Sessions
"Do you look at all of your patients like that?" Gil Grissom asked, glancing casually around the office in which he now sat. He never faired well when made to sit still; when kept from his work; when forced under close scrutiny. What he was doing was mandatory, and in his opinion totally unnecessary, but he would sit through it.
"I'm not sure that I completely understand the question."
He grinned and shook his head. "I'm not sure I do either." Again, he took in the room, now with more care. His back sat to the wood paneled wall, bearing a single modern painting which he could not easily make out. To his right, a thickly packed bookshelf bearing the works and journals of what he would wager were many a renowned psychologist. On his left, a rich hardwood desk, complimented by the only greenery in the room, a Bonsai tree. The desktop was neat, meticulous, well suited to the person she appeared to be.
"You're in here not more than ten minutes and already you're treating my office like a crime scene." She tended to an itch on her brow before continuing. "CSI is in your blood, no one can deny that Mr. Grissom."
Her name: Jevan Sands. Her occupation: Independent Forensic Psychologist. Her job at present: CSI team evaluator.
"And no one ever has." The atmosphere in the room was somewhat less than warm, and both seemed hard pressed in their stand not to make the first move to delve into what it was she was hired to asses. For his part, he chose to asses her. Competent... more than that, intelligent, analytical and in many ways, deceitful. He considered himself a good enough judge in character to realize that everything in the room, everything she projected, was deliberate.
Her patience did not waver. She had already begun her evaluations on the rest of the team; Grissom was the last for the day. Each possessed a mechanism to shut them off; it was necessary in their line of work. Jevan understood that if they got too close, too emotional, they would risk being driven to insanity. She understood, because the same was true for her. But, of the team, the most walled off would have to be Head CSI, Gil Grissom.
"You seem restless... agitated."
"I'll admit that I am. I was told that the initial session would be brief. I have four cases waiting on my desk and seven more that I need to oversee but instead I find myself forced to idly sit in this room and stare at the four walls." He didn't raise his voice, but his monotone manner got the message across just the same.
"How quickly this session goes is completely dependant on you. I'm sure that you've already asked yourself why the department hired a psychologist instead of using their own. By that you already know that this is no run of the mill evaluation, Mr. Grissom." He stood as she spoke and her eyes followed, fixed. "I have no pen or paper, obviously; no tape recorder; I'm pressing no questions. The first session is simply a 'getting to know you' step. I have as yet to get to know you."
He picked out a book from the shelf and ran his fingers along the spine, tempted to open it. "You already know everything there is to know. My life is in my work, my work is in that file." Gil gestured over to the small USB stick on her desk by her laptop. "I have interests, but I am by no means interesting."
"Ah," she stood as well, walking to his side, but careful not to venture too close, "I do believe you're lying to me. You're trying to get me off your back by dismissing the qualities that would make me more enamoured of you."
"More?" he asked, receiving only a gentle smile in answer.
"You're evaluating the evaluator, just like you evaluate everyone and everything you're faced with. An admirable trait."
"Or a persistent fault." He placed the book on the shelf and indirectly followed her, taking his seat. "It hasn't always been an ally; in fact the only instance where it is, is at work."
She nodded slowly, appearing to genuinely be taking in every word. "In your opinion, is that a bad thing? You say that your life is your work, so why should it be a problem?"
"No, I said that my life is in my work; whether by intention or fate. I know that there needs to be a balance between work and a social life but for me, my work makes it near impossible to have one." Gil wasn't used to all the 'heart to heart'. "Let's just say people don't like being... evaluated."
For a second, the corner of her mouth lifted. "Words never did run more true, but unfortunately for us, it must be done." Silence. "You're free to leave Mr. Grissom, but you're scheduled to return to this... cell, tomorrow at 15:15. And maybe by then, you'll realize that this isn't as tortursome as you've made it out to be."
Not so much tortursome as it was tiresome. His mind had been firing at one hundred functions a minute for the past couple of days. All of it was case related, and until now, he hadn't really bothered to slow down and comprehend just how crazy it seemed. And until now, he hadn't had the time. But being forced to sit still for that half hour had exhausted him, ironically enough. And so, it was one of those rare occasions where his body forced his mind to retire and get a good nights sleep as opposed to the other way around. He looked down at his watch as he walked through the corridors, 19:36. An escalator trip, a short walk across the somewhat busy street, and an elevator ride later, he was back at his office.
He found Sara and Warrick in Toxicology. If nothing, the members of the unit didn't just take CSI as a job, but a way of life. Everyday they gave it their all, and he didn't doubt it for a second. The fact that they lived on caffeine and sugar for spells at a time was evident by the trashcans in the hallway, which Grissom noticed needed emptying. He decided to check in on them, then say his goodnights.
"Still working on the Dougray case?" he asked.
"Actually, we're done." Sara replied. She triumphantly waved a small CD in the air and draped her arm around Warrick. "What's on this disc may have taken us a long... long time to compile but, it's done."
Warrick couldn't help but smile at her. "Blood work showed high amounts of Quinine in Nathan Dougray's bloodstream. It's an alkaloid used to treat malaria but an overdose can be lethal."
"In this case, it was."
"Dougray recently came back from South East Asia, backpacking from Cambodia, to Malaysia, the Philippines. Pollen fibers found in his backpack confirm that he purchased the Quinine there."
"How did he even get it through customs?"
"He smuggled it in. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? With all the security measures we've got in place." Warrick offered. "From the reading material and paraphernalia we found in his apartment, he believed Western medicine was ineffective. His medicine cabinets were stocked with herbs and oils; his fridge, only organic foods."
"Poor bastard. The remedy he thought would do nothing but protect, ended up being the very thing that killed him." As tragic as the conclusion was, Gil couldn't help but be thankful there was one less case to worry about. "I'm turning in for the night."
The shock on both their faces was clear. Off the top of their heads, they'd never, in their years of working with Grissom, heard him utter those words. He was always the first one in when there was work to be done, and the last one to leave. On any other night, he would've tried to explain himself; bring on a legitimate reason for the dent in his 'Superman' persona. But this was not that night, and so he left without another word, content to spend the rest of it doing what he found so remarkably difficult to do... nothing.
"Yesterday I was up until about one watching a show on advancements in technology." Nick began, walking side by side with Catherine as they made their way into a dilapidated apartment block. "They showed all kinds of gadgets and machinery, hell nowadays we can even control computers with our minds if the circuitry's done right. A lot of the stuff was wishful thinking, some of it guided optimism, and then there were the few that actually seemed to hold some ground. One in particular got me really interested." They passed two beat cops, and a multiple more of inquisitive tenants.
"Which I'm sure you're planning on telling me." she finally said, having noticed his dramatic pause. To anyone else, she would've seemed irritated by his talk, but they both knew she wasn't. Truth was, unimportant topics and friendly conversation was what kept the CSIs from hardening after what they faced day after day.
"Well, since you asked..." joked Nick. "Tiny register chips that are administered at birth. Your name, date of birth, social security number; they're all on there from the minute you pop your head into the world. Home address, school, occupation, marital status as well. Your health can be monitored; cholesterol, heart rate, blood sugar levels; goes as far as your entire medical history. They could even allow you access to current accounts so that you pay by running, lets say your hand, over a scanner.
He slid the gate of the elevator closed and she tapped the button marked, four. "Impressive, but for all of the perks, there are an equal share of disadvantages to having everything about you monitored."
"Alright, I'll bite."
"Suppose the wrong person scans your hand. The kind of guy you'd hate to meet, period, much less in a dark alley. All of that information, everything you could possibly know down to your phobias and blood type, you've just handed to him on a silver platter. Or how about the monitoring of your body? Raised temperature and heartbeat, release of endorphins; you'd broadcast that you're having sex almost immediately. They could even find out that you're pregnant, what sex the baby is and if it happens, whether there was a miscarriage or an abortion. All of that aside, I haven't even mentioned the possibility of converting these, register chips into tracking devices. If you ask me, it borders way too close to serious invasion of privacy."
He stayed still as the elevator stopped and she got off. "Anyone ever tell you that you're paranoid?"
The crime scene was obvious. Three or four police officers stood at the door of the apartment, the same amount were doing their best to keep the neighbors from disturbing the evidence or interfering with the investigation. A friendly face came into the corridor to greet them; Det. Jim Brass. Pleasantries were exchanged, the sort earned from years of familiarity. They weren't here to start idle conversation; only to do their jobs. Brass knew the drill, so he'd kept the beat cops out of the room. There would be time to examine all of the evidence later, but what was most important was that forensics got everything they needed first, and uncontaminated.
"Now this is interesting." Nick sighed.
A single seater couch; torn, tattered and by far not in the best shape. It stood smack in the middle of an oval apartment; a bachelor pad to be more descriptive. A small kitchen left of where they stood; no food, dishes, cutlery to speak of. There was no bed either; odd considering that someone actually lived in the glorified cardboard box. The television set was still on, playing reruns of Looney Toons. No curtains on the windows; no blinds. No lamps, tables or chairs; nothing save for the TV set, the couch, and the failing fridge in the kitchen. Nick moved closer, taken aback slightly by the smell as he reached the couch. A man sat, staring blankly at the set. He still held the remote control in his right hand; eyes stood eerily wide. At first glance, he appeared to be alive, but a second or two later, you didn't have to guess that he wasn't.
"You wouldn't happen to have any idea what happened here, would you Brass?" asked Catharine, standing on the other side of the deceased, looking over to Jim who stood behind the couch.
"Not even a clue."
"Great." Nick put down his forensic kit and removed a set of latex gloves; the snapping sound ringing through the just short of empty room. "That's just great."
Jim smiled and prepared to give them their space. "No one in this town doubts you CSIs. So get to work, and show us what it is that makes you the best."
End Chapter One
A/n: Thanks Fe and Laredo Grissom for pointing out my error!