This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Remuneration, Part 18
by Cheers
Ecklie wasn't just angry when he entered his office after leaving the interrogation room. He was furious. The Sheriff would let Grissom come back to the lab on restricted duty, Paulson made an ass of himself, and Brass seemed to enjoy the whole thing. Damn Grissom anyway. That man was made of Teflon. It remained to be seen if Grissom could worm his way out of this jam. A little girl was dead and the citizens of Las Vegas wouldn't rest until they had a villain. If Conrad had his way, he'd hand them Gil Grissom on a platter.
The proper place to start was at the beginning. Grissom had taught him that. Finding the beginning was another thing altogether. Grissom had given Nick an important clue in the interrogation room. Now he had to make use of that information. Nick wasted no time. As soon as he left the interrogation room, he found the manufacturer's customer support 800 number on the box of trash bags taken from Grissom's Tahoe and called it. He would start with the only information he had and work from there.
It was late that morning when he was able to leave interrogation. If Gil thought that he was headed home for some peace and quiet before going back to the snake pit that CSI headquarters had become, he was mistaken. He had been followed home by an LVMPD squad car. He might has well have had a cop on his car's hood with a bullhorn announcing his arrival. What greeted him at his condominium complex was the unfriendly, unwelcome, and all too familiar Las Vegas news media circus. They had discovered the identity of the victim and, most probably, the fact that he was now a viable suspect in the brutal murder.
Since his department-issued SUV had been impounded for search in the investigation, Grissom had driven to headquarters for his interrogation in his own private vehicle, a 1995 model BMW 530i. Grissom drove around to the back of the complex, hoping to escape the throng. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Pulling into his parking space and tugging on the door handle, what felt like a flood descended upon Gil. Reporters shouting questions, microphones shoved to within centimeters of his mouth, the pop and blinding effects of flashbulbs going off in his face, and the inevitable visual chaos of many bodies all trying to occupy the same physical space, that immediately around him, pressed in on him.
This was perhaps the only time when Grissom would have welcomed the waning of sound that his hearing loss brought from time to time. In some perverted twist of fate, God saw fit to keep Gil's hearing acuity high as he attempted to wade through the melee and reach the comparative safety of his own living room.
"Mr. Grissom! Did you kill Shelly Danbridge?"
"Dr. Grissom! Why did you do it?"
"What kind of monster are you, Mr. Grissom?"
"Did you use your knowledge as a CSI to commit this crime, Mr. Grissom?"
"Dr. Grissom! Do you have any knowledge about this murder?"
"Mr. Grissom!" "Dr. Grissom!" "Mr. Grissom, sir?"
Pushing against the oncoming tide, Gil kept his mouth shut. He was a strong man, and when he chose to use his muscular build to his advantage others usually gave way. They did now. Slowly, the reporters, their microphones, cameras, and questions where forced to the side long enough for him to reach the back entrance to his building. Just as he was reaching for the handle to try and pull the door open, it opened from the inside to reveal two uniformed police officers. These men stepped to either side of Grissom and created an escape route through the door and into the back stairwell.
One of the officers remained outside to bar access to the door while the other moved back inside with Grissom. Gil waited inside for the officer to pull the door shut again.
"Thanks for the assist, officer," Grissom told him.
"Yeah, sorry about that," the uniform replied. "We should have been a little faster getting out there. Are you okay?"
Gil gave his body a quick once over and nodded. "I seem to be all in one piece."
"Good."
Turning his attention back to the officer, Gil wondered if this was the promised shadow the Sheriff had told him to expect. "And you are?" he asked.
"Oh, sorry," the police officer said and extended his hand. "Officer Barron. Doug Barron."
"Gil Grissom," the CSI said, shaking the other man's hand and then releasing it.
"I know who you are, sir," Barron said a little nervously. "The Sheriff assigned me … ah … to …."
Gil nodded. "I know." He looked the young officer in the eye. "Thanks again for the help out there." With that, Gil turned and headed up the stairs to his home. He wasn't surprised to hear the officer right behind him. As Gil exited the stairwell into the hallway of the third floor of his building, he found another officer standing outside Mrs. Danbridge's front door. He supposed this was to protect the Danbridges from intrusion by the media as well. It also effectively prevented Gil from making any further contact with his neighbor. His efforts to try and comfort Martha Danbridge or help with the investigation in any official capacity had come to an end.
Moving down the hall to his own front door, Gil didn't miss the slight nod both the uniformed officers gave one another. They each had their own jobs and they would do them. This was one time that Gil didn't envy the officers of the LVMPD. Babysitting an innocent man, whether they knew him to be innocent or not, had to be low on the list of reasons to join the police force.
Inside his home, Gil found another form of chaos. The search of his living quarters that he had agreed to had been conducted. Cabinets were open, papers and books were strewn across tables and chairs. Someone had gone through the clothing and other personal items in his bedroom. The sheets from his bed had been removed and taken. There was fingerprint powder on the surfaces of the sinks, faucets, and countertops of both bathrooms and in the kitchen. Then he noticed something else.
The flowers that Shelly had given him were gone.
Standing in the center of his home, Gil Grissom took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was nearly overcome. Not because he was an innocent man who was suspected of a terrible crime. Not because his life had been upended. Not because he could lose his job, something that had become the most important defining aspect of his life. Not because of any of that, but because what had brought all this about was the tragic loss of a bright and joyous young life.
Shelly Danbridge was dead.
