A/N: Ha, I finally forced myself to write the next chapter - goodie me. I'm sorry it took so long; I guess my mind has been somewhere else lately. Thank you all for the reviews!! I promise to write the next chapter a bit sooner.
Farewell to Girls
Part Two: Well-kept Secrets
The colored lights of the police cars whirled in the night. They cast shadows on the walls of the buildings across the street and on the trees that stooped slightly above the roofs of the cars and the people. The sound of the sirens had died away into the night ages ago already, but the curious passers-by were still lurking behind the yellow tape, stretching their necks to see what was going on within the shadows. Jim Brass squeezed by them as he headed towards the crime scene. He dove under the yellow tape that hung in mid air, just above waist height, isolating a large area of the park from the rest of the world. As he walked, he pulled his rubber gloves on. A couple of officers nodded in recognition as he strode by towards the small group of investigators that worked a little further away where the victim was. One of them, crouched on the ground studying something, straightened up as he saw him advancing. Brass greeted him with a nod. "Captain," the younger detective responded.
Brass glanced upwards to the tree that stood not thirty feet from them. A small sigh escaped from his lungs as his eyes set upon the body, swaying in the autumn wind. The girl's hair, only half tied with a ribbon, hung down as a cloak covering most of her apparently quite attractive face. Such a waste. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the detective. "So, Shelby, what's the story so far? We've got an ID?"
Detective Shelby nodded with certainty. "Yes. We found her backpack further down the walk from a bush. Debra Walker. A student in Prompton High. She's been dead for at least four hours."
"Has someone called her parents?"
"Chris is just searching through the school files for their number."
The sudden breeze of the night wind washed through the park, rattling the leaves and sending the girl's hair flying in the air. For a brief second her glazed, open eyes were exposed for everyone to see. Their empty gaze bored into the ground far below.
Brass turned his eyes away from the girl to the sound of the humming engine pulling in behind the tape. As too figures stepped out of the Tahoe, he started towards them through the shadowed park. A couple of shouts, distant in the cool night, were called out on the other side of the outlined area from one officer to another.
The two CSIs grabbed their kits from the back of the car. Even from distance Brass could recognize the familiar forms of Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows. They both greeted him with a silent nod as he got to them. "What do we have?" Grissom cut to the point as they slowly started to walk towards the crime scene.
In a monotone voice, Brass noticed himself echoing Shelby's words. "Debra Walker, been dead for at least four hours. She's hung from a tree."
Catherine's eyebrow shot up. "Suicide?"
"Doesn't look like it," Brass said with a shake of his head. "Her body is full of cuts and bruises."
"How old was she?"
Brass's hand tucked into his pocket as he inhaled the night air. "In high school, about sixteen, seventeen."
A sad shadow moved across Catherine's face. Brass glanced at her from the side of his eye. He understood her. Just a kid. It could've been Ellie a couple of years back. In silence they paced through the woods and along the walk to the crime scene. Shelby was still around, this time talking to a young woman in a jogging suit sitting on the ground a little further away. Brass noticed Grissom looking at the woman and answered his unsaid question. "She found the body." Grissom nodded as he laid his kit to the ground, opening it and revealing the instruments inside. "Did she touch the body?" he asked, picking up a camera.
"From that height?" He gave a little nod towards the victim. A little one sided smile, not really humored one, appeared on the side of Grissom's mouth. "I guess not." He stopped for a second to gaze up at the swaying legs. Catherine was standing a couple of feet away, her too looking up. The three figures stood still in the night for a second, just looking up.
Once again, Brass turned away with a sigh. "Her backpack was found from a bush down the road," he informed, interrupting the silence between them.
At his words, both of the CSI's seemed to snap out of their thoughts. They glanced at each other. "I'll take it," Catherine said flatly. Grissom just nodded his approval.
With that, Brass turned towards where the younger detective was standing. "Shelby!"
***
The brown bag lay lonely on the ground, as if deserted there in a hurry. It was open and a couple of objects peeked out from between the fabric. Catherine knelt down beside it. "Did you open it?"
The young detective, Shelby, Catherine thought his name was, shook his head, glancing at Catherine's profile with his blue eyes. "No, ma'am. It was open when we found it."
"Did you touch it?"
"Yes, but only to take a look at the wallet."
Catherine's eyes darted at Shelby. "So you moved it?"
"No, ma'am," he corrected hastily. "The wallet was practically out of the pack, I just peeked in to see the name in the driver's license. I didn't move the bag."
Catherine leant closer. "Good," she muttered under her breath.
"Is there anything else, ma'am?"
A smile rose on her lips. "Yes. Stop calling me ma'am, it makes me feel old."
"Oh. Um, of course, ma -- I mean, um..."
"Catherine."
The man nodded, relieved. "Catherine."
"That's all, thank you," she replied his previous question with a smile. The detective left, leaving Catherine to unpack her equipment. She took the camera, starting to take pictures. The flash light flashed in the dark night, illuminating the branches of the bush that shadowed the backpack. She had taken about a dozen pictures before something caught her eye. A short, fair hair swaying in the wind. She lowered the camera to her lap. "Well, hey there..."
***
It was all over the morning news. A high school girl brutally murdered in Las Vegas. The media loved that kind of a stuff, loved the weeping parents and the school friends, and her age. Her age. There was nothing more delicious than an innocent young kid being murdered. Who did it? Are our children safe anymore? The subject would, without a doubt, end up in every prime time talk show. The mayor election was coming up in a year or so, the candidates would surely put it on every poster. Elect Mr. Big-Shot for the sake of your children's safety. It was a subject that every one would hang on to, because, let's face it, in its gruesome being, it was a juicy subject. A real treat. And the media loved it.
Jim Elwes was slumped on the couch, sitting with his arms leaning against his knees, staring at the anchorwoman on the screen of his TV. The picture was a bit hazy and granular. It was an old TV; he'd bought it years ago from a pawnshop, right after he'd gotten out of school and moved to Las Vegas to his first teaching job. It was a crappy TV, but he hadn't ever brought himself to buy a new one. Now, as the picture disappeared for blink of an eye every three seconds and the voice sounded muffled, he hoped he wouldn't have been so lazy and attached to the piece of crap.
The camera showed a reporter standing on the street in front of the park that stood on the other side of the road from Prompton High, his Prompton High. In front of the crime scene. The thought crept up to him out of nowhere. He hadn't really thought about it. Right outside the school. Right after she'd left. Shit. His body jerked at the thought. Shit. He bounced to his feet, starting to pace the room. Shit, shit, shit, shit... They were going to find out. Without a doubt. Surely they would. They would start asking question, and they'd find out that she's stayed after school. With him. Shit! It wouldn't take a scientist to put two and two together and not come up with seven. They'd examine her body, every millimeter of it, and they would find... They'd find out about them. Surely they would. He brought his hands up to rub on his temples.
So what if they did? They couldn't prove anything. Not a thing. How could they? He spun around on his heels, making up his mind. He would just go to school today, work as usual. He would.
But still he couldn't bring himself to move as he stared....
***
...at the year book picture of Debra Walker filling the television screen. Nick Stokes sighed. "I see they've already eating away with the story," he remarked at the brunette standing next to him.
"So I see," Sara Sidle grunted and turned away, walking to the coffee pot sitting on the counter in the corner of the break room. She reached for the pot and poured herself a full cup. "Any word from the autopsy yet?" She turned back Nick, propping herself against the edge of the counter. The man flicked the small portable TV off as he answered. "Al is just on it, it should be done anytime now."
"Shame it isn't our gig."
Nick smiled at her words. "Gig? That's one way of putting it."
"It's an interesting case, you have to admit it." Her voice was disappointed, and Nick turned to look at her. He closed the space between them with a couple of steps, stopping right in front of Sara.
He steadied his hands against the counter on either side of her body, smiling at her with a wicked grin. "You know, you look hot when you're frustrated." The woman flushed, just slightly. "Shut up," she said, but unable to hold back the small smile that curved her lips. She lifted her hand to his shoulder, tucking at his shirt with the tips of her fingers. Nick took the hint, leaning closer until their lips met.
He jerked back at the sound of the door opening. A yawning lab tech walked into the room. He flashed a sparkling smile at the two CSI's now standing a few feet apart from one another. "Any coffee left?" Oblivious to what had been happening, Greg Sanders walked to the counter, forcing Sara to take a step away from in front of the coffee machine as he reached out to take the pot. "So what have you two been up to?" the wild-haired man asked over his shoulder.
Sara glanced at Nick. "Oh, nothing much," she said with a wink that only Nick could see.
TBC....
Part Two: Well-kept Secrets
The colored lights of the police cars whirled in the night. They cast shadows on the walls of the buildings across the street and on the trees that stooped slightly above the roofs of the cars and the people. The sound of the sirens had died away into the night ages ago already, but the curious passers-by were still lurking behind the yellow tape, stretching their necks to see what was going on within the shadows. Jim Brass squeezed by them as he headed towards the crime scene. He dove under the yellow tape that hung in mid air, just above waist height, isolating a large area of the park from the rest of the world. As he walked, he pulled his rubber gloves on. A couple of officers nodded in recognition as he strode by towards the small group of investigators that worked a little further away where the victim was. One of them, crouched on the ground studying something, straightened up as he saw him advancing. Brass greeted him with a nod. "Captain," the younger detective responded.
Brass glanced upwards to the tree that stood not thirty feet from them. A small sigh escaped from his lungs as his eyes set upon the body, swaying in the autumn wind. The girl's hair, only half tied with a ribbon, hung down as a cloak covering most of her apparently quite attractive face. Such a waste. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the detective. "So, Shelby, what's the story so far? We've got an ID?"
Detective Shelby nodded with certainty. "Yes. We found her backpack further down the walk from a bush. Debra Walker. A student in Prompton High. She's been dead for at least four hours."
"Has someone called her parents?"
"Chris is just searching through the school files for their number."
The sudden breeze of the night wind washed through the park, rattling the leaves and sending the girl's hair flying in the air. For a brief second her glazed, open eyes were exposed for everyone to see. Their empty gaze bored into the ground far below.
Brass turned his eyes away from the girl to the sound of the humming engine pulling in behind the tape. As too figures stepped out of the Tahoe, he started towards them through the shadowed park. A couple of shouts, distant in the cool night, were called out on the other side of the outlined area from one officer to another.
The two CSIs grabbed their kits from the back of the car. Even from distance Brass could recognize the familiar forms of Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows. They both greeted him with a silent nod as he got to them. "What do we have?" Grissom cut to the point as they slowly started to walk towards the crime scene.
In a monotone voice, Brass noticed himself echoing Shelby's words. "Debra Walker, been dead for at least four hours. She's hung from a tree."
Catherine's eyebrow shot up. "Suicide?"
"Doesn't look like it," Brass said with a shake of his head. "Her body is full of cuts and bruises."
"How old was she?"
Brass's hand tucked into his pocket as he inhaled the night air. "In high school, about sixteen, seventeen."
A sad shadow moved across Catherine's face. Brass glanced at her from the side of his eye. He understood her. Just a kid. It could've been Ellie a couple of years back. In silence they paced through the woods and along the walk to the crime scene. Shelby was still around, this time talking to a young woman in a jogging suit sitting on the ground a little further away. Brass noticed Grissom looking at the woman and answered his unsaid question. "She found the body." Grissom nodded as he laid his kit to the ground, opening it and revealing the instruments inside. "Did she touch the body?" he asked, picking up a camera.
"From that height?" He gave a little nod towards the victim. A little one sided smile, not really humored one, appeared on the side of Grissom's mouth. "I guess not." He stopped for a second to gaze up at the swaying legs. Catherine was standing a couple of feet away, her too looking up. The three figures stood still in the night for a second, just looking up.
Once again, Brass turned away with a sigh. "Her backpack was found from a bush down the road," he informed, interrupting the silence between them.
At his words, both of the CSI's seemed to snap out of their thoughts. They glanced at each other. "I'll take it," Catherine said flatly. Grissom just nodded his approval.
With that, Brass turned towards where the younger detective was standing. "Shelby!"
***
The brown bag lay lonely on the ground, as if deserted there in a hurry. It was open and a couple of objects peeked out from between the fabric. Catherine knelt down beside it. "Did you open it?"
The young detective, Shelby, Catherine thought his name was, shook his head, glancing at Catherine's profile with his blue eyes. "No, ma'am. It was open when we found it."
"Did you touch it?"
"Yes, but only to take a look at the wallet."
Catherine's eyes darted at Shelby. "So you moved it?"
"No, ma'am," he corrected hastily. "The wallet was practically out of the pack, I just peeked in to see the name in the driver's license. I didn't move the bag."
Catherine leant closer. "Good," she muttered under her breath.
"Is there anything else, ma'am?"
A smile rose on her lips. "Yes. Stop calling me ma'am, it makes me feel old."
"Oh. Um, of course, ma -- I mean, um..."
"Catherine."
The man nodded, relieved. "Catherine."
"That's all, thank you," she replied his previous question with a smile. The detective left, leaving Catherine to unpack her equipment. She took the camera, starting to take pictures. The flash light flashed in the dark night, illuminating the branches of the bush that shadowed the backpack. She had taken about a dozen pictures before something caught her eye. A short, fair hair swaying in the wind. She lowered the camera to her lap. "Well, hey there..."
***
It was all over the morning news. A high school girl brutally murdered in Las Vegas. The media loved that kind of a stuff, loved the weeping parents and the school friends, and her age. Her age. There was nothing more delicious than an innocent young kid being murdered. Who did it? Are our children safe anymore? The subject would, without a doubt, end up in every prime time talk show. The mayor election was coming up in a year or so, the candidates would surely put it on every poster. Elect Mr. Big-Shot for the sake of your children's safety. It was a subject that every one would hang on to, because, let's face it, in its gruesome being, it was a juicy subject. A real treat. And the media loved it.
Jim Elwes was slumped on the couch, sitting with his arms leaning against his knees, staring at the anchorwoman on the screen of his TV. The picture was a bit hazy and granular. It was an old TV; he'd bought it years ago from a pawnshop, right after he'd gotten out of school and moved to Las Vegas to his first teaching job. It was a crappy TV, but he hadn't ever brought himself to buy a new one. Now, as the picture disappeared for blink of an eye every three seconds and the voice sounded muffled, he hoped he wouldn't have been so lazy and attached to the piece of crap.
The camera showed a reporter standing on the street in front of the park that stood on the other side of the road from Prompton High, his Prompton High. In front of the crime scene. The thought crept up to him out of nowhere. He hadn't really thought about it. Right outside the school. Right after she'd left. Shit. His body jerked at the thought. Shit. He bounced to his feet, starting to pace the room. Shit, shit, shit, shit... They were going to find out. Without a doubt. Surely they would. They would start asking question, and they'd find out that she's stayed after school. With him. Shit! It wouldn't take a scientist to put two and two together and not come up with seven. They'd examine her body, every millimeter of it, and they would find... They'd find out about them. Surely they would. He brought his hands up to rub on his temples.
So what if they did? They couldn't prove anything. Not a thing. How could they? He spun around on his heels, making up his mind. He would just go to school today, work as usual. He would.
But still he couldn't bring himself to move as he stared....
***
...at the year book picture of Debra Walker filling the television screen. Nick Stokes sighed. "I see they've already eating away with the story," he remarked at the brunette standing next to him.
"So I see," Sara Sidle grunted and turned away, walking to the coffee pot sitting on the counter in the corner of the break room. She reached for the pot and poured herself a full cup. "Any word from the autopsy yet?" She turned back Nick, propping herself against the edge of the counter. The man flicked the small portable TV off as he answered. "Al is just on it, it should be done anytime now."
"Shame it isn't our gig."
Nick smiled at her words. "Gig? That's one way of putting it."
"It's an interesting case, you have to admit it." Her voice was disappointed, and Nick turned to look at her. He closed the space between them with a couple of steps, stopping right in front of Sara.
He steadied his hands against the counter on either side of her body, smiling at her with a wicked grin. "You know, you look hot when you're frustrated." The woman flushed, just slightly. "Shut up," she said, but unable to hold back the small smile that curved her lips. She lifted her hand to his shoulder, tucking at his shirt with the tips of her fingers. Nick took the hint, leaning closer until their lips met.
He jerked back at the sound of the door opening. A yawning lab tech walked into the room. He flashed a sparkling smile at the two CSI's now standing a few feet apart from one another. "Any coffee left?" Oblivious to what had been happening, Greg Sanders walked to the counter, forcing Sara to take a step away from in front of the coffee machine as he reached out to take the pot. "So what have you two been up to?" the wild-haired man asked over his shoulder.
Sara glanced at Nick. "Oh, nothing much," she said with a wink that only Nick could see.
TBC....
