By HarmZuay
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: Crime Scene Investigation or
any of its characters. They belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS. This is purely
for entertainment purposes. Bloody Bolsheviks.
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.
Author's Note: Chapter Two... New record for me! *knocks on wood* I hope this one's a bit longer- it's four pages written in my microscopic, all-caps, piss-off-every-teacher-I've-ever-had handwriting. So you get to see a bit of Greg (and the peasants, er, rabid Greg worshipers, rejoice! Hey, that's me, guys!) and an introduction to the first of the suspects that will soon be "recurring characters." Here goes!
Chapter Two – Los Dos FlamigosJim Brass popped his aspirin and swallowed the two tablets dry. "Goddammit, Gil! Do you know how many teenage suicides we've had in the last month? Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven kids with their whole damn life in front of them... Now I don't know what these kids are learning in school, but dealing with life it ain't."
Grissom shrugged. "Statistically speaking, it's really not a surprise. Cluster suicides aren't caused by any kind of mass stress or preaching; people just see it as an acceptable alternative promoted by the publicity of each case."
Brass massaged his temples, waiting for his migraine to let up. "Some kind of twisted peer pressure… Tell me, whatever happened to getting drunk and snorting coke?"
* * *
"Whoa, whoa! No skating in my crime lab." Three young faces turned to stare at spiky-haired Greg Sanders.
"Yo, Greggo!"
"'Sup, dude?"
"Man, I thought you were lying. Supervisor of the LVCL… That's pretty ill, hombre."
Greg grinned. "Of course, I'm supervisor. Would I lie to you guys? Oops, gotta run." With impeccable timing, he bolted around the corner just as Grissom exited the stairwell.
He encountered three snickering teenage boys and he didn't even want to consider what they were laughing about, especially in the wake of their friend's death. "I'm Gil Grissom, night shift supervisor." All three burst into peals of laughter. He gave each a hard stare and they quickly silenced. "I can't possibly imagine what's so amusing, but I'd appreciate it if I could get one of you to come with me." No one moved. "Now."
A lanky, dark-skinned boy with short black hair slowly stood up, and Grissom started back the way he'd come.
"Well… what do we do?" one of the others called after him.
Grissom glanced over his shoulder, not even bothering to conceal his annoyance. "Wait." Then he disappeared.
* * *
"Please state your full name and address for the record."
"Tasco Miguel Venaras. 5154 Flamigo Court."
Nick looked the kid straight in the eye. "Wasn't there a suicide there about a week ago?"
"Yeah." He spoke with a slight Mexican accent that Nick had grown accustomed to hearing in Texas. "Jeremy Santos."
"You knew him?"
Tasco nodded. "Sure. Lived a few doors down."
"So Shroven's death must have hit you like a double-whammy."
"I guess."
"You guess? Two of your friends are dead and you guess?" Nick couldn't believe the lack of sympathy from this kid.
"Alright!" He laid his hands on the table in a signal of surrender. "It was hard. I just never sat down and thought about it because I didn't want to deal with it."
Nick was still skeptical. "Tasco, I've been through hundreds of homicides. It's not easy to keep your mind off of one, much less two, of your friends' deaths."
"First, it's Taz. My dad was the only person who ever called me Tasco." This time he met Nick's gaze, eyes blazing. "Second, apparently you've never been skating. It takes your mind off everything. Like getting high without the crash. And the acting like an idiot part." He raised an eyebrow, realizing he wasn't going off on a great tangent. "And third, what the hell is this? I volunteer to give you an interview and you fricking treat me like a suspect." He flashed a mirthless grin. "But I guess I am, huh?"
* * *
"Aviv Oren Karni. 764 Cayenne Drive."
Nick glanced up at him suspiciously. "You don't have a nickname do you?"
Aviv shook his head and Nick pointed at the tape recorder sitting on the table between them. "Oh. Sorry. No."
"Good. Where were you the night Shroven Khandula was shot? Between noon and six PM?
"Umm, noon I was… skating."
"And after that?"
Aviv shrugged. "There is no after. We skated the whole time. Grabbed lunch around four, but that's all. Switched from street to park after lunch though. Kor and Shrov were gonna meet us there, but they never showed up. Obviously."
"Now, you said 'we.' So you have someone that can vouch for your location?"
"Like an alibi? Sure. I was skating with some friends until I went to the skate park. There, either Mr. Martinez, he runs it, or, uh… Greg Sanders."
* * *
"Greg." Nick barged into the lab looking annoyed. "Where were you last night?"
Greg gave a dreamy sigh. "With a beautiful redhead named-"
Nick cut him off sharply. "Before that."
"Uhh… Jackpot Skate Park. 'Bout three-thirty to six-thirty. Why?"
"I need you to confirm that Aviv Karni was there from four to six PM yesterday. Can you do that?"
The DNA tech nodded. "'Course I can, Texas, my man. Anything else?"
Nick glared daggers at him. "Not yet. And don't call me that."
"Sure thang, pardner."
The lab doors slammed shut and Greg turned up his Anti-Flag CD.
* * *
"Alright, Kor. We've got a problem. You've got a lovely alibi about you taking a nap during the time Shroven was killed, but no one can substantiate that, right?"
The boy scowled. "Right."
"You know what else I find interesting? Would you repeat your address for me?"
"5154 Flamigo Court."
"You see, I thought I was getting you boys confused. Old age and all. But then I realized that I'm not old." Beat. Damn. I thought it was funny. "You have the same address as Tasco Venaras. Explain."
"Nothing to explain. We're roommates. So what?"
"So? Pancho Villa over there told me there used to be three of y'all together. What happened to the third guy?"
Kor snorted. "Vince Trageton? Thought he was the best skater the world had ever seen but he couldn't get sponsored for his life. He finally got fed us with skating with all us 'groms' and we had a fairly good-sized row. A little blood, a few bruises. Nothing serious. He left a few weeks ago. You reckon he was behind it?"
Nick ignored the compromising question. "I'm good up to the part about 'groms.' What's that?"
"Aussie slang. Short for grommet. It's, uh, what you call a newbie, but if you're talking to a seasoned skater, it'll piss 'em off something wicked."
"And was Shroven a grommet?"
"Shrov… Man, he'd been skating for a while, few years, but really had some trouble on his topside grinds. Vince never let him live it down."
Nick chewed on his lower lip. "Might not have let him live, period."
A/N: Two down… More to go! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. And if you haven't… baaaaaad. Something of minor/major/impending doom importance: I'm not exactly sure where this is going yet. I have bits and pieces of it planned in my mind, but nothing's set in stone. So every once in a while you might get a kind of wishy-washy chapter, and for that I apologize in advance. Hopefully won't be much of that. That also means that I am open to nudging and suggestions, just stuff you'd like to see. If it fits in and I like it, I'll do what I can to get it in. If not… sorry. I'm mostly writing this story for me, but if I can get two birds with one stone, then by all means.
Ahh! I'm getting really long again. Now for a demonstration of my superb command of the English language. I present alliteration: "Reviews are really rad." Yay.
