A/N: OK, I'm slow. Here's chapter 2.
"Well, she didn't drown."
Grissom ran his eyes over the body slowly, studying the dead girl that lay before him.
He looked up.
"Why do you say that?"
Doc Robbins looked at the body, and then back up at him.
"Aside from that fact that no water was found in her lungs—take a look at this," he pointed to the neck wound. Grissom leaned in to get a better look.
"Is it a through and through?"
"Not quite—but it did transect the trachea, and sever the jugular.
Grissom mused over this information for a moment.
"Damage to the trachea would cause respiratory distress—but a bleeding jugular…," he didn't finish his thought.
Doc Robbins looked at him.
"We'll know more after the X-ray."
Grissom nodded absentmindedly.
"Anything else?"
"Several contusions to her face," Doc gestured towards the head. "Nasal bone looks fractured, along with the Maxilla and the Orbital bone. She took a pretty heavy beating."
Grissom looked over her face. It was grotesquely mangled by the bruises, making her seem ill formed.
"You should take a look at these stab wounds."
Grissom looked up.
"Stab wounds?"
Doc Robbins lifted up the blanket, exposing the corpse's torso.
"Five wounds in the chest area, all between the second and fifth rib, and two wounds to the stomach. Looks like they were made with the same weapon."
Grissom studied the wounds for a moment.
"These didn't kill her?" He seemed perplexed. Doc shook his head.
"Minimal to no bruising around the entry wounds," he looked back up at Grissom. "These were made post mortem."
Grissom remained quiet—staring at the wounds.
Doc didn't say anything.
Grissom leaned in closer, this time looking down at the girl's arms and hands. He looked back up at Doc.
"There's minimal defense wounds."
Doc shrugged.
"Killer must have snuck up on her—caught her from behind."
Grissom frowned.
"And before you ask—minimal tissue was found underneath the fingernails. I sent it to the lab to see if anything could be recovered. Who knows how much that pool destroyed," he shook his head.
"Hair and fiber?"
Doc shook his head.
"Nothing as of yet—but if I find anything, I'll send it out to Trace."
Grissom frowned again.
"Any evidence of rape?"
Doc shook his head again.
"Minimal tearing—looks like it's been about three months since she last had intercourse."
Grissom mulled over this—he squinted as if in thought.
"Seven stab wounds—made post mortem—one deep laceration to the neck—possibly fatal—but no weapon, no rape, no motive, no suspect."
Doc looked at him.
"You don't sound too worried."
Grissom shrugged, giving a slight smile.
"Have they ID'd her yet?"
Doc Robbins nodded. He picked up a file off the cart.
"One Elizabeth Delaney—twenty one years of age—resided at 15 Argonne Ave—Las Vegas, Nevada." He handed Grissom the folder. "ID'd her from dentals." Grissom bit his lip as he read over the information.
Doc pulled the blanket back over the gray torso.
Grissom looked up.
"Says she's a junior over at UNLV—English Major—boyfriend maybe?"
Doc smiled, shaking his head.
"That's your job—not mine."
Grissom gave a slight grin, returning his eyes to the paper in front of him.
Then he twitched—as if he was startled.
Doc eyed him cautiously.
"Something wrong?"
"No." Grissom reached down into his lab coat. "Beeper." He held it up in the light; as if to verify.
"Oh."
Grissom checked the message.
"I didn't hear anything."
Grissom put the beeper back, glancing at the doctor. He gave a slight shrug.
"I know."
Doc watched him—concerned.
"You never have your beeper on vibrate."
Grissom looked down at the file he was holding.
"Is there something you want to talk about?"
Grissom glanced up.
"No."
Doc frowned.
The scientist closed the open file with his hand.
"That was Sara. She needs me in the A/V lab," he pulled off his gloves. "Let me know what else you find."
Doc continued to frown.
But Grissom didn't notice.
He discarded his scrubs in the trashcan, and continued on his way out the swinging doors.
Doc just shook his head.
* * * * * * * *
The cool desert air felt refreshing after a long day of harsh sunlight. However; it was only a matter of time before the temperature dropped to an uncomfortable coolness.
But for now—it was just right.
"Man—graveyards give me the creeps," Nick remarked, swatting some mosquitoes away.
Warrick looked at him.
He shined his flashlight on the other CSI's face.
"You deal with dead people for a living—and graveyards give you the creeps?"
Nick put his hand up to block the light. Warrick dropped the light back onto the ground.
Nick shrugged.
"They scared me when I was a kid—guess it stuck."
Warrick shook his head.
"I think it's how quiet it is—I always feel like I'm disturbing something."
Warrick sighed.
"What are we out here for anyways?"
The other CSI looked around.
"Some punk kids knocked over some gravestones—we gotta find out whodunit."
Nick stopped in his tracks.
"We get kiddie vandalism—while the other's get a homicide? This is so not fair."
Warrick shined the flashlight at him again.
"You are one weird dude sometimes ya know that?"
Nick put his hands back up.
"Hey—watch it with that."
Warrick dropped the light.
"I just don't see why they need two of us out here—that's all." Nick walked by, briefcase in hand.
Warrick grimaced—but Nick didn't notice. He shined his flashlight on the fallen gravestone in front of him.
"Joseph P. McDaniel, 1978-1994," he said to himself quietly. "Wow—he was only 16 years old."
"Huh?"
Warrick looked over at Nick.
The Texan was crouching over another fallen stone.
"Nothin'."
Nick didn't even look up.
Warrick cast his light around in the darkness.
Nick was right—the silence was creepy.
He gave a slight shudder, as if suddenly realizing it was cold.
He looked at Nick.
"You plannin' on pullin' any prints before it rains?"
Nick glanced over at him and made a face.
"Just hold on," he stood up from his crouched position. "You got somewhere to be?" He tossed a cylinder of powder over at Warrick.
Warrick scoffed, catching the canister with ease.
He shined his light on the cracked gravestone in front of him.
"Just don't wanna be here when it does rain."
Nick made another face at him.
"Just get to work."