The Senior Stalker Case, a csi fanfic

The Senior Stalker Case

It was a rainy and dark Thursday afternoon when Gil Grissom came bursting into his office, accompanied by several thousand raindrops. But he wasn't alone. Catherine Willows sat at his desk. "Why, Catherine!" Grissom announced, surprised. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Just thought I'd pop in and see you," Catherine answered. "We have another body in the Senior Stalker case."

"Ah, the Senior Stalker case," Grissom said, folding his umbrella and taking off his long black raincoat. "Remind me."

"Senior Stalker mainly operates at nursing homes and senior care facilities. Is a female, as determined by the DNA testing. Victims are Eloise Perkins, 87, Maxine Dugray, 86, Paul Ritchfeld, 91, Michael Patterson, 90, and, her latest, Ambrose Watkins, 94."

"Moving on up there," Grissom noted.

"Yes."

"Where did Mr. Watkins reside?"
"Bayside Nursing Home. Nurses there say he was always in the best of health and spirits, very giving and humorous."

"So he had no apparent cause of death by illness or natural causes?"

"No."

"Weapons?"
"A large blunt object, varying from case to case. With Eloise it was a flowerpot, with Maxine it was a ceramic flamingo, with Paul it was a large Southwest Native American clay jar, with Michael it was a twelve-pound laser printer, and with Ambrose, it was a Civil War helmet."

"So she uses what was handy?" Grissom mused, shooing Catherine out of his chair.

"Exactly. Each of the victims apparently owned the murder weapon before their death," Catherine answered, finding refuge in another chair.

"Were they familiar with it; did they use it frequently?"

"Sure, I guess so. Well, except for Ambrose. The Civil War helmet was part of his collection."

"Ah, a war buff, eh?" Grissom said. "Wishing for the good times."

"Exactly," Catherine replied. "Now, we've got Greg running DNA tests and Warrick and Nick are doing the search for more fingerprints with the electrostatic print-lifter on the weapons, and Sara is reviewing the victims' files, to see if they had anything in common."

"Great. What's left?"
"Going back out to the crime scene, I guess. Brass and his men will be out there, but they say we can investigate Ambrose Watkins' apartment for awhile if we want."

"Sounds good. Let's go."

On the day of his death, Ambrose Watkins had been wearing khaki pants, a blue polo, and square-framed glasses. His apartment roommate, Henry Durjan, 90, sat in a wheelchair, wearing an almost exact copy of Ambrose's wardrobe, khakis and a green polo. His glasses were round, however. "I don't remember anything about the day," he told Catherine.

"Okay," Catherine said.

"I mean, it was Tuesday, so there was bingo, and Ambrose and I took home four prizes – a bowl, two stuffed bears, and an ornamental dagger, strictly for display use only, ma'am. Then there was spaghetti for supper, and after there were juice bars. Then we sat in the community room and listened to a presentation. It was on Judy Garland, and was very good. Ambrose got up to go to the bathroom and he never came back. When the presentation ended, Tricia and Darla found him in here."

"Tricia and Darla?" Catherine questioned.

"The nurses around here. They're so cute," Henry replied.

"Ah," Catherine said. "Well, thank you, Mr. Durjan."

"Call me Henry, sweetie. You're cute."

"Thanks."

Catherine made her way back over to Grissom. "I'm going to go talk to the nurses, Tricia and Darla. They were the ones who found Ambrose."

"Okay." Grissom bent in closer to Ambrose's pants and plucked something off.

"What is that?" Brass questioned.

"A lipstick tube," Grissom answered promptly, putting it in a little baggie.

"Freshly used?"
"Not recently. From the killer, I'm supposing."

"Ah."

Grissom investigated for a few more minutes, but didn't find anything useful. He made his way out to the community room, where Catherine was interrogating two nurses, Tricia and Darla. She turned away after a moment and headed over to where Grissom was standing. "They don't know anything. They were taking around evening medicines and Henry was saying that Ambrose hadn't come back yet."

"Ambrose was on medication?"

"Zoflex for arthritis and Digivan for a kidney disorder. But otherwise, he never touched medicines, and barely ever went to the doctor."

"Who was his doctor?"

"Ivan Gray."

Grissom groaned.

"Do you know anything about Ivan Gray?" Catherine questioned.

"Only that he's a liar, mentally ill, and a cheater, and he gives his patients unneeded medications," Grissom answered. "Beyond that, not much. Let's go."

"Hey, did you find anything?"

Nick stuck his head into the filing room, where Sara was sitting on a tall stool at a table, going over files. "Not much. I did learn that all five of our victims were born in Indiana."

"Really, where?"

"The Shipshewana-Lancaster-Rutledge area, mainly."
"Really," Nick said. "Fascinating."

"Tell me about it."

"Anything else?"

"Well, all of them had the same middle initial – D."

"That is mesmerizing, Sara," Nick commented.

"Thanks, I try hard."

"What about financial assets? How well were the old folks set?"

"Most had a good amount of money, mainly from spouse death in the last three years. Ambrose Watkins, our last victim, was pretty rich, money ranging in the $250,000 area from insurance claims, Social Security benefits, and spouse death."

"Any person they had in common?"
"There is mention of a woman named Danielle Maxwell in everyone's reports, except for Michael Patterson's report. She was a nurse at three different nursing homes in the Vegas area, Bayside, Crystal Tide, and Seashore."

"Did you run a background check?"

"Everything came up clear, not even a parking ticket or a traffic violation. She's a registered nurse and went to school in Washington state. She is married to David Maxwell and has two children, Colin and Melissa," Sara answered promptly.

"Good work." Nick started to head off down the hallway.
"Thanks, I try-.."

Sara started to say something, but didn't finish her sentence.

"What?" Nick asked. "You try what?"
Sara didn't answer. Nick came inside the filing room. Sara was sitting at the table, staring off into space, her arms and body twitching. "Sara," he said cautiously. "Sara, are you with me?"

Warrick came in then. "Whoa, what's wrong with Sara?"

"Get Grissom," Nick said urgently. "Go!"

Warrick set off at a quick jog. Grissom and Catherine were just coming up the hallway then. "Whoa, Warrick, where's the fire?" Catherine asked.

"I don't know," Warrick answered. "Sara's acting really weird and Nick told me to come and get Grissom."

"What do you mean by 'really weird,' Warrick?" Grissom questioned, unlocking his office and setting his case and jacket down.

"I don't know, she's twitching and staring and stuff," Warrick answered.

"Twitching?" Catherine asked.

"Staring?" Grissom questioned.

They both shot a worried look at Warrick and rushed down the hallway to the filing room. Nick met him at the door. "I think she's having a seizure!" he exclaimed.

"A seizure?" Catherine questioned.

"Sara?" Grissom had gone inside the filing room. "Sara, can you hear me?"

Sara continued to shake.

"Nick, call Dorrie Chang down on the first floor. I think she's a nurse."

Nick left. Grissom grabbed onto Sara's hands in a desperate attempt to stop the twitching and spastic movements. "Sara, it's okay."

Warrick and Catherine watched him worriedly. "Is she going to be okay?" Catherine asked.

All of a sudden Sara fell backwards off the filing stool. Grissom caught her. "Sara, are you with us?"

"Grissom?" Sara asked. "What on earth.." Her face was paler than Grissom had ever seen it.

Dorrie Chang and Nick came running up. "How is she?" Dorrie asked immediately.

"She's talking," Grissom answered.

"Here, sit her down on the floor, against the cabinet. I don't want her to faint. Put your head between your knees," she instructed Sara.

"What on earth happened?" Sara asked.

"You had a seizure," Dorrie answered. "Or so it sounds like, from what your friend Nick described."

"I had a – excuse me, a seizure? I've never had a seizure."

"You just did," Dorrie replied. "Well, you appear to be okay right now. Do you have a headache?"
"No."

"Dizziness?"

"A little."

"Can you stand up?"
Grissom helped Sara to her feet. Sara turned as white as a sheet and promptly fell back down. "I don't think it would be wise to move her," Grissom said.

"I have to get back to work," Dorrie said. "Can someone else stay with her?"

"I'm not doing anything right now," Catherine offered. "I'll sit with her."

"She may fall asleep or develop a bad headache," Dorrie instructed. "Keep an eye on her. If it happens again, take her to the hospital. Oh, and don't let her go to sleep."

"Why?" Catherine questioned.

"If she falls asleep and the seizure was caused because of low blood glucose, etc., it could put her in a coma."

"Ah," Catherine answered.

Dorrie left then, but Nick, Warrick, Grissom, and Catherine stood around.

"Guys," Sara protested weakly, "I'm better. Don't all stand around. Go find the Senior Stalker."

"As you wish," Nick said, and the three male CSIs left.

"Ms. Maxwell?"
"Mrs."

"Sorry," Grissom apologized. "Mrs. Maxwell, have you heard of the Senior Stalker?"
"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I think it's sad."

"It says here that you are a nurse. Where do you work?"

"Gleaner Nursing Home."

"Do you like working there?"
"Yes."

"How long have you worked there?"

"Seven months."
"Where were you employed before?"

"I have worked at Bayside, Seashore, and Crystal Tide Nursing Homes."

"Where were you Tuesday night?"

"I was at home with my daughter, Melissa."

"Can anyone else confirm your story?"

"Melissa can."

"How old is Melissa?"
"Eleven."

"Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell, you're free to go," Brass said. Mrs. Maxwell stood and left.

"What?" Grissom asked, turning to Brass.

"She's not guilty. She clearly knows what was going on Tuesday night, and Melissa, her daughter, can confirm the story. I'll put in a call to David Maxwell and ask him to confirm it personally," Brass answered. "Find another suspect, Grissom." He marched off towards the office.

Grissom collected his papers and went back down to the filing room, just to find Catherine running out at him. Papers flew everywhere as the two collided. "Whoa, Catherine, what's happening?"
"Sara's having another seizure!" Catherine exclaimed. "Hurry! I'll get Dorrie Chang."

Grissom went hurriedly into the filing room and found Sara in the same position, against the filing cabinets, her arms and legs moving spastically. "Sara," he said cautiously, "are you with us?"
No response. Sara kept staring off into space, her body flailing randomly. Grissom turned as Dorrie and Catherine came running up. "We need to get her to the hospital," Dorrie said. "This could be serious."

Sara fell to one side suddenly, gasping for breath. The twitching had stopped, but she didn't appear to be focused at all. "Sara?" Grissom inquired quietly.

"Call an ambulance," Dorrie told Catherine.

Sara's eyes closed. Grissom grabbed at her arm. It had gone limp, like a linguini noodle. "Sara, Sara, wake up!"

Dorrie felt for a pulse. "Grissom, wake her up."

"I can't!" Grissom felt helpless.

Catherine came back in. "The ambulance should be here in about five minutes," she said. "The dispatcher said we should try to sit her up and give her something to drink."

"That's a good idea," Dorrie agreed. "I'll get some water."

She was down and back in two minutes flat. Grissom and Catherine had pushed Sara into a sitting position. Dorrie tried to give her some water. Sara's arms had begun to flail again, and the cup was knocked across the room. "It's okay, Sara," Catherine said.

The paramedics came running up. "I'm Bob, that's Mac," said the male paramedic.

"Mackenzie," the female clarified.

They began to take Sara's vital signs. Halfway through the examination, Sara's eyes closed again, and she stopped breathing. The paramedics immediately began giving her oxygen, and loaded her onto the gurney. "We're taking her to Southside Mercy," said Mac. "You can visit her there."

"I'll go with her," Catherine offered.

"Okay, well, if you're coming, let's go."

Grissom turned to Dorrie. "Now what?"
"Let the paramedics take it from here," Dorrie replied honestly.

Sara awoke in an unfamiliar stark white room. "Where am I?" she asked, but the words came out all garbled.

"What?" Catherine startled awake.

"Where am I?" Sara repeated, clearer.

"Southside Mercy Hospital," Catherine answered, sitting up in the uncomfortable chair.

"What happened?"

"You had another seizure and passed out. We called the paramedics and they brought you here."

"My hair is wet."

"Dorrie Chang from the first floor tried to give you some water, but you spilled it."

"Oh." Sara thought for a moment. "I have a headache."

"Dorrie said that would happen."

"I really had a seizure, huh?"

"Yep."

"Crap."

A plump, balding doctor came in then, and introduced himself as Dr. Machwhistle. Sara and Catherine looked at each other and tried to not to laugh. "Miss Sidle?" Dr. Machwhistle said. "I'm Dr. Machwhistle, pleased to meet you. I'm a specialist here at Southside Mercy."

"A specialist? In what?" Sara questioned.

"Seizure disorders," Dr. Machwhistle said. "I have conferred with some other colleagues here at Southside Mercy. We have accurately diagnosed you with Papillion Disorder."

"What?" Sara asked.

"Papillion is the French word for butterfly," Dr. Machwhistle said.

"Yes, I know that."

"It also accurately describes the way a patient's limbs 'flutter,' if you will, when having a seizure."

"She wasn't fluttering," Catherine interjected.

"It was also the name of the man who discovered the disorder," Dr. Machwhistle went on, glaring at Catherine. "Pierre Papillion."

            "Boy, I bet he was teased in high school," Catherine muttered, looking away from Dr. Machwhistle.

            "Papillion Disorder can be effectively controlled with the proper medications," Dr. Machwhistle informed Catherine and Sara. "However, the medications cannot stop the seizures, they can only tone them down a little. The medication will make the seizures less uncontrollable. I will write you a prescription."

            "Wait, does that mean that I can go home?" Sara asked.

            "Yes," Dr. Machwhistle answered.

            "That's good, right?"

            "There isn't much we can do for Papillion Disorder," Dr. Machwhistle answered sadly, and left.

            "Crap," Sara repeated.

            "Hey, Grissom," Nick said, coming into Grissom's office, "there's a mention of a Dr. Eustace Machwhistle in each of our victims' files."

            "Dr. Eustace Machwhistle," Grissom mused.

            "He is also known as Dr. Ivan Gray," Nick added.

            "Ivan Gray!" Grissom sat up.

            "You know him?"
            "Unfortunately, yes. Get Warrick. We're going to question Ivan Eustace Machwhistle Gray."

            Dr. Eustace Machwhistle – or Dr. Ivan Gray – sat in his office. He stared pleasantly at his three visitors. "Why, you work with Miss Sidle!" he exclaimed as Grissom passed him a card.

            "Yes, Dr. Machwhistle, we do. Or should I say, Dr. Gray?" Grissom questioned.

            "Grissom, what is this about?"

            "The Senior Stalker case," Nick said. "Five different victims, five different blunt objects, three different nursing homes."

            "And which nursing homes are those?" Dr. Machwhistle asked.

            "Bayside, Crystal Tide, and Seashore," Nick answered promptly.

            "Those are all very nice facilities," Dr. Machwhistle agreed.

            "We have records of you visiting all of these nursing homes in the past six weeks, Dr. Gray," Grissom said bluntly.

            "I am looking for an assisted-living home for my mother, Lenore. Have you met her, Grissom?"

            "No, I don't believe so," Grissom answered. "Dr. Gray, your specialty here at Southside Mercy is what?"

            "Seizure disorders."

            "And what is your real specialty?"

            "Geriatrics," Dr. Machwhistle answered. "Dr. Machwhistle works as a seizure specialist, and Dr. Gray is a geriatric specialist."

            Warrick leaned towards Grissom. "Does this guy have multiple personalities?"

            "Yes," Grissom answered. Aloud, he said, "All right, Dr. Machwhistle, thank you very much."

            "He could have done it," Warrick commented as they were on their way out.

            "Yes, he could have," Grissom answered. "And seeing as we don't have any other suspects, I suppose we'll have to look at the evidence for clues as where to go next."

            Greg was waiting in the lab when Warrick, Nick, and Grissom came in. "I've found some patterns in the killings," he announced.

            "Really, what?" Nick asked.

            "Well, all of the murders took place on a Friday, near seven o'clock in the evening. All of the victims had left the room for an apparently good reason, but never returned. All of the murders were committed in the victim's rooms or living quarters."

            "There's a start," Grissom said.

            "Here's the best part," Warrick continued. "Dr. Machwhistle reportedly left his office at six-thirty in the evening every Friday. All of the nursing homes were within a twenty minute drive from Southside Mercy."

            "That would give him ten minutes to set up his plan, then lie in wait for the victim."

            "We also know who his next victim will be." Nick resumed speaking. "Christopher D. Brinkley, from Seaside."

            "Wait," Grissom said suddenly. "As much as I appreciate your theory, Nick, the Senior Stalker is a woman."

            "So was Ivan Gray," Warrick answered promptly. "Do you remember Ivana Grayson, Grissom? She went to high school with you."

            "Ivana Grayson," Grissom mused. "Yes, I do remember her. She was kind of nerdy, but lovable. She always wanted to be a doctor."

            "Ivana Grayson is now Ivan Gray – or Eustace Machwhistle, or Patrice McDonald, occasionally."

            "Are you saying that Ivana Grayson believed that one of her personalities was a man, so she turned into a man?"

            "Ivana Grayson has four personalities," Nick answered. "Ivan Gray, Ivana Grayson, Eustace Machwhistle, and Patrice McDonald. She dresses as each person as she sees fit."

            "Weird. She did a pretty good job with Eustace Machwhistle."

            "I know. And all of the murders took place on the second Friday of the month."

            "That's the day after tomorrow," Grissom said.

            There was a knock on the door and Catherine came in. "Hi, guys. How goes it?"

            "We've tracked down the Senior Stalker," Grissom answered. "How's Sara?"
            "Exhausted. I took her home and she went straight to sleep."

            "Is she feeling better?" Warrick asked.

            "The seizures stopped, and the doctor gave her some medication to control them."

            "Was her doctor Eustace Machwhistle?" Grissom questioned.

            "He was named Machwhistle, yes."

            "He's our only suspect," Nick said.

            "Ah. Pleasant." Catherine rolled her eyes.

            Thursday morning, Sara came into work. She was still pale and looked tired, but she was feeling better and ready to continue working on the Senior Stalker case. "What've we got?"
            "A woman with multiple personalities," Nick answered, passing her the latest of the files.

            "Weird." Sara read over the file, and gasped. "Dr. Machwhistle?"

            "Yep. Her real name is Ivana Grayson, and she went to school with Grissom. She's had a multiple personality disorder for twenty-five years."

            Sara put her head in her hands. "Great. First I have a seizure disorder, then I find out that my doctor is a stalker and killer of the geriatric population."

            "And that's not all," Nick said pleasantly. "You're accompanying Catherine and Grissom on the stake-out tomorrow."

            Sara groaned.

            Thunder raged and lightning crashed as Sara, Grissom, and Catherine pulled up at Seaside Nursing Home. "Are you sure you're all right for this?" Grissom asked for the forty-fifth time.

            "Positive," Sara answered. "I feel pretty good, actually."

            "Well, if you're sure, then let's go."

            All of the residents of Seaside were in the largest common room, watching Arsenic and Old Lace. One of the nurses gave them permission to look around. "There's a smaller common room off the hallway there, and there's a passageway down from there, but that's about it, unless you want residents' rooms."

            "Yes, please," Catherine requested.

            "Okay. They're down this way." She showed them.

            "Let's split up," Grissom suggested. "We'll be able to cover more space in less time. Catherine, you take B wing. I'll take C wing. Sara, you take the common rooms and A wing."

            "All of A wing?"
            "Not the kitchen. We've got a PD guard covering that."

            "Okay."

            There came another crack of lightning, and the power went out suddenly. "Go anyway," Grissom ordered. "This will make it easier for Ivana Grayson to track her victim."

            They split up then, and the hallways were full of nurses leading residents back to their rooms for the evening. The common room in A wing was empty, but a fire still burned in the fireplace. Books lined the walls, and one cabinet was full of videos. Sara peered around, but didn't see anyone. She did, however, find that the seniors had a passion for James Bond movies.

            Then a footstep echoed in the hallway from B wing. Sara crouched instinctively behind the couch, waiting for someone to appear. It was probably just a nurse anyway, or Grissom maybe.

            Instead, Ivana-Ivan-Eustace-Grayson-Gray-Machwhistle – or whatever he/she was – appeared. "Sara," Dr. Machwhistle said. "Sara, I know you're in here. I've tailed you from B wing."

            He crept around the room. "Sara, where are you?"

            Sara slid down into a sitting position behind the couch.

            "Sara…"

            Sara could feel one of her legs start to twitch. "No, no," she breathed in horror. "Not now." The other leg started to twitch, and Sara could feel her legs go numb. "No, no, no."

            Dr. Machwhistle had started to peer around the room. "Are you here, or not?" he wondered aloud.

            Her left arm started to twitch spastically. She was getting light-headed, but forced herself to stay focused. What were her choices? She didn't have any good weapons; she doubted she could fire her gun with spastic arms. There was a dictionary on the table just above her head. She could hit Dr. Machwhistle with it, knock him out, and run to find Catherine and Grissom.

            But the chances of her getting up and running anywhere were slim. She would either have a full-blown seizure or pass out if she stood up. Possibly both. Probably both. She would have to hit him dead on.

            Then she heard a gun click. "Sara," Dr. Machwhistle said in a sing-song voice. "Sara."

            He was pacing around the room. Though her vision was getting hazy, Sara saw him start towards the couch. She grabbed the dictionary and hurled blindly.

            Sara blacked out before she even knew she'd hit Dr. Machwhistle.

            "Sara," someone was saying. "Sara."

            "Grissom." She recognized the voice.

            "Shh, don't talk." That was Catherine. "Lie still."

            Sara opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor in the common room of Seaside Nursing Home. Catherine was sitting on the floor next to her, and Grissom was holding her wrist, checking her pulse. Nurses and seniors were peering over, all looking concerned. The couch had been moved to the center of the room. "Did I hit him?"

            "Who?" Grissom looked confused.

            "Dr. Machwhistle," Sara said. It hurt to talk.

            "Yes, dead on."

            "Is he in custody?" It really hurt to talk.

            "Yes. Shh, don't talk."

            And that was the last she remembered until sometime later.

            Two weeks later, Ivana Grayson was convicted of the murders of several member of the geriatric population of Las Vegas. Grissom brought in a pie. Sara was sitting at the table in the conference room, going over some files. "Hi, Grissom," she said.

            "Hey, Sara. Do you like pie?"

            "Of course."

            "It's peach."

            "Even better." She grinned at him, her usual perky grin.

            "Once Catherine and Warrick and Nick get here, we'll slice up the pie," Grissom said, hunting around in the kitchenette for plates and forks.

            "Hey, Grissom?"

            "What?"

            "Thanks."

            He didn't have to ask for what.

FINISH!!!