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Chapter 24: Fall 1995

Catherine Willows

Two years passed like two days—my life was simple. I worked, and I worked with a devotion and a feverish hunger, and we were in the top twenty labs in the country. I spent any free time, any days off, occupied in my home. I cleaned as much as was absolutely necessary, and I kept up with baseball. I read my forensic journals, I had lots of insects for pets, and I meticulously monitored Amber's college fund, though I still hadn't had a word from her. She would be twelve, and beautiful, and I could not believe I wasn't there to beat the boys off with a stick and tell her how attractive her mind could be—how she really deserved to be respected and cherished for who she was.

In truth, I never tired of thinking of her beauty, but it worried me—I wanted her to be seen for all the other amazing things about her. I wanted everyone she met to know how she hadn't wanted to kill spiders, as a four year old, even though she thought they were icky and scary, because she was too kind-hearted. I wanted them to know how she was so intuitive, and gentle, and smart, and loving, and funny, and sweet. She was too beautiful—I was afraid that it would obscure all the other wonderful things about her, and that if I wasn't there to remind her, she might not realize those things about herself, either.

And then one day, I found a friend at the lab, other than Jim. Well, as much a friend as I can have… but it was surprising. I hadn't even had a guy or two I could grab a beer with in a long time. I appreciated the connection, even if to her it seemed like there was hardly one at all. Her name was Catherine Willows, and she challenged me. She was smart, and beautiful, and vivacious. She was many other things, but I liked to think about the good, rather than the bad, when it came to Catherine.

I was skeptical, when Jim approached me with her application. It wasn't officially my job, but he valued my opinion, and we sat and discussed it. She had a degree in Medical Technology from UNLV, and was applying to work in the lab. Her previous job references were as a stripper. Her recommendation letters were outstanding. We called her for an interview. She blew us away.

And for some reason, we clicked.

Still, nearing middle-age, having no wife, no children, and a disastrously beautiful woman around you, day in and out, and honestly feeling no attraction to her, despite how goddamned hot she is…

It spurs on a mid-life crisis if you ever saw one.

I bought a Mercedes.

It made me feel good.

....I hadn't indulged in myself in years…

Catherine teased me about it, but that was okay.

I can't believe I'm a lab rat.

So I had committed myself to four years of grad school, without even being in sight of a PhD. and I was running out of excess aid. But, I did have a degree from Harvard to my name, so I began to apply in the area to all the forensics-related jobs. San Francisco's crime lab needed some extra help, and I was more than qualified. I was hired on the spot.

But I was a lab rat, watching the CSIs do everything that I wanted to do.

Still, it was the first time in the two years since I'd moved from Boston that I could say I had friends. I was somewhat brilliant when it came to trace, not to build myself up too much, and I always talked over the cases with the CSIs, trying gain insight—to learn from them but also to see how I fared against them, to see if I could do what they were doing, to make sure I wasn't just kidding myself.

I wasn't.

I made connections the others didn't—I had an intuition they lacked. And I understood the victims better than they did… especially in tough cases, like rape, or domestic violence… I really felt like my past was, in a weird, twisted, way, becoming an asset to me. I didn't look at the pictures they brought in, unless necessary, and by being clinical about the whole thing, I found that I wasn't even remotely upset by those crimes. I just felt a burning desire to give the victims justice. Maybe I was finally advancing, moving past what had happened to me.

The nightmares had come back though—as soon as I'd left Boston. My nightmares always come in varying degrees of severity, usually depending on the amount of trauma involved. The easiest were just like normal dreams—I might let out the stray whimper, roll around in the sheets more than normal.

They got worse from there.

I would toss and turn so violently that it would wake me up, and I would mutter and moan and shudder. Or I would completely tear the sheets from the bed from my thrashing, and I would scream out—sometimes just screams, often times words… things in reaction to dreams, or things that I'd said as a seven year old, eight year old, twelve year old…

The worst was when I actually sat up in bed, semi-aware of my surroundings—I had punched one of my foster mother's, as a twelve year old, because she'd been trying to wake me up to calm me down after I'd dreamt of the night my father died. I left that foster home the next day—they said that I needed more help than they could give me—which was sad, because they were one of about four really good families, among a little over 20.

I'd been with Michael, since the rape, back in Boston, but I was too afraid to be intimate with anyone else. Strange—I'd finally allowed myself to trust him, as I was leaving.

There were one or two guys I met, at work, who I would have gone out with, before… but now I flirted shamelessly, but turned down their advances. If you acted confident, nobody would guess how much you were hiding… how much you were afraid of. In that regard, however, the nightmares weren't so bad. I didn't have to share them with anyone, or explain myself, or endure the concern and fear in anyone's eyes…

And my supervisor at the lab was impressed with me, so, despite my nightly hauntings, the most important aspects of my life were successful—I was doing great in school, and at work. He told me that I should apply to be a CSI level 1, when I graduated, and I could expect the job. Normally this would have upset me, but I had worked my ass off in this lab. I didn't feel like he was giving it to me because he knew me—it was because I had proven myself capable.

So, with two years left and the world of forensic science in front of me, I pressed on. I was anxious to get into the field, and anxious to have something to throw myself into with a passion. I knew from experience that it would make the nightmares go away… and if it couldn't be a man to exhaust me, I'd just need to make sure the job exhausted me.