It was about a week and a half after the find at Lake Mead. Brass had been unglued by the find – She was supposed to be dead! – and was constantly trying to keep himself busy, like everything else, especially Nick. He had not found anybody else to interview yet, and was waiting for more evidence to come in before doing anything else. In the meantime, he filled out and signed reports, talked with Ecklie and Grissom (Oil and water, as always), dealing with Mobley and the media at hand and even trying to call the O'Keefe residence, to offer any help, but nobody answered the phone, allowing the voice mail to pick up any calls.
I'm not leaving any damned messages. I'm talking with one of them and that's that. I'm not playing games anymore.
The detective needed a break. Since he was assigned to work with Greg and Warrick, whenever they had something, Brass wondered about what they found. He didn't have the chance to talk with them yet. After signing the last report for the night – and even ignoring the phone ringing the minute he got up – the detective went down the aquamarine halls, looking for the duo. After asking a lab tech – Damn Hodges, I hate his guts – where they went, Brass went down the hall, hooked a right, and found himself in the breakroom.
Brass had just come into the room when he discovered a tired and distraught Greg (who probably wasn't too used to working that hard…yet) and Warrick, both with their heads down on the table, two coffee cups to the center of it and within their grasps. The detective chuckled, thinking about what they had been doing with the Child Services files and staying up late too many nights to count, trying to avoid overtime and infuriating Sheriff Mobley.
He knew that he had to leave the two tired men alone. But just as Brass was able to walk out of the room, to avoid waking them both up, Greg moved slightly – to the sound of the detective's rustling clothes – and woke up. Warrick shortly followed him, almost embarrassed to be caught in such a weak moment, especially with the tough homicide detective near them.
"Taking a cat nap, I see," Brass said, trying hard not to chuckle again.
"Well, if you had to go through hell to get Child Services files about a maniac, then you'd be this tired and tired, too," Greg snapped, sleepily almost. He almost hit his head on the table trying to avoid going back to sleep.
"Hey, hey, calm down." Brass put his arms in surrender. He knew their limits and backed off the issue, trying to steer it back to the main topic: who was Jason Napolitano and what did he have in connection to Margaret O'Keefe and her family? He needed to know before the two went back to sleep again.
"Did you two sleepyheads find anything of interest this time or was that before last night's nap?" he finally asked after a minute of debating whether or not to ask for what they've found.
Warrick, who had been sleeping on some thick folder that Brass had just noticed, threw the detective another sleepy stare. He then threw the thick folder at him, almost having the contents flown to the floor (they had stayed within the rubber bands wrapped around them).
Yawning, Warrick returned to his nap on the table and said before dozing off again (with Greg close behind him), "Take those to Grissom and have yourself a good day, honey." The lanky C.S.I. – along with the extremely tired lab rat – then tipped his head forward and went back to sleep, drooling on the table unconsciously.
Brass smiled and started taking out the rubber bands and then each paper of the file on one Jason Brian Napolitano. He read each paragraph carefully, still standing in the break room, very still so that he couldn't possibly wake the two men up again.
After he went through name, address, profession and date of birth, Brass noticed some police charges, off the record, and even the one family who fostered the child, before he came out his minor years and his high school graduation. The name of that one couple struck him as odd. Almost shocking to him was the report on this particular family, details following details on how and why they adapted him.
Immediately after the revelation, Brass put the file down on the table next to Warrick and Greg and thumbed at his phone in his pocket. Taking it out, he dialed Grissom's number quickly.
The phone rang twice. "Grissom here."
"Gil, meet me at the Farrows' place in twenty minutes," Brass said in a monotone, to hide his excitement. "You know the O'Keefe's neighbors, the elderly couple. There is a little something in here that might interest you in this case. I think they might help us."
Before the detective could even say more and hear a response from Grissom, the phone's dial tone pronounced that Grissom had hung up. So much for suspense and telling him about what it was, Brass thought as he headed, file in hands again, out the door.