burbia."

"No," I dryly concur. "It certainly doesn't. It's also going the opposite direction as our would-be attacker."

The truck pulls up to the gate, which opens automatically, and then vanishes off-camera.

Noting the timestamp, I direct Archie to reverse the video, hoping to get a clear view of the license plate. Unfortunately, the layer of dirt coating the vehicle managed to obfuscate the plates, causing me to wonder if the mud-bath was deliberate.

Realizing the futility of our effort, we continue watching the tape, with Archie promising to return to the pick-up later.

Referring to the log print-outs, I absentmindedly ask, "Hey Archie? How come the logs didn't automatically record the gate opening for the truck?"

"The computer log isn't actually linked to the gate; it connects to the keypad – whenever anyone punches in their pin, to enter the community."

"So, the log only records comings, not goings."

"Yep," he succinctly confirms.

I'm beginning to agree with Archie's analysis of the low-tech quality of Pendleton Heights' security system.

Another hour of video ticks by uneventfully. Five minutes of staring unblinkingly at an unchanging image, and I find myself succumbing to an unbidden trance. My entire world reduced to a 12-inch by 15-inch square of black and white and gray pixels. Light and shadow. Fixed. Constant. Unwavering. A slightly swaying branch attached to an off-camera tree absorbs my consciousness, my eyes tracing the fluttering movements of the leaves.

And then, something intrudes upon my immutable world. A motion, a flicker. So transient that I don't even process it until several seconds have passed.

Holding one hand aloft in a gesture of restraint, I instruct, "Wait. Go back…"

Archie obligingly obeys, rewinding the timestamp approximately sixty seconds.

"Okay, now, play it in real time."

I'm not even certain what I'm looking for, what caught my attention. If the movement was real or imagined. But I stare determinedly at the screen, willing whatever it was to reappear.

And then, after several handfuls of tense, silence-filled seconds tick by, it does. A shadow, flickering briefly in the lower lefthand corner of the frame.

"Good eye, Sara," Archie commends, with an appreciative nod.

Shrugging off the praise, I ask, "Can you enhance that? Spout off some of that sexy A/V techno-jargon that'll make me very happy?"

"You mean, something like – 'The camera picks up 12 percent more than you see on the screen'?"

"Yeah, something like that," I reply with a grin.

His fingers flying with a practiced expertise, an unconscious grace, Archie works his magic. In under a minute, an expanded image fills the monitor.

The video restarts. Seconds trickle like individual grains of sand through an hourglass. And then, in slow-motion, the distorted image of a boot appears, stepping in and out of the frame. Leaving behind a perfect impression of its passage in the soft soil.

"Suh-weet!" Archie delightedly exclaims, as Grissom, with his customary impeccable timing, ambles in.

"Anything from the surveillance tapes?" he inquires mildly, although the amused glint in his eyes tells me that he overheard Archie's gleeful exclamation.

With a restrained grin, I reply, "We've potentially got the perp, entering the gates to Pendleton Heights, approaching the scene. Fits our current timeline, arriving at…" consulting the timestamp on the monitor, "…12:41am. And we should be able to get a solid tread impression of that boot."

Grissom nods his agreement.

"I'll head back to the scene, later in shift, when we've got some daylight. I need to return to the house anyway," I continue, "To process Mandy's room."

And those words summon the demons that I had managed to keep restrained. Mandy's haunted eyes. Her buried torment. The sexual abuse. The physical abuse.

The distance, the separation that the evidence analysis afforded – vanished. Erased in an instant.

Grissom nods once more, his eyes softening in understanding. "Take Greg, when you—"

The discordant trill of his cellphone interrupts his directive. Unclipping the device from his belt, Grissom reads the text message.

"Doc Robbins," is all he says.

He raises an eyebrow, in silent inquiry, and I hear his unspoken question:

Do you want to attend the autopsy?

I nod my head, once, in acquiescence. And, once again, am struck by how loudly we communicate, without words. Without sound.


A/N: Another chapter heavy on the dialogue, which I can't seem to feel quite satisfied with. But, practice makes perfect, right? Or, something like that… More Grissom/Sara interactions in the next part, along with more revelations about Sara's past.