The first thing Grissom noticed was the flowery smell of perfume that wafted from the manila envelope. Lilacs perhaps? A quick check showed the return address was his townhouse.
His tongue peaked out of his lips as he donned a pair of latex gloves. Grabbing a knife, he carefully slit the envelope open. Inside,Inside were a single sheet of stationary and a stack of photographs, a piece of pastel tissue paper placed carefully between each picture.
Using a pair of tweezers, he examined the letter first. The pale peach background was decorated with pictures of blue-eyed kittens playing with balls of yarn.
"My dearest Gil,
"How my heart aches for you every time I see you in the clutches of that cheap prostitute. I know it is painful to admit you have made a mistake, but for your own good, you must accept the truth. She is nothing but a harlot.
"These photographs should remove any doubt you have about her faithfulness. See how she writhes in the clutches of any man who comes near her. See how she lets any man have her, as if she is a bitch in heat.
"Please, my love, open your eyes. She is only using you. The slut will only use you. I love you. I always have. I always will.
"With all my love,
"The Angel of Death
"xoxoxoxoxo"
Grissom carefully placed the letter down. What photographs could she possible have? Looking at the stack of photos, he cautiously examined the top one. It was a picture of Sara and Warrick standing under an umbrella, leaning close together to stay dry. Both were in their vests, so presumably it was at a crime scene.
Setting the photo and first sheet of tissue aside, he moved to the next image. This time, Sara and Detective Vega were laughing together over a cup of coffee. Again, it looked like a crime scene. The next photo was of Nick exiting the diner, Sara giving his arm a friendly punch as they laughed.
He let out a relieved sigh. If this is what the Angel of Death considered lascivious, she was delusional. It was Sara with her friends and co-workers.
The next picture caused him to draw a sharp breath. Hank was standing behind Sara, nuzzling her neck while his hand was slipped slightly under her shirt, the skin of her stomach exposed.
Where had his hand been? Where was it going? Oh, God, I didn't need to see this. I didn't need to see him kissing her, touching her. I didn't need to see her smile at his touch.
He put the pictures and the letter back in the manila envelope, shoving it for the moment into his desk drawer. He was suddenly feeling a little queasy. He considered not entering the package as evidence.
I could leave out the picture with Hank in it. The others are innocent. I think. No, they are. Aren't they? She's not like that. Except with Hank, evidently. But she wasn't seeing me then, so I shouldn't care. How did she get a picture of Hank doing that to Sara? Where they right out in public, kissing and groping each other? God, I feel sick.
* * * * *
"Have you ever gambled?" Warrick asked Sara as the group milled around, getting coffee and grabbing donuts from the box that Nick had picked up this morning after work. They had been talking about how Catherine had indeed received Charlotte's right leg, just as Sara had predicted.
"All the time" she answered. "I just don't put any money on it."
"Girl, you're a natural at it. You're good with patterns, odds and math. And you're not afraid to take chances," he said.
"That's why I don't do it. Never start something you can't walk away from."
"Including relationships?" Nick challenged her.
"I suppose there's an exception to every rule," she said, smiling at Nick's innate ability to find a way to oppose her at any turn, yet remain one of her closest friends.
"Damn! This is getting exhausting. It's like working two shifts a day," Grissom said as he walked tiredly through the door.
"Coffee. I need coffee," he grumbled, as the others took their seats. He seemed distracted and out-of-sorts.
"I wish our Angel of Death would arrange for later drop-offs of her little gifts," he said, taking a sip. I haven't gotten a full afternoon's sleep in days."
"Try going to bed ... uh, to sleep as soon as you get home in the mornings," Catherine suggested.
"I can't get right to sleep when I get off work. I need some time to unwind," he retorted.
All eyes shifted between Gil and Sara, and their co-workers fought to keep grins off of their faces. Nick finally had to bury his mouth in his hand, pretending to be propping himself on the table.
"Find some other time to 'unwind'," Catherine said suggestively, making it almost impossible for Nick and Warrick to maintain their composure.
"Moving on now, people," Sara said, exasperated.
"Okay, sorry," Catherine laughed. "Just trying to lighten things up."
"It's bad enough to have my personal life become the center of an investigation, but you don't have to tease me about it as well, Catherine," Grissom growled.
"I'm sorry, Gil. But you set yourself up. It was a slow pitch; I couldn't help but swing at it," she laughed.
"Okay, we've got two deliveries to the lab, two to Sara, two to Catherine and two to Heather. What's next?" Grissom asked, turning the discussion away from his love-life, especially with the memory of Hank and Sara intertwined in the photo still burning in his mind.
"This is where it gets hard to tell," Sara said. "She could turn back and repeat the pattern, sending the next parts to me and the lab. Or she could have a new pair of recipients. Who's left on your list?" Sara asked, more detached now, less affected by his list of failed conquests. After her confrontation with Lady Heather, nothing else seemed particularly affecting.
"Dr. Miller and Dr. Gilbert. Seems like a natural pair, doesn't it?" he asked.
"As likely as any," Sara agreed.
"We need to get ahead of her somehow. Have we gotten anything from QD? Fingerprints? Trace?" he asked, looking around the table.
"We got some partials from the tape. I guess she found out how difficult it is to handle tape with latex gloves on," Catherine answered.
"Ronnie's striking out," Nick said. "He says that the boxes, paper, labels, everything, is all name-brand, available everywhere from Office Depot to Wal-Mart. No way to trace it. All mailed from different substations, in an apparently random order."
"Nothing about this person is random," Sara said, shaking her head. "We just don't know the pattern yet. I'll work on it tonight."
"Hodges says that the black bags are typical Hefty trash bags. Individual, not on a roll, so we can't even think about matching them that way. He analyzed their chemical components, hoping to get a profile to match if we get a chance, but she must have more than one box of them, because he's getting different trace elements in the plastic of each bag."
"She's smart, very smart," Catherine groused.
"I don't care how smart she is, she's bound to make a mistake sooner or later," Grissom snapped.
"You're letting her get to you," Catherine said.
"She's killed people I knew, people I cared about! She's threatening people I about now! So you'll just have to excuse me if I'm not reacting like you think I should!" he barked, pushing up from the table suddenly, his chair rolling back wildly. He stormed from the room, leaving a vacuum.
"I better ... go ... um ..." Sara said, getting up to follow him. The other three nodded their agreement, not exhaling until she'd left the room.
"That went well," Warrick deadpanned.
"Yeah, that was fun. Hey, do we have any cases, or can we just play video games all night?" Nick asked.
"You wish," Catherine answered. The stack of assignment slips was still lying on the table. She pulled them in front of her and began dividing them up between the three.
"Too bad we have to leave, but duty calls," Warrick said as each CSI picked up the two assignments Catherine had dealt them.
* * * * *
Sara knocked lightly and waited a moment. Not hearing a reply, she knocked again, a little more loudly. Still no sound from Grissom's office. She slowly turned the knob and peeked inside.
He was sitting at his desk, with his back turned towards the door. Hearing the door open, he exhaled almost angrily at the unbidden intrusion.
"You okay?" Sara asked, her upper body thrust through the door, but the rest of her still standing in the hallway. She was keenly aware that he hadn't asked her to come in.
"Sure," he said sharply, still not turning to face her.
"Want some company?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, is there anything in particular you want me to work on?"
"It wouldn't make much difference."
"Is that a performance evaluation?" Sara asked, her own nerves frayed.
"Her performance, not yours," he said quickly. He wondered if it were starting, the unraveling of their new relationship – the loose strings being pulled by a faceless, nameless woman.
"Nobody's perfect, Grissom. She'll make a mistake sooner or later, and you'll be all over it," Sara said hopefully.
Grissom looked at the corkboard on his wall, shaped like a fish. He turned to face her and pointed to the board. "I'm still waiting on them to make a mistake. Some of those cases are 15 years old. I have to admit that sometimes they're smarter than I am."
"She's escalating, though. Losing control over her emotions. If you can master yours while she's losing hers, you'll win."
"And how many women will die in the meantime?" he asked painfully, not needing to remind her that she was at the top of the list.
"Baby, there's nothing you can do about that. You have to focus on your job – that's the only way you can help any of them."
"Don't call me that. Don't ever call me that," he snapped angrily.
"What's wrong, Grissom?" Sara said, knowing that this went beyond being tired, or being teased by Catherine.
"Nothing. I just don't want you to call me 'baby'," he shrugged.
"Okay. Is there any term of endearment that's approved?" she asked frostily.
"I don't care. Just not 'baby'."
"Is this about ... Hank?" she asked, realizing that he no doubt heard about her faux pas at the crime scene, when she called Hank 'baby' in front of the detective on the scene.
"I don't really want to talk about Hank."
"Tell me what's happened," she demanded. Something had to have reminded him, and she was sure it wasn't just being called 'baby'.
After a moment's consideration, Grissom put on gloves and took the envelope out of the drawer. Reaching in, he pulled out the picture of Sara and Hank, laying it down on the envelope for her to see.
"Oh," she exhaled. "I see."
"So do I," Grissom said. "I see too much."
"I could have seen more today, if I had wanted to. Lady Heather offered to show me a video of your ... uh ... interlude."
Grissom dropped his head into his hands. He'd never considered that he might have been filmed at the Domain.
"You feel like doing a little work?" she asked. She wasn't going to explain herself to him any more than she wanted an explanation from him.
"You wanted to go through the fan mail again, right?" he answered tiredly, glad they were dropping the subject of their past indiscretions.
"Yeah. Compare them to her notes. It's hard to believe that she's this obsessed without ever trying to make contact before."
"Okay," he said, opening the pedestal file drawer in his desk, pulling out a file. "Here we go." He sorted through them, pulling out a couple of dozen that spanned the past four years, dividing them into two stacks.
Pulling up each note that had been scanned into the LIMS computer, he hit the print button twice, making each of them copies of the notes. Turning to pick them up from the printer, he exhaled as his eyes settled on the last letter.
"Don't think about it," she warned, taking her copies from his immobile hands.
"Right. Don't think about it. She's just threatening to maim and kill the only woman I've ever loved," he murmured.
Sara froze as she looked at him. He'd told her a few times that he loved her, and she believed him. It had sent waves of joy through her each time. But he'd never told her that she was the only one. There was something about that admission that was both satisfying and sad.
It only took them a few minutes to rule out most of the letters. Many were from victims' families and were simple thank-you notes.
"I have two possibles," Sara said, picking up one of the letters and one of the Angel of Death's notes to compare them. She repeated the process with the other.
"I have one," Grissom said, doing the same thing.
"We should take these to Dr. Kane. He might be able to see the beginnings of the problem in an earlier letter. All three of these look a little obsessive to me, but I'm no psychologist," Sara said.
"We'll make a couple of sets of copies. You take one to Philip. See what he thinks. I'll take the other to Brass, so he can start checking them out."
"Sounds good," Sara said, ducking out to photocopy the three fan letters.
Grissom sat, staring blankly at the door, unaware of the usual activity in the lab. If this panned out, they would finally have a lead. If they could get warrants, they'd have a chance at finding the remainder of the frozen bodies. This could finally be all over.
Except for the trial, Grissom reminded himself. He had been a little surprised that the lab personnel hadn't reacted as poorly as he had feared. At first, he wondered if they knew about the second note, then realized that they must. They had processed it; the results were in the LIMS computer.
Soon, the letter sent to him, with all the pictures, would be in the evidence as well. Grissom considered what would be seen by all – he was an older man, her boss, and he was completely smitten by the younger woman, the woman being held by a handsome, young man in the picture they would all see soon.soon. He knew he would suffer in the comparison with Hank.
He chided himself for not giving them credit for being professionals. Many of them were young, to be sure, but he had personally hired and trained a large number of them. He should have been more confident in them, trusted them more. He knew that they would talk about it amongst themselves, but at least they would have the good grace to not make him witness it.
But the trial would be different. There would be no reason for anyone to hide their ridicule. He and Sara both would be fair game. Not only were they the criminalists on the case, but they ended up victims as well. Their lives would be on display for all to see, anyone free to make any implications that suited their purposes.
It was apparent to him that the likelihood that he and Sara could retain their jobs was slim. It bothered him a bit, but he'd been at this lab for over 16 years. He'd taken it from 14th to second in national rankings. Maybe it was time to take on a new challenge.
His only fear was that all the publicity and nastiness would tear them apart. He had come to accept that he loved her, and he believed her when she said she felt the same way. But they hadn't been together long enough to forge the sort of bond that could withstand what was ahead of them, he feared.
The look on his face concerned Sara when she returned with the copies. He had seemed to be a little less morose when she'd left, but she found him to be almost melancholy when she got back.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, handing him his copies.
"Nothing," he lied, folding the pages to slide them into the pocket of his jacket.
She cocked her head, studying him intently. Grissom looked at her, putting on what he hoped was his most convincing innocent face. He could feel her eyes boring into his, demanding the truth.
"Call me if you find out anything," he said, taking his leave before she could break down the walls that he was throwing up to hide from her.
* * * * *
"You're as crazy as she is!" Brass bellowed.
"Can you think of a better way?" Grissom asked.
"Sara must be rubbing off on you. Whoa, that came out wrong," Brass mumbled.
"You know, you and Catherine are supposedly my best friends. Yet you two are the only ones making jokes about me seeing Sara. I suppose that means you disapprove."
"Not at all, my friend," Brass said, shaking his head. "And, to the best of my knowledge, neither does Catherine."
"Then why the jokes?"
"Because it's funny. You've got to lighten up, buddy. Look, we've been watching this soap opera for years. We were beginning to think that you two must be purposefully acting stupid. No one takes that long to ask someone out, for God's sake."
"There were other issues that interfered," Grissom complained.
"Did all those issues just vaporize?"
"Well, no."
"See? That's what's funny. Nothing's really changed, but now suddenly you two go from two geeks who can barely communicate with each other to practically living together in just a couple of weeks. Don't you just want to slap your own forehead and yell 'Doh!'?"
"Yeah, I do," Grissom admitted.
"But, man, I hope it works out for you. I really do. She's a good kid, not to mention a looker. You could've done a lot worse."
"Thank you ... I think."
"I don't know what she sees in you, but who am I to judge?" Brass joked.
"I don't know, either," Grissom breathed out heavily. "I keep asking myself that. Until I know the answer, I'm not sure I can really believe it's happening."
"I hope it's worth it, 'cause this case is going to stir up a lot of shit. The Sheriff is going to eat your ass up," Brass warned.
"I know. But I can't worry about that now. What I'm worried about is Sara and the other women this nut is terrorizing. She obviously thinks she's doing this for me. I've got to try to make contact with her."
"By making yourself bait?"
"Yes. I haven't been alone since this whole thing has started. Maybe that's why she hasn't tried to contact me directly. But I know she's stalking me, so she would know if I'm alone."
"What do you have in mind?" Brass asked, knowing that Grissom would likely do this with or without his help, so he might just as well cooperate.
"Normal activities that she wouldn't think are suspicious, like going to the grocery store, the dry cleaners, the car wash – things like that."
"Does Sara know about this?" Brass asked, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.
"No, and I don't want her to."
"You are playing with fire, my friend. If this Angel of Death doesn't kill you, Sara will. You know that, right?"
"I know that I've got to do something to make this stop. She'll understand."
"Remember how you acted when she played decoy for the Strip Strangler? You were not amused," Brass reminded him.
"I know. And I know that Sara won't be amused either."
"It can be tough being a hypocrite," Brass said openly.
"I appreciate your support," Grissom shot back.
"Just don't get yourself killed. Sara will castrate me if anything happens to you. I may not be a Don Juan, but it's comforting to know I have all my original equipment – just in case I ever need it again."
"Just watch my back. I'll take care of the rest."
"Oh, I'll have your back. And your front, and both sides. Hell, I may suspend an officer from the ceiling."
"Just don't get made, or we may never get another chance," Grissom warned.
"Oh, I've never done this before. I'm so glad you told me how," Brass countered sarcastically.
Leaning back in the chair across from Brass, Grissom exhaled heavily.
"I'm going to be in such deep shit with Sara, no matter what happens, aren't I?"
"Yep," Brass said, nodding.
* * * * *
"What did Philip have to say?" Grissom said as he and Sara converged in the hallway.
"Said that these two are possibles," she said, showing him two of the fan letters. "Both have obsessive tendencies, from what he could tell. Both write in the same general style as the Angel. His exact words were, 'It could be either of them, or neither of them'."
"Sounds like a psychologist," Grissom grumbled.
"What did Brass have to say?"
"Oh, he'll check them out, then get back with me."
"You were there a long time just to find that out," Sara said suspiciously.
"We talked about the case some," Grissom evaded.
"Okay. Well, if you don't have anything else for me to do, I was going to go help Nicky with one of his cases. He can't get to them all tonight."
"Be sure there's an officer there," Grissom warned. "I'll walk you to your car."
"You think she'd kill me right here in the parking lot?" Sara asked, unbelieving. The realization that the Angel of Death might actually be that bold, that crazy, seized her attention, diverting her from wondering why Grissom hadn't argued against her going.
"I don't want to take that chance."
"I guess I'm lucky I have Shadow Man to protect me," she teased.
"Yeah, right. A superhero more conspicuous in his absence than in his presence."
"I was impaired when I said that," Sara demurred.
"The truth will out, as they say. Impairment often helps that along," Grissom argued.
"I also thought the lights in the lab were purposefully harassing me, that my arms were made of rubber and could stretch several feet, and that I stored light energy to convert to my aura," Sara countered with a silly grin. "Actually, I'm not convinced that last one is wrong," she laughed.
Three cats meowed in protest as their sleep was disturbed when their owner stretched slowly as she got out of bed. The Bastard and the Whore would still be at work this early in the morning, so the Angel of Death took her time in her preparations.
She needed to teach both of them a lesson. The Bastard had lied to her – used her and humiliated her. How could her sweet Gil turn out to be so evil?
Did I misread Gil so badly? Is he really that bad, or has it been the influence of the Whore? That's the answer. She's as evil as the day is long.
Maybe he still cares. Maybe she has him twisted. He is a man after all; you can't expect them to think clearly around sluts.
The Angel of Death nodded resolutely as she ran her tub. She needed to talk to Gil in private, away from the influence of the Whore. She could give him one more chance to redeem himself. If she could purge the Whore's influence, then he could be saved.
If not, the Bastard will join his Whore in suffering.
While the tub filled, she went to the kitchen. Opening a drawer, she took out her butcher knife, turning the gleaming blade over and over. It was as sharp as a scalpel. She was always meticulous in her care of her tools.
For you, though, I'll make sure the blade is dull. I want you to feel every bit of pain you've caused me.
TO BE CONTINUED ...