Sessions

"Hi, I'm sorry I'm a little late." Warrick apologized, after having knocked lightly on the large oak door.

The raven haired psychologist smiled in response. "Don't worry about it, I used the time wisely." She went back to her laptop and continued to type. "Please, take your seat while I finish up." Her fingers glided over the keyboard, evidence that she was quite used to typing long reports as such. It would be close to five minutes before she finally moved from behind her desk. "So, how are you?"

"Good. Sara and I wrapped up a case yesterday; almost through another one. At CSI, you get your good weeks, and your bad weeks. This is one of the good ones." He adjusted his shirt the way he always did, more habit than necessity. "How about you?"

"I guess I'm having one of those good weeks too." This time, their conversation was going on record, but still she held no pen and paper. "Yesterday was a test run; today, I'm afraid things are going to have to get slightly more formal." Warrick nodded and awaited instructions. "Why don't you tell me about yourself."

"Hmmm..." He pursed his lips in thought. "I was born and raised right here in Las Vegas. My mom died, my dad was non-existent, so my grandmother took care of me. Sweetest woman I know, but that doesn't mean that she wasn't strict. I'll give her this; her being the way she was what kept me on the right path..." It was evident when he stopped mid-sentence; something he held back. I wouldn't think of living anywhere else but here. This town's a part of me, so I guess I've gotta do my part to look after it."

"Right. But all of that I'll read in your file. No, I want you to tell me about you, the you that isn't in 2D." She noticed him become slightly restless. "Warrick, I want you to understand that in here, you don't need to be modest, and you don't need to sugar coat anything. What's being recorded stays between us, you have my word."

His eyes were intense, questioning, and not all together trusting. She'd seen it in all of them; once again, a trait from the job. "I was a lot of things before a CSI. Bell hop, taxi driver, grave digger; but the one thing I stuck with the longest, was being a runner." He paused, checking to see whether she understood what that was. She nodded. "I used to love it; being flush, hooked up to all the hotspots in town, getting to know people through a network. It isn't anything to be proud of. I never used a gun or anything, but I still messed up a couple of peoples lives with the stuff I was peddling. That's not a good feeling."

Again she nodded, and with a smile as warm as they came, and a voice as smooth as fine wine, she said: "I can only imagine."

"But I got myself out of it. I never wanted to get trapped in that snake pit; I suppose it was easier for me since I never had an addiction to the stuff. For a lot of the people I used to call friends, it's hell." He took a moment to remember them, some of whose murders he'd been a CSI on. They knew what staying in the game meant, but that didn't have much control over it. Junkies never did. "I may be a CSI, but I haven't forgotten about my life before. I still know a few people, DJ when I need to." That was an understatement. Mention his name at any hub, and someone's bound to know, or have heard of, him. "I'll never escape the club life."

"Well, that's a good thing. Your past has made you who you are, you can't just abandon it, you shouldn't. It never helps to forget, otherwise how do we learn. It's healthy that there's still a part of it in you." she explained. "That club life of yours must be quite exciting. Any romantic interests?"

He shook his head. "I've had my heart broken once, that's enough. I haven't been serious with anyone in years but that doesn't stop me from trying to break away from CSI and have a little... fun."

"I can imagine, you're very handsome." Jevan could tell that he wasn't quite sure how to respond. "So tell me, now that CSI is your life, do you even remember why you got into it in the first place?"

"It'd sound great if I could tell you that I felt like righting all the wrongs I committed in my past. But, to tell you the truth, I don't really know the answer to that. I felt drawn to it; seemed like the right thing to be doing for me."

"You answered a true calling. And from what I hear from the department, you're extremely good at what you do."

They were interrupted by his sudden reaction to the vibration in his pants. "Phone." he said simply. She looked back acceptingly and waited for him to finish his brief conversation. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Another case just fell into my lap."

"I hope the week stays good for you." Jevan stood with him and walked him to the door. "I'll give you a call sometime and schedule another session."

He nodded and adjusted his shirt. "Sure. Bye."

Bystanders littered Edward st. All of them where trying to peer inside; no one really knew what it was they were supposed to be interested in, but there was interest, so there had to be something there. The only ones who did know where those who had been inside. Most of them were Joe Average guys, hitting Figolo's just after work. The sun hadn't even set yet. Everyone was still a little confused by what it all meant. They'd only read about things like this in the tabloids, only seen things like this on TV. It would be a story to pass on to the grandchildren when the time came old enough for them to hear it.

Grissom searched for an open area to park the black SUV. It wasn't an easy feat, with all the civilians, their vehicles and the officers vehicles. Finally, with the car nested, he and Warrick stepped out, moving round to the backseat to grab their kits. The police line had been laid out, but that didn't stop the group from crowding any way in. Brass appeared out of the thick, and parted them enough for the two to get through. It seemed he, like the CSI unit, had his hands full.

Figolo's was a classic bar turned into a less than adequate watering hole. Two, green top pool tables in series; near destroyed overhead lights above them. A bar counter as dodgy as the place itself, maroon topped bar stools, all of which seemed to have long passed their prime; small, two to three seater tables with spilt beer and scattered salted peanuts for decoration. Smoke, the air was rank with it. The typical nicotine smell you'd expect to find in a place of such, but it wasn't only that. There was another smell, the smoke of burnt wood mixed with a wet and rather vile second ingredient. The charred remains of what was once a spit and polish 1920s phone booth stood dead ahead. Warrick and Gil, had already walked over, both of them inquisitive. Two feet, legs leading midway up the calf, and then, nothing. A wet substance puddled around the appendages.

"I don't know about either of you, but this is the first time I've come across SHC." Jim Brass said slowly. The sight was enough to boggle any mind.

"Assuming the phenomenon actually exists, we don't know that that's what it was." said Gil, reserving his judgment like any CSI had been trained to do. "Spontaneous human combustion is the lazy answer to a case like this. We won't know anything until we can begin analyzing samples."

"Yeah, I know." Jim rubbed his chin in pause. "So far, we have no idea who she is; ID must've burnt in there along with her. All witnesses could tell us was that she was blonde, not too tall. Bar tender says that she comes in from time to time; heavy smoker and drinker too." He continued. "Sorry to do this to you guys again but, you're going to have to start from scratch."

"I guess we'll have to. Could you get your guys to pull back a bit?" asked Gil.

"Of course. You guys have the floor." He left, but not before assigning two officers to make sure that the public stayed out.

Warrick shook his head and knelt down, by this time he'd already removed the unit standard digital camera from his kit. The flashes filled the room with a bright white. Each position being shot three times by the automatic function near the lens. "SHC or not, this is definitely one of the stranger cases."

"I won't disagree with you on that." They swapped positions and Grissom now inspected the floor of the booth while Warrick continued to photograph the exterior. "But cases of SHC have always been circumstantial Theories ranging from rogue cells to subatomic 'pyrotrons'. None with any true scientific case study or basis."

As Gil carefully scrapped small amounts of the charred wood into an airtight container, Warrick used a cotton swab to collect a sample of the mixture of fat and other compounds on the floor and placed it in a brown envelope. The smell was nothing short of gagging, but they'd developed a strange tolerance to that sort of thing. "Weird." whispered Warrick, putting away the sample. Out came a small, black brush. "The receiver's still alright, considering." He dusted it for prints, knowing that they'd probably never be able to find any clues with all the tens of prints on there. Sure enough, he lifted sets of five at a time if not more.

A small scrap caught Grissom's eye; just outside the phone booth. He heard Warrick tell him something about getting boxes from the car for the appendages, but beyond that, he'd zoned out. With a set of immaculate tweezers, he lifted a black scrap of material, holding a rather pleasant surprise.
Three initials had been expertly sewn on.

"Catharine, Nick, how nice to find you in my neck of the woods." Doctor Al Robbins; coroner. Perhaps the least liked of all professions, sharing the stage with at a guess, undertaking. The term Chief Medical Examiner would be more palatable to most. But, being a man surrounded by those of the inanimately inclined, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy. His thirty odd years of experience and sharp eye made him an invaluable member of the team; one who, at present, had some very interesting information indeed. He'd finished his preliminary report, cleaning up the body and collecting samples where he could.

"What've you got for us?" Nick asked. He gave a short shudder; it was always cold in there, done so to keep the bodies from rotting. And the smell; dry air, antiseptic, musky, a hint of some sort of starchy fluid.

"First of all, a name." He handed Catharine a slim folder. "Meet Dennis Marten. Rigor mortis is in it's final phase; forty hours since time of death by my estimation." They all moved over to the body, and as he pulled back the sheet, the two read over the file. "According to the clipping in there, this guy was on his way to becoming a multi-million dollar sports hero. That's if you believe what you read in the paper."

"The article came out five months ago." she said, holding up the clipping.

"I remember this guy. He was supposed to be America's answer to Beckham. He'd been in talks with Ajax Amsterdam; thought that the clubs here were taking too long to get their act together." Catharine looked at him with a raised brow. "I'm a bit of a soccer fan."

Al smiled and shook his head. "Let me take it from the top." He turned Marten's head and showed them the abrasion on the back of his neck. They recognized it as a muzzle stamp.

"He was held at gunpoint." volunteered Nick.

"Next, we have these." He rolled him to his side somewhat; enough to show them the heavy clotting of blood underneath his legs. They'd ballooned in size; what would be considered normal of an athlete his height and build. "Bed sores. From the severity I'd wager that he's been sitting in that chair for about a month, maybe a little less."

"It's probably got something to do with the muzzle stamp."

"Now here's the real doozy. I removed tissue samples from various areas of the body." He took a rather amazed breath before carrying on. "It seems that his muscles have suffered severe stress; the kind of damage produced by pushing the body to its limit. The problem comes with the correlation of times between the tissue's degradation and the bed sores. The muscle was torn, after the bed sores were formed."

"How's that possible?"

He shrugged. "You should understand that these are initial findings. I've sent his blood, serrosanguinous fluid, saliva, skin, hair; the works, off for testing. We'll know more when the results come back; enough to form plausible hypotheses."

"Thanks Al." Catharine took one last look at the body, before taking off, followed by her colleague.

"I'm competitive. I know I am; it's no secret." Sara crossed her long, jean clad legs and tried to get more comfortable. "But I don't let it overpower me. In fact, I let it work in my favour. The cases that I handle are done with more speed and precision when I'm competitive... driven. I've been like that since I was a kid, and I'll probably still be like that when I'm seventy."

"You're proud of it, and you should be. Competition is part of human nature." The sound of Jevan's French manicured nails came as a mild 'ting' when she wrapped her hand around her water glass. "But are you happy where you are?"

She took a second to think about it. "Of course, I like Las Vegas, and I love CSI."

It didn't seem that that was the answer Jevan was looking for, but she accepted it all the same. "How would you evaluate your relationship with your colleagues?"

"It's good." She nodded, more to herself than the pleasant woman opposite her. "I mean... look, when you work together with someone for years, there's bound to be a connection. More than just colleagues."

Jevan cocked her head to the side in mild amusement. "Anyone in particular?"

For a woman so smart, it shouldn't have taken her the time it did to register the question. "Oh... no, no, not like that. Nothing like that. I meant friends, more than colleagues, so... friends. And with certain people it amounts to more than that, and you become like family. Or at least what I think that that kind of family should feel like. I was an only child so I don't know what it's like to have brothers and sisters."

"Do you think that that's hampered you?"

"No, I'm good at what I do. Someday I'll be the best, but the only way I can do that is through experience and I can't hope to gain it all in a couple of months or even years. I've never felt less hampered."

"In regards to your line of work, yes, but how about socially?" asked Jevan. "I know that being so busy trying to get to the top means that other things must fall away."

Sara silently agreed. "That's why I have to get to where I want to go. At least once I reach that goal, all of the things that I've had to sacrifice won't have been in vain." She hadn't ever really stopped long enough to think about what they were talking about and what she was saying, and now that she was, the words coming out of her mouth were unfolding to her as to Jevan.

"A noble precept by any standard, but have you thought about the gravity of those sacrifices?"

"What do you mean?"

"Think Sara, I know that you know." The words seemed to be slowly prying open those thought processes of her mind.

"Women are married at my age, stuck at home looking after three kids and two dogs, having to give up on their dreams because the world deems it normal, and fit to do so. Society seems to think that that's true achievement for a woman; I don't. I'm happy, and I don't need a white picket fence and station wagon to stay that way."

"Good, as long as you're happy." she smiled. "But understand that the law of nature sometimes has control over us in ways we cannot just walk away from. From time to time, you need to allow your mind to step aside, and act with your instinct; your heart."

"Does this come with your full endorsement and a lifetime back guarantee?" laughed Sara.

"Well, the first part anyway." she chuckled. "Take my advice when you get the chance, it'll do wonders. My life improved drastically when I did."

Sara followed her in standing, realizing that the session was over. "I'll try." With that, she walked back to the office, thinking honestly about all that had just been said.

End Chapter Two