A/N: So, I feel the need to warn you about this chapter – it most definitely ends in a cliffhanger. Sorry about that. But, it was either end it here and leave you hanging, or wait until next week (at best) to post an uber-long chapter. I decided to split it so I could post now, when I'm only a day late. I hope you agree with my decision, and that you like this chapter.
Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Oh, and since they're fighting for their Stanley Cup lives tonight, GO PENS!
I don't own CSI. Some inspiration and dialogue are taken from episode 615, "Pirates of the Third Reich."
Jane Doe
"Okay, you know what? You've got to learn to control that thing."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
Sara walked from Grissom's bathroom to his bedroom, frowning as she gestured toward her red, inflamed neck. "Just once, we need to make out without hurting me."
Grissom smiled slightly. "I'm sorry, honey. I told you that I'd shave the beard if you wanted it gone."
Sara sighed and crossed to put her arms around his neck. "And, I told you that it's your face, not mine. If you like the beard, keep it. I think you're sexy either way."
He shook his head. "So, why exactly are you upset?"
"Because I have to wear a scarf to work again," she said, pulling away from him. "Greg figured out why I wear them, you know."
"I thought you were just considered to be very fashion-conscious."
"By Catherine and Sofia, yes. By Greg, no. He can see straight through me."
Grissom laughed. "Oh, well. At least he knows that you have a healthy sex life."
Sara's mouth dropped open as her cheeks flushed pink. "I cannot believe you just said that."
"Why not?" Grissom asked, grabbing her and pulling her close again. "It's true."
Sara struggled to free herself from his arms. "Let go of me, you sex fiend!"
Grissom laughed and kissed her. "I've never heard you complain before now."
Sara scrunched up her face at him. "Whatever. We're going to be late for work."
Laughing again, Grissom released her. "I can't imagine what everyone would say if I walked in late."
"I'm sure it wouldn't be pretty," Sara said, winding a scarf around her neck. She giggled. "Do you think anyone would accuse you of having a girlfriend?"
"Catherine would. Do you think she'd buy the old 'I was feeding my cockroaches' excuse?"
"She might … but, only because it's you," Sara replied. "How's your Jane Doe going?"
"Still a Jane Doe," Grissom replied, following the abrupt subject change rather smoothly. "Nick's working on identifying her. Would you like to give him a hand tonight?"
"Sure," Sara agreed.
"Good. I think we could use your help." Grissom leaned closer to kiss her cheek. "I'll see you there?"
"See you there."
With one last smile, Grissom left the bedroom and the townhouse. Sara waited the usual fifteen minutes, then trailed behind him to the lab.
"Hey, Nicky," Sara said, walking into the layout room. "How's it going?"
"Slowly," Nick replied, barely glancing up from the photos he was studying.
"Well, I'm going to try to help speed it up," she said. "Grissom told me to join you on your case."
"Great!" Nick said, his eyes lighting up. "You'll definitely –" He was cut off by the beeping of his phone. He picked it up to read the new text message. "Wendy has the results from the victim's eyes," he said. "Do you want to get them for me?"
"Sure," Sara replied. "Catch me up first?"
"Yeah," Nick agreed. "Our Jane Doe was found in the desert, off highway 55 a few miles outside of Sparks. At this point, our best guess is that it was a body dump. She looks like a concentration camp victim – emaciated, shaved head, branded. She's also missing her right hand. We're not sure what happened there."
Sara shivered. "Yikes."
"Yeah, it's not pretty." Nick cleared his throat. "When Doc Robbins and David were doing the autopsy, they discovered that the optic nerve had been severed in one of her eyes. That eye was far more decimated than the other, so we think that it might have been infected. I sent both to Wendy to see what she could tell us about them."
"Got it. Anything else?"
"Not yet. We're still waiting for an ID. If we don't get any DNA hits, I'm going to print her and try to ID her that way. Grissom's in autopsy now, getting Doc Robbins's report and an official cause of death."
"Okay," Sara said. "I'll go talk to Wendy, and I'll get back to you."
"Thanks, Sar," Nick said. He smiled. "I'm glad to have your help."
"I'm glad to give it."
By the time Sara had finished talking to Wendy, Nick was with Grissom, who was sharing the autopsy results with him. They both looked up as she walked into the layout room.
"Hey, Sara," Nick said. "Was Wendy able to ID our girl through DNA?"
"Not our girl, no."
Nick gave her an odd look. "Well, what did Wendy have for us?"
"You're not going to believe this," Sara said flatly. "That eye with the severed optic nerve doesn't belong to our Jane Doe."
Nick and Grissom both looked at her in shock.
"I thought that Doc Robbins said an eye transplant is really only a cornea transplant," Nick said.
"It is," Sara agreed. "But, this time, they went for the whole eye."
"Well, does this transplanted eye have an owner?" Grissom asked.
"Yes," Sara said. "Wendy got a CODIS hit on it. DNA matches Jack Landers, a convicted sex offender. Apparently, it's his."
"So, Jack Landers killed our Jane Doe, cut out his own eye and stuck it in her eye socket?" Nick asked.
"Not necessarily in that order," Sara said. "Jack's eye has been dead longer than Jane's."
Nick shook his head. "Okay, so, he cut out his own eye, let it sit for awhile, then killed Jane, removed her eye, and put his in its place? That doesn't make any sense at all."
"Don't worry about making sense of it yet," Grissom said. "We don't have enough to go on."
"We definitely need more," Nick agreed.
"Call Brass," Grissom said. "If this guy has a parole officer, he'll be easy enough to find. Track him down and bring him in. We'll see what's going on here."
"I'm on it," Sara said. She gave the file with Wendy's results to Grissom. "Oh, and, for what it's worth, both eyes were drugged – pain killers and panic suppressers."
"Right," Grissom said, flipping through the results. "One thing at a time. See what Mr. Landers has to say."
Unfortunately, Mr. Landers did not have much to say – or, at the very least, not much that was helpful. When his parole officer took Sara and Brass to him, Jack appeared to be a homeless man who was on drugs. The parole officer informed them that he had been tested, and was clean.
Convinced that he was mentally unstable, Sara and Brass took their suspect to the hospital. Brass stayed long enough to help Sara check the man in, then took off. Left alone in the waiting area, Sara called Nick. His voicemail picked up; Sara assumed he was running Jane Doe's prints.
"Hey, Nick, it's Sara. Brass and I tracked down Jack Landers, but we're not getting much sense of out him. I can tell you that he's wearing a patch over one eye," Sara said. "We've got him at Desert Palm right now. Hopefully, the doctors will be able to tell us more than he can. I'll be here till they're done, so, if you want to join me, come on over."
Sara had been waiting for nearly half an hour before the doctor was ready to see Mr. Landers. Just as she was about to go into the exam room, Sara noticed Nick coming down the hall. She paused to wait for him, noting that he looked concerned.
"Hey, Sara, got your message. No AIFS hits on my Jane Doe. So, I put a bulletin out to surrounding agencies and the media. Maybe someone will recognize the photo. Where are you?"
"On the train to Crazyville," Sara replied. She began to walk toward the exam room; Nick followed her.
"Did you get a peek under the patch?"
"No," Sara said firmly, "no, no. I left that for the doctor."
The doctor in question was currently attempting to look into Jack's eyes. He had taken away his patch, which had upset Jack. After looking into the empty socket where the eye should have been, the doctor looked at Nick and Sara.
"Did he have an ocular tumor, or recent surgery?" he asked.
"I have no idea," Sara said. "He's a suspect in a murder investigation. Do you think he's crazy, or …?"
"I think he's been lobotomized," Dr. Mulligan replied. He gave Jack a gown. "Jack, I want you to undress and put this on for me." He stood up and joined them. "I want to do a CT scan to confirm, but in the '30s and '40s, lobotomies were often done via the eye socket."
Sara felt her stomach turn at the thought. Why on earth would depression-era medical practices have survived to be performed on this man?
"Right, right," Nick agreed with the doctor. "But, lobotomies … they're not common practice today?"
"Hardly," Dr. Mulligan replied.
He would have continued talking, but Sara cut him off. Her eyes fell on Jack's exposed arm, where the number 18 had been branded.
"Nick … take a look at his arm," she said softly.
Nick followed her eyes, and his expression softened. "He's not a suspect, he's a victim." He lowered his voice. "Jane Doe is number 19."
Sara looked at him with wide eyes. "What happened to these two?"
"I'd love to know," Nick said. "I'd also like to know what happened to the first seventeen."
Sara shuddered. "We're trying to catch a madman."
"Listen, I'll try to get some sense out him," Dr. Mulligan said. "We'll run some tests and bring our psychiatric unit down to talk to him. But … if I'm right, and he was lobotomized …"
"He's given us all he can," Sara said softly. "Okay. Thanks, Dr. Mulligan."
"You're welcome. I'll keep you posted."
Nick ushered Sara ahead of him, exhaling. "Well, that was …"
"Yeah," Sara said. "Every time I think I've seen the most horrible thing on this job, something like this happens."
"That's why we have to be here," Nick said grimly. "We have to put an end to it. Come on. Let's go tell Grissom."
Grissom was just as horrified as Sara and Nick had been with the news that Jack Landers had been lobotomized. He immediately pulled out several medical textbooks, looking for all the information he could find about lobotomies.
"Um, Griss, do you mind if we take a break?" Sara asked, glancing at Nick. "I think I can speak for both of us when I say that we need some time to process this one."
"Yeah, go ahead," Grissom said, looking at her with concern in his eyes. "I'll get Catherine if I need help."
"Thanks," Nick said gratefully. He turned to Sara. "Can I buy you dinner?"
"Yeah," Sara agreed. "Let's go."
Confident that Nick and Sara would take care of each other, Grissom turned back to his textbooks. He was interrupted only a few moments later by a knock at his door. He looked up to see Brass entering the office.
"The Jane Doe is Zoe Kessler," he announced. "Her mother saw her picture on the news and identified her as her estranged daughter. I did a DMV check and I have the victim's last known address."
"Good," Grissom said, putting his book on his desk. "I'll come with you."
"There's something you should know," Brass said as Grissom took off his glasses. "The mother's a friend of yours."
"Who's that?" Grissom asked distractedly, already thinking that he should try to find Catherine before they left.
"Lady Heather."
Grissom's head snapped up and he stared at Brass. "Our Jane Doe is Lady Heather's daughter?"
"Yes."
Grissom exhaled slowly, and ran his hand through his hair. "Okay. Let me get Catherine, and we'll go to the house."
"Gil …"
"What?" Already halfway to the door, Grissom stopped and turned to look at Brass again.
"Are you okay with this?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Gil, come on. This isn't just anyone. This is Lady Heather's daughter. You have a history with her mother."
"Which will not affect the outcome of this investigation. Come on. Let's go."
Grissom's mind spun as Catherine drove their SUV to Zoe's apartment building. He did remember Heather mentioning a daughter, but had not thought much about it at the time. It had been a brief comment, one that he had not thought to probe further.
He suddenly wished that he had.
How could something like this happen to Heather's daughter? How could the child of someone who preached empowerment find herself in a situation that recalled Nazi concentration camps?
Grissom gave himself a mental shake. That was his job – to figure out exactly what had happened to her. He would fight to give Heather closure.
It was the least that he could do.
Their search of Zoe's apartment yielded some insight into the young woman's life. Based on the postmarks on her mail, they determined that she had been missing for ten weeks before her death. Grissom found two pictures in her desk: one of Zoe with an older man, and one of her with Heather. He noted that she had one blue eye and one brown eye.
Listening to the messages on her answering machine told them that she had been a patient at the Betz Clinic, but nothing more. Brass promised to see what he could find.
"Once Brass gets the address and contact information, I'll go talk to the people at the clinic," Catherine volunteered as they left the apartment. "It looks like that was the last place Zoe visited before she disappeared. Maybe they'll be able to tell us something about what happened to her."
"Good," Grissom said. "Take Greg with you."
"All right." Catherine looked at him for a moment. "Have you talked to Heather yet?"
"No."
"You know … she's going to need a friend right now."
Grissom turned to look at her. "What do you want me to say, Cath? You know that I'm her friend."
"Just that you'll be there for her." She smiled slightly. "I think that you can let yourself get emotionally involved … just this once."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm just not sure that she'll want me to be emotionally involved."
Catherine raised an eyebrow, but, for once, didn't question him. Grissom was grateful. He didn't want to discuss his relationship with Lady Heather. It was almost too confused for him to understand, let alone to explain to someone else.
The truth was that he hadn't spoken to her since she had been a suspect in a murder investigation. Although she had been cleared, he had never truly forgiven himself for suspecting her of murder – particularly considering the fact that he had named her a suspect only hours after sharing her bed.
His cheeks flushed a faint pink as he thought of all that had happened. For a brief time, he had thought that Heather would be a woman with whom he could share his life. The fact that he couldn't was trivial; he was far happier with Sara than he would have been with Heather. Even so, their brief relationship had made things awkward between them.
No longer lovers, but not quite friends … Grissom wasn't sure how she'd react when they had their inevitable meeting. Then again, he wasn't sure how he'd react, either.
She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. Even with her eyes full of tears and an expression of the deepest sorrow on her face, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever met.
But, now, after so much time, her beauty did not entrance him as it once had. Where he had once felt attraction, he now felt compassion. He wanted to comfort her, to provide her with some stability at a time when her entire world was tilting.
"Hi," he said. "I'm so sorry about your loss."
"But you need to ask me some questions," she said.
"I'd like to know some things about your daughter," Grissom said, knowing that she'd never object to talking about Zoe. "When was the last time you saw her?"
"She dropped out of school a year ago," Heather said, each word costing her a great deal. It was as though she had to force the words past her all-encompassing pain just to answer his questions. "I didn't even know she was in town."
"So, you weren't in contact with her?"
"No."
"Can you tell me why?"
"What difference does it make now?" She strained to get those words out without totally losing control and bursting into tears. It would have been perfectly acceptable, she knew, given the circumstances, but she couldn't allow herself even that small demonstration of weakness – not in front of him.
Sensing that he was losing the small part of her that was willing to speak with him, Grissom pressed on to the more urgent questions. "Did she have any medical conditions?"
"Not that I know of."
"Because in November, she participated in a medical study at the Betz Clinic. Right after that, she went missing."
Heather turned the tables on him with a question of her own. "Where was she found?"
"In the desert."
That answer was nearly more than she could bear. To think of her Zoe, her little girl, out in the desert, all alone … "Just out in the middle of nowhere?"
Almost against his better judgment, Grissom gave her the exact location. With his description of the highway, Heather's expression changed. Unmasked grief became grim determination.
"I have to go."
Without another word, she brushed by him. He turned to watch her go, exhaling.
Catherine was right. She needed his support. He just wasn't sure how to give it. And, he wasn't sure if she'd ever be willing to accept it.
