Disclaimer: CSI is the property of CBS, and even though I wish I could own
it, I don't. No profit came from this story!
**
Chapter Two: Living, Breathing Evidence
The receptionist who greeted him was a trim young blonde. She shook his hand. "Dr. Grissom? Your lab called, said you'd be in to process Sanders." He received another slim file, this one manila, and opened it to a series of statistics. She pointed and said, "Vitals. Time of entry. Results. He was a lucky man, Doctor. There's no sign of serious brain damage, outside the coma."
"Thank you. His room number?"
"Four-twelve. Are you going to need any assistance? Dr. Brenner is on floor, he should be able to help you if you have any questions."
He thanked her again. The elevator ride to the fourth floor was quiet. He thumbed through the thin file. Brass's report said he had signed Greg in at seven-thirty, confirmed by the hospital. There were no photographs - - he would have to take those himself - - but there was an injury assessment, including severe facial and thoracic bruising and, obviously, the gunshot wound. Stitches had been administered already - - West Palms worked fast.
Dr. Brenner greeted him on the fourth floor. They had run a case together last year. "Grissom. I heard the patient's one of yours."
"My night shift DNA tech."
Brenner nodded. "I'm very sorry." He led Grissom down the hallway and opened the door to four-twelve just a slit. "Do you have any family names for us to notify? Parents, spouse?"
"His parents are in San Francisco. My lab's already taking care of contacting them. No spouse. No girlfriend that I know of." He cut his answer short, both dreading and anticipating his first look at Greg. Facial bruising and stitches were not likely to make a good combination.
"I know you like to work in private, but with his current condition, I'm not sure how he'll react."
Grissom could almost feel his pulse rate leap. "He's not . . . is he conscious?"
Brenner cut his hopes off with a swift shake of his head. "I'm sorry, no. I was referring to his medical condition. We've stabilized him, but it took some work and he's still fragile."
"Prognosis?"
"Uncertain." Brenner adjusted his tie. "As I was saying, since I know you prefer to conduct these things privately, I'll just be right outside the door if you need me."
"Thank you." Unwilling to waste any more time in conversation, Grissom pushed open the door and entered the small room. For a second, he was unable to see anything at all. Greg's window was facing the sun and the reflections of the steel and glass buildings were throwing the whole room into brightness. When his eyes adjusted, he closed them immediately.
"Oh, Greg," he said softly. "Poor kid." He stepped across the linoleum and closer to the bed, grateful for the privacy that the single room allowed.
Greg looked terrible. Both of his eyes were surrounded by dark bruising, extending all the way down his right cheekbone to his jaw. The hair on the left side of his head had been shaved away to reveal several black stitches. Grissom was suddenly glad that the young man's eyes were closed. His breathing was steady but shallow, and his heart rate, monitored carefully by the machines, wasn't quite average yet.
Unsteady, Grissom settled his kit down on the chair and popped it open. The easiest tests could be gotten out of the way first. He held the camera and made sure to get close-ups of the facial bruising. The stitches he ignored - - no matter what the gunshot had done, the doctors had altered the evidence in helping him. The sheets gave a crisp sigh as he tugged them out from under the mattress and pulled them down, rolling them past Greg's knees.
"I'm sorry about this." He gently moved his hands behind Greg's neck to untie the cream-colored gown, and slid it past his stomach. The bruising on Greg's chest and stomach was just as bad as on his face. Completely black-and-blue. He was lucky that there hadn't been some kind of internal bleeding. Grissom zoomed in on a crescent-moon shape just above Greg's navel. Boot-print?
He smoothed the sheets and gown back up over Greg's shoulders, hands shaking.
"We're going to find them. I promise. Whoever did this - - kicked you; hit you; shot you - - I promise that we'll get them."
The hair around the stitches was covered in dried blood. He scraped a sample of it away, knowing that it would test to be Greg's, but hopefully, there was something else the lab could tell him about it. Maybe some of the attacker's blood or epithelial cells had mixed in. He slid the thin wooden wands out of his kit and scraped the undersides of Greg's fingernails and a grim, tight smile grew on his face.
"Skin cells," he breathed, examining the edges. So much that he could actually see them. Greg had taken a good scraping out of someone's hands or face. There looked like there was even a trace of blood. "Good job. This is great."
He sealed the samples off and stowed them away. Now came the toughest part, the part he had been dreading. He pulled the rape kit out and set it down at the edge of the bed, looking hard at the sleeping young man.
"Greg," he said, "I want you to wake up - - but not while I'm doing this, okay?"
This time the blankets went up from the bottom of the bed, and Grissom, with a horrible black sense of loathing, moved Greg's feet so that his legs were further apart. This time, the hospital gown went up over Greg's skinny hips. With a dark sigh, he reached up briefly to squeeze Greg's hand.
Swab one, for blood. He added a drop of the proper chemical and prayed for no change in color. The swab remained white.
Swab two, semen. Clean again. His breath was starting to come easier.
Third and final swab, for grit and other foreign matter. There were no obvious particles, but that one he bagged for lab work. Again, he patted the sheets and gown back in place, and carefully knotted the string at the nape of Greg's neck, pulling the patterned gown into place. "Hang on, Greg." The room was too quiet, and he found himself talking to fill the silence, something he'd never had to do before with Greg. "You did really well getting us those samples. I hope you clawed the hell out of that guy." Grissom picked up the case and turned to leave. "I'll visit," he said. "And I'll bring you some - - hair gel. You'd like that, right?"
Eyes blinking furiously, he left.
**
Chapter Two: Living, Breathing Evidence
The receptionist who greeted him was a trim young blonde. She shook his hand. "Dr. Grissom? Your lab called, said you'd be in to process Sanders." He received another slim file, this one manila, and opened it to a series of statistics. She pointed and said, "Vitals. Time of entry. Results. He was a lucky man, Doctor. There's no sign of serious brain damage, outside the coma."
"Thank you. His room number?"
"Four-twelve. Are you going to need any assistance? Dr. Brenner is on floor, he should be able to help you if you have any questions."
He thanked her again. The elevator ride to the fourth floor was quiet. He thumbed through the thin file. Brass's report said he had signed Greg in at seven-thirty, confirmed by the hospital. There were no photographs - - he would have to take those himself - - but there was an injury assessment, including severe facial and thoracic bruising and, obviously, the gunshot wound. Stitches had been administered already - - West Palms worked fast.
Dr. Brenner greeted him on the fourth floor. They had run a case together last year. "Grissom. I heard the patient's one of yours."
"My night shift DNA tech."
Brenner nodded. "I'm very sorry." He led Grissom down the hallway and opened the door to four-twelve just a slit. "Do you have any family names for us to notify? Parents, spouse?"
"His parents are in San Francisco. My lab's already taking care of contacting them. No spouse. No girlfriend that I know of." He cut his answer short, both dreading and anticipating his first look at Greg. Facial bruising and stitches were not likely to make a good combination.
"I know you like to work in private, but with his current condition, I'm not sure how he'll react."
Grissom could almost feel his pulse rate leap. "He's not . . . is he conscious?"
Brenner cut his hopes off with a swift shake of his head. "I'm sorry, no. I was referring to his medical condition. We've stabilized him, but it took some work and he's still fragile."
"Prognosis?"
"Uncertain." Brenner adjusted his tie. "As I was saying, since I know you prefer to conduct these things privately, I'll just be right outside the door if you need me."
"Thank you." Unwilling to waste any more time in conversation, Grissom pushed open the door and entered the small room. For a second, he was unable to see anything at all. Greg's window was facing the sun and the reflections of the steel and glass buildings were throwing the whole room into brightness. When his eyes adjusted, he closed them immediately.
"Oh, Greg," he said softly. "Poor kid." He stepped across the linoleum and closer to the bed, grateful for the privacy that the single room allowed.
Greg looked terrible. Both of his eyes were surrounded by dark bruising, extending all the way down his right cheekbone to his jaw. The hair on the left side of his head had been shaved away to reveal several black stitches. Grissom was suddenly glad that the young man's eyes were closed. His breathing was steady but shallow, and his heart rate, monitored carefully by the machines, wasn't quite average yet.
Unsteady, Grissom settled his kit down on the chair and popped it open. The easiest tests could be gotten out of the way first. He held the camera and made sure to get close-ups of the facial bruising. The stitches he ignored - - no matter what the gunshot had done, the doctors had altered the evidence in helping him. The sheets gave a crisp sigh as he tugged them out from under the mattress and pulled them down, rolling them past Greg's knees.
"I'm sorry about this." He gently moved his hands behind Greg's neck to untie the cream-colored gown, and slid it past his stomach. The bruising on Greg's chest and stomach was just as bad as on his face. Completely black-and-blue. He was lucky that there hadn't been some kind of internal bleeding. Grissom zoomed in on a crescent-moon shape just above Greg's navel. Boot-print?
He smoothed the sheets and gown back up over Greg's shoulders, hands shaking.
"We're going to find them. I promise. Whoever did this - - kicked you; hit you; shot you - - I promise that we'll get them."
The hair around the stitches was covered in dried blood. He scraped a sample of it away, knowing that it would test to be Greg's, but hopefully, there was something else the lab could tell him about it. Maybe some of the attacker's blood or epithelial cells had mixed in. He slid the thin wooden wands out of his kit and scraped the undersides of Greg's fingernails and a grim, tight smile grew on his face.
"Skin cells," he breathed, examining the edges. So much that he could actually see them. Greg had taken a good scraping out of someone's hands or face. There looked like there was even a trace of blood. "Good job. This is great."
He sealed the samples off and stowed them away. Now came the toughest part, the part he had been dreading. He pulled the rape kit out and set it down at the edge of the bed, looking hard at the sleeping young man.
"Greg," he said, "I want you to wake up - - but not while I'm doing this, okay?"
This time the blankets went up from the bottom of the bed, and Grissom, with a horrible black sense of loathing, moved Greg's feet so that his legs were further apart. This time, the hospital gown went up over Greg's skinny hips. With a dark sigh, he reached up briefly to squeeze Greg's hand.
Swab one, for blood. He added a drop of the proper chemical and prayed for no change in color. The swab remained white.
Swab two, semen. Clean again. His breath was starting to come easier.
Third and final swab, for grit and other foreign matter. There were no obvious particles, but that one he bagged for lab work. Again, he patted the sheets and gown back in place, and carefully knotted the string at the nape of Greg's neck, pulling the patterned gown into place. "Hang on, Greg." The room was too quiet, and he found himself talking to fill the silence, something he'd never had to do before with Greg. "You did really well getting us those samples. I hope you clawed the hell out of that guy." Grissom picked up the case and turned to leave. "I'll visit," he said. "And I'll bring you some - - hair gel. You'd like that, right?"
Eyes blinking furiously, he left.
