A/N: Here's the next chapter. Another thank you to all those who have reviewed this fic so far J I had one question as to what my 'shippy affiliation' was, so I thought I'd try to explain it. First and foremost, I am a Grissom hurt/comfort fan. It's what I do and what I love to read. Originally I didn't have a preference as to who comforted him, as long as one of the women did J I hadn't wanted to keep either Sara or Catherine from enjoying that unique pleasure J But now I guess I am starting to lean more toward the Grissom/Sara direction. You can all blame (or thank) my beta and pal, 'Grissom,' for that! If you stick with this story, you will soon see what I mean. There's a little something in the next chapter and then once chapter 6 hits, my writing definitely heads toward the G/S 'ship,' although I'm still not sure I'd be considered a full-fledged 'shipper' yet! So read on and enjoy!
Chapter 3: Blood
About an hour later, Catherine, Grissom, and Sara dropped by Brass's office. It would take another half a day for Grissom's insects to mature so he could determine a time of death for their guy from the desert. For right now, the CSIs were wondering if Brass had gotten any new information on his identity. Grissom spoke for the group, "Any idea who our victim is yet?"
"Maybe," Jim replied, passing a folder to Catherine. "I know you didn't get a hit off his prints. But a missing person's report just came in. The mother of a 22-year-old college student filed it. She hasn't seen her son, Joseph Winston, in a week. It wasn't that unusual until he didn't show up for a family dinner. The mom called his friends and no one seemed to know where he was."
"Our John Doe fits his physical description?" Catherine inquired, skimming quickly through the report Brass had handed her.
"With the damage from the elements it's hard to tell, but I went to see the body, and I think it's pretty close. Mrs. Winston is coming in for a positive ID."
Silence took over as they all processed that. Catherine shuddered at the thought of any mother having to look at their child in that condition. Then she glanced at Grissom's weary face and it reminded her that he needed her attention now. He looked a bit better since he had eaten, but she thought it might only last until the medication wore off. "Look," she told the other two, "I've got to get Grissom home. Sara, can you take care of Mrs. Winston, and work on the other evidence you found at the scene until I get back?"
"Sure, Catherine," she answered. She turned to Grissom. "Feel better. Make sure you get some rest."
"Yeah, Gil, listen to the ladies. They're always right, as we know," Jim added with a wink, patting him on the arm as he and Sara left, headed for the morgue.
"Come on," Catherine said, guiding Grissom out to her car, which had been returned unscathed from the desert crime scene. The two CSIs had already loaded Grissom's stuff into the back, knowing that she was going to be taking him home after they checked in with Brass.
They got in through their respective doors, and settled themselves in the welcoming, but rather cool, leather seats. The night air had chilled considerably, and while she herself was comfortable, she wasn't surprised to notice Grissom shivering beside her. "Cold?" she asked anyway.
"Yeah," he replied, the shaking of his body reaching his voice.
"I'll turn up the heat for you." She stretched forward and adjusted the controls as she pulled out of the parking spot.
"Thanks, Catherine." After a second or two, he added hurriedly, "I don't just mean for the heat now. I mean for everything today, the way you…watched over me. You and Sara both…you didn't have to do that, and I appreciate it."
She smiled at the embarrassment evident in his voice. She didn't understand why he would be embarrassed about the concern she had shown him, but she found it totally endearing and extremely 'Grissom-like.'
"You don't have to thank me," she assured him. "I know you're the boss, but you're not invincible, Gil. Sometimes even you need to be taken care of. And when those times come, I'm more than happy to do it." She reached over to squeeze his hand, and was shocked at how cold it felt in her grasp. "Aren't you any warmer yet?"
"Not really," he admitted.
Although she was already starting to sweat in her wool overcoat, she turned the heat up a little more for Grissom. She was glad he was finally heading for some long and needed rest. Just then, Catherine's phone rang. "Willows," she said into the mouthpiece. "Oh, hi, Jim. What's up? We just left you." She listened for a moment, and then blurted, "A what? What happened? Who…?" Knowing she was too agitated to continue to drive and talk simultaneously, she quickly but carefully veered the SUV to the shoulder of the road and put it into park. Grissom stared at her, trying to figure out what was being said on the other side of the phone.
"But he's okay?" she continued. Then there was a long pause. "What about Greg? Why don't you have Sara help him put together some equipment and send him out with her?" She listened again, then answered hesitantly, "Okay, we'll be there as soon as possible…Thanks, Jim."
"What's going on?" Grissom asked immediately. He could tell something important had occurred.
"Nicky had a little accident at the crime scene he and Warrick were working." She watched him tense and lean forward, but explained further before he could say anything, "He's okay, it's not serious—just his ankle. I sent him and Warrick to a burglary out in Henderson?" Off his nod, she went on, "The place was totally trashed. It was a large house, and it took them a long time to sort through everything. Nick was checking out the basement when his foot got caught on something and he tripped. Warrick's with him in the ER. They're waiting for x-rays to see if it's broken. It could just be a sprain."
"Warrick will keep us updated?"
She nodded. "He told Jim he'd call as soon as they know anything."
Grissom exhaled audibly and leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his forehead. Catherine knew this was the last thing he needed, and couldn't believe she was actually doing it, but she pulled onto the road again, moving into the left lane. At the first opportunity she made a U-turn, heading away from Grissom's townhouse.
"What was that about Greg?" he asked, opening his eyes. He instantly noticed the direction of the car and added, "Where are we going?"
"Another 419," she informed him. "This one is out in Henderson, near Nick and Warrick's break-in. They've only found one body so far, but there may be more. Brass says it's a mess—blood everywhere." She turned and caught his gaze for a moment in the light reflected by passing headlights. Even in the mostly darkened SUV, she could see the complete exhaustion in his eyes. "I'm sorry I've got to drag you out into this, Grissom, but we're going to need all hands on deck—especially since we're short two CSIs now. That's why I told Brass to send Greg out with Sara."
"Good thinking," he replied. "And with Nick and Warrick out of the picture, I should be there for something this size. You guys can't do it alone."
"I guess your recuperation will have to wait," she said with a tiny grin, trying to make light of the situation.
"Evidently."
"Are you doing okay?"
"I think so."
"Well, we've got a bit of a drive—why don't you lie back and try to sleep?"
"I don't know if I could."
"You should try anyway," she told him. "You're beat. I won't mind. Really."
"Are you sure?" he asked, lifting his head and looking at her.
"I think I can do without your sparkling conversation for a while," she answered lightly, smiling.
"It wasn't all that 'sparkling' tonight anyway."
"True. That's why you should try to catch a nap."
"All right," he gave in, tilting the seat farther back and trying to get comfortable. Catherine still had the heat blasting, and Grissom was finally getting warm. He closed his eyes and hoped sleep would come quickly and dreamlessly.
After a few minutes had passed, Catherine attempted to shrug out of her wool jacket. It was hard to do while driving, but after temporarily unhooking her seatbelt she was able to do it. She tossed the heavy garment into the back seat. Despite aiming the vents away from her, Catherine found it was now sweltering in the front seat of the Denali, and she knew she'd have to lower the heat very soon no matter how chilled poor Grissom was.
As several more miles slipped away, the low rumbling of the tires on pavement and the rhythmic motion of the car lulled Grissom into a light doze. Catherine lowered the heat—she didn't turn it all the way off like she wanted to, she just clicked it down a few notches. Shortly after she made the temperature adjustment, she heard the rustle of nylon as Grissom's arms unconsciously crossed over his chest, trying to keep the warmth in. When Catherine glanced over at him, the meager light revealed the involuntary shaking of his body as he began shivering again.
She wished that she had kept her coat in the front so she could cover him with it, or had a blanket within reach. But she realized that she wouldn't have been able to toss something over him and drive at the same time anyway. And if she stopped the car to find something to keep him warm, she was certain he would wake up. The fact that he was freezing in the hot interior of the Yukon sent Catherine the distressing message that his body temperature was not returning to normal, despite the regular doses of aspirin she had been giving him.
It took another half hour to get there, but Grissom and Catherine were still the first CSIs on the scene. It was shorter distance from where they had been near Grissom's house than from the lab. As soon as Catherine brought the SUV to a complete stop in front of the large, mansion-like house, Grissom awoke. He looked around, realized where they were, and rubbed his eyes. Catherine went around to the back to get her kit, and Grissom soon joined her, grabbing his own case.
They walked toward the front porch, noticing the two uniformed police officers standing there, glancing warily through the open front door and into the house. The lights from the two cruisers bathed everything in alternating palettes of blue and red.
"Are you up to this?" Catherine asked him, imagining the grisly tableau that might greet them inside.
He swallowed hard, trying to subdue the rebellious shivering of his body before replying, "I have to be."
They stepped across the threshold—Grissom first, followed half a step behind by Catherine—and then froze as the impact of the horrific scene hit them. They could sense each other's breath catch for a few seconds, as they looked around the large living room, wide-eyed. Despite their combined thirty-five years of experience investigating crimes, neither of them had ever seen anything quite like this before. Every visible surface on the walls and floor was covered with blood. The blood patterns were varied and located at all heights along the walls. The floors held a combination of splatter, drying pools of blood with broad, rounded edges, and other smudges. One particular bare, formerly white wall now resembled an abstract canvas—a grotesque, twisted work of art painted with someone's life's blood. It reminded Grissom of the Collins house where four out of six members of the family were stabbed to death two years ago. But this was much, much worse.
As they moved a little closer to the center of the room, the sharp, coppery tang of the blood hung heavily in the air; it even penetrated Grissom's clogged nostrils. They shared a look, and simultaneously placed their field kits carefully on the floor, opened them, and pulled out paper shoe covers. Once they slipped these protective layers on, they walked further into the space.
"This blood has got to be from more than one person," Grissom said, the words almost a whisper as he tried to fathom the shocking scene around them.
"Oh, yeah," Catherine replied, her voice as wispy as his. "Only eight pints of blood in the human body."
"How many do you think?"
"I have no idea. And these blood patterns are strange. I can't tell if we're looking at splatter from a stabbing, a shooting, or something else." After another awed glance around the room, she added, "Brass said the body was in the master bedroom. Let's do a walk-through first so we can see what we're dealing with. We can start collecting when the others get here."
"Okay," he agreed, and they headed off to the left to examine what awaited them in that direction.
* * * * * * *
By the time Sara and Greg arrived about fifteen minutes later, Grissom and Catherine had quickly swept the rest of the house. Three of the four bedrooms looked like mini-versions of the living room—blood-splattered in a similar way. The only visible corpse had been in the largest bedroom, just as Brass had told Catherine. It was a young woman, who had apparently died from stab wounds. They had found several knife entries on her body, and her throat had also been slit, but Grissom and Catherine had been puzzled by the small amount of blood found on her. With such injuries, she should have been drenched with the red stickiness.
The remaining areas in the house—the dining room, three bathrooms, office, and connected garage—seemed basically untouched. The two investigators had discovered several bloody shoeprints in the kitchen, leading toward the sliding glass door and patio beyond, but had not had a chance to follow the killer's path to see where it went.
Catherine took the lead and addressed the others, "All right, Grissom and I will take this room and the kitchen. Sara, can you and Greg take the master bedroom where the body is?"
Sara exchanged a look with Greg. He seemed hesitant, but he gulped, braced himself, and then nodded slowly. "Sure, Catherine," Sara replied.
"Great. When you're done with the body, call in the coroner and then continue working the room."
"You got it. Come on, Greg," she said, grabbing his arm.
"Grissom, why don't you go in the kitchen and process those shoeprints?" Catherine suggested, trying to give him the least strenuous thing to do. "Then see if they lead anywhere. I'll start on the walls."
He nodded, then picked up his kit and headed for the kitchen.
* * * * * * *
When Grissom returned to the living room, he was amazed at the amount of work Catherine had already done. She had made educated guesses as to the borders of each separate bloodstain on all the walls, and had labeled them numerically using painter's tape; she had gotten as high as number thirty. She had also photographed all the marked blood patterns, and even drawn a rough sketch of the room, indicating the locations of them all. She had been just about to start collecting the samples when Grissom walked back in.
"I photographed the prints—looks like a sneaker of some kind, ballpark size eleven," he explained. "I took samples of the blood, then I followed the prints outside. Nothing visible on the patio or the walkway. Also nothing in the garbage cans or in the immediate yard. There was no sign of the murder weapon. The only thing I did find was a small, smudged bit of blood on the handle of the sliding glass door. It was a partial fingerprint—there was some ridge detail, but not enough to lift it. It seems our killer left through the kitchen."
"But how did he get in?" she asked, looking toward the entranceway.
"There was no sign of forced entry, so I'll print the doorknob. One of the victims may have let him in, so I'll also check the doorbell."
That was something she never would have thought of. He's good, she reminded herself. Even with his brain muddled by fever and exhaustion, Grissom didn't miss a beat. They all sometimes forgot or took for granted his natural deductive skills and insightful thought processes.
"Whoever did this," she began, indicating the splattered room, "would have gotten blood all over themselves—their hands, their clothes, everything."
"Right," he agreed. "But so far we've seen no evidence that he discarded his soiled clothes here." Something occurred to him, and he added, "We should examine all the sinks in the house. He may have washed up somewhere in here before leaving."
"Good idea," she said. "If you'll start cataloging this blood when you're done with the door, I'll go do that and check on Sara and Greg while I'm at it."
"Sure." He carried his kit over to the front door, and opened the top, taking out his fingerprint powder and brush.
* * * * * * *