A/N: Here we go with the second half of the last chapter. This is a direct continuation from chapter 8, with no time lapse, so if you haven't read that one yet, you may need to before checking out this chapter. I really appreciate the reviews I got asking me to continue this quickly. It's so nice to know that people are enjoying my work. I hope this lives up to everyone's expectations or at least gets close J I may not post again before 2004 hits, so I want to wish everyone and their families a happy, healthy, New Year!
Chapter 9: The Interrogation, Part Two
Newton suddenly stood and faced down his main inquisitor, his eyes burning into Grissom's. "I should have killed you, too," he spat. "You were just in my way."
Grissom almost couldn't believe what he had just heard—had their suspect actually threatened him? He wasn't sure quite how to react to such hate-filled words.
As he met Chuck's gaze, Grissom was filled with a stormy whirlwind of emotions. Anger sent adrenaline pumping wildly through his veins, and he could barely restrain himself from reaching out and grabbing the man in front of him. At the same time, cold revulsion at Newton's flagrant disregard for human life caused Grissom to shudder inwardly. Everything he was feeling was sapping his meager energy reserves, but he tried not to reveal any of the confusion that was churning inside.
"I could have done it," the suspect continued in a sinister tone. "It would have been easy. If I had finished you off, I wouldn't be here now."
Brass had rushed into action as soon as Newton had risen from the chair. His hand was firmly on the suspect's shoulder as he said, "Whoa, Chuck. Have a seat." Just a small amount of pressure from Brass on Newton's upper body caused him to sit back down without further resistance. The police captain was surprised at how Chuck's outward demeanor had changed so quickly from antagonistic to nearly docile. But it was obvious to everyone in the room that the killer's ire was still seething below the surface.
Once Newton was seated again, Grissom, who hadn't even flinched at the sudden aggressive move of the suspect, responded to what Newton had surmised before. "If you had 'finished me off,'" he rasped, "you would most definitely still be here, Mr. Newton, because my team would have recovered all the evidence you left behind." Grissom's voice had become so wispy that if there hadn't been complete silence in the room, his words would have been inaudible. But they all were able to hear him. "You were careless, Mr. Newton," he continued, sarcasm dripping off his enunciation of the killer's name. "Not to mention angry, arrogant, and just plain stupid. You gave us everything we needed to tie you to the crime scene."
Grissom swallowed against the raw fire burning in his throat as he tried to coax a few more words from his protesting vocal chords. "The only thing we were missing was your name, and therefore someone to compare all our findings to. But you gave that to us when you foolishly went back for the statue. If you hadn't taken that out of the house, we might never have identified you. So, really, we should be thanking you for attacking me when you returned to the scene. You gave us the final piece of the puzzle." A tiny, rueful smile played about his lips as he stared at Chuck. "You might say I've even a bit glad that you came after me, because it just meant that you left us more evidence. The only revenge I need is the truth."
The man sitting at the interrogation table said nothing more. He just glared at Grissom for a long minute, and the cold emptiness in his eyes sent a shiver of fear through the normally unflappable CSI supervisor. Newton then flicked his hateful gaze around the room at the others. Brass finally broke the tension when he went to the door and opened it. "We're ready now, Officer," he told the policeman outside. "Get him out of here."
The uniformed officer came in and handcuffed Newton, taking him out of the room and down to the holding cell.
Everyone except Grissom watched the murderer disappear down the long hallway.
"How does a crackpot like that go this long without having a record?" Brass wondered aloud.
"Yeah, it sounds like Chuck Newton should have snapped a long time ago," Catherine added.
"Just cause he wasn't in the database doesn't mean he never assaulted someone, or even killed, before," Sara pointed out. "Maybe he was just never caught before."
"Maybe he never left DNA evidence linking him to the crime," Catherine began. She was going to say more, but she stopped when she looked over at Grissom.
He had finally straightened up from his position leaning on the table, but as he did, the room began to swim and turn fuzzy and blue-gray at the edges of his vision. He swayed and almost fell, as he stumbled back into the chair that was luckily right behind him.
The other three rushed over, Catherine and Sara appearing almost instantly on either side of him. "Grissom!" both women cried simultaneously.
His whole body was shaking, but now fear had nothing to do with it; his face was ghastly pale and covered with a sheen of sweat.
"What's wrong?" Catherine asked, alarmed.
He didn't answer at first, he just stared at the opposite wall, his eyes unfocused. His breathing was shallow and rapid as he struggled to hang onto consciousness.
"What is it?" Sara inquired with quiet concern.
He finally turned and looked at her. "Dizzy…" he gasped.
"Okay," she said, and sped into action. She opened the top two buttons on his shirt and loosened the collar. Then she gently urged him forward and had him lean on the table with his head as far down as it could go. "Just relax and breathe, Grissom, deep and slow." She knew that what you should do when someone feels lightheaded is put them in a chair and have them bend forward and put their head between their knees, so that gravity would get the blood flowing back to their brain. But with Grissom's injured ribs, she knew he would be unable to get into that position. So having him hang his head low over the table was the most helpful posture she could think of putting him in. She called over to Brass, "Go get a towel and soak it in cold water, and bring him a cup of water to drink, too."
The police captain hurried out the door.
The remaining three waited in the interrogation room, their swift respiration filling the still air. Sara slowly rubbed her hand up and down Grissom's heaving back.
"That's it, Gil, hang on," Catherine told him. "Keep breathing. You'll be fine." She ran a hand over his cheek and through his damp hair; although he was sweating profusely, his skin was unnaturally cold.
Grissom stayed silent, staring at the tabletop, focusing his attention on inhaling and exhaling, filling his lungs with as much air as he could in spite of his sharply protesting ribs. He used the rest of his concentration to control the increasing queasiness that was roiling through his stomach.
Brass returned with what Sara had requested. He placed the plastic cup filled with water on the table, and handed her the saturated towel.
"Thanks," Sara replied.
"Is he all right?" Brass asked. "Should we call a doctor or the paramedics or anything?"
"He'll be fine," Sara answered. She wiped the wet towel over Grissom's face a couple of times, then folded it and placed it on the back of his neck. "Is that better?" she asked him.
"Yeah," he whispered. The shocking cold of the cloth had helped him feel more aware. As he continued breathing deeply, the unsettling sensation of being on the verge of passing out began to slip away. He eventually got control of his heart rate and trembling body, until all that was left was a slightly nauseous feeling. He sat up—very gradually—but didn't attempt to stand quite yet.
"Are you okay?" Catherine asked him. She noticed that some of his color had begun to return.
"I think so," Grissom replied.
Catherine winced at the hoarse roughness of his voice—he sounded horrible. His normal rhythmic, soothing tones were now nothing more than painfully scratchy croaks and whispers; every word he uttered must be pure agony.
Sara had been holding the wet towel in place on the back of Grissom's neck, but now she used it to wipe off the sweat that remained on his face. Then she tossed it onto the table and handed him the cup of water. "Drink this—slowly," she instructed.
He took a sip and swallowed cautiously. Between the pain in his throat and the nausea he still felt, he wanted to make sure that the water went down and stayed down. He drank about half the contents of the cup, and then returned it to the table.
They could all tell that Grissom was feeling a little better, but Brass asked out loud what they were all thinking, "Should we maybe take him to get looked at by a doctor, or back to the hospital?"
Sara noticed Grissom's distasteful reaction to Brass's suggestion, so she said, "No, I think he's all right now. He just needs some rest."
"A lot of rest," Catherine put in, trying to help and lighten the mood a bit.
Grissom nodded in resignation, silently agreeing with the women's hint that he should go home and finally get the respite the doctor had prescribed.
"Ready?" Sara asked him. "I hate to keep repeating myself, but we're going to do this slowly."
Grissom nodded, and then carefully pushed off the table to get himself into an upright position. His brow furrowed in pain and his face stayed tense, as Catherine and Sara assisted by each taking one of his arms.
"We're taking him home," Catherine informed Brass. "Starting now, Grissom is off the clock."
"Are you taking over graveyard?" the police captain asked her.
"For a while, I guess."
Grissom was too exhausted to even mildly protest against Catherine assuming control of his position.
"Okay, until further notice, you're acting supervisor," Brass said.
"If you need me, use the pager," Catherine told him. "Don't call the cell phones or Grissom's house, all right? I'll be back for tonight's shift."
"You got it, boss," Brass replied lightly. Then he turned a bit more serious. "Take care, Gil."
Grissom gave him a quick wave of thanks, and then Catherine turned her attention back to him. He had draped his arm around her shoulders as they all stumbled down the corridors of the police station. On his left, Sara just kept a steady grip on his arm, because his ribs were too tender to even allow him to move that arm away from his side.
The two women got him out to the nearest SUV and helped him up into the back seat. Sara rode with him in the rear, and Catherine drove. As the vehicle ran over some bumps on the way out of the parking lot, Grissom grimaced and reached for his left side.
Studying him, Sara asked, "You all right, Gris?"
"Yeah," he whispered tightly.
"Are you sure, cause you're looking a little white again." She tried to sound like she was half-joking, and flashed him a quick smile to convince him of it.
He took a deep breath before repeating, "Yeah."
They drove the rest of the way in silence as Sara kept a concerned eye on the obviously exhausted and distressed Grissom.
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