A/N: Again, many thanks to the PwF forum for advice and support.
Chapter Six, The Backlash"Warrick and Nick, DB in a warehouse downtown. Catherine, you have an apparent suicide. They requested a CSI for suspicious circs," Grissom distributed the appropriate assignment slips. "Sara, you're with me."
He filled her in on the details of the case as they walked through the parking garage. "Someone whacked a tourist in the back of the head. Probably robbery."
"Sounds familiar."
"You did so well with the last one, you get another."
"I didn't solve the last one," Sara reminded him.
"Maybe we'll solve this one," he said. "Very similar circumstances. Could be the same perp."
"Then should you really be involved?"
Grissom gave her a pointed look but said nothing as he hopped into the driver's seat of the SUV.
As they arrived at the crime scene, they noticed Jim Brass standing with two officers. Between the officers was a handcuffed suspect. Grissom and Sara practically leapt from the car. "What's this?" Gil asked, pointing to the suspect.
"This one should be easy for you guys," Brass replied. "Alan Jaworsky, caught in the act. The victim, one Sandy Miller, was DOA at Desert Palm." He glanced quickly from Grissom to Sara, then back again. "You guys do your thing here. I'll take him back to the station. We'll wait for you for the interview."
The CSIs processed the scene and returned to the lab. The interview proved fruitless as Jaworsky refused to talk. Within an hour, a warrant had been secured giving the CSIs permission to search his apartment.
Brass pulled Sara aside as Grissom entered the tenement. "What the Hell is he doing here? He's too close to this."
"Hey," Sara threw up her arms. "I asked the same thing. I got nowhere."
They fanned out across the apartment. Sara chose the kitchen. She opened every drawer and cabinet, but found nothing probative. Unwashed dishes in the sink and a dirty floor weren't exactly evidence of a crime. Suddenly, Brass called out from the bedroom, "Well, looky here. Jackpot!"
In the top drawer of his battered dresser, Alan Jaworsky had kept driver licenses and credit cards from three victims, including Ruth Petersen. Sara and Brass watched Gil carefully, but he gave no outward indication of anything other than cool detachment. He acknowledged their concerned countenances, "I'm fine. Really. Now let's go put this bastard away."
Mustering her courage, Sara tried diplomacy, "I'm not worried so much about you as I am that a judge might throw out any evidence you touch. They could say there's a conflict of interest."
"I haven't touched anything," Gil retorted tersely. "And I won't. I'll let you handle all of the physical evidence, but I'm not bowing out."
"Look," Brass interjected. "I wasn't gonna point this out, but this guy already got off the hook once because CSI screwed up. He was busted for armed robbery last year. He walked when the evidence against him blew up in the lab."
"He won't walk again." Gil stormed out of the apartment, motioning for Sara to follow. The drive back to the lab was silent and tense. Sara attempted once to engage him in small talk, but he immediately shut her down.
True to his word, Grissom did not handle any evidence, nor speak with the suspect again. He instead ensconced himself in his office under the guise of completing backed-up paperwork. Nearing the end of the shift, Catherine approached the desk. "A suicide after all. Who'd have thunk it?"
Gil looked up from his papers, "Are you sure? Were you thorough?"
"Always thorough," Catherine smirked until she realized that his questions and his weary expression were serious. She stared at him as his attention shifted back to his paperwork.
Feeling her glare, Gil looked back up at her, "Was there something else you needed?"
"What is your problem lately?" she hissed. "I'm the most experienced CSI you've got. Don't you dare treat me like an underling."
"Well, last time I checked, I am the supervisor," he told her with ice in his eyes. "You really don't want to start anything with me right now. Your track record isn't all that impressive."
"I do my job and I do it well—"
"Tell that to Sandy Miller. Rumor has it you're worried about a backlash. If you were doing your job so well why would you have to worry about a backlash? You must think you've earned one." He gestured toward the door with a dismissive wave.
Stunned, Catherine departed as directed. She walked straight into Nick. "Whoa, sorry, Cath," the Texan drawled.
"Who's Sandy Miller?" she asked absently, and continued down the corridor.
Nick shook his head and went into the office. "What's wrong with her?"
"I wouldn't know where to start," Grissom grumbled under his breath, too quietly for Nick to hear, then continued more audibly. " Do you need something, Nick?"
"Here's the report so far on our DB. DNA won't be back until tonight and trace is working on the green powder we found around the gun."
"All right. You guys can head out."
Grissom decided to head out himself. When he got home, he sent off a quick e-mail to his mother to let her know that her assailant had been apprehended. It would be her first day back at work. He silently thanked whatever deities existed for her recovery. The familiar throbbing in his head presented itself, and he knew that a migraine could not be far behind. He took his medication and went to bed.
His dreams were occupied by a tall brunette with an adorable gap-toothed grin that had the capacity to light up the room. Somehow, some way, he had to figure out what to do about his feelings for her. "You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late." Yes, those had been her words. "You really could be too late." What did she mean by that? "Too late…"
TBC