Aberrations

by MrsHenry

"I find all deviant behavior fascinating in that to understand our human nature we have to understand our aberrations." - Gil Grissom. This story is an AU. Grissom and Sara will have different lives than in canon. First, Grissom is a serial killer. Second, Sara is not a CSI. Explanation and story to follow. *GSR*

10. I'm Not Driving Anymore

A/N: Thanks again everyone. I really can't tell you that enough.

---

Ch. 9: I'm Not Driving Anymore

SARA

Her bags were in the car with enough clothes for the next four weeks. She put in for a vacation and since they didn't have limited days to take per year, or accumulated vacation days, she could take as much time off as she wanted. She requested a month. It might be longer, she didn't know.

What she did know was that she needed time away from Los Angeles. It didn't matter how stable her life was, or how much she loved the work she did, every so often she would have the irresistible urge to run. To go. It didn't matter where, she just had to leave. That was one of the perks with this profession. She could go anywhere, work anywhere, at any time. A year working at a conservation habitat in California, the next a job in Africa, or the wetlands of South America, or in Alaska.

She went where she was needed. Right then, she felt like she was needed in Las Vegas. Once there, she could just relax and contemplate her next move, or if she wanted a next move. All she knew was that she was wanting to be with Gil more-and-more lately and just having the weekends wasn't enough.

They'd been together now as a couple for over a year and she could see them being together for the rest of their lives. She could see her future with him always being there by her side. Always reliable and steady, like a rock, Warrick had said.

Thanks to him and his guidance, his love and protection, she felt more confident and stronger than she'd ever felt in her entire life. Her anger wasn't completely diminished, but it was easier to maintain and cope with. Her life was easier to cope with. She was no longer on unsteady, untrustworthy ground, no longer feeling lost at sea, but grounded and stable, and home.

Gil was her home. And she needed to be with him.

Then, there was the issue with the letter she had received nearly two weeks ago. It was a letter from Laura Sidle: her mother. It was the first letter she had ever received. She didn't even know how she found her, but she did. Her mother was still in the State Mental Institution up in San Francisco. She would probably never be released.

In the letter she told her about her recovery. About her illness, and her guilt for killing her husband, her father, and how sorry she was. But she also told her how much she missed her.

She wanted to see her.

Looking around the apartment, and making sure she wasn't forgetting anything, she grabbed the letter off her desk and stuffed it into her bag before grabbing her keys and leaving.

Her lease was up in three months. After a month with Gil, she would hopefully have a decision on what she wanted to do going forward. If she chose to leave then she'd give her apartment manager a two-month notice. If not, it'd be here when she got back.

She got into her car, started it, turned on the radio, and drove away. As she got onto the freeway, the I-15 heading North, she couldn't help but think she was saying goodbye to Los Angeles.

---

GIL

~"You tell me I can't slow down

You tell me where I've gotta be–"~

Before he could investigate the address that Zippy T had given him, he received a phone call from Eva, the head of the school of agriculture at WLVU. They had a maggot mystery on their hands that she needed his help to solve it. He got to the university and was greeted by Eva and Brian, one of the university's security officers. He'd gotten the pleasure to know Eva over the years from their mutual interest in horticulture, which was the science and art of producing edible fruits, vegetables, flowers, herbs, and ornamental plants. Their paths also crossed several times at seminars and whenever there was an insect problem on campus.

As they started walking across the quad, he looked back at the Security Officer as he said, "Brian, can I get a cup of hot tea, hold the tea bag, please?"

Security Officer Brian gave him an odd look before veering off to go get it for him. Once Brian was gone, Eva asked, "Why not just ask for a cup of hot water?"

"Then I wouldn't have been able to tell him to hold the tea bag."

She chuckled and shook her head at him, saying, "You're so immature."

"Only my sense of humor," he said as they approached the pile of maggots that was under a tall tree in the middle of the quad.

"It's fraternity hell week," Eva told him. "A pledge slipped and fell in this pile of maggots. The School of Agriculture is in charge of campus landscaping, so security called me. You were the first person I thought of."

"Well, thank you, Eva. I'm honored," he said as he walked around the pile, observing the contents. There were a lot of maggots.

It took twenty-four hours for fly eggs to hatch and the larvae, the maggots, could feed off the egg-laying site for three to five days. Given the size of them, he would say that they've been feeding for at least a full day already. Two days ago. The flies would have shown up at least a day before that. Three days ago. Each female fly could lay up to 500 eggs in several batches of 75 to 150 eggs over a three-to-four-day period. With this many maggots, he would say there were more than 500. So, several female flies laid their eggs on this pile of mulch three to four days ago because they knew they would be able to feed. The only reason the flies knew that was because there had to be something in the mulch that they wanted, and it wasn't wood.

"You make your own mulch?" he asked.

"The university is self-sustaining. A city within a city. State institutions are encouraged to practice xeriscaping."

He thought about that as he asked, "'Xeri'...meaning dry?"

Sara had talked to him once about xeriscaping. It was used to reduce the need for irrigation by replacing grassy lawns with soil, rocks, mulch, and drought-tolerant native plant species. Nothing that was fly food. Flies only ate organic material: fruits, vegetables, meat, animals, plant secretions, flower nectar, human feces, and humans.

She gave a nod. "Landscaping using drought-tolerant plant life. Conserves water. There's no reason for these maggots to be here."

It was a mystery. One that could be easily solved once he got a closer look of what was in the mulch. Security Officer Brian walked up to them carrying the cup of hot for him as he said, "Dr. Grissom, your tea. Hold the tea bag?"

He took it from him, saying, "Thank you, Brian." Kneeling down, he pulled out a pair of tweezers and picked up some maggots and put them into the cup. Eva knelt down beside him and he asked her, "Do, uh…Do you use scraps from the dining halls for your compost?"

"No. Why?"

Because the only other time he had seen this many maggots in one place feeding, it was because they were consuming over a hundred pounds of a human being in his maggot farm at his warehouse. And since it wasn't scraps from the dining halls or plants, then it had to be something big and meaty. There were only two options: an animal or a human. "Well, if the devil requires a pound of flesh, this many maggots would require over a hundred."

"Pounds of flesh?" she asked, stunned.

Dropping a maggot into the cup, he nodded and then looked down to get another one when he spotted something among the maggots. A human tooth. Picking it up, he studied it as he asked her, "Were you aware that the average college student weighs 135 pounds?" Looking over at her as she looked at him, he told her, "I bet you only weighed a buck-ten soaking wet."

She smirked as she stood. "Flattery will get you nowhere. I need to inform the Dean," Eva said with a sigh.

"Brian," he said as he covered the cup as he stood, "we're going to need to seal off the area. This is officially a crime scene." As he straightened, he felt his knees ache as he stood.

"I know that wince. You're getting old, Gil."

"Aren't we all," he said as he headed back to his car to place the cup inside for safe keeping.

Hours later, he finally made it back home. In the driveway he spotted Sara's car. He parked and as he got out he heard barking coming from the side of the house. He opened the gate and petted Edmond as he saw the patio door open. Sliding the screen door open, he entered the art studio and saw Sara standing there with a glass of wine in her hand. She was staring at his paintings.

"What're you doing here?" he asked. It was in the middle of the week.

Her eyes rested on his as she pointed to the painting, saying, "Is that how you see me?"

Glancing at the painting, he told her, "I see you in numerous different ways. When I paint, most of the time I'm experimenting with techniques and concepts."

"What concept was this?"

"The dichotomy of self. Our inner conflicts and contradictions...Human polarity."

She stared at him a moment before looking back at the painting. Then she said, "Okay, I get it now. My need for perfection versus my inner feelings of anger. What about yours?" She walked over to the closet and opened the door, pulling out the one he'd made of himself along with one he'd made weeks prior.

He stared at the two paintings and shook his head. One of them was the image he'd drawn within his own head and body. His heart ripped to shreds, brain infected with spiders and the monster behind his eyes. The reflection of his inner self.

The other one was a labyrinth, one reflective of his mind. Within that labyrinth was a maze filled with dark passages filled with demons screaming, barren deserts devoid of life where the only river flowed was one of blood, cold tundras where bodies laid dead and buried, and canyon depths where beasts laid in wait. It was chaotic and accurate of the Pandora's box of his mind that thought of death and violence. He'd seen paintings of similar scenes of anguish depicted, mostly those by Hieronymus Bosch with his paintings "The Garden of Earthly Delights", "The Last Judgment", and "Hell".

He was nowhere near as great of an artist, but he'd never seen anyone else paint human desire and fear, and the suffering and condemnation of the soul, so well that he couldn't help to try to emulate it.

Sara was looking at it, her eyes full of worry and pain. "There's a lot of inner turmoil. It looks painful and terrifying." Her eyes were once again on him and he couldn't speak.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His heart froze along with his throat. His constant deep-seated fear paralyzed him like a spider venom once again as his mind raced to find something to say. Quotes filled his head, words easily offered to reflect his real thoughts but used to deflect attention away from his real feelings. He wanted to hide away, like he always did. Put on the mask and walk away.

He wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to be communicating with her. Sharing with her his thoughts and feelings. His real ones. Not offering words from someone else to keep a distance. That's what got him in trouble the last time.

But no words could speak louder than what he put onto those canvases. Those were real. What he thought and felt while painting those were real. Trying to put that into words, to express those paintings verbally, couldn't be accomplished. There were no words.

At least, none that his mind could come up with at the moment.

Her eyes were still on him. Eyes without judgment but concern, anticipation, and mostly understanding. She understood because her own reflection held the same inner turmoil. Not exactly the same, but enough to not judge him. Yet still he couldn't say anything.

He couldn't. How did this work?

He didn't know.

"You told me once," she said, "that you knew what it was like to be a victim of abuse…" Looking away, he took a step to leave before she stopped him when she said, "Gil, you act like we don't sleep in the same bed. I know you have trouble sleeping. I've heard you wake up in a panic. I feel it when you leave the room. I don't follow you because I know you need your space. Take your time, but know that it's okay for you to talk to me-"

"I-I, uh...I know that," he quietly told her.

He knew it was okay, but he didn't know how to talk to her about this. He didn't know how it was supposed to work. He didn't know the end result. He couldn't see it. If he couldn't see the track, couldn't see where it went, then it was terrifying. And his relationship with her was a track he could not see. It was one filled with blind turns and dark tunnels leading him into uncertainty. And it was that uncertainty of her reaction, and of their destination, that was paralyzing him.

They've been together intimately for over a year, and he still couldn't see what was coming. It was still so unpredictable.

Shaking his head, he told her, "I just don't know how." That was as honest as he could get. He felt utterly helpless in that moment and so very much alone.

Adrift. It felt as if a current was pulling him away. He didn't know how to get back to solid ground. He didn't know how to get back to her as he walked away, up the stairs, and into his office where he shut the door.

That evening he was back at the lab with a heavy aching head and sluggish body as he didn't get any sleep. Sara had left; she didn't say where and for all he knew she was back in Los Angeles. He had forgotten that she had taken some vacation days and that was why she was there.

How could he forget?

Catherine entered his office with a printout and as he looked up at her, she told him, "Oil-based blue paint mixed with motor oil."

Upon hearing those words, he stared at the sheet as he put on his glasses before taking it and looking it over. Zippy T…"He's back."

~"I speed into the darkness

But I swear that I can't see a thing in front of me-"~

His cell buzzed in his pocket. He took it out to see Sara's text. "Are you still at work?"

He eyed the message and then snapped it shut as he put the phone back into his pocket. Leaning against the back wall in the conference room, he listened to Brass giving a briefing on the serial killer known as the Blue Paint Killer. He didn't need to be at the briefing, he knew everything about Zippy already, but he was required to attend. Catherine was the lead on the case since she had been the primary CSI on the original case involving Janet Kent.

"Starting in 1987," Brass was saying, "a series of murders occurred on the WLVU campus. "Janet Kent," the projector casted a photograph on the white screen of the first victim. He went through all the victims until he got to the last before the new one since they haven't made a positive ID yet, saying, "Now, Charlene Roth's murder provided us with enough evidence to investigate a suspect…John Mathers, WLVU security guard. He was arrested, tried and convicted. Two years ago, this week, he was executed. The night of his execution, Debby Reston was murdered."

It was the anniversary. Why didn't he realize that? He'd been distracted, that was why. In the last year he'd redirected his attention from the criminals, ignoring his desire, so he could attend to his relationship instead. He couldn't do both at the same time. That was a balancing act that he would never learn how to do.

He remembered thinking that when he saw how Paul Millander lived as Judge Douglas Mason. Pulling off two separate lives like that took talent, but also the willingness to lie to the person he loved the most. To be both a serial killer and family man, a husband, was too much to have to deal with.

But, at the same time, he couldn't choose. He wouldn't be able to make that choice. He felt stuck at a fork in the road. One way led him back to isolation and loneliness. The other path to Sara. He couldn't see any other paths. He was either blinded to it or there wasn't one.

He didn't like ultimatums, especially when he wanted both but knew it was impossible. Two choices, two paths, and both would lead him to ruin. A life with Sara but not being able to fulfill his desire, his purpose, would be a life unsatisfying. He would only be able to do it for so long before he couldn't do it anymore. Then he'd have to leave her. Break her heart.

He couldn't do that.

Then the other path, back to just him, living in his head, behind a wall, and fulfilling his purpose...Again, ultimately, unsatisfying. He'd be alone. Empty, and full of rage.

Sara, again, left with a broken heart. Angry, and blaming herself.

Neither path was the correct one.

Third option: Death.

His death.

One of the police officers spoke up as he said, "Copycat, right?"

Catherine looked at Jim before she answered the officer, "No. We believe that Mathers was the copycat, responsible only for Charlene Roth's death."

She was wrong, he thought as he looked at the photo of John Mathers. It'd been a question before, whether Mathers was a copycat or a partner. But now he knew without question that Mathers had been a partner. The submissive to the dominant. The alpha male who went by Zippy T.

He couldn't tell them that, he wouldn't be able to explain how he knew. In his own mind, he couldn't even explain it, but he knew it was the truth.

"Which means the serial killer is still at large," Brass told them.

"And we have reason to believe that he has killed again," Catherine said. And as she went over the suspect's M.O., he couldn't help but visualize it from the killer's perspective.

Painting the railing with the paint mixed with motor oil. Stepping back into the shadows of the trees, the cover it provided, as he hid and laid in wait for a victim. A girl…but not any girl. The right girl. She had to be perfect. The right look. Blond, full lips, and as she touched the rail, the shock in her eyes as she saw her palm covered in paint. Her eyes were the key factor; it was about how she looked in that moment that excited him and told him that she was the one. Shock was better than annoyance, curiosity, and confusion. It had to be shock, disgust, horror. Fear. The anticipation as she walked over to the water fountain to clean it off. His eyes would search the area, making sure they were alone, and it was safe to attack.

The adrenaline as he approached from behind to grab her. Taking her somewhere close. A van. Parked, where exactly? It wouldn't be far.

"Our suspect's prior victims were all sexually assaulted. No semen was found. Cause of death–"

Strangulation.

The power the killer must have felt as he wrapped his hands around her throat to strangle the life out of her body. He wanted to see her last breath. Then once she was dead, and he had no more use for her, he put her in a black bag, like the evening trash, and then dumped her body. He hated her once she died. In death, she was useless. Garbage. Disposable.

Zippy hated women.

However, that wasn't what happened to their current victim. For some reason, Zippy put her into a woodchipper.

Question: Why?

Catherine attempted to answer that as she said, "Serials have been known to change their signatures because they have to. Fear of being caught…"

He shook his head at their lack of understanding of their killer. They would never understand. They didn't think the same. Zippy wasn't afraid of being caught.

He wasn't afraid of being caught.

"...interruption…or it could just be an act of escalation," Catherine finished.

Opening the door, he left the conference room as he heard Brass say, "So we're looking for a sadistic, ritualistic, organized sociopath."

Was that what Jim Brass would call him if he found out what he did during his off time, he thought as he headed over to the evidence room where photos of the crime scenes dating back to 1987 were hanging over the board.

Looking at the girls, how they were bound and strangled, he looked at their eyes. Why did he get so angry before he could see them in this position? Bound and gagged and begging him…He wouldn't have rushed to get to her death before experiencing what he desired more than anything: her pain and fear. He got angry before he could see her fear. Before he could gain sexual satisfaction and excitement. Anger before he could see the terror, the tears in her eyes, as he sketched her for his comic book in order to relive the event over again; in order to show his art and gain satisfaction from other people's gratification.

Answer: She wasn't the right girl.

Zippy had made a mistake. The clerk said he had LASIK, but the eye surgery was botched. Bad night vision?

That meant he would go after someone else soon. There would be another victim.

It's already been four to five days.

~"You know it's true

I'm not driving anymore,

I can't keep up with you-"~

The victim was male. That accounted for the anger. The fraternity hazing ritual had cost a frat candidate his life due to a blond wig and poor night vision.

He was running out of time. Had Zippy taken another student already or was he waiting for tonight? He wouldn't rush it because he'd already made a mistake by accidentally grabbing a male. He would be angry at himself for making the mistake. He'd be patient in order to take the right girl this time.

Shaking his head, he recollected Zippy's address that he'd written down. He had to find out before it was too late.

Warrick caught him coming out of the DNA lab and told him, "Gris, this place is crawling with press. They want a statement."

"Not now."

"Well, if you don't say anything, they're going to fill in the blanks–"

"Screw the press," he told him, "'cause for all I know, the dead body is an auto mechanic who just painted his house blue."

It was a possibility, but not the truth and he knew it. He just didn't want the press tipping off their suspect and he didn't want to put his face in front of the TV cameras. He also had to find a way to get the hell out of the lab. Fast.

"Grissom," Catherine called after him as she came walking down the hall. "Got a call from Officer Brian, a WLVU security guard, he has something to show us."

Finally, an excuse to leave. "I'll meet you there," he told her as he went into his office.

He grabbed his jacket and opened the top drawer in the desk and grabbed the disposable phone. Checking it, he didn't see any missed calls from Zippy.

~"You're closing in behind me

Well I've got headlights in my eyes-"~

He got into his work truck and headed toward WLVU campus, but on the way he swung by the address Zippy had given him. He saw it was a single-story house with a basement. It was on the corner of a side street and there was an alley that ran behind it with a gravel parking spot in back. There were oil spots on the ground from a leak. It was a big space. Big enough to park a van and pull it up to the back of the house.

He parked in a vacant lot next to the neighbor's house, next to the detached garage, and got out. With it being during the day, he noticed that there were no cars in the back parking spaces along the alley and no lights on in the houses but that didn't mean no one was home in the surrounding houses. Opening the back cargo hatch to the SUV, he removed his field kit and put it on the ground, and then he opened the panel covering the storage that was under the back left speaker. He removed the black utility jacket with a fake logo on the front and back and pulled it on and then grabbed the hat and put it on his head. Behind the jacket and hat was a small bag and tool belt. He removed both and placed the bag on top of his field kit and buckled the toolbelt around his waist and then closed the hatch door.

Going over the back door of the house, he knelt down and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Boots prints weren't his concern as they were a cheap, standard pair of work boots. Opening the bag, he pulled out a set of keys. There were 8 keys on the keyring, and he found the right one that could be inserted into the lock. It was a bump key, and it had a rubber O-ring on it to create a 1/16 of an inch space between the back of the key and the door lock. The purpose of the O-ring was to push the key back out of the lock after the bump from the hammer he pulled out of the toolbelt. Locks were so easy to get around if you knew how to do it. Lock pins were spring loaded. It was all physics. One good tap from the hammer against the key transferred the energy from the key into the lock cylinder into the pins, causing them to jump at the same time which created a gap where he gave the key a slight turn to the right and when the pins dropped back down, turning the key to unlock the door.

The lock turned and he stood as he turned the knob and walked right in. He would work on making a copy of the key from the cylinder later, but first he wanted to search the house. The backdoor opened up into a covered porch that had a freezer. Opening the freezer, he saw drawn images of the Blue Paint Killer victims, their names along with baggies of their hair. He kept trophies.

Shutting the freezer, he looked around the porch before stepping into the main kitchen area and he spotted the paint mixer he'd heard in the background from the phone call he had with Zippy T. Blue house paint that matched the university's team color and motor oil. Then he saw the lock on the basement door.

He would go down there but first he wanted to clear the top floor. He checked the living room, the bedroom and bathroom. Once it was all clear, he opened the front door. The mail in his mailbox was addressed to Kevin Greer. Dropping the mail back into the mailbox, he went back inside and shut and locked the front door and then went back to the locked basement door.

It was a simple master lock. The same lock he used to use on his door at his home. Paul had taken a bolt cutter to it in order to open the door to the room where he used to keep his subjects. He didn't have to use a bolt cutter. He'd taken the lock apart once he bought it and figured out it's weakness and how to open it without a key before he ever locked it onto his door. He needed to know how everything worked before using it. Everything had a flaw, a weakness, and a way inside if the time was taken to find it.

He realized that he did that with everything, not just with locks. It was how his mind worked. It was why he needed to know the truth about everything. And why he read all the time about any and everything he could. He wanted, and needed, to know how it all worked from the inside out. Locks, cars, cameras, paintings, animals, humans, evidence and cases and bugs. He broke everything down to the core to see what was on the inside and how it all moved together, worked together, and then he was able to truly understand.

He knew how to get in. He could manipulate and exploit their weakness and their flaws for them to make a mistake. And in that mistake, he found what he needed to put them away in prison. Or, to trap them so he could kill them.

He could never do that to Sara. He didn't want to trap her, or manipulate her, or exploit her in any way. He loved her.

~"Don't you get too close to me

Can't you see that we'll collide,

And end up casualties-"~

The lock came off the basement door and he opened it and stared down the wooden steps into the darkness. There was a switch for the light, but he kept it off as he pulled out a flashlight and started down the steps.

Greer loved no one and it showed as he stepped onto the concrete basement floor and swung the light from the flashlight around. He saw chains on his wall, ropes and gags on a table, and a room with the door closed. There was no lock.

Opening the door, he smelt the stench of bodily fluids and winced at the smell. There was a mattress on the floor, twin size, and a string hanging to turn on the light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He heard a noise and when he threw the light over to the far corner, he saw her.

A college aged girl with blond hair and her clothes ripped and torn. She was shivering on the floor with her hands bound behind her back and gagged. He wasn't expecting to find her, dead or alive. Blue eyes locked onto his and she started crying as fear filled them. As he walked over to her, his mind was taking in this new information about the serial killer. Greer took the victims home first where he abused them, drew them, cut off locks of their hair, and then killed them.

He couldn't have her screaming or trying to run from him or see his face. So, he had to incapacitate her first. He sat his field kit down and opened it and removed a false bottom. Pulling out a packaged needle and a vial, he removed the needle from the package and inserted the tip into the vial and drew out 2 cc's of the liquid from the vial. Walking over to her, he lightly moved her hair back as she jerked away from him and inserted it into the carotid artery in her neck. It didn't take long, a couple of seconds, before her body sagged and her terrified eyes closed shut.

Pulling off the knife from the toolbelt, he cut the bounds from around her waists that were rubbed raw, creating ligature marks, and bleeding. There was a contusion over her left eye from being hit. He pulled off the gag and then he saw the chain attached to her ankle that was secured to the wall. She'd been chained like an animal.

It took him several minutes to unlock the chain, he had to use a drop of liquid nitrogen and the hammer and screwdriver, but he got it off. Then he grabbed her up into his arms and left the basement. He laid her on the floor in the kitchen and then went back down into the basement to get his field kit.

He found a blanket in the bedroom closet, wrapped her up in it, and left her on the floor as he left the house and got into his truck. Reversing it up to the backdoor of the house, he opened the hatch and went back inside. Lifting her up into his arms, he carried her out into the back of his truck and placed her inside before shutting the door. He went back to the house and grabbed up his field kit and then left.

~"There's just no room-"~

His phone rang while he was driving; it was Catherine.

As he answered the phone he heard her say, "Where the hell are you?"

Currently he was heading toward the ER, but he couldn't tell her that. "I got detoured. I was about to call you–"

"Well, don't bother. Warrick and Sofia are here and we can remove this railing ourselves."

"Railing?" he asked as he slowed to take a right turn as he looked left down the street to make sure it was clear.

"Yeah, the Security Guard had given Nick a map of the campus with all the railings marked. But, Officer Brian found one that wasn't on the map. There's fresh concrete—"

"He installed it himself?" he asked as he realized what that meant about their serial killer.

"Seems so. What route are you taking to get to the campus? Warrick left after you did and–"

"Catherine," he said as he saw the signs for the hospital, "since you guys can handle it, I'll leave you to it and meet you back at the lab." He flipped the phone shut and tossed it into the middle console.

There weren't too many options he had and his only main concern was to get the girl into the hands of the doctors. He pulled up to the emergency entrance and slipped on his sunglasses as he saw inside the doors a wheelchair. Getting out he hurried through the doors and grabbed it before taking it to the back of his truck where he grabbed her out and sat her down inside it. Looking up, he saw the sliding doors open and he shut the hatch door as a nurse walked out.

He still wore the utility jacket, toolbelt, hat, and sunglasses and he told the nurse as she took hold of the wheelchair, "I was out at a house working and found her."

Letting her take the wheelchair to take the girl inside, he grabbed the duct tape on the belt and yanked off a piece big enough to cover the license plate number. He glanced back in time to see a security guard walking out. Getting back into the driver's seat, he pulled away and drove off as he saw in the rearview the guard watching as his hand went to his radio.

Once clear of the guard and the hospital, he pulled over quickly into a lot, yanked off the duct tape and opened the hatch door of the truck. He opened the panel under the speaker and tossed in the bag, the hat, and the utility jacket before covering it back up. He shut the door and got back into the driver's seat.

Then, he headed back to the lab.

~"I'm not driving anymore,

I can't keep up with you-"~

Catherine and Warrick had found an inflatable sex doll in a trash bag, bound like their victims, and he helped her to process it. In the mouth of the doll, she pulled out a sheet of paper with a message on it: "I Have Her".

You did have her, he thought as he took the paper from Catherine and walked it over to a documents processing station. The image revealed on the sheet of paper after he processed it was that of the college girl he'd rescued from Greer's basement. He'd drawn her as a comic character.

Question: Why keep her alive?

Why put the sex doll in the bag and toy with them and not use the actual girl? Something for Greer had changed. What–...

The answer was so simple. He had called him.

John Mathers was a partner. Did Greer want him to be his new partner? Did he keep her alive in his basement for him? Greer wanted to show him how he made his art and to see his response. She was a test.

He took the sheet of paper to Catherine and then headed toward his office to grab his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

He didn't give her an answer. There was only one place he wanted to be, and it wasn't there.

Driving back to Kevin Greer's house, he turned down the alley. A couple houses down, he pulled into the empty lot once again, next to the neighbor's garage, and parked. He had a clear view to the back of Greer's house. Then, he waited.

As it got darker, the day fading to night, his cell phone rang. It was Sara. He eyed the number and felt the urge to answer it but now was a bad time. He was next to a suspect's house, a serial killer, and his thoughts were in a very bad place.

He couldn't talk to her. Not tonight. Silencing the phone, he leaned back as he looked out the window as the sunlight disappeared and left him in darkness. The police radio had been active all night with calls, but none about their suspect so far. That was good. It gave him time as he saw a van turn the corner. It pulled into the parking space behind Greer's house and a man matching the description of Zippy T got out and headed toward the door.

He grabbed the radio, disposable phone, and then got out of the driver's seat. Going to the back of the truck, he opened it and grabbed his field kit and opened it. He pulled on a pair of gloves, slipped booties over his shoes, and then grabbed his gun from inside the kit and clipped it onto his belt. Opening the field kit, he removed the false bottom and filled another needle with the liquid from the vial and covered it and put it into the right jacket pocket. Then he grabbed his scalpel and put it into the left jacket pocket.

He shut the hatch door and headed to Greer's house. He already had the bump key in his pocket and the small hammer in his hand. Standing outside the back door, he watched through the windows as Greer stood in the kitchen, drinking beer from a bottle as he shuffled through his mail on the counter. He downed the bottle and looked at it before going to the basement door.

He pulled out the disposable cell phone from his pants pocket and flipped it open and hit the speed dial for Greer's number. Through the window he watched as Greer stopped as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. He looked around the kitchen and then into the living room. Putting the keys down on the counter as he passed it, Greer left the kitchen.

Holding the phone up to his ear with his shoulder, listening to it ring, he inserted the bump key into the lock and hit it with the hammer as he turned it to the right and opened the door.

There was music playing softly from his stereo, a song he didn't recognize, but the lyrics entered his head as he heard Greer answer, "Hello? Arthur?"

~"So leave me on my own,

Run me down and race away from me-"~

Stepping into the kitchen, he kept his voice low as he said, "Hello Zippy," as he eyed the freezer against the wall, took in the mess in the sink, the paint mixer against the wall.

"I was expecting to find your pictures in the mailbox. Are you reconsidering?"

He reached over and closed all the blinds and curtains over the windows. "No," he said as he walked by the locked basement door and entered a small hallway. "I was never intending on showing you my pictures, Kevin." He spotted Greer standing in the middle of the living room, eyes on the wall with the cell phone pressed to his ear. "I plan on taking one of you."

Upon hearing his voice on the phone and in the same room, Kevin jerked up, his eyes wide in shock as he stared over at him.

He snapped the phone shut before pocketing it, and then he pulled his gun and pointed it at him. "Hang up the phone and put it on the table."

Kevin swallowed hard as he snapped the phone shut and dropped it to the coffee table.

The blinds on the windows in the living room were already closed, having closed them earlier, keeping the gun trained on Kevin, he told him, "On your knees." He wanted him incapacitated and, in his control, as soon as possible without having to fire his gun.

He didn't want to kill him, yet.

Kevin smiled slightly as he started to kneel down, placing one knee on the floor. "I know you. You're not Arthur. Your name's Gil–"

"No, you see, Mr. Greer, that's where you're wrong. We all have two sides." He closed the gap as he moved behind him and pushed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. There might be trace transfer, he'd have to remember to clean that off before putting the gun back into his field kit.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the needle when Greer surprised him by reaching back and grabbing his arm as he moved his head and yanked his arm forward as his body shot back into his, knocking him off balance as he stumbled back.

With the momentum and force of the impact, they both stumbled and fell backwards to the floor. His head barely missed the edge of the entertainment center as he landed on his back, his head whipping back and hitting the floor. A shot of white light sparked in his head from the impact, making him dizzy as Greer rolled over on top of him as he tried to get his gun. He felt his fingers dig into his wrist as he yanked the gun up toward the ceiling.

Swinging his left fist that held the needle up, he hit Greer hard in the face before wrapping his arm around his body, bringing him down close to him, and then planted his foot flat on the floor and used leverage to flip them over. Pinning Greer to the floor, his left forearm shoved against his throat, he felt him squirming under him, trying to get a knee between them as his right hand pounded on his back, his head and face.

The arm that held the gun out in front of them, aimed at the wall, and it went off as Greer got a finger on the trigger. Tossing the gun out in front of them, against the wall away from both of their hands, he used his free hand to push his body up off Greer as he used his mouth to pull the cover off the needle and then angled it toward Greer's neck.

Greer couldn't angle his arm around his fast enough to keep him from stabbing it into his neck. The frantic pounding of a fist against his body and head finally stopped as he injected the paralytic into his neck. His chest was heaving as he rolled over and laid on the floor for a moment as he blinked back against the pain in his head as he stared at the ceiling.

~"I've got nowhere to go to

I don't think I can get back on my feet-"~

He licked his lips and felt blood on them from Greer hitting him. There would be evidence of him in the house. Closing his eyes, he fought back the dizziness as he rolled over and breathed as he opened his eyes and saw the bullet hole in the wall.

Son-of-a-bitch.

~"Back on my feet-"~

Pushing up off the floor, he grabbed his gun and holstered it as he picked up the dropped needle and cover and pocketed them. The scalpel was still in his left pocket. Staring down at Greer, he felt hatred rise up in his chest as he grabbed him and yanked him up to his feet. Dragging him out of the living room, he dropped him on the enclosed back porch and went to pull his truck closer to the door.

Once he had Greer in the back, he grabbed his field kit and went back into the house. He had evidence to clean up and a bullet to find. Following the path the bullet took through the drywall, he found it lodged in the far wall of Greer's bedroom. Using a knife, he dug it out of the drywall and pocketed it. Then, he started cleaning the living room floor and searching for any cast off he could find on the entertainment center.

As he was in the bathroom, cleaning up the blood from his busted lip and the scratches on his right wrist, he heard the police radio come to life as it announced that their suspect had been identified as Kevin Greer. His address was relayed along with the added information that SWAT was enroute.

ETA three minutes.

He had to hurry. Wrapping his wrist with the gauze, he left the bathroom. Everything he used to clean up the blood was put in his field kit. When SWAT arrived, they would be coming in through the front door as they surrounded the house to the backdoor. Closing his field kit, he walked toward the kitchen and turned on the paint mixer as he passed it to hide the sound of him leaving out the back as police lights lit up the street out front. Tossing his kit into the passenger seat, he started the truck as he heard the go ahead for SWAT to enter the house.

Brass's voice was the one giving the command.

Turning on the headlights and police lights, he drove away from the house and the moment he was out into the alley, he saw the SWAT team rounding the side of the house. One of them ran out in front of him and held up his hand for him to stop.

Rolling down the window, he told the SWAT member who appeared next to the driver's side door, "I just came down the alley and was turning around, I didn't see anyone."

The SWAT member gave him a nod and thumbs up before gesturing for a couple of the members to go down the alley in the opposite direction.

Letting out a breath, he rolled up his window as he checked his reflection in the mirror. There were bruises forming on his face. Damn it. He drove to the corner of the alley and turned right down the street. One more right turn and he pulled around to the front of the house and spotted Catherine and Nick getting out of a Tahoe as he parked behind a police car.

She was eyeing him as he got out of the driver's seat and shut the door. "Where the hell did you come from, Grissom? I've been trying to get a hold of you all night." Then she saw his face. "Were you in a fight?"

"I had a personal matter to attend to, Catherine. I didn't think you'd even miss me since you want off my shift so badly," he told her as he entered the house.

She shook her head at him as he looked around the living room as he heard yelling coming from the basement. They found a room; it was empty but there was evidence someone had been held captive down there recently. Soon they would make the connection to the girl brought into the ER and the girl held captive in the basement. Her DNA was all over that room from the bodily fluids to the rope and the gag.

The only question would be who the man was that dropped her off at the ER.

He would match the description by the nurse and guard, but there were many men who matched his description. They would follow the evidence and find out that there were no service requests in that neighborhood, at that house, and question why the man with the utility jacket was even in the area.

It would be a mystery. A question without an answer. It would be a discrepancy, but it wouldn't matter. The girl was alive. She was safe.

And Greer would be dead.

He had to leave. Kevin Greer's paralyzed body was in the back of his truck. "Catherine, you're the lead. Nick can stay and help you process."

She watched as he turned around and left without questioning him.

~"It came right out of nowhere

Eyes wide and terrified-"~

He drove out to his warehouse and hoisted Greer up into the air using the crane, letting his feet barely touch the concrete platform.

Earlier, he had told Greer that he was wrong when he said that he wasn't Arthur. That they all had two sides. He'd meant it. As he also told Paul Millander, they both had a persona, a mask, that they hid behind. Paul's good side was in the name of Judge Douglas Mason. Judge Mason was the persona that hid the evil that was Paul Millander.

His name was Gilbert Arthur Grissom. If he broke his name down into personas, he could say that Grissom was the co-worker, the Graveyard supervisor. That Doctor Grissom was the Entomologist. All were masks, his personas, and what he showed the outside world.

But the killer inside. The man who lived in the darkness and had to do evil things in order to kill evil, that man wasn't any of them.

He had no empathy. He could be brutal. He could be merciless. In order to separate his two worlds, he had to separate himself from the killer.

The killer had to go by a different name.

"I knew a sadist," he said as he looked up at Kevin Greer hanging from the hook above him. His eyes were open, but he couldn't speak. The paralytic hadn't worn off yet. "Knew the look in his eyes as he beat a woman. The joy he got by inflicting pain onto another…all while she begged him to stop. His name was Arthur. He was my father."

And he was the name of the killer that resided within his mind.

What wasn't a persona, but who he knew he truly was, was a man named Gil. Gil could love. He did love. Gil was the friend to Catherine and Jim and Warrick and Nick and Sofia. Gil was the boyfriend to Sara.

He was the man that Sara loved.

But right then, he couldn't be that man. Gil was forgotten as he stared up into the eyes of the sadist rapist who murdered women. A man who beat, bound and gagged women in order to get excited enough to rape them with foreign objects like beer bottles before killing them.

"You can't look at them or have sex with them personally, but you can beat them and kill them…" He shook his head as it all fit together in his head as he understood how it all worked. How they worked together. "You couldn't have sex with them, but Mathers could. You could watch. Draw them together and look at it, like…a panel from your comic book. You wait until after you draw them, until you can see them as pictures like those in the comics you grew up with, before getting off because that's the only way you can." Greer was staring at him. "You're stuck as that confused teenager…That's–"

He shook his head of the thoughts that filled it. It was pitiful. But he didn't pity Kevin Greer. He couldn't feel that. What he felt was a need to make him suffer for it. Make him suffer for the monster he was that chose to unleash that monster onto the innocent.

When he looked back up at Kevin Greer, he no longer saw a human being staring back down at him. He became nothing more to him than a test subject, another rat, or dead bird. Like any good scientist that had to desensitize themselves and disconnect from the subjects they used for experimentation, the door in his wall shut everything out and there was nothing human left of Kevin Greer.

He was no longer a man. No longer a monster. He was no longer among the living. He was a thing. A subject to document the effects of whatever he chose to do to it until it stopped breathing. And just like the dead butterflies he used to create into art for his walls, he would use Kevin Greer's dead body to create art for his pictures. He would turn its death into something beautiful.

Question: Could Sara love the killer?

Did he even want her to?

~"I can't put my brakes on

And I can't swerve to save your life–"~

He thought before that he wanted Sara to know that he was a killer. Hiding from her was hurting the both of them, and he had a fleeting thought to stop hiding this side of himself from her. He'd been contemplating exposing the monster underneath.

~"Cause then I'll lose control,

And I can't choose-"~

Now, he wasn't so sure.

Granted, she knew that he killed Hank. She accepted it, accepted what he'd done, because they loved each other. She understood killing in order to protect the one you loved the most in the world.

But this? Was this acceptable?

There was a sound. It pulled him from his thoughts as he heard it again. Looking at Greer, he was confused because it hadn't come from him. He was still parazlyed and–

"Gil?"

Blinking back, he turned his dark eyes to hers. Standing across the platform by the open door to the warehouse was Sara.

"~I'm not driving anymore

I can't keep up with you-"~

It took him a long moment to believe that she was even there and that his mind wasn't messing with him. He blinked back in confusion, and then sudden realization, as he stared at her. She didn't take a step closer as her eyes were fixated on the body hanging from the hook.

On her face was confusion, shock, and horror as she took in the sight before her. Glancing up at Greer, he saw his eyes moving as he looked towards her. "You don't look at her," he ordered in a tone that made Greer, and Sara both snap their eyes back to him. "You look her way again, I'll cut one of your eyes out of your head, making you watch with the other."

Greer swallowed hard, he saw the gulp of his throat as his eyes stayed on his before he walked away, toward Sara. She was staring at him, and it took a time to understand why she was there and how she got in. Then he put it together. He didn't come home; she couldn't get a hold of him. It was a simple "If, then" solution.

If he wasn't at work or at home, then he had to be at his warehouse.

When he brought her there that night after shooting Hank, he had entered the gate code as she watched. "You remembered the gate code."

"It wasn't hard…" was all she said as she stared at him. He could tell she was in shock and confused, but she wasn't running. "There were only two numbers in the four-digit code. 7-2-7-2. Those numbers spell my name."

"You're also the password on my laptop," he said as he shrugged, like this was no big deal. And to him, it wasn't.

He was surprised and only feared her leaving him. It was terrifying, and something he didn't want to happen, but it had always been a possibility. He also was trying to get her to see that he wasn't angry, not with her.

Never. He'd never hurt her.

He didn't know what kept her from running aside from fear.

That thought pained him as he looked at her. He really hoped she didn't fear him. Reaching out, he touched her face and he saw a slight flinch in her eyes and face before it was gone. "Come back inside," he dropped his hand from her face and took a hold of her hand as he started to walk into the warehouse. "Come on. I'll explain everything."

He had to get her eyes off of Greer. Once they were inside, he shut the door behind him and walked with her as she started asking him questions. A lot of questions that he hadn't been prepared to answer.

Who was that? Why was he hanging from the hook? What in the hell was going on?

As he headed toward the steps that led up to the office, she finally reacted as she yanked her hand out of his. "Wait," she said as he turned to face her. "Gil, you have that man hanging from that crane hook and your face is bruised and lip is busted–"

"And I'll tell you everything. I've always been honest–"

"Honest! If I hadn't shown up here–"

"Sara," he said as he took a step closer, "you're right. If you hadn't, I probably wouldn't have said anything. At least, not until I figured out how…But…" His head was spinning as he tried to find the right words to not make her run. Not until after he could talk to her.

"This is–...Are you–..." she stopped as she looked at him for the first time that night with clarity in her eyes. The shock had worn off and she was back to thinking. "Are you going to kill him?"

He always told her that he'd tell her the truth. He would always be honest, but right then it was so hard to keep that promise. She could not only leave him but burn his entire world down. He'd let her do it and there would be nothing left but ashes. Bones, dirt, and ashes.

It was a struggle, but he finally got it out. The answer. "Yes."

She shook her head in sudden disbelief as she asked, "Why?"

Why? She wanted to know why. "That man out there is a killer, Sara. A serial rapist and murderer. He's killed six people that we know of and was going to kill his seventh victim tonight. A college girl, after he raped her with a foreign object. That's why. He doesn't deserve to live."

She stared at him. Her eyes took in his eyes, hearing his words, as she learned why. "And…you think this is okay?" she questioned him. "Now I know why you were so calm after killing Hank. You've killed before."

"Sara–"

"How many, Gil?" she questioned with anger in her voice. "How long?"

He shook his head as the numbers added up in his head. The number he'd forgotten for a while until he had to think about it. It even surprised him. She didn't want to know that number. "Long before I met you."

Her eyes widened in shock at his answer.

"I told you once that…there are times when evil needs to be confronted," he tried to explain, but she wasn't hearing it.

"I didn't know you meant you were murdering people."

"Killing evil isn't murder–"

"Oh, my God, you would think that," she said suddenly as she stepped away from him and threw her hands up to stop him from stepping towards her. "You would figure out a way to justify killing people."

The reality was setting in again, he thought, and it was all coming crashing down on top of her as he watched as she ran her shaking hands through her hair. She was afraid. Angry and afraid of him.

Sitting down on the steps, he buried his head in his hand as he tried to think of a solution to this problem. His words were mangled up in his head, tangled in the spider web along with his thoughts of killing Greer. It was hard to separate it all up into separate pieces and get himself to focus. He had to focus.

Then he realized he didn't care if he found a solution because the only solution that he could see was one of them dying. That wasn't an option. He had to let her know that he wasn't a threat to her. She needed to know the truth. All of it. She deserved that much.

~"So leave me on my own

Run me down and race away from me-"~

"You can leave, you know. Right now. You can walk out of here and never come back." Looking over at her, he saw her standing there, hands around her body in a form of protection, as she looked at him. "You can call the police and I'll go to prison. You can do that. I'll let you do that." He suddenly felt so tired. Nothing else mattered except for the woman standing in front of him. Not his career or his desire. Not even his life. "Do what you want to do, Sara. I won't…I won't stop you. In fact, I probably deserve it. I've tried to stop, several times," the words tumbled out of his mouth without thought. It felt like a confession. He'd finally been caught. "I can't. I don't know how, but I also don't want to. I didn't want to. It's…a compulsion that I didn't want to control. That was until…" Until he loved her. He didn't want this to be what made him tell her that he loved her for the first time. He didn't want to use that to try to get her to stay. He would never manipulate her like that. Shaking his head, he rubbed at his head as it pounded with the weight of everything he was saying. "It wasn't something I wanted to control until…I had something to stop for. I thought I could. I thought…our relationship, that it could be enough to make me stop. I was wrong. I'm sorry I couldn't stop for you."

~"I've got nowhere to go to

I don't think I can get back on my feet,

Back on my feet-"~

He felt so defeated. His reality was crashing down on him and he was done. She could kill him if she wanted, and he'd let her do it. His body sagged as he buried his head in his hands and let out a breath. This was it.

This was how his life ended. It wasn't by the shattering of glass, or the sound of a gunshot, or from the tightening of a rope around his own neck. It wouldn't be a needle in his arm on the execution table in a prison.

It was right here, right now, to the sound of Sara walking out the door and out of his life forever.

Her footsteps filled his head as she walked across the floor, but they weren't headed towards the door. She walked over to him. She stopped and knelt down in front of him. Her hands were on his as she pulled them away from his face. His confusion was written all over his face as he stared at her. He had no idea what she was doing or thinking.

"Everyone you've killed were evil people?"

He gave a nod. "Murderers, rapists, pedophiles…I tried, with most of them, I did my best to put them away in prison, but…Our system's flawed, and they get out and they rape and kill again. Like with him," he said as he gestured across the warehouse, towards the closed door, "He's been raping and killing college girls since 1987. I couldn't–...I can't–" He shook his head as he fought back the anger he felt building in his body and in his head. "I don't know what else to do, Sara. I've been doing this for so long…" It was an addiction.

"I've known for years that I'm the one in control of our relationship." She knew, he thought as she said, "I understand more than I think you give me credit for–"

He shook his head as he said, "You're the most intelligent woman I know. It's one of the reasons why I love you." The words came out before he could stop them. They were effortless and it was honest, and that was why they were so easy to say.

Her hands were in his and she gripped them tight as she asked, "Would you turn him over to the police if I asked you to do that?"

Would he…Wait, what? He glanced over her shoulder to the door that led outside. Would he? If she told him to, would he? "Of course," he told her, because he would. She held all the control. He was her dominant. He responded to her. "There would be an investigation if he told them that I abducted him from his house and brought him out here—"

"Is there a way to prevent him from talking but not killing him in order for him to serve life in prison for the crimes he's committed?"

That was an interesting question, and he was stunned she had asked it. He gave a nod. "I could do that." There were ways to do that.

"Then do that. Okay?" she asked.

He still wasn't processing anything correctly in his head as he gave a nod and said, "Okay."

She smiled. That surprised him. Even more so as she reached out and grabbed his face in her hands and closed the distance as she kissed him. Her hands were still shaking slightly as she ended the kiss and grabbed him around the neck and pulled him into a hug.

He really had no idea what was happening, but he was so relieved he didn't care. She could still very well walk out and never come back. As he hugged her back, he asked, "Are you afraid of me?"

She shook her head into his shoulder as she told him, "I'd never be afraid of you."

"Then why are you shaking?"

"It's just jitters," she said, "it'll go away."

He had to take her word for it as she pulled away. Looking into her eyes, he didn't see fear in them. He saw something that he didn't know or understand. He didn't recognize it. It confused him.

Her hand was on his chest as she told him, "I'll see you at home," before she walked away and out the warehouse.

---

~"Get me out of harm's way,

Can't you see I'm paralyzed-"~

He stood in the bathroom as he tried for the third time to tie the damn bowtie around his neck. Even using the diagram, he couldn't figure it out. His brain couldn't work it out what it was telling him. Sighing in frustration, he heard Sara walk in. Looking at her through the mirror, he saw the black dress she wore. The V-neck in the front, the gold necklace with the red pendant she'd gotten while in Australia. His eyes traveled down and saw the dress stopped at her knees. The heels made her as tall as him and he saw the tattoo on her ankle.

Coming up behind him, she placed her hands on his shoulders and asked, "Are you having difficulty?"

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

Smiling at him through the mirror, she reached around and grabbed both ends of the bowtie. "Then let me do it for you."

It'd been a month since she found him at his warehouse about to kill Kevin Greer. A month after she stopped him from killing Greer and instead had him incapacitate him for the rest of his life. All the evidence they had was an air-tight conviction for Kevin Greer. He would spend the rest of his days in a prison ICU, never being able to speak or draw anyone ever again.

"~I wanna fade out gracefully,

But you keep keeping me alive

To face another day-"~

As he watched her effortlessly tie the bowtie, he couldn't help but to think back to the day he returned home from the warehouse to find her there waiting for him.

Dropping his keys onto the kitchen counter, he petted Edmond who'd ran down the steps from the bedroom and into his legs, wagging his tail as he was happy that he was home. "Braver hund."

Since Edmond had come from his bedroom, he assumed that was where Sara was. Her car was in the garage, and there weren't any bags packed. That was a good sign, wasn't it? He pulled off his department issued windbreaker jacket and ball cap and slung the jacket over the chair and tossed the hat onto the table as he followed Edmond up the steps and to the bedroom.

Sara was on the bed, in her pajamas, reading. Or, pretending to read.

Going into the closet, he kicked his shoes off and pulled off his sweater and tossed it into the bag for dry cleaning. Then he unbuttoned his long-sleeved shirt and pulled it off and put it in the same bag as the sweater. His pants came off next and went into the bag, his belt onto a shelf above his dress pants. He stepped back out into the room and to the bathroom and started the shower, he was dirty and needed to wash the grim of the day away.

After he showered and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he laid down on his stomach next to her in bed. She shut the book and tossed it on the nightstand before laying her head down on the pillow and looked at him.

She was still there. And she was waiting for him to say something.

He had so much to tell her. There was so much she needed to know about him. He didn't know where to start, or how to start it. This was all unfamiliar territory. He didn't love Heather and that was why it was so easy to talk to her. He didn't fear her rejection the way he feared Sara's.

He also just wasn't good at putting his thoughts, his emotions, into words. And she was patient. She wasn't hurrying him along to get him to talk. She wasn't demanding anything from him.

"There was um, this case, a few years ago, a woman was killed. We discovered her job was at this fetish club. It involved bondage and dominance and submission, and control. She had scars on her body from being whipped and contusions from being bound, and bruises from being smacked…It was for pleasure, but–…But all I could see was my mother. All I could think about when I saw the men dominating, beating the women, was how my father beat my mother. It wasn't for pleasure, not hers anyway. She wanted him to stop; he wouldn't. I think that's when it started. I honestly don't know. I never thought about it."

"That's why you won't smack me, even for pleasure?"

He gave a nod and let out a breath. "I can't. It'll…It would kill me to ever do that, even for pleasure, I can't."

"Did he ever hit you?"

He thought about his father and shook his head. "No. He never touched me...Never hugged me. Never even really talked to me. We talked about science. Plants. There wasn't much else. Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't remember either of them telling me that they loved me. I don't remember my mother ever signing those words. I don't remember hearing his voice ever saying them. Not even to each other, but…She cried when died. Despite how he treated her, she loved him." He stared over at her as he told her, "I don't want you to think that you're trapped here. My mother didn't leave him…but you can. You can leave me–"

"You're not beating me, Gil."

"I've killed people. A lot of people. I'm capable of that, and now you know."

She let out a breath as she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. He rested his head on his folded arms as he watched as she searched the ceiling for an answer. "I think I've always known that." He watched as she looked over at him as she said, "I knew the moment you killed Hank. I saw it in you that night. I also trust you and I know that you would never do anything to hurt me. I know I can leave. I don't want to leave. So don't ask me to."

"I won't…but I would understand if you did."

"Who was it then? Who abused you?"

She didn't have to clarify for him to know what she was asking. "They all did, in their own way. My father's abuse against my mother, and witnessing it…My mother's neglect after his death. It was like I died the day he did. I became a ghost to her. There but…not. I would go to church and try to understand…All I learned was that God didn't answer any of my prayers, not even when Father Thomas, my only friend…Not when he, uh…"

He closed his eyes and turned his head and buried it into the bed as he remembered Father Thomas. He had felt so alone. He had no one.

Her hand was on his neck, the back of his head, rubbing it to make him feel better.

He realized that he wasn't alone anymore. She was there. She wasn't leaving.

Turning his head to look at her, he told her, "It lasted years, until I was too old, I guess. That's when I realized I wasn't alone, that I wasn't the only boy he abused…and I killed him."

Her hand gripped the back of his neck as she looked at him in the dark room. Even with the blackout curtains blocking the sun, he could see her eyes from the light coming in from outside the bedroom door. She wasn't scared. There was no anger.

Instead, she looked heart broken. "I'm sorry."

"That's when it started. I just wanted to save someone, everyone, from being a victim. I wanted it to stop, for evil to stop. I still want it to stop. I'd love to wake up in a world where people no longer murdered one another, or raped one another, where innocent children could just be children. It keeps getting worse, and I keep…trying to stop it. Maybe you were right. Maybe my logic is flawed."

He suddenly thought of the self-portrait that he'd painted. How he felt his heart being ripped apart by shrapnel from a bullet that she'd used to pierce his heart with years ago. How his head was infested with a spider that picked and pried at his control as it represented his desire to kill. His lungs in vice grip as he always felt so paralyzed around her that he couldn't breathe right.

"Should I stop?" She raised her eyes at him when he asked her that question. He wanted her honest answer. He needed to know what she wanted him to do. "Do you want me to stop?"

"You said you tried for me but you couldn't."

He'd said that, yes, but that didn't mean that he didn't want to know what she wanted him to do. "Your opinion matters to me. I want to know–"

"I can't make you do something you don't want to do, Gil. I won't ask."

"And…you're okay with that?"

She let out a breath as she rubbed the back of his neck again before telling him, "I'm going to have to be. I love you."

He suddenly felt tears in his eyes as the emotion that gripped his heart nearly made him break. He'd never cried before. Not even when his parents died. He realized now it was because he didn't love either of them. Not the way he loved her.

Answer: Sara could love the killer because she loved him.

She saw it; the emotion that filled his heart and the tears that nearly broke as she pulled him to her and kissed him.

There was an unspoken agreement from that night forward. She was the one in control from here on out.

"~Can't you see I'm through-"~

She always had been, but now they both knew it. Resting his back against her as she wrapped her arms around him from behind, she kissed his neck. She could ruin him, but he knew she never would. She loved him and trusted him.

And those were the reasons she took his hand and led him out of the bathroom so he could finish getting dressed. He pulled on the tuxedo jacket and slipped on the dress shoes in the closet before they left the bedroom. Picking up his keys, Edmond followed them as they headed down to the first floor to his studio.

Since it was on the way to the garage door, he stopped her and said, "I want to take your picture."

"Now?"

"It'll only take a minute." He went into the room and pulled the green screen out and then grabbed a chair and placed it in front of it. There were several backdrop options he'd found out and pulled down the gray backdrop over the green one.

He crossed the room and grabbed his digital camera as she took a seat in the chair. She sat with her feet spread wide on the floor with her legs coming together at the knees. Her hair was down tonight, and it flowed down a little past her shoulders. Resting her chin on her right hand, her elbow on her leg, she looked at him as he took her picture. Then he adjusted the lighting and focus and took another one.

She was smiling at him as he took another.

Looking at the photos on the camera, he told her, "You've always been, and will always be, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Getting up, she walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "And you will always wear the hell out of tux," she told him before kissing him. "Let's go. We don't want to be late."

He put his camera back down and then followed her out after petting Edmond bye.

The drive to the hotel was filled with him telling her all about Conrad Ecklie. He was to be the new Assistant Director of the crime lab and he had to give a speech. "He considers me a friend."

"You're not his friend?"

"I'm a friend, I guess. We've always had a rivalry between us. He's always been career driven and interested in politics. He wants this position. He probably wants to be Mayor someday, and he lets that dictate how he does his job instead of letting the truth, and evidence, speak for itself. I don't hate him for it, but it's not how I do my job. He nearly let a man get executed for a crime he didn't commit because he refused to admit he was wrong, that he got the evidence wrong. If I hadn't had taken the case–"

"Are you going to say all of that in your speech?"

Glancing over at her as he took a left at the light, he told her, "I haven't written it yet."

She stared over at him in disbelief as she said, "How can you not have the speech written yet?"

"I've been busy."

Shaking her head at him, he took another turn, going into the parking garage and found a place to park on the top floor. He got out and headed around to the passenger door and opened it for her as she took his hand. Walking hand-n-hand to the elevator, he hit the down button as they waited.

Then he felt her lean into him as she turned her head and spoke into his ear, "I'm not wearing any underwear."

His eyes immediately looked her over, going down her dress like he could possibly see through it as the doors to the elevator slid open and she stepped inside. It took him a moment to follow as he couldn't focus on anything else other than that fact.

Once on the elevator, she pulled him around until he was standing in front of her and grabbed his hand as she placed her other hand on the back of his neck and kissed him. Her other hand guided his hand up under her dress.

Ending the kiss, he told her, "There are cameras," as his fingers rubbed over her opening, feeling how wet she was.

"You are blocking the camera," she told him before pushing his hand against her opening until he inserted two fingers into her.

She breathlessly gasped as he worked his fingers inside her while rubbing at her clitoris. "I pray no one gets on this elevator," he said as he watched her eyes close as she smiled.

Having to do this fast, he hit her g-shot and rubbed her fast and hard as he watched her chest flush red, her face, as her jaw went slack and body tensed. Kissing him again, she came into his hand, and he felt her shutter against him.

As she eased down and caught her breath, she grabbed his handkerchief out of his breast pocket to clean up as he licked his fingers clean.

She straightened her dress as he felt the elevator coming to a stop. He didn't have to take any time before he was able to turn around as she hooked her arm in his as they left the elevator arm-in-arm. Entering the hotel banquet hall, Sara left his side and told him she'd be back.

He watched her walk away as Catherine came up beside him. "You made it," Catherine said as she looked after Sara. "And you brought a date. I'm shocked."

"That Sara and I are still dating?" he asked in confusion.

"That, and that you actually brought her. I mean, this is a very public occasion. Everyone's here."

"She wanted to come," he told her with a shrug as he saw Ecklie walking over to him.

"Catherine," Ecklie said as he stopped in front of him but addressed Catherine before looking at him. "Gil. I'm looking forward to hearing your speech."

The way Ecklie smiled at him told him that this was all Ecklie's doing. He knew how much he would hate doing this. Not just the speech but being here in this room with all the politicians and members of the LVPD higher-ups. The Governor, the Mayor, and the Sheriff and Undersheriff. It was one thing to talk to them during the course of an investigation, but another to have to sit at a table with them and pretend to not want to take a fork and shove it into his own head just to get out of it.

"Are you on-call tonight?" Ecklie asked him.

"Sofia is," Catherine answered for him.

"Good," Ecklie said with a smirk. "You can enjoy this celebration of my promotion."

This wasn't a celebration. It was a funeral.

And where in the hell was Sara? Checking his watch as Catherine and Ecklie continued to talk, he realized she'd been gone for ten minutes. Glancing around the room, he finally spotted her coming back into the room with a sheet of paper in her hands.

Watching her walk back over to him, he saw her smile, the look in her eyes, as she approached him. She had something he wanted, and it wasn't due to the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Stopping next to him, he smirked at her before looking at Conrad Ecklie who was looking not at him but at Sara. He saw his eyes glanced downward and he felt like hitting him.

"Conrad," he said, drawing his attention away from Sara's body and to his eyes. He was sure Ecklie saw the anger in them as he said, "This is my girl, Sara. Sara, this is Conrad Ecklie. Soon to be my new boss."

Sara tapped the folded sheet of paper against his chest as she politely told Ecklie, "Hi, I've heard so much about you."

He took the sheet and opened it to see that it was a speech. She had written him a speech. Just like she's always been doing ever since loving him, she was taking care of him. Without thinking, he wrapped his left arm around the back of her waist as he turned and kissed her head. Telling her, "Thank you."

It wasn't until after he kissed her head, until after she stepped away to get them both a drink, that he remembered that they hadn't been alone. Ecklie looked at him as he said, "You're a lucky man, Gil," before walking away.

Catherine was staring at him in somewhat shock. Then she shook her head and smirked, saying, "Told you." When he only shook his head at her in confusion, she said, "Love, it's a crazy thing, isn't it?"

He smirked. Indeed, it was. It made him do things he normally would never do. Trying to understand "why" was too much for him to ask his brain to figure out. So, he didn't ask why he did the things for her or why she did the things she did for him. In his mind, those were no longer questions that he needed the answer to.

He did it because that was what he needed to do because it was what she wanted him to do. If she wanted him to hug her, then he hugged her. If she wanted to hold hands, then he held her hand. If she wanted a kiss, then he kissed her. If she wanted her shoulders rubbed because she was tense and stressed, then he did it. Or, if she wanted him to make her come in an elevator, then he would.

If she wanted him to kill, then he would. If not, then he didn't.

The "If, then" decision making process in his head was very simple and very clear. Clearer than it had been in his entire life because he was no longer in control of it.

"~I'm not driving anymore-"~

Sara was.

"~I can't keep up with you-"~

Later that night, when they got back to the townhouse, she told him, "I informed my apartment manager that I would be moving out."

"Where're you moving to," he asked as he grabbed the bottle of red wine she'd bought and two glasses out of the cabinet.

"I'm moving back home."

He turned around as he sat the glasses on the counter and looked at her in confusion. Home? "San Francisco?" he asked as he opened the drawer and grabbed the cork bottle opener. Did she get a job there without telling him?

"No." She walked over to him and watched him as he poured them both a glass of wine. She took one and held it up as she said, "Here. This is my home. It has been for a long time."

This was her home. He thought about that as he picked up the glass and looked into it. She'd told him once that his life–that he–could never be her home because he had room for her in it. He thought she was right at the time she said it and then came to realize how wrong they both were. There would always be room in his life, in his mind, and in his heart for her.

He thought there were only two options because he couldn't see any other path. Blinded to the road in front of him with Sara in his life; believing she could never be with him completely. He thought he had to choose one path over the other. He never saw that the paths could converge into one.

He also didn't realize that she wasn't blinded by it at all. She could see it. Their future. She saw him, and he was no longer hiding behind secrets and masks. She saw him for who he truly was, and she still called him her home.

He knew that she was his life. He'd known it for a very long time. She was his guiding light through the darkness.

He had no idea that he was hers. Not until that moment. How come he couldn't see that? Why was it so hard for him to see?

She smirked and raised her glass to him as she said, "Between our dreams and actions, lies this world."

Bruce Springsteen. He nearly laughed as he smiled and shook his head as he clicked his glass with hers, but he didn't take a drink. He sat the glass down, reached up to cup her face in his hands, and kissed her.

~"Can't keep up with you-"~

Two days later, he was sitting in his office as Catherine walked in. She sat down in the chair across from him and waited until he filled out the paperwork and signed off on it. Once he looked up at her, she said, "I want to thank you."

"For what?" he asked as he sat back in the chair. He had no idea why she would be thanking him.

"I asked you to put in a recommendation for me to be the new Swing Shift Supervisor when it was rumored that their supervisor would go to day shift to replace Ecklie. That didn't happen and I thought that was it, someone from days will be promoted and I'll be stuck on nights. Then I found out that you asked Conrad to make me Days Shift Supervisor. He did."

He smiled slightly as he gave a nod, saying, "Congratulations. I'm happy for you, Catherine. You deserve it. That should also work out better for you since you have a daughter. And, since you haven't had sex in…What was it, eight, no, nine months? Unless you met someone and didn't tell me?"

She nearly laughed and shook her head at him. "Just when I thought…I'm not sure if it's you growing, or it's your girlfriend's influence, but…whatever it is, Grissom, I'm glad you finally lifted that head of yours up out of that microscope."

It was getting easier for him in the last month to deal with people. He wasn't as angry anymore. These emotions no longer seemed to create chaos inside his head and heart. The war within his body between his head and his heart was over.

He shook his head as he went back to doing the paperwork.

She went to leave but stopped and said, "There is one catch."

Looking back up, he asked, "Catch?"

"For me being promoted to Day Shift Supervisor. Ecklie moved a day shift CSI to swings, and so days will be one short. I get to take someone with me. I get to choose, but it'll either be Warrick or Nick."

He gaped at her as she left his office. Ecklie was splitting up his team?

Standing, he checked the clock and saw the time and knew Conrad would still be in his office. As he made his way around the hallways to Ecklie's office, he tried not to let the anger he felt boil over. He didn't bother knocking as he walked right in and shut the door.

Ecklie was on the phone but hung it up as he stared up at him. "Grissom, what the hell–"

"Why didn't you inform me that you're going to send one of my CSI's to day shift with Catherine?"

"I didn't have to inform you. I've already spoken with the Director. Staff assignments are under my purview, Gil. I can change up the staff as I see fit if it's in the best interest of this lab, and if it means effectiveness–"

"There are probably many different requests from swing shift staff members to get onto days, choose one of them."

"As I'm sure Catherine told you, it's not my decision who goes. It's hers. That is unless you don't want her to go to day shift?"

He stopped as he stared at him and shook his head in confusion. "Are you saying that the only two options I have are either, keeping Catherine on nights, or promoting her to Day Shift Supervisor and I lose one of my guys?"

"No, Gil," Ecklie said as he leaned back in the chair and said, "Catherine can be moved to swings as their new supervisor, which she'll hate and hate you for causing it to happen, and you will still lose one of your guys to day shift. But since this isn't your choice, I have made my final decision. Catherine as Day Shift Supervisor along with one of your guys moving to days. I think she's leaning towards Warrick. That is unless you want to continue to argue with me."

His jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly to keep himself from yelling. "Why are you doing this?" he asked in confusion because he had no idea why Conrad was being so petty and vindictive. "What have I ever done to you?"

Ecklie shifted in his chair as he told him, "There's been a chronic lack of supervision on the graveyard shift, Gil. You're constantly covering for them, and they're covering for you. You don't think I know that Catherine used the lab to run her personal paternal DNA test or that she took money from her father? You failed to put that in her evaluation report. Of, how about Warrick's gambling–"

"That was years ago–"

"You failed to put it in his evaluation. You should have fired him. Then there's the question of your disappearances during the course of various investigations. When your team needs you, you don't answer their calls. Where were you during the Kevin Greer case? Maybe if you hadn't been running personal errands then we could have gotten to him before he ended up in the ICU–"

"What I do has nothing to do with this–"

"It has everything to do with this. You have serious shortcomings, Gil, that leads to mismanagement that could jeopardize this lab. Now, I can make recommendations for the Director who is in charge of demotions and firings. He doesn't want to do either of those two things to you, your reputation is the only thing keeping you here and as a supervisor. So, I'm doing what I think needs to be done to rectify the situation. You're getting complacent. You know your guys will cover for you, as you will cover for them, without considering the consequences. There are consequences, Gil. This is it. Anything else?"

He wanted to hit him. He never wanted to hit someone badly in his entire life. More than Officer Fromansky. Grabbing the door handle, he yanked it open and then slammed it shut behind him, making the walls rattle and he heard glass breaking as Ecklie yelled out after him. Something had fallen off the wall and broke. It was probably his new certificate acknowledging him as the Assistant Director of the Lab. Asshole.

Then he was told by Warrick before the end of shift that Catherine had chosen him to go with her to days. Before Warrick left his office, he got up, grabbed his jacket and said, "Let me buy you breakfast."

Warrick gave a nod and said, "Deal."

As they sat at a diner, the one they always ate at after shift, he told Warrick, "Look, Ecklie did this because he thinks that I'm a horrible supervisor–"

"Grissom," Warrick said as he leaned on the table. "You're not a horrible supervisor. And Ecklie's been kissing ass all his life, and he's trying to tell me, you, what makes a good supervisor? What makes a good team?"

"Well, if a team gets used to doing things a certain way just because that's the way they've always done them, then they start to lose their effectiveness."

"Is that the bullshit he spun for you? And you believed it?"

"No," he said as he shook his head. "I believe that the longer a team works together, the stronger they become. But, I'm not in charge of the lab, nor would I want to be."

The waitress walked over to the table and sat down two empty coffee cups and a pot of coffee. Then she told them, "Your usuals are already being cooked. I'll have them out a few minutes," before walking away.

He smiled at Warrick and said with a shrug, "See. She knows us, our usuals, and didn't even have to ask before she relayed it to the cook. That's efficient."

Warrick laughed as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Ecklie should come here and see how it's done."

"You start tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Warrick said. "I don't know whether to get some sleep this morning and then try to sleep again tonight, or to just stay up all day."

They looked at each other and said in unison, "Stay up."

He poured himself a cup of coffee after Warrick and took a sip. "Heracleitus once said, "It is in changing that we find purpose"."

"Well, thanks to you, this job, I already know my purpose."

He smirked slightly as he heard that. He was glad Warrick knew his purpose in life. He was surprised that he said it was thanks to him. Then he was reminded of what he'd told Sara, about how he viewed him as a father-figure.

"This is our last breakfast together," Warrick said. "I'm going to miss these, along with you picking up the check."

He gave a nod and said, "Yeah…well, we can always get together for dinner."

"Or a drink…No bars, I promise. Strip clubs, however," Warrick said, teasing him as the waiters approached the table.

He nearly laughed. Warrick was his friend. He was going to miss working with him.

---

A month later he was at a crime scene in a residential neighborhood. Brass was the detective on scene and was talking to him and Sofia as he said, "So the gang unit says our D.B. is a sixteen-year-old named Tyson Plummer."

He knelt down to examine the body of their victim as he heard Sofia ask, "How many holes in the victim?"

"I count four," he answered her while rolling the victim over to check the exit wounds.

"Eleven shell casings," Sofia was saying as she examined the scene of the shooting. "Shooter emptied the gun–So, he was moving and shooting. Only hit the vic four times."

On seeing Brass's look, he told him, "She talks to herself. I tried it once…Didn't really make a difference. I have an exceptional memory."

"This isn't my first time working with her, you know. I did take notice, thank you very much. And I found that it works for me too," Brass said as he walked away to talk to several of the neighbors hanging around. "Look, dead guy, bullet holes, witnesses. I wonder if I talk to them if they will actually tell me something. Probably not, but, hey, let's give it a shot."

After watching Brass walk away, he looked over at Sofia and saw her repressing a laugh as she shook her head. "Bullets that missed hit the outside building wall…I was talking to you that time," she said before she turned and looked over at the bullet holes in the outside of the building behind them.

"Hey, man, what ya doing in my back alley!"

He looked up as the yelling started and saw Greg, who was mapping the area, look to see who was shouting at one another. Turning, he spotted two kids on the sidewalk playing near the trash bins. One of the kids was pointing his finger, a "hand gun", at the other kid as he pretended to shoot him.

The other kid said, "Man, you know Andre didn't cap him like that."

As he watched the kids, he couldn't help but think of what Warrick had said to him about why he wanted to keep the Rec Center open. Kids were learning how to kill one another every day.

Greg ducked under the crime scene tape and started walking towards the two kids. He frowned at him as he was confused about what he was doing until he heard him say, "Hey, guys, can I talk to you for a sec?"

The two kids looked at each other as one yelled out, "Run" and they took off running down the alley.

"I just want to ask you a few questions," Greg was saying as he disappeared down the alley after them.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the dead body and brought up his camera to take a picture. He was about to help Sofia with the bullet examination in the wall of the building when his cell phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, he saw it was Greg. He answered it as he looked over his shoulders towards the alley where he'd last seen Greg.

"Grissom–"

"Go ahead, Greg," he said into the phone as waited to hear what Greg was calling him about.

"We got a young male D.B. by the dumpster."

"I'll be right there," he said as he pocketed the phone and glanced at where Brass was at the crime scene tape trying to talk to some of the neighbors about what they saw. As he approached Greg, he saw his eyes on the trash bin. His face was slack and ashen.

Behind him he heard a disturbance, but his eyes were focused on the trash bin where Greg was standing. As someone yelled out, "Get your damn hands off me," he saw the young boy. Kneeling down, he examined the body of the child, a pre-teen…Six, seven-years-old, maybe? A Baby Doe.

The yelling got louder, more urgent and then he heard gunfire and looked up towards the street as Greg dropped down to take cover behind the dumpster. He heard a woman scream as the shooter took off running. Following the shooter were several cops, including Officer Lincoln, and Sofia.

He watched her give chase before looking over at Greg. "You okay?"

"Hell no, I'm not okay. Who the hell's shooting at us?"

"I don't know, but I think our single just turned into a triple," he said as he stood up and shook his head as he started walking towards their newest victim.

Greg was behind him and yelled out, "How are you not afraid? You barely flinched when the gunfire started. You didn't even try to get behind cover. And now you just…walk back over to the victim and start working like nothing happened?"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Greg as he said, "What else am I supposed to do, Greg? Hide behind a dumpster until someone tells me no one else has a gun? Give chase like Sofia? This is our job. Someone just got shot and could be dead or dying, a child is dead in that trash bin, and we have this guy. Once Sofia gets back, I'll have her help you. That kid has been dead for less than a day, he's still in rigor. Start collecting the evidence before it's gone."

Greg, who'd been shaken by the gunfire and the killing of another person, nodded as he turned back around and got to work.

He turned and walked over to the man who'd been shot just seconds ago and saw Officer Cortez checking for a pulse. She looked up and shook her head. He sighed as he watched the blood puddle around the body.

It really didn't stop.

Once Sofia returned, he looked at her and said, "It says "forensics" on our jackets. You're no longer a cop. We had plenty of them chasing the suspect."

"I'm aware of that. I wasn't chasing the suspect. I was chasing the evidence," she told him as she pulled out an evidence bag with the gun inside. "I knew the idiot was likely to dump the gun. All we have to do is ballistics-match the weapon to both victims. Case closed."

He took the bagged gun from her and looked at her. "Next time, don't give chase. We can always retrace his path and find the gun that way. He could have shot back while running and hit you."

"You worried about my life or the paperwork you'd have to do if I got killed or injured on the job?"

"Both. I hate paperwork." She laughed a little as she walked back over to her field kit as he told her, "Go help Greg. He found a Baby Doe in a trash bin over by the dumpster."

"Baby Doe? A kid?"

"Yeah. Young boy," he said as he documented the chain of custody of the gun from Sofia's possession to his.

"I usually call them John Doe minors. Little boys don't like being called a baby, even if they are one."

He glanced up at her as she grabbed up her kit and started walking towards Greg to help him process the scene of the boy. He saw the malnourishment, how he was nothing but skin and bones, and his skin. The boy had been dead less than a day, but he looked nearly mummified. Someone starved him and then tossed him out like he was trash.

Trying to get his mind off it, off the kind of evil person that could do that to a child, he went back to processing the shooting victim.

---

~"Tell me how long have I got,

I wanna end this earthly toil

Till this diet life expires-"~

The dried blood and dirt on his hands were the least of his concern as he stood in the bathroom inside the trailer on his 4-acre property and turned on the hot water faucet. It took time for the water to heat from lukewarm to scolding; enough time for him to use the soap to wash the filth away. Even though the blood and dirt were off his hands, he could feel it in his bones. All the blood he'd collected, all the blood he splattered over walls and floors, and cars, and desert sand. The dirt from digging holes for the bodies that he buried.

Cupping the hot water in his hands, he brought it up to his face and head, washing the grim, sweat, and sand and dirt off his face and the back of his neck. His shoulders slumped as he breathed out. Trying to exhale his burning desire out of his body like expelling a demon from a possessed soul. In Catholicism, "prayers of deliverance" could be spoken by anyone. But he wasn't possessed. He didn't need an exorcism.

This was a compulsion.

Like Hayden Michaels' compulsion. The General Manager of the hotel who was a serial rapist and murderer. They had gotten him. They had him. Him and Sofia had tricked him into giving them where he stashed the flight attendant's missing suitcase.

Then he got bail. How he got bail, he'd never know other than the fact that he had a great attorney. He should have let it go. It'd been months.

He thought by giving Sara the control that he could manage it better, and for a while he had. Everything had been clearer and so much easier for him as he relinquished control completely over to her.

Little did he know that the killer within had been screaming out. He'd been fighting, beating down the wall, out of fear of death. With Sara in control, on the inside he was dying without even knowing it. And like anyone would out of desperation, he was fighting to stay alive.

And what made him realize that was seeing a man blowup in front of him.

And Nick, trapped in a box.

~"I wanna go swimming in the soil

And not come up for breath–"~

His hand on his hand as he got him to calm down so they could get him out alive without him blowing up too. He couldn't watch Nick die, not like that. Not before he told him how proud he was of him and that he never let him down.

~"Sit in God's room-"~

He tried. He tried so hard to be like everyone else.

Deep down, inside, he knew he wasn't. He wasn't built like them. He didn't work the same way they worked. He could love and feel love for Sara. However, it wasn't his conscience that told him to love, it was his mind. His conscience wasn't telling him to feel, it was his decision to feel, as if it was his decision to be a friend and to accept friendship. It wasn't based on anything other than his mind telling him to because he was curious to know the answers to those questions.

He asked the questions and then he tried to get an answer.

What kept him on the side of good was his logic, his belief in God, and his reasoning that evil needed to be confronted and taken care of. Nothing he did was based on feeling. The only thing he did based on emotion was to get angry and jealous. He could feel loneliness and sadness.

He had always known that psychopathy was a spectrum. Dr. Philip Kern had told him that years ago, and his own understanding had led him to the truth. Beyond popular belief, psychopaths could love. They could feel fleeting moments of happiness and joy. Most psychopaths weren't evil people. Most weren't even killers like the movies and the media made them out to be. The majority of psychopaths, the one percent of the population that fell under the criteria of that definition, were police officers and doctors, lawyers, sales managers, CEO's, race car drivers…Clergy. They were journalists. They had families: husbands and wives and children.

Though he loved Sara and trusted her in his own way, he could never trust anyone else the way he did her. He couldn't love anyone else the way he loved her.

~"I'm not driving anymore,

I can't keep up with you-"

It was a spectrum. At one end of it were people with antisocial personality disorders. The serial killers like Kevin Greer and Hayden Michaels. At the other end were priests.

Had Father Thomas been a psychopath?

Was he?

"Mr. Michaels," he said as he stared at the General Manager who sat in the interview room across from him at the table. Beside Hayden Michaels was his lawyer, Adam Matthews. "In my work over the last twenty-five years, I've come to understand the kind of person who's a rapist-killer." He wasn't just speaking as a CSI, but in his other work. Becoming a killer to understand the killer.

Adam Matthews, the lawyer, spoke up as he said, "Is that an accusation?"

"Well, a woman was murdered in your client's hotel," he told Adam as he looked at Mr. Michaels. "He has a right to hear our theory. The killer is clearly a psychopath. He's killed more than once. I'm sure that before his first rape and murder he fantasized about it for years." Just as he fantasized about killing Father Thomas for years until he finally decided to test his theory. "During that time, he engaged in behavioral tryouts. Stalking women and attempting to coerce them sexually, each time moving closer and closer to the actual event. I believe that after you consummated your first attack, you felt excitement greater than you anticipated." He didn't feel excitement after his first kill. He felt right, justified. He felt he finally found his purpose in life. "Your only regret was that she died too quickly. But you took solace in the knowledge that, uh, you could do it again. In fact, your subsequent victim had similar characteristics to your first victim."

Adam Matthews shook his head as he went to stand, saying, "This is a waste of time."

He ignored the lawyer as he told Mr. Michaels, "You see, what differentiates a psychopath from a "heat of the moment" killer is forethought."

Forethought. The act of planning to kill. It wasn't spur of the moment. It wasn't an act of passion. He planned everything. He planned the before and the after. Killers rarely thought of the aftermath. That was how they were caught. They didn't plan on killing, they killed and panicked. If they did plan to kill, then they didn't plan the cleanup.

He planned the kill and he planned the cleanup. He planned and stalked and waited. He had taken Hayden Michaels when he was planning on skipping town to evade prison. And now, he planned to kill him.

If he wasn't a psychopath, then what the hell was he?

~"I'm unfit for consumption

I don't know how to play my part-"~

His cell phone rang in the other room. Turning the water off, he headed down the thin hallway into the living room and spotted the phone on the table in the kitchen. It was Sara.

Flipping it open, he answered, "Good morning."

"Good evening," she said before she said, "I was expecting you home. And you're not at work."

Closing his eyes, he rubbed a wet hand over his head as he told her, "I'm at my warehouse." Sitting down in the chair, he let out a breath at her silence. He wouldn't lie to her, but he didn't have to tell either.

She said she wouldn't ask. It was his choice to include her or not. To tell her or not.

"There was a uh, a man who raped and killed women, flight attendants. They were–...They trusted him by staying at the hotel he managed. He was supposed to ensure their safety, instead he attacked them, beat and raped them, and then killed them. We uh…we got him. We have the evidence, but…he skipped bail. I couldn't…Sara, I couldn't let him go." He dropped his head into his hand as he rested it on the table. This was what he was. This was what he did.

~"I swear I'm all alone in this thing,

A blind man driving my car–"~

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, "I want to kill him. I can't think of anything else to do. That's all I can think about."

~"Into oblivion

Let it come soon-"~

"Will it change the way you feel about me, about us, if I tell you not to kill him?"

"No," he said as he shook his head.

"Do you have to do it?"

Did he? She stopped him from killing Greer and it didn't change anything. It didn't make him regret Sara or his decision to let her control the outcome. It was a release. She released him from the weight of having to make the decision.

He wasn't asking the right question.

"Sara…are-are you okay with controlling this decision?" he asked. He was committing the act, but she was granting permission.

"I am, if that's what you need me to do."

What did he need her to do? What did he need her to say to him…"If you want me to stop, then tell me to stop," he told her as he felt desperate to cling onto something, to her, instead of giving into the urge that pounded his head. "You're the one in control, remember. I'll stop. I'll hurt him, but I'll make sure that he sees the inside of a prison cell. If you don't, I will kill him."

Sara was silent for a moment, and then he heard her say, "Gil, I think that you should stop, and come home."

He heard her words and gave a nod into the phone. "Okay." He went to hang up but stopped himself as he told her, "I love you."

She smiled; he heard it in her voice as she told him, "I love you too."

~"I'm not driving anymore,

I can't keep up with you."~

TBC…

Disclaimer songs used/mentioned: "I'm Not Driving Anymore" by Rob Dougan.