Hi everyone. Here's chapter four. Hope you enjoy it. Also, thanks to
those who have reviewed. Please continue to do so. It is much appreciated
as this is my first ever fan fic. The next chapter should be up by this
weekend.
And by the way, major kudos to those writers who manage to post such excellent work in such a timely manner. I'm learning that it's pretty damn tough. My hat is off.
Brass entered the DNA lab at a brisk clip, scanning the room. Greg sat huddled over a rack of test tubes. The place was oddly devoid of the usual "music" coming from the stereo.
"Saunders, I thought Grissom was back here?"
Without looking up, Greg simply shrugged, obviously not willing to stop the task at hand to answer Brass's rather evident query. Grissom, as if on cue, came through the doors. He blew on his coffee while adjusting his glasses, an air of urgency punctuating his every move.
"Anything, Greg"?
The tech handed Grissom a printout, spinning on his chair to face him. Brass noted that everything about the young man's demeanor was changed. No smirk, no joking. His serious expression stood in stark contrast to his spiky hair as he spoke. "The blood on the syringe, in the needle and on the ground is all Sara's." Just enough to indicate the syringe was probably stabbed into her pretty forcefully..."
"Not to mention the needle was bent." Grissom mumbled.
Brass stepped forward to get Grissom's attention. "Listen, Gil, I've got seven people from the surrounding homes. They were questioned earlier at the homicide scene. I've got them down in interr.by the way, the ex, Victor Curry, was brought in around 9:00, covered in blood and hopped on meth. Full confession. We'll see if any of them heard or."
"Yeah, I heard about Curry. I need to rule him out as a suspect in Sara's disappearance," Grissom sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"Already done. He was at his apartment, beating the crap out of his girlfriend when you were processing the double," Brass replied.
Greg, who had moved over to the computer screen, raised his head quickly, eyes showing a hint of excitement. "And those aren't Curry's prints on the syringe."
"You got a match?" Grissom's eyes sparked too.
All three turned to the monitor as Greg read the data. "Charles Lee Dunn, age 24. No felonies. Misdemeanor spousal abuse."
"How do we have his prints on a misdemeanor?" Grissom leaned over Greg to peer more closely at the screen.
"He applied to LVPD three years ago," Greg replied, scrolling down the page.
"Spent only a couple of weeks in the academy looks like," Brass noted, flipping open his cell. "I'll get some cars over to check that address and issue the APB."
"Can you also get me his application file, Jim? Tell records to send it over. Right now I want to get to Dunn's last known address," Grissom spoke quickly, taking off his lab coat in the process.
"Grissom, it's been three years. It's a real long shot he's still there."
Giving Brass a slight frown, Grissom headed through the doors.
************************
Sara attempted to collect her thoughts. Who knew duct tape was so damned strong? How long was this brain fog going to last? She detested the out of control feeling. God, no wonder she'd never had a desire to get into the drug scene, even recreationally.
Without moving, she cast an upward glance at Charlie. Not five minutes ago, Sara had watched him cook a spoonful of what, she guessed, was heroin, and tie off his upper arm. He was methodical. Amazingly, he then ripped open the packaging on a new syringe and wiped the inside of his arm carefully with rubbing alcohol. How nice, she thought. A health conscious junkie. She could only pray that he had used a new needle on her.
Having injected himself, Charlie propped his feet on a stack of old newspapers, his head bobbing contentedly against his chest. Sara held out some hope that the son-of-a-bitch had overdosed himself into a coma or death. Unfortunately, she noted that he seemed to be still conscious. Just very out of it.
Sara closed her eyes and pieced together what she knew. Charlie knew Grissom or, at least, of him. Her abductor was a drug addict. She had seen his needle-marked arms. The tracks didn't look as bad as a street junkie using homemade works, but it was a safe bet that he injected frequently. Sara guessed he must have had some rudimentary medical training. That or he was compulsively clean. She quickly dismissed the latter; as yet another roach scampered across her field of vision.
Straining again at the tape binding her hands and feet, Sara theorized that Charlie had meant to take Grissom instead of her. His earlier cryptic statement could certainly be read that way. Hell, she thought, Griss would be more at home here than me. He would probably have had the cockroaches unionized by now and working in shifts to gnaw through the damned duct tape. Maybe even have them attack Charlie en masse. Boy, was her thinking screwed. Unionized cockroaches? She shook her head for the hundredth time.
Sara certainly wouldn't want Grissom here in her place. Or any of the team for that matter. Well, maybe Greg, she smiled. Quickly, a wave of fear overtook her as the gravity of her predicament again made itself known.
"Please, Griss?" she whispered. Please find me, she added silently. I've got a lot to say to you. A sudden noise drew her attention.
*********************
Four LVPD officers stood to either side of the front door to apartment thirty-two, the last known residence of Charlie Dunn. Brass stood a few yards back, alongside Grissom. One of the officers rapped his knuckles loudly on the door. He repeated the knocking.
"Las Vegas Police Department! Open the Door!"
Time seemed to stand still for Grissom. He heard the officer's command, but all of his focus was on where the next two minutes would put him. A personal hell? Dozens of scenarios played through his mind. Every one of them shook Grissom to his very core. Sara hurt. Sara dead. His Sara. His thoughts ran at warp speed, but time stood still.
Grissom's trance was broken as the door opened slowly from the inside. The officers tensed, weapons steady. Twenty feet away, Gil Grissom held his breath.
TBC.
And by the way, major kudos to those writers who manage to post such excellent work in such a timely manner. I'm learning that it's pretty damn tough. My hat is off.
Brass entered the DNA lab at a brisk clip, scanning the room. Greg sat huddled over a rack of test tubes. The place was oddly devoid of the usual "music" coming from the stereo.
"Saunders, I thought Grissom was back here?"
Without looking up, Greg simply shrugged, obviously not willing to stop the task at hand to answer Brass's rather evident query. Grissom, as if on cue, came through the doors. He blew on his coffee while adjusting his glasses, an air of urgency punctuating his every move.
"Anything, Greg"?
The tech handed Grissom a printout, spinning on his chair to face him. Brass noted that everything about the young man's demeanor was changed. No smirk, no joking. His serious expression stood in stark contrast to his spiky hair as he spoke. "The blood on the syringe, in the needle and on the ground is all Sara's." Just enough to indicate the syringe was probably stabbed into her pretty forcefully..."
"Not to mention the needle was bent." Grissom mumbled.
Brass stepped forward to get Grissom's attention. "Listen, Gil, I've got seven people from the surrounding homes. They were questioned earlier at the homicide scene. I've got them down in interr.by the way, the ex, Victor Curry, was brought in around 9:00, covered in blood and hopped on meth. Full confession. We'll see if any of them heard or."
"Yeah, I heard about Curry. I need to rule him out as a suspect in Sara's disappearance," Grissom sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"Already done. He was at his apartment, beating the crap out of his girlfriend when you were processing the double," Brass replied.
Greg, who had moved over to the computer screen, raised his head quickly, eyes showing a hint of excitement. "And those aren't Curry's prints on the syringe."
"You got a match?" Grissom's eyes sparked too.
All three turned to the monitor as Greg read the data. "Charles Lee Dunn, age 24. No felonies. Misdemeanor spousal abuse."
"How do we have his prints on a misdemeanor?" Grissom leaned over Greg to peer more closely at the screen.
"He applied to LVPD three years ago," Greg replied, scrolling down the page.
"Spent only a couple of weeks in the academy looks like," Brass noted, flipping open his cell. "I'll get some cars over to check that address and issue the APB."
"Can you also get me his application file, Jim? Tell records to send it over. Right now I want to get to Dunn's last known address," Grissom spoke quickly, taking off his lab coat in the process.
"Grissom, it's been three years. It's a real long shot he's still there."
Giving Brass a slight frown, Grissom headed through the doors.
************************
Sara attempted to collect her thoughts. Who knew duct tape was so damned strong? How long was this brain fog going to last? She detested the out of control feeling. God, no wonder she'd never had a desire to get into the drug scene, even recreationally.
Without moving, she cast an upward glance at Charlie. Not five minutes ago, Sara had watched him cook a spoonful of what, she guessed, was heroin, and tie off his upper arm. He was methodical. Amazingly, he then ripped open the packaging on a new syringe and wiped the inside of his arm carefully with rubbing alcohol. How nice, she thought. A health conscious junkie. She could only pray that he had used a new needle on her.
Having injected himself, Charlie propped his feet on a stack of old newspapers, his head bobbing contentedly against his chest. Sara held out some hope that the son-of-a-bitch had overdosed himself into a coma or death. Unfortunately, she noted that he seemed to be still conscious. Just very out of it.
Sara closed her eyes and pieced together what she knew. Charlie knew Grissom or, at least, of him. Her abductor was a drug addict. She had seen his needle-marked arms. The tracks didn't look as bad as a street junkie using homemade works, but it was a safe bet that he injected frequently. Sara guessed he must have had some rudimentary medical training. That or he was compulsively clean. She quickly dismissed the latter; as yet another roach scampered across her field of vision.
Straining again at the tape binding her hands and feet, Sara theorized that Charlie had meant to take Grissom instead of her. His earlier cryptic statement could certainly be read that way. Hell, she thought, Griss would be more at home here than me. He would probably have had the cockroaches unionized by now and working in shifts to gnaw through the damned duct tape. Maybe even have them attack Charlie en masse. Boy, was her thinking screwed. Unionized cockroaches? She shook her head for the hundredth time.
Sara certainly wouldn't want Grissom here in her place. Or any of the team for that matter. Well, maybe Greg, she smiled. Quickly, a wave of fear overtook her as the gravity of her predicament again made itself known.
"Please, Griss?" she whispered. Please find me, she added silently. I've got a lot to say to you. A sudden noise drew her attention.
*********************
Four LVPD officers stood to either side of the front door to apartment thirty-two, the last known residence of Charlie Dunn. Brass stood a few yards back, alongside Grissom. One of the officers rapped his knuckles loudly on the door. He repeated the knocking.
"Las Vegas Police Department! Open the Door!"
Time seemed to stand still for Grissom. He heard the officer's command, but all of his focus was on where the next two minutes would put him. A personal hell? Dozens of scenarios played through his mind. Every one of them shook Grissom to his very core. Sara hurt. Sara dead. His Sara. His thoughts ran at warp speed, but time stood still.
Grissom's trance was broken as the door opened slowly from the inside. The officers tensed, weapons steady. Twenty feet away, Gil Grissom held his breath.
TBC.