"I hope I didn't wake you, Dr. Grissom," Stevie, the day shift diener said nervously. "But Dr. Telgenhoff told me to call you. We got an arm in the mail today."
Stevie hated being a diener, having to do all the grunt work at the morgue. He hoped that he'd get to be an Assistant Coroner once he finished his degree. After medical school and a pathology residency, he'd be able to be a Medical Examiner. Remembering that goal was all that kept him going sometimes.
"Prints?" Grissom grumbled tiredly.
"No hand ... just the arm," the diener said quickly.
"Okay. Tell him I'd like him to save it for Al."
"Yes, sir. It's already in the cooler."
"Good," Grissom said, hanging up without a farewell. He wasn't sure he'd recognize the day shift diener if he ran over him in the parking lot. He damn sure wasn't going to waste pleasantries on him after only five hours of sleep.
"What's up?" she asked, acting annoyingly refreshed compared to Grissom.
"Arm sent to the lab," he answered, too tired to form a longer sentence.
"Soon we'll have enough parts to start putting together a whole person."
"Two," he corrected.
"Why's she mixing the parts up like that?" Sara mused.
"Maybe she thinks it'll make it more difficult to identify them."
"No, Grissom. She's much smarter than that. There's a significance to the parts, their order, and which part goes where. I can feel it. Here, let's take a look at this," she said, grabbing a pen and pad from the drawer in the bedside table.
"I'm too tired," Grissom grumbled. "I'll look later. Gotta sleep."
"Okay, sleepyhead. I'll just go in the other room and work on this while you sleep," she said, scooting towards the edge of the bed.
"No. Come here," he said, pulling her back.
"Grissom!" she chided.
"You said to hold onto you. Not to let you go. That's all I'm doing," he mumbled, pulling her back into his chest.
Though she was no longer sleepy, especially now that her subconscious was starting to feed her possible clues about the case, Sara decided not to argue with him. She laid still, enjoying his warmth and his closeness, until she could feel his body lapsing into sleep.
His breathing slowed and deepened, and his hold on her relaxed. She waited another few minutes, then carefully eased out of his grasp. As she stood, she turned to look at him, as he lay naked and unashamed, sprawled across their wrecked bed. She leaned over and pulled the sheet up over him from the wad at his feet.
A wave of emotion rippled through her, and she wondered if or how she would ever be able to live an ordinary life again, waking up alone in an empty efficiency apartment.
* * * * *
He usually slept soundly, but not always, so Sara was careful to make as little noise as possible. She decided to wait on her shower, and as all of her clothes were in the bedroom, she wrapped herself loosely in a soft cotton blanket that was draped across the back of the couch now that fall had come to the desert.
Propping both feet on the coffee table, she used her thighs as a desk, quickly drawing up a table listing the parts they had received, when, where, and the recipient. She made another column and added which part belonged to which victim, according to Greg's blood work.
Four days, seven parts – three to the lab, two to her, one to Catherine and one to Heather. Four belonging to the first victim – to Charlotte, Sara reminded herself. Two belonging to victim two. Today's arm wouldn't be identified for another 12 hours, at least.
The first three were from Charlotte. After that, one from each. Sara tapped the end of her pen absently on the pad, before catching herself, hoping the annoying tapping hadn't disturbed Grissom's rest. Listening intently for a moment, she was satisfied that he was still asleep.
She drew a short line between the entries to group them by the days they were received. One the first day. Three the second. Two the third. One the fourth – at least so far. Her face began to gather in a scowl of concentration.
Relax. Just take in the information without trying to force it. Allow the evidence to speak for itself. Lab, me, lab, me, Catherine, Heather, lab. Heart, brain, leg, heart, leg, brain, arm. Or maybe ... Heart, brain, heart, left leg, brain, right leg, arm.
Charlotte was the first. Her parts should be first. I'd bet my life that the arm is Charlotte's.
Sara tentatively grouped them by victim, in the order she they had appeared.
From Charlotte we've got the heart, brain, left leg, right leg, arm. Which arm? Damn, I wish I knew that. I'm betting left.
Sara quickly and quietly called the coroner's office, asking excitedly which arm had arrived that day. The left, she was told.
I knew it. Heart, brain, left leg, right leg, left arm. The second victim started off with the heart and the brain. The next should be a left leg of the second woman. She's organized. Or obsessive-compulsive. Or the pattern means something. She's fixated on Grissom. The first delivery is always a heart. Symbolic of her feelings for him.
A cold shudder swept over Sara, and she tugged the throw tighter around her, its warmth unable to counteract the chill that came from the inside-out.
Brain. Appealing to him intellectually? Does the heart represent her, and the brain him? Or does she see herself as his intellectual equal?
Leg. Hmm. Support? Walking? Sexual icon? Why the left first? Is she left-handed? If she's anything like Grissom, it could be word-based. Left. Latin for left is 'sinister.' An admission? Or an accusation? Is Grissom sinister in her eyes, or are the victims?
Or maybe it's English. Simpler. Left. Maybe he left her. No, too pat for her. Too pedestrian, no pun intended. Maybe that's what the leg means: the victims are too pedestrian for him.
Why are the feet missing? Why's the hand missing from the arm? She's smart, this one. No prints. But not smart enough. She's not from the lab or she'd know about the Compliance database we use to exclude us in case of accidental contamination. So she's not in law enforcement, either. Not a lawyer.
Forensics junkie? No. She'd know we'd keep records of our own DNA, blood work, and prints. No. It's him. It's all about him as a man, not as a scientist.
"Hey," Grissom mumbled, wandering into the room dressed only in a pair of boxers. "I thought maybe you'd left," he said, sitting next to her on the couch. "It felt strange to wake up alone," he said wistfully, reaching out to trace a curling strand of hair that was pushed behind her ear.
"I wouldn't leave without telling you," she reassured him. "Look at this. I think a pattern is starting to form," she said excitedly.
Sara found it harder to explain than she had thought. All the competing theories seemed discrete in her mind, but tangled when she tried to verbalize them.
But Grissom was following her train of thought, nodding as she drew lines and arrows connecting clues, showing directionality. He turned to her, a broad smile pulling his lips, crinkling the skin around his eyes. His heart always swelled with pride when she did this.
Most forensic scientists relied on deduction. A leads to B, B leads to C, C to D, and so forth. The gifted scientists also had the gift of induction. And then there were the scientists who also saw the art behind the data. For them, clues were like brush strokes on a canvas that painted a picture, telling a story. The missing strokes were as obvious to them as those present, if given adequate time to study the picture.
"So the next one will be the left leg of victim two, if the pattern holds. Who'll get it?" he asked, seeing that the pattern of the recipients was anything but clear at this point. "You've gotten two. Catherine and Heather one each. Think Catherine will get the next one?"
"I don't know. I know there's got to be a pattern. But she's using the mail for some of this, so we can't necessarily rely on the timing."
"That would be frustrating for her, I'm sure," Grissom mused. "She may start delivering more of them. That would be a monumental mistake on her part."
"You're right. We'd know the pattern by then, and be able to predict where she'll be. But she seems too smart for that."
"She may be smart, but she's obsessed. It could easily overwhelm her logic in time. She'll get confident, even cocky, the longer she goes without being caught. She'll think she's invincible. Pride goeth before a fall," Grissom quoted.
"What women do you know outside of law enforcement?" Sara asked. "Maybe even just someone you met, who seemed ... interested ... even if you weren't."
"Sara, it could be anybody. I don't remember every woman I've ever met. Not even just the past few years. All the victims, the families, the witnesses, the suspects."
"Who have you spent enough time around such that they would think that they know you?"
"Heather, Teri ..."
"Not Teri Miller. Maybe a target, but not a suspect. She knows too much about forensics," Sara said, shaking her head.
"Okay. Maybe Dr. Gilbert."
"From the Deaf College?" Sara asked, a hint of coolness tinging her words.
"Yes. We went to dinner once," he admitted. "I had gone to the college to tell her that the case was closed. We talked for a while out on the commons, then decided to go grab a bite to eat," he told her, trying to make it sound as innocuous as possible.
"Did you sleep with her, too?" Sara asked, also trying to sound matter-of-fact.
"No! ... This is too much," Grissom said, pushing himself up off the couch, retreating into the kitchen, ostensibly to make some coffee.
"We've got to be able to talk about this, if we're going to solve this case," Sara said, following him into the kitchen, effectively trapping him in the galley.
"How would you like it if every man in your life was suddenly assumed to be a sexual partner? How would you like it if people started talking like that's all there was to you? I don't know which is more embarrassing – the truth or what people are perceiving."
"What's the truth?" Sara asked.
"The truth is that I've only had sex once since you've been here," he admitted once his back was turned to her. He busied himself preparing the coffee, then stood to watch it brew, unable to turn and face her right now.
"With Heather," Sara added.
"Yes. Once. With Heather," he stammered.
"Why her?" Sara asked, honestly curious.
"I thought I'd lost you. I thought I was losing my hearing. I thought I would lose my job. Everything was coming down around me. I needed ... I needed ..."
"You needed something to make you feel alive," Sara said, her voice falling to just above a whisper.
"I guess," he shrugged. "She seemed to understand what was happening to me. I didn't have to hide anything. And I knew there'd be no strings attached."
"But there were other women."
"A few other dates. Nothing serious."
"Maybe they wanted something serious."
"I doubt it. They were the ones that lost interest. ... Shit, that didn't come out right. It's not like I was all that interested, Sara. They were ... uh ..."
"Diversions?" she asked, an eyebrow raised, though he wasn't facing her to see it.
"Yes, I suppose so. Diversions. From work. From ... you," he said lowly, his voice trailing off.
"Me?"
"I was always, um, interested. But you were relatively new here. I didn't want you to think ... I didn't want anyone to think ... that, uh ..."
"That I slept my way to the top?" she asked.
"Or that I brought you here for strictly personal reasons," he said, finally turning to her to offer her a cup of coffee.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Because I needed a good CSI ... and for strictly personal reasons," he added, smiling sheepishly.
"She doesn't know that we knew each other before, or I probably would have been the first victim," Sara posited.
"That's likely," he agreed, taking a sip of coffee to push down the bile that was rising in his throat. The thought of receiving Sara's body parts in the mail made him dizzy and nauseated. "I need to sit down," he said weakly.
"You okay?" she asked, seeing him pale noticeably.
"No," he answered, sitting unsteadily on a barstool at the counter. "She knows who you are. She knows where you live, where you work, and that you're here with me now."
"I'll be careful," Sara promised, moving to stand next to him, rubbing his shoulder lightly.
"She's insane, Sara. But smart. I don't know how to protect you. Maybe you should go away for a while. Maybe go visit your parents."
"And what if she follows me there?"
"God," Grissom exhaled, dropping his face into his hands. "And I wouldn't be there, if she tried to hurt you."
"My protector," she smiled, not intending any farce. "Shadow Man."
"You think I'm being ridiculous," he said, his male pride feeling a bit bruised.
"Neanderthal perhaps, but not ridiculous," she said, kissing him next to his ear.
"I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you. I waited so long ... too long. Now that you're here, I'm not sure I can ever go back to being without you," he said softly, a bit embarrassed at his emotionality.
"Let's go do something to get our minds off of this for a little while," she suggested. "Maybe a movie. Or a walk in the park," she said, smiling at him.
"How about a ride on the roller coaster? It's not like we have to be careful anymore. After last night, half the police force probably knows ... and all the lab," he said with resignation.
"Still, there's no reason to make an issue of it. Nothing inappropriate in public," she suggested.
Grissom turned to smile at her, laying his hand against the side of her face, as she leaned into it.
"Let's get cleaned up and go somewhere. You choose."
"We could shower together to save time," she grinned.
"How is it we've never done that before?" he asked, leading her back to the bathroom.
"All things in their own time," she answered, letting the light blanket drop on the floor.
* * * * *
Adjusting the scarf covering her hair, the Angel of Death made her way across the parking lot, her parcel held firmly in one hand. She gave her head a disgusted shake as she approached the right door.
The whore's in there now, doing God only knows what to my poor Gil.
She shrugged sympathetically as she thought of the lewd things she was forcing him to endure. What had the man done to deserve such a fate?
It would be an easy task to break in and kill her. If Gil saw me do it, I wouldn't have to bother with the butchering. Not that I mind the work, but it's such a bother getting the bodies to the house.
No, she couldn't kill her yet. It was essential that Gil reject her first. Before she died, the whore had to know that type of pain, the agony only heartbreak could bring. Only once she suffered that emotional anguish would she show the tramp what physical pain was.
Still, she was fair. If the bitch backed off now, her death would be easy. Well, easier. She had too many transgressions to deserve a merciful death.
This is your last warning. If you don't heed it, the consequences will be harsh.
* * * * *
"We should probably keep in mind for the future that showering together does not save time," Grissom noted, standing in front of the mirror, combing his hair. Sara was still toweling, just stepping out of the enclosure.
"Well, it kinda did. We normally make love, then shower. This way, we kill two birds with one stone," she laughed.
"We just made love this morning," Gil protested, as though it had been a hardship.
"Sorry! Didn't know there was a schedule," she teased.
"I'm not a teenager, you know," he said mock-seriously, looking at her reflection in the mirror.
"Thank God. If you were, that shower wouldn't have lasted 30 seconds."
"At least there is some benefit in growing older," Grissom groused.
"Like fine wine, you're getting better with age," she said, kissing the gap between his shoulder blades, raising goose bumps on his skin.
"I hope you still feel that way a month from now, or a year, or five years," he said, shaking off the effects of her touch.
"Does it bother you that much?" she asked gently, molding herself to his back, running her arms under his to join at his chest.
"Yes. Sometimes," he admitted. "One day, you'll realize you're waking up next to a much older man. After that, you'll find ways to avoid being intimate. It will eventually begin to disgust you."
"You'll never disgust me," she said incredulously. "Do you think that's all I'm interested in? Just sex?"
"I didn't mean that. Sex isn't all there is between us, but it's part of it," he sighed, putting his hands down on the bathroom counter, leaning on his hands, his head hanging down. "Someone young, energetic, and handsome man will come along ..."
"Your mind intrigues me as much as your body," she said lowly, reaching around to twist him to face her.
"Okay, so a young, energetic, handsome, smart man will come along," he said sadly.
"Grissom ..." she chided, each hand framing a side of his face, forcing him to look at her. "Look at me. Listen to me. I'm not a fortune teller. I don't know what the future holds for either one of us. For all I know the next new CSI may be drop-dead gorgeous and brilliant, impossible for you to resist. But I refuse to worry about that now. I'm not going to waste whatever time we have together miserable about something that hasn't happened yet."
"You're gorgeous, brilliant, and impossible to resist," he said, punctuating each word with a brush of his lips against hers.
* * * * *
"Just think of it as an experiment in momentum and inertia," Grissom chuckled as they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, putting on their shoes.
"I just never felt the need to be the guinea pig," Sara shot back.
"Don't tell me you're afraid to ride a roller coaster! Big, bad Sara Sidle?"
"I'm not afraid! I'm cautiously aware of the possibilities when you combine speed, height, torque, momentum, and illiterate carnies."
"Sara, this coaster is run by the casino. It's scrupulously maintained," Grissom chided her, opening the door to the townhouse, waiting for her to walk through.
"What's this? Someone leave their trash at your door?" she asked, pointing at a common black plastic trash bag.
"Sara, don't touch it," Grissom warned, grabbing her arm as she reached for it.
"Look, there's a note," Sara said, leaning down and cocking her head sideways to line up with the paper that was taped onto the side of the bag, reading it aloud to Grissom.
"My poor, simple Sara,
"You cannot take a hint, can you? I am not an unreasonable woman, but you are beginning to try my patience. I would have thought even someone with your limited mental capabilities would have gotten the message by now. However, it appears that you are as stupid as you are unattractive, so I will make this short and to the point, bitch: Back off my man.
"I tried to be nice and warn you off. I cannot understand how you avoided being fired for being impaired on the job, or for killing that drug dealer, but I imagine Gil got a nice 'reward' for saving your ass. I will not warn you again, whore.
"Yours truly,
"The Angel of Death"Sara stood and looked in every direction, just as Grissom had already done as she was reading.
"She's here, somewhere, watching," Sara whispered hoarsely. "She's going to try to kill me."
"Sara," Grissom said, pulling her into a reassuring hug, before leading her back into his townhouse, double-locking the door behind them.
"I'll call Brass," he said, as she stood distracted at the edge of the window, peering out towards the street.
* * * * *
The Angel of Death giggled as she watched the skinny whore read the note, savoring the look of panic that came over the brunette's hideous features. Setting down her binoculars, she paused long enough to take a sip of her coffee.
At least now her poor Gil would be free from the clutches of the witch. The Angel of Death had clearly stated that dear Gil was hers. Now that he knew she was watching over him, willing to forgive his trespasses, he would surely dump that piece of trash.
Life would be good from here on out. A lifetime of pain and suffering and loneliness was a small price to pay to finally receive her reward. Sweet Gil was a treasure; it was only right that she had to earn his love.
And earned it she had. Now that he belonged to her, the Angel swore that she'd protect him. No more would the whores and bitches try to lure him away. No more would he be distracted by their vulgar offerings.
Her love was pure. She'd demonstrated it in blood.
When the bitch stood up, the Angel of Death lifted the binoculars back up, smiling deeply as she anticipated the upcoming show.
My sweet Gil will dump her now, in plain site of anyone watching. Too bad the street isn't filled with people. The slut deserves a public humiliation for her evil ways. At least I get to savor it.
The Angel hissed when she saw Grissom wrap his arms protectively around the trollop. She felt the bile rise when he pulled her into the townhouse, checking the street for danger before closing the door.
NO! The goddamned bastard! He's still protecting her. He's protecting a fucking whore!
Slamming her fist into the dashboard, the Angel ignored the pain. It was nothing compared to what the Bastard had just inflicted on her. She thought he had been different, that he wasn't one of those coarse, crude men, but the Bastard was just like them.
The Whore hadn't tricked him. The Bastard willing went to her.
You think I'm a fool? Do you think I'll let you get away with this? No one, no one, plays me for a fool. You're both going to pay for this. Pay dearly.
Finishing her coffee, the Angel of Death daintily wiped her lips, checking to make sure her lipstick was intact. After verifying her makeup looked fine, she crumpled up the napkin, stuck it into the empty cup and deposited both into the trash bag.
Cleanliness is next to godliness.
Pulling into traffic, the Angel considered what to do with the remaining body parts in her freezer. The grocery store was going to be having a sale on meat next week. She really should clean it out before she stocked up on meat.
TO BE CONTINUED ...