Sara is reminded of California at a crime scene. Inspired by a challenge on R.E.M. songtitles. Disclaimer: I own nothing but these words, man.
-- Beachball --
It sat in the room, outlined against the grey scene like a fluorescent ghoul. It was huge, big as the dead child it lay beside.
Who would own such a beachball in Las Vegas? It glowed with the sun of San Francisco.
A cop had come in to say the mother would only speak to a CSI, so Sara walked out with him. The blonde stood with her arms crossed against the Vegas night. Her skin was leather binding middle-aged muscles, her mouth a straight line.
"My brother's a CSI in Florida. So I trust you," she said, the choke in her voice firmly submerged. "That ball was Daniel's only reminder of the beach. I hope it was the last thing he saw."
"I understand."
"No you don't. Vegas kid like you, all you know is neon lights and streets, city that shines without the sun."
"I'm from San Francisco. But I've lived here for awhile --"
"Takes more than awhile to forget the coast," said the woman. Her expression had softened abruptly, and she placed her hand on Sara's arm. Sara frowned at it.
"I should be comforting you."
"I'm distracting myself. Don't be fooled."
The woman talked further in close tones. She fed all the details she knew about the killing and clean white sandy stretches. Sara took it all in silence. It would break the bereaved to notice Sara's smooth pale skin looked nothing like her own. Sara had hidden her Californian childhood between the pages of books and in late nights in her high school's lab.
But the sand and surf had been a familiar presence just out of sight, and Sara had only noticed that after she moved here.
"What did she say?' Warrick asked as she stepped back into the grey room. The beachball was covered in fingerprint powder so its bright colours had faded, like a memory. Sara turned away from it.
"You wouldn't understand," she said. "Vegas kid like you."
-- Beachball --
It sat in the room, outlined against the grey scene like a fluorescent ghoul. It was huge, big as the dead child it lay beside.
Who would own such a beachball in Las Vegas? It glowed with the sun of San Francisco.
A cop had come in to say the mother would only speak to a CSI, so Sara walked out with him. The blonde stood with her arms crossed against the Vegas night. Her skin was leather binding middle-aged muscles, her mouth a straight line.
"My brother's a CSI in Florida. So I trust you," she said, the choke in her voice firmly submerged. "That ball was Daniel's only reminder of the beach. I hope it was the last thing he saw."
"I understand."
"No you don't. Vegas kid like you, all you know is neon lights and streets, city that shines without the sun."
"I'm from San Francisco. But I've lived here for awhile --"
"Takes more than awhile to forget the coast," said the woman. Her expression had softened abruptly, and she placed her hand on Sara's arm. Sara frowned at it.
"I should be comforting you."
"I'm distracting myself. Don't be fooled."
The woman talked further in close tones. She fed all the details she knew about the killing and clean white sandy stretches. Sara took it all in silence. It would break the bereaved to notice Sara's smooth pale skin looked nothing like her own. Sara had hidden her Californian childhood between the pages of books and in late nights in her high school's lab.
But the sand and surf had been a familiar presence just out of sight, and Sara had only noticed that after she moved here.
"What did she say?' Warrick asked as she stepped back into the grey room. The beachball was covered in fingerprint powder so its bright colours had faded, like a memory. Sara turned away from it.
"You wouldn't understand," she said. "Vegas kid like you."