This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Ghost (Part 8/26)

by Cheers

Monday Morning 04:09 AM

Nick rubbed at his face. Reading through Grissom's email was the closest he had ever come to feeling as if he were violating someone. Not that he was learning all that much about his boss.

Besides the office server traffic that Grissom downloaded to his home computer and the usual smattering of junk mail, there were only a few people with whom Grissom corresponded on a regular basis. Most of it was what Nick would expect from a workaholic guy without much time for a social life.

The last few weeks' worth of email consisted of various professional issues. The editor of Science & Justice was trying to persuade Grissom to do a series of articles on the role of entomological evidence in crime scene reconstruction. Grissom was planning his next seminar in Chicago in March with the American Board of Criminalists and the Canadian Society of Forensic Sciences. There was a request for a keynote address from the Royal Society of Medicine at their annual conference in London next July and another request for a keynote speech from the National Center of Forensic Science. This last email message had been read on Friday morning.

He was also corresponding with an anthropology professor from New Zealand, apparently participating in an ongoing chess game. The last move was made by Grissom last Wednesday. He corresponded, on and off, with Teri Miller. The last email from her was dated two weeks ago. Grissom had not, as yet, replied.

Grissom corresponded regularly with his mother. They talked about some class Grissom was thinking about taking, the art gallery Mrs. Grissom apparently sat on the board for, her health issues with arthritis, the latest bit of literature either of them had been reading, and the weather. Gris always signed his messages to his mother, "Your loving son." The last email Grissom had sent was on Thursday evening. He told his mother he would call her on Friday. That jibed with Catherine's call to her last night.

Catherine entered the room that served as Grissom's office at home and found Nick a bit bleary-eyed at the computer. "How's it going?" she asked.

Nick shook his head. "Sara's right, we shouldn't be doing this."

She sighed as she looked around Gil's home office. This room was filled almost to capacity with more bookshelves. These shelves held a vast collection of journals from just about every conceivable professional forensic organization not to mention newsletters, transcripts, old case files, notebooks, research note composition journals, and more textbooks. Several degrees hung in frames on the wall above his desk. A picture frame on his desk held a black and white photo of a woman who could only be Grissom's mother, and a smaller Polaroid of the nightshift CSI team from the Christmas party last year was stuck in the lower right hand corner of the frame. Everyone was smiling, even Gil.

"Procedure, Nick," Catherine told him. "Procedure."

"I know," he replied. "But it still feels wrong."

"Well, I went through his mail and didn't find much except for a cable bill and a pre-approved credit card offer. There's nothing else out there. What did you find in here?" she asked.

Nick took a deep breath before starting. "I can tell you he doesn't do his banking online. He has an eBay account, but he hasn't used it for over four months. He plays chess with a professor of anthropology in New Zealand and he writes to his mother regularly." He paused and sat back from the computer. "There's really not that much here and really nothing to suggest a reason for an attack or … worse."

Nick fell silent. Catherine could tell something else was bothering him. "Tell me," she said.

He swallowed heavily before continuing. "He's a regular guy, Cath. He pays his bills on time, shows up to work every day, and works harder than anyone I've ever met. He just goes around being … well, Grissom. I mean, look at this." Nick pointed out the TTY sitting on Grissom's desk next to his phone. "We know he knows sign language. He has a deaf communication device. He knows about dwarves and schizophrenics."

"And?" Catherine asked, hearing the silent 'but' he didn't say. She left the TTY reference alone, having decided not to tell the team about Gil's mother's deafness unless it became necessary.

Nick looked up at her. "It's got to be related to one of his cases. I mean, sure Gris could ruffle feathers but it was always about the job, nothing personal. He has a way of demanding the best from people. Sometimes they don't … well, sometimes they don't measure up all that well."

"Nobody's perfect," Catherine told him. "Not even Grissom."

"Yeah, but he sure as hell tried hard to be the best," Nick insisted. "I mean, look at all this stuff." He gestured around the room. "The man's a walking encyclopedia. There doesn't seem to be anything he isn't willing to learn. He's being asked to speak and to teach at all these conferences, to write articles and at the same time he's talking to his mom about taking a class this semester at a local college."

"That's our boss," she affirmed.

Nick was still shaking his head. "I worry about getting my pants on right every morning. If I could be just half as smart as Grissom …." Nick stopped and took a deep breath. "You know, I told him once that I wanted him to think I was a good CSI."

"You are." Catherine told him honestly. "No one works for Grissom for long unless they've got some game, Nicky. You know that."

"I know," he said. "But it's taken a while. I wasn't exactly … a natural."

"Yeah, but you're plenty smart, Nick. You've got good instincts. The rest you can learn."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, I can," he said quietly, swallowing back his emotion, "from him."

She patted him on the shoulder. "Just like the rest of us, Nicky," Catherine said gently. "Just like the rest of us."

Monday Morning 04:11 AM

Sleep wouldn't come for more than a few minutes at a time, so he gave up on it for the time being. Wispy clouds were moving across the small patch of night sky he could see, obscuring the stars from his view.

His pain was not as bad now as it had been. He was saving strength for the work he had to do after dawn. He was so thirsty that it was becoming hard to speak. His mouth was too dry for him to form the words well. He had to keep his mind busy. Try not to think about the thirst, he told himself. Think about the case.

Closing his eyes, Gil tried to place the face again. If this guy had gone to jail for a crime Gil had investigated, it would have been several years ago. Kidnapping, negligent homicide, and second degree murder all carried pretty lengthy sentences. If his attacker had "done the time" for a crime that resembled what he was trying to accomplish now, he would have been in prison for at least seven years, probably longer. If it had been fifteen or twenty years, this guy's case could go back to Gil's time in Los Angeles County.

Gil had worked on thousands of cases in his career as a CSI. Of those, how many involved dumping a person, alive or dead, in an abandoned mine? He could only think of four cases, and all the participants involved in those cases were either dead or still in prison.

This guy just didn't ring a bell. Gil was missing something, some piece of the puzzle that would help him understand. He had been attacked at his home, taken by force, and dumped in this mineshaft. His attacker had said he had already done the time.

What if the original case hadn't involved an attack? Or maybe it hadn't involved leaving someone to die? If this guy feels he hadn't committed a crime, Gil reasoned, maybe the circumstances had been an accident – an accident that left a person alone to die in a mineshaft. Or was that wrong as well?

What if it wasn't a mineshaft but another kind of shaft? He wondered. Had he worked on a dead body case in another kind of shaft?

Gil's eyes popped open as recognition dawned. He hadn't been a CSI when he had worked the case. If he was right, he had been much younger.