Chapter Eight

The body of John Linman was found by his neighbour a cool Monday morning. His daughter had gone to the grandparents for the weekend and was spared the sight of her father, skull bashed in and eyes missing.

The same day Carl Hansen was released, no charges put forward. He had been in Britain at the time of the first murder and his gun was not the weapon used for the killings. With nothing to connect him to the crime but a shoe that witnesses could confirm he'd given away, there was no other choice.

Grissom wasn't surprised. He hardly even listened when a disappointed Catherine delivered the news, and hardly batted an eyelid when she told him Ecklie was drooling over a possible high-profile murder of a top lawyer named John Linman.

Until she mentioned the victim's skull had been bashed, and violently at that. His mind seemed to click, and he got up without a word. He could hear Catherine call after him, but he couldn't muster enough concentration to answer her.

Bashed skull… Violence against the mind. A clever killer. Book smart. Well educated.

There was something he was missing. A clue. He could feel it nag away at his brain, just out of reach. Some obvious piece of evidence, just waiting to be given significance.

The envelope smiled whitely against him as he entered his office. He froze, the typed words staring up at him.

Gil Grissom.

He reached for gloves, snapping them on and picking up the flat envelope as if it would bite him. It contained only one sheet, typed and folded neatly.

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

- The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde

Are you in pain, Mr. Grissom? Does my continued freedom trouble you and your fair brunette? I await our next meeting.

A message. A threat. A challenge. He didn't like that Sara was mentioned one bit. Something almost like fear shook his spine, but he refused to let it take hold. This was evidence to be unravelled.

The poem – the poem meant something. He could vaguely recall it, the tale of man convicted of killing his wife.

Were they looking for a widower? A man who had been married and lost – perhaps killed – a wife?

"What are you trying to tell me?" he asked, but only the silence answered him.

II

Hannah sat under the tree and watched the leaves fall.

Some would dive to the earth, some liked to float like a cloud. She liked those leaves. They looked like they could fly. She wanted to fly. It was the only thing she remembered of her mother – warm sun and being lifted high up on strong arms, flying…

Sometimes she tried to cry for her mother, like she remembered her dad had. He had cried a lot, and she had rested her head in his lap every time. He would pat her head and his tears would fall in her hair.

She sometimes wondered if they would make patter in her hair, like the butterflies. Dad didn't call her a butterfly, but a dragonfly. She liked butterflies better. Everyone liked the butterflies. They were beautiful and colourful and felt ticklish in your hand.

A leaf landed by her feet, and she picked it up. It looked beautiful even though she knew it would die soon. Dad had explained death to her. It was like a sleep, only better. No dreams to wake you up screaming. Sometimes, she felt like sleeping like that, Cinderella under the trees, waiting for mum to come back.

She missed her mum a bit. Dad said it was normal, but she had never heard him speaking of missing his mum. She wondered about that sometimes. She had seen pictures of dad's mum and she had been scared. Dad's mum looked scary. Dad's mum was dead and couldn't be scary anymore. Dad had told her.

Dad liked dead people. They were easier to deal with; she had heard him tell a friend once. She wondered if he thought the same thing of mum.

The leaf was dry. She could crush it in her hand if she wanted to. She wondered if leaves dreamt of blood and awoke screaming. She had never heard a leaf scream.

Mum had screamed. She didn't remember, she didn't want to remember, but she knew mum had screamed. A lullaby. Mum had sung a lullaby, and then screamed. A lullaby for mum.

"Hannah!"

She smiled as dad came running towards her. He always looked so happy when he had been out driving and seeing dead people.

Smiling, she got up, and the leaf fell to the earth, spinning.

II

He closed his eyes as the music became a crescendo, diving in below his skin and into his blood. His tired mind embraced the chance to think less, merely feeling the music. There was so much sadness and triumph in it, echoing his own buried feelings.

"Hey, Grissom."

He opened his eyes to meet Sara's, tired and slightly cold. She had seemed distant lately, as days went by and their killer was still out there, waiting to kill again.

"I heard about the letter."

"No fingerprints," he replied. "It's a photocopy of a print."

"Making it harder to determine where it came from," Sara finished, rubbing her temples slightly. "We find the photocopier, we still have to find the printer."

She paused for a moment, staring beyond him. "And meanwhile, he can kill again. Goodnight, Grissom."

She turned as if to leave, and he got up.

"Sara, anger won't help you solve this case. Only the evidence will."

She turned around in a heartbeat, leaning against the doorway. Arms crossed, she stared up at him. He met her hostile gaze calmly, putting a hand on her arm.

"You're angry because you feel frustrated with the case," he explained. Her eyes darkened.

"Is that so?

"You feel we are not getting anywhere…"

"Well, we aren't getting anywhere, are we Grissom?" she snapped. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words escaped. She silenced him effectively with a surprise assault on his lips, and he nearly tripped backwards.

Her arms went around his neck, pulling him roughly against her. He was too dumbfounded to resist, but managed to steady himself with an arm against the wall for support.

Her lips felt like silk gliding over his. He responded to her aggression with gentleness, binging a hand to her face, tenderly caressing her cheek. Her breasts pushed against his chest as she arched against him.

Her lips parted in a soundless gasp, and he deepened the kiss hesitantly, exploring the unfamiliar territory attentively. She tasted slightly of a mild cheese, probably from her lunch, and something entirely her.

The moment seemed to last forever, but finally she broke free, easing out of the embrace and leaving him breathless.

"Good night, Grissom," she said without looking at him, and slipped out quietly. He stared after her, heart pounding fiercely and lips still tingling.

The opera faded away, leaving only silence thundering in his ears.

"Goodnight, Sara," he said and turned off the light.