Chapter Seven: Ring Him Up a Bell

Greg: Where did you get all this merchandise?

I plead the fifth.

Greg: …

…

Greg: And why did you tell people I'm a BADGER?

Uh… the devil made me do it?

Greg: Apparently so, since you're such good buddies….

Not fair! We only meet for tea on Tuesdays! Bunk-o on Fridays and emergency phone calls…

Greg: Precisely.

Shut up man!

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Working field the first few times with Catherine had been great. Stressful in the knowledge he could make a mistake and screw up royally, but still fun. However, he hadn't really known the vic on a personal and professional basis. Kitty was his friend and colleague. Hell, they went out to catch the Early Bird Breakfast everyday permitting.

Processing her home was difficult. It was sparse as far as amount of space taken up with few personal touches -those were all down at her lab station- and yet she had more than enough stuff to help indicate the struggle that occurred. He saw the roses she had picked up during overtime lunch break a few days ago scattered on the linoleum from their shattered porcelain vase. A small pool of blood puddled on the tile in the den room, hardly more than a beat up plush sofa and a costly entertainment center, with some gravitational splatter of medium velocity on the adjacent wall. Cushions from the sofa were pulled off, tossed against and under the card table -which served as a kitchen table- and wall. A straw mat, used for yoga exercises, was bunched up near a stereo. A trail of blood droplets lead back into the bedroom, where the bed covers were bundled and kicked around, a small hamper half-filled with laundry, a laptop computer sat on a rickety roll top desk along with a printer, scanner and wireless internet connection. A CD player was set up on a bedside table, a digital clock reading the time, 5:36 a.m.

Grissom pulled open the drawer in the bedside table, extracting a firearm and registration from the abyss. He cocked an eyebrow at his fellow processors, "Did you know she had a gun?"

"No. I knew she worked with them, among other areas, but never knew she had a gun."

"Greg?"

"No, but I guess it figures, doesn't it? I mean, she's a ballistics expert. She works in a crime lab. She's seen enough cases to know that she needs protection for a situation like this one. She even knew the best kind of weapon to get."

"A revolver?"

"A Glock. But this time it didn't help her."

Greg closed his eyes as his boss said that, trying to picture the scene in his head. It wasn't coming through, so he got up and began to pace the hallway connecting the bed and bath to the den and kitchen. The front door… The UNSUB had to get in somehow, maybe he came in through the front door.

He knelt down beside the latch, looking closely at it. No unusual or suspicious scrapes on the bar, no jimmied latch in the handle. Everything was in order. So she either knew or trusted the intruder. He was leaning towards trust. Although, she did have an extensive -at least for criminalistics lab techs- number of "friends" she met when on her days off. A young woman has to have fun, especially when in a career like this one. Maybe it was one of them, the guys that passed her a drink with their number on the napkin, that came in.

He immediately dismissed that idea with a shake of the head. No way she'd let one of them in after she'd been working all night and was getting ready for… sleep? To be honest, he wasn't even sure if she slept every day after work or if she just continued working without getting pestered by Eckley. After all, her catch-phrase was, 'Coffee: You can sleep when you're dead!' It was amusing, until now, when she could very well be dead.

"Good idea, Greg. Let's try to recreate her steps." Grissom's voice startled him out of his reverie, "You dropped her off. It takes five- ten minutes to climb the stairs, thirty seconds to unlock, get in, and re-lock. Then, she walks into her room, puts down her briefcase and… what? What does she do? Sara?"

"I'd go wash up."

"Greg?"

"I put on music, grab some chow and play some video games."

"Hmmm… I'd feed my cockroaches and get some shut-eye. So, I'm guessing Kitty isn't really like any of us."

"Then how do we figure it out?"

Grissom wandered over to the stereo, turning it on. Immediately, the soothing sounds of a forest, stream and bamboo flutes filled the air. He listened to it for a bit, then glanced at the bunched up mat on the floor. "She did yoga. So after dropping her gear, she changes into exercise clothes, sets up her mat and starts working on her yoga tape." he stopped the haunting melody, looking at how much ribbon had been feed, "Yoga is a very ordered regimen. She probably went through an entire side each session. The tape suggests she only went through her breathing exercises before she was interrupted."

Greg stood up from his crouch near the door, "By the intruder?"

"Likely."

"But who would she let in? Kitty would only let in someone she knew or trusted. She didn't trust readily. So, that would narrow the search down, right?"

"True. But if he posed as someone she could possibly trust, that throws the net open again."

"That would mean he's been following her, or at least knows a bit about her."

"Greg, your phone."

He hadn't even noticed the shrill jingle as his phone. Pulling it from the holder on his belt, he flipped it open to answer, "Hello?"

"Greg?"

A faint voice, strained and shaky. Her voice. "Kitty? Is that you?"

"Yah-sure."

"Where are you? What happened?"

A rustling, meaning the phone was being passed off.

"Kitty?" he ignored the interest of his boss, Sara and Brass.

"Mr. Sanders, that is your name?"

"Yes… Who is this?"

"That is not for me to reveal but for you to find out. I trust you found the scene, hmm?"

"Yes, but-"

"Collect the evidence. I believe there is a sufficient amount left there, is there not?"

"Yes, but I-"

"Find out who I am. I have her and unless you can stop me, I will kill her in three days."

"What?! Are you-"

"That is your quest. If you can handle it, lab tech." Click.

"Son of a-" he hung up, feeling defeated.

"Greg? What was that all about?"

"The perp that has Kitty called. She's alive, but not for long. We have to figure out who it is."

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Greg: Another cliffie?

Oh yah. I'm just evil like that. I just stop functioning in the brain stem after awhile.

Greg: It shows. Trust me.

I take that as a compliment.

Greg: Freak.

I'm a freak, TOUCH ME!

Greg: *poke*

NO MOMMY! NOT THE BAD TOUCH!

Greg: You are twisted.

Yeah, I'm fully aware of that. And I apologize to everyone out there for being so late in updating. I watched the State of the Union address and decided my IQ fled in terror at the prospect of having to listen to patriotic propaganda for hours on end. I decided I'd rather be sporked to death in a tragic lunchroom accident.

Greg: Really? I'm sure it can be arranged.

Please. I need it.