1 Chapter Eleven: Delivery
"Catherine? What does the note say?" Grissom asked slowly.
"It says," Catherine answered faintly, "it says 'It is a big deal, Catherine.'"
"I think so…but Gil, you'll never believe me."
"Try me." His voice was calm and reassuring.
"I – I don't think so. You won't believe it. You better come over here, Gil. And bring your kit; I don't have mine."
"All right, Catherine. I'll be right there." Catherine knew he meant it, too; she could hear him moving around as he spoke and she heard his door close just before he hung up. Catherine calmed down a little and went back into the guest bedroom to change her clothes. She knew it was going to be another long day.
Catherine grabbed her gun and tossed her hair slightly. I can do this, she thought, and stepped out of the room slowly.
Click. Catherine's hand flew to her gun. Her front door had opened again. It's just Gil, Catherine said to herself, praying it was true. She walked out into the kitchen just as the front door shuts again. That wasn't Gil. Catherine was attempting to stop herself from hyperventilating. Someone had the key to her house. She had locked the door and they had opened it. It was the only explanation.
Gun drawn, Catherine looked around to be sure the intruder – or intruders – were gone. She didn't see anyone, but a package on the counter caught her eye. A small box wrapped in brown paper laid on the otherwise cleared countertop. Her name was printed on the top with a bold black marker: "Catherine Willows."
Her mind spun with procedure. Fingerprints. Handwriting. Catherine suddenly realized she was pointing her gun at the box. That won't do any good, she scolded herself. Not even if it's a – Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. Bomb. It wasn't a bomb. It couldn't be a bomb! It… Then what was it? Catherine forced herself to think rationally. She put her gun down on the counter. Then she pulled on a pair of gloves and, with shaking hands, picked up the package. Catherine carefully ripped the tape off the ends of the package. Inside of the brown paper was a nondescript white box. Taking a deep breath, Catherine opened the box. Inside, she found another smaller box and a note attached to it. She unfolded the note. "It seems your kitchen was lacking one of these, Catherine."
Click. The door again. Panicking, Catherine dropped the note and grabbed her gun, whirling around to face the intruder.
"Why was your door unlocked?" Grissom was staring intently at the deadbolt on Catherine's front door. "I thought you locked your –" Grissom looked up, startled to see Catherine pointing her gun at his head.
"Grissom! Don't do that to me!" Catherine put her gun down and ran one hand through her hair.
"Sorry," Grissom said, opening the front door again and looking at the lock from the outside.
"Grissom." Catherine's voice wavered slightly. "They have a key, Grissom."
"What? Are you sure?" Catherine motioned towards the package on the counter.
"What is it?" Grissom asked, bending down to pick up the fallen note, reading it carefully.
Catherine removed the packaging and gasped.
A shiny silver corkscrew sat nestled in the packing paper.
Sara sat quietly in the break room, staring at the photos in her hand. The blood patterns had always looked peculiar, but Sara had just discovered why. The date, which was always written on the floor in blood and then cleaned up, was not the only peculiar thing. Near the date were letters. Sometimes one, sometimes two, but there were always letters. They were hard to see with all the blood splatter, but Sara could make out distinct letters. She took out a piece of paper and tore it into pieces, writing one letter on each piece. The letters had to spell something. Rearranging the letters in search of a word, a clue, Sara began to get frustrated. She hadn't gone home when Grissom had told them to, she had stayed to work on her little puzzle, and she was working on almost no sleep at all. Sara got up to grab some more coffee and wake up her brain a little.
"Maybe I should go home and sleep like the rest of them," she mumbled to herself. As she sat back down, something clicked. Sorting the letters from the photographs, Sara found the clue she was looking for. It was incomplete, but it was still a clue.
The torn bits of paper were carefully arranged to spell out "Isabele." There was an L missing, but Sara figured she might have overlooked it, and went back to the photographs.
"Hey Sara, I thought you went home," Elisabeth said, walking into the break room.
"Nah, I had to go over some evidence."
"Tough case?" Elisabeth asked, pushing her long blonde hair out of her face and taking a sip of her coffee.
"You might say that."
"There's a package for you on the front desk. I don't know who it's from; it was there when I got back from my lunch break. I thought you left to go sleep, so I didn't want to bother you," Elisabeth explained as she walked out of the room and back towards the front desk.
Frowning, Sara glanced at the pictures of the crime scenes, then at the lab, and then after Elisabeth. Slowly, she rearranged the letters.
"Elisabe…" Sara frowned again and pushed her chair back from the table. Something was up, and she had no idea what it was. She gathered the pictures and the scraps of paper and went to get her package.
Elisabeth was on the phone when Sara got to the desk. Elisabeth pushed a small brown package over to her. Sara picked up the box and searched for a return address or a postmark. There was nothing but her name, printed carefully in black marker: "Sara Sidle."
"It was just sitting on the desk when I got back from lunch." Elisabeth had gotten off the phone, and was watching Sara inspect the package. Sara looked up in surprise when Elisabeth spoke, and something on the desk caught her eye.
"Is that yours?" Sara asked, pointing at a plaid shirt folded up and laying on the end of the desk.
"No, that was on the floor when I got back from lunch. Maybe it belongs to whoever sent you the package," Elisabeth suggested.
"Maybe," Sara said, pulling gloves on and picking up the shirt. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Elisabeth replied automatically, not exactly sure what she was being thanked for.
Sara went back to the break room and put everything on the table. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed Grissom.
"Catherine? What does the note say?" Grissom asked slowly.
"It says," Catherine answered faintly, "it says 'It is a big deal, Catherine.'"
"I think so…but Gil, you'll never believe me."
"Try me." His voice was calm and reassuring.
"I – I don't think so. You won't believe it. You better come over here, Gil. And bring your kit; I don't have mine."
"All right, Catherine. I'll be right there." Catherine knew he meant it, too; she could hear him moving around as he spoke and she heard his door close just before he hung up. Catherine calmed down a little and went back into the guest bedroom to change her clothes. She knew it was going to be another long day.
Catherine grabbed her gun and tossed her hair slightly. I can do this, she thought, and stepped out of the room slowly.
Click. Catherine's hand flew to her gun. Her front door had opened again. It's just Gil, Catherine said to herself, praying it was true. She walked out into the kitchen just as the front door shuts again. That wasn't Gil. Catherine was attempting to stop herself from hyperventilating. Someone had the key to her house. She had locked the door and they had opened it. It was the only explanation.
Gun drawn, Catherine looked around to be sure the intruder – or intruders – were gone. She didn't see anyone, but a package on the counter caught her eye. A small box wrapped in brown paper laid on the otherwise cleared countertop. Her name was printed on the top with a bold black marker: "Catherine Willows."
Her mind spun with procedure. Fingerprints. Handwriting. Catherine suddenly realized she was pointing her gun at the box. That won't do any good, she scolded herself. Not even if it's a – Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. Bomb. It wasn't a bomb. It couldn't be a bomb! It… Then what was it? Catherine forced herself to think rationally. She put her gun down on the counter. Then she pulled on a pair of gloves and, with shaking hands, picked up the package. Catherine carefully ripped the tape off the ends of the package. Inside of the brown paper was a nondescript white box. Taking a deep breath, Catherine opened the box. Inside, she found another smaller box and a note attached to it. She unfolded the note. "It seems your kitchen was lacking one of these, Catherine."
Click. The door again. Panicking, Catherine dropped the note and grabbed her gun, whirling around to face the intruder.
"Why was your door unlocked?" Grissom was staring intently at the deadbolt on Catherine's front door. "I thought you locked your –" Grissom looked up, startled to see Catherine pointing her gun at his head.
"Grissom! Don't do that to me!" Catherine put her gun down and ran one hand through her hair.
"Sorry," Grissom said, opening the front door again and looking at the lock from the outside.
"Grissom." Catherine's voice wavered slightly. "They have a key, Grissom."
"What? Are you sure?" Catherine motioned towards the package on the counter.
"What is it?" Grissom asked, bending down to pick up the fallen note, reading it carefully.
Catherine removed the packaging and gasped.
A shiny silver corkscrew sat nestled in the packing paper.
Sara sat quietly in the break room, staring at the photos in her hand. The blood patterns had always looked peculiar, but Sara had just discovered why. The date, which was always written on the floor in blood and then cleaned up, was not the only peculiar thing. Near the date were letters. Sometimes one, sometimes two, but there were always letters. They were hard to see with all the blood splatter, but Sara could make out distinct letters. She took out a piece of paper and tore it into pieces, writing one letter on each piece. The letters had to spell something. Rearranging the letters in search of a word, a clue, Sara began to get frustrated. She hadn't gone home when Grissom had told them to, she had stayed to work on her little puzzle, and she was working on almost no sleep at all. Sara got up to grab some more coffee and wake up her brain a little.
"Maybe I should go home and sleep like the rest of them," she mumbled to herself. As she sat back down, something clicked. Sorting the letters from the photographs, Sara found the clue she was looking for. It was incomplete, but it was still a clue.
The torn bits of paper were carefully arranged to spell out "Isabele." There was an L missing, but Sara figured she might have overlooked it, and went back to the photographs.
"Hey Sara, I thought you went home," Elisabeth said, walking into the break room.
"Nah, I had to go over some evidence."
"Tough case?" Elisabeth asked, pushing her long blonde hair out of her face and taking a sip of her coffee.
"You might say that."
"There's a package for you on the front desk. I don't know who it's from; it was there when I got back from my lunch break. I thought you left to go sleep, so I didn't want to bother you," Elisabeth explained as she walked out of the room and back towards the front desk.
Frowning, Sara glanced at the pictures of the crime scenes, then at the lab, and then after Elisabeth. Slowly, she rearranged the letters.
"Elisabe…" Sara frowned again and pushed her chair back from the table. Something was up, and she had no idea what it was. She gathered the pictures and the scraps of paper and went to get her package.
Elisabeth was on the phone when Sara got to the desk. Elisabeth pushed a small brown package over to her. Sara picked up the box and searched for a return address or a postmark. There was nothing but her name, printed carefully in black marker: "Sara Sidle."
"It was just sitting on the desk when I got back from lunch." Elisabeth had gotten off the phone, and was watching Sara inspect the package. Sara looked up in surprise when Elisabeth spoke, and something on the desk caught her eye.
"Is that yours?" Sara asked, pointing at a plaid shirt folded up and laying on the end of the desk.
"No, that was on the floor when I got back from lunch. Maybe it belongs to whoever sent you the package," Elisabeth suggested.
"Maybe," Sara said, pulling gloves on and picking up the shirt. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Elisabeth replied automatically, not exactly sure what she was being thanked for.
Sara went back to the break room and put everything on the table. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed Grissom.