There was a short knock on the door, the kind of knock Sara called a
'knuckle-knock' because it required the second knuckles of the first two
fingers to do. It was a versatile knock, a polite knock, a quiet knock,
unlike the heavy rap of police. The knuckle-knock was also Tony Dodd's
knock of choice.
Grissom looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on, rose to open the door as Sara finished eating her "most disgusting piece of hospital crap food I've had this entire time." She swallowed another bite of the meal, a grimace crossing her face.
"Grissom, this is such shit," she whined. "Whoever decided that this was nutritious should be shot. . .this could induce bulimia."
"You know, it's never good to suggest a crime in front of a police officer," Dodd drawled. The tall, stocky detective was running her case, but it was the first time they had met. Dodd had been by the hospital before, two days ago, when she was still sleeping off the anesthesia.
"I'll take my chances," she smiled. "Besides, if you were forced to eat this, you'd want to kill someone too."
Dodd moved to the side of the bed, looked at her plate, nose wrinkling in disgust. "What the hell is it?"
"I have no idea, but it's nastier than a two-month-old decomp in a gym bag." She wanted to shrug, but it hurt. "And you are. . .?"
"Detective Dodd, Atlanta PD. I'm in charge of the investigation into your attack, Miss Sidle. I'd like to ask you a few questions about it, if you're up to it."
"That's fine, but please, call me Sara." Grissom looked up from his crossword puzzle to silently ask if she would be ok. "Gris, it's ok."
"Okay," Tony said, sitting down and taking out a notepad. "You want to start from the beginning?"
Sara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Grissom and I had just finished a seminar, and I had gone to the bathroom to wash my hands. . .I had ink on my fingers from demonstrating how fingerprinting worked."
"Why hadn't you washed your hands prior to the end of the lecture?"
"It was one of the last things we did, and I didn't want to interrupt the lesson by leaving. I mean, I've had ink on my fingers a hundred times without any problem, I wasn't going to leave just for that."
Dodd nodded, writing it down. "So you're in the bathroom. What happened next?"
"He was there. My. . .attacker. I can't tell you what he looks like because I don't really remember, but I do remember having a conversation with him."
Grissom's head shot up. "You what?"
"I talked to him," she said, non-chalant. "I knew it was the guy, I knew what he was going to do, but I. . .I guess I thought if I talked to him, he'd leave. Guess I was wrong."
"How did he get you out of the bathroom?" Dodd asked, and Grissom listened intently, absolutely curious.
"A window," she said. "Wait, maybe that was how he got me into the house. . .I don't remember."
"Okay," Dodd said softly. It would be one of the only times Grissom would ever see him acting compassionate; Tony, by nature, only cared about the victims and catching suspects. And he was brutal with his quarry. "I have to ask you about the actual assault now, Sara, if that's alright."
"Let's go," she ordered.
"I'm sorry," Grissom apologized as he rose from his seat. "I can't listen to this. I'll be outside."
The brunette watched him go without judgement, and Tony waited until the door had closed to speak again. "The two of you are close?"
"You've talked to him, haven't you?" Sara asked, and Tony nodded. "Then you know why he can't listen to me talk about what the bastard did to me."
"I do, but tell me yourself."
She swallowed. "We only did this seminar thing to get me out of Las Vegas, because the guy who did this was coming after me. It was Grissom's idea, he thought if I was far enough away, the danger would pass, that our colleagues would catch the guy and it would be over. So I'm sure you can imagine the guilt he feels for bringing me all the way to Georgia and this happens anyway, regardless of how hard he tried."
"I can," Dodd conceded. "If it were my. . ." he coughed, "My woman-pardon the terminology-I can't even begin to tell you how I would feel."
"Grissom's got enough guilt for a whole church of Catholics."
Dodd nodded, then looked back at his notepad. "What happened to you, Sara?"
"I remember. . .hits," she said, eyes closed against the flood of memories rushing back. "I remember kicks, and cuts. I remember. . ." A baseball bat whistling down to land on her back, pipes, a hammer and. . . "Pain. A lot of pain."
----------
The physical therapist had blond tips on his spiky black hair, and looked like a Korean-American Greg Sanders, down to the funky-colored scrubs and lab coat. His name was Kenny and he was about Greg's age, too. But the comparison did not end at his age, clothes and how he styled his hair. He was a little eccentric, had a ton of fun doing his job, and listened to punk rock. Sara adored him. Kenny could always make her laugh, no matter how much pain she was in on a given day. She looked forward to PT; and Kenny would drop by on the days they didn't meet to say hello.
Grissom was jealous.
He would never admit it, if she ever brought it up. She wasn't sure exactly what he was jealous of, but the look on his face when Kenny came in every day was perfectly clear. . .and pretty damn funny.
Sara gave Grissom a sloppy, reassuring peck on the cheek as a nurse wheeled her down to the PT room. She raised her hand up enough to wave at him, and turned to see if he would reciprocate the motion. The frown on his face told her that he thought she was teasing him, so she blew him a kiss.
Kenny was watching Jerry Springer when she rolled in. The nurse had left her at the door, it was part of Sara's "recovery plan", as Kenny put it. His head did not turn when the door slammed behind the wheelchair, but he raised his right hand in greeting, and said, "Hey, Sara."
The television spat out a litany of bleeps as two transvestites on the screen started fighting over an emaciated blond.
"That's quality TV, Ken," she said dryly as she watched with disgust.
"I don't know why, but sometimes the dregs of society still surprise me," he responded, to the television.
"Nothing about human behavior surprises me anymore. Perk of the job," she said slowly. "Why are we watching this?"
"Because it's funny, and I still have five minutes before our appointment."
"It's sick, and I'm not early," she pointed out.
He checked his watch just as an audience member called the blond a whore and told her to "go get some KFC, you need it you thin bi-bleep!"
"Damn, you're right," Kenny said, looking up from his wrist. "You're always early. What's wrong, you feeling okay?"
"Oh, yeah," Sara said with a smile. "They're letting me loose day after tomorrow."
He turned around, absently shutting off the television. "That's great!"
She rolled her eyes. "I know they told you already."
Kenny's eyebrows contracted in pseudo-concentration, then returned to normal as he pointed at Sara and said, "Right!"
"It was partially your decision, Kenny. Eager to get rid of me?"
He shook his head vigorously. "God, no. But I have to say that I think you may be one of my all-time favorite patients, and I am thrilled to give you this next step."
"What?" Sara asked, confused by the last bit of his sentence.
"If you ever get bored, you can turn up the music and rock out on air guitar with one, still using the other to poke your annoying younger brother in the back of the head while he tries to watch TV," he quizzed. "At least that's what I did when I broke my leg."
"You broke your leg when you were fourteen."
"And what did I get for it?"
"Crutches," she said, an unspoken duh finishing her sentence. Her eyes widened with understanding. "I get crutches today. No more chair?"
His blond tips nodded. "It's a going away present."
"I haven't walked in weeks. . ."
"It'll be fine," he assured her, handing her the crutches. "Trust me."
She took the smooth wood into her hands, ecstatic. Kenny asked, "You ever have crutches before?"
"Once, in college. I slipped on some beer at a party. . ." Sara smiled at him. "I'm sure you can guess the rest."
"What'd you break?"
"Ankle. The first time I'd broken any body part."
"Ok, so you know how to use them. First step is not to go too far too fast."
"The PT motto," she said. "Never do more than you can handle. Don't rush your body. Blah, blah, blah."
"I'm going to help you up, you may need assistance for a while, until your strength is better," he explained, ignoring her comment. Kenny positioned the crutches for her, then gently lifted her out of the chair, Sara doing most of the work. "Ok, one step at a time, nice and slow."
She took a weak step forward, grimaced as a wave of pain washed over her muscles. "Shit, that hurts."
"Be careful not to put weight on your injured knee," he cautioned.
"I know," she said, taking a deep breath before placing the crutches in front of her and moving another small step forward. The pain lessened with each step. "Well, well," she muttered. "Look at me go."
Grissom looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on, rose to open the door as Sara finished eating her "most disgusting piece of hospital crap food I've had this entire time." She swallowed another bite of the meal, a grimace crossing her face.
"Grissom, this is such shit," she whined. "Whoever decided that this was nutritious should be shot. . .this could induce bulimia."
"You know, it's never good to suggest a crime in front of a police officer," Dodd drawled. The tall, stocky detective was running her case, but it was the first time they had met. Dodd had been by the hospital before, two days ago, when she was still sleeping off the anesthesia.
"I'll take my chances," she smiled. "Besides, if you were forced to eat this, you'd want to kill someone too."
Dodd moved to the side of the bed, looked at her plate, nose wrinkling in disgust. "What the hell is it?"
"I have no idea, but it's nastier than a two-month-old decomp in a gym bag." She wanted to shrug, but it hurt. "And you are. . .?"
"Detective Dodd, Atlanta PD. I'm in charge of the investigation into your attack, Miss Sidle. I'd like to ask you a few questions about it, if you're up to it."
"That's fine, but please, call me Sara." Grissom looked up from his crossword puzzle to silently ask if she would be ok. "Gris, it's ok."
"Okay," Tony said, sitting down and taking out a notepad. "You want to start from the beginning?"
Sara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Grissom and I had just finished a seminar, and I had gone to the bathroom to wash my hands. . .I had ink on my fingers from demonstrating how fingerprinting worked."
"Why hadn't you washed your hands prior to the end of the lecture?"
"It was one of the last things we did, and I didn't want to interrupt the lesson by leaving. I mean, I've had ink on my fingers a hundred times without any problem, I wasn't going to leave just for that."
Dodd nodded, writing it down. "So you're in the bathroom. What happened next?"
"He was there. My. . .attacker. I can't tell you what he looks like because I don't really remember, but I do remember having a conversation with him."
Grissom's head shot up. "You what?"
"I talked to him," she said, non-chalant. "I knew it was the guy, I knew what he was going to do, but I. . .I guess I thought if I talked to him, he'd leave. Guess I was wrong."
"How did he get you out of the bathroom?" Dodd asked, and Grissom listened intently, absolutely curious.
"A window," she said. "Wait, maybe that was how he got me into the house. . .I don't remember."
"Okay," Dodd said softly. It would be one of the only times Grissom would ever see him acting compassionate; Tony, by nature, only cared about the victims and catching suspects. And he was brutal with his quarry. "I have to ask you about the actual assault now, Sara, if that's alright."
"Let's go," she ordered.
"I'm sorry," Grissom apologized as he rose from his seat. "I can't listen to this. I'll be outside."
The brunette watched him go without judgement, and Tony waited until the door had closed to speak again. "The two of you are close?"
"You've talked to him, haven't you?" Sara asked, and Tony nodded. "Then you know why he can't listen to me talk about what the bastard did to me."
"I do, but tell me yourself."
She swallowed. "We only did this seminar thing to get me out of Las Vegas, because the guy who did this was coming after me. It was Grissom's idea, he thought if I was far enough away, the danger would pass, that our colleagues would catch the guy and it would be over. So I'm sure you can imagine the guilt he feels for bringing me all the way to Georgia and this happens anyway, regardless of how hard he tried."
"I can," Dodd conceded. "If it were my. . ." he coughed, "My woman-pardon the terminology-I can't even begin to tell you how I would feel."
"Grissom's got enough guilt for a whole church of Catholics."
Dodd nodded, then looked back at his notepad. "What happened to you, Sara?"
"I remember. . .hits," she said, eyes closed against the flood of memories rushing back. "I remember kicks, and cuts. I remember. . ." A baseball bat whistling down to land on her back, pipes, a hammer and. . . "Pain. A lot of pain."
----------
The physical therapist had blond tips on his spiky black hair, and looked like a Korean-American Greg Sanders, down to the funky-colored scrubs and lab coat. His name was Kenny and he was about Greg's age, too. But the comparison did not end at his age, clothes and how he styled his hair. He was a little eccentric, had a ton of fun doing his job, and listened to punk rock. Sara adored him. Kenny could always make her laugh, no matter how much pain she was in on a given day. She looked forward to PT; and Kenny would drop by on the days they didn't meet to say hello.
Grissom was jealous.
He would never admit it, if she ever brought it up. She wasn't sure exactly what he was jealous of, but the look on his face when Kenny came in every day was perfectly clear. . .and pretty damn funny.
Sara gave Grissom a sloppy, reassuring peck on the cheek as a nurse wheeled her down to the PT room. She raised her hand up enough to wave at him, and turned to see if he would reciprocate the motion. The frown on his face told her that he thought she was teasing him, so she blew him a kiss.
Kenny was watching Jerry Springer when she rolled in. The nurse had left her at the door, it was part of Sara's "recovery plan", as Kenny put it. His head did not turn when the door slammed behind the wheelchair, but he raised his right hand in greeting, and said, "Hey, Sara."
The television spat out a litany of bleeps as two transvestites on the screen started fighting over an emaciated blond.
"That's quality TV, Ken," she said dryly as she watched with disgust.
"I don't know why, but sometimes the dregs of society still surprise me," he responded, to the television.
"Nothing about human behavior surprises me anymore. Perk of the job," she said slowly. "Why are we watching this?"
"Because it's funny, and I still have five minutes before our appointment."
"It's sick, and I'm not early," she pointed out.
He checked his watch just as an audience member called the blond a whore and told her to "go get some KFC, you need it you thin bi-bleep!"
"Damn, you're right," Kenny said, looking up from his wrist. "You're always early. What's wrong, you feeling okay?"
"Oh, yeah," Sara said with a smile. "They're letting me loose day after tomorrow."
He turned around, absently shutting off the television. "That's great!"
She rolled her eyes. "I know they told you already."
Kenny's eyebrows contracted in pseudo-concentration, then returned to normal as he pointed at Sara and said, "Right!"
"It was partially your decision, Kenny. Eager to get rid of me?"
He shook his head vigorously. "God, no. But I have to say that I think you may be one of my all-time favorite patients, and I am thrilled to give you this next step."
"What?" Sara asked, confused by the last bit of his sentence.
"If you ever get bored, you can turn up the music and rock out on air guitar with one, still using the other to poke your annoying younger brother in the back of the head while he tries to watch TV," he quizzed. "At least that's what I did when I broke my leg."
"You broke your leg when you were fourteen."
"And what did I get for it?"
"Crutches," she said, an unspoken duh finishing her sentence. Her eyes widened with understanding. "I get crutches today. No more chair?"
His blond tips nodded. "It's a going away present."
"I haven't walked in weeks. . ."
"It'll be fine," he assured her, handing her the crutches. "Trust me."
She took the smooth wood into her hands, ecstatic. Kenny asked, "You ever have crutches before?"
"Once, in college. I slipped on some beer at a party. . ." Sara smiled at him. "I'm sure you can guess the rest."
"What'd you break?"
"Ankle. The first time I'd broken any body part."
"Ok, so you know how to use them. First step is not to go too far too fast."
"The PT motto," she said. "Never do more than you can handle. Don't rush your body. Blah, blah, blah."
"I'm going to help you up, you may need assistance for a while, until your strength is better," he explained, ignoring her comment. Kenny positioned the crutches for her, then gently lifted her out of the chair, Sara doing most of the work. "Ok, one step at a time, nice and slow."
She took a weak step forward, grimaced as a wave of pain washed over her muscles. "Shit, that hurts."
"Be careful not to put weight on your injured knee," he cautioned.
"I know," she said, taking a deep breath before placing the crutches in front of her and moving another small step forward. The pain lessened with each step. "Well, well," she muttered. "Look at me go."
