X - PAINT CAN
Grissom was standing in the door of his office, debating whether or not to wake Greg up or let him continue sleeping. Catherine had called to let Grissom know they were on their way back, over 40 empty and half empty bottles of liquor in tow, several rolls of film to be processed including pictures of a partial footprint found on the scene, and a paint can that had been retrieved from a dumpster out back. There would be a lot of evidence to go through, and they could use Greg to coordinate all the tests for them, but Grissom was reluctant to disturb him. By all rights, Greg shouldn't even be back to work yet, and it was Grissom's responsibility to make sure that the young lab tech rested as needed and didn't push himself too hard while recuperating. No one wanted Greg to have another set-back, but at the same time Grissom knew he couldn't trust any other lab tech to run the tests to his own exacting standards.
Grissom sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, smiling at the irony of his situation. He had always been hard on Greg - harder then he was on anyone else he worked with, and he regretted it now. Grissom had always recognized - to himself at least - the brilliant work Greg did for the lab, had always known that Greg was an extremely intelligent young man, but his constant teasing and joking - his exuberance - had bothered Grissom.
He had often felt that Greg wasn't serious enough on the job, that his constant 'Look At Me!' antics proved that what Greg had in intellectual maturity he more than lacked in emotional maturity. Now that he knew about Greg's past, he finally understood what motivated Greg to act as he did. Behind his bravado, his cocky attitude and seeming self-confidence, Greg was really a lonely kid looking for a place to belong.
Grissom could understand this. Despite his belief that he wasn't a people person, he recognized loneliness when he saw it. All things considered, it was amazing what Greg had managed to accomplish in his short life. Despite the fact that he had never had a family, that he had been shuffled from foster home to foster home his entire life, and been on his own since the age of sixteen, Greg had survived and thrived.
He had managed to get an education, he was a brilliant chemist. He was surrounded by people who respected him and - more importantly - had come to love him. Yet, when Oscar had attacked him, he had done more than damage Greg's heart, he had damaged Greg. The exuberant young man Grissom had known only made brief flashes of appearance now. Greg was recuperating physically, but emotionally he wasn't doing as well. And Grissom, who had come to realize over the last few weeks how important his friends were to him - how important Greg was to him - felt helpless. He wanted the old Greg back - theatrical Greg, laughing Greg - the Greg who danced in the lab when he thought no one was watching him with a latex glove on his head.
What disturbed Grissom the most, however, was the realization that if Greg couldn't get past this, he would become like Grissom himself. He would tamp down on his exuberance and cut himself off from life as slowly and surely as Grissom had so long ago. Grissom didn't want that for Greg - he didn't want Greg to grow older hiding from his emotions, so engrossed in his work and the simple act of living that he didn't have a life.
He heard the muted tones of Catherine and Warrick's conversation as they walked down the hall, and realized they were back from the crime scene. Looking at Greg, so peaceful in sleep, Grissom sighed. Stepping into his office he leaned over and pulled the blanket he had left on the sofa up around the young man's shoulders, his hands gentle as he tucked in the ends.
"Sleep well, Greg." In his sleep, Greg heard him and smiled. Grissom smiled back.
* * * * *
"What have we got, Brass?" Nick and Sara walked side by side toward the chief, field kits in their hands. Every once in a while, Nick's arm would brush Sara's and she would smile.
"Hey Nick - Sara." Brass' voice was gruff, and he looked more tense than normal. "This isn't a pretty one."
"When are they ever?" Nick sighed, placing his kit on the ground. "Gris said it looked like another hate crime?"
Brass nodded. "Young couple, came out here to - stargaze." He smiled, but it held no joy. "We're not sure how long they've been here."
The three approached the car that was sitting about 40 yards off the highway. From the side of the road, under normal circumstances, the car wouldn't have been visible. A dusty tan Oldsmobile, it blended into the desert sands around it. The illuminated lights of a night time crime scene were the only reason it was visible now.
"Who found the car?" Sara asked, maglight flashing from side to side, taking in the peripheral edges of the scene.
Brass shrugged. "We got an anonymous 911 call about an hour ago. A copy of the tape will be back at the station when we get there. Told us where to look. But the vics aren't in the car."
They continued walking another 50 or so feet. Flashlight beams and the larger beams of the portable lights kept breaking the inky blackness of the sky, like spotlights shooting messages to the moon.
Sara stopped walking about 10 feet from their destination. "Oh my God."
In front of them, stretched out on the desert floor, the bodies of the two victims had been firmly planted in the shifting sands. The victim on the right, a young man with skin the color of dark Hershey chocolate, had been badly beaten before he had been bound, blindfolded, his arms stretched tightly over his head and a large wooden stake pounded into the dirt to hold his hands. Closer inspection showed that the skin had been peeled from his hands. His feet had been tightly bound to the inside of the other victims' calves. The girl was stretched out in a similar position, arms pulled over her head and restrained by a large stake and several ropes. The upper half of her body was covered in blood.
"Where's all the blood from?" Nick muttered, stepping closer to the young women and looking at her, his face carefully blank.
Brass, still standing beside Sara, moved forward slightly, flashing his light on a thin string of silver wire leading from what was left of the girl's throat to the stake her arms were tied to. "There's a wire cutting through the skin on her neck. We surmise they were tied here still alive, and everytime the boyfriend tried to move or jerked his legs, or she moved, the wire pulled tighter. Kinda like a garrote. Eventually, it would have decapitated her."
Sara mentally shook herself, grabbing the camera. "Then let's get these pictures taken and lift what fibers and evidence we can, and cut them loose. This is obscene. How do we know this is a hate crime?"
"Our killer left a calling card." Brass replied.
* * * * *
Grissom, Catherine and Warrick were carefully sorting through the bottles, dusting for prints, when Greg walked into the room.
"Hey Sleepyhead." Warrick's voice was teasing, and Greg blushed when Catherine and even Grissom chuckled.
"Hey. Uhm - I'm sorry I slept so long - I'll get to work on this stuff right away."
Grissom merely cocked an eyebrow at Greg. "Did anyone ask you to apologize, Greg?" When Greg shook his head, Grissom smiled. "Then don't. You're supposed to rest as often as you need - doctor's orders."
Greg walked over to the table they had spread the bottles out on, trying to hide the sudden tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't know why he felt like crying, he just did, and it embarrassed him.
Catherine, ever observant, lightly bumped her hip against his when he stopped beside her. "We're just glad to have you here, Greg. You could spend the whole shift sleeping in Grissom's office, and it wouldn't matter as long as you're with us. So, what we're doing here is pulling prints - obviously. We're doing the empty bottle's first, in the hopes we'll get prints for future use. And, we found a paint can in the dumpster out back. We've lifted the prints from the handle and can. We need you to run a comparison on the blood on the outside of the can to make sure it matches the pig's blood."
Greg smiled. "No stone unturned. Where's the can?"
"Grissom fumed it - wanted to lock any prints before we started pulling blood." Warrick looked up and smiled. "I think he really just wanted to play with the equipment."
Smiling at the easy banter, Grissom lifted his head from the bottle he had just dusted. "No - Greg likes playing with the equipment. That's why he's the chemist."
Quickly retrieving the can, Greg walked back to the table. "So, I guess I'll lift the prints then - looks like there's a good one on the handle." Gingerly placing the can on the table, he examined the blood streaks on the sides and around the bottom of the can. "Why did they put the top back on it?"
Warrick looked up at Greg, eyebrows creasing his forehead. "Huh?"
"Why did the put the top back on can? Who cares if there's still blood in it that might drip out when they toss it in the dumpster?" Greg looked at them seriously. "They didn't just place it on - look how tight it is - they pounded it on. Why?" Picking up the can and holding it up to his ear, he gave it a gentle shake. When he smiled, Grissom handed him his Swiss Army knife.
"Use the screwdriver. Open it up."
The three other CSI's leaned closer, watching as Greg quickly did as directed. Inside the can, covered in blood, bristles misshapen and stuck in the remaining blood congealing in the bottom of the can, were two paintbrushes.
_______
Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews - as always, I really appreciate them. This story has some really neat parts coming, and I'm working really hard to pull everything all together - there's a lot of stuff going on and I need to tie everything up in a neat bundle. Just to make it clear, I am not knocking knocking God, Christianity, Catholicism, etc. in any way shape or form - I AM knocking religious yahoos that use the Bible to validate their own twisted views on hate, however. Just so you know! Also - I'm gone until Monday, so no updates until then!
Grissom was standing in the door of his office, debating whether or not to wake Greg up or let him continue sleeping. Catherine had called to let Grissom know they were on their way back, over 40 empty and half empty bottles of liquor in tow, several rolls of film to be processed including pictures of a partial footprint found on the scene, and a paint can that had been retrieved from a dumpster out back. There would be a lot of evidence to go through, and they could use Greg to coordinate all the tests for them, but Grissom was reluctant to disturb him. By all rights, Greg shouldn't even be back to work yet, and it was Grissom's responsibility to make sure that the young lab tech rested as needed and didn't push himself too hard while recuperating. No one wanted Greg to have another set-back, but at the same time Grissom knew he couldn't trust any other lab tech to run the tests to his own exacting standards.
Grissom sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, smiling at the irony of his situation. He had always been hard on Greg - harder then he was on anyone else he worked with, and he regretted it now. Grissom had always recognized - to himself at least - the brilliant work Greg did for the lab, had always known that Greg was an extremely intelligent young man, but his constant teasing and joking - his exuberance - had bothered Grissom.
He had often felt that Greg wasn't serious enough on the job, that his constant 'Look At Me!' antics proved that what Greg had in intellectual maturity he more than lacked in emotional maturity. Now that he knew about Greg's past, he finally understood what motivated Greg to act as he did. Behind his bravado, his cocky attitude and seeming self-confidence, Greg was really a lonely kid looking for a place to belong.
Grissom could understand this. Despite his belief that he wasn't a people person, he recognized loneliness when he saw it. All things considered, it was amazing what Greg had managed to accomplish in his short life. Despite the fact that he had never had a family, that he had been shuffled from foster home to foster home his entire life, and been on his own since the age of sixteen, Greg had survived and thrived.
He had managed to get an education, he was a brilliant chemist. He was surrounded by people who respected him and - more importantly - had come to love him. Yet, when Oscar had attacked him, he had done more than damage Greg's heart, he had damaged Greg. The exuberant young man Grissom had known only made brief flashes of appearance now. Greg was recuperating physically, but emotionally he wasn't doing as well. And Grissom, who had come to realize over the last few weeks how important his friends were to him - how important Greg was to him - felt helpless. He wanted the old Greg back - theatrical Greg, laughing Greg - the Greg who danced in the lab when he thought no one was watching him with a latex glove on his head.
What disturbed Grissom the most, however, was the realization that if Greg couldn't get past this, he would become like Grissom himself. He would tamp down on his exuberance and cut himself off from life as slowly and surely as Grissom had so long ago. Grissom didn't want that for Greg - he didn't want Greg to grow older hiding from his emotions, so engrossed in his work and the simple act of living that he didn't have a life.
He heard the muted tones of Catherine and Warrick's conversation as they walked down the hall, and realized they were back from the crime scene. Looking at Greg, so peaceful in sleep, Grissom sighed. Stepping into his office he leaned over and pulled the blanket he had left on the sofa up around the young man's shoulders, his hands gentle as he tucked in the ends.
"Sleep well, Greg." In his sleep, Greg heard him and smiled. Grissom smiled back.
* * * * *
"What have we got, Brass?" Nick and Sara walked side by side toward the chief, field kits in their hands. Every once in a while, Nick's arm would brush Sara's and she would smile.
"Hey Nick - Sara." Brass' voice was gruff, and he looked more tense than normal. "This isn't a pretty one."
"When are they ever?" Nick sighed, placing his kit on the ground. "Gris said it looked like another hate crime?"
Brass nodded. "Young couple, came out here to - stargaze." He smiled, but it held no joy. "We're not sure how long they've been here."
The three approached the car that was sitting about 40 yards off the highway. From the side of the road, under normal circumstances, the car wouldn't have been visible. A dusty tan Oldsmobile, it blended into the desert sands around it. The illuminated lights of a night time crime scene were the only reason it was visible now.
"Who found the car?" Sara asked, maglight flashing from side to side, taking in the peripheral edges of the scene.
Brass shrugged. "We got an anonymous 911 call about an hour ago. A copy of the tape will be back at the station when we get there. Told us where to look. But the vics aren't in the car."
They continued walking another 50 or so feet. Flashlight beams and the larger beams of the portable lights kept breaking the inky blackness of the sky, like spotlights shooting messages to the moon.
Sara stopped walking about 10 feet from their destination. "Oh my God."
In front of them, stretched out on the desert floor, the bodies of the two victims had been firmly planted in the shifting sands. The victim on the right, a young man with skin the color of dark Hershey chocolate, had been badly beaten before he had been bound, blindfolded, his arms stretched tightly over his head and a large wooden stake pounded into the dirt to hold his hands. Closer inspection showed that the skin had been peeled from his hands. His feet had been tightly bound to the inside of the other victims' calves. The girl was stretched out in a similar position, arms pulled over her head and restrained by a large stake and several ropes. The upper half of her body was covered in blood.
"Where's all the blood from?" Nick muttered, stepping closer to the young women and looking at her, his face carefully blank.
Brass, still standing beside Sara, moved forward slightly, flashing his light on a thin string of silver wire leading from what was left of the girl's throat to the stake her arms were tied to. "There's a wire cutting through the skin on her neck. We surmise they were tied here still alive, and everytime the boyfriend tried to move or jerked his legs, or she moved, the wire pulled tighter. Kinda like a garrote. Eventually, it would have decapitated her."
Sara mentally shook herself, grabbing the camera. "Then let's get these pictures taken and lift what fibers and evidence we can, and cut them loose. This is obscene. How do we know this is a hate crime?"
"Our killer left a calling card." Brass replied.
* * * * *
Grissom, Catherine and Warrick were carefully sorting through the bottles, dusting for prints, when Greg walked into the room.
"Hey Sleepyhead." Warrick's voice was teasing, and Greg blushed when Catherine and even Grissom chuckled.
"Hey. Uhm - I'm sorry I slept so long - I'll get to work on this stuff right away."
Grissom merely cocked an eyebrow at Greg. "Did anyone ask you to apologize, Greg?" When Greg shook his head, Grissom smiled. "Then don't. You're supposed to rest as often as you need - doctor's orders."
Greg walked over to the table they had spread the bottles out on, trying to hide the sudden tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't know why he felt like crying, he just did, and it embarrassed him.
Catherine, ever observant, lightly bumped her hip against his when he stopped beside her. "We're just glad to have you here, Greg. You could spend the whole shift sleeping in Grissom's office, and it wouldn't matter as long as you're with us. So, what we're doing here is pulling prints - obviously. We're doing the empty bottle's first, in the hopes we'll get prints for future use. And, we found a paint can in the dumpster out back. We've lifted the prints from the handle and can. We need you to run a comparison on the blood on the outside of the can to make sure it matches the pig's blood."
Greg smiled. "No stone unturned. Where's the can?"
"Grissom fumed it - wanted to lock any prints before we started pulling blood." Warrick looked up and smiled. "I think he really just wanted to play with the equipment."
Smiling at the easy banter, Grissom lifted his head from the bottle he had just dusted. "No - Greg likes playing with the equipment. That's why he's the chemist."
Quickly retrieving the can, Greg walked back to the table. "So, I guess I'll lift the prints then - looks like there's a good one on the handle." Gingerly placing the can on the table, he examined the blood streaks on the sides and around the bottom of the can. "Why did they put the top back on it?"
Warrick looked up at Greg, eyebrows creasing his forehead. "Huh?"
"Why did the put the top back on can? Who cares if there's still blood in it that might drip out when they toss it in the dumpster?" Greg looked at them seriously. "They didn't just place it on - look how tight it is - they pounded it on. Why?" Picking up the can and holding it up to his ear, he gave it a gentle shake. When he smiled, Grissom handed him his Swiss Army knife.
"Use the screwdriver. Open it up."
The three other CSI's leaned closer, watching as Greg quickly did as directed. Inside the can, covered in blood, bristles misshapen and stuck in the remaining blood congealing in the bottom of the can, were two paintbrushes.
_______
Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews - as always, I really appreciate them. This story has some really neat parts coming, and I'm working really hard to pull everything all together - there's a lot of stuff going on and I need to tie everything up in a neat bundle. Just to make it clear, I am not knocking knocking God, Christianity, Catholicism, etc. in any way shape or form - I AM knocking religious yahoos that use the Bible to validate their own twisted views on hate, however. Just so you know! Also - I'm gone until Monday, so no updates until then!