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 chapter has been immeasurably improved by the insights and generosity of my good friend, mingsmommy. Thank you, Lisa, for loving this story so much, and helping me meet my deadline. I'd have gotten there, but it wouldn't have been nearly so much fun, nor enlivened by your gifts.
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 TWENTY-ONE
Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 5:00 pm – CNN News Network – Washington, DC
Lisa King blew into the studio like a small, deadly whirlwind and, similar to a sudden storm, left a wide swath of disorder in her wake. Everyone in the Washington bureau knew she was angling for a transfer to Atlanta and eventually, an anchor spot. She'd been around long enough for them to know her ambition was a foregone conclusion…and since she was an 'ends justify the means' kind of gal, people scattered whenever she was on a big story for fear they would soon be wearing her footprints all over their backs.
No one was going to prevent her from wringing every drop of opportunity out of her three exclusive interviews.
King poked her head in the doorway of Alan Burrows' office. "Who've you got editing my stuff? I might have a suggestion or two…"
Alan started, "Lahiri...he's in…"
Frowning, Lisa shook her head and interrupted. "You know how I hate working with him…he doesn't get me."
"Oh, he gets you all right…" A tiny satisfied smirk lifted Burrows' lips.
Ripples of annoyance radiated from the doorway. "Alan…"
"Lisa, look. Murad Lahiri is senior editor here. This is a big story. I had to give it to him." Burrows, usually indulgent of his best reporter, put on his authority hat to let King know further argument was unwelcome. "Use your charm to get what you want out of him…but get it done. I want promos on the air by six."
"You got it," she said absently. Already focused on getting her way with Lahiri, King smiled prettily and went in search of her new adversary.
Burrows sighed and went back to his paperwork. "I will be so glad when she gets that transfer..."
xxx
King stood behind the video editor as he was cutting her interviews. "I want to do a very choppy cut on this sequence…if you clean it up too much, it loses all the impact."
Murad Lahiri was in no mood to surrender. "This is not Law & Order, Miss King. Dramatic editing has no place in the newsroom."
"Oh, come on…this isn't 'the news'…this is a 'special report.' At most you can label it news-like. We want to pour on the drama…that's the only way to capture the audience." She sat next to the stubborn man, tenting her fingers and gazing toward the ceiling as she crafted her response. "Our message is 'remember these poor girls…and raise hell until the police come clean.'"
Lahiri raised one eyebrow and eyed King speculatively. "That is our message?"
"It is," she nodded with her most sincere expression. "As the very sober and socially conscious Mr. Fred Grey told us, 'the public has a right to know.'"
Rolling his eyes, Murad again concentrated on the video editing console. "As I recall, the very sincere and socially conscious Mr. Fred Grey almost pulled out because he thought he might lose his job…until someone offered him $500."
Lisa leaned close as images of Dorothy Culpepper started to flicker across the screen. "Honoraria are not unheard of in cases like this…OK, stop…see her hand shaking? Keep that in…oh, and that next bit, too."
A close up of Mrs. Culpepper paused on the screen. "You can see the bruising under her makeup there…you want to keep that?"
Lisa King rose, patting her colleague on the shoulder. "Murad…this is all about the money shot. We've got sex, we've got murder…a potential cover up…a banged up old lady distraught about her son the FBI agent who may or may not have killed a bunch of hookers…this is GOLD. It hints at a story behind the story…and if we leave just enough for the viewers to pick up as 'clues,' we'll have a million requests for updates and I get good marks in the nightly numbers."
Rising, she went toward the door. "Trust me, Murad…this is the way we want to go." With a grin worthy of a great white, she sauntered off toward her office.
Grimly following directions, Murad grumbled, "Bitch."
Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 6:30 pm – Aquia, VA
Before going back to DC, Jack Crawford made arrangements with the State Police to do a house to house in the Mission Hill neighborhood. Chances were slim surrounding neighbors had seen anything, even less that they'd run up on Justice Lark. But if, as Grissom and Graham suspected, Lark had been watching the scene, even an abandoned hideaway would give them valuable information about their killer. Trooper Manny Mendez, already on scene to relieve one of Porter Ames' deputies, took the lead.
When Mason Robichaud released the body at the Mission Hill scene, he caught a ride back to FBI Headquarters with Jack Crawford. He felt an urgent need to do the post himself. Plus, he'd had an idea he wanted to discuss privately with the Director...a way to differentiate the twins' DNA.
Miranda shadowed Sheriff Ames, guessing correctly that he'd maintained law enforcement contacts in Minnesota. Under the circumstances, they could use as many eyes in the state as they could muster. Pleased to be doing something active on these cases, Ames agreed to give Miranda a lift back to the Academy compound after he'd rifled his Rolodex at home. Maggie Ames put an extra plate on the table and prepared to listen to her husband's war stories for the millionth time.
The rest of the Task Force clambered into the van, too upset by recent developments to discuss the case. Grissom sat in the rear with an arm around Sara, who seemed very far away. Neither spoke on the drive back to Quantico. Exhausted, they excused themselves quickly and asked to be dropped at the dorm.
William Foster tried to get his dad to accompany him for supper, but Graham begged off. In truth, eating was the last thing on his mind. Foster gave up reluctantly, worried that Will's supper would be liquid and 80 proof.
The young agent parked the van near their cars. Upset and tired, they picked their way carefully across the slick parking lot. "I'm going on home, then…I'll grab something on the way. I should be home by 6:30 if you want to…you know…talk or anything."
Graham unlocked the rental and sat heavily in the driver's seat, one leg left hanging outside the door.
William paused, waiting for Will to say something. "Dad? You OK?"
Slowly, Graham responded to the worry in Willy's voice. "Sure…I'm fine, Son…just tired. I think I'm going straight to bed when I get back to the hotel." When he turned, the expression on his face told William everything he needed to know and it had nothing to do with fine or all right.
"Dad…"
Will forced a smile. "William, I'm troubled about what happened today, but I'm OK." He sighed tiredly, "I'm going straight to bed, I promise…look, call me in the morning and we'll meet for breakfast at the Route One Diner."
Foster nodded uncertainly. He'd heard lies like this a hundred times, but he still didn't know what to say. Bowing to the inevitable, he sighed. "I'll meet you there at seven, 'kay?"
Graham grimaced, "You're killin' me, Willy." The hope in his son's eyes hurt his heart. Relenting, he tried to laugh. "Oh, all right…seven it is. Good night, Son." Pulling in his leg as he closed the door, he fired up the rental. With a little wave, he was rolling off toward the main gate.
Willy stood for a long time watching as the car grew smaller and finally vanished from sight.
xxx
Two cycles of the light at the Route 1 intersection came and went before someone behind him, impatient to get home, finally stood on their horn.
Startled out of his thoughts, Will Graham stepped on the gas. The car stalled in a cloud of blue smoke. A string of cars wove around him while the light was still green, leaving him aggravated with a flooded engine and a decision to make.
The Aquia Days Inn, his home away from home, was a little more than seven miles to the south. Decision made, he got the car restarted before the light changed again and headed north to Dumfries, home to nothing much except the closest liquor store.
xxx
Some hotels pamper their guests with chocolates at turn down and complimentary newspapers. The most Graham could hope for at his Days Inn was a working ice machine on the first and third floors and a paper ribbon on the toilet seat.
Will Graham sat on the edge of his bed, toed off his shoes and reached for the phone. "I'd like a wake up call at six in the morning, please…yes, and make sure you let it ring. Sometimes I have a hard time waking up. Thank you."
After giving the remote a thorough workout, Graham realized the program selection hadn't improved in the four days he'd been here. Powering off the set, he found a light rock station on the clock radio which he proceeded to ignore.
All he wanted was background noise anyway. Just like the dogs he'd left at home on Marathon Key, to him a quiet house was a scary house. Memories thrived on quiet…and stillness. He endeavored to be neither.
What a miserable fucking day. When was the last time he'd had any sleep? At least 36 hours. Not sleepy now, though. Not after what he'd seen burned into that woman's thigh. Jesus. The depth of this guy's depravity was terrifying.
He looked over at the makeshift bar he'd set up on the dresser. Fresh ice glittered in the bucket and the motel-supplied plastic glasses were standing at attention, ready for service.
The look on her face…he would never forget the look on Sara's face when she saw her name. It reminded him of something…what was it? He'd been trying to bring it up all afternoon, though he suspected he didn't really want to know.
Will got up and eyed the fifth of Old Crow glowing innocently under the lamp on the bureau. Not his usual Jim Beam, but the cheapest rotgut he could find. At $7.95 a liter, it probably tasted like shellac…on a good day.
Oh Christ…Molly. That was how she looked when she realized she'd lost her battle with cancer. His better half…sweet sweet Molly. Sara would have liked her…
He'd had some half assed idea that if he bought bad booze, he wouldn't down the whole bottle. Now he realized Jim Beam tasted like shit, too – he drank it because it was the quickest way to get from Point A to Passed Out.
…but he'd lost her…
The only time he'd enjoyed drinking was with Molly and that was some off brand gin they'd liked. He couldn't bear to use it now…not for this.
That strange mental connection he'd shared with the Las Vegas CSI vanished the moment Grissom understood Sara was in real danger. The withdrawal was logical, but as weird as that connection was, he missed it now…it had been a comfort, really…a thin barrier between him and…
Alone in his head again, Molly seemed especially close and yet irretrievably lost. Pain he'd kept at bay for the last few days flooded in, unbearable as the day she'd died.
Current pop tunes droned in the background, spiced up by the occasional oldie. Graham noted those idly and resumed his uneasy thoughts, quite able to keep separate mental tallies of classic singles, evidence and memories…
Unforgettable, that's what you are
Unforgettable though near or far
Like a song of love that clings to me
How the thought of you does things to me
Never before has someone been more…
Years ago, before Crawford had come to him on Marathon Key with pictures of two slaughtered families, he and Molly had danced to that father/daughter duet at Lamb's Tavern. She'd giggled as he'd sung to her.
Pokey Lamb, chuckling from his spot behind the bar, had turned on the disco ball. The old coot's mistaken idea he could turn his dive into a hot spot by going disco had, mercifully, died a quick death but the mirrored globe remained, throwing hundreds of stars around the room. In Molly's eyes…in her golden hair…on her skin…he remembered wanting to kiss every mote that touched her. Later, at home, he had.
Graham's pocketknife was out, slicing neatly through the tax stamp on his fifth of Old Crow. Half a tumbler burned down his throat. He'd guessed right…the booze was awful and tasted like turpentine. It didn't matter. By the time he killed the bottle, he'd have escaped…for awhile.
Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 7:00 pm – DC City Jail – Washington, DC
The waiting room at the DC City Jail was clean but tired: brightly colored vinyl-upholstered couches sporting many duct tape repairs, a few mismatched chairs, formica topped coffee and end tables holding possibly prehistoric magazines falling to pieces… at least it didn't reek of urine and rage. A guard poked his head in the door. "We're bringing him up…give us a few minutes then come down to Interrogation Room B."
"Thanks." Jack Crawford checked his watch and frowned thoughtfully at Mason Robichaud "OK…explain it to me again…antibody titers?"
The Louisiana State Medical Examiner went over the science again. "When you have an illness, your body fights the infection with antibodies. Once the illness has passed, antibodies keyed to that specific infectious agent remain, protecting you from re-infection."
Jack was impatient. "Yeah, yeah…I've got that part…some kinds of protection last for years…"
Mason smiled indulgently as he relaxed into the Day-Glo orange couch, "Do you remember reading about the government's concern that adults vaccinated against smallpox in childhood might not maintain their immunity to the disease?"
Still irritated at Robichaud's slow Southern style, Crawford jumped in. "Yes. Something about a research sample…"
Mason nodded. "Birmingham England, 1978. There was an accident at a research laboratory. Smallpox virus broke containment and a woman who contracted the disease died. The man responsible for the release committed suicide…" He paused, remembering. "I knew the man, Henry Bedson…hell of a nice guy…couldn't live with himself…"
Crawford, still trying to move the story along, sat forward in his rickety folding chair, "After that, all stocks of the virus were destroyed except those at the CDC and a single, heavily guarded facility in Russia, though they've all been slated for destruction since 1993." Jack swallowed, uneasy. "Along came the 2001 anthrax attacks…we started wondering what would happen if weaponized smallpox ever got out."
"Exactly!" Robichaud continued. "Because smallpox is considered eradicated, our entire adult population might be at risk if their vaccinations have more or less expired. Millions could sicken and die." He shrugged helplessly. "We just don't know…which is where antibody titers come in. Taking an antibody titer is a way to determine if a person is still protected from a specific antigen."
"I still don't see how that relates to our case." Exhaling, still impatient, the Director begged, "Come on, Robby...just spit it out."
Robichaud patted the younger man's hand with a tolerance born of maturity and a less stressful career. "Antibody titering is not common in forensics…in fact, I don't know of a single case…"
Crawford rolled his eyes.
The coroner droned on. "But, it is routinely done on researchers who work with certain infectious agents…to determine their level of exposure so they can protect their health…"
Jack's worn out tolerance boiled over. "MASON!"
"You don't see it…the application here?" Robby asked, just a little smug.
"NO!"
Mason caught and held Jack's gaze. "We have separated twins with identical DNA…how do we tell them apart? Well, what are the chances they both have had exactly the same exposures over their entire lives?" Pausing for a moment, he watched as understanding lit Crawford face. "Based on my experience, I'd say zero. Antibody titers will tell us who's who."
Checking his watch again, Crawford stood, relieved and grinning hugely. "Did you bring your kit with you?" he asked, looking around for a doctor's bag.
Robby patted his inside breast pocket and got to his feet. "I'm ready…let's go see Rick Culpepper."
xxx
Their subject was waiting for them in Interrgation Room B, seated and sneering, ready for a fight. "H'lo, Jack…brought some more of the third string with you?"
Crawford sat and clasped his hands in front of him. "Cool it, Rick…you remember Dr. Robichaud?"
Culpepper eyed the older man. "How's it hangin,' Robichaud?"
Jack Crawford shot out of his chair and, putting both hands flat on the table in front of him, let his agent have it with both barrels. "What the FUCK is wrong with you?" The Director roared directly in his agent's face. "We are trying to clear your ass and you have antagonized everyone trying to help you…knock it off!"
Blinking stupidly, Rick swallowed and started to speak. Crawford cut him off. "I got a detailed report of your last performance. Jesus, Rick…I still can't believe the things you said to Grissom…vile, lewd, disrespectful…" His expression changed from anger to disgust. "And what you said about Sidle?…I would have torn your head off."
The agent laughed, amused. Crawford brought both fists down on the metal table with such force the room rang with it. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Feeling he finally had Culpepper's attention, Jack lowered the volume of his voice, but not the intensity. "Are you not familiar with the FBI Code of Conduct? I'm sure you are because the last time I got dinged for your behavior, I made you memorize the fucking thing…do you WANT to be an agent?"
Serious at last, Rick stared at his hands. "My career is over…you know that, Jack."
"Not if you're innocent…and you are innocent, right?" The Director backed off slightly but maintained his position towering over the agent.
"You know I am."
Crawford softened. "Well, get your head out of your ass and help us…help yourself."
Chastened, Culpepper sat straighter in his chair. "What do you need me to do?"
Crawford sat again, once again his imperturbable self.
Dr. Robichaud pulled out several empty tubes, a rubber tourniquet and a sterile packet containing a blood collection needle while Crawford explained how they might be able to distinguish his DNA from that of his twin. "We're going to have you fill out a questionnaire about diseases you've had, things you've been vaccinated for…that'll be over here tomorrow." All eyes watched as Culpepper's blood filled tube after tube, knowing unique cells inside might lead to the agent's freedom.
Samples taken, pressure bandage applied to prevent bruising, Mason stashed the filled tubes in his breast pocket. "I've got everything I need, Jack. I'll be outside…" He paused and added cryptically, "There's a young lady waiting for me, you know."
Crawford nodded, knowing he needed to get Robby back for his autopsy.
The two men, mentor and student, stared at one another. Finally, Crawford offered, "You know, the only people pulling for you, besides your mother, are Grissom and Graham…" When Culpepper looked away, Crawford snapped his fingers loudly. "Hey…you would do well to remember that. They don't like you, but they never thought you were good for this. Everyone else…even me…thought the DNA made this an open and shut case."
Rick made a face but said nothing.
"They're the best, Rick." When he'd waited a few moments for an acknowledgment that was obviously not coming, he opened the door and gestured for the guard to return Culpepper to his cell.
Rick Culpepper plopped down on his bunk. He didn't even hear the cell door slam: he was too busy trying not to gloat. He did not succeed. "I'm getting out of here…I'm going to get out of here and show them how to catch a killer. But first, I need to get laid." Mental images of the delectable Sara Sidle drifted through his thoughts. "And I know just who I want to welcome me home…'I'm out to make it with my midnight dream, yeah…cause I'm a back door man…'"
Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 7:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC
Every monitor in the video wall was tuned to Fox Channel 5, 'Special Report' scrawled across each screen in red.
"It appears there is another victim in the series of murders plaguing our area…"
Justice Lark didn't hear the rest of the story. His eyes were glued to the aerial shots of his crime scene. There was the house on Mission Hill Drive, a scattering of police cars, lights twirling madly, and people…people milling around outside the yellow tape…people working inside the tape.
A fortuitous zoom…and there she was.
Sidle…
Sidle bending…
Sidle in the arms of the first Iron Gray…
Sidle apart…
Tears slid down his face when the film showed the Iron Grays on Sidle's left and right as they disappeared down the driveway.
It had been an almost perfect day…the Messenger had been placed with no trouble and plenty of time to observe and…appreciate his work. He'd spread her so prettily in that picture perfect snow scene.
On screen, the film loop brought Sidle to him again…his breath quickened even as lust stirred in his belly. Sidle…tall, slender, miles of legs leaping up to that perfect ass…oh, and she'd been wreathed in a frosty cloud of her own breath. That had been simply delicious.
Red and swollen hands clenched where they soaked in ice water. But now it was all over…they'd ruined it…she'd ruined it. Splinters of fiberglass from the insulation he'd destroyed was all he'd come away with. There was nothing else he could have done…they'd led her away…before…before he was finished…
The large bowl in his lap smashed on the floor, sending water, ice, and shards of glass in all directions. He'd find her. No matter where she was, he'd find her. Vainly he tried to wipe his running nose with the back of a throbbing hand.
An image jumped across the screen, a breath of desperate hope in a sea of betrayal. One of the Iron Grays handed Sidle into a van. Clumsily, he stopped the live feed and ran it back, moving forward frame by frame. There was writing on that van. What did it say? Wait…he zoomed in. Fuzzy letters resolved themselves. FBI Academy.
Lark pulled his laptop closer and called up MapQuest. Slowly, letter by letter, he typed in his search parameters. Destination: Quantico, Virginia.
Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 7:00 pm – Quantico, VA
Sara stood wrapped in Grissom's arms beneath a scalding shower, trying to get warm. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough hot water in the world to thaw the memory of what she'd seen that afternoon.
Grissom gently pulled her wet hair aside. "Soap?"
Sara grasped his hand and brought it down to complete the circle around her middle. She couldn't resist massaging his forearms, "Just a little longer…please."
It was a long time before the hot water ran out.
xxx
Warmer and dry, the couple worked together stripping their makeshift bed.
Sara opened one of Grissom's Target sheet sets. "Thank you for buying these…I don't think I could stand to sleep on dirty sheets tonight…"
Once the bed was made, they stood awkwardly on either side of it, not quite sure how to be with each other. They'd hardly spoken since getting Lark's special message, opting instead to simply stay close.
Grissom tried to make conversation. "You know, I can't remember the last time we were here…when was that? Yesterday?"
Sara fiddled with the edge of the top sheet still in her hand. "Um…this morning…but we haven't slept here since the night before…"
The quiet they'd wrapped themselves in had become silence, and now it loomed over them like a shadow. Shock gave way to fear, weighing them down and suffocating them.
Grissom watched her carefully, but Sara could not meet his eyes. He sighed heavily and she finally raised her head.
"Stop it," she said quietly.
His eyes widened, "Stop what?"
"Stop treating me like…like he's got me…stop treating me like it's just a matter of time," she swallowed hard, fighting for control. "Stop treating me like I'm dead already."
His breath left him in a rush. "God, Sara! No!" He rounded the bed and grabbed her shoulders. "Sweetheart, no." She felt him shake her slightly, or maybe he was just trembling and it felt like a shake, before he wrapped her in his arms. "I don't think that…I'm scared, yes." He shook his head, "I don't think I've ever been this terrified in my life. But I'm thinking of how to…" He squeezed her tightly to him. "I swear to you, I will keep you safe. He will not get to you. I swear."
They stood there just holding each other with the truth and their fear beating in the air around them, but safe…safe for now…in each other's arms. After awhile she drew back and looked in his eyes. "Make love to me, Gil."
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Sara, I can't. I can't pretend this isn't happening. I can't pretend…"
She placed her hands on his cheeks. "Look at me, Griss." He sighed, opening his eyes reluctantly. "I'm not asking you to pretend. I just…I need to feel you right now."
"God, Sara…I'm frightened out of my mind. I don't know if I can even think of anything…" He was interrupted by the soft press of her lips against his.
She moved down to kiss his chin, the line of his jaw, his neck, asking between presses of her lips to his skin, "Do you love me?"
Closing his eyes again, he wrapped his arms more tightly around her, savoring each touch of her mouth against him. "More than anything or anyone." His voice wavered. "I never knew…I never knew it was possible to love this much."
She pressed her mouth back to his, again, softly. "Show me."
He started by pressing her palm against his cheek and finished by lifting her into his arms. Gently, he placed her on top of the crisp white sheets, partly covering her body with his. "Shhhhh…"
"Show me." She kissed him again. "Show me you love me."
He met her anguished eyes and started to speak, but she pressed soft fingers to his lips. "Show me I'm still alive."
Saturday, January 7, 2007 – 1:00 am – Washington, DC
At last, time to sleep after a long day. The twins lay in their beds, images from the last 18 hours swimming behind their eyes. Exhausted, sleep would not come.
There was only one way to put the day to rest…for both of them, a physical release brought peace and comfort and Blessed, Blessed sleep.
Identical desires…well, almost identical. Separated by no more than a few miles, the twins mirror one another's movements. First the feather touches that tease and excite. Lubricant is next…makeshift for one but not the other. There is nothing quite like the first slick strokes…cool and wet and full of promise.
Mental images from the day fade…instead there is the curve of her ass, that smile partly hidden behind a cascade of silken hair…wide, wide eyes offer an invitation soaked with desire…
Even their rhythm is the same: despite one's recent wounds, desire prevails. Slow and purposeful movements speed to match their racing hearts and when they climax, they cry out the same woman's name.
They are so much alike – right down to their taste in women – but only one twin dreams of a living woman. For the other, she is quite dead.
To Be Continued...Chapter 22 to follow shortly