By: Mystikal Mayhem (mystikal04@hotmail.com)
Chapter: 3
Disclaimers: I don't own them, I'll never own them. Except for the speaker, she's mine Nor do I own any of the song lyrics I post to accompany my story.
Feedback: Direct feedback or reviews here are encouraged. Constructive criticism is welcomed as well.
Author's Notes: Now we get into the meat and bones of the story...no pun intended
Acknowledgments: Special thanks this chapter to tenof-10 and Kat for keeping me on track and letting me gounce ideas of them.
Credit Where Due: Thanks to Sing365.com for song lyrics. Also the university and program mentioned in the this chapter does exist. You can find more information at www.gwu.edu/~forensic.
Mary's got the same size hands
As Marilyn Monroe
She put her fingers in the imprints
At Mann's Chinese Theater Show
She coulda been a movie star
Never got the chance to go that far
Her life was stole
Now we'll never know
~Kelly Rowland, "Stole"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Since there were three victims and six of us, Grissom decided we would buddy up; Catherine and Nick would get the first victim, Sara and Warrick the second, and Grissom and I the third. He also decided to bring Greg into the field with us, saying that as soon as we collected our DNA evidence, Greg could immediately take it back to the lab for processing and we wouldn't have to temporarily abandon our current duties.
So after I packed my field kit, we split up into our designated teams and headed out to the Tahoes. Greg came with Grissom and me. Not that I minded.
The ride to the scene was rather quiet. I guessed that Grissom was running through a checklist mentally or was concentrating extremely hard on the road. Greg sat in the back seat, staring out the window. After a good ten minutes of nothing but the hum of the engine, I spoke up.
"So, boss, why this case?"
"Hmm?" Good, I had succeeded in catching him slightly off-guard.
I turned in my seat to face Grissom and asked again, "Why did you choose this to be my first homicide case?" Before he could speak, I cut in. "And don't tell me because you need all the people you have, because Greg told me about that bus accident you guys had a year ago. And it was just the five of you then and you did just fine."
Grissom just continued to stare at the road. After a few minutes of sitting there and staring at him, he realized that I wasn't going to back down. All the while, Greg remained silent in the backseat, watching our exchange as if he wasn't even there.
"I really don't feel the need to explain myself," he countered.
Great. It was a typical "I'm-higher-than-you-so-there" response. But it wasn't something I expected to hear come out of Grissom's mouth.
"Well, since this is my life and my job, I feel that I deserve an explanation." There. I had said it. I had snapped back at the boss. I just hoped that it wasn't a bad idea.
He sighed, before mumbling something about me taking stubborn lessons from Catherine and Sara. "Because if you can deal with this crime scene, you'll be able to handle anything else that is ever thrown your way," he stated matter-of-factly.
I looked back at Greg who appeared to be turning greener by the second. Facing Grissom again, I ask, "Is there something you haven't told us? Some detail your teammates should know about?"
We pulled to a stop at a red light. For the first time since we had left CSI, Grissom turned to face me. His look said everything I needed or wanted to know, but still he spoke. "If I had told any of you, you wouldn't be going to this crime scene right now."
"It's about damn time you got here!" Brass boomed. Nick had told me that the Captain hardly ever got mad except when he was questioning a suspect or the case was exceptionally bad. I knew there was no suspect yet, so...
"It's a Friday night in Vegas. What did you expect?" Warrick chimed in. A chorus of "Yeahs" followed, cut off by a look from Grissom.
"I'm sorry, Jim. We're here now. That's what matters." Grissom walked toward the back of the Tahoe and opened it up. Everyone started to retrieve their gear from their respective vehicles. Greg just stood there, looking like a lost puppy, until Grissom motioned for him to step over to where we were standing.
"I'm not going to say this in front of everyone else, because it might embarrass you," Grissom started. He paused as Greg and I looked at him intently. "If you see something out here tonight that causing your stomach to turn, run away from the scene as fast as you can. We're going to have enough on our hands without having scene contamination."
How dare he!!! Did he just actually remind me not to barf on the body?!? I was about to let some words flow off my tongue when Greg flung his arm heavily onto my shoulder and shot me a look that said, "Do you value your job? Or do you wanna piss off the boss?"
"Don't worry, Griss, I brought along a couple of barf bags," Greg countered, pulling several real airline barf bags out of his jacket pocket. "I've got it covered."
Grissom flashed a quick half-smile. "Always on top of things. Good, Greg." Grabbing his field kit and a camera, he said, "Shall we?"
"Yeah, uh, be right there," I told him. "I just to double check and make sure I have everything I'll need."
"OK, I'll meet you and Greg over by the crime tape."
Once Grissom was out of earshot, I exploded. "Can you fucking believe him?!? He just reminded us not to vomit on the evidence!!! What does he take us for, amateurs?" I slammed my fist down on the Tahoe's interior.
"Gee, I don't don't, CSI-2 Garriston. Maybe CSI-3 Grissom felt it was his duty to cover all of the bases, since this is your first major homicide case and since I nearly threw up on the evidence at that bus crash I told you about." Greg grabbed his portable lab kit and, after I pulled out my field gear, slammed the back compartment shut.
"Don't ever call me that again!" I said as we proceeded to the scene.
"What, CSI-2?"
"Yes."
"Why, it's what you are."
"Thanks for the reminder, Lab Tech Sanders." With that, I stalked off toward the others who were gathered in a huddle, presumably strategizing as hope we were to go about processing the scene.
"My people are still securing the perimeter, so we can talk to the owner and manager for now," Brass said curtly, extending no greetings to any members of the team.
"Sounds good," Grissom concurred. "But first I need to address my team."
"I'll be over with the owner, then." Brass turned on his heel and retreated across the parking lot. Grissom turned to face all of us, a somber look on his face.
"Before we go in there, I want to warn you, as Brass warned me, that this will most likely be the worst crime scene you have ever and will ever encounter." His face was void of emotion as he spoke. "There will be, as they say, more blood, guts, and gore than you'll see in some serial killer or slasher movie."
"God, Griss, why didn't you tell us before?" Sara cried out. She was slowly started to turn as green as Greg had in the Tahoe.
"'If I had told any of you, you wouldn't be going to this crime scene right now," I chimed in.
"What?"
I swallowed, finally realizing what he had meant. "I had asked Grissom on the way here why he chose this case for my first homicide case. He said, "Because if you can deal with this crime scene, you'll be able to handle anything else that is ever thrown your way.' I didn't understand, so I asked him if there was something that he hadn't told us. That was when he said if he had told us about this scene, none of us would have come." I had let Grissom, the proverbial cat, out of the bag. Now I just had to hope that he wouldn't become the cat that ate the canary; in this case, me.
Grissom looked at his feet before meeting the eyes of Catherine, Nick, Sara, and Warrick. He let out a sigh. "Nevertheless, we have a case to solve. We have three victims with families and friends who deserve answers. So let's get to work."
Again, Grissom turned on his heel, this time following the path that Brass had taken just moments ago.
We all trailed behind him, fearing what we would found beyond the yellow tape.
It had already been decided who got which vic, so there really wasn't much talking for any of us to do once we descended upon the crime scene. Instead, we observed those already at the scene.
Two men were speaking with Brass. Dressed in suits, they were, presumably, the dealership's owner and manager. Several men in coveralls stood behind them, mopping their sweaty brows with oil stained rags. Mechanics. Then there were the police officers that had secured the perimeter. Some were pale, while others were hunched over, clutching their stomachs.
I looked over at Sara. She was growing paler by the moment, as was Greg. I could only imagine what color my face had turned.
We caught up with Grissom who had just finished speaking with Brass and scribbling some notes on his pad. He attempted to show a small smile, but only succeeded in upturning half of his frown ever so slightly. Again, Grissom turned away from us and ducked under the yellow tape. We followed.
Three cars sat in the mechanical garage, trunks open. Each of us took a deep breath before approach the first vehicle, which Grissom stood by. He looked at the trunk's contents when he spoke, almost as if he were addressing the victim.
Victim number one had been burned to a crisp. . Dr. Robbins would have to establish the gender of the victim for them. There seemed to be next to nothing for Catherine and Nick to work with. There would be no dusting for prints on the body, no fibers to find on it, to epithelials to lead to a suspect. All they had was the body and the car.
Victim number 2 had met an almost equally painful death. It was a white male, approximately 25 to 30 years old, with brown hair and blue eyes. His body was covered in large contusions, some the size of a soccer ball. But at least Warrick and Sara had more to go with. They would be able to get a positive ID almost immediately, whereas Cath and Nick would probably be waiting for days.
Victim number 3 belong to Grissom and me. Greg was to stick with us until DNA evidence had been collected and he was to go back to the lab.
She was a beautiful young woman, no older than 25. Her long blonde was matted with blood, as were her clothes and the interior of the trunk. Her throat had been slit, Jack the Ripper style. The blood had congealed over the wound and turned her white peasant blouse a rust color. Unlike the previous two victims, she wore no pants or underwear.
The blood had not been absorbed by the trunk's carpeted interior pooled under the body.
"Where should we begin?" Grissom posed this question to be.
"Glove up and take photographs," I replied, and he pulled the digital camera from around his neck, handing it to me.
After donning my latex gloves, I went to work taking pictures of our victim at every angle. I took multiple placement and close-up shots. Greg stood about ten feet behind us; the coppery smell was obviously turning his stomach. I, on the other hand, had to move in closer. Shots were taken of the entire scene, where the car sat, the whole trunk. I moved on to close-ups of the victim's face, the neck wound, the blood pool, and her lack of genital coverage. But something was wrong with this picture…something I couldn't quite put my finger on…
"Grissom!" I called out. He had been speaking with the dealership's owner, explaining that this was a long and tedious process and that, no, he would not be able to open for business the next day.
Grissom sensed the disturbance in my voice and dashed over to my side. He started to stare in the direction I was staring. "What is it? What did you find?"
"She's wearing a peasant blouse," I stated the obvious. "Peasant blouses are meant to have empire waists and to billow around the stomach and abdomen of the person wearing it."
My babbling puzzled Grissom. Even Greg had moved in closer. I also noticed that Brass, Warrick, Sara, and Catherine now surrounded me. I didn't know if I could continue.
"Why are you giving me a fashion lesson, Walker?" Grissom asked.
I swallowed audibly and forced myself to continue.
"Peasant blouses are generally made of a gauze-like material. When this material gets wet, it clings to the body of the wearer, much like this one is clinging to our vic." I pointed to the abdomen.
Taking a few steps back, I raised the camera again and took several close-ups of the vic's stomach and abdomen before moving in again. I took a deep breath before reaching out a gloved hand and peeling the blouse back from the victim's skin.
I had hoped I was wrong, but I wasn't.
The small bump I had observed under the material was what I feared it would be. A tiny hand no bigger than a quarter. A tiny hand protruding from the woman's stomach.
"Our victim was pregnant."