Title: Jigsaw
Author: Burked and Mossley
Rating: PG-13, just to be safe
Disclaimers: We have no rights to CSI. It belongs to CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Anthony Zuicker and any number of persons and entities other than us.
A/N: This story is the second part of a two-parter begun with Burked's "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream." A little of this fic may not be clear if you haven't read it, but it's not critical.
Many thanks to Marlou and Ann for consenting to beta for us.
"I'm tired of playing games with you, Gil Grissom. I think it's time I show you just how serious I am." Angela Wyeth, the Angel of Death, "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"
* * * * *
Chapter 7 - How Much Is That Politician in the Window?
"You think this is some sort of game?" Brass shouted at Sara, who didn't react.
"No," she simply stated.
"Do you have some sort of martyr complex? Or are you just suicidal? I know you're not stupid, so that can't be it. If you think I'm going to let you be a decoy, you can just re-think, missy!" Brass barked at her.
"I told her she should leave, but she brought up a good point. This so-called Angel of Death could follow her. She's obviously stalking Sara."
"I'm just as safe here as anywhere."
"No, you're not. Even if you had a police escort 24/7, she could still get to you. She could blow your head off as easy as that," Brass said, snapping his fingers.
Grissom scowled at Brass's heavy-handed tactics, but had to admit that he hadn't done any better.
"Just my point," she said defiantly. "She's going to go after me anyway, so we might as well use it to our advantage."
"Look, I've got friends who work in the Witness Protection Program. They could tell you how to get lost so that nobody could find you. Come back when it's all over."
"What about Catherine? And Heather? What about Dr. Gilbert, Dr. Miller? Are you going to hide all of them? What about Grissom? There's no telling when this psycho will turn on him."
"You can jump in and help any time now," Brass said in frustration to Grissom.
Holding up both hands, Grissom told him, "I don't know what makes you think I have any pull here."
Brass lifted an eyebrow, then shot Grissom an unmistakable 'puh-leeze' expression.
"It doesn't work like that," Grissom huffed.
"Look, as long as I'm here, it looks like she's going to focus on me. That could help you find her," Sara repeated.
"You have a fixation with playing decoy, don't you?" Brass barked. "Gonna get you in trouble, one of these days."
"I'm already in trouble," she said heavily. "If the Angel of Death doesn't get me, the Sheriff will. She's seen to that."
"Vega told me you were cleared from the Rodgers thing. But this note is ambiguous; she plainly says she doesn't know how you kept from being fired for killing the drug dealer. Considering she's stalking you, that could be taken to mean that she witnessed it," Brass said.
"You can't honestly believe ...!" Grissom began bellowing.
Holding up a silencing hand, Brass continued, "Or it could be taken to mean that she set the whole thing up to frame you. How did she know you were impaired? Even if she's following you, she would have no way of knowing what was going on in your head, unless she arranged it. There's plenty of circumstantial evidence that she's the one who contaminated your mushrooms."
"Yeah, she's smart. Doesn't actually admit anything. And even if we catch her, and she confesses everything, I'm still probably going to get fired. That letter will be evidence, used in court. Between that and the fact that two different body parts have been sent to me at Grissom's house, our relationship will be public knowledge."
"You two had to know that could happen," Brass said with surprising empathy, smiling kindly at each of them in turn, his anger at least temporarily displaced.
"I never expected someone to make it sound so ... sordid," Grissom answered, shrugging helplessly.
"The Sheriff would probably think that anyway," Brass said truthfully. "That either you sexually harassed her into it, or that she's sleeping her way into a promotion. You had to know that's how it would look."
"Why can't it look like two people who want to be together?" Sara asked.
"Because you work for him, my dear."
"Probably not for much longer," Sara said with a smile of resignation.
"Probably not," Brass agreed.
"There's got to be something we can do," Grissom said, with an equal mixture of frustration and desperation.
"You better take this to the Sheriff yourself, before he gets wind of it."
"Fall on my sword, so to speak," Grissom grumbled.
"It's possible that he'll only fire one of you, if you come clean," Brass said hopefully.
"What if we quit seeing each other?" Sara asked.
Grissom gaped at her, the fear and hurt evident in his eyes. Brass looked down at his hands, uncomfortable at being a witness to their torment.
"She's opened Pandora's Box with this note," Brass said. "There's no way to go back. You might as well stay now. No reason to let her take everything away from you," Brass said more gently than would be expected, looking at his gruff exterior.
"God, Grissom, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I just ... All I wanted ..." Sara trailed off, angrily swiping a tear that had escaped.
"Jim, will you excuse us?" Grissom said, pulling her into his chest.
She buried her face in his neck, needing to feel him, to smell him. He could feel her struggling against the emotions. He knew what she was doing, since he'd done it ever since he could remember. She wasn't just trying to hide her emotions, but battle them to the death.
"Don't," he said softly. "Don't do it, Sara. Cry. Scream. Let it out," he said, pulling her in tighter, until he could feel every sob, every hiccup, every gasping breath.
"What are we gonna do?" she forced out.
"What we do best," Grissom said resolutely. "Let's go to work."
* * * * *
"This really chaps my ass," Brass growled as he plopped down in the chair he'd pushed near where Catherine was sitting. He'd closed his office door, piquing Catherine's curiosity.
"What happened, Jim?"
"I've known Gil Grissom for, what?, 15, 16 years or so? Whatever. Anyway, a long time. To be honest, even though I respect the guy, I always felt a little sorry for him. I may have screwed up my marriage, but at least I had one to screw up. He never had anybody."
"Yeah, I feel the same way," Catherine said, nodding sadly.
"Have you ever seen them together? Him and Sara, I mean."
"Every day," Catherine said in confusion.
"No. I mean really together. I did. I just came from his house. You can tell he's crazy about her."
"He always has been. He just hid it – even from himself sometimes."
"Yeah, well he didn't hide it tonight. And she seems to feel the same way."
"Yeah, I think you're right."
"Catherine, he's almost 50 years old. He was lucky to find her. What are the chances he'll ever find anyone else who thinks he's worth hanging onto?"
"I'd say the odds are approaching zero."
"The serial killer they're after is doing everything she can to ruin it for them. She left a note with the leg she put outside Grissom's door today. She's naming names. This whole thing is about to blow up in their faces. I don't know if they'll be able to make it through and stay together."
"Shit," Catherine huffed, slumping noticeably.
"Yeah," Brass agreed. "We gotta find this bitch quick. She's threatening Sara. She's messing up their lives, not to mention the fact that she's already killed and butchered two women."
"At least two. We don't know about the last two parts."
"Other than doing our jobs, I don't know what to do to help them," Brass grumbled.
"Me, either. But I'll think about it. This is about politics – something that Gil and Sara are both almost completely clueless about."
"But we aren't," Brass said, smiling conspiratorially.
"No, we aren't."
"Know anybody rich or powerful? Someone the Sheriff might listen to?"
"I might," she said distractedly, the wheels obviously already set in motion.
* * * * *
"Don't bother locking your car doors tomorrow, Cath," Sara said, as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Grissom smiled knowingly, once again feeling the swell of pride in Sara's innate ability to see patterns where others saw gibberish.
"You planning on boosting it?" Nick asked.
"No, but the Angel of Death might be leaving her a little present at her house, if I'm right. She might mail it, or she might leave it in her car. Probably a right arm, minus the hand."
"Care to bet on that?" Warrick teased.
"Put your money where your mouth is," Sara shot back, with a grin.
"I don't gamble anymore. But, if I did, I damn sure wouldn't bet against you!"
"Smart man," Grissom said, "On both counts. Sara may have hit on the pattern, or at least part of it."
Sara pushed the white board closer to the table and drew out a chart showing each day, two body parts per day. She had realized that her earlier chart showing one the first day, and three the next was wrong because she hadn't gone home to find the box containing the brain on the day the killer had intended.
"The first two parts, a heart and a brain were from the first victim, Charlotte. Either the second victim wasn't dead yet, or not butchered yet, so both parts were from Charlotte. But after that, each day we've received one from each."
"Was that meant to confuse us by having more than one source?" Warrick asked.
"Maybe. But I think that most, if not all, of this is a message. The note she left me was sort of a Rosetta Stone, in a way. Sending one part of each victim is her way of saying she's fair."
"Fair?" Nick squawked, his eyes impossibly wide.
"In her mind, yes," Grissom agreed.
"The heart was first because she's fixated on Grissom, and the heart symbolizes love," Catherine surmised.
"Exactly," Sara said. "The brain was next, because she's intelligent. She sees the intellectual plane as a source of commonality with Grissom."
"The leg?" Warrick asked, not seeing what they could possibly have to do with Grissom.
"Possibly a sexual reference, since men are often attracted to shapely legs. But my theory is that they represent movement, that she's approaching him," Sara suggested.
"The arm?" Nick said.
"Well, with the other arm, which should be sent or delivered to Catherine tomorrow, they represent reaching, grasping, holding."
"Okay, Kreskin, what will come after the arm?" Nick quipped.
"The second victim's other leg. The order is left/right for paired parts."
"Significance?"
"She might be left-handed. Or it could go back to the ancient notion of left being evil."
"The Latin for 'on the left' is sinister," Grissom said.
"Right. I mean, correct," Sara laughed. "I doubt she's referring to herself. She obviously sees the victims as being evil. She certainly sees me that way," Sara admitted.
"The Latin word 'sinister' also means unlucky," Warrick supplied.
"The victims were unlucky in love," Catherine nodded.
"What's after we've gotten all the arms and legs?"
"Probably the torso, because it's the center, what holds it all together. All that's left is the head, hands and feet. They're last because they identify the victims as individuals, which would have clouded the message. I don't know what order they'll come in, but I'd guess the heads will be last," Sara said.
"Why is she using a pattern? Doesn't she know that it's a clue?" Nick asked.
"She's telling us that she's organized. She may be obsessive-compulsive, but I wouldn't count on it," Grissom answered. "She could break the pattern any time, if she senses that we're onto her."
"Couldn't we just stake out Catherine's house and car?" Warrick asked.
"We will, but like I said, she could break the pattern if she senses danger. Or she might just mail the parts from now on. I know I would," Grissom answered.
"How does she have the time to do all of this?"
"She may have money. Or maybe she's on vacation – this shouldn't take more than two weeks, unless more victims turn up. Or maybe she works at home, on her own schedule."
"Does any of this sound like anyone you know?" Catherine asked Gil.
"No."
"What about your fan mail?" Catherine asked. All of them occasionally received letters, usually from victims' family members, but sometimes from people who had seen them on the news, or read about them. There were always a few that sounded fine on the surface, but were creepy nonetheless. The typical Las Vegas citizen had neither the time nor the inclination to send fan mail to forensic scientists.
"I've gone through four years of it," Grissom answered. "There are some from wackos, but none that I can say sound particularly threatening."
"Let's go through them again. Now that we have a note from her, maybe we can spot some similarities," Sara suggested.
"Sounds good. Catherine, Al is sending us the plastic bag and note. Get the bag to Jacqui first, then Hodges. The note goes to Ronnie, but tell him to be careful with it, unless he wants Jacqui babysitting him again."
"Got it."
"You guys have to handle the rest of the cases. Split them between you. Just concentrate on processing the scenes tonight, so we can get them all started. If anything looks like it's going to eat some time, let me know. We'll pull in somebody from the swing shift, if we have to."
"Not day shift?" Warrick asked, bemused.
"Not if I can help it," Grissom answered. "I don't want to owe Eckley anything."
"Let's do it," Nick said, punching his fist against Warrick's as they left the room.
"Hey, I just wanted to tell you guys that I'm sorry about all this. I know it must be embarrassing to have to discuss your private lives. It would be hard enough for one of the rest of us, but for you two it must be torture," Catherine said sympathetically.
"Thank you," they both said, simultaneously.
"Jinx," Sara laughed, looking at Grissom, who had no idea what she was talking about, but returned her infectious smile anyway.
Catherine's eyes darted back and forth between them, watching them look at each other and smile. It was then that she knew what she needed to do.
* * * * *
"Hey, I know it's getting late, but are you still going to be at work for a while?" Catherine asked into the cell phone.
"Yes, I will."
"Cool. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. I have a big favor to ask."
Catherine hung up and sighed. She kept promising herself that she wasn't going to have anything to do with him anymore. But somehow his life and hers kept intersecting.
He wasn't there when I needed him. And now all he's done is complicate my life. He's more trouble in a way than Eddie ever thought of being. He owes me this much. After all, he is my father.
Catherine walked into the Rampart like she owned it. One day, she probably would, though the idea didn't really appeal to her. She saw him waiting for her at the bar, a fresh drink sitting in front of him.
"Hi, Mugs. Didn't know if I'd ever see you again," he said wistfully.
"Neither did I," Catherine said, sitting down and ordering a Diet Coke.
"What's this favor you need from me?" he asked, not appearing a bit hurt that she was only here because of what he could do for her.
"I need you to use your influence with the Sheriff."
"I don't really know him. Met him once when he first got here, but I don't have any sort of relationship with him," Sam Braun told her.
"Please, Sam. Give me a freaking break. It's not necessary for you to know him. All that's necessary is for him to know you, who you are. You are part of the backbone of this town. Nothing around here happens if you say it doesn't happen."
"I'm not God, Catherine."
"No, but you're rich and powerful, and that's all he needs to know."
"Okay. Let's just say I'm able to get his ear. What am I supposed to put in it?"
"Remember my boss, Grissom? He and one of the other CSIs are seeing each other. That wouldn't necessarily be the end of the world, but he happens to be her boss, too."
"I assume there's some rule against fraternization?" he asked.
"Not really. But it's frowned on. They're working a case where the perp is a nut who's got the hots for Grissom. She's trying to break them up. She's letting the world know that Grissom and Sara Sidle are seeing each other, making it sound bad."
"So the Sheriff would want it to all go away," Sam nodded.
"Yeah. He can't afford to lose Grissom, really, but he can get rid of Sara. Or at least make them so miserable that they break up and she leaves anyway. I'd like you to put a little bug in his ear that whispers to him that you wouldn't like that."
"I'm hardly a matchmaker. He's going to wonder why I'm interested in their personal lives."
"No, but they're good at their jobs. There's no reason to lose either one. They won't let their relationship interfere with work, I promise you. Look, Sam, do this for me, please. I've never asked you for anything. But I'm asking you for this."
"I guess it must really be important to you, if you'd come here after everything that's happened. But I have to get something in return."
Catherine felt a flash of fury heat her face. In her estimation, the best he could ask for was for them to be even. It galled her that he would want anything more.
"Name it," she said, holding her tongue.
"You and Lindsey come out to the ranch the next weekend you're off. Let her ride the horse I bought her. Let me be a grandfather, even if I was never a father to you."
"If you protect them, I'll do it," she said, holding out her hand to seal the bargain.
"Consider it done," he said confidently.
* * * * *
She dabbed angrily at the tears rolling down her cheeks, embarrassed that she couldn't prevent them. It wasn't like her to get so worked up like this, but her whole life had been turned upside down.
Will we ever be able to survive this? Or is this going to be enough to tear us apart? God, I can't imagine going back to being alone. We waited too long for this. I won't let her tear us apart.
Giving her head a firm shake, she made up her mind. No one was going to break them up. Not after all they had to endure to get this far. Come hell or high water, no one was going to get between them.
I'll tear the bitch apart with my bare hands first. Once she's gone, I can rehabilitate Gil. I refuse to believe I've wasted my time on him.
The Angel of Death went to the bookcase, pulling out the three-ring binder on the end. A quick check of the index revealed the numbers of the photo albums she needed. People thought her organization was a bit much, but it really helped when you needed to find something in a hurry.
Walking along the shelves, she grabbed the photo albums and headed for the dining room table. Shooing a cat off of the chair, she brushed the shed fur from the frilly pink seat cushion before taking a seat.
She spent the better part of an hour sorting through the pictures she needed. Afterwards, she went to the computer to type up her letters. The Whore's note was easy to write. It was simply a statement of facts.
Her missive to her sweet Gil was harder to write. She needed to let him know the truth, but the truth could be painful. She hated the idea of inflicting pain on him, but he had to know the facts. He hadn't listened to her earlier messages.
Well, a picture is worth a thousand words. These pictures should show him everything he needs to know. Let's see him defend the whore once he sees these.
* * * * *
TBC