"He's seventeen!" Nick protested. "We can't possibly try him as an adult.
He's just a kid!"
Sara fiddled with the hem of her shirt, looking anywhere but at the rest of the team, Brass, or the DA. "He tortured an eight-year-old boy, Nick," she said finally. "I don't care how old he is."
"But. . ."
"But what?" she asked, meeting the Texan's angry eyes. "Evan Morse premeditated this whole thing. That's that. Seventeen or no, he deserves to be tried as an adult."
Grissom regarded the pair with careful eyes, asking the DA, "Is that even a possibility? To try the kid as an adult?"
The attorney brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the front of his charcoal three-piece suit. "Of course. Provided there's evidence."
A cardboard box of evidence slapped on to the table. "You want evidence? I've got evidence," Sara said.
A Baggied cassette hit the table, followed by the tape recorder found at the scene of the second murder. "He got one of his groupies to make the tape after a gig. Archie in A-V can testify the voices are identical."
Shell casings. A Glock 9 semi-automatic. "Found it under the mother's bed. Lands and grooves match."
Lab results from the pink foam around Sean Gregory's mouth. "Ice cream," she told the team. "He bought the kid an ice cream cone off a cart to get Sean to go with him."
Sean's clothes. "Nothing on the clothing itself, but fibers matching these were found on the crime scene suit he stole from the police department."
Pictures of the footprints left by the suit. "Same size as his print in a HazMat suit."
Photos of the fourth body. Close-ups of the fish carved into the ribs. "Lye is chemically identical to the lye ordered by the mother's company. Those fish were carved with a tool similar to the carving tools used at Morse's high school. Art department at the school verify that one was removed approximately a month before the body was discovered. Victim is still a John Doe, he hasn't coughed up a name yet."
A hand-held electric sanding machine. "This is the tool used to remove layers of the bone, found at the father's cabinet company. The body, according to Morse, was stripped at a construction site the night before a new foundation was poured. No evidence. This tool has trace amounts of human tissue consistent with its use in the grooves between the attachment and the handle."
An Exacto knife. "Traces of blood from three different donors found on the blade. DNA links the blood to the first two victims and Sean Gregory. Used to carve messages into the victims."
A shoebox, Vans, full of newspaper clippings. "About half are devoted to Gary Barnes, his crimes, trial, etcetera. The other half are mostly about different crimes in the Las Vegas area, common link is they all mention Grissom, myself, or the crime lab in some capacity."
A stained, once white crime scene suit. "I found it under his bed. He stole it from the Westin police department, who bought it using a grant. The seams of the suit have trace amounts of dirt, fibers, you name it, from each victim and the suspect."
Sara placed her hands palm-down on the table, looking each person in the room straight in the eye, daring them to challenge her. "There is no way we can try him as a juvie. Not with the weight of this evidence."
"I still have one question," Warrick said. "He confessed, right? Isn't that worth something?"
Grissom lifted his hand to Sara, stopping her astonished and surely angry response. "That's up to the DA and Evan's lawyer to decide."
"Why aren't you guys seeing this?" Sara grilled. "Come on."
"We're trying to make sure this is right, Sara," Catherine said calmly. "And until all the questions are answered, I'm not entirely comfortable trying this kid as an adult."
"That's not your call to make!" the younger CSI exclaimed.
"But if he is tried as an adult, and the evidence isn't impeccable, the jury's going to see a seventeen-year-old baby and an extremely harsh prosecuting team. They'll give him a lighter sentence," the blond pointed out. "We're on your side, Sara."
Brass, who had remained silent until now, asked the question on everyone's mind. "Why you, Grissom? Why Barnes? And what the hell does that fish thing mean?"
Grissom shrugged, his lips quirked into a smile, and replied wryly, "I'm his hero. He wanted to impress me. And Barnes. . .Barnes was his hero, too, in Evan's macabre little world. Barnes was the way to link everything together."
"And the fish thing?" Warrick repeated.
Husband and wife exchanged a glance and a smile, Sara resting a hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Plain and simple, 'This is the fish' means. . ." Sara trailed off, her grin shrinking. "It was just another game. In Evan's mind, he and Barnes had been carrying out a dialogue. This is where the tape comes in. He created a phrase that 'Barnes' would understand, a message. It's code for 'I'm going for Grissom.' 'I'm finishing what you started.' Take your pick, it's supposed to tell Barnes that Evan was going to finish ruining our lives. Barnes went after me, Evan went after Grissom."
"Barnes told me to watch my back," Grissom remembered suddenly. "Remember, we asked what 'This is the fish' means, and he told me to watch my back. He warned me. Why would he do that?"
"Gris, we discussed that," Sara hissed. "Barnes is not an on-again, off- again suspect. He is or he isn't."
"But why would he warn me, Sara?"
"Because he plays games, Grissom. He warned you for the same reason he suggested that you're too old for me. To screw with us, to make us uneasy, because that's what he likes."
The two scientists sent piercing gazes at each other, creating an uncomfortable silence to echo around the room. Catherine looked at Warrick, who looked at Nick, who looked at Brass, who looked at the floor, each trying and failing to break the silence. The DA finally did, clearing his throat, dropping his eyes to his watch. "Well, uh, look at the time," he stammered uncomfortably. "I'm going to charge this kid, if you're ready. We'll try him as an adult. Brass?"
"Yeah," the cop muttered. "I'll go get my handcuffs."
A clinical obsession with word games. Huh. Eleven letters. Grissom puzzled over the clue, alternately looking at the definition and the white squares waiting patiently for inking. It was probably far easier than he was making it, this was the secret of master-level crossword puzzles. Obsession with word games. Were crosswords considered word games?
Were trials considered word games? A battle of words, he decided. Whoever spoke a better game won.
Who would the jury believe when it was crunch time for Evan Morse? The prosecution, who had the better case, or the defense, who were playing the 'he's a minor' card for all they were worth.
Premeditation versus being swayed by a serial killer. A paranoid obsession and scheme or an innocent fascination with forensic science and crime? A clinical obsession with word games.
The jury wouldn't be able to look the boy in the eye, see what he had seen just days before the trial started.
"Would you die for him?"
"No."
"Why not? Don't you love him?" His orange jumpsuit glared off his wild eyes, orange and blue twisting unnervingly.
"Not enough to leave him with that kind of guilt."
"You'd rather try a strong offense than a sacrifice. I should've guessed."
"Evan, why are we here?"
"I'm in fucking prison, Sidle. You're here out of sympathy, a need to understand me. I'm giving you the opportunity. As for Grissom-" The boy glared at the man behind the glass, spitting out the name as if it were a synonym for 'traitor'. "Grissom, he's here for the same reasons you are. And to rub it in, that he's better than me. Just because I'm wearing this jumpsuit instead of normal clothes."
"You put yourself here, Evan. You made that division."
"You put me here. Hiding behind a wall of drugs and evidence. I can see you for the weak little bitch you really are."
"God, you're more like Barnes than anyone would think. It's not working."
"Don't compare me to Gary. Don't you ever compare me to Gary. He's far better than I'll ever be. He's a god."
"He's no god, Evan. Neither are you. Barnes isn't a hero, he's a demon. I just hope the jury sees that you are, too."
She'd been a little shaky when she came out of the interrogation room, spooked. He could see in her eyes that somewhere in her mind Barnes and Evan were twisting, morphing, becoming interchangable. The boy's accusation of weakness struck her more than she wanted to admit, and Grissom watched later that night as she popped a caffeine pill and two sugar pills in lieu of the pain killers he knew she wanted. Mesmerized by her hypnotic pacing, he finally said, "You're not weak. You're not hiding behind anything."
Her response was to stop, give him the finger, and continue pacing.
He shrugged with the memory, going back to the crossword. Hmm. An obsession with word games. Eleven letters.
The door banged against the wall as the tall brunette strode into the apartment angrily, slamming shut as she backhanded it into place, throwing her bag onto the floor. Sara scanned the room with fiery eyes, squinting at the stack of mail on the kitchen counter, Grissom's wary smile, the open book of crosswords, and finally at the stereo. "What the hell is this? Peggy Lee?" she spat.
Love all kinds of weather, as long as we're together.
"And are you doing another crossword puzzle? You're obsessed, Grissom! Always with the crossword puzzles.geez. God forbid you wash the dishes."
"Excuse me?" he squeaked, completely taken aback.
I love being here with you!
"You heard me. Chores, Grissom. Unless you want to hire a housekeeper, you have to start helping out around here."
"Sara, is something wrong?"
She shook her head. "No, not a damn thing. The jury came back on Evan Morse. Not guilty, by reasons of insanity."
"What?"
"I know, I couldn't believe it. That kid isn't crazy. Crafty, yes. But not crazy." She inhaled deeply, letting the air out in a rush. "I know the justice system isn't fair, and the population as a whole isn't exactly brilliant, but. . ."
"I thought they'd see him for him, too."
A brilliant grin broke out over her face. "They did. Guilty, all charges."
His jaw dropped, he stared at her with astonishment. "Sara!"
She shrugged. "Gotcha."
Grissom gaped at her as she crossed the room, dropping onto the couch beside him. She examined the puzzle closely, checking clues and spelling. "Which clue are you on?"
"Uh, thirty-four down. A clinical obsession with word games. Eleven letters."
"G-I-L-G-R-I-S-S-O-M. No, ten letters." He play-glared. She grinned. "Paronomania."
"Never heard of it."
She raised an eyebrow. "Funny, because it's you." Seeing his hesitation to use the word, she grabbed the pen from his hand and filled in the squares. Sara picked up the book, flipping to the back, scowled. "Where are the answers?"
Grissom took the book back gently. "It's a Master-level, Sara. There aren't answers." He carefully put the book back on the coffee table, as gentle as if it were a baby.
"Ah, that's my man, doing crossword puzzles in pen when there is no solution." She paused, listening to the music again. "Why are you listening to Peggy Lee?"
"Just this song," he said. "My mother loved it, played it all the time when I was four, before she lost her hearing."
His utter charm takes me away.
"It's just not anything I would've thought you would like. You're a classical guy. And Pink Floyd, which I may never understand, by the way."
"Well, what can I say?" he asked. " 'I love being here with you.'"
[okay, well, that's the end. Hope you enjoyed it.]
Sara fiddled with the hem of her shirt, looking anywhere but at the rest of the team, Brass, or the DA. "He tortured an eight-year-old boy, Nick," she said finally. "I don't care how old he is."
"But. . ."
"But what?" she asked, meeting the Texan's angry eyes. "Evan Morse premeditated this whole thing. That's that. Seventeen or no, he deserves to be tried as an adult."
Grissom regarded the pair with careful eyes, asking the DA, "Is that even a possibility? To try the kid as an adult?"
The attorney brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the front of his charcoal three-piece suit. "Of course. Provided there's evidence."
A cardboard box of evidence slapped on to the table. "You want evidence? I've got evidence," Sara said.
A Baggied cassette hit the table, followed by the tape recorder found at the scene of the second murder. "He got one of his groupies to make the tape after a gig. Archie in A-V can testify the voices are identical."
Shell casings. A Glock 9 semi-automatic. "Found it under the mother's bed. Lands and grooves match."
Lab results from the pink foam around Sean Gregory's mouth. "Ice cream," she told the team. "He bought the kid an ice cream cone off a cart to get Sean to go with him."
Sean's clothes. "Nothing on the clothing itself, but fibers matching these were found on the crime scene suit he stole from the police department."
Pictures of the footprints left by the suit. "Same size as his print in a HazMat suit."
Photos of the fourth body. Close-ups of the fish carved into the ribs. "Lye is chemically identical to the lye ordered by the mother's company. Those fish were carved with a tool similar to the carving tools used at Morse's high school. Art department at the school verify that one was removed approximately a month before the body was discovered. Victim is still a John Doe, he hasn't coughed up a name yet."
A hand-held electric sanding machine. "This is the tool used to remove layers of the bone, found at the father's cabinet company. The body, according to Morse, was stripped at a construction site the night before a new foundation was poured. No evidence. This tool has trace amounts of human tissue consistent with its use in the grooves between the attachment and the handle."
An Exacto knife. "Traces of blood from three different donors found on the blade. DNA links the blood to the first two victims and Sean Gregory. Used to carve messages into the victims."
A shoebox, Vans, full of newspaper clippings. "About half are devoted to Gary Barnes, his crimes, trial, etcetera. The other half are mostly about different crimes in the Las Vegas area, common link is they all mention Grissom, myself, or the crime lab in some capacity."
A stained, once white crime scene suit. "I found it under his bed. He stole it from the Westin police department, who bought it using a grant. The seams of the suit have trace amounts of dirt, fibers, you name it, from each victim and the suspect."
Sara placed her hands palm-down on the table, looking each person in the room straight in the eye, daring them to challenge her. "There is no way we can try him as a juvie. Not with the weight of this evidence."
"I still have one question," Warrick said. "He confessed, right? Isn't that worth something?"
Grissom lifted his hand to Sara, stopping her astonished and surely angry response. "That's up to the DA and Evan's lawyer to decide."
"Why aren't you guys seeing this?" Sara grilled. "Come on."
"We're trying to make sure this is right, Sara," Catherine said calmly. "And until all the questions are answered, I'm not entirely comfortable trying this kid as an adult."
"That's not your call to make!" the younger CSI exclaimed.
"But if he is tried as an adult, and the evidence isn't impeccable, the jury's going to see a seventeen-year-old baby and an extremely harsh prosecuting team. They'll give him a lighter sentence," the blond pointed out. "We're on your side, Sara."
Brass, who had remained silent until now, asked the question on everyone's mind. "Why you, Grissom? Why Barnes? And what the hell does that fish thing mean?"
Grissom shrugged, his lips quirked into a smile, and replied wryly, "I'm his hero. He wanted to impress me. And Barnes. . .Barnes was his hero, too, in Evan's macabre little world. Barnes was the way to link everything together."
"And the fish thing?" Warrick repeated.
Husband and wife exchanged a glance and a smile, Sara resting a hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Plain and simple, 'This is the fish' means. . ." Sara trailed off, her grin shrinking. "It was just another game. In Evan's mind, he and Barnes had been carrying out a dialogue. This is where the tape comes in. He created a phrase that 'Barnes' would understand, a message. It's code for 'I'm going for Grissom.' 'I'm finishing what you started.' Take your pick, it's supposed to tell Barnes that Evan was going to finish ruining our lives. Barnes went after me, Evan went after Grissom."
"Barnes told me to watch my back," Grissom remembered suddenly. "Remember, we asked what 'This is the fish' means, and he told me to watch my back. He warned me. Why would he do that?"
"Gris, we discussed that," Sara hissed. "Barnes is not an on-again, off- again suspect. He is or he isn't."
"But why would he warn me, Sara?"
"Because he plays games, Grissom. He warned you for the same reason he suggested that you're too old for me. To screw with us, to make us uneasy, because that's what he likes."
The two scientists sent piercing gazes at each other, creating an uncomfortable silence to echo around the room. Catherine looked at Warrick, who looked at Nick, who looked at Brass, who looked at the floor, each trying and failing to break the silence. The DA finally did, clearing his throat, dropping his eyes to his watch. "Well, uh, look at the time," he stammered uncomfortably. "I'm going to charge this kid, if you're ready. We'll try him as an adult. Brass?"
"Yeah," the cop muttered. "I'll go get my handcuffs."
A clinical obsession with word games. Huh. Eleven letters. Grissom puzzled over the clue, alternately looking at the definition and the white squares waiting patiently for inking. It was probably far easier than he was making it, this was the secret of master-level crossword puzzles. Obsession with word games. Were crosswords considered word games?
Were trials considered word games? A battle of words, he decided. Whoever spoke a better game won.
Who would the jury believe when it was crunch time for Evan Morse? The prosecution, who had the better case, or the defense, who were playing the 'he's a minor' card for all they were worth.
Premeditation versus being swayed by a serial killer. A paranoid obsession and scheme or an innocent fascination with forensic science and crime? A clinical obsession with word games.
The jury wouldn't be able to look the boy in the eye, see what he had seen just days before the trial started.
"Would you die for him?"
"No."
"Why not? Don't you love him?" His orange jumpsuit glared off his wild eyes, orange and blue twisting unnervingly.
"Not enough to leave him with that kind of guilt."
"You'd rather try a strong offense than a sacrifice. I should've guessed."
"Evan, why are we here?"
"I'm in fucking prison, Sidle. You're here out of sympathy, a need to understand me. I'm giving you the opportunity. As for Grissom-" The boy glared at the man behind the glass, spitting out the name as if it were a synonym for 'traitor'. "Grissom, he's here for the same reasons you are. And to rub it in, that he's better than me. Just because I'm wearing this jumpsuit instead of normal clothes."
"You put yourself here, Evan. You made that division."
"You put me here. Hiding behind a wall of drugs and evidence. I can see you for the weak little bitch you really are."
"God, you're more like Barnes than anyone would think. It's not working."
"Don't compare me to Gary. Don't you ever compare me to Gary. He's far better than I'll ever be. He's a god."
"He's no god, Evan. Neither are you. Barnes isn't a hero, he's a demon. I just hope the jury sees that you are, too."
She'd been a little shaky when she came out of the interrogation room, spooked. He could see in her eyes that somewhere in her mind Barnes and Evan were twisting, morphing, becoming interchangable. The boy's accusation of weakness struck her more than she wanted to admit, and Grissom watched later that night as she popped a caffeine pill and two sugar pills in lieu of the pain killers he knew she wanted. Mesmerized by her hypnotic pacing, he finally said, "You're not weak. You're not hiding behind anything."
Her response was to stop, give him the finger, and continue pacing.
He shrugged with the memory, going back to the crossword. Hmm. An obsession with word games. Eleven letters.
The door banged against the wall as the tall brunette strode into the apartment angrily, slamming shut as she backhanded it into place, throwing her bag onto the floor. Sara scanned the room with fiery eyes, squinting at the stack of mail on the kitchen counter, Grissom's wary smile, the open book of crosswords, and finally at the stereo. "What the hell is this? Peggy Lee?" she spat.
Love all kinds of weather, as long as we're together.
"And are you doing another crossword puzzle? You're obsessed, Grissom! Always with the crossword puzzles.geez. God forbid you wash the dishes."
"Excuse me?" he squeaked, completely taken aback.
I love being here with you!
"You heard me. Chores, Grissom. Unless you want to hire a housekeeper, you have to start helping out around here."
"Sara, is something wrong?"
She shook her head. "No, not a damn thing. The jury came back on Evan Morse. Not guilty, by reasons of insanity."
"What?"
"I know, I couldn't believe it. That kid isn't crazy. Crafty, yes. But not crazy." She inhaled deeply, letting the air out in a rush. "I know the justice system isn't fair, and the population as a whole isn't exactly brilliant, but. . ."
"I thought they'd see him for him, too."
A brilliant grin broke out over her face. "They did. Guilty, all charges."
His jaw dropped, he stared at her with astonishment. "Sara!"
She shrugged. "Gotcha."
Grissom gaped at her as she crossed the room, dropping onto the couch beside him. She examined the puzzle closely, checking clues and spelling. "Which clue are you on?"
"Uh, thirty-four down. A clinical obsession with word games. Eleven letters."
"G-I-L-G-R-I-S-S-O-M. No, ten letters." He play-glared. She grinned. "Paronomania."
"Never heard of it."
She raised an eyebrow. "Funny, because it's you." Seeing his hesitation to use the word, she grabbed the pen from his hand and filled in the squares. Sara picked up the book, flipping to the back, scowled. "Where are the answers?"
Grissom took the book back gently. "It's a Master-level, Sara. There aren't answers." He carefully put the book back on the coffee table, as gentle as if it were a baby.
"Ah, that's my man, doing crossword puzzles in pen when there is no solution." She paused, listening to the music again. "Why are you listening to Peggy Lee?"
"Just this song," he said. "My mother loved it, played it all the time when I was four, before she lost her hearing."
His utter charm takes me away.
"It's just not anything I would've thought you would like. You're a classical guy. And Pink Floyd, which I may never understand, by the way."
"Well, what can I say?" he asked. " 'I love being here with you.'"
[okay, well, that's the end. Hope you enjoyed it.]