TITLE: In the Blood
AUTHOR: coolbyrne
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Case file, implied GSR, cross-over
DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, by all means.
SPOILERS: Small reference to "TAIE". That's it, I think.
DISCLAIMER: All references to CSI belong to CBS, JB, AZ, et al. Dr. Tony Hill, Carol Jordan, and Paul Bishop belong to Val McDermid. All characters and places, whether they belong to me or not, are fictional. Well, except Vegas. I believe that's real.
FEEDBACK: Compliments/constructive criticisms are always appreciated. Send any combination of the above to coolbyrne@as-if.com. Flames will be gleefully mocked in other forums.
SUMMARY: A British profiler teams up with the CSI team to track down a serial killer.
A/N: This fic incorporates a character by the name of Tony Hill, a profiler from author Val McDermid's fantastic series, the first being "The Mermaids Singing", the second being "The Wire in the Blood", and the latest being "The Last Temptation". I wholeheartedly recommend these books. However, prior knowledge about Dr. Hill is not necessary in order to follow this story. Those who have read the books might get small "inside" comments, but I don't think it will take away from the story if you don't "know" him.
My everlasting gratitude to papiliondae for her beta-ing and her friendship.
*
The profoundest of all sensualities
is the sense of truth
And the next deepest sensual experience
is the sense of justice.
"The Deepest Sensuality"- D.H. Lawrence
*
Taking a moment to survey his surroundings, he wondered if there was some kind of universal template for police stations. Once the door closed, effectively separating him from the bright lights that over ran Las Vegas, he would have been hard pressed to place the station in Sin City or London. With the exception of a few missing "u"s and misused "z"s on posters and notifications, it all seemed the same; right down to the stale smell of smoke that had still lingered long after the policies against such a vice had come into effect.
He noticed a close-cropped boy, who looked barely old enough to have left the academy, manning what looked to serve as a reception desk. At his approach the officer raised his eyes from the stack of papers in front of him.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes. I'm Dr. Tony Hill. I have an appointment to see…" he reached into his pocket to retrieve the piece of paper, "Sheriff Brian Mobley. Is he in?"
McKey, according to the name tag neatly pinned to his uniform, gazed momentarily at Tony.
"It's the accent, isn't it?" Tony asked with a wry smile.
"Yeah," the young cop admitted. "I don't think I've heard that since my girlfriend dragged me to see an Ivory Merchant flick."
"Merchant Ivory," Tony corrected.
McKey smiled and shrugged, "Tomato, tomahto, right?"
"Indeed."
The phone rang, "Through the double doors, down the hallway, third door on the left." McKey directed as he reached to answer the call.
Tony thanked him and made his way down the required hallway. Third on the left was a thick mahogany door bearing the shiny nameplate of "Sheriff Brian Mobley". With two knuckles, Tony rapped on the imposing barricade.
"Come in," came the gruff invitation.
The door swung open smoothly and for the second time that day he was asked, "Can I help you?"
"Tony Hill. I had an appointment."
The blank expression on the Sheriff's face didn't change.
"Profiler. From England?" Tony prodded. "I sent you information on a series of murders I think might be connected to a case you had a little over two weeks ago."
Nary a change in the expression. "Ah, yes. Dr. Hill. How can I help you?"
The Englishman raised the folder in his hand. "I was hoping we could take a closer look at your case and…"
Mobley bristled. "My men worked overtime on that case for a full two weeks. They left no stone unturned."
"I'm not implying that they did, Sheriff. It's a simple matter of getting the information from the officers while it's still fresh in their minds."
"I'm afraid I can't spare them, Dr. Hill. Budget restrains have my staff over-stretched as it is. My hands are tied, I'm sorry. It's unfortunate that you've come a long way for nothing." He sat back and laced his fingers together where they rested on his chest. "Quite frankly, I didn't see the connection between your case and ours then, and I don't see it now. You're talking about a serial killer. I wouldn't think one murder in Las Vegas defines the term."
"They do have to start somewhere," Tony noted.
Ignoring the curtness in the reply, Mobley continued, "I had a chance to speak with your commander and he concurred with my opinion."
"Ah, well, with all due respect to my commanding officer, Paul Bishop is often more interested in the politics of a situation rather than the procedure."
Mobley looked at him as if he had sprung another head.
"Oh, I see," said the Englishman. "It's not just a British phenomenon then."
Before Mobley had the chance to verbally show him the door, Tony softened his tone. 'Flattery, Tony, flattery. Imagine yourself back in the squad room in Bradfield where every uniform is quick to dismiss your profession.'
"Sheriff Mobley, you certainly know what goes on in this city better than me. But as you say, I've come a long way, and I've lost all my spare cash at the slots," he pasted on a smile, "so if I could impose on your hospitality and ask if I may be allowed to at least talk to your forensics team. Just so I can leave knowing I've crossed all the i's and dotted all the t's." He saw the hesitancy in the man's eyes. "What harm could it do?"
"I thought you only wanted to talk to the officers involved in the case?"
"Are your CSIs not officers of the court?"
Mobley thought about this for a moment. "Very well. As a courtesy, I'll approve a visit with the CSIs. But Dr. Hill," his tone deepened, "please don't abuse the courtesy." Judging the conversation to be finished, Mobley returned to his papers, but not before adding, "In the meantime, you might as well get out and enjoy as much of Vegas as you can. Gil Grissom works the night shift."
"Thank you." Tony extended his arm and shook the other man's hand. "I appreciate all your help." He had had enough practice back home to make it sound more sincere than he felt.
*
"Now this is another world!" he thought later that night, as the doors to the lab building hissed shut behind him. No cramped quarters, no boxes of files piled from floor to ceiling, no vaguely musty smell for this lab. This was white, blinding white, pristine and huge. That was the only way he could describe it.
He was still immersed in his mental sightseeing when he felt the jarring sensation of running into another body. His folder spilled across the floor.
"I'm so sorry," he apologized as he joined a dark haired woman in collecting the errant papers and photos.
"Completely my fault," she corrected.
As they stood, the last pieces gathered from the floor, she tilted her head and looked at him. He felt her gaze catalogue him and he wondered what categories she was putting him in. Late 30's; about six feet tall; short dark hair; a fashion sense delayed by about three years; a lived in troubled face brought to life by piercing active blue eyes. He'd have to ask his sometime work partner and longtime friend, Carol Jordan if that had been her thumbnail analysis of him when they first met. In the meantime, the warm curiousness in the brown eyes of the woman in front of him put him at ease and he waited until she was finished.
Seemingly satisfied she had collected all the evidence that was available, she said, "You're new or you're lost."
He smiled. "Is it the accent that just screams, 'Stranger'?"
He was rewarded with her smile which revealed a rather endearing gap between her front teeth.
"Well," she explained, "you work here long enough and you get to know everyone, especially on the night shift."
"Yes, it takes a special kind of breed to work these ungodly hours." He held out his hand and discovered a magazine in his grasp. "Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science," he read. "Definitely not mine."
She looked down at the photo still in her hand. Her eyes swept across the horrible image, not with revulsion, he noted, but with a detached interest. "Definitely not mine," she echoed. Catching his gaze, she admitted, "Sometimes I feel guilty for being able to stomach things like that."
He shook his head as they exchanged photo and magazine. "Don't be. Empathy isn't in outward expression alone." He slipped the photo into the folder and extended his hand, now bereft of paper, once again.
"Tony Hill."
"Sara Sidle."
"Well, Ms. Sidle, it was a pleasure running into you."
She smiled back. "Call me Sara."
"If you call me Tony." Seeing her nod, he continued, "I'm looking for someone here named Gil Grissom. Do you know him?"
Sara squinted her eye and twisted her mouth as if giving the question some thought. "Gil Grissom… Gil Grissom… oh, right, that would be my boss. I can take you to him, if you want. Our shift doesn't start for another half an hour, but I'm willing to bet he's around here somewhere."
He continued filing these bits and pieces of information he was learning about her when he realized he was caught.
"You're analyzing me," she said, amazed.
"No."
"Yes, you are," she smiled, letting him off the hook. "Wait, let me guess. You're a profiler."
Tony's eyebrows arched, an action rarely seen. "That's quite good. How did you know?"
"You're kidding, right?" His look encouraged her to continue. "Dr. Tony Hill, BSc, DPhil? You have the highest solve rate of serial killings than anyone in Britain."
He felt his face warm at this unexpected praise. "How in the world…"
Sara shrugged. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I read it somewhere." When she saw a look that was rapidly becoming familiar, she said wryly, "You can file that away while I take you to see Grissom."
*
She leaned into the doorway.
"Grissom." His raised head served as his reply. "There's a Dr. Tony Hill out here to meet you. Profiler. Came all the way from England." She wagged her eyebrows.
Grissom pursed his lips in interest. "Tell him to come in."
Sara stepped aside and tilted her head towards the office. "Go ahead, Dr. Hill."
He nodded his thanks. "I thought I had mentioned it was Tony.," he chided. At her grin, he added, "You can join us if you like. I suspect you'll have an interest in this, and it will be one less person I have to explain it to later."
"Okay," she agreed and followed his gesture inside. She found a chair off to the side and watched as Tony made his introduction.
"Mr. Grissom, thank you for taking the time to see me." He offered his hand.
Grissom stood up and returned the greeting. "I have to admit, I'm not sure what this is about, Dr. Hill."
"It's Tony," Sara chimed in from her seat, and shrugged when Grissom gave her a pointed look.
"She's right, by the way," Tony said, then continued, "I'm here about a case you had approximately nineteen days ago. The murder of a priest."
Grissom wordlessly motioned for Tony to take a seat, as he did the same. "I remember it. Missing a left hand."
"That's the one."
"And what is it about this case that brings you all the way here?"
"Well, as I tried to explain to your Sheriff Mobley, I've been tracking down a serial killer in England who has the same signature."
"And what did Mobley have to say about that?"
"Standard brush-off. Quite frankly, I expected something with a bit more creativity."
From the corner of the room Sara piped up, "I think creativity for Mobley consists of figuring out which tie looks better on camera."
Tony chuckled. "Yes, I got that impression. It helps that I'm not a stranger to the political machinations at home."
"So what can we do to help you here?"
Laying his folder on Grissom's desk, he began, "First, if I could ask you to take some time to review the other seven cases."
"Seven?" Grissom repeated. "No wonder Mobley wanted to ignore it. Nothing worse for a political career than a serial killer on the loose."
Tony nodded. "If you could take a look and let me know if I've gone completely round the bend or not, on this one? If not, I'd like to review your evidence and perhaps speak to your team, or whoever worked the case. Maybe by coming at it from a different angle, I'll hear or see something others might have missed the first time round."
Now it was Grissom's turn to nod. "I don't see anything wrong with that. But I have to warn you, I don't know how much help we can be. As I'm sure you know, by the time we get there, the crime scene has gone cold."
"Yes," he agreed, "but we all know that's when the heart of the case begins."
"Can we keep him?"
Grissom gave Sara a stern look tempered by a small smirk that spread across his face. "Sara, why don't you show Tony where the break room is? I'll skim through this and meet you there in," he flicked out his wrist, "twenty minutes?"
Sara jumped up and rubbed her hands together. "C'mon, Tony. I'm sure I could round up a cup of tea somewhere."
*
The break room was bigger than his office.
"Everything is so big here," Tony remarked.
"Welcome to Las Vegas," Sara replied. "Have a seat wherever. I know I saw some tea bags here somewhere." She crouched down and started rummaging through the lower cupboards.
"We do drink coffee, you know."
She turned around on the balls of her feet. "Would you prefer coffee?"
"Well, no, I prefer tea, but…"
"That's what I though," she said with a lopsided grin.
"Don't ever change that smile," Tony said.
She turned again, taken aback by his comment until she finally gave him an honest, "Thanks. My parents never had the money when I was a kid, and now that I have the money, I couldn't imagine going around with braces at my age."
Tony smiled at the image. "Well, that's good. It makes you immediately unique. Not everyone can say that."
"Careful," she warned, "or we will keep you." Standing victoriously, she held up a square packet. "Aha! Tea! I knew it." She looked around for a clean cup. "So," she said as she tore the packet open, "tell me what makes you unique."
*
