A ringing phone woke him, and Grissom disentangled himself from Sara to
answer it.
"Hello?" he asked, yawning.
"Gil Grissom?" a woman drawled with a heavy Southern accent.
"Yeah, that's me," Grissom said, rubbing his eyes.
"Hold, please." Terrible soft rock filled the line. He sighed, checked the clock. 2:30 p.m.
"Grissom, you there?" Tony Dodd, the lead investigator on Sara's case, asked.
"Tony, what do you want?" he whispered. "Sara's sleeping, it's the middle of the day."
"Sorry, man, forgot you work graveyard." Dodd wasn't really sorry, Grissom didn't think the man had apologized sincerely for anything since he'd become a cop. "Didn't mean to wake you up, but I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."
"What?" Grissom yawned again. "Something new on Sara's case?"
"You could put it that way." Grissom could hear the man grinning. "We caught him."
"What?!" he exclaimed loudly.
Sara stirred next to him as Tony said, "He's dead. Admitted to everything, we have it on tape, it's being transcribed as we speak. He tried to run at a colleague of mine with a knife-full of bullets now."
"Can you send the body here?"
Tony's voice turned a little cold, Grissom remembered he was as territorial as a male lion. "It was a righteous shoot, Grissom."
"I don't doubt that at all, I just want to see it for myself. Do the autopsy."
"Spit on the bastard, let Sara get her kicks in. . .right? I know what you're thinking. He's already covered in foreign DNA," Tony drawled. "I'll send him special delivery, overnight mail. You'll get him tomorrow, ok?"
"Thanks," Grissom said, truly grateful. "I'll tell Sara when she wakes up."
"No problem. I hate these assholes."
"Me, too." He nearly hung up, but before he did, he asked, "Hey, Tony? What was his name?"
"Jerry Phillips. Catch you around, Grissom." Dodd hung up.
He sat in silence for two minutes, soaking up the information. Jerry Phillips. It sounded so. . . normal. So boy-next-door. Well, boy-next- door with a mean streak and a carving knife.
He was dead, but Jerry Phillips was still coming to Vegas, maybe to exact his last wounds. Grissom regretted that he couldn't have killed the man himself. For what he did to Sara, Grissom could have killed him a thousand times over and it wouldn't be enough.
Sara. He had to tell her.
Grissom reached over and caressed her unscarred cheek, she turned into his hand with a small groan. "Sara," he whispered. "Wake up."
"What is it?" she slurred.
"Tony Dodd just called. They caught your guy." He watched his words sink in as she woke fully.
"What?" she asked, surprised. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah," he replied softly.
"Well, where is he? Where's the bastard? I wanna talk to him," she rushed, as she tried to rise to get dressed.
"Hey, hey, lie down. He'll be in the lab tomorrow night."
"What you mean?" She shot him a quizzical look.
"They shot him."
"He's dead," she sighed with relief.
"Yeah, it's over."
"Oh, God. It's over." They both realized at the same moment what exactly that meant, what the impact was, but he was surprised to see tears course down her face.
"What's the matter?" Grissom asked, concerned.
She smiled at him through the tears. "I-I don't know. I. . . just. . .never realized it would be over and done, that he would be dead. . ." Sara sniffled, wiped brusquely at her eyes. "I guess I'm just releasing pent-up stuff. Damn, I thought I was done crying. Oh, shit," she exhaled. "The bastard's dead. Wow."
------------------
"Somebody ordered a corpse?" The deliveryman was a funeral director Grissom had never met before.
"Yeah, I did," Grissom said sharply. "That's Jerry Phillips, from Georgia?"
The director checked a notepad, and the tag on the body bag. "Yep, and now he's all yours. Sign here please," he requested, handing Grissom a chain- of-custody card.
David, the young coroner, was walking by as Grissom was signing, and Grissom called, "David, can you get this body into an autopsy bay, please? Don't touch him."
"Sure thing, Grissom," the young man said, and lifted the bag onto a gurney, which he then pushed into the building.
"Thank you," Grissom called, both to the coroner and to the funeral director, who had taken the card and returned to his hearse.
Grissom changed into scrubs, posted a Do Not Enter sign on the door of the autopsy bay, and slowly unzipped the bag, turning the body onto a table. He exhaled harshly before he looked at the man.
A preliminary autopsy had already been performed, he knew this from talking with Tony Dodd, but the coroner had not opened up the body. As Grissom looked over the body, he swore. "Son of a bitch, Tony. Two bullets is a righteous shoot, not two hundred."
Indeed, it appeared that every cop at the scene had emptied their guns into Phillips. The majority of the bullets were in Phillips' chest, but quite a few were in the groin area and two were lodged in his skull, one in his forehead, and one between his eyes.
"Incredible," Al Robbins said from behind him, crutches clicking as he moved closer. "I've heard of Southern justice, but this is new."
"Doc, did you miss the Do Not Enter sign?"
The old coroner shrugged. "I figured you could use some company with the guy. You didn't bring Sara in, so I assumed you wanted some alone time with him. I wouldn't want you to do anything. . .rash."
"Thank you, doc, but I'm fine."
"I'm staying, though. Protocol. Not that you have much use for that."
"Not right now I don't."
The coroner nodded, taking another look at the body. "He's shiny. That's strange."
"Not when a dozen cops have spit on him," Grissom said.
"I see." Robbins turned away to check the toe tag. "Jerry Phillips, age 35," he read. "Want to open him up?"
Grissom shook his head. "No, I just wanted to see it for myself. It's pretty obvious how he died." He looked away from the corpse, thinking.
"How is Sara, anyway?" Robbins asked, knowing exactly where Grissom's mind was.
"Coping," Grissom answered.
"Hello?" he asked, yawning.
"Gil Grissom?" a woman drawled with a heavy Southern accent.
"Yeah, that's me," Grissom said, rubbing his eyes.
"Hold, please." Terrible soft rock filled the line. He sighed, checked the clock. 2:30 p.m.
"Grissom, you there?" Tony Dodd, the lead investigator on Sara's case, asked.
"Tony, what do you want?" he whispered. "Sara's sleeping, it's the middle of the day."
"Sorry, man, forgot you work graveyard." Dodd wasn't really sorry, Grissom didn't think the man had apologized sincerely for anything since he'd become a cop. "Didn't mean to wake you up, but I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."
"What?" Grissom yawned again. "Something new on Sara's case?"
"You could put it that way." Grissom could hear the man grinning. "We caught him."
"What?!" he exclaimed loudly.
Sara stirred next to him as Tony said, "He's dead. Admitted to everything, we have it on tape, it's being transcribed as we speak. He tried to run at a colleague of mine with a knife-full of bullets now."
"Can you send the body here?"
Tony's voice turned a little cold, Grissom remembered he was as territorial as a male lion. "It was a righteous shoot, Grissom."
"I don't doubt that at all, I just want to see it for myself. Do the autopsy."
"Spit on the bastard, let Sara get her kicks in. . .right? I know what you're thinking. He's already covered in foreign DNA," Tony drawled. "I'll send him special delivery, overnight mail. You'll get him tomorrow, ok?"
"Thanks," Grissom said, truly grateful. "I'll tell Sara when she wakes up."
"No problem. I hate these assholes."
"Me, too." He nearly hung up, but before he did, he asked, "Hey, Tony? What was his name?"
"Jerry Phillips. Catch you around, Grissom." Dodd hung up.
He sat in silence for two minutes, soaking up the information. Jerry Phillips. It sounded so. . . normal. So boy-next-door. Well, boy-next- door with a mean streak and a carving knife.
He was dead, but Jerry Phillips was still coming to Vegas, maybe to exact his last wounds. Grissom regretted that he couldn't have killed the man himself. For what he did to Sara, Grissom could have killed him a thousand times over and it wouldn't be enough.
Sara. He had to tell her.
Grissom reached over and caressed her unscarred cheek, she turned into his hand with a small groan. "Sara," he whispered. "Wake up."
"What is it?" she slurred.
"Tony Dodd just called. They caught your guy." He watched his words sink in as she woke fully.
"What?" she asked, surprised. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah," he replied softly.
"Well, where is he? Where's the bastard? I wanna talk to him," she rushed, as she tried to rise to get dressed.
"Hey, hey, lie down. He'll be in the lab tomorrow night."
"What you mean?" She shot him a quizzical look.
"They shot him."
"He's dead," she sighed with relief.
"Yeah, it's over."
"Oh, God. It's over." They both realized at the same moment what exactly that meant, what the impact was, but he was surprised to see tears course down her face.
"What's the matter?" Grissom asked, concerned.
She smiled at him through the tears. "I-I don't know. I. . . just. . .never realized it would be over and done, that he would be dead. . ." Sara sniffled, wiped brusquely at her eyes. "I guess I'm just releasing pent-up stuff. Damn, I thought I was done crying. Oh, shit," she exhaled. "The bastard's dead. Wow."
------------------
"Somebody ordered a corpse?" The deliveryman was a funeral director Grissom had never met before.
"Yeah, I did," Grissom said sharply. "That's Jerry Phillips, from Georgia?"
The director checked a notepad, and the tag on the body bag. "Yep, and now he's all yours. Sign here please," he requested, handing Grissom a chain- of-custody card.
David, the young coroner, was walking by as Grissom was signing, and Grissom called, "David, can you get this body into an autopsy bay, please? Don't touch him."
"Sure thing, Grissom," the young man said, and lifted the bag onto a gurney, which he then pushed into the building.
"Thank you," Grissom called, both to the coroner and to the funeral director, who had taken the card and returned to his hearse.
Grissom changed into scrubs, posted a Do Not Enter sign on the door of the autopsy bay, and slowly unzipped the bag, turning the body onto a table. He exhaled harshly before he looked at the man.
A preliminary autopsy had already been performed, he knew this from talking with Tony Dodd, but the coroner had not opened up the body. As Grissom looked over the body, he swore. "Son of a bitch, Tony. Two bullets is a righteous shoot, not two hundred."
Indeed, it appeared that every cop at the scene had emptied their guns into Phillips. The majority of the bullets were in Phillips' chest, but quite a few were in the groin area and two were lodged in his skull, one in his forehead, and one between his eyes.
"Incredible," Al Robbins said from behind him, crutches clicking as he moved closer. "I've heard of Southern justice, but this is new."
"Doc, did you miss the Do Not Enter sign?"
The old coroner shrugged. "I figured you could use some company with the guy. You didn't bring Sara in, so I assumed you wanted some alone time with him. I wouldn't want you to do anything. . .rash."
"Thank you, doc, but I'm fine."
"I'm staying, though. Protocol. Not that you have much use for that."
"Not right now I don't."
The coroner nodded, taking another look at the body. "He's shiny. That's strange."
"Not when a dozen cops have spit on him," Grissom said.
"I see." Robbins turned away to check the toe tag. "Jerry Phillips, age 35," he read. "Want to open him up?"
Grissom shook his head. "No, I just wanted to see it for myself. It's pretty obvious how he died." He looked away from the corpse, thinking.
"How is Sara, anyway?" Robbins asked, knowing exactly where Grissom's mind was.
"Coping," Grissom answered.
