Catherine had her face buried in Warrick's shirt, his arms wrapped tight
around her shuddering frame as he looked at anything but the small corpse.
Nick stared numbly at the boy, raising the camera like a shield, the flash
blinding, the sound of the film advancing and the flash charging made him
cringe. The world seemed to be going in slow motion, the darkening sky
added to the effect.
A rookie sat with his head between his knees, red rimmed eyes hardly looking at their identification as he logged the pair into the scene.
"If it's too much, just go back to the car," Grissom told her. "No one's going to think any less of you for leaving the scene."
"I will," she replied, trying and failing to sound strong.
Every step to the body was like a prisoner walking to his death, slow and falsely confident, each knowing that certain pain waited at the end of their path.
Nick looked up from the camera with a shaky smile. "Hey, guys. Cath and Warrick are. . ."
"Taking a break?" Grissom asked with understanding. "You want us to take over for a little while?"
Nick looked from his boss to the camera to the body. "I. . .I'm not done yet," he realized, paralyzed, his eyes locked onto the remains. "The photos-"
"Can be done by someone else," Grissom said firmly. "Nick, take a break." He reached out and took the camera from the younger man's hand; Nick nodded and walked out of the scene. Grissom turned to Sara, who was ignoring the body with everything she had, desperate for a pill. "You ready?"
"Yeah. . ." She didn't sound terribly sure, but who would be? Together, they turned to the body.
He was eight years old, with chocolate brown hair and a cleft chin. The shredded overalls he was wearing hardly covered the extensive bruising that covered his tiny body. Sara fought back the urge to throw up, seeing the S- shaped scar etched into the boy's left cheek, marring the once adorable face. She felt dizzy, like she would faint, knowing exactly what he had gone through.
Grissom raised the camera to his face, and took a shot. His mind flashed between seeing the boy and seeing Sara laying on the dry grass. "Any message?" he asked, breaking the silence. She absently rolled a pair of gloves on her hands, reaching to move the body. " 'S and G, sitting in a tree. . .This is the fish!'" she read, the words bright with blood. As she rolled the body back to it's original position, the boy's eyelids fell back, revealing one blue eye and one brown.
"Genetic anomaly," Grissom explained. "Mutation."
"Is that aerated blood, on his face?" Sara asked, hiding the spike of pain that came with the message and the boy's blank eyes.
Grissom looked to the frothy pink substance which surrounded the boy's mouth. "Swab it, we can have Greg test it. Generally, you don't get that with. . .beatings. You get it with gunshots to the lungs, other puncture wounds."
" 'S and G, sitting in a tree. . .'" Sara puzzled. "Logical ending is 'K-I- S-S-I-N-G. . . First comes love, then comes marriage. . .'" She trailed off as she realized what the killing of the boy meant. " 'Then comes the baby in the baby carriage.' God, Grissom, brown hair, one blue eye on the right, brown eye and scar on the left, cleft chin. . .he's supposed to be ours."
"It's not blood, but. . .it does have some protein in it."
Sara glared at the wild-haired Greg. "Why don't you just tell me what the hell it is?" she snapped. She was less angry than she sounded, Greg noted.
"Summer food, calves like it in its original form . . ."
"I am not in the mood for your shit, Greg, so just give me the results." Or not.
"I scream, you scream. . ."
"Ice cream?" she exclaimed.
"Strawberry," Greg elaborated. "You know, food's one of the most common ways pedophiles get kids into their cars."
"I know what pedophiles do," she snapped, hands shaking lightly as she added, "This wasn't a pedophile, okay?"
"The stuff around his mouth was strawberry ice cream," she told Grissom as he went through the boy's clothing; she dropped into a chair to watch him work. "Not blood, but still. . . "
"Pedophile?"
She shook her head. "Doc Robbins told me there was no sign of sexual assault, so. . . no."
"Barnes make any phone calls in the last two weeks? Any mail, outgoing and incoming?"
"Brass is still working on getting the phone records, but the warden's pretty sure he hasn't. Same with the mail." Grissom nodded, turning the overalls inside out, scraping the seams for trace. "Have you found anything?"
"Barnes is one sick son of a bitch," he offered. "But you knew that."
"Has he been identified?" she asked, gesturing to the tattered scraps of fabric.
"Sean Gregory. His mother came by earlier. Robbins gave her pictures because she couldn't handle seeing the body. He's been missing for two weeks." His voice was detached, clinical, the way it got when he was too involved.
"Gris?" He turned to her, questioning. "I know you've told me this more times than I can count, and I never listen, but you have to back off a little."
"Have you?" he challenged.
"No, but I want to." He shot her a disbelieving look. "I do, Grissom, I really do. And I know that on this case, I can't."
"Neither can I. Neither can Catherine, or Warrick, or Nick. Don't tell me to do something you can't."
"I hate this case, babe," she said, closing her eyes and letting the endearment slip off her tongue. "I hate it so much."
"But not as much as you hate Gary Barnes."
"No, not that much," she conceded with a small laugh. Sara's smile faded away as she stared at the fabric. "What kind of person kills a little boy just to get back at someone? What the hell did I do to Barnes?"
"For starters, you ran his case in San Francisco. Nothing too bad but it made him angry as hell. Second, and most importantly, you survived, with minimal damage. And then you put him in jail."
"I pissed him off so he kills three people?"
"To be fair, he didn't kill them."
She exhaled sharply. "That doesn't make a bit of difference to the victims, or to me."
"There's no use feeling guilty about these deaths, Sara." Grissom turned to the ALS, slipping on a pair of orange goggles, handing her a pair. "Hit the lights."
The room was washed in the eerie blue glow of the ALS. Sara crossed her arms over her chest as Grissom ran the light over Sean's tattered clothes. "Getting anything?"
"Nothing," he said, turning off the machine. Sara turned the lights back on. "No blood, no semen, no nothing. Did he kill the kid and redress him once the blood dried? These clothes are completely shredded. Although. . .The mother said these were Sean's favorite clothes. . .that could explain the wear and tear."
"Well, if this guy is following Barnes' M.O, then he left the clothes on until the end, when it was time to write the message. Even then, he'd only cut the back of the shirt, or raise it to the shoulders, so he could write the message. . .just a matter of tracing, then. It's like carving a pumpkin for Halloween, first you draw the face, then you make the cuts." Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Was permanent ink found on the body?"
"If he did it like he'd carve a pumpkin, I'd say no."
"But you don't know for sure."
"I'm just running with your evidence, Sara."
She nodded, raising an eyebrow as she looked to the floor for an answer. "What about the boy's father?" she asked, meeting Grissom's eyes.
"Robert Gregory, thirty-six, five foot six, a hundred and forty pounds. White male, brown hair, brown eyes. Killed in a head-on crash three months after the birth of his son. I worked it. So he's not a suspect, and we can't interview him about his son."
"Do you remember every case you've worked?" Sara questioned, observing the entomologist resume his examination of the clothing.
"It was a decapitation. Those are hard to forget."
"Decapitation?" She sounded too interested, interested to the point of diversion. "The head-on was between a bicycle and the bumper of a pickup. Gregory was on the bike, he got tossed under a garbage truck. . .It looked like a kid pulled the head off a Barbie." He shrugged. "Well, if Barbie had strings attaching her head to her torso."
"Grissom, that's disgusting."
"Yes, it was." Grissom raised his head to look her in the eye. "So, can we get back to this case?"
"What are we going to do about the clothes?" Sara inquired, switching gears as asked. "We've pretty much cleared this of viable evidence."
He sighed, removing his glasses. "I. . .I don't know. We can put them in the drying room for now and see if anything falls between now and next shift."
A rookie sat with his head between his knees, red rimmed eyes hardly looking at their identification as he logged the pair into the scene.
"If it's too much, just go back to the car," Grissom told her. "No one's going to think any less of you for leaving the scene."
"I will," she replied, trying and failing to sound strong.
Every step to the body was like a prisoner walking to his death, slow and falsely confident, each knowing that certain pain waited at the end of their path.
Nick looked up from the camera with a shaky smile. "Hey, guys. Cath and Warrick are. . ."
"Taking a break?" Grissom asked with understanding. "You want us to take over for a little while?"
Nick looked from his boss to the camera to the body. "I. . .I'm not done yet," he realized, paralyzed, his eyes locked onto the remains. "The photos-"
"Can be done by someone else," Grissom said firmly. "Nick, take a break." He reached out and took the camera from the younger man's hand; Nick nodded and walked out of the scene. Grissom turned to Sara, who was ignoring the body with everything she had, desperate for a pill. "You ready?"
"Yeah. . ." She didn't sound terribly sure, but who would be? Together, they turned to the body.
He was eight years old, with chocolate brown hair and a cleft chin. The shredded overalls he was wearing hardly covered the extensive bruising that covered his tiny body. Sara fought back the urge to throw up, seeing the S- shaped scar etched into the boy's left cheek, marring the once adorable face. She felt dizzy, like she would faint, knowing exactly what he had gone through.
Grissom raised the camera to his face, and took a shot. His mind flashed between seeing the boy and seeing Sara laying on the dry grass. "Any message?" he asked, breaking the silence. She absently rolled a pair of gloves on her hands, reaching to move the body. " 'S and G, sitting in a tree. . .This is the fish!'" she read, the words bright with blood. As she rolled the body back to it's original position, the boy's eyelids fell back, revealing one blue eye and one brown.
"Genetic anomaly," Grissom explained. "Mutation."
"Is that aerated blood, on his face?" Sara asked, hiding the spike of pain that came with the message and the boy's blank eyes.
Grissom looked to the frothy pink substance which surrounded the boy's mouth. "Swab it, we can have Greg test it. Generally, you don't get that with. . .beatings. You get it with gunshots to the lungs, other puncture wounds."
" 'S and G, sitting in a tree. . .'" Sara puzzled. "Logical ending is 'K-I- S-S-I-N-G. . . First comes love, then comes marriage. . .'" She trailed off as she realized what the killing of the boy meant. " 'Then comes the baby in the baby carriage.' God, Grissom, brown hair, one blue eye on the right, brown eye and scar on the left, cleft chin. . .he's supposed to be ours."
"It's not blood, but. . .it does have some protein in it."
Sara glared at the wild-haired Greg. "Why don't you just tell me what the hell it is?" she snapped. She was less angry than she sounded, Greg noted.
"Summer food, calves like it in its original form . . ."
"I am not in the mood for your shit, Greg, so just give me the results." Or not.
"I scream, you scream. . ."
"Ice cream?" she exclaimed.
"Strawberry," Greg elaborated. "You know, food's one of the most common ways pedophiles get kids into their cars."
"I know what pedophiles do," she snapped, hands shaking lightly as she added, "This wasn't a pedophile, okay?"
"The stuff around his mouth was strawberry ice cream," she told Grissom as he went through the boy's clothing; she dropped into a chair to watch him work. "Not blood, but still. . . "
"Pedophile?"
She shook her head. "Doc Robbins told me there was no sign of sexual assault, so. . . no."
"Barnes make any phone calls in the last two weeks? Any mail, outgoing and incoming?"
"Brass is still working on getting the phone records, but the warden's pretty sure he hasn't. Same with the mail." Grissom nodded, turning the overalls inside out, scraping the seams for trace. "Have you found anything?"
"Barnes is one sick son of a bitch," he offered. "But you knew that."
"Has he been identified?" she asked, gesturing to the tattered scraps of fabric.
"Sean Gregory. His mother came by earlier. Robbins gave her pictures because she couldn't handle seeing the body. He's been missing for two weeks." His voice was detached, clinical, the way it got when he was too involved.
"Gris?" He turned to her, questioning. "I know you've told me this more times than I can count, and I never listen, but you have to back off a little."
"Have you?" he challenged.
"No, but I want to." He shot her a disbelieving look. "I do, Grissom, I really do. And I know that on this case, I can't."
"Neither can I. Neither can Catherine, or Warrick, or Nick. Don't tell me to do something you can't."
"I hate this case, babe," she said, closing her eyes and letting the endearment slip off her tongue. "I hate it so much."
"But not as much as you hate Gary Barnes."
"No, not that much," she conceded with a small laugh. Sara's smile faded away as she stared at the fabric. "What kind of person kills a little boy just to get back at someone? What the hell did I do to Barnes?"
"For starters, you ran his case in San Francisco. Nothing too bad but it made him angry as hell. Second, and most importantly, you survived, with minimal damage. And then you put him in jail."
"I pissed him off so he kills three people?"
"To be fair, he didn't kill them."
She exhaled sharply. "That doesn't make a bit of difference to the victims, or to me."
"There's no use feeling guilty about these deaths, Sara." Grissom turned to the ALS, slipping on a pair of orange goggles, handing her a pair. "Hit the lights."
The room was washed in the eerie blue glow of the ALS. Sara crossed her arms over her chest as Grissom ran the light over Sean's tattered clothes. "Getting anything?"
"Nothing," he said, turning off the machine. Sara turned the lights back on. "No blood, no semen, no nothing. Did he kill the kid and redress him once the blood dried? These clothes are completely shredded. Although. . .The mother said these were Sean's favorite clothes. . .that could explain the wear and tear."
"Well, if this guy is following Barnes' M.O, then he left the clothes on until the end, when it was time to write the message. Even then, he'd only cut the back of the shirt, or raise it to the shoulders, so he could write the message. . .just a matter of tracing, then. It's like carving a pumpkin for Halloween, first you draw the face, then you make the cuts." Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Was permanent ink found on the body?"
"If he did it like he'd carve a pumpkin, I'd say no."
"But you don't know for sure."
"I'm just running with your evidence, Sara."
She nodded, raising an eyebrow as she looked to the floor for an answer. "What about the boy's father?" she asked, meeting Grissom's eyes.
"Robert Gregory, thirty-six, five foot six, a hundred and forty pounds. White male, brown hair, brown eyes. Killed in a head-on crash three months after the birth of his son. I worked it. So he's not a suspect, and we can't interview him about his son."
"Do you remember every case you've worked?" Sara questioned, observing the entomologist resume his examination of the clothing.
"It was a decapitation. Those are hard to forget."
"Decapitation?" She sounded too interested, interested to the point of diversion. "The head-on was between a bicycle and the bumper of a pickup. Gregory was on the bike, he got tossed under a garbage truck. . .It looked like a kid pulled the head off a Barbie." He shrugged. "Well, if Barbie had strings attaching her head to her torso."
"Grissom, that's disgusting."
"Yes, it was." Grissom raised his head to look her in the eye. "So, can we get back to this case?"
"What are we going to do about the clothes?" Sara inquired, switching gears as asked. "We've pretty much cleared this of viable evidence."
He sighed, removing his glasses. "I. . .I don't know. We can put them in the drying room for now and see if anything falls between now and next shift."