IV - HATE CRIME
It was Wednesday night. Six days had passed since Oscar Fennil had been arrested for the K-ROX murders and attacking Greg. And in those six days, nothing had happened. Sara was sitting in the break room, fingers tapping restlessly, as she tried to read the paper. Well, that wasn't true, exactly. A lot of things had happened - this was Las Vegas, after all. There had been several cases the team had been called on for, but none had been challenging. A couple of murder-suicides, a prostitute who had been murdered by her pimp - all standard, all easily solved.
Sara supposed that after the intensity of the last two cases, she should be happy that the last week hadn't been that challenging. And it wasn't as if she was hoping that an interesting murder would fall in their laps - she didn't want people dying to appease her boredom, after all. She just wanted something - interesting - to take her mind off Greg for a while.
The last week had been hard on Greg, and by extension hard on everyone else. Even though he tried to put an upbeat face on his recuperation, tried to pretend that he was getting accustomed to the ramifications of the attack, he was struggling. Sara knew this was normal, and that Greg couldn't be expected to bounce back in a week, but she missed him. He played a good game, laughing with them, smiling at their jokes and gentle teasing, saying the right things at the right time. But his smile was sad, and his intelligent brown eyes, which Sara had always been able to read, were shuttered.
Nick was with him at the hospital tonight - Greg's last night there before he was released. In the morning, Nick would be bringing him home. Sara was looking forward to having him arrive - she hoped that being in a more normal setting, Greg would be able to relax more, and come to realize that even though things had changed, he was still the same person.
"You're going to wear out the table top with all that tapping, Sara." Warrick's voice was teasing, and his blue eyes flashed when Sara looked up at him.
"Sorry Warrick. I'm just bored. And I'm thinking about Greg. He's coming home tomorrow."
"Yeah, I know. Are we all still coming over for an early dinner?"
Sara grinned. "That's the plan. Nick's got a pile of steak marinating in the fridge for the barbeque."
"And you're okay with that? Dead meat in your fridge?" Warrick teased, laughing when Sara made a small moue of distaste.
"I'm not thrilled. But what can I do - he's from Texas. I'll learn to live with it." They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.
"Have you named your kitten, yet?"
"No." Sara sighed, frowning at Warrick when he started to laugh. "What? It's a big responsibility. I don't want to name her something she would be embarrassed by."
"She's a kitten, Sara. She won't get embarrassed. What are you calling her in the meantime?"
"Oh, you know. Kitty, puss-puss - uhm - Nick calls her furball." She started giggling.
"That poor cat is going to have an identity crisis of magnificent proportions if you don't name her soon, Sara. She's gonna go all 'Garfield' on your ass." Warrick was trying to maintain a serious face, but his glinting eyes belied the attempt. He joined Sara in her laughter. When Grissom and Catherine walked into the lounge a few moments later, they were still gasping.
Grissom merely cocked an eyebrow at them coolly, and Catherine grinned. "What did we miss?"
"You don't want to know." Sara managed to get out, wiping tears of mirth from her face. She mock glared at Warrick, "But someone here has serious issues with Garfield." She smiled when she saw the file in Grissom's hand. "What? We finally caught a case?"
"Two. Sara, you're with me - we got a multiple homicide at Magikal Holistic Health and New Age. I'll fill you in on the way. Warrick - you're with Catherine."
* * * * *
Grissom surveyed the scene before him, carefully wiping his face of emotion as he took in the carnage. To his left, Sara was hissing.
"This is bad." They were standing inside a double wide glass doorway. Outside, several police cruisers were parked, lights still flashing. They strobed through the glass at regular intervals, bathing the scene in hues of red and blue. When the blue light rolled around the walls, the blood dripping from it appeared purple.
Grissom slid along outside window, stepping over books and overturned tables. A glass display counter had been upended at the side of the room, its contents spilling out over the floor. He moved forward, trying not to step on anything, and looked at the older woman underneath the overturned display. Shards of broken glass clung to her face and hair, and her eyes, still open, stared blankly at Grissom in death.
Sara had slowly started working her way around the other side of the room, her flashlight shining. "I have three over here, Grissom." On the floor, limbs flayed and tangled together in their rush to escape, two young men and a young woman lay in a vast pool of blood. All three had been shot in the head.
As she stepped further into the room, she was overwhelmed by the smell of patchouli, musk, gardenia - a multitude of scents blending together and assaulting her senses. The underlying coppery smell added an extra discordant note. She flashed her light quickly over the incense sticks still burning and sighed.
"Sara. I've found the last two." Grissom was in the far corner, and he turned towards her. "They've both been shot."
Sara responded. "So that's all six." She shook her head. "Who did this?" Her question was rhetorical, and she looked at Grissom again. He had moved to the far wall, his flashlight illuminating the words painted there. 'Thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me'.
* * * * *
On the other side of the city, Warrick and Catherine were taking pictures at their own crime scene, Warrick shaking his head at the carnage displayed before him. They were standing in the middle of 'Lifestyles', a popular alternative club. The walls, normally a flat black, dripped wetly with blood. A large disco ball hanging above the middle of the dance floor rotated slowly, refracting diamond glints of light in the large mirrors interspersed around the room.
"So the manager - Mr. Anderson -showed up to open, and found the place like this?" Catherine's voice was soft, and she grimaced at the still smoldering forms in front of her. The smell of burnt flesh and leather hung heavy in the air.
Warrick nodded. "Brass says the guy walks in, expecting his employees to be getting ready to open for the night, and found them engulfed in flames in the middle of the dance floor."
Catherine had crouched down on her haunches, a gloved finger slowly running through the foam left by the fire extinguisher the manager had used to put out the fire. "So we have a pretty good idea who these guys are then?"
"Yeah. Two bartenders, five waiters. We don't know who the eighth guy is, though. And we'll have to run a dental on them just to make sure. Anderson says he can't positively ID any of the bodies, although based on body-size, he can narrow it down for us." Warrick stepped forward and snapped a couple of pictures, the flashes reflecting back at them from the mirrors.
Catherine stood up and walked around the men. "Whoever did this tied them up pretty tightly. See the wire around them?"
Warrick nodded. "Looks like piano wire - thin, but strong. There had to have been more than one person though. I can't imagine eight grown men letting someone wrap them in piano wire and set them on fire without struggling."
Brass walked over to them. "Warrick? Catherine? I have something you need to see. Mr. Anderson gave it to me." He walked back to the bar on the opposite side of the room, waiting for them to follow him. Mr. Anderson stood off to the side, his face stiff with shock and pain, talking softly to a police officer. Brass pointed at a letter lying on the bar.
"He says it was nailed to his office door a couple of days ago. He doesn't know where it came from, or who sent it, so he stuck it in a file to hold in case he decided to go to the police."
Catherine looked at the letter, noting that it was made of words and letters clipped from magazines and glued to a sheet of legal paper.
" 'They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.' " She turned to Warrick, her face dismayed. His was tight with anger.
"Hate crime."
_______
It was Wednesday night. Six days had passed since Oscar Fennil had been arrested for the K-ROX murders and attacking Greg. And in those six days, nothing had happened. Sara was sitting in the break room, fingers tapping restlessly, as she tried to read the paper. Well, that wasn't true, exactly. A lot of things had happened - this was Las Vegas, after all. There had been several cases the team had been called on for, but none had been challenging. A couple of murder-suicides, a prostitute who had been murdered by her pimp - all standard, all easily solved.
Sara supposed that after the intensity of the last two cases, she should be happy that the last week hadn't been that challenging. And it wasn't as if she was hoping that an interesting murder would fall in their laps - she didn't want people dying to appease her boredom, after all. She just wanted something - interesting - to take her mind off Greg for a while.
The last week had been hard on Greg, and by extension hard on everyone else. Even though he tried to put an upbeat face on his recuperation, tried to pretend that he was getting accustomed to the ramifications of the attack, he was struggling. Sara knew this was normal, and that Greg couldn't be expected to bounce back in a week, but she missed him. He played a good game, laughing with them, smiling at their jokes and gentle teasing, saying the right things at the right time. But his smile was sad, and his intelligent brown eyes, which Sara had always been able to read, were shuttered.
Nick was with him at the hospital tonight - Greg's last night there before he was released. In the morning, Nick would be bringing him home. Sara was looking forward to having him arrive - she hoped that being in a more normal setting, Greg would be able to relax more, and come to realize that even though things had changed, he was still the same person.
"You're going to wear out the table top with all that tapping, Sara." Warrick's voice was teasing, and his blue eyes flashed when Sara looked up at him.
"Sorry Warrick. I'm just bored. And I'm thinking about Greg. He's coming home tomorrow."
"Yeah, I know. Are we all still coming over for an early dinner?"
Sara grinned. "That's the plan. Nick's got a pile of steak marinating in the fridge for the barbeque."
"And you're okay with that? Dead meat in your fridge?" Warrick teased, laughing when Sara made a small moue of distaste.
"I'm not thrilled. But what can I do - he's from Texas. I'll learn to live with it." They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.
"Have you named your kitten, yet?"
"No." Sara sighed, frowning at Warrick when he started to laugh. "What? It's a big responsibility. I don't want to name her something she would be embarrassed by."
"She's a kitten, Sara. She won't get embarrassed. What are you calling her in the meantime?"
"Oh, you know. Kitty, puss-puss - uhm - Nick calls her furball." She started giggling.
"That poor cat is going to have an identity crisis of magnificent proportions if you don't name her soon, Sara. She's gonna go all 'Garfield' on your ass." Warrick was trying to maintain a serious face, but his glinting eyes belied the attempt. He joined Sara in her laughter. When Grissom and Catherine walked into the lounge a few moments later, they were still gasping.
Grissom merely cocked an eyebrow at them coolly, and Catherine grinned. "What did we miss?"
"You don't want to know." Sara managed to get out, wiping tears of mirth from her face. She mock glared at Warrick, "But someone here has serious issues with Garfield." She smiled when she saw the file in Grissom's hand. "What? We finally caught a case?"
"Two. Sara, you're with me - we got a multiple homicide at Magikal Holistic Health and New Age. I'll fill you in on the way. Warrick - you're with Catherine."
* * * * *
Grissom surveyed the scene before him, carefully wiping his face of emotion as he took in the carnage. To his left, Sara was hissing.
"This is bad." They were standing inside a double wide glass doorway. Outside, several police cruisers were parked, lights still flashing. They strobed through the glass at regular intervals, bathing the scene in hues of red and blue. When the blue light rolled around the walls, the blood dripping from it appeared purple.
Grissom slid along outside window, stepping over books and overturned tables. A glass display counter had been upended at the side of the room, its contents spilling out over the floor. He moved forward, trying not to step on anything, and looked at the older woman underneath the overturned display. Shards of broken glass clung to her face and hair, and her eyes, still open, stared blankly at Grissom in death.
Sara had slowly started working her way around the other side of the room, her flashlight shining. "I have three over here, Grissom." On the floor, limbs flayed and tangled together in their rush to escape, two young men and a young woman lay in a vast pool of blood. All three had been shot in the head.
As she stepped further into the room, she was overwhelmed by the smell of patchouli, musk, gardenia - a multitude of scents blending together and assaulting her senses. The underlying coppery smell added an extra discordant note. She flashed her light quickly over the incense sticks still burning and sighed.
"Sara. I've found the last two." Grissom was in the far corner, and he turned towards her. "They've both been shot."
Sara responded. "So that's all six." She shook her head. "Who did this?" Her question was rhetorical, and she looked at Grissom again. He had moved to the far wall, his flashlight illuminating the words painted there. 'Thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me'.
* * * * *
On the other side of the city, Warrick and Catherine were taking pictures at their own crime scene, Warrick shaking his head at the carnage displayed before him. They were standing in the middle of 'Lifestyles', a popular alternative club. The walls, normally a flat black, dripped wetly with blood. A large disco ball hanging above the middle of the dance floor rotated slowly, refracting diamond glints of light in the large mirrors interspersed around the room.
"So the manager - Mr. Anderson -showed up to open, and found the place like this?" Catherine's voice was soft, and she grimaced at the still smoldering forms in front of her. The smell of burnt flesh and leather hung heavy in the air.
Warrick nodded. "Brass says the guy walks in, expecting his employees to be getting ready to open for the night, and found them engulfed in flames in the middle of the dance floor."
Catherine had crouched down on her haunches, a gloved finger slowly running through the foam left by the fire extinguisher the manager had used to put out the fire. "So we have a pretty good idea who these guys are then?"
"Yeah. Two bartenders, five waiters. We don't know who the eighth guy is, though. And we'll have to run a dental on them just to make sure. Anderson says he can't positively ID any of the bodies, although based on body-size, he can narrow it down for us." Warrick stepped forward and snapped a couple of pictures, the flashes reflecting back at them from the mirrors.
Catherine stood up and walked around the men. "Whoever did this tied them up pretty tightly. See the wire around them?"
Warrick nodded. "Looks like piano wire - thin, but strong. There had to have been more than one person though. I can't imagine eight grown men letting someone wrap them in piano wire and set them on fire without struggling."
Brass walked over to them. "Warrick? Catherine? I have something you need to see. Mr. Anderson gave it to me." He walked back to the bar on the opposite side of the room, waiting for them to follow him. Mr. Anderson stood off to the side, his face stiff with shock and pain, talking softly to a police officer. Brass pointed at a letter lying on the bar.
"He says it was nailed to his office door a couple of days ago. He doesn't know where it came from, or who sent it, so he stuck it in a file to hold in case he decided to go to the police."
Catherine looked at the letter, noting that it was made of words and letters clipped from magazines and glued to a sheet of legal paper.
" 'They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.' " She turned to Warrick, her face dismayed. His was tight with anger.
"Hate crime."
_______