GUILT
Grissom didn't know what to do, and it wasn't a feeling he liked. He liked being in control; he liked knowing what was going on. He wasn't a man prone to outward displays of emotion. Because of this, many people thought him emotionless. This simply was not the case. Grissom cared about people - deeply so. He just didn't know how to show them. He had never known.
He had grown up in a household that had been filled with long days of silence interspersed with brief fits of yelling and recriminations. The silent days - days when his father wasn't home, but was traveling with his job - had been wonderful. He and his mother had shared more in the silences than some people ever did with a million words.
When his father was home, the yelling began.
"Don't wave your hands around at me!" his father would yell, "Use your fucking voice. Just because you've lost your hearing doesn't mean you've lost your tongue!"
So Grissom's mother would speak, her voice atonal and rusty from misuse, either too loud or too soft, but never in between. And his father would yell some more. "Speak up, just because you're deaf doesn't mean the rest of us are!" or "Why the hell are you talking so loud? I'm not the one who's deaf!"
His father's visits home had always been traumatic for both Grissom and his mother. When Gil was five, his father had stopped coming home altogether. Grissom had never really missed him; although, looking back, he was sure his mother had.
He had found her once, crying while skimming through an old photo album, fingers lightly tracing his father's face as she tried to blink back tears. He remembered crawling into his mother's lap, wanting to soothe her but not knowing how.
"Why are you crying?" he had asked her.
"Because today is my anniversary," she had responded.
The language of his mother's hands had always soothed him. Watching her sign was like watching a graceful dance; the dips of the wrists, the lifting and twisting of the fingers more powerful than mere words. He could tell his mother's moods from the way she signed. When she was angry, her hands crackled with energy, fingers snapping. When she was happy, her hands skipped around the words she was forming. And when she was sad, her hands drooped, her fingers languid. For a long time after his father had left them, she had been sad.
Grissom had never seen his father again.
* * * * *
Sara found Grissom sitting in the Tahoe, staring off into space. Opening the passenger door, she slid in beside him, "He didn't mean it."
"Yes. He did." Grissom slanted a sideways glance at her, and started the Tahoe.
"He's just angry you took him off the case," Sara argued gently, "and he hasn't been himself lately. I'm sure once he's feeling better, he'll apologize."
"I should have made him go the hospital last night," Grissom muttered.
"The mood he was in? He wouldn't have listened to you," she paused and looked at him thoughtfully, lips pursed, "He'll be back at work tonight, and things will be different. You'll see."
Grissom shrugged, "I guess I will. So, here's the park where the body was discovered."
* * * * *
Somehow, Nick had finally managed to fall asleep. Despite the agonizing throbbing in his arm; despite the dark ache inside him, Nick had drifted off. The soft voices drifting down the hallway were what woke him, a few hours later. Warrick had arrived.
Listen to the muted conversation of the two men in his living room, Nick debated getting up and joining them, more out of politeness than any urgent need to actually be civil. He hadn't invited them, after all. But being with them was better than lying here in the dark, eyes gritty with sleep and tears, being eaten alive by guilt. He thought.
He shifted to his side, feeling the pointy corner of the cigar box dig into his rib cage, and grunted as he sat up. The contents of the box had tipped out while he had slept, unopened letters and old clippings and photos spread haphazardly across his bed. Sighing, he gathered them together and tossed them back into the box, pausing briefly when he picked up a picture of himself, in full dress uniform, graduating from the police academy.
Had he ever really looked as fresh-scrubbed as that young officer from the crime scene last night? The picture in his hands told him he had. Looking at it was like looking at a different person. It was hard to merit it, but long ago Nick had actually been happy. He rubbed his thumb absently over the picture, noticing the proud smiles on his parents' faces as they stood beside him and felt his chest tighten.
*They aren't proud of you anymore, are they Nicky-boy? Not since you left Texas in disgrace, with your tail tucked between your legs.*
It's not like he had lost his job when he had revealed to the chief that he had known Pete was using. It's not like anyone came out and blamed him for Ford's death; the injuries to the other police officers. After all, Pete was his partner. Pete was his best friend. And they all followed the code - the blue wall; brotherhood. You never turned on a fellow cop. But - but - but. Ford was dead. Ford was dead. And he wouldn't have been if Nick had followed his instincts and not his heart - he should have turned Pete in.
The chief, of course, had busted him - written reprimand, suspension, investigation by Internal Affairs - the whole nine yards. He had been cleared, but it hadn't cleared his conscience. After his suspension was over he had gone back to the squad, but it had all been peripheral. His old friends gave him a wide-berth; looking at him askance and shaking their heads. *It's his fault.* And it was. If he had turned Pete in, his partner would be in rehab instead of the fucking State Penitentiary. Ford would be watching his little girl graduate from Kindergarten into Grade 1, instead of ashes scattered over his family's small ranch outside of Dallas. And Nick - well, he would be happy.
The whole thing had been a nightmare for his family as well. At the time, there had been speculation that his father was next in line to be appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court. He had been an ADA for years, a judge for almost as long, and there was an opening coming up. His father had been the top contender.
And then, the press had gotten wind - somehow - of the Internal Affairs investigation against Nick. Word had gotten out that the cop charged with the death of Officer Ford White had been Officer Stokes partner, and young Officer Stokes had known about Pete Middleton's drug problem and had stayed silent. Word had gotten out that said Officer Stokes was actually Nicholas Garret Stokes the fourth - oldest son and biggest liability to Judge Nicholas Garret Stokes, the third. And his father hadn't been appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court; at least not that year.
So - leaving Houston hadn't been hard. He had nothing to stay for. And a hell of a lot to run away from - the guilt, the anger, the searing disappointment in his parents eyes when they looked at him; the knowledge that it was his fault.
He had chosen Las Vegas as his new home for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, no one knew him here. They didn't know him, they didn't know his family. The Stokes name meant nothing to anybody in Las Vegas, and Nick liked the anonymity. And they had a good crime lab - one of the best in the country. At that point in his life, his fledgling career as a CSI was the only thing keeping him sane.
Nick had transferred into the crime lab back in Texas the year of Pete's trial, hoping that some how he would be able to find the physical evidence needed to prove that Rico had been involved, and that Pete was just the fall guy. Of course, that wish had been wildly naïve. As A CSI Level I, Nick had been allowed nowhere near a case so big. So, Pete had crucified by circumstantial evidence. Pete's trial was probably the biggest reason Nick even WAS a CSI.
But was his job even enough anymore? Nick didn't know. Things hadn't been good for a long time now. He had been a suspect in a murder case. He had looked down the barrel of a gun twice in the last 18 months; sure that he was gonna die just like Ford had. He had been stalked, pushed out a window. And to top it all off, Grissom - his boss and his mentor, a man he had admired from his first day at the LVPD Crime Lab- thought he was a an I and a Q short of the entire alphabet. His career seemed to have stalled out - he was barely allowed to work solo yet; and the crimes they were called to investigate just seemed to get worse. His thoughts ricocheted suddenly to the image of Nick Steeply lying bruised and battered and dead in that tubing, and he fought down the sudden violent urge to vomit yet again. *I'm not gonna let you down, kid. I swear to God, I'm gonna find out who hurt you, and when I do, I'm gonna kill them.*
Looking at the picture he held in his hand, he couldn't believe he had ever been innocent. He ripped it apart abruptly, tearing the images into small pieces before dropping them on his bed. Shutting his eyes tightly, he willed himself to calm down: breathe; think. *What are you going to do now, Nicky?*
He smiled dangerously as he flexed his hands, feeling the burning in his bandaged arm all the way up to his shoulder. Right now, that pain was all he needed. It proved he was still alive.
* * * * *
Warrick and Greg looked up in surprise when Nick stalked through the living room and into the kitchen, returning moments later with three beers. He handed one to Greg and one to Warrick, before sinking into an empty armchair.
"You sleep at all?" Greg questioned dubiously.
Nick smirked at the younger man, his tone easy, "Does it look like I slept?" He popped the tab on his Coors and took a deep swallow. "Drink your beer."
"You shouldn't be drinking when you're on meds," Warrick chided, eyeing his friend warily. Nick's entire body spoke of tension, from the corded muscles of his throat, to the tight white lines bracketing his mouth. Nick twisted his face into a semblance of a grin.
"Thank you, Mary Poppins, I'll keep that in mind before I have another."
"Nick -"
"Lay off, okay? I'm not in the mood," Nick snapped back. The two men looked at each other silently for a few moments, before Warrick shrugged.
Greg noted absently that Nick had changed out of the disreputable sweatpants he had been wearing earlier into a faded but clean pair of blue jeans and a dark t-shirt. He still looked like hell, so unlike the Nick he was familiar with, it was almost unfathomable.
"I don't think Grissom will be expecting you at work tonight - " he offered tentatively, "what with your arm and all. Maybe you should go back to bed, try to get some more sleep."
"Nope," Nick responded, "I think I'll go find out what's going on with the Steeply case." His tone was intense, his gaze practically daring Warrick and Greg to remind him he'd been yanked off it. Finishing the last swallow of beer, he stood and headed towards the door. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll head in now. Close the door on the way out."
Greg and Warrick looked at each other blankly when the front door slammed, before jumping to their feet and quickly following their friend. Nick was already in his truck.
"Nick!" Warrick yelled, "Nick!"
Nick rolled down his window and looked at his friend, his expression as calm as his eyes were tense. "What?"
"Where the hell are you going?"
"I already told you," Nick responded. "I'm going to talk to Grissom about the Steeply case. I'll see you at the lab."
* * * * *
The clock in the dashboard of Nick's truck indicated it was only 4:00 in the afternoon. Nick grinned as he blew through a red light, wondering idly if Grissom was even at the lab, before mentally chiding himself. *Grissom's always at the lab.*
He didn't know what he was going to say to the man when he found him, actually. He just knew he had to say something. His chest felt so tight it hurt to breathe. Faces of people he had known and failed flashed before his eyes: mother, father, siblings, Pete, Ford, a myriad of victims he hadn't been able to save - Nick Steeply. Somehow, thinking about Nick Steeply tightened his resolve.
He needed to get back on that case. Nick Steeply was his salvation. If he could find out who had raped and murdered that boy; it would justify his existence - his reason for becoming a CSI in the first place.
If Grissom didn't put him back on the case, he didn't know what he was going to do.
______________________
Author's Note: Last major chapter of back story, I swear. From here on in, it's all moving forward.
FYI - look for a new chapter of Learning to Fly and for Tin Man to be posted within the next 48 hours or so. Just applying the finishing touches.
Grissom didn't know what to do, and it wasn't a feeling he liked. He liked being in control; he liked knowing what was going on. He wasn't a man prone to outward displays of emotion. Because of this, many people thought him emotionless. This simply was not the case. Grissom cared about people - deeply so. He just didn't know how to show them. He had never known.
He had grown up in a household that had been filled with long days of silence interspersed with brief fits of yelling and recriminations. The silent days - days when his father wasn't home, but was traveling with his job - had been wonderful. He and his mother had shared more in the silences than some people ever did with a million words.
When his father was home, the yelling began.
"Don't wave your hands around at me!" his father would yell, "Use your fucking voice. Just because you've lost your hearing doesn't mean you've lost your tongue!"
So Grissom's mother would speak, her voice atonal and rusty from misuse, either too loud or too soft, but never in between. And his father would yell some more. "Speak up, just because you're deaf doesn't mean the rest of us are!" or "Why the hell are you talking so loud? I'm not the one who's deaf!"
His father's visits home had always been traumatic for both Grissom and his mother. When Gil was five, his father had stopped coming home altogether. Grissom had never really missed him; although, looking back, he was sure his mother had.
He had found her once, crying while skimming through an old photo album, fingers lightly tracing his father's face as she tried to blink back tears. He remembered crawling into his mother's lap, wanting to soothe her but not knowing how.
"Why are you crying?" he had asked her.
"Because today is my anniversary," she had responded.
The language of his mother's hands had always soothed him. Watching her sign was like watching a graceful dance; the dips of the wrists, the lifting and twisting of the fingers more powerful than mere words. He could tell his mother's moods from the way she signed. When she was angry, her hands crackled with energy, fingers snapping. When she was happy, her hands skipped around the words she was forming. And when she was sad, her hands drooped, her fingers languid. For a long time after his father had left them, she had been sad.
Grissom had never seen his father again.
* * * * *
Sara found Grissom sitting in the Tahoe, staring off into space. Opening the passenger door, she slid in beside him, "He didn't mean it."
"Yes. He did." Grissom slanted a sideways glance at her, and started the Tahoe.
"He's just angry you took him off the case," Sara argued gently, "and he hasn't been himself lately. I'm sure once he's feeling better, he'll apologize."
"I should have made him go the hospital last night," Grissom muttered.
"The mood he was in? He wouldn't have listened to you," she paused and looked at him thoughtfully, lips pursed, "He'll be back at work tonight, and things will be different. You'll see."
Grissom shrugged, "I guess I will. So, here's the park where the body was discovered."
* * * * *
Somehow, Nick had finally managed to fall asleep. Despite the agonizing throbbing in his arm; despite the dark ache inside him, Nick had drifted off. The soft voices drifting down the hallway were what woke him, a few hours later. Warrick had arrived.
Listen to the muted conversation of the two men in his living room, Nick debated getting up and joining them, more out of politeness than any urgent need to actually be civil. He hadn't invited them, after all. But being with them was better than lying here in the dark, eyes gritty with sleep and tears, being eaten alive by guilt. He thought.
He shifted to his side, feeling the pointy corner of the cigar box dig into his rib cage, and grunted as he sat up. The contents of the box had tipped out while he had slept, unopened letters and old clippings and photos spread haphazardly across his bed. Sighing, he gathered them together and tossed them back into the box, pausing briefly when he picked up a picture of himself, in full dress uniform, graduating from the police academy.
Had he ever really looked as fresh-scrubbed as that young officer from the crime scene last night? The picture in his hands told him he had. Looking at it was like looking at a different person. It was hard to merit it, but long ago Nick had actually been happy. He rubbed his thumb absently over the picture, noticing the proud smiles on his parents' faces as they stood beside him and felt his chest tighten.
*They aren't proud of you anymore, are they Nicky-boy? Not since you left Texas in disgrace, with your tail tucked between your legs.*
It's not like he had lost his job when he had revealed to the chief that he had known Pete was using. It's not like anyone came out and blamed him for Ford's death; the injuries to the other police officers. After all, Pete was his partner. Pete was his best friend. And they all followed the code - the blue wall; brotherhood. You never turned on a fellow cop. But - but - but. Ford was dead. Ford was dead. And he wouldn't have been if Nick had followed his instincts and not his heart - he should have turned Pete in.
The chief, of course, had busted him - written reprimand, suspension, investigation by Internal Affairs - the whole nine yards. He had been cleared, but it hadn't cleared his conscience. After his suspension was over he had gone back to the squad, but it had all been peripheral. His old friends gave him a wide-berth; looking at him askance and shaking their heads. *It's his fault.* And it was. If he had turned Pete in, his partner would be in rehab instead of the fucking State Penitentiary. Ford would be watching his little girl graduate from Kindergarten into Grade 1, instead of ashes scattered over his family's small ranch outside of Dallas. And Nick - well, he would be happy.
The whole thing had been a nightmare for his family as well. At the time, there had been speculation that his father was next in line to be appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court. He had been an ADA for years, a judge for almost as long, and there was an opening coming up. His father had been the top contender.
And then, the press had gotten wind - somehow - of the Internal Affairs investigation against Nick. Word had gotten out that the cop charged with the death of Officer Ford White had been Officer Stokes partner, and young Officer Stokes had known about Pete Middleton's drug problem and had stayed silent. Word had gotten out that said Officer Stokes was actually Nicholas Garret Stokes the fourth - oldest son and biggest liability to Judge Nicholas Garret Stokes, the third. And his father hadn't been appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court; at least not that year.
So - leaving Houston hadn't been hard. He had nothing to stay for. And a hell of a lot to run away from - the guilt, the anger, the searing disappointment in his parents eyes when they looked at him; the knowledge that it was his fault.
He had chosen Las Vegas as his new home for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, no one knew him here. They didn't know him, they didn't know his family. The Stokes name meant nothing to anybody in Las Vegas, and Nick liked the anonymity. And they had a good crime lab - one of the best in the country. At that point in his life, his fledgling career as a CSI was the only thing keeping him sane.
Nick had transferred into the crime lab back in Texas the year of Pete's trial, hoping that some how he would be able to find the physical evidence needed to prove that Rico had been involved, and that Pete was just the fall guy. Of course, that wish had been wildly naïve. As A CSI Level I, Nick had been allowed nowhere near a case so big. So, Pete had crucified by circumstantial evidence. Pete's trial was probably the biggest reason Nick even WAS a CSI.
But was his job even enough anymore? Nick didn't know. Things hadn't been good for a long time now. He had been a suspect in a murder case. He had looked down the barrel of a gun twice in the last 18 months; sure that he was gonna die just like Ford had. He had been stalked, pushed out a window. And to top it all off, Grissom - his boss and his mentor, a man he had admired from his first day at the LVPD Crime Lab- thought he was a an I and a Q short of the entire alphabet. His career seemed to have stalled out - he was barely allowed to work solo yet; and the crimes they were called to investigate just seemed to get worse. His thoughts ricocheted suddenly to the image of Nick Steeply lying bruised and battered and dead in that tubing, and he fought down the sudden violent urge to vomit yet again. *I'm not gonna let you down, kid. I swear to God, I'm gonna find out who hurt you, and when I do, I'm gonna kill them.*
Looking at the picture he held in his hand, he couldn't believe he had ever been innocent. He ripped it apart abruptly, tearing the images into small pieces before dropping them on his bed. Shutting his eyes tightly, he willed himself to calm down: breathe; think. *What are you going to do now, Nicky?*
He smiled dangerously as he flexed his hands, feeling the burning in his bandaged arm all the way up to his shoulder. Right now, that pain was all he needed. It proved he was still alive.
* * * * *
Warrick and Greg looked up in surprise when Nick stalked through the living room and into the kitchen, returning moments later with three beers. He handed one to Greg and one to Warrick, before sinking into an empty armchair.
"You sleep at all?" Greg questioned dubiously.
Nick smirked at the younger man, his tone easy, "Does it look like I slept?" He popped the tab on his Coors and took a deep swallow. "Drink your beer."
"You shouldn't be drinking when you're on meds," Warrick chided, eyeing his friend warily. Nick's entire body spoke of tension, from the corded muscles of his throat, to the tight white lines bracketing his mouth. Nick twisted his face into a semblance of a grin.
"Thank you, Mary Poppins, I'll keep that in mind before I have another."
"Nick -"
"Lay off, okay? I'm not in the mood," Nick snapped back. The two men looked at each other silently for a few moments, before Warrick shrugged.
Greg noted absently that Nick had changed out of the disreputable sweatpants he had been wearing earlier into a faded but clean pair of blue jeans and a dark t-shirt. He still looked like hell, so unlike the Nick he was familiar with, it was almost unfathomable.
"I don't think Grissom will be expecting you at work tonight - " he offered tentatively, "what with your arm and all. Maybe you should go back to bed, try to get some more sleep."
"Nope," Nick responded, "I think I'll go find out what's going on with the Steeply case." His tone was intense, his gaze practically daring Warrick and Greg to remind him he'd been yanked off it. Finishing the last swallow of beer, he stood and headed towards the door. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll head in now. Close the door on the way out."
Greg and Warrick looked at each other blankly when the front door slammed, before jumping to their feet and quickly following their friend. Nick was already in his truck.
"Nick!" Warrick yelled, "Nick!"
Nick rolled down his window and looked at his friend, his expression as calm as his eyes were tense. "What?"
"Where the hell are you going?"
"I already told you," Nick responded. "I'm going to talk to Grissom about the Steeply case. I'll see you at the lab."
* * * * *
The clock in the dashboard of Nick's truck indicated it was only 4:00 in the afternoon. Nick grinned as he blew through a red light, wondering idly if Grissom was even at the lab, before mentally chiding himself. *Grissom's always at the lab.*
He didn't know what he was going to say to the man when he found him, actually. He just knew he had to say something. His chest felt so tight it hurt to breathe. Faces of people he had known and failed flashed before his eyes: mother, father, siblings, Pete, Ford, a myriad of victims he hadn't been able to save - Nick Steeply. Somehow, thinking about Nick Steeply tightened his resolve.
He needed to get back on that case. Nick Steeply was his salvation. If he could find out who had raped and murdered that boy; it would justify his existence - his reason for becoming a CSI in the first place.
If Grissom didn't put him back on the case, he didn't know what he was going to do.
______________________
Author's Note: Last major chapter of back story, I swear. From here on in, it's all moving forward.
FYI - look for a new chapter of Learning to Fly and for Tin Man to be posted within the next 48 hours or so. Just applying the finishing touches.