A/N: Thanks again for the reviews! Truly everyone, I appreciate it.
Also, with any other love story this chapter would have turned out differently, in my twisted love story, it went way, WAY, left. My serial killer Grissom is not the type to talk things out and have a heart-to-heart.
Ch. 6: Some Kind of Night Into Your Darkness
2009
Nevada State Penitentiary
Langston waited outside the infirmary as Dr. Grissom was seen by the doctor. The guard stood watching him through the glass window in the door, hands on his gun belt but relaxed. "What's your opinion of him?" he asked the guard, Officer Rahm.
The man was young, had some facial hair but not a lot, and was of obvious Middle Eastern descent. He barely glanced his way as he told him, "He's my responsibility, and he makes it easy. He's quiet and gives me no trouble."
"You're his only guard?"
"Mostly me, yeah. When I'm off it's one other guard, Officer Arvington."
"Do you two ever talk?"
Office Rahm considered it a moment before telling him, "Sometimes."
He waited but Rahm didn't say anything else as he went back to observing the interaction between Grissom and the Doctor. It wasn't too long after that when the door opened and he walked out. Rahm re-cuffed his hands in front of Grissom's body and then they headed back to the interview room.
"Aren't inmates allowed to walk around un-cuffed?" he asked as they approached a secure gate that Rahm used a keycard to open.
"Normally, that would be the case but seeing how this is a Maximum security prison, no inmate goes anywhere unattended or without being restrained," Rahm answered as he waited for them to go through the gate first before shutting the gate behind him and relocking it.
Asking Grissom, he said, "Do you ever get to interact with any of the other prisoners?"
"No. Why would I want to?" he asked back in genuine curiosity. "I have nothing to say to any of them."
"And we wouldn't want him to have any interaction," Rahm said as they went through another gate before reaching the interview room. "He's a former law enforcement officer. Like I said, he's my responsibility."
He realized the implication and gave a nod as he said, "Of course."
"There is another reason," Grissom said. "I kill criminals. Putting me in general population would be like giving me an invitation to commit murder." He looked over and gave him a wink.
Once back into the room, and Grissom was secured to the table, Rahm left them alone once again. "Feeling better?" he asked. Grissom had been experiencing symptoms of a migraine.
"I'll let you know in half an hour. Takes a while for the medication to kick in."
"Officer Rahm says the two of you talk."
Grissom frowned slightly and he didn't know if it was from the question or the pain in his head. "There are nights I can't sleep. If he's there...we talk. If not…"
"You don't talk to Officer Arvington?"
"He doesn't like me very much. The feeling's mutual." When he continued to look at him, Grissom leaned back in the chair and told him, "One of my CSI's exposed a Judge who was taking bribes, Officer Arvington a member of the Judge's private security, and an accessory; though not proven in court and Judge didn't name names. Anyway, that's how he ended up working as a Corrections Officer. It was a demotion. He's lucky he didn't end up in jail."
"The "boys in blue" taking care of one of their own," he said. Grissom shrugged as he closed his eyes against the light as his jaw tensed. "I only have a few more questions, Dr. Grissom, then I'll let you go lie down."
He let out a breath and opened his eyes to stare over at him. His eyes, though blue, appeared quite dark. It wasn't from the color, but what was behind his eyes. A contemplating, calculated mind that held no remorse, no empathy, and no guilt for the things he's done. There was a deep darkness in him that he had yet to uncover. He wanted to uncover it. So far, Grissom has been very lively, funny, and engaging. A teacher. A mentor. The man who everyone believed to be normal, though weird and eccentric, maybe even a genius in his field. The friend.
It was a mask. He knew it was. There was no way to have gone nearly 35 years as a serial killer without anyone knowing about it unless becoming a master of duplicity. This was his "good" side. He had yet to meet his "dark" side. He wanted to meet that man because then he would know who Doctor Gilbert Grissom really was. Only then would he be able to understand him.
He told him, "I know you've been holding back."
He saw Dr. Grissom's smile, a touch of his lips twisting up and a knowing look in his eyes. It was an acknowledgment of his intellect. Grissom appreciated people who thought, who used their minds, and not their physicality. Brain over brawn. He always subdued his victims first. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't the type to engage in a brawl or attack. He was the scientist, or the familiar CSI, or a friendly face, or an intruder in the night that you never heard coming.
"I keep asking myself why? Why would you speak with me? Why be so open. You're hiding still, but in omission. I'm just trying to read between the lines to figure out what you aren't telling me." He took a breath and then asked, "Why do you kill? Wait-" he said as he held up a hand. "Let me rephrase this...I know what your reasoning is: to protect our species. That's your motive. You choose criminals because it gives you a justifiable reason to kill. So, my question for you is, why? It isn't greed. It isn't lust or sexual frustration. It's not love-"
"Why can't it be love?" Grissom asked.
Langston stared at him and said, "You can't possibly think I'm going to believe you murdered over 300 people out of love. You don't feel love when you kill. You don't feel anything."
The way Grissom looked at him was bordering on annoyance. "Then your question really isn't why, it's how? How can I kill?"
"How, then? How can you kill?" he asked as he knew, well hoped, that this line of questioning would expose the killer underneath the face of the scientist.
Then Grissom told him, "Norman Mailer wrote in "In the Belly of the Beast", that "We are all so guilty at the way we have allowed the world around us to become more ugly and tasteless every year that we surrender to terror and steep ourselves in it."" He became oddly detached, more than usual as he stared over at him and said, "And you wonder how I can kill. It's the same way I can put an ant under a magnifying glass with the hot sun shining down through it. Or, how I can pull wings off of flies...Because, I can. I have no faith in humanity. That's why I don't mind killing the worst of it."
He felt his blood run cold at that admission. For the first time since talking with Dr. Grissom, he felt he had just now actually met the killer within. He had been right. And that man, the face of the killer, was cold-blooded and devoid of empathy. It was all in his eyes. There was darkness; it was the shadow of the killer. "We're all just subjects, insects, in a science experiment to you?"
"No, not all of man-kind. Only those who cease to be human themselves. The ones I've killed...I think if we were all made in God's image, we are all capable of flooding this earth and killing everything on it. God's wrath is man's wrath, Dr. Langston. I'm just an instrument for which He executes it."
"From your viewpoint."
"My viewpoint is all that matters to me. Isn't yours what matters to you. We all have truths, truths we believe in. This is mine."
"Do you want to flood the Earth and kill everyone?" he asked because he really wanted to know if Grissom devalued all of humanity. If he wanted to kill them all.
He was silent a moment, thinking, before answering, "I want this world to thrive. I want life to go on. There are people out there that want that as well, and there are those who don't."
"How do you feel about people in general?"
He gave a shrug as he said, "Mostly, they bore me. You don't."
People bored him. He shook his head as he tried to reason that out. It was the exact opposite of what many might attribute to anyone, but especially someone who seemingly dedicated his life to the pursuit of lawful justice. But Grissom's justice wasn't lawful. It was murder.
There was one other question he wanted him to answer. One that had been bugging him from the beginning of all this when it first hit the news, the papers, that Dr. Grissom was a serial killer. "Why did you turn yourself in?"
His blue eyes narrowed as that dark within them sparked a smirk across his lips as he told him, "I had a problem, this was the solution."
This was a solution to a problem? "What problem?" he asked but didn't receive an answer. He only closed his eyes and reached up to rub his nose, his face, as it winced in pain. "Do you want to kill me?"
He dropped his hand and shook his head "no" as he opened his eyes.
"Why not?"
"You're not a criminal," he simply told him.
"Why talk to me?"
It was interesting that he could see his mind working, his brain thinking, with just a glance. It was as if he went off into his own little world in his head, and he did. "I have use for you."
Langston felt his heart beat harder in his chest.
"You think I want to be here," he said before looking around the small room with no windows.
He realized then that he was right. Grissom did have an ulterior motive for speaking with him. "What do you think you'll gain by speaking with me?"
"Trust," he told him. "A rapport. Mostly your understanding that I have a lot to offer in further research into the mind of a serial killer. Of, a psychopath, or sociopath. Like you said, I'm not formally diagnosed with anything."
"You're offering yourself up for scientific study?"
"Not solely academically, but professionally. A consultant."
"And if you get us to trust you, you think we might use you to catch other serial killers?"
"I'm also still only one of three forensic entomologists in the country. I'm willing to offer law enforcement my services."
He couldn't believe it. Grissom was trying to set himself up to be of service, even while in prison. "You're insane."
He smirked, saying, "My therapist says otherwise."
"Did you tell Dr. Kern any of this?" he asked because from his conversation he would have ruled this man insane a long time ago.
"I told him what he needed to hear. I didn't want to be placed in a mental institution. Taking pills-."
"You wanted to be here, perfectly sane and capable."
"Able to continue living, even if under lock and key. Will you help me gain my trust back, Dr. Langston?"
"How?" he asked in disbelief. This was absurd.
"Friday, the last day of the lecture, let me come speak in your classroom. I'll be guarded. You'll need the Warden's permission."
"And the Mayor and Governor."
"I'm sure you can get it. Despite everything, I still have a reputation. It'll be unwise for them not to take me up on my offer."
He couldn't believe he was considering it, but he understood how it would be tempting. Most, if not all, serial killers were unreliable and untrustworthy. If anything, Grissom had proved to be just the opposite. He was trustworthy despite his mentality and worldview. He'd worked in law enforcement his entire life. "I'll run it by them, see what they have to say."
"Thank you," he said, and he heard genuine appreciation.
"Now," he said as he got the interview back on track. "Tell me about the time that you killed someone for purely selfish reasons."
Grissom glanced at the table and then said, "I don't feel much. For a long time I felt nothing. Then...I met a girl, and discovered how difficult it is for me to control my rage and jealousy, but I also learned the true meaning of the word "love" and what I was capable of in order to preserve it, and to keep it. I learned how to express my love."
"With murder?"
"Through protection," he corrected.
"Sounds like jealousy to me. Not love."
His eyes once again faded into darkness as he went inside his head. "Jealousy has been called the "green eyed monster". The color green associated with that emotion dates back to the Greeks who thought it came from the overproduction of bile, which turns the skin a greenish hue. However, love, passion, and desire is seen as the color red. But it can also mean anger and danger. I guess, with me, love is blood red, but so is my anger."
Langston sucked in a breath before saying, "You see killing, the blood you've shed, as a declaration of your love?"
"Would you kill, Dr. Langston, to save the person you love the most in this world? And if you could, or did, would you not think that you did it out of love? There is no greater expression than to show her that you value her life more than another's. More than your own."
He felt a chill go up his back as he looked away. Grissom had spoken his own thoughts, his own reason for being there and his reason for wanting to understand him. There was a darkness within him as well, and it was why he wanted to know if they were different and if so, how. Because he knew that if his wife were put in danger, and if he had to kill to save her, he would, whether it was self-defense or not. He would do anything.
He would commit murder.
2003 - 2004
GIL
~"I wanna hold the hand inside you
I wanna take the breath that's true
I look to you and I see nothing-"~
Sara was playing her music and it drifted up the stairs into his space. She'd been back for a few days now and hadn't really said much to him about why she was there, only that she needed a break. The engagement ring had been added to, another ring that connected to it to interlock the two. She was married and despite how he felt about it, or thought about Hank, he respected the sacred union of marriage between a husband and wife.
She was no longer his. Though, he couldn't get his mind to agree no matter how hard he tried. His heart also didn't listen as he felt the familiar burning in his chest as he had years before when she'd told him she was engaged. He was jealous. He was in love. And the woman he wanted was not his to ever have as long as she wore that ring on her finger.
He heard a cabinet in the kitchen open and looked up from his reading and saw her in the kitchen.
~"I look to you to see the truth-"~
For the first couple of hours she was there, she cried. He had watched as he leaned on the doorframe of her room as she laid in bed and cried. He never was good at consoling people. He had no idea what to say or what to do. No one ever thought to call him or talk to him about these sorts of things. Sara leaving and then finding another man was the closest he came to experiencing a breakup. It wasn't even a breakup because he never even considered it an intimate relationship. They had been, in his mind, strictly friends.
But it had been, he realized, and Heather had helped him to see that it had been. The day before, he'd been exhausted from not getting any sleep after Sara showed up so he had gone to see Heather at her house early in the morning. He wanted guidance. Heather understood what he did not understand: emotions and human behavior in relationships.
"You may not have been emotionally invested," Heather told him, "but she was. She uprooted her life in Los Angeles and moved into your house. The way you responded to what she needed and wanted, that showed her that not only did you want her there, but that you wanted her. That was until you kept being gone, and until you kept her at arm's length-"
"She was used to the men in her life controlling her. Abusing her. I did what I thought she needed me to do. I let her know it was her choice-"
"Which was right of you to do, especially as a dominant. You saw what she needed and gave it to her, but you never reciprocated. You never let her in. You never told her, or showed her, that you valued her as equally as she valued you. It was a lopsided relationship. For her, she loved you but you loved your freedom, privacy, and secrets more. So, for her, you never loved her, and she still thinks you don't."
He got up off the couch and started to pace in front of the fireplace as he thought about that. How could she not know? He did so much, showed her the only way he knew how, and yet, it hadn't been enough. Stopping in front of the fireplace, he leaned on his arm against the mantle as he stared down into the fire.
What else could he do?
"May I ask you something? Are you keeping your beard?"
He blinked back at the odd question. Why would she care? He reached up and rubbed at it as he shrugged, saying, "Probably."
"It suits you."
He thought so too. Looking into the mirror, it appeared as if he was finally looking at the face of the man he knew he was underneath.
"I always thought there was something mysterious about you, a darkness, and the beard brings that out. It's funny how a change in look can express part of ourselves that we keep hidden."
Sara looked over at him as she put on a pot of water for tea and smiled; and her smile was enough to break him out of his thoughts as he gave her a soft smile back.
Tell her, he told himself as he worked his jaw as the words spun around his head like his dog chasing its tail. Edmond was on the couch next to him, sleeping. The words he spoke to her didn't have to be that he loved her, or even that he missed her. It just had to be honest and express how he felt.
~"You live your life, you go in shadows
You'll come apart and you'll go black-"~
His mind raced to find the right words. There were many and none seemed appropriate or adequate. Nothing he could think of seemed enough or to speak of his immense love for her.
Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare:
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds, admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no! It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wand'ring bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come; love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.."
A poem, the one he'd written in his head for her a long time ago when they first met:
"The beast, present inside me, never calmed or settled, unyielding
Til I saw you
It stirs, it roars, it aches and thunders like a passing train
But not towards you
I've craved the withering buds, the dying breaths, the blackness of my heart
Now, I crave you
Your smile, the light it brings in the my darkest days
I crave, in its most innocent form, a kiss
To calm the storm
I crave, in a soft spoken whisper only for your ears, I adore you
To silence the thunder
I crave, you, next to me
To settle the beast that rages inside, unyielding"
Or the lyrics from a song...
~"Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what's not there-"~
By the time he figured out to just simply say that he was glad she was there, he saw the kitchen empty. She had gone back down to the bottom floor, to her room, but he could still hear the music drifting up the stairs. She left her door open.
He grabbed his book and went to go back to reading as the lines of the book blurred in front of him. His thoughts again wandered back to his conversation with Heather.
"She has a hard time saying no, oversharing personal information without knowing the person first, gets overly involved in other people's problems. Suffers from anxiety, is highly dependent on other people, and the need to please others? Does any of this sound accurate?"
"All of it," he told her as he fixed them both a cup of coffee.
Heather leaned on the counter as she gave that some thought. Behind her, the morning sun was streaming through the white curtains. Edmond walked over and he showed him to the French doors that led out into Heather's garden patio and the yard.
"How a child responds to their boundaries being invaded is what ultimately determines how they view boundaries in adulthood," she told him once he gave her his undivided attention as he sipped on the coffee and leaned on the counter beside her. "For example, when a child is repeatedly sexually abused this can lead to confusion over the very basic rules of ownership of their body. You went one way based on your childhood abuse: rigid. Completely closed off and unwilling to allow anyone in. No one is allowed to touch you, not emotionally, not physically or sexually. She became your only exception to your very rigid rules. The opposite spectrum of that is someone with porous boundaries. Instead of learning that her body is her own and no-one else is allowed to touch it without her permission, she learned that her body is to be hurt, abused or manipulated by others. She learned that her body is not her own. That belief extended to every part of herself. Her mind isn't hers, it's yours. Her emotions aren't hers, they're yours. She became someone who can be hurt, abused, and manipulated by others mentally, physically, and sexually because her boundaries are variable or non-existent."
Heather's words raced through his mind, never leaving, never settling, as he thought about how to best handle the problem. And the problem was Hank Pettigrew. There was nothing he could do about Sara's boundary issues at the moment, other than try to re-enforce to her that she was the one in control. Not him, and absolutely not Hank. That her body was hers, her mind, and her life. She could say no. She could say "stop" and it would stop.
~"Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you-"~
She finally told him after a week of silence what had happened. Hank had been unfaithful, and it wasn't just once, or twice. He had a girlfriend. He'd been manipulating her, lying to her, and when she confronted him about it, made her think it was her fault. And when she tried to get away, he chased after her.
He followed her to every job she took to get away from him. He followed her, and called her, even after she told him she needed time and space from him.
"He's stalking me," she told him in tears. "He won't leave alone, so that's why I had to come back here. I'm sorry, I know this isn't anything you want to deal with. Once I get a new job, I'll leave. Something always comes up. Even if it's a position at a zoo-"
"Sara," he said as he stopped, seeing the anticipation in her eyes. She was expecting something from him and he was startled when he knew what it was and his mouth went dry.
She wanted him to choose her, just like Heather had said and what he had thought. The only question was could he?
Question: Did he trust her with the truth?
~"I think it's strange you never knew-"~
Hank wasn't going to stop. And a week later, he showed up in Las Vegas. He wanted to "work things out" with Sara. She was to meet him at the Rampart Hotel.
He watched her pack her bags as he stood outside her room, rubbing his finger and thinking.
"Just in case," she told him. "I don't know what I'll decide to do after we talk."
He offered to go with her and she accepted but he had to wait in the car. Before he left his townhouse, he threw his field kit in the trunk of his car along with a device he'd built after a case involving hotel burglaries. Criminals had figured out that all they needed to open a locked hotel room door was an electric current seeing how the brand of key card locks most commonly used in hotels have a power jack on the bottom that doubles as a 1-wire communications port. A circuit board, power source, and simple adapter was all it took to unlock a locked hotel room door in less than a second.
He also grabbed the gun that had belonged to Paul Millander out of the safe at the bottom of his closet. The only reason he took it was because he wanted to be prepared. In his head, there were many different scenarios tumbling over one another, and all were bad.
Violent and bloody.
Death, and killing, was the only thing his mind could imagine. It was constant. His thoughts, no matter what he was doing: painting, writing poetry, taking pictures, studying bugs, it all came from the same place. His mind was a morbid place to live, and as barren as the Las Vegas desert, with the only spark of life he could find coming from when he took a life. It was a cold desert, a lonely desert, but it was his desert. It was his mind.
And his mind was the only place where he fully and truly lived. Where he felt at home.
He knew it well.
~"A stranger's light comes on slowly
A stranger's heart is out of home-"~
Driving her to the hotel, he couldn't help but think that this was a mistake. However, she wanted to talk to him in person. He parked in the parking garage that was attached to the hotel, making sure to stay clear of the cameras. Having processed this parking garage and several hotel rooms before for cases, he knew where all the cameras were. He didn't know why he was being so paranoid, but it was a habit. Being a ghost meant not only avoiding human suspicion and prying eyes, but the prying eyes of CCTV security cameras.
"If you need me," he told her before she got out of his car, "call and I'll be right up. And take the stairs. It's only two flights up." There were also no cameras.
He had parked on the second floor from the top of the parking garage, and the room she was to meet him in was on the sixth floor. Room 690. If his memory served him correctly, and it did, it was the first room on the left the moment she walked through the stairwell door for the sixth floor. Murder Central.
~"You put your hands into your head
A million smiles cover your heart-"~
She gave him a weak smile, one of nervousness and uncertainty, before she walked through the door to the stairwell.
Letting out a breath, he watched the door and waited for her to come back out.
~"Fade into you
I think it strange you never knew."~
SARA
She couldn't believe that she agreed to talk to him. Had she been expecting a different outcome? That he would actually listen to her? He wasn't listening. He stopped listening to her a long time ago. Before they'd gotten married, he was like a dream. Attentive and supportive. Loving and open and trusting her as much as she trusted him.
Then all that changed. It was like a veil had been lifted, the dream was gone. It died. It felt like she'd been trapped. He had trapped her. She wasn't allowed to do things anymore. She couldn't even talk to Gil anymore, couldn't call him or email him or accept his letters and drawings. She had no friends. Her books became his books and her music became his music.
All her things were gone, vanished, hidden in the closet or put in boxes and ignored. Forgotten.
She had forgotten who she was. Her likes became his likes. His wants and his needs and it was never anything she wanted or needed.
Controlled. That was what it was, she finally realized. He had controlled her. Controlled their relationship, their marriage, and he could do whatever he wanted.
He could cheat on her and blame her for it. And she had believed him. She felt the tears in her eyes as the anger burned underneath.
~"Like anyone would be
I am flattered by your fascination with me-"~
Hank was ranting and raving like a madman as he paced the floor. He was talking crazy, like how he couldn't live without her. How he needed her, loved her, but that since she didn't want him and had never loved him, then no one should. There was a gun in his hand.
It was pressed to his head, and then hers and he screamed. She stopped listening to him a long time ago. All she could think about was calling Gil to help her. She had to get to the phone.
~"Like any hot-blooded woman
I have simply wanted an object to crave-"~
Then he did something unexpected, he handed her the gun, shoved it into her hands, and told her, "I'm going to make you do it. You're the one that wanted out of this marriage, you're the one that loved someone else first!"
As the tears fell she told him, "I never cheated-"
"You did! I've seen the drawings you keep from him, how you ran to him the moment he called-"
"You're delusional. We're friends-"
"Stop saying that! We both know you love him-"
Grabbing the gun that was clasped in both their hands, and yanking it away from her body, she fought with him as she angled it towards him as her finger found the trigger.
Everything after that was a blur. Finding the phone on the table next to the bed, she dialed a number in a daze. A fog filled her head.
And she drifted.
~"But you-"~
The door to the hotel room opened and she saw the light from the hallway fracture the room into two. Half in light, half in dark, before the door shut behind him leaving them both in the dark. The only light in the room came from the bathroom.
~"You're not allowed
You're uninvited-"~
Her hands were trembling, keeping in rhythm with her body as she tried to fight down the panic racing through her mind and body. There was blood on her hands. Her face and clothes. It was over the floor...
~"An unfortunate slight-"~
His face was in front of hers as he used his flashlight to check her eyes. She watched as his lips moved but she must not have understood, or heard anything he was saying, because he frowned and waved his hand in front of her face.
Over his shoulder, lying on the carpeted floor, Hank sputtered up blood out of his mouth.
He asked her a question. A question that filled her head and broke her heart. "Sara, he's in pain. The bullet hit his lung. It'll take hours for him to bleed out. He's suffering. Do you want me to put him out of his misery?"
Was he asking her permission? Did he mean to kill him? Did she want him to kill Hank, who was already on the floor, choking on his own blood from her-...She'd done something. What was it? Hank had it in his hands first. He had brought it with him. A gun. Hank was raging about how he couldn't live without her. He had brought a gun to kill them both.
Yes, she wanted him dead. Hank wanted her dead. He was planning on killing them both.
~"Must be strangely exciting
To watch the stoic squirm-"~
Gil moved away from her as she saw his face twitch. His eyes were dark. Darker than she'd ever seen them before. Moving away from her, he stepped over to Hank and looked down at him as he pulled out a pair of gloves. Then he reached down and yanked Hank up to his feet.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion, as if in a movie, her body felt light and heavy at the same time and she was floating. It was like she was seeing the room not from within her body, but out of it.
Above him, watching over him, she watched as he shoved Hank, his feet stumbling back, as they entered the bathroom.
~"Must be somewhat heartening
To watch shepherd meet shepherd-"~
He pushed Hank down into the bathtub. The light was very bright, making the white walls behind Gil appear blinding as he stood like a shadow casted upon it. There but not there. She felt the trickle of a tear fall from her eyes and it broke through the fog as she saw the gun in Gil's hand.
~"But you, you're not allowed
You're uninvited-"~
He raised it. Gil had a gun pressed to Hank's head.
~"An unfortunate slight-"~
The bang of the gunshot shattered her ears, causing her to jump at the sight as red splattered over the white walls. Then the dark shadow turned as he dropped the gun into the tub as he walked towards her back into the room. She noticed that his shoes were covered to conceal his shoe prints. As her eyes rose up to look at his face, she realized she didn't know who he was anymore.
~"Like any uncharted territory
I must seem greatly intriguing-"~
He tossed something onto the floor, in the blood, and then grabbed the key card off the table next to the bed. He left the hotel room and then used it to come back in and then went back into the bathroom where he leaned over Hank's body.
Pulling off the gloves, he put them into his jacket pocket as he looked around the floor. Then he took off the covers from over his shoes. Their eyes finally met and she saw his deep dark eyes on hers as he knelt in front of her and touched her arm. His hand was warm against her cold skin. Helping her to stand, he wrapped his arm around her and headed toward the door.
He got her out of the room and through the emergency door exit to the stairwell. The steps seemed to come and go without her remembering taking any steps. They were in his car; she was in the passenger seat.
Looking over at him, her body still shaking, she saw his stone face. His apathy as his eyes were focused on the road. The lights of the strip passed by, the hotels and casinos and nightclubs and attractions; all the bells and whistles and the glitz and glamour of the Las Vegas nightlife was all a blur. All the colors mixed to black as she rested her head against the window and closed her eyes.
She felt the car move to the right sharply, making her open her eyes as she felt the road get bumpy and rugged. They were no longer on the highway or a paved street. It was a dirt road, sandy, and it was dark. Desert was all around her and for the first time since she'd known the man sitting next to her, she felt afraid. She didn't want to be afraid of him.
~"You speak of my love like
You have experienced love like mine before-"~
All he's ever done for her since they've met was try to take care of her. Part of taking care of her had led him to shooting Hank in the bathtub in a hotel room. There had only been two other people besides Gil who had killed to save her life, to protect her: her mother and herself.
Her mother had been crazy; killing her father during a psychotic break. She had killed Justin in an act of self-defense to keep him from possibly killing her. But Gil had shot Hank, killed him, because he loved her. He wanted to protect her; to keep her from being the one to do it herself.
She stared over at him as he rolled down his window and entered a code on a keypad. The gate they were in front of slowly opened and he looked over at her. His dark eyes bore into hers. His face was stoic, emotionless, but his eyes...If they were the windows into the soul, then she was seeing him for the first time. The blue eyes that normally always lit up the night now made it so much darker.
No one really knew anyone, did they?
~"But this is not allowed
You're uninvited-"~
He parked the car and got out as she watched him walk around the front of the car, through the headlights, and to the passenger door. His hands were no longer covered in gloves and she wasn't sure when he'd taken them off. She didn't remember. Her memory wasn't working right. Had he taken them off in the hotel? Had she seen him do it? Had she seen everything or only parts that her mind wanted her to see?
She didn't understand where they were or why they were there. It was cold in the desert that night and he grabbed a jacket out from his backseat and threw it around her shoulders. Wrapping his arm again around her shoulders, he led her toward a trailer and up some steps onto a small landing at the front door.
Her stomach twisted in her gut and she stumbled away and leaned over the railing as she got sick. Coughing and spitting out the contents of her stomach, and feeling the acid in her throat, had been what broke the reality of what had happened through the fog.
~"An unfortunate slight-"~
Hank was dead. She had...He had...There was blood on her still, over her hands that felt cold and shook uncontrollably. Gil's arms were around her and she wanted to push him away but couldn't get her body to respond. Tears welled in her eyes as she was taken inside. The place was warm but her body wouldn't stop shaking as he sat her down on the couch.
He was in front of her again, his eyes searching hers in concern, as he said, "Can you hear me?"
She blinked back at the sound and gave a nod. That was the first thing she'd heard besides Hank's scream when she shot him and the gunshot. Her ears were still ringing.
"You're in shock," he was telling her. "I'm going to start a bath for you. Stay here, okay?"
Where would she go? She gave a nod as he stood and left her alone in the unfamiliar room. She grabbed his jacket and pulled it tighter around her body.
As he walked back into the room, she asked him, "Where are we?"
He didn't give her an answer as he took her hands into his and pulled her to her feet.
She pulled back, anger rising up into her chest as she asked, "Where-"
"My warehouse. I told you about it."
This was his private property. He had a warehouse where he conducted entomology experiments and other research. She felt the fight leave her and with it all her strength and the dam that was holding back the tears broke.
She tried to stop it, but she couldn't. Her legs swayed as she felt them go weak and he caught her. His arms were around her body, her waist. Burying her face into his shoulder, she gripped the back of his neck, his hair, as she let it all out. He didn't say anything, didn't do anything, as he let her hug him and cry.
She could feel his tension under her hand and against his body. He was rigid, and tense, and his heart was pounding in his chest against her chest. Pulling away, she looked at his face, ran her hand along his jaw, over his beard, and kissed him.
He responded to her, and only let it get as passionate as she wanted it to get, which wasn't much. It was her emotions, the shock wearing off, that caused her to act so impulsively. At least that was her reasoning.
Taking her hand in his, he led her down the short hallway to the bathroom. It had a walk-in shower and a clawfoot bathtub. It was full of steamy hot water that fogged up the mirror. He helped her to undress, taking the clothes with the dried blood off her body and putting them into a bag.
She thought he was going to leave her alone but surprised her as he stayed. As she got into the water, he sat on the floor next to the tub and handed her a washcloth. There was a look in his eyes that she couldn't figure out. It was almost love, but not quite.
How he was sitting, on the floor with his back to the wall, made her remember the first time they'd been alone together in a bathroom. Only this time he wasn't taking her picture.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"I wanted to reiterate to you that you know who I am, Sara. You can trust me."
The way he'd said it, so calm and matter of fact, was startling. She was panicking, in shock, and he was as stoic as ever. He did see this stuff daily, but that didn't account for his behavior.
"You don't think I can trust you now that you-"
"Killed someone," he said as he looked at her. "You wanted me to."
She stared at him as she felt his words hit her in the chest like a kick to the gut. She wanted him to do it. Had he asked her the question? Had she given an answer?
She didn't remember, but she had wanted it. She had wanted Hank to die. He was going to kill her and then himself. The tears fell from her eyes as she realized what had happened. The reality setting in and it was crashing down all over again.
"I shot him."
He nodded.
"You shot him." She didn't, couldn't, say anything after that.
He let out a breath as he told her, "You called me from the room. That's on record. Your prints are on the phone and whatever you touched. My prints are only on the door handle, inside and outside. I left footprints only going from the door to the bed where you were sitting, then back to the door with you with me."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
His eyes focused on hers as he told her, "You will be questioned, and so will I. The police will find the device I used and think it was used by an intruder. I used the key card in the door so we could tell the police that Hank had left the room and that's when you called me. I came up and got you and we left together. After we left, Hank returned to the room. Sometime after that, he was killed." The look he gave her was smothering her, burning into her soul, as he asked, "Do you love him?"
"I did." She couldn't get herself to form anymore than two words at a time apparently. Her head was all messed up. She was all messed up. "When?" she asked. "When will I have to talk to the police?"
"Soon, probably tomorrow. You can't wear those clothes. They'll have gunshot residue and blood all over them. I'll get your bag out of the car."
She watched as he left the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her pain and guilt.
What had they done?
After she cleaned up and changed into a pair of jeans and blouse like Gil instructed her to do for some odd reason, she walked down the short hallway, taking in this new environment. The walls were painted white, there was a couch, and a television on a table and a radio on the kitchen counter. There wasn't much of anything else. Not even a bedroom. "You stay here?"
"I have," he said as he filled a glass with water and brought it over to her as he gestured for her to sit down on the couch. "The couch pulls out into a bed." Her shaky hands took the glass and he frowned slightly as he asked, "Cold?"
"No, jitters."
The frown got deeper as he asked, "Am I the reason?"
She sat down and looked up at him as she took a sip of the water. She shook her head but she wasn't sure of her answer. Even though the fog in her head had lifted and clarity was sharp and jagged, it still seemed unreal. It all seemed unreal. It was a nightmare.
"You should sleep."
Looking under her at the cushions she felt like she'd been asleep for a very long time and she was finally awake. Awoken to real life and all it's horrible violence and darkness. This was real life, all that had come before had been a dream. A fantasy.
"I don't know what's real anymore," she found herself saying.
He sat down on the coffee table in front of her and took her cold hand in his warm one, then he covered her hand with his other hand. Feeling his skin, the heat between his palms, and his steady hands, he told her, "This is real."
"Don't you want to take a picture?"
He nearly smiled. Instead, he reached out and touched her cheek as his eyes observed her. She always felt like he had the ability to read her better than anyone she'd ever met. His eyes were taking everything in and making sense of it all in his mind of reason and logic. Right then, he was probably wondering what she wanted from him. How he could possibly make this better, make her feel better, and what she needed to solidify the fact that this was real. That he was someone that she could still trust and rely on. That he wasn't like Hank and he would never point a gun at her head.
She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to tell her that everything would be okay.
Cupping her jaw and tilting her face up to his, he did just that. He kissed her, giving her exactly what she wanted. Ending the kiss, she saw a faint smile on his lips and a look in his eyes that told her everything.
He wasn't anything like Hank. He would never. And she could trust him.
It was all in a look and she hadn't even uttered a word.
She drank the water, ate the meal he'd made for her which was only soup and a sandwich because this wasn't his house and that was all he had. Then he pulled the bed out for her and as she laid down under the blanket he'd brought out of a closet for her, he laid down on top of the blanket, keeping a separation between the two of them.
Unsure of why he did it, and why he didn't get in under the blanket, she figured he was trying to tell her something. He wasn't going to sleep. He would stay awake.
She could sleep with the security and safety of knowing that no one was coming for her. And if they did…
He would stop them.
With that thought in mind, she felt herself drift off to sleep.
The next thing she knew it was morning, or afternoon, and the sun was shining in through the window above the couch, casting shades of light and dark over her from the blinds like some noir movie. Toss the blanket off, she stretched and looked around for Gil. He wasn't there.
Getting up, she went down the hall to the bathroom, cleaned up and changed her clothes and went looking for him. The door opened and she saw the warehouse directly across from her. It was big and wide and very grey. There were trees planted around the property and she saw his car parked out in front of the trailer so he was still there.
Walking down the stairs from the small landing, she headed toward the warehouse. The door was open and she walked in and her eyes widened at what she saw. Aquariums, butterfly terrariums, ants and beetles and maggot farms, and so many other insects flying and buzzing around.
She heard a noise up above her to the left and when she turned to look, saw him walking out from the office and down the steps towards her. "This is impressive."
He smiled at her as he said, "I love what I do."
"It shows. So, all those times when you were gone and weren't at work, you were here?"
He gave a nod.
"And here I thought you had someone else." Because that was what anyone would think, she thought as she looked around the warehouse. This wasn't.
Gil had always been someone she didn't understand. He wasn't like any other man, and because of that, she didn't know why she assumed he would be. His only mistress were insects. And his only marriage was the one he had to his job.
This was the man's life. His job, his hobbies, his art, and his books. He consumed them and they in turn consumed him. She was reminded that he had no room in his life, in his home, or his mind for anyone. It was all already occupied.
"Let me give you the tour," he said as they walked around.
He showed her everything, pointed out all the bugs and the marine life he had inside the warehouse and then the bees he had outside the warehouse in the bee habitat across the vast open desert yard. And then he told her to beware of Lewis.
"Lewis?"
"My Komodo dragon."
She stared at him in complete disbelief as she said, "You can't have a Komodo dragon. It's...That's illegal. They're a vulnerable species-"
"I know. And I'm a conservationist. I have all the proper documentation and went through all the legal channels to acquire him."
She could not believe this guy. Shaking her head at him, she went to tell him that when she caught sight of Lewis. He was big, grey and scaly, and incredible looking. He was massive. "How big is he?"
"Ten feet in length and last I checked, 270 pounds. He's gained some weight. Have you ever seen one?"
She shook her head. "Not in person. I still can't believe you have one. You're insane. What if he attacks you?"
"Then I should have gotten a bigger boat." She looked at him and he said, "Jaws."
"Last I checked, this was the desert and-" she was interrupted by the sound of Gil's cell phone ringing.
He pulled it out, took one look at the caller, and told her, "And the winds of change are blowing wild and free."
The quote was a song lyric, one written by Bob Dylan from his song "Make You Feel My Love". She didn't know what to make of that, or why he said it, but she knew without a doubt as he took the phone call that it was the police.
It was time to leave.
He looked her over and asked as he closed his phone, "Where are the clothes you wore last night?"
"In my bag. I changed-"
"They'll need to collect them for evidence. You're to tell them that you wore that outfit last night when you met with Hank."
The reason he wanted her to change her clothes and wear them and not her pajamas suddenly became clear. They hadn't talked about it. She knew what he had told her the night before. She knew the story. It was all true up until the moment Hank pulled a gun on her.
She went there to talk to him, Gil had driven her. They argued. Hank left the room and she called Gil to come up to get her. She didn't feel safe leaving alone. They left together and that was the last time she saw her husband alive.
Gil didn't threaten her life. He didn't tell her to do anything, just the possibility of what could have happened based on the evidence. He left it up to her. She could tell the truth or part of the truth.
It was up to her whether they walked free or if they both spent the rest of their lives in prison.
~"I don't think you unworthy
I need a moment to deliberate."~
GIL
Brass caught up to him outside the police station and walked with him to his car. "You know, Gil, I wouldn't blame you if you did help clear her."
"She didn't kill him, Jim" And she didn't. He did. "The prints came back-"
"I know, to Judge Douglas Mason. I just...think it's odd. Why would he-"
"I don't know. Ask him that question when you arrest him."
"I'm just saying, from the phone records we got from his cell to hers, and the texts, he was stalking her and threatening her life. Then he comes to Vegas and just so happens to get himself killed by some psychopath with a grudge against you. What'd you call that?"
"Besides karma?" he asked as he pulled out his keys and opened the driver's side door to his car. Sara had left on her own, taking a cab, after he told her it was best if they didn't leave together.
Jim stopped him with a hand on his arm and he tensed at the touch from his friend as he turned around to face him. He wasn't sure what Brass wanted from him. The evidence spoke for itself.
"Listen, uh... remember Elle, my daughter, back to last year when she was messing with some guy and he ended up getting into trouble and killed a guy, but it appeared that she had done it. Well, I went after him myself, you know, I'm her father. I love her more than anything, and all I could think about was taking the guy out and clearing her name. I would have done anything, Gil. I had him. I mean, I had him...I pulled my gun. Then, the uh," he nearly laughed, "the police showed up. I had forgotten just for a split second, a moment in time, that I was the police. It's normal to want to protect those we love."
"You heard my answers to IA's questions. We're not in an intimate relationship." Again, technically, not a lie. He wasn't in an intimate relationship with Sara because he didn't know how to be in one.
But, he understood what Jim was telling him. He also wasn't surprised by it. Brass loved his daughter. A father would do anything to protect his child, even kill.
"Doesn't mean you don't love her," he said as he stepped away. "Like I said, I wouldn't have blamed you."
He watched as Brass walked away and wondered if he knew, or if he thought by telling him all that he would confide in him. Brass knew him too well to think that he would tell him anything, even if he had told him he shot and killed Elle's boyfriend.
"Oh," Brass called out before he got into his car, "I like the beard. Very suave."
He rolled his eyes and got into his car. As he started the engine, he thought about Sara, and Brass, and how he had done something he thought he would never do. He had falsified evidence and falsely accused Paul Millander of the murder of Hank Pettigrew. It violated a rule he'd had and thought he would never cross.
And as he thought about it on the drive home, he found that he was okay with it. His excuse was that he did it for Sara. He did it out of love.
His only concern now was Judge Douglas Mason, aka, Paul Millander.
By using his gun, with his real prints and leaving it in the bathtub, he'd thrown down the gauntlet. His only hope was that Paul would be arrested and in prison before he knew what hit him.
He arrived back home and pulled into the garage and parked. Getting out, he eyed the door to the bottom floor and debated on whether to go up the steps to the front door or to go through that door and see Sara. Before he could make a decision, the door opened and he nearly gapped as he saw Catherine standing there.
She held a cup of coffee in her hands. "Hey, Grissom. Come on in."
It was hard to get his legs to move but he finally got them working as he walked inside and shut the door behind him. There was the smell of coffee in the townhouse and Edmond rushed down the steps and down the hallway to greet him. Catherine was smiling like she'd caught him in a lie.
"Me and Sara have been having a pleasant conversation."
"Huh-huh," he said as he followed Edmond toward the stairs and headed up to the main floor.
Sara was seated at the kitchen counter; she was eating a pastry and sipping on a cup of coffee. "Hey, Gil, I made cinnamon rolls, want one?"
Tossing his keys on the counter, he grabbed a roll and took a bite before opening a cabinet. As he busied himself with making a cup of coffee, he heard Catherine behind him.
"So, you two have been friends for a while, huh?"
"Fourteen years," Sara said. "My parents died when I was thirteen, so Gil, and our friendship, is the longest of anything I've ever had."
"Wow, I had no idea. Gil never mentioned you to anyone."
He poured the coffee into his cup as he looked up at her and then addressed Sara as he said, "I, uh...I don't-"
"You like your privacy. I know. It's okay," she said and it seemed like it was. "Gil...the coffee."
He felt the hot liquid on his hand as he pulled it away at the same time he straightened up the pot. There was coffee all over his counter. Frustrated at himself, he sat the pot down and grabbed a hand towel and started cleaning it up.
"I think we're uh, making him nervous."
"I can see that," Catherine said with a hint of amusement in her voice.
Once the mess was cleaned up, he took his coffee and cinnamon roll with him to his home office with Edmond was on his heels, and shut the door. Whatever they were saying or talking about, he didn't want to know.
He passed the time working on his newest edition to his entomology forensic book as Edmond slept under the desk at his feet. Then the door opened and he turned, spinning the chair around, and saw her standing there with a smirk on her face.
"Did you have an informative conversation?"
"I did," she said as she came into the room.
He watched in confusion as she didn't stop in front of him but kept moving until she was sitting on his lap. Trying not to make his body tense at the invasion, he let out a breath as he relaxed. Looking into her eyes, he saw the desire burning in them and knew what she wanted.
Her lips were on his as his hands slid up her back, under her blouse. There was a moment last night when he thought for sure that she would never kiss him again. That she wouldn't trust him or want to even look at him.
And now, with her in his lap and lips on his all he could think was hallelujah. His mind, never being the kind that didn't jump around and make connections, suddenly thought of the perfect words to say to her that expressed this moment and how he felt.
~"Your faith was strong but you needed proof, you saw her bathing on the roof, her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you. She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, and she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the hallelujah...Maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you. And it's not a cry that you hear at night, it's not someone who's seen the Light, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."~
The relief he felt vanished into an urgency as her hand touched him through his pants and he groaned. He hadn't even realized that he'd gotten that excited. There were many things that went through his mind as her passion mixed with his. He wanted to thank her in so many ways, but right then there was only one way she wanted.
A soft sigh and choking sob spilled from her lips as she came around him, her hands in his hair, and he nearly broke as he felt the tears in his eyes. He had never been happy. He had no idea what that felt like, until that moment.
She'd seen the darkness inside him, seen the killer, and she still wanted him. If that wasn't love, he had no idea what was.
Two weeks later he heard his cell phone ringing on his nightstand. She shifted against him, moaning in her sleep, as he blinked his eyes open as his hand fumbled on the nightstand for the phone. Flipping it open, he slurred into it, "Grissom."
He wasn't due back to work until next week and he was not going in early. Sara was set to leave in a few days, having received a job offer in Los Angeles. It wasn't ideal, but at least they would be able to see each other often. Her hands moved on his chest, rubbing over his heart, as he heard Jim Brass's voice in his ear.
"We got a problem-"
"Brass-"
"No, listen, Gil. Millander escaped. He dismissed his lawyer to represent himself. We don't know how, he must've had an ID, he got through security-"
His mind started to race as he remembered Craig Mason taking his picture. When he'd been in contempt of court, he had his ID badge taken by the Officer along with his other belongings. Paul had his ID.
"I just heard back from a local cop in Mulberry...He killed his family. I guess he couldn't handle them knowing what a monster he was. We're trying to track him down but he's always had an obsession with you and-"
The power went out.
Everything went dark and silent. The air conditioning and the clock he'd glanced at to see the time. "He's here," he spoke into the phone, cutting Brass off.
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure. I just lost electricity."
"A patrol is en-route as we speak. Officers Mitchell and Weston. Stay on the phone-"
"Jim...Sara's here with me," he told him before closing the phone and setting it down on the nightstand. He turned his head and saw her eyes open.
There was concern and fear in them as he sat up in bed and tossed the blanket off as he hurried to dress.
"Who's here?" she asked as she did the same.
"Someone who wants payback," was all he said as he saw Edmond going toward the door. "Nein," he told his dog. "Ruhig. Pass auf." Edmond stilled as he took up guard at the door and remained silent. Without looking at Sara as he pulled on pants and a shirt, he asked, "You remember the command for attack?"
"Yeah," she told him. There was stress in her voice.
"If anyone but me and Officer Mitchell or Weston come through that door, order him to attack. Mitchell's a tall black man and Weston's a young white guy." He went into his closet and opened the gun case he had on the top shelf.
"You have a gun?"
"Home protection. Never thought I would have to use it," he said as he inserted the magazine and hit the slide release to chamber a round. "Stay here with Edmond."
"Gil."
He stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back at her.
She was scared but strong as she told him, "Be careful."
Maybe he should have given her the gun because she looked like she was ready to kill anyone who tried to hurt him. If he didn't love her even more, he thought as he opened the door slipped out, and shut it softly behind him.
He could feel the heat of the mid-August sun coming in through the windows as he eased down the stairs with the gun in front of him at the ready. It was getting hot in the townhouse without the air on. There was no hum from the refrigerator and no sound of footsteps or glass breaking. Completely silent, like he'd gone deaf again.
His bare feet touched the cold floor as he took the last step off the stairs. Sweeping the room, he didn't see anyone. His office door was open, having left it open, and he cleared the room. Empty. The only possible place from Paul to be if he was in his house was the bottom floor.
Going toward the hallway, he kept the gun pointed out in front of him as he entered the hallway. He checked the backdoor and it was locked. Opening the door to the bottom floor, he saw no one waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs as his hand gripped the gun tighter. His aim was perfection despite the fact that he never wanted to carry a gun. His breathing was always steady, his hands still. Center mass every time.
Slowly making his way down the steps, he heard a noise but couldn't make out what it was. He was too far away. Rounding the corner off the steps, he swept the hallway from right to left and looked both ways down the hall. The door to Sara's room was open and he could see the glass in the balcony door had been cut, a glass cutter, and it was open. Walking into her room, he cleared it and the bathroom before going back into the hallway. The kitchen was clear.
The only room left was the one at the end of the hallway. It had a metal door and window in the door. He hadn't used that room in a long time and had kept it closed and locked. The lock was on the floor, a pair of bolt cutters was against the wall, and the door was open. He had exposed Judge Douglas Mason as Paul Millander; had outed him to his family and his colleagues in order to save Sara, and himself.
Working his jaw, he let out a breath as he walked toward the room.
He saw Paul before he reached the room and he realized what the noise was. It was clicking from a tape recorder. There was blood on the floor along with a gun. A gunshot wound in his chest as he laid on the metal table.
Dropping his arm, he stared at Paul Millander's dead body in his house, in that room, as his blood ran cold. Closing his eyes, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and eyes as his head started to hurt.
He wanted to repay the favor and expose him to the world.
Officer's Mitchell and Weston were on the way. He had no time. He heard a noise behind him and looked over his shoulder at Sara. She hadn't stayed in the bedroom. Her eyes were on him and then the body in the room.
"He killed himself."
He gave a nod as he put his gun away. Paul had wanted to expose him, but that wasn't going to be what happened. That room was clean. The only blood they would find was Paul's. As to what he used it for...He was a scientist. He used it for many things. It was just a metal table in a room. Going into the room, he removed the straps from the table that he'd used to hold down his subjects and carried them out with him as he walked by Sara.
She watched him but didn't say anything as he headed back up the steps. He tossed the straps into his closet and pulled out a pair of latex gloves and went back down to the room. Sara was still down there as she leaned against the wall. He went back into the room and grabbed the tape recorder and pressed play.
"My name is Paul Millander-"
Paul recited the same script he had all his victims recite before he said that he couldn't do it any longer. And then he said, "You win, Mr. Grissom," before he shot himself.
Sara jumped at the sound of the gunshot that came from the tape recorder as she looked at him as he heard sirens. He rewound the tape and then put the recorder back onto Paul's lap.
They asked him a lot of questions. They asked Sara a lot of questions.
The only answers they got was that Paul Millander broke into his house and killed himself in the room that he'd used to do experiments in and had once been where he kept his ant farms and pet tarantula.
Other than that, they had no answers for them.
Six Months Later
Going to his car, he opened the door and got into the driver's seat. He started the car and turned on the radio. A song came on, "House of the Rising Sun" performed by The Animals, and it filled his head as he adjusted the mirror and stared at his reflection.
~"There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun-"~
As he glared into his own eyes, he thought about what Warrick had asked him one night in the observation room while Brass was interrogating Officer Stuart: vigilante cop.
"That guy's a nut job vigilante. He's making the whole department look bad."
"I guess he'd just figured he'd take a shortcut," he said regarding Officer Stuart but his thoughts had turned inward. Though both him and Officer Stuart took the same actions, he also thought Officer Stuart was a nut job. There was a time to kill and a time to show restraint. "You've thought about it," he said to Warrick not as a question but as a statement.
They all have. It was human nature. It was in his nature. He could no more fight his nature than any other living creature could. Just as the scorpion, black mamba snake, Sydney funnel-web spider, and the tsetse fly killed, so did he. Hell, even dogs could kill, and he loved dogs. Living things had to do what they were made to do or else what kind-of life were they living? If God made him this way, why should he fight it?
"Yeah, lot's of times," Warrick honestly told him, which didn't surprise him. Then he turned it around and asked him, "What about you?"
If only he knew.
He had left the room and after bumping into Officer Fromansky, went down to the firing range to let off some steam. Truth be told, the only reason he never carried a gun was because he'd be tempted to use it more often than not.
~"And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God, I know I'm one-"~
He'd pulled it in the line of duty once and that was to save Nick's life. At that moment, he knew what he would have done if the woman hadn't dropped her gun. He would have killed her and they would have seen the mask slip. His eyes would have been empty as he looked down at her, head tilting in fascination as life left her body.
~"My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new blue jeans-"~
They all would have known who he truly was on the inside. They would have seen that he was a killer.
Thinking about Debbie Marlin and her boyfriend, he said to Mr. Lurie, "You killed them both, and now you have nothing."
Mr. Lurie stopped at the door and turned to look at him as he said, "I'm still here."
Staring up at him, he asked, "Are you?"
Dark circles hung under his eyes, his face felt numb and cold. His body was sated and heavy. It took an enormous amount of energy to finally press the gas and steer the car away from the police precinct.
He needed sleep.
~"My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans-"~
The drive to the house that sat at the end of a street in the suburbs wasn't too long and it was spent in confused, painful, thoughts. He tried to even his breathing and fought against the threat of sleep. He was so tired, and in pain, but he couldn't sleep. He pulled his car around to the back of the house and parked.
Getting out, he opened the back hatch of his car and pulled out a pair of crime scene coveralls and slipped it on over his clothes, booties over his shoes. Then he grabbed a couple pairs of latex gloves, his scalpel, a taser, and then closed the hatch.
~"Now the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk-"~
His legs were heavy; his stride slow and he stumbled a little up the steps. The lights were off but he knew the homeowner was home. Pulling out the key he had made earlier that day, he inserted it into the lock. It was still in the house; quiet. He heard the hum of the refrigerator as he passed through the dark kitchen to the stairs that lead up to the master bedroom. The light above the stove was on and he spotted on the counter a whiskey bottle and a glass in the sink. There was no other dish: no plate, no skillet, and no lingering smell of a dinner having been cooked.
Just the whiskey.
~"And the only time he's satisfied
Is when he's all drunk-"~
He turned the corner and walked up the stairs. The door to the bedroom was open; the man who lived there had no reason to ever close it. He lived there alone. Stepping over to the bed, he stared down at the man who slept peacefully without a care in the world.
He'd committed murder; killed an innocent woman and her boyfriend because she'd given her love to someone else. She made him feel like a fool. For the man in the bed, that had been a sin and a death sentence.
Rubbing his eyes, he fought down the threat of tears in his eyes. God, he was so tired. The man didn't deserve to sleep peacefully. He deserved justice. If he couldn't sleep, neither could the man in the bed.
Flicking on the lamp, he stared down at Doctor Lurie until he stirred and blinked back the invasion of light. His eyes landed on him and confusion quickly turned to fear as he sat up and backed away from him until he stumbled out of bed.
Dressed only in boxer shorts, Mr. Lurie asked in anger and confusion, "What in the hell are you doing here?"
Shaking his head at him, he said, "You're not still here. How can you be?" Those words tumbled out of his mouth unexpectedly. They hadn't been what he wanted to say. "I normally avoid making a mess, but for you...I'm going to make an exception."
~"Oh, mother, tell your children-"~
Before Mr. Lurie could respond, he pulled out the taser and fired.
~"Not to do what I have done-"~
Mr. Lurie jerked as the electric currents shocked his body and sent him to the floor. As he laid there, body still jerking from the electro-shock, he walked toward him as he reached into his pocket. Lurie's eyes widened in panic as he saw the scalpel.
~"Spend your lives in sin and misery-"~
The first thing he severed were the vocal cords so he couldn't scream out. Then he slit the bottoms of his feet so he couldn't run away.
~"In the House of the Rising Sun-"~
Sitting down on the bed, he watched as the blood dripped off the blade to the white carpet. It dropped, and dropped, until it made a small puddle. "I worked a triple as I tried to find the evidence to put you away. I know you did it. You know you did it..." Taking his eyes off the puddle of blood, he watched as Lurie tried to stop the bleeding from the cut to his neck as he pressed his hand to his neck. It wasn't life-threatening. "I'm maxed out on hours. No one is expecting me in until tomorrow night."
~"Well, I got one foot on the platform-"~
Mr. Lurie squirmed on the floor as he rolled himself over onto his stomach and got to his knees. A desperate man trying to get away. He saw the imprints of bloody handprints going toward the door and the trail from the blood dripping from his bloody feet.
~"The other foot on the train-"~
"They're going to wonder about you," he told him as he stood and stalked after the bloody trail; bloody scalpel in hand. "All that will be left, will be the blood."
~"I'm goin' back to New Orleans-"~
Hours later, there was blood in every room of the house. Bloody handprints, footprints, smears from a head wound, spray and droppings from a severed femoral artery. An average adult had about 10 pints of blood in their body and every drop of it was accounted for.
~"To wear that ball and chain-"~
He poured himself a glass of whiskey, neat, three fingers worth, from the bottle on Lurie's kitchen counter and sat down at the table as Debbie Marlin's death replayed over and over in his head.
Debbie Marlin's smile stared back at him through the frame but all he could see was Sara. It was her sitting on the bed, looking over her shoulder at him with that smile. It was her blood on the bathroom floor and dead eyes staring into nothing.
Butterfly necklace on the ground.
Candles lit up the bedroom. He heard her humming to herself a song they'd sung together long ago as she went about getting ready for the date.
He wasn't enough for her and she'd left him. In his heartbreak, his abandonment, he cuts her throat. Her blood on his hands. Her dead eyes staring, looking, waiting for him: the other man.
He wasn't her savior. He was her killer. In his rage, he killed the other man and in the bathtub cut him up into pieces.
Lurie had severed something inside him as well. His sense of balance, of safety and security, had been completely uprooted. His whole world felt upside down. An undeniable truth invaded his mind and wouldn't let go. He'd become obsessed not only with finding the person responsible for killing Debbie Marlin, but with Lurie himself. He understood him because he'd seen himself in him.
He prided himself on his ability to self-regulate his emotions and impulses and to resist temptation and his desire. Controlling himself had been something he'd learned to do and had been practicing since he was a child. He didn't have many outbursts of emotion, nor did he let on his true feelings-or lack thereof-and thoughts in highly emotionally charged situations.
His self control was more than regulating his disruptive impulses but to also express socially acceptable reactions: expressing happiness for a friend's birthday or engagement, laughing at a joke, or expressing remorse when someone was injured or hurt. He also learned to delay his gratification until it was time to express them in the most private and intimate of ways.
"I'm still here."
"Are you?"
He wasn't sure.
All he knew was that he was different. This felt different.
Mr. Lurie wasn't a predator and probably had no intentions of killing anyone ever again. Not being sure of those intentions wasn't justifiable enough. In knowing that deadly force was justified in not only self defense but in the defense of others, and knowing that he was doing what he did to protect the innocent and save lives, he had always had clear intentions of his actions. He always knew why he did the things he did. He also felt right and justified.
Question: Was what he did to Lurie murder?
He didn't kill him out of a sense of protection. He was angry, sure, but what was his reasoning? He loved Sara and that was why Lurie had to die. Was it justifiable, if not in the eyes of the law, then in the eyes of God?
In order to be a "true" Catholic, one must deny one's self, and love and care for others. Self-giving and self-denying. His willingness to deprive himself in order to be a servant. One must serve others without regard for themselves. He had to disregard his own welfare over those of another. To take the risk he did, to expose Lurie to his truth, had been self-sacrificial in many ways.
What would Father Powell say? Romans 6:19: "I am speaking in human terms because of the weakness of your flesh. For just as you presented your members as slaves to impurity and to lawlessness, resulting in further lawlessness, so now present your members as slaves to righteousness, resulting in sanctification." Deuteronomy 32:6: "Do you thus repay the Lord, O foolish and unwise people? Is not He your Father who has bought you? He has made you and established you."
This was how he expressed his self-giving love, he thought as he downed the whiskey.
But it was selfish. It was murder.
He had to pay for that.
~"Well, there is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun-"~
He couldn't call Sara. Not now. Not after what he'd done and how he saw her in his mind. Dead, on the floor, his hand being the one to kill her. She was in Los Angeles at the moment; working. They had the weekends when she wasn't working whether he worked or not. He made time for her. He made room for her in his house. In his life.
It was a start.
Having nowhere else to go, and only knowing one person who could give him what he needed, he drove to her house and knocked on her door as he fell apart on her front porch.
There were excuses, there always were. He was alone for a reason; he wanted and liked it that way. When he was alone he was safe. People were hard; acted on emotions that he could never understand. Most people always seemed to get in the way of him and his sense of solitary comfort.
Then Sara came along and she terrified him the most. She could ruin him. Has ruined him. She saved him and ruined him at the same time.
She made him commit murder.
He hated to think of it that way, but he could never lie to himself. And the last thing he wanted to ever do was to hurt the only person he ever truly loved.
But she...She could understand and she did. Her place was his safe place. There he could let go and hide or not hide. He could talk or not talk. He could sleep or not sleep. Fall apart or barely keep it together.
Heather opened the door in her black leather attire and invited him in. She knew full well the mental state he was in and exactly why he was there, broken and hurt. He needed to be punished. He wanted to hurt. To bury himself in the misery that he felt.
She could give that to him. She understood because her own dark side was complimentary to his own. As the Dominatrix, she read him, knew why he was there, and led him without a word spoken upstairs to her bedroom.
~"And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy-"~
By the time she was done, his body went slack from exhaustion, his back raw and on fire. All the pain he felt on the inside had been brought out of him through the whipping, the struggle to break free, and then the collapse as he gave in and let go. It was like an exorcism.
As he caught his breath, kneeling on the floor, he felt cleansed. His demons had been exorcised. Penance paid. He opened his eyes and looked up at her and saw her crimson lips twist into a knowing smile. He wanted to thank her but couldn't get the words out.
With his eyes on the floor, he waited until she told him he could stand up and leave. He shifted slowly up off the floor and to his feet. He knew there would be no tea this morning. Instead, there would be a bottle of whiskey empty on his coffee table and he would be passed out on his small couch, neck cramping like hell.
He found his shirt and pulled it on with a wince of repressed pain. He did everything he could to not look at her as he buttoned up his shirt. Then made sure he had his wallet and keys. Their eyes finally met, her green eyes locked onto his blue, as he leaned into her and kissed her cheek softly and never giving away what he felt inside, but she knew.
She knew him better than he knew himself.
Once the cold desert air hit him as he stepped outside, he watched the sun rising in the east as he thought about what had just happened. Heather was not only a friend, but someone he knew, and trusted, to unleash him and then abandon him in the darkness below without remorse.
And in that darkness he had drowned himself. It had been intoxicating. His back would hurt for a while, and he would have some scarring, but he didn't care.
It was what he needed.
~"And God, I know I'm one."~
TBC...
Disclaimer: Songs used/mentioned: "Fade Into You" Mazzy Star, "Uninvited" by Alanis Morissette, "To Make You Feel My Love" by Bob Dylan, "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen (but the version used is the cover by Jeff Buckley) and "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals.
The poems written in this chapter and the last are credited to me. I wrote both.