Gil's head ached fiercely, but he had to go the crime scene anyway. Catherine was watching him worriedly, his face was very pale. "Grissom, you know, we're not totally incompetent, we can handle a case without you." Grissom turned and glared at her for a minute, but his blue eyes were also vaguely amused. "Catherine, will you please…" he trailed off, and tried to find a nicer approach, "Catherine, although I appreciate your concern, I'm fine." He continued into crime scene, which was a rambling, three-story house. Inside, he found another young woman, sliced open, her skin now cyanotic blue from lack of oxygen. He had tortured her, then strangled her. Her eyes, dark brown, were open, bulging, staring sightlessly. Blood had made a obscene pool on the glossy tiles. Her slender arms were tossed out, as if reaching for help. One of them were bent far beyond a normal joint could bend. Obviously broken. Grissom knelt beside her, and began to carefully examine her body. Again, there was grease under her fingernails, which some of them were broken. After about twenty minutes, he finished with the girl's body. He stood, and called out, "Anyone have a I.D. on her?" A young cop came over to Grissom's side, "The house is registered to a Dana Jackson, thirty-one." Grissom frowned, "This woman isn't thirty-one, she's about twenty-three." The cop shuffled his feet, "Then I guess this isn't Miss Jackson?" Losing patience, Grissom snapped, "I guess not!" The cop hurried away, and Catherine was staring at him, "Uh, Grissom, did you have to yell at the twenty-year old cop? I think he's starting to cry." Grissom sighed, and Catherine's face softened, "Grissom just go home! You just had your head bashed in." "I can't, I'm on a case." Grissom replied, hardening himself, and continued to look around the crime scene.
Grissom noticed something lying on the floor by the body. Piqued, he knelt down, and after donning a clean pair of gloves, picked it up. It was a shard of metal. He put in in a sack labeled evidence.