This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Ghost (Part 5/26)
by Cheers
Sunday Night 11:46 PM
A black Tahoe pulled up along the road and stopped, the headlights casting shadows past the far side of the three other vehicles stopped nearby. Warrick killed the engine, stepped out of the Tahoe, and headed for the farthest vehicle, where he could see a Nevada State Trooper bending over to look at something.
The something turned out to be Nick Stokes. Nick was crouched in the rear passenger side doorway spraying luminol over the passenger side rear seat of a '95 white Toyota Corolla with Arizona plates.
"What's up?" Warrick asked as he approached the two men.
The Trooper and Nick looked up as Warrick drew near. "Warrick Brown, CSI," Warrick introduced himself to the NHP officer.
"Cliff Thompson," the Trooper replied, nodding to the newly arrived CSI. "I found this vehicle abandoned here with an out-of-state tag. When I ran the plate, it came back stolen. I looked in the windows and saw the blood so I called for you guys."
Warrick's eyebrows shot up. "Blood, eh."
"Hey, Warrick," Nick greeted his friend. "I thought you had that 403?"
"Yeah, I did. Turns out it was a teenage boyfriend sneaking in a ground floor window. We caught the lovebirds in action."
Nick chuckled as he flipped on the ALS. "I bet you scared 'em for life."
Warrick smirked. "I bet their parents do." He bent down to watch as Nick moved the ALS wand into the back seat "I thought I'd come and babysit you."
"Watch and learn, my man," Nick retorted and turned his attention to the task at hand. The blue light from the ALS bathed the rear interior of the recovered vehicle. A good-sized section at the front edge of the back seat began to luminesce. The floor mat glowed with small spots and the back of the passenger side front seat demonstrated a widely scattered fine spray pattern.
"Whoa," Warrick whispered half under his breath. Trooper Thompson whistled softly.
"Something bad happened here," Nick said while handing his camera to Warrick, who took the cue and started snapping pictures before the luminol effect faded.
When he had finished Warrick said, "I'll call in the tow."
Monday Early Morning 00:11 AM
Sara's cellphone rang. She dropped the last print pickup tape in the envelope labeled "counter face" and reached for her cellphone.
"Sidle."
"Sara," Catherine's voice sounded in Sara's ear. The gravity of Catherine's tone said enough to make Sara's heart jump a beat.
Sara stood still and forced herself to breathe. She had a bad feeling about whatever Catherine had called to convey. Steeling herself for the worst, Sara told Catherine, "Tell me."
"I don't know where he is but we now have an official case. How close are you to finishing there?"
"I'm done," Sara confirmed. "What do you need me to do?"
"Drop what you have back at the lab and then meet me at Grissom's house. We have some processing to do here first."
Sara swallowed hard. "What about Nick and Warrick?"
There was a pause at the other end, and Sara was sure she heard Brass' muffled voice. Catherine said, "Okay," but not into the phone. When she did speak to Sara again she said, "They're on their way back to the lab now. Bring them with you when you come. I'll update everyone as soon as we're together. Coming?"
"Like the wind," Sara said and snapped her phone closed. There was going to be hell to pay if anything serious had happened to Gil Grissom. Sara would make damn sure of that.
Monday Early Morning 00:41 AM
He came awake with a start. The sensation of something crawling on his neck brought him out of a very shallow sleep. He snatched at his neck with his right hand and felt the squirming of something alive with more than a few legs. Without his glasses and without any light it was impossible to identify the offending interloper with any certainty. By the size and feel of the insect in question, he guessed it was some species of tiger beetle.
"I don't know who you are, pal," Gil told his many legged friend, "but I don't need another tenant right now."
Careful not to hurt the insect, Gil let the bug go on the ground and gingerly pushed himself back up into a sitting position, trying unsuccessfully to protect against more pain from his broken ribs. This maneuver was made more complicated by the compound fracture of his left wrist, making that limb almost useless. Once he had managed to sit up again, he cradled his left forearm in his lap and leaned back against the earth wall behind him. The temperature of the air and the deep darkness told him it was sometime around midnight. He had slept for perhaps an hour. This had become a pattern ever since he had awoke to find himself in this place. He was only able to sleep for brief periods of time and he was becoming more fatigued as the time wore on.
He had long since stopped bleeding. If the hunger and thirst would just give it a rest he'd probably be able to sleep despite the pain. Especially the thirst, he thought.
"Don't go there," Gil said out loud. "Think of something else. Think about the case."
He closed his eyes and tried to make his mind obey his voice. Gil had been trying to place the face of his attacker. The guy had said only six sentences to him:
He had unlocked his front door and had barely gotten the door open when:
"Gil Grissom?"
He turned at the sound of his name and was sucker punched for his trouble. The first blow sent him through his front door. His briefcase fell from his grip onto the floor, followed by his keys. The second blow, this one to the back of his neck, sent him to his knees. The blood from his cut lip welled up at the corner of his mouth almost immediately.
Even with slightly hazy awareness, the result of two blows to his head, he recognized the sound of a bullet being loaded in the chamber of a handgun. The slide snapped back, and when he looked up he was staring into the barrel of a loaded Ruger nine millimeter pistol.
"Remember me?"
Gil looked at his attacker and saw his face for the first time. He didn't recognize the man who held the gun.
"No," he said, as he ran his hand across his mouth to wipe away some of the blood and assess the damage. "Who are you?"
The sneer on the man's face faded into a wrathful indignation that gave Grissom his first real taste of fear. The attacker had expected Gil to know him.
"You took my life from me," the gunman informed him through half-clenched teeth. He held the gun in a determined yet relaxed and practiced grip. This wasn't the first time this guy had used a gun in the commission of a crime. Grissom got the distinct impression that pulling the trigger was something it would be all too easy for this guy to do. Something else he noticed – the guy wasn't wearing gloves.
Gil shook his head, ostensibly to signify lack of understanding but more importantly to try and clear the cobwebs that still clouded the edges of his mind. He wanted to place this guy. Remembering would help him understand what the hell was happening and why. He wasn't getting far with it and his attacker was becoming angrier with his silence.
"How?" Gil asked, hoping the man would want to tell him about this perceived injustice. "How was your life taken from you?"
He had miscalculated. Talking wasn't in the game plan for this particular aggressor. A cold rage filled the man's eyes. Grabbing Grissom's jacket collar, the man, who stood over six feet and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Gil stumbled forward and had to grab the doorjamb to keep from going down again. When the attacker approached him again Gil used his leverage from his grip on the doorjamb to force his shoulder into the side of the gunman.
His attacker was apparently expecting such a move, he had braced his feet and didn't lose his balance enough to go down, but he had to reach for the door to keep upright. Grissom spun around quickly, trying to take advantage of the opportunity. The gunman was quicker. The next blow was to Gil's midsection and doubled him in half.
"Try anything else and I'll shoot you right here," he was told icily. Gil didn't doubt that.
Without giving him time to recover much, the gunman pushed him out of the doorway and into the opposite wall. Another shove pushed them both down the hall, heading toward the fire doors at the end of the corridor and the back stairway.
They navigated the staircase and Grissom managed to leave blood on the railing of each flight and both fire doors. Gil had taken several sharp jabs from the gun barrel to his back while doing so. When they exited the building they were standing next to a white Toyota with the rear driver's side door open. Whatever this guy wanted to do to him, it wasn't going to happen here.
"You know you won't get away with this," Grissom said. It may have been a cliché but that didn't make it any less true.
"Shut the fuck up and get in."
A very hard jab of the gun barrel to his ribcage made Gil move to comply. He had only gotten one leg in when his attacker hit him again, this time nearly square in the face. Gil was sent head first into the back seat.
He was turned roughly onto his stomach and his hands were handcuffed behind him. The rear car door slammed shut and Gil pushed his feet hard against the inside door panel. He had a few seconds before the front driver's side door opened. Reaching over the seat, the gunman cuffed Grissom's legs through the rear door's handle grip, effectively preventing him from sitting up.
Blood was flowing from Gil's nose and down the back of his throat, forcing him to cough violently to keep his airway clear. The engine roared to life and Grissom fought to stay conscious as the car began to move. It was a battle he lost.
The sound of a door slamming brought him back to consciousness. Both pairs of cuffs had been removed and he was dragged from the back seat. Gil was having a hard time focusing, he was dizzy and sick to his stomach. At the very least, he had suffered a slight concussion. Time to figure out what the hell was happening was rapidly running out.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" Gil said hoarsely.
"I did the time, I might as well do the crime."
That was the last thing he heard before being shoved bodily down the shaft to his new home.
"I did the time, I might as well do the crime," Gil told the darkness.
That was it. Gil had processed the evidence in some case that sent this guy to prison. Beyond that, his attacker believed himself to be innocent.
He shivered in the cold night air. God, he was thirsty ….