Part 2/?
EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF SARA SIDLE
You don't realise how precious something is until you've lost it. Or at least that's how the saying goes. In my case, it was more the fact that I didn't realise how much I'd missed it, until it showed up again - vibrant, flirtatious and awe-inspiring.
In the past, I'd accepted that we'd had to part our ways, accepting the loss, but not realising the full impact of what I'd lost until now. Given the chance to keep it, I held onto each word and sought to impress through my actions. Grissom reprimanded me gently, reminding me that I was no longer at a seminar. I was no longer reaching out to be a star, but now reaching for the stars....
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sara stood outside the autopsy bay for a moment. She had witnessed many cadavers in various states of decomposition over her years as a CSI, but she always needed a moment in which to direct her thoughts towards the case and away from the smells that were about to assail her.
"Are you ready?" Grissom asked as he strode down the hall.
"Yeah." Sara let her breath out slowly. "Let's get on with it."
They moved in tandem through the silver doors. Their victim lay exposed on the cold autopsy table. Sara observed the olive skin, bloated and mottled under the effects of the Nevada heat. If you added to that the injuries sustained in whatever attack had caused his death and the ravages of Grissom's new entomological treasures, you had a real challenge to the rhinal senses.
"Hi Al. What've we got?"
"Male of middle-eastern origins, aged fifty to sixty years; sealed and delivered."
"Pardon?"
"Excuse me?"
The two of them spoke simultaneously, exchanging a quick glance before turning their questioning gaze upon Doc. Robbins.
"You two need to practice that more." Doc Robbins looked across at the two of them over the top of his half-moon shaped glasses, which were perched precariously on the end of his nose.
Grissom gave him an icy glare. Doc Robbins ignored him, proceeding as if nothing had taken place, only the hint of a smile giving away his awareness of Grissom's reaction to his words.
"Your victim was washed clean and wrapped prior to being dumped. He had been cleaned thoroughly before being wrapped in three pieces of cotton cloth, tied at the head and feet." Doc Robbins pointed to the paper bag sitting on the chair in the corner.
"You've got photographs?"
"David took them. They're being processed now. We left the knots intact as per protocol, cutting the rope with a knife. The knots were tied differently. Remind you of anything?"
Sara looked between the two of them, watching years of expertise breaking through what seemed to her to be unusual evidence. She couldn't determine what they were both homing in on. Eventually, the lack of exposition took its toll. "What does it mean?"
"Religious significance. The man was a Muslim. And he was cleaned by a male Muslim prior to his wrapping. It's part of the ritual preparation of the body for burial," Grissom replied as he leaned over the body, his keen eyes inspecting every facet of the man's injuries.
"I doubt it would normally include plastic bags and a desert environment."
"No, you're right, Sara," Doc Robbins agreed. "Someone was obviously trying to cover up a serious crime. The comminuted fracture sustained to the tib-fib of the left leg is a classic vehicular injury. The bumper bar impacts the victim below the knees. He has bruising to the upper torso and arms indicating that he was thrown onto the hood of the vehicle. Gravel rash.....
Hearing Doc Robbins' discourse of the injuries sustained by the man, Sara could visualise the man crossing the road, unaware of the fate about to befall him. The car colliding with the victim, bones in his left leg crushed upon impact before the body was thrown in the air to crash violently against the windscreen and hood. Tyres screeching as they forcibly came to a halt, the sudden stop tossing the man like a rag doll against the hot black bitumen, the gravel eating away at the skin of his face, arms and hands.
Sara was brought back to the present when Grissom tossed a question into the air. "Al, you've said there's bruising. If there's bruising, his injuries weren't immediately fatal."
"That's right."
"So the driver of the vehicle deliberately killed this victim?" Sara asked, squinting her eyes.
"We can't say until all the evidence is in," Grissom reminded her.
"Here's another piece of evidence for you. There's a partial plate impression on his leg from the impact."
"I'll run with it," Sara offered. "Doc Robbins, you also have fingerprints for me?"
"Card is on top of the file over there." Doc Robbins nodded towards the cabinet beside the door.
"Keep me updated, Sara.," Grissom intoned, looking at her over top of the body he was examining closely.
"When don't I?" Sara flashed Grissom a smile as she left the morgue to investigate the evidence in her hands.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sara lounged against the doorpost, enjoying the opportunity to watch Grissom carefully measure the size of the fly. She smiled as his tongue jutted slightly out the corner of his mouth, his intense concentration upon fixing the fly to the board. His fascination with the bug world made her desire to understand how they held him captive. She purposely remained silent, savouring the opportunity to observe without interruption or the necessity for discretion. It wasn't long before his eyes slowly trailed from the board to the doorway.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Not long." She gave him a quick smile.
"Did you have any success?" Grissom asked as he fixed the fly firmly onto the board.
"I'm still waiting for a result on the number plate, but I did manage to find out who our victim is. His prints were on file. One Mohammed Sayed. Lives in Vegas Heights with his wife and six children."
"No missing person report?" Grissom leaned back in his chair, contemplating the possible implications.
Sara shook her head slowly. "He's been dead for days and they're not concerned.... they know something."
"Why don't we go find out what they do know? Call Brass and let him know what you've found," Grissom instructed as he packed away his equipment.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A small, dark hand pushed aside the curtains covering the long, thin window beside the door. Dark, inquisitive eyes looked up at the three of them, before the sound of approaching footsteps falling heavily on a tiled floor attracted his attention. A string of words had the young boy moving quickly away from the window.
The door opened. A taller version of the young boy stood looking at them, his charcoal eyes tumid. Sara wondered what had brought such a harshness into them at such a young age.
"Who are you?" His words were innocent, but defensive. His body language indicated that he knew exactly who they were.
"Detective Brass, Las Vegas Police." Brass indicated to Grissom and Sara behind him with a nod. "This is Gil Grissom and Sara Side, Criminalists."
"Police? Criminalists? What's this all about?"
Sara watched the young man's eyes carefully. She listened to his words, but everything else was telling another story. He wasn't well practised in lying and his eyes gave him away as they darted nervously over the group.
"Your father, Mohammed Sayed," Brass told him.
"Father was to be away on business." Sara didn't miss the use of the past tense that the son used. She saw Grissom move his head slightly to the left. It was a minute move, but a sure sign that he hadn't missed it either. It was a common mistake made by people who knew that a person is dead.
"I'm afraid he's not," Grissom interrupted. "Is your mother home?"
"She doesn't speak English."
"That's fine. I'm sure you can translate for us. May we come in?" Brass took a step forward, making the most of his height to impose his presence upon the boy.
The young man automatically took a step backward, reluctantly opening the door to admit them all.
"Please remove your shoes. Mother hates the floor having muddy shoe prints."
Sara bent down to undo the laces on her boots, cursing herself for not wearing slip-ons like the men who were already padding down the tiled hallway after their reluctant host. Her eyes wandered as her fingers worked on the laces, automatically cataloguing everything that came under her gaze. She frowned and tilted her head as something caught her attention. Her fingers stopped their work as she inspected the object of her attention more closely, her hair almost touching the ground.
The sole of a single sneaker had piqued her interest. Sara felt in her jeans pockets, hoping that she had a single latex glove shoved in one. It was a habit that she had acquired over the years, but it would be just her luck that she'd used it at another scene. Two pockets came up empty before she finally found one. Slipping the glove easily over her long fingers, Sara picked up the offending item, squinting her eyes as she assessed it closely.
Ignoring the directive to take off her shoes, she followed the direction Grissom and Brass had taken. The sound of voices rising and falling led her to the exact room where they were interviewing mother and son. A string of foreign words greeted her, possibly Arabic or Aramaic in origin. Sara took the time to evaluate the mother, who was dressed in voluminous black material. Her olive-skinned face and hands were the only parts of her body visible. Short stubby fingers pulled at the wad of tissues grasped tightly in her hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed and shimmered with unshed tears at the news of her husband's death. From the answer the son was giving now, Sara could easily guess what the original question was.
"Mother doesn't know. Father was to be away on business for a week. It's not unusual for him to be delayed."
Grissom's eyes trailed from mother and son to Sara standing in the doorway, drifting down to the sneaker in her gloved hand. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question and gave a slight nod of approval.
"Where was he going, Ahmed?" Brass continued to ask.
"Saudi Arabia."
"And you haven't heard from him in all that time?" Grissom asked, pursing his lips as he waited for an answer.
Again a quick string of words between mother and son. "No. But that's not unusual. He was a very busy man."
"Are you sure it's not because you knew that he was not in Saudi Arabia?" Sara interjected.
"What?"
Sara held the sneaker up in the air. "Whose shoe is this?"
"Mine. Why?" Ahmed answered, his heavy, dark brows furrowing in confusion.
"You might like to explain the presence of the blood in the tread." Sara raised her eyebrows at the young man.
He paled under the intense gaze of Grissom, Brass and Sara, floundering to find an explanation.
End Part 2/3