This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Remuneration, Part 9
by Cheers
The recliner from the We-Store-It unit arrived at CSI and was placed in a clean portion of the building's evidence garage. Warrick and Sara approached the chair gloved and ready to find the secrets the piece of furniture would yield.
Several larvae could be seen crawling over the interior surfaces of the chair. Removing the body had done little to decrease the stench. Sara had grown used to the smells of death, but the added odor of the insect-ridden fabric was slightly nauseating. Nevertheless, she collected all the remaining larvae and labeled the specimens for Grissom.
"Gris will love those," Warrick said, nodding to the evidence jars.
Sara smiled. "More than John, Paul, George, and Ringo put together."
Warrick set to work tape-lifting any loose hairs and fibers. These he labeled for processing in Trace and DNA. Sara made another pass with the ALS to make sure nothing obvious was missed. They took samples for comparison of the fabric fibers that had been saturated with fluids from decomposition as well as fibers from the back of the chair.
After Warrick cut the lights, Sara sprayed luminol evenly over the surface of the chair to get a clear picture of the blood stain pattern. This pattern was primarily located along the right edge of the front of the recliner back and moved down into the right inner armrest and the right inner seat cushion. No blood had been found on the concrete floor of the storage unit under the chair, so the padding of the recliner and the victim's clothing had absorbed all the blood the victim lost.
Jim Brass had spent the past few hours waiting for the warrant to come through for all the rental documents on Unit 71 and then running the information he got from those documents. Not surprisingly, the name on the rental agreement came up empty. The Alan Smythe who signed the contract did not exist in any database the department searched. The home and billing address on the contract were dead ends as well. Even if there were an Olivia Boulevard in Las Vegas, the 12800 block west would put any structure there in the middle of the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.
The first month's rent was paid in cash, and the manager had received no further payments on the unit. There was no way to trace the renter with a money trail. There was no video surveillance system at the We-Store-It office nor around the storage buildings. And, of course, the manager could remember few specifics about the person who signed the contract - a Caucasian man, light hair, medium height and weight, clean and neat, business suit. That ruled out females, persons of color, and the homeless. Great, just great.
That left the wait for an identification of the victim before the investigation could go much further. With Grissom and his merry band of CSIs on the case, the evidence would probably yield much more helpful information than the rental contract had.
The quiet inside the vehicle was pronounced. Not even the drone of the SUV's engine could overcome the silence. Gil Grissom concentrated on the road. The supermarket he had just visited earlier in the night was not a full three miles from his condominium complex. He could get there blindfolded. He could get there, but he couldn't keep a killer from dumping the body of a helpless little girl.
Pulling into the parking lot, he saw the telltale red and blue flashes of light that put the emergency vehicles behind the building. Grissom steered around and headed to the back of the supermarket.
The slamming of a vehicle door brought Nick's attention away from the tire treads. He had gathered all the items he needed to cast the treads and was preparing to do so when he looked up. One look at his boss's face and Nick instantly knew that this identification wasn't going to be routine.
Flood lights created artificial day around a dark garbage bag that lay on the ground. Two tiny feet told a story of the tragic loss of young life. Gil could feel his heart was pounding faster than normal. He kept his breathing steady and put on the pair of latex gloves he had placed in his coat pocket. Nick stood next to the body and was waiting for him. The eerie quiet continued. Gil was certain someone was speaking but he didn't know who or what was being said. He found he couldn't take his eyes off the small feet, one of which was without a shoe. All he could hear was a dull hum. Perhaps there was mercy in that.
Nick lifted the edge of the bag that held the body and Gil crouched to look inside. The little girl lay on her back. Her skin was pale and her clothes were twisted around her slight frame. Gil saw all of that with a momentary glance before looking at her face … her lifeless face.
Closing his eyes tight to shut out the image of Shelly's body, Gil dropped his head and exhaled. Unconsciously he had been holding his breath. Swallowing against the rising rage, Gil turned away and stood. With what felt like a thunderous crash, the sounds of the world that had witnessed Shelly's death flooded back in on him. The squawk of police radios, the thrumming of traffic near and distant, the low voices of officers whispering about what they must now know was a positive identification, and the soft voice of Nick asking him if he was all right.
Sure, Grissom was all right. His heart still beat and he could feel the air burn as he took in a deep breath. He was still alive and Shelly Danbridge wasn't. The patent lack of fairness about both those facts felt more like a slap in the face than anything else. A nod was all he could give Nick.
It would be several minutes before he could say a word and several more before he found the will to unclench his fists.
