"Grissom, it's Catherine," she said with an strange undertone.
"Yeah," he answered, yawning broadly, curling his arm up to pull Sara closer to him when he saw that she was awake.
"Guess what I got today."
"If you woke me up to tell me about some shopping trip ..."
"No, better than that."
"Okay, what?"
"Your other leg."
"Huh?"
"I got a right leg."
"At your house?"
"Yes. Wrapped in a black trash bag, packed in a box, just propped up against my door like it was from Lillian Vernon or something. I'm glad Lindsey was at school."
"Did the day shift come get it?"
"Gary came. He made some crack about how he should just transfer to graveyard if he's going to have to do all the PMs for us."
"Like it's a lot of work to do a post-mortem on a leg," Grissom huffed. "Besides, he'll probably just stick it in the cooler for Al to deal with. I told him we'd handle any disembodied parts that come up."
"So, tell me the truth. Are you Sara's mystery friend?" Catherine couldn't help but ask.
"You'd have to ask Sara about her friend," Grissom snapped.
"Fine. Let me talk to her," she laughed.
"I'll see you tonight," Grissom said, hanging up abruptly.
"What did she want?" Sara asked sleepily.
"Another leg showed up at Catherine's house," Grissom told her.
"Bummer," Sara mumbled, half-asleep. "How did my name come up?"
"She asked if I were your mystery friend," he answered honestly.
"Doesn't she think I have any other friends?"
"I don't think that was the thrust of her question."
"Umm. Speaking of 'thrust'," she purred, pushing him over on his back, drawing a smile.
* * * * *
She sat in the SUV, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, lost in thought. This was odd. No other adjective nor adverb better described Gil's ill-advised dalliance with the curator of this house of self-inflicted horrors.
He willingly came to her. Did he need to cum so bad? Is my sweet Gil so easily led astray by his gonads? That could be problematic. Nothing that couldn't be … fixed, but I prefer to keep him fully functional.
The Angel of Death shook her head as she put the SUV in gear. Stopping in front of the mailbox, she quickly hopped out and left the package. The screams coming from the building made her pause.
Poor Gil. What did this whore do to you? There was no reason for you to suffer so. She lured you once, but you never returned. It was just a momentary weakness. You aren't as strong as I am. I shouldn't have left you alone for so long.
Heading home, she recalled the first time her Gil had spoken to her. She had come to a crime scene – as she often did when he was working – and watched with pride as he led the investigation.
There had been no doubt who was in charge. Even the other women realized it, all of them drawn in fascination to his masculinity as he lifted the severed limbs from the shallow grave. Every eye had been riveted on him.
As he left the scene that morning, her Gil had slid under the police tape. Seeing her, he'd paused, looking her directly in the eye. "Pardon me." Those two words sounded so innocent, but it was the message behind his phrase that told the full story.
Dear, sweet Gil. I did pardon you that night. I understand why you hadn't moved forward. You're so sensitive, so shy. The world has treated you so harshly, made you doubtful of your own capabilities.
I knew that night I could wait until you were ready. This is a major step for you. I know that. I understand that. But then that whore ruined everything. If she hadn't screwed with your mind, you would have been mine by now.
Don't worry, my love. I'll protect you. The wench is going to pay, one way or another, she's going to pay for what she's done to you.
Then you'll be mine. No one will ever love you the way I will. I'll protect you – for the rest of your life.
Both whores need to be taken care of. One is screwing with him now, and the other is still a danger.
Where there's life, there's hope. I'm not going to give either slut hope.
* * * * *
"I don't want to go to her house," Sara said adamantly, her arms crossed and her head bobbing nervously with each word.
"She doesn't bite," Grissom mumbled.
"Unless you pay her to," Sara quipped.
Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering how much more complicated this case could get, and in turn how much more complicated his life could get.
"Well, I'm not going by myself," Grissom said firmly.
"Afraid of what might happen?" Sara shot back acidly.
"No. Afraid of what you might think would happen," Grissom answered, fixing her with a gaze that bordered between hurt and fear.
"Take Catherine. They're buds, right?"
"Not really, though I think they got along well enough. She's not all that hard to get along with," Grissom shrugged.
"I guess not!" Sara barked. "But I'm not going. Take someone else."
"Come on. We go, ask a few questions, look around. It's a crime scene, like any other. We can't ignore it just because you're jealous."
"Oh, this is so far beyond jealousy, Grissom! Jealousy is what I feel when you can't quit looking at every showgirl you see, usually with your mouth hanging wide open. But this is different – you slept with her!"
"You don't know that," he shot back.
"You've never denied it," she said, with a glare that could melt stone.
"I've never discussed it one way or the other."
"Okay. So deny it. Did you or did you not have sex with that Lady Heather woman?"
"You'll be with me," he demurred, opting not to answer.
"I noticed you didn't answer the question."
"Sara, when she meets you, she'll understand why I never came back," Grissom said softly.
"Oh, that's a good one! How long have you been working to think up that line?"
"About six months, give or take," he admitted. "But it happens to be true. It just took that long for me to think of how to say it."
"Grissom, please don't humiliate me this way," Sara said pleadingly. "Go by yourself, or take someone else with you, but don't put me through this."
"Okay, honey," he said lowly, lightly grasping her shoulders, feeling them as tense as metal. "I'll send Nick and Warrick."
"You're not going?"
"Not if you're not with me." He felt her relax slightly, though she was still staring at him unblinkingly. They had never discussed Lady Heather – for good reason. He didn't know how to explain what he didn't understand himself. And she didn't want to ask any questions that she didn't want to hear the answer to.
"I wish I could take it back, make it go away," Grissom said more sadly than guiltily. He had hoped that Sara hadn't heard the rumors. Though he had often berated himself for his moment of weakness, the guilt had been manageable until today when he saw the pain in her eyes.
"I know what you mean. There are things I wish I could take back, too," Sara said, suddenly remembering the look on Grissom's face when he first heard that she had been dating Hank Pettigrew.
"All of that's in the past, Sara."
"You're right," she sighed, leaning into him, feeling the anger, pain and guilt begin to subside when he pulled her in tightly. "But I still don't want to go," she said, pushing back from him slightly.
"We don't have to," he answered, lightly stroking her hair before being drawn, inexorably, into a kiss that was more about affirmation than affection. Pulling back, he knew there was something he should say, but the words wouldn't come. If he couldn't tell her, he at least wanted to show her.
Quickly calling Warrick to direct him to process the mailbox at Lady Heather's Domain, where she had found a plastic bag containing a frozen brain, he turned his attentions to Sara.
Grissom silently damned his age; if they hadn't made love only a few hours ago, he would be able to make love to her now, to show her who he desired. But he had to compromise, showing her instead who he desired to please, taking the time to adore every inch of her.
When she lay satisfied in his arms, Grissom spoke without thinking, confounding them both. "I've never needed anyone like I need you," he said, allowing her to plainly see the emotion in his face.
* * * * *
"Why exactly did Grissom wake us up in the middle of the day to come here and do this? It's not even our case." Nick asked Warrick as they drove up to the house. The mailbox was taped off, with an officer standing next to it; Brass was on the porch talking to Lady Heather.
"I guess he didn't want to do it," Warrick answered.
"Why not? It's his case. His and Sara's. It's not like he's never been here before."
"Exactly," Warrick huffed.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Nick asked, slamming the door to the SUV.
"Did you read the report on the heart they found yesterday in Sara's car?"
"No."
"Read it," Warrick said.
"Why? It's not our case. Or at least it wasn't."
"Pay attention to where her car was," Warrick hinted.
"At her friend's, I figure."
"You figure wrong."
"Where was it?"
"Read it for yourself. Then you'll know why we're here instead of Grissom."
"Are you sayin' ...?"
"I didn't say shit. I just told you to read the report," Warrick answered, opening his kit to begin dusting the handle to the mailbox door.
"Grissom?" Nick asked for confirmation.
"Process," Warrick growled. "The sooner we're finished, the sooner we can get back home to sleep."
* * * * *
The Angel of Death watched curiously as the two males worked the scene. She'd been forced to park the SUV in the full sun. This street offered so few good views of the crime scene. A glistening sheen had formed over her body as she waited for her one and only to appear.
Not that she was complaining. She was strong, unlike so many other people. It was a small discomfort to endure for the chance to visit with her beloved. Besides, it gave her time to catch up on her needlework.
Sipping her mint tea, she turned her attention back to the crime scene. Neither of the CSIs present was worthy of the designation of "man". Compared to her sweet Gil, both were noticeably lacking. Each had caused her beloved trouble over the years.
So why had he sent them to this scene? Conflicting thoughts ran through her mind as she tried to evaluate the situation.
Gil didn't consider this worthy of his attention? Surely he had to know this was all for him. It wasn't like him to be so rude. No, no it's not. It must be the whore. She's distracted him. Again.
The Angel of Death let out a sigh as she neatly rolled up her canvas. Placing the embroidery in the carryall, she made sure all the bobbins of thread were packed neatly.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
Looking in the mirror, she took a moment to dab away the perspiration rolling down her cheeks, before fussing with the wisps of hair plastered to her face.
She needed to go home for a bath before she did her shopping. A proper lady never appeared in public in such a state. Not that the other customers in the Goodwill and Salvation Army stores would know a basic fact like that.
It was distressing having to associate with so many uncouth individuals, but much of her merchandise was found in thrift stores and pawnshops. People had no idea the worth of the items they donated or sold off.
She did, though, and the Angel of Death made a good living finding the occasional true treasure amongst the plastic flotsam and cheap bisque jetsam for sale in these locations.
Every week, she spent a hundred or so dollars at various locations in the city. By the end of the month, it would translate into thousands of dollars from online auctions and classified listings in collectible catalogs.
Checking her watch, she let out a distressed sigh. By the time she cleaned up and changed, it would be later than she liked to shop. The trash of the city usually slept until late in the day, since they had no jobs to go to. Now, she'd have to associate with them.
Gil, darling, you do try my patience.
* * * * *
The atmosphere in the room was so charged that it seemed to crackle with electricity, threatening to spark. Grissom scanned the faces seated around him: to his right, Warrick was looking down at the coffee cup that he was toying with distractedly; beside him Catherine was leaned back in her chair, cautiously glancing around, finally settling her eyes on Grissom; to her right was Nick, who seemed agitated, occasionally flashing a peek at the others, but mostly gaping at Sara; and finally there was Sara, who stared straight ahead at the gap between Nick and Catherine.
Looking back to Catherine for some sort of explanation, she lowered her eyes a second and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Sighing deeply, Catherine pushed herself back from the table and stood a moment before walking to the break room door. She closed it, and everyone in the room was struck at the same time with the realization that they had never closed the door before. She sat back down heavily.
"Talk," Grissom said simply, leaning back in his chair, looking from face to face.
Though Nick looked as though he might explode if he didn't say something soon, Grissom knew he wouldn't be the one to speak first. Warrick seemed resigned to let someone else lead the charge. All eyes went to Catherine, assuming she'd say whatever was on their collective mind.
She took another moment to gather her thoughts. "Gil ...," she began uncertainly, pausing briefly as if she decided to change directions. "Sara ..."
"You read the report on the second heart," Sara said.
"Yes," Catherine answered. Warrick's only reaction was a deepening in the furrow of his brow. Nick nodded, pursing his lips as if to block off any words that threatened to escape before he could censor them.
Grissom couldn't think of anything to say. He normally felt most comfortable talking about work, and least comfortable talking about his personal life. But this case had entangled the two, leaving his feelings in chaos. He couldn't discuss the one without revealing the other.
Sara's words had been issued as a statement, not a question, and as such did little to invite the others to share their thoughts or feelings. Instead of the revelation relieving the tension, the energy in the room seemed to peak, sending arcs between them like the fingers of electricity emanating from a Vandergraf generator.
An insistent rap on the door drew their attention, and Grissom nodded at Greg to enter.
"Sorry, but I thought you'd want to know this right away," he huffed nervously.
"What is it, Greg?" he asked sharply.
"The DNA ... from the first heart. I got a hit."
"From CODIS?" Sara asked, wondering why it had taken so long.
"No. Compliance," he said gravely, looking at the shocked eyes of the criminalists.
"Who?" Grissom asked, knowing that he would have heard if anyone at the lab had gone missing.
"Charlotte Gibney," Greg revealed.
"Who?" Sara asked, looking around for an explanation.
"Charlotte?" Grissom asked, as if he'd heard wrong.
"Yes," Greg nodded.
"Thank you, Greg. Please close the door on the way out," Catherine said, dismissing him.
"Charlotte. It's been a while since I thought of her," Warrick said, breaking his self-imposed silence.
"Who's Charlotte?" Sara asked again.
"Charlotte was the fingerprint tech before Jacqui. She was here when you first came, I think," Nick answered. "But she left soon after that, if I recall correctly. You might not have ever met her."
"I thought she moved away from Vegas," Catherine said.
"She did. She took a job with a private forensic group as a lab supervisor. I took her out to dinner to celebrate her promotion," Grissom murmured absently.
The discomfort in the room began to grow again as Grissom's words reminded all but Sara that Grissom used to date Charlotte. Until Sara came to Las Vegas.
Realizing that he'd spoken aloud, Grissom turned to look at Sara, adding yet another stab of guilt as he watched her apprehend what he was saying. It wasn't the time or the place, but he desperately wanted to try to explain to her why he obviously had no problem working with Charlotte at the same time as he dated her, though he'd had problems trying to reconcile the two with Sara.
He had enjoyed her pleasant company, but he never had any real emotional investment in the relationship. She didn't subvert his thoughts. He never obsessed over her. There was never a time when he felt like it could interfere with the job they had to do. He certainly would never have considered leaving the lab to stay with her.
Sara lowered her head, appearing to be doodling on a piece of paper, propping her cheek against her fist. After a moment, she looked up at Grissom, her expression becoming more animated.
"I think I've got it."
"Got what?" Catherine asked hesitantly.
"The pattern," she answered. "It should have been obvious before, but the identity of the first victim confirms it. It's the women in your life," Sara said, pointedly looking at Grissom.
"Sara, we only have the identity of one victim," Grissom warned. "That hardly constitutes a pattern."
"The recipients of the body parts are victims, too. Maybe we're supposed to be intimidated by them. Or maybe they're a warning that we're future victims. But, look, Charlotte is killed. You dated her several years ago. Catherine, Heather and I have received parts. See?"
"Yes, but there were parts sent to the lab. And I never dated Catherine," Grissom said firmly, looking to Catherine for confirmation.
"That's true," she nodded.
"The killer might not know that. Or it may be more generic than women you dated, to include any woman who's in any relatively close relationship with you. I don't know the significance of sending parts to the lab in general yet, but I think that it's all related to what's important to you."
"So ...," Catherine mused. "...Maybe it's not about stalking Sara because of some freak trying to terrorize her for something she did or didn't do to him. Instead, it's about you. She's just collateral damage."
"Maybe," Warrick agreed. "And I could be saying the same thing you are, just with a little different twist. Maybe Grissom's not the target, with these women being collateral damage. Maybe Grissom is the key, but the targets really are the women. I mean, if he wanted to kill Grissom, he could have done that any time."
"Maybe he wants to make him suffer. Kill or terrorize the people around him," Catherine added.
"Not people in general. Women," Nick clarified.
"That means something," Grissom agreed. "Though I'm still wondering about the significance of the deliveries to the lab."
"No matter who you're with, the lab's always the other woman," Sara said, fixing him with a knowing gaze, slightly smiling at him for the first time since shift started.
"That's such a chick thing to say," Nick laughed.
"No, I think she's onto something," Catherine nodded.
"I don't see it," Nick demurred.
"That's because you're a man. ... Wait! Grissom," Sara said excitedly. "Seeing the lab as competition for affection is not typical male thinking. I think the killer may be a woman."
"Only four percent of serial killers are female," Grissom told her.
"I'm aware of that," Sara retorted. "But that four percent exists. Take a look at the big picture here. Think about it in terms of a female killer. She's identifying the 'competition', by who gets the parts. Then one by one they're stalked, terrorized, or killed. It works."
"Who's the second victim?" Nick asked suddenly, looking to Grissom.
"I don't know," he shrugged. "How far back is this person looking?"
"Could be your prom date, for all we know," Nick said.
"I didn't go to the prom," Grissom countered. "But it's not like I've never dated," he added, his male pride not up for another bruising.
"You need to make a list of the women who would likely fit the victimology," Sara told him.
"You want me to make a list of every woman I've ever taken out?" he asked uncomfortably. "Why? Greg's already put the DNA from the second victim into CODIS, and now I assume the Compliance database. We should know soon enough."
"It can't be that many names," Catherine snorted. "It'll probably be quicker with the list. Besides, there may be some people who need to be warned."
"Look, this is all just a preliminary theory," Grissom warned them. "Let's not go jumping to conclusions. We could miss something important if we're concentrating solely on Sara's theory."
"You just don't want us to see the list," Warrick teased.
"Well, once you exclude Sara, me, Heather, and Charlotte, who else is left?" Catherine asked pointedly.
"Do we really have to discuss this?" Grissom asked.
"Yes, we do," Catherine answered. "It's possible that the killer is on that list."
"Well, we can exclude the four you named," Nick said.
"Not necessarily," Sara warned. "Just because someone 'found' a body part doesn't exclude them from being the perpetrator."
"Grissom was with you when you found both body parts, wasn't he?" Nick asked, finally getting the question off his chest.
"Yes, but that's no proof that I'm excluded," Sara answered. "One was mailed to me, the other was in my car. I could have done either. I could be lying. Catherine could be lying. Heather could be lying."
"Or you could all be innocent," Warrick added.
"Of course," Sara nodded.
"You don't have any motive," Grissom stated. "Nor does Catherine."
"Not that I disagree, but what makes you so sure?" Warrick asked.
"Because, if the point is to make me suffer, either of them could have done that long ago, and in ways that wouldn't implicate them. They are CSIs, after all."
"What if that's not the point?" Nick asked. "What if the point is competition?"
"Then they still don't have a motive," Grissom stated flatly.
"Because I'm not interested," Catherine said, adding, "No offense."
All eyes turned to Sara. "Because I don't need to compete," she finally admitted.
Grissom cleared his throat before he spoke, the sound almost booming in the deafening quiet that had descended.
"Which of you three is going to talk to Lady Heather?" he asked.
* * * * *
The checklist was short, but precise – a detailed outline of the day's activities. If nothing else, she was disciplined. Once she set her mind on a task, she went about it until it was completed. She wasn't one of those flighty women who could never finish a simple task.
First, she needed to talk to the florist. His prices were simply unreasonable. While she wanted the wedding to be perfect, there was no way they were going to spend so much on flowers that would be wilted by the end of the day.
No, that simply wasn't practical. Some flowers may grow on trees, but money certainly didn't! Neither Gil nor she were irresponsible that way.
Next, she needed to go to the post office. Her supplies of packing materials and stamps were running low. A quick check of a map located the closest branch on the route of her other errands.
Once those chores were done, there would be time for a quick dinner at one of the little bistros away from the tourist traps. Then she could go slaughter the whore.
Afterwards, maybe she'd treat herself to some ice cream – low-fat, of course.
TO BE CONTINUED ...