Once again, I'd like to thank my beta-readers Allie and Janet. The story benefits in untold ways from their insight and guidance.

This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Remuneration, Part 24
by Cheers

By 3am, Gil had been at the analysis for eight hours. He had been able to identify two species of diptera, two demestids, one histeridae, and a single pholcidae species. The enclosed environment of the storage unit had prevented a more diverse phiophiledae or coleoptera representation. He still had to determine developmental stages present for all identified species. To do so, he would factor in variables like temperature, humidity, and light levels in the storage unit. This would involve calculating the amount of daily direct sun exposure on the door of the unit, the amount of light and heat transferred to the inside of the closed door, temperature gradients within an empty storage unit of the same dimensions compared with the outside ambient air at varying times throughout a 24 hour period, weather patterns in Las Vegas for the past 90 days, relative daily humidity for the same time period, and the known temperatures of the larval masses on the body he had recorded at the time of collection. The whole process was simplified by the body's placement away from soil and foliage and out of direct exposure to the elements. All in all, a very nice entomological analysis. The diversion provided Gil with a mental respite from the rue he felt when he thought about Shelly Danbridge.

Grissom was not responsible. He hadn't assaulted or killed her. That knowledge didn't help very much.

Shelly's killer, whoever he was, had violated her in unspeakable ways. But not just her - the entire Vegas community. The killer had crossed the line of decency and broken the public trust. A state of collective community grief was fueled by fear and dread. Most of that fear, coupled with a healthy dose of loathing, was aimed at the only known suspect. It was aimed at Grissom.

But here, in his office, with the insects and his books, Gil felt oddly safe from the accusations, large and small, past and present. This place of scientific endeavor was a bastion of sanity for the scientist. This world made sense to him. In it, he felt he had a great deal to offer. He could do some good, make a real difference. Corny as that might sound, it was the life Gil had consciously chosen. The fact that he might lose it all frightened him more than anything else in his life had.

What otosclerosis had not yet been able to do, this one act of horror - the murder of Shelly Danbridge - just might accomplish. This life that Gil had made for himself could fall apart.

Taking his glasses off, Gil dropped them on the topmost book of a large pile on his desk. It was a parasitology text. Sitting back in his chair, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was half-heartedly listening to a Vivaldi violin concerto when the sound of the music faded to a dull hum. Gil turned to look at the boom box that sat on the corner of his desk. The power light was still on and he could see the disk spinning through the small clear plastic window in the player door. He had an urge to increase the volume but knew that doing so would not help. He was still staring at the near-silent boom box when he was startled by the sudden opening of his office door. He was even more surprised by the person who stepped through it.


David Hodges knew that Stokes had been right that the animal hairs found on the victim and her clothing were canine. The spade-shaped roots of the dog hairs were folded and triangular. The dog was a short-haired variety. Color of the hairs was dark brown to black. Hodges wondered if the dog wasn't a Labrador or a lab mix. He ran with his hunch and found a nice match with the FBI canine database.

He double-checked his results before preparing his report. Hodges wanted Grissom's approval but he also wanted his gratitude. The more the boss depended on Hodges and his analysis skills, the faster the lab technician would advance. He always knew that the analysis of the evidence, not the gathering of it, was the most important aspect of forensic investigation. The CSIs in the office were far too self-important for his liking. Proving Grissom's innocence would be a nice feather in Hodges' cap for sure.


Jim Brass waited in his office for the young detective. After talking with the Sheriff, they had both agreed that the best medicine for inexperience was to stay the course. As much as Brass would love to drop-kick Paulson's ass right out of his division, he knew that this whole ugly mistake would teach the detective a very valuable lesson. If Paulson could make it through and close this case, the department just might find that he could be an asset, not a liability.

Hell, Brass had made his share of mistakes. Thankfully, he had never fried a colleague doing so. The largest obstacle Carl Paulson would have to jump was riding out the backlash from members of the department, both cops and the forensic guys.

Not that long ago, Brass would have done everything in his power to get rid of someone like Paulson. He had learned a valuable lesson of his own. His leadership, though not gentle, would bend its energies toward making this detective a smarter investigator. But that would be after Brass pinned his proverbial butt to the wall.

A knock told him his appointee was not late. "Come," he said loudly.

Carl Paulson stepped through the door to his captain's office and moved to stand in front of Brass's desk. He was not able to read the expression on the older man's face.

"Have a seat," Brass said, nodding to one of the two chairs that faced the visitor's side of his desk. Paulson complied.

Brass sat quietly and observed the detective for several minutes. Paulson became more and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. He began to fidget in his chair, straightening his tie several times and tugging on his coat jacket sleeves. When it became obvious that his captain wasn't going to say anything, Paulson cleared his throat in preparation of beginning his defense.

"You should have learned something important from all of this," Brass said, preempting the detective's statement and surprising Paulson.

"Yes … yes, sir," Carl said, unsure of what to think. He was completely unable to read the captain's tone or expression.

Brass nodded and sat forward, folding his hands atop his desk blotter. "Why don't you tell me what you've learned," he said almost too softly.

Paulson's palms were sweaty. He hadn't felt this nervous since he took the verbal psychological examination upon entering the academy. Despite his promise to himself to the contrary, Carl was becoming sorry that he had ever put in his transfer request to the homicide detail. He was much less sure of himself than he had been just two days before. How could he have let things go so wrong so fast with this case? When he had stood in Grissom's living room and found those flowers, everything had seemed to drop into place. Everything seemed to fit, neat and tidy. Everything, that is, except Grissom's character. Paulson had come to realize that nothing about Grissom was really all that normal. He loved bugs and crime scenes. He had no family to speak of but he was well respected by just about everyone. His investigative skills were practically unparalleled and had even proven the Sheriff wrong a time or two. But Grissom didn't toot his own horn. He quietly went about doing his job, day in and day out. And he was very, very good at what he did.

Brass could practically see the wheels turning inside Paulson's head. He didn't want to give the detective too much time to think. With a fast movement, Jim slammed his hand down on his desk. When Paulson nearly jumped straight up from his chair, Brass smiled.

"I'm not sitting here for my health, detective," Brass said almost cordially. "Tell me what you've learned."

"Yes, sir," Paulson said nervously. The fine sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead. "I know that I should have investigated Mr. Grissom's charac…."

"DOCTOR Grissom," Brass corrected sternly.

Paulson nodded and continued correcting, "I should have investigated Dr. Grissom's character more thoroughly before making any allegations that he could be our suspect."

"Your suspect, detective. But that's a good start," Brass said. "What else?"

Carl absorbed the off-handed rebuff with a nervous swallow before continuing. "I should have consulted with you immediately."

"That's right," Jim replied. "You should have brought any suspicions you may have had to your commanding officer, not gone over my head." With each word, the volume in Brass's voice rose. He gave his anger a little bit more lead to run. "So why the hell didn't you do that, Detective Paulson? Huh? I'll tell you why. You were so intent on making a name for yourself in the department that you forgot the most important aspect of police work. Protect and serve.

"But you're not going to forget that ever again, are you, detective? You're not going to because I'm going to make damn certain that you don't!"

As Brass continued, the officers and other employees of the LVMPD that passed by his closed office door could hear the anger in the captain's voice and subconsciously picked up their pace as they walked. No one wanted to be the person who sat across the desk from an angry Jim Brass. No one in their right mind, anyway.