A/N: Thanks for the reviews! So, I got this chap up extremely fast considering that it's me we're talking about here. Yay me! *G* And, just to cream the cake (don't ask), the coin is speaking. In this chapter. Finally. Double yay! (SparkyCola: A-lin. That's a pretty name. Mine's pronounced exactly the way it's written.)
CHAPTER FOUR
Warrick Brown sealed the last package of evidence and put it down on the tray to be taken away. With a sigh he pulled his latex gloves off and tossed them into the nearby trash bin. He was done processing the evidence now, the little processing there had to be done; the case was already closed even before it had been properly opened, it was so straight-forward that all the CSIs had to do was to gather the evidence and make sure it was labeled correctly. Even without checking, Warrick already knew whose blood it was on the ground, whose fingerprints on the gun, so he just did it because he had to. The camera in the evidence room had been flipped off but the one in the hallway had captured enough for the case to hold in court. Unless the defense tried to tell them that there had been another, invisible person in the room with Greg and that guy, there was nothing that could make this case complicated. Everything from now on would be just following procedures.
Warrick rose his hand to rub on his tired eyes. He hadn't know the man, Sam, not really. Okay, yes, now that he thought about, he might have seen him around a couple of times but not many times enough for him to memorize his face -- he had never even talked to him. He wasn't surprised about that, though. Grissom had told him that Sam worked as a receptionist upstairs, and Warrick seldom went there for anything. He heaved a sigh.
"How's it going?"
Warrick whirled around at the voice that sounded from the doorway. A tall brunette was leaning against the frame with her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. "Jeez, Sara, scare the heck out of me, will ya?" he grumbled at the woman, who just sent back a small, apologetic smile. Then he frowned. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at the hospital with Nick and Cath."
She just shrugged. "Somebody's got to do some work around here." Her face lacked emotion, not giving anything away.
Warrick shook his head a little. "We would've called you guys if something came up," he contradicted.
Sara raised her eyebrows. "You weren't there."
Warrick opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut again instead and just stared at Sara. The brown eyes met his steadily, almost daring him to speak out his excuse. Excuse? Reason, Warrick corrected himself in his mind. His reason for staying in the LVCL taking care of evidence and paperwork and everything else instead of worrying for his friend. As Sara had said, somebody had to do it. Warrick had. And not thought about Greg at all. Not once had he wondered whether or not he was okay. Warrick felt his stomach flip with guilt, and he swallowed hard. His reason for not being there? To avoid asking the inevitable question and, perhaps, hearing the answer, he realized. He hadn't been able to do that, not in the end, and now it was standing right in front of him. He cleared his throat and gathered his courage. "How is he?"
***
The swing doors that lead to the operation room 2 were pushed open. Dr. Fletcher stepped into the surgeons' preparation room and let the doors close silently behind her as she pulled down the surgical mask and let out a long, tired sigh. She yanked off the bloody gloves and her scrub suit and stuffed them into the waste bin awaiting just for them in the corner of the room. The green cap followed right behind. Routinely she patted her way to the sinks, stretching her stiff neck as she went. Cold water soon rushed over her hands and onto the white porcelain. She cupped her hands and splashed some of the cooling liquid over her burning face. Reaching for a paper towel she closed the tab and carefully straightened her back, minding the muscles that had started cramping due to hours of hovering over the operation table.
The image that met her from the mirror looked disheveled. Her sweaty hair pointed to every direction and the rubber bands of the mask and the cap had left red marks all over her face. "God, I'd kill for an Iced Moccha," she muttered to the mirror. She dried her face and her hands before crumbling up the paper towel and throwing it away.
She heard the doors open behind her and turned around. Dr. Hasa Murzat gave her a small nod before he started to get off his own scrub suit. She propped her waist against the edge of the sink and watched him go through the same motions as she had just a minute earlier. The coldness of the porcelain radiated through her clothes to her hot skin.
She folded her arms over her chest, tucking her fingers between her arms and her sides. A thoughtful frown invaded her forehead. "Do you think I made the right decision in there?" she asked as she watched Dr. Murzat cleaning himself up.
The man took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his dark hair. "It's a bit late to contemplate it now, is what I think," he said and turned his chocolate brown eyes at his colleague. They wore a look of understanding. "Being a surgeon is all about making tough decisions in tough places. You know that."
"Still, it was too much of a risk and I knew it."
"Nevertheless, it's done now," Dr. Murzat said. He walked up to the sink next to Dr. Fletcher and started washing his hands. "Do you want me to talk to his friends?" He reached over behind her back for the paper towels and dried his hands before casting his eyes at her again.
She avoided his gaze by staring at the tip of her shoes and sighed. "No, I'll do it."
She saw him nodding from the side of her eye.
***
Brass was getting very irritated. He glanced at Grissom who sat beside him silently and sent him a quizzical look. The CSI just arched an eyebrow. Getting no help from the older man, he ground his teeth and rubbed his forehead.
"What the hell do you mean you want to make a deal?" he snarled at Will Stanrov. The lawyer just met his glare levelly from the other side of the table.
"I have advised my client to plead guilty --"
"Well, ain't that wise, considering that he was caught red-handed on the scene of crime!"
Stanrov let Brass's outburst pass his acknowledgment and continued as if he'd never said anything. "But I have also advised him not to speak further of the events or reasons that led into this particular incident unless certain terms of agreement can be met."
"Terms of agreement, my ass," Brass scoffed. He fixed his glare at Sam who'd sat silently through the entire interrogation this far while his lawyer had done all the talking. The young receptionist was staring intensely down at the table, looking as white as a sheet. Brass wasn't sure whether he ought to feel sorry for the kid or be irritated by his martyr act. He steadied his elbows against the table and leant closer to the man, shooting his words across the table to him: "I don't give a damn about events that led you up to this incident." He spat out the last word with contempt and shot a glare at Stanrov. "We've got a pile of charges as thick as your neck waiting. How does break and entry sound, not to mention theft and possession of an unlicensed firearm? Do I even have to remind you that the man you shot just started his eighth hour in surgery? You'd better pray that he makes it unless you want us to add murder of first degree onto the pile." With that, Brass pulled back again, leaning against the backrest of his chair to watch as his words sunk in. He could see the effects of his words on the man's face. He looked scared. Brass sighed and ran his hand over his face. "Sam, you've got a kid and a wife. Don't make this more complicated than it has to be," he said a bit more softly this time.
"Complicating matters is not my client's desire, I assure you, Captain," Stanrov cut in again from Sam's side. "But I also assure you that you would find the information my client holds greatly interesting."
Brass groaned and rolled his eyes. "Look, buddy," he snapped and pointed his finger at Stanrov, "you are not in a position to demand anything. Your client is going to jail no matter what you do, and I don't care what deals you have to offer. If you have something to say, just spit it out! Otherwise we're done here."
The lawyer blinked. "You don't care why he was roaming around the evidence room?"
"Frankly? No." Brass pushed himself up from the chair in one swift movement, ignoring Sam's eyes that darted up at him anxiously, and gave a wave at the officer who stood in the corner. "Cuff him and get him into his cell," he bluntly told the man. The officer nodded and started towards the table. Sam glanced at him nervously and then back at Brass. Stanrov looked surprised; obviously he'd thought that he held the cards. Grissom just sat in his chair as if waiting for something. "Good day to you, Mr. Stanrov," Brass grunted and turned to the door.
"Don't you wish to nail bigger criminals than first-timers like Sam Kemper?" he heard Stanrov call out after him.
Brass laughed out bitterly over his shoulder. "Only if the catch is big enough."
"How's Michael McKinley?"
Brass's steps came to a halt. Slowly he turned around on his heels and fixed his eyes on the young lawyer. He held his gaze, measuring, considering. Deciding. He glanced at Grissom. Walked back to the table. Sat down. Leant back. Folded his hands on his lap.
"Talk."
***
Catherine had returned to the waiting area only to find out that Sara had left. She'd bit down her anger and swallowed the remains of her coffee instead. Nick had looked at her with dull eyes and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. She'd stayed standing, eyeing the empty corridor and waiting.
She wasn't quite sure whether that had been twenty seconds or twenty minutes ago. She'd just stood there, clutching the paper cup in her hand and staring into space, thinking about everything and nothing at all. She'd tried to picture Greg, the way his hair stuck out in controlled chaos and his head popped in the rhythm of the music that seemed to be always blazing from the stereos when he was in the lab. She felt protective over the young lab technician, had been feeling so ever since the explosion of his lab. She'd felt it was her duty to do so. The least she could do.
She'd failed in her task.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Screwed them shut for just a second and then opened them again.
The corridor ahead wasn't empty anymore.
There was a woman. A blonde woman with a white coat waltzing towards the waiting area with determination. "Nick," Catherine whispered. The Texan's head jerked up from his hands. As Catherine nodded towards the approaching woman, he jumped up from the chair, seemingly bracing himself for the news. It was at that movement that the doctor noticed them.
"Mr. Gregory Sanders?" she asked as she came closer.
Nick nodded. "That's us. How is he?"
"My name is Dr. Rebecca Fletcher, I was the operating surgeon on Mr. Sanders," she informed them. Her voice was steady and soothing, her entire posture glowed professionalism and seriousness. She spoke calmly: "I must start by telling you that the operation was a difficult one. The bullet had broken bone and collapsed his other lung but our main worry was that it had severely damaged a major artery. During the operation we ran into complications that led to cardiac arrest. Fortunately, we were able to resuscitate him and go through with the operation. We have moved him into the recovery room for the time being."
It took a moment for the doctor's words to sink into Catherine's consciousness. She gaped at the doctor for a second before choking out: "So he's... he's not...." The words didn't seem to find their way out of her throat.
"He's not out of the woods yet. He's still critical and unconscious, but..." A small smile played across Dr. Fletcher's lips and she nodded. "Yes, he's alive."
Catherine turned her eyes at Nick who hadn't made a sound yet. As if sensing her look he turned to look back. Then he smiled.
TBC....
Tadaa! Thank a nice little two-euro coin for this pleasure. But, behold, the story is not over yet. There's still -- Oh, right... I'm not supposed to tell you that yet... Well, you'll see.