This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Ghost (Part 4/26)
by Cheers
Sunday Night, 10:58 PM
He looked up. If he sat in just the right spot he could catch the barest glimpse of the night sky. One thing about the high desert, the view of the heavens was spectacular. The lights of downtown Las Vegas obscured this kind of view. How many times had he taken a moment when he was out of the city at night to just look up and wonder? That had been one of the perks of the job. He didn't always have to be in the office. Field work, real field work, afforded him the occasional unencumbered view of the night sky.
The sound of a soft rustling brought his attention swiftly away from the few stars he could see and back to his immediate surroundings. The rustling was close and he had to remind himself not to hold his breath. Make no sudden moves, he told himself, easy does it.
The rustling was quite muffled now and he didn't know if this was because his hearing was impaired at present or because the sound was growing more distant. He guessed it was the former.
"Probably another snake," Gil said out loud. His voice echoed softly. He had decided to use his voice to keep himself company. "Probably a common western," he continued. He was far too big for a snake to consider him prey so all he really needed to do was stay calm and not startle the reptile. The snake would find a cozy place to curl up for the night as the temperature continued to drop. The sounds of the snake's passage finally faded to such a degree that after several long moments of concerted effort Gil could no longer hear it.
He looked up again. This night sky was the third he had seen since being thrown down in the shaft. It must be late Sunday night. "I should be at work now," he told the night sky. He took a deep breath and winced at the jab of pain it elicited. The pain brought his head down again and Gil gripped his right side for support. His eighth or ninth rib had to be broken, perhaps both.
The renewed pain brought with it a reminder of another discomfort. Thirst. Gil could not remember when he felt so thirsty. He was hungry too. Don't go there, he chided himself silently.
"Think about the sky," he said softly. They were under the same sky. They were looking for him under the same stars.
Sunday Night, 10:59 PM
This Citgo was store number 243, the second of three Citgo stores on Tropicana Boulevard in the downtown area between Rainbow and Eastern. The afternoon clerk, a young man approximately twenty with questionable hygiene habits, was sitting on the top of two inverted and stacked milk crates and was in a state of nervous agitation, jogging one leg, chewing on the inside of one lip, and rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans. A uniformed police officer was taking his statement.
Sara made a cursory visual sweep of the counter and noted the popped cash register drawer with empty bill slots, an overturned Citgo coffee mug with dark liquid pooling at the opening, and very few other signs of disturbance. She looked up and saw that the security camera that monitored the counter was seated near the ceiling just above the office door. It hung loosely from a bracket and the wiring had been pulled from the back of the camera. The camera's power light was off.
Detective Corrie Pavin greeted Sara as she exited the office with the convenience store manager. "Hi, Sara."
"Hey."
"Sara Sidle, this is Mr. Singh, the manager," Pavin introduced a thirty-something man dressed in crisp new jeans, polo shirt, and v-neck sweater to the CSI.
"Mr. Singh," Sara said to him, "I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Were you here when the robbery took place?"
Mr. Singh shook his head. "No. I arrived about twenty minutes ago, after Rick called to tell me the store was robbed."
"And Rick," Sara said, turning to look at the nervous clerk still sitting on the milk crates, "works here in the evenings?"
"Yeah," the manager nodded. "He works four evenings a week. This is the first time he's been here when the store was held up, though. You know this is the third time this year?"
Ignoring the statistic, Sara looked up at the damaged security camera. "How long has the security camera been in this condition?"
The manager and the detective both looked up at the camera. Mr. Singh shook his head again. "It was in perfect working order this morning when I left."
"Really," Sara said as she looked back at the clerk. Her eyes narrowed and she nodded slightly. This had the distinct feel of an inside job. "Well," she told the manager without looking away from Rick, "I better get busy so we can catch whoever did it this time."
"For real?" Mr. Singh's voice sounded surprised.
Sara turned to look at the manager again, a small but sly smile gracing the corner of her mouth. "For real."
Sunday Night, 11:03 PM
Grissom's house was dark. Catherine and Jim Brass approached his front door hesitantly. Grissom's townhouse was the second to the last third floor unit in a building that housed perhaps twenty renovated condominium homes in an old industrial complex. The hallway outside Grissom's front door was light tan paint over cinderblock. The doorframe of Grissom's unit was painted white and glowed slightly from the reflected florescent light recessed into the hallway ceiling. There was a dull wearing pattern around the doorknob that was usual for everyday handling. Both Catherine and Brass saw the dark smudge approximately five and a half feet from the floor on the inner edge, handle side of the door frame; head high for a man five eleven.
Brass knocked on the door loudly. "Gil Grissom! Grissom, you home?! It's Jim Brass!"
There was no answer.
He tried the knob and to his surprise, it turned easily in his hand. His surprise registered on his face when he looked back at Catherine. Brass gestured with his head for Catherine to stand behind him. When she nodded, he slowly opened the door to Grissom's home. Tentatively, Brass stepped inside.
"Grissom?!" Brass yelled again as he entered. Again there was no answer. Using the handkerchief from his coat pocket, Brass flipped on the entry light. Catherine was not far behind him despite his desire for her to stay safely back.
Brass was about to take another step in when he was stopped by a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Jim, hold up," Catherine told the detective.
Turning, Brass saw that she was looking at the floor to his right. He followed her gaze and glimpsed what she had found. His stomach tightened at the sight of what was obviously, to a detective with over twenty years on the job, several drops of dried blood on the floor.