Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, only the plot (most of it). I'm
making no money from this. It's only for entertainment, etc.
A/N: This is the first in a three-part series called Ghosts from the Past.
Be on the look out for the next two parts sometime in the future.
Dragon Tales
By RaajmdTMP
Chapter 1: Flesh and Blood
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you knew you had no real chance at scaring me up there. You
thought you'd have an easier time in the dark, dangerous basement!" the
young man said while he crept up behind his friend and yelled, "BOO!"
She jumped and punched him in the shoulder. "Jerk."
"And proud of it. Hey, where'd he say the circuit breaker was?"
"On the back wall, next to the tool chest."
"Okay," silence, followed by a crash. "Ah, you know, this would be a hell
of a lot easier if I had a flashlight."
"No kidding."
"When did Freddy say he'd be back from his camping trip, anyhow?"
"A couple of days, I think. Maybe sooner."
"He better stick to fishing this time. I swear, if he comes home with
another deer, I'll report him myself."
"No, that wouldn't do. We could always stick him down here and see how long
it takes him to find the breaker box without a damn flashlight. Poetic
justice, you know?"
"Yeah, I hear ya. You'd think a guy with as much money as he's got would spring for some better wiring. Put on the toaster and microwave at the same time and the whole house loses power. Damn, something's spilled over here.
It's as sticky as hell. Hey, I think I found it."
The small metal door was thrown open and hit something solid without the usual clang. Though odd, it was not thought of. Our young man flipped the
circuits until light bathed the basement.
"See, I told you I could do it," he bragged while turning to his companion on the staircase. Her face was stark white, her hand covering her mouth. "What is it?" She pointed past him. "Oh, come on, you're gonna have to try a little harder than that to get me. There's nothing...OH, MY GOD!!!" The young man turned to come face to face with dear old Freddy, only to drop
like a rock to the ground, out cold.
~*****~
"Sorry it took so long to get here, Brass. Got stuck in traffic."
"Yeah, well, it's a good thing you're here now. We got ourselves a sick one
this time."
"What is it?"
"DB in the basement. Vic's name is Frederick Presnell. He was supposed to be on a camping trip when two friends found him strung up in the cellar.
Looks like a damn hunting trophy."
"What were they doing there?" Warrick asked glancing at the couple talking
to an officer.
"They say the vic took them in after they lost their apartment."
"Nice guy."
"Yeah, right. Good ole' Freddy P."
"What, he had some sort of a record?"
"He was busted a while back for possession of an illegal firearm. He
claimed it was only illegal if you shot people with it."
"Idiot."
"Lucky idiot. He got away with it. Better hurry up and get in there.
Grissom's been here twenty minutes already."
~*****~
"Brass was right. This is a sick one. What do you make of it, Grissom?"
Grissom was standing about ten feet away from the body, staring at it
unblinking, as if in a trance.
"Gris? You all right?" Nick asked as he waved his hand in front of his boss' face. Grissom flinched, jerked his head back and grabbed Nick by the
wrist. "Whoa, sorry boss. I was trying to get your attention. You were
standing there just staring into space."
"Not just, Nicky."
"What do you mean?" he asked as he massaged his wrist and wondered vaguely
if it would bruise.
"I'm observing," he stated without any further explanation as he carefully stepped closer to the body. He held his gloved hand up to the knot, but it
was beyond his reach. "That seem high to you?"
"It looks like our guy is really tall."
"Or he carries around a step ladder," Warrick added sarcastically while surveying the basement. There was nothing in sight that could be used as a
stool.
"Which is why you two are going to look for footprints. Maybe we'll be able
to disprove one of those theories."
"Great. Footprint detail," Nick complained.
"You know, we were both being sarcastic."
"Why don't you start over by the bulkhead? He had to get in here somehow," Grissom said as he backed away from the body. He looked up at its lifeless
visage for a few more seconds before something caught his attention. A small piece of paper was rolled up and balanced like a pencil behind the
man's ear. Grissom carefully removed the paper, unrolled it and read
silently:
To whom it may concern,
It seems as though poor Freddy here has finally met his match. I regret not being able to see the undoubtedly shocked looks on his friends' faces at his discovery, but I had already out stayed my welcome. Have fun with this one. I know I did.
Hastog
~*****~
Nick slowly made his way from the bulkhead out looking for anything out of
the ordinary. When he reached the driveway, he noticed a dark pool of
liquid in an empty space. "Somebody needs an oil change," he said as he
walked up to the puddle. The rusty smell in the air grew stronger as he moved closer, making it apparent that the puddle was not oil. He dipped a gloved finger into the pool and held it up under his flashlight revealing its dark red color. Blood, completely out of place in the empty drive and appearing almost black by the light of the moon. "Hey, Warrick! Come check
this out!"
"Is that blood?" Warrick asked when he reached his colleague. When Nick
nodded, he continued. "What's it doing out here?"
"Maybe our killer is a little sloppy," Nick answered shrugging his shoulders and snapping a few pictures of the puddle. "Hold this for a sec," he said as he held the camera up to Warrick. "Thanks." He took a swab and
dipped it into the maroon liquid. He covered and labeled the sample.
~*****~
Three hours later, Gil Grissom sat in his office at the crime lab. His desk was covered with newly developed photos from the crime scene his team just finished processing. As he looked from picture to picture he couldn't fight
off the feeling he had ever since he walked on the scene earlier that evening. The feeling was just short of déjà vu. He almost felt as if he had
seen this before but at the same time he was almost sure he hadn't.
The one thing he did feel for sure, as he leaned back in his chair, was that this guy, Hastog, was good. If it indeed was a guy. Grissom was pretty
sure it was. He was also pretty sure the couple found at the scene had
nothing to do with it. It just didn't seem right.
Strange that Gil Grissom should have a theory this early in an investigation, isn't it? Well, perhaps you don't know him as well as you
think you do. He learned long ago not to follow hunches, that evidence never lies. It was much safer to corner a suspect with evidence, than to physically corner them. One stands a better chance at getting out alive.
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he said without
looking up.
"Hey, Gris. Got anything interesting for me?"
"Hi, Cath. I thought you were on the Denton case."
"Just finished up the paperwork. It was a cut and dry case, Gil. Nothing
too challenging."
"I wish I could say the same about this one."
"Those the scene photos?"
"Yeah," he answered, pushing them across the desk so she could see.
"Definitely not cut and dry."
Catherine looked at the vivid pictures intently. "Well, these certainly
leave nothing to the imagination."
"You'd be surprised. The pictures hardly do it justice. I haven't seen
anything like it in years."
"It looks like someone was trying to make a human hunting trophy."
"That's the consensus, yes. It's ironic, Freddy Presnell was a hunter. He
was supposed to be out hunting when he was found."
"Wait a minute, Grissom. That's Freddy Presnell? The Freddy P.? That moron
caught with the illegal guns?" she asked, staring incredulously at the
pictures before her.
"The very same."
"Geez, it's a wonder he lasted this long. I always thought he'd end up shot through the head with a crossbow quarrel or something, like that poacher in
the east a few years ago."
Grissom appeared to be absorbed in the grisly pictures in front of him and
was silent for a minute before he responded to her. "Yeah, but this one wasn't..." he trailed off and looked up at her face. "This wasn't getting
off any easier."
"No, it sure wasn't," she said, eyeing him uncertainly. "Too bad he wasn't
discovered earlier. You would have had more time with the collected
evidence before shift ended."
"What evidence?" Grissom asked. He glanced at his watch and realized for
the first time how close the end of shift was.
"Gil, there's got to be evidence. Look at these pictures."
"I have been. I mean, of course there's evidence. There's blood, all over
the place, but no viable fingerprints. The only footprints, patent or latent, belong to the people who should have been there. Tony Rogers found him. He stepped in a drying puddle of Presnell's blood when he was trying
to find the circuit breaker."
"You don't think Rogers did it?"
"No," he answered, shaking his head. He rummaged around his desk for
something. "So far we only have one semi-useful piece of evidence. The killer left a note, rolled up behind Freddy's ear," he explained, holding out a photocopy of the bloodstained note for her to read. "It doesn't give us much, anyway. The bloody fingerprints on it are useless right now. The
guy's not in AFIS."
Catherine shook her head when she finished reading the short note. She turned her attention back to the photos covering Grissom's desk. She was
drawn to one in particular, though there was nothing unusual about it.
"Grissom, what's that?" she asked, pointing to it.
He looked at her, his expression almost comical. "It's a puddle of blood,
Catherine."
"Of course, it's a puddle of... Come on, Grissom, did you really think I
didn't know that?"
"You asked the question." She gave him a rather nasty look at that. "The picture was taken in the middle of the driveway. We haven't figured out why the blood was there, yet. Nick sent a sample to the lab for comparison to
the Freddy's blood. For now, all we can do is wait. You with me next
shift?"
"Sure. It looks like you could use some help," she answered, smiling.
"Thanks a lot," he said sarcastically.
~*****~
The room is dark. Its only occupant lay sleeping uneasily on the bed. He is curled on his side and the sheets are tangled around his legs. His face is
creased with concentration and worry, even in sleep. One arm grips the pillow beneath his head while the other clutches his bare stomach as if in pain. He is not. Any physical pain once caused by his long healed wound has stopped in the years that have passed since it was inflicted. Proof enough is in the raised scar that loops across his abdomen. No, any pain lingering
from this injury is in his mind.
Would that cause such a restless sleep? Come, follow me to his office. Go quietly, now. We wouldn't want to startle him. Just a quick peek and we'll
be gone. A faint glow from the computer screen is the only light in the
room. Manta rays and sharks swim across the screen as the screensaver gurgles. Let's see what he was looking at before he fell asleep, shall we?
Interesting, very interesting. Are you familiar with this case? No? Quite gruesome, really. Two years ago in Clarendon County, Virginia, a thirty-two year old white male was found butchered along with a deer. The man's lungs
were pulled out his back to look like wings. It's a Norse sacrificial custom, the Bloody Eagle. A neo-Viking was doing it in the thirties, but
this one was different. Both the deer and the man were cut for meat.
Disturbing images to fall asleep to. Definitely not fodder for a good night
sleep, anyway. It's best that we take our leave now, before our weary
friend catches us with our noses where they don't belong.
~*****~
The nightshift CSIs were sitting around a table, pouring over evidence and crime scene photos. They were getting nowhere fast with this Presnell case. It appeared that sleeping on it had not helped one bit. Their only hopes
lay in the results of the tests set into motion before.
"Greg, do you have the results on the puddle of blood?"
"Yep." Everyone stared at him, expectantly.
"And?" Nick asked, finally breaking the silence. It seemed that Greg was attempting to take the art of the dramatic pause to new heights.
"It's not the victim's blood."
"Then who's is it?"
"Not who."
"What?"
"Exactly."
"What are you talking about, Greg?"
"The blood's not human. It's sheep's blood," Greg concluded, looking pleased with this latest round of word play.
"Sheep's blood? What the hell is sheep's blood doing in the middle of our crime scene?"
"Sacrificial lamb," Grissom answered, out of the blue. It hadn't even seemed like he had been paying attention.
"Grissom?" Catherine looked at her friend questioningly.
"Freddy Presnell was a sacrificial lamb," Grissom said while picking up the bagged note off the table in front of him. It was the original and showed the bloody and useless fingerprints in sharp contrast. "We haven't seen the
last of Hastog."
-TBC-
Next Chapter: Murder 101- Hastog's return is marked by the death of a
Princeton student.
making no money from this. It's only for entertainment, etc.
A/N: This is the first in a three-part series called Ghosts from the Past.
Be on the look out for the next two parts sometime in the future.
Dragon Tales
By RaajmdTMP
Chapter 1: Flesh and Blood
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you knew you had no real chance at scaring me up there. You
thought you'd have an easier time in the dark, dangerous basement!" the
young man said while he crept up behind his friend and yelled, "BOO!"
She jumped and punched him in the shoulder. "Jerk."
"And proud of it. Hey, where'd he say the circuit breaker was?"
"On the back wall, next to the tool chest."
"Okay," silence, followed by a crash. "Ah, you know, this would be a hell
of a lot easier if I had a flashlight."
"No kidding."
"When did Freddy say he'd be back from his camping trip, anyhow?"
"A couple of days, I think. Maybe sooner."
"He better stick to fishing this time. I swear, if he comes home with
another deer, I'll report him myself."
"No, that wouldn't do. We could always stick him down here and see how long
it takes him to find the breaker box without a damn flashlight. Poetic
justice, you know?"
"Yeah, I hear ya. You'd think a guy with as much money as he's got would spring for some better wiring. Put on the toaster and microwave at the same time and the whole house loses power. Damn, something's spilled over here.
It's as sticky as hell. Hey, I think I found it."
The small metal door was thrown open and hit something solid without the usual clang. Though odd, it was not thought of. Our young man flipped the
circuits until light bathed the basement.
"See, I told you I could do it," he bragged while turning to his companion on the staircase. Her face was stark white, her hand covering her mouth. "What is it?" She pointed past him. "Oh, come on, you're gonna have to try a little harder than that to get me. There's nothing...OH, MY GOD!!!" The young man turned to come face to face with dear old Freddy, only to drop
like a rock to the ground, out cold.
~*****~
"Sorry it took so long to get here, Brass. Got stuck in traffic."
"Yeah, well, it's a good thing you're here now. We got ourselves a sick one
this time."
"What is it?"
"DB in the basement. Vic's name is Frederick Presnell. He was supposed to be on a camping trip when two friends found him strung up in the cellar.
Looks like a damn hunting trophy."
"What were they doing there?" Warrick asked glancing at the couple talking
to an officer.
"They say the vic took them in after they lost their apartment."
"Nice guy."
"Yeah, right. Good ole' Freddy P."
"What, he had some sort of a record?"
"He was busted a while back for possession of an illegal firearm. He
claimed it was only illegal if you shot people with it."
"Idiot."
"Lucky idiot. He got away with it. Better hurry up and get in there.
Grissom's been here twenty minutes already."
~*****~
"Brass was right. This is a sick one. What do you make of it, Grissom?"
Grissom was standing about ten feet away from the body, staring at it
unblinking, as if in a trance.
"Gris? You all right?" Nick asked as he waved his hand in front of his boss' face. Grissom flinched, jerked his head back and grabbed Nick by the
wrist. "Whoa, sorry boss. I was trying to get your attention. You were
standing there just staring into space."
"Not just, Nicky."
"What do you mean?" he asked as he massaged his wrist and wondered vaguely
if it would bruise.
"I'm observing," he stated without any further explanation as he carefully stepped closer to the body. He held his gloved hand up to the knot, but it
was beyond his reach. "That seem high to you?"
"It looks like our guy is really tall."
"Or he carries around a step ladder," Warrick added sarcastically while surveying the basement. There was nothing in sight that could be used as a
stool.
"Which is why you two are going to look for footprints. Maybe we'll be able
to disprove one of those theories."
"Great. Footprint detail," Nick complained.
"You know, we were both being sarcastic."
"Why don't you start over by the bulkhead? He had to get in here somehow," Grissom said as he backed away from the body. He looked up at its lifeless
visage for a few more seconds before something caught his attention. A small piece of paper was rolled up and balanced like a pencil behind the
man's ear. Grissom carefully removed the paper, unrolled it and read
silently:
To whom it may concern,
It seems as though poor Freddy here has finally met his match. I regret not being able to see the undoubtedly shocked looks on his friends' faces at his discovery, but I had already out stayed my welcome. Have fun with this one. I know I did.
Hastog
~*****~
Nick slowly made his way from the bulkhead out looking for anything out of
the ordinary. When he reached the driveway, he noticed a dark pool of
liquid in an empty space. "Somebody needs an oil change," he said as he
walked up to the puddle. The rusty smell in the air grew stronger as he moved closer, making it apparent that the puddle was not oil. He dipped a gloved finger into the pool and held it up under his flashlight revealing its dark red color. Blood, completely out of place in the empty drive and appearing almost black by the light of the moon. "Hey, Warrick! Come check
this out!"
"Is that blood?" Warrick asked when he reached his colleague. When Nick
nodded, he continued. "What's it doing out here?"
"Maybe our killer is a little sloppy," Nick answered shrugging his shoulders and snapping a few pictures of the puddle. "Hold this for a sec," he said as he held the camera up to Warrick. "Thanks." He took a swab and
dipped it into the maroon liquid. He covered and labeled the sample.
~*****~
Three hours later, Gil Grissom sat in his office at the crime lab. His desk was covered with newly developed photos from the crime scene his team just finished processing. As he looked from picture to picture he couldn't fight
off the feeling he had ever since he walked on the scene earlier that evening. The feeling was just short of déjà vu. He almost felt as if he had
seen this before but at the same time he was almost sure he hadn't.
The one thing he did feel for sure, as he leaned back in his chair, was that this guy, Hastog, was good. If it indeed was a guy. Grissom was pretty
sure it was. He was also pretty sure the couple found at the scene had
nothing to do with it. It just didn't seem right.
Strange that Gil Grissom should have a theory this early in an investigation, isn't it? Well, perhaps you don't know him as well as you
think you do. He learned long ago not to follow hunches, that evidence never lies. It was much safer to corner a suspect with evidence, than to physically corner them. One stands a better chance at getting out alive.
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he said without
looking up.
"Hey, Gris. Got anything interesting for me?"
"Hi, Cath. I thought you were on the Denton case."
"Just finished up the paperwork. It was a cut and dry case, Gil. Nothing
too challenging."
"I wish I could say the same about this one."
"Those the scene photos?"
"Yeah," he answered, pushing them across the desk so she could see.
"Definitely not cut and dry."
Catherine looked at the vivid pictures intently. "Well, these certainly
leave nothing to the imagination."
"You'd be surprised. The pictures hardly do it justice. I haven't seen
anything like it in years."
"It looks like someone was trying to make a human hunting trophy."
"That's the consensus, yes. It's ironic, Freddy Presnell was a hunter. He
was supposed to be out hunting when he was found."
"Wait a minute, Grissom. That's Freddy Presnell? The Freddy P.? That moron
caught with the illegal guns?" she asked, staring incredulously at the
pictures before her.
"The very same."
"Geez, it's a wonder he lasted this long. I always thought he'd end up shot through the head with a crossbow quarrel or something, like that poacher in
the east a few years ago."
Grissom appeared to be absorbed in the grisly pictures in front of him and
was silent for a minute before he responded to her. "Yeah, but this one wasn't..." he trailed off and looked up at her face. "This wasn't getting
off any easier."
"No, it sure wasn't," she said, eyeing him uncertainly. "Too bad he wasn't
discovered earlier. You would have had more time with the collected
evidence before shift ended."
"What evidence?" Grissom asked. He glanced at his watch and realized for
the first time how close the end of shift was.
"Gil, there's got to be evidence. Look at these pictures."
"I have been. I mean, of course there's evidence. There's blood, all over
the place, but no viable fingerprints. The only footprints, patent or latent, belong to the people who should have been there. Tony Rogers found him. He stepped in a drying puddle of Presnell's blood when he was trying
to find the circuit breaker."
"You don't think Rogers did it?"
"No," he answered, shaking his head. He rummaged around his desk for
something. "So far we only have one semi-useful piece of evidence. The killer left a note, rolled up behind Freddy's ear," he explained, holding out a photocopy of the bloodstained note for her to read. "It doesn't give us much, anyway. The bloody fingerprints on it are useless right now. The
guy's not in AFIS."
Catherine shook her head when she finished reading the short note. She turned her attention back to the photos covering Grissom's desk. She was
drawn to one in particular, though there was nothing unusual about it.
"Grissom, what's that?" she asked, pointing to it.
He looked at her, his expression almost comical. "It's a puddle of blood,
Catherine."
"Of course, it's a puddle of... Come on, Grissom, did you really think I
didn't know that?"
"You asked the question." She gave him a rather nasty look at that. "The picture was taken in the middle of the driveway. We haven't figured out why the blood was there, yet. Nick sent a sample to the lab for comparison to
the Freddy's blood. For now, all we can do is wait. You with me next
shift?"
"Sure. It looks like you could use some help," she answered, smiling.
"Thanks a lot," he said sarcastically.
~*****~
The room is dark. Its only occupant lay sleeping uneasily on the bed. He is curled on his side and the sheets are tangled around his legs. His face is
creased with concentration and worry, even in sleep. One arm grips the pillow beneath his head while the other clutches his bare stomach as if in pain. He is not. Any physical pain once caused by his long healed wound has stopped in the years that have passed since it was inflicted. Proof enough is in the raised scar that loops across his abdomen. No, any pain lingering
from this injury is in his mind.
Would that cause such a restless sleep? Come, follow me to his office. Go quietly, now. We wouldn't want to startle him. Just a quick peek and we'll
be gone. A faint glow from the computer screen is the only light in the
room. Manta rays and sharks swim across the screen as the screensaver gurgles. Let's see what he was looking at before he fell asleep, shall we?
Interesting, very interesting. Are you familiar with this case? No? Quite gruesome, really. Two years ago in Clarendon County, Virginia, a thirty-two year old white male was found butchered along with a deer. The man's lungs
were pulled out his back to look like wings. It's a Norse sacrificial custom, the Bloody Eagle. A neo-Viking was doing it in the thirties, but
this one was different. Both the deer and the man were cut for meat.
Disturbing images to fall asleep to. Definitely not fodder for a good night
sleep, anyway. It's best that we take our leave now, before our weary
friend catches us with our noses where they don't belong.
~*****~
The nightshift CSIs were sitting around a table, pouring over evidence and crime scene photos. They were getting nowhere fast with this Presnell case. It appeared that sleeping on it had not helped one bit. Their only hopes
lay in the results of the tests set into motion before.
"Greg, do you have the results on the puddle of blood?"
"Yep." Everyone stared at him, expectantly.
"And?" Nick asked, finally breaking the silence. It seemed that Greg was attempting to take the art of the dramatic pause to new heights.
"It's not the victim's blood."
"Then who's is it?"
"Not who."
"What?"
"Exactly."
"What are you talking about, Greg?"
"The blood's not human. It's sheep's blood," Greg concluded, looking pleased with this latest round of word play.
"Sheep's blood? What the hell is sheep's blood doing in the middle of our crime scene?"
"Sacrificial lamb," Grissom answered, out of the blue. It hadn't even seemed like he had been paying attention.
"Grissom?" Catherine looked at her friend questioningly.
"Freddy Presnell was a sacrificial lamb," Grissom said while picking up the bagged note off the table in front of him. It was the original and showed the bloody and useless fingerprints in sharp contrast. "We haven't seen the
last of Hastog."
-TBC-
Next Chapter: Murder 101- Hastog's return is marked by the death of a
Princeton student.