A/N: Yes, another new chapter is up. I was so happy to see a bunch of reviews for chapter 8! It's always nice to hear what the wonderful readers here have to say about my fics. Thanks everyone! I also have to thank my pal, Grissom, for the help she gave me with this part. Without that 'Grissom,' poor sick Grissom in the fic might never have gotten home! *evil grin* So we all owe my friend and beta, Grissom, much thanks! Enjoy!
Also, I may take longer to update this in the next week or so. I'm going on vacation and it will be difficult to get online. I'm going to try to post chapter 10 sometime next week. Hopefully I'll be able to, and then the wait won't be too much longer than usual. If I'm successful with getting chapter 10 up while I'm away, chapter 11 should be posted next Sunday when I return home. Again, enjoy!
Chapter 9: Decision
Before setting up shop in the layout room, Grissom had done the last calculations based on the growth of the insects and had discovered that Joey Winston, their victim from the desert, had been dead for five days. He had called over to Brass at PD and given him the information. Grissom had really wanted to physically hand over his findings to the police captain, but he knew he couldn't drive there to do it. So he put the folder aside and figured Brass would stop by and pick it up eventually, or one of the other CSIs could deliver it the next time they headed over the police station.
Now, Grissom stood, hunched over, staring at the seemingly endless photos of blood-spatter spread out over the lighted table. He had been in that position so long that all the images of red had begun to blend together into one giant, unfocused blur. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, then gave up momentarily, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his aching eyes. He had been comfortable earlier, but now he felt suddenly cold. Turning away from the table, he grabbed several tissues and coughed into them powerfully. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his head and the chills cascading through his body as he walked over to the end of the table where a cardboard box lay.
The word "unsolved" was scrawled across the dusty front, along with two names and a date: 3/12/87. Taking a deep breath, Grissom lifted off the top and glanced inside. He reached in and pulled out a stack of photos. Studying each one intently, he placed them down on the table next to the others. He picked up the magnifier and looked at the old photos more closely. Doing a quick comparison to the pictures from the current crime scene, Grissom saw definite similarities. Some of the blood markings appeared to have been made in the same way.
He remembered the old case well now. Before he had relived the unsolved case in his dream, it had been like he had put it out of his mind, maybe even repressed the memory. He recalled now why he had had to do that.
His nightmare from earlier was just the like the ones he had had fifteen years ago. The whole situation was as strange and scary as it had been back then. Certainly cases had affected him over the years—more than he liked to admit—and there had been nightmares. But nothing quite as intense and completely terrifying as what had gone through his sleeping mind a few hours ago. The images had been so clear and seemed so real. It was almost like they could be premonitions—visions of horrible things to come. But somehow, he felt, he knew, that these things had already happened.
What Grissom had seen in both incarnations of these dreams were images from the blood-engulfed crime scenes. The swirling red patterns surrounded him and filled his mind's eye. Then came the murders; he saw the victims being killed—the two women from fifteen years ago, the man and woman from yesterday—the knife blade slamming viciously into them, then being wrenched out, over and over, the blood splattering against the walls. The image that was different, that made his recent dream even more unsettling, was what came next. Grissom "watched" as another victim, a third victim, was killed. She was stabbed in the same house as the other two, and then taken out and dumped. He couldn't be exactly sure where, but it looked like a wooded area. Somehow, Grissom knew this had already happened. But he also knew that he couldn't tell anyone about this or they would think he was, at the very least, irrational, or having hallucinations; at the worst, they might think he had completely lost it.
Tearing his eyes away from the photos, he glanced down and checked his beeper for the fifth time, afraid he might have missed a message. He was expecting a page from Greg telling him that a third person's DNA was found on the walls of the Rosen house, their blood mingled with the others'. He also knew he would hear from Brass that another body had been found, dumped somewhere, and that the victim's DNA would match Greg's mystery profile. That's why he had told Sara and Catherine to wait on a return trip to the crime scene. He wanted all the information on all the victims to be in before they went back there, looking for more evidence. But he couldn't tell his team why he was hesitating. He knew they would think he was totally crazy.
It was a strange sensation, being certain these events would occur, but not knowing exactly when. The waiting was making Grissom more and more unsettled. He was jumpy, tense, on edge, and it didn't help that his body was shivering uncontrollably. Why was it so cold in here? he thought, crossing his arms in front of him as he turned his attention back to the spread of photos.
He didn't realize that Sara and Catherine had stepped into the layout room, until Sara softly said, "Hey, Gris."
He glanced up and acknowledged their presence.
"Did you find something?" Sara continued.
"I think so." He stepped back so the women could take a look at the pictures through the magnifying lens. They each took a turn as Grissom asked, "Do you remember this case, Catherine?"
"A little," she replied, squinting at the photos. "I was on the original call with you, but then I got pulled off."
"It was a double homicide—two female stabbing victims. The blood patterns were similar to what we saw tonight. Can you see it?"
Catherine nodded slowly. "Yeah."
She handed the lens to Sara, who studied the photos and also noticed the resemblance. "Did you ever find the source of the blood patterns? They don't look like anything I've seen before."
"I never did," he explained. "The leads dried up and we had to close the case as 'unsolved.'" His eyes drifted back to the columns of photos, and the women shared a glance. It had been impossible for them not to notice that he was shivering again—worse than before.
Sara touched his arm and waited until he looked at her. "We've got updates for you on some of the other evidence," she told him. "Come on, we'll fill you in." She began gently tugging him toward the door.
"Can't you just tell me here?"
"Let's find someplace more comfortable," Sara said.
Catherine gave him a little push and the three of them made their way out of the room. The women led him into the break room, and he lowered himself heavily onto the couch. As Sara slid her fingers off his arm, she touched his hand, which was so frigid that it felt like the warmth of blood wasn't circulating through it at all. "Grissom, you're freezing," she blurted, not fully realizing how bad his shivering had become. She held his chilly hand in both of hers for a moment, hoping to send some of her own warmth into him. "Your hands are like ice," she added unnecessarily. She marveled at the fact that the biological effects of a fever could make him so hot and so cold at the same time. "I'll be right back," she told him, releasing his hand, which he instantly stuck into the pocket of his lab coat.
As she walked by Catherine on her way out, she gave her a look of concern, which Catherine read perfectly. Catherine turned toward Grissom as she refilled the teapot and put it on the heat. "Some tea will warm you right up," she said.
Sara breezed back in with Grissom's windbreaker. Unfortunately, he didn't have a warmer coat there in the lab. "Come on, put this on."
He stood up to unbutton his lab coat, and then slipped it off, exposing his short-sleeved shirt. He shuddered even more as the cool air hit his bare arms, and then Sara helped him shrug quickly into the nylon jacket. He snapped it closed as fast as he could, trying not to lose precious body heat. Sara fastened the top two snaps for him, and he immediately jammed his hands into the pockets and sat down again, still shaking.
"Is that a little better?" she asked, sitting next to him on the couch, and beginning to vigorously rub first his left arm and then his back and shoulders.
"Yeah, thanks," he replied quietly.
"Here," Catherine said, handing him the steaming mug of tea.
Grissom wrapped his hands around the ceramic curves, luxuriating in the intense heat seeping in through his fingers, but his hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly lift the mug to his lips without spilling the contents.
Sara put her hands over his, trying to keep the cup steady as he brought it to his mouth. "Careful," she warned.
He blew on the surface of the golden brown liquid and then took two tentative sips. He lowered the mug to the nearby tabletop, and put it down to cool a bit. He missed the feeling of the warmth in his palms, but he was afraid he was about to spill the tea all over the place. He put his hands back in his pockets, curling them into fists to try and warm them.
Sara returned to briskly rubbing her hand over Grissom's back, drawing invisible circles on the smooth nylon; the motion seemed intended to soothe rather than to generate any actual heat. She could feel his body continuing to quiver under the woefully inadequate jacket. She began to think that maybe she should have retrieved a blanket from the supply closet instead. The only thing that would really help him, she knew, would be to just get him the hell out of there and into his own bed. As time wore on, Sara was moving closer to making an "executive" decision and just dragging Grissom from the building—against his will if necessary.
"So tell me about the evidence you've been working," Grissom said, trying to act business-like. But his shaky voice and exhausted eyes gave him away.
"I got a hit off the tire treads from the desert," Sara began.
Grissom looked at her and listened, barely noticing that she continued to idly run her left hand over his back.
"Those types of tires are Firestone wide ovals. They come standard on GM muscle cars from the 60s and 70s. They still make them using the original molds, but they would only be found on these classic muscle cars. Also, there were three different sets of visible shoeprints. The computer spit out a match for the most distinctive tread—it's a Nike Endeavor, size eleven, a basketball sneaker. And," she added excitedly, "the sneaker tread is also an exact match for the bloody shoeprints you photographed in the kitchen of the house. That links our killer to both scenes."
When she stopped talking, she realized that Grissom's gaze had shifted downward. Once he registered the sudden silence, he raised his eyes, and Sara saw that they were clouded with exhaustion. He blinked and then said, "Did you pass this information onto Brass?"
"Yeah, he's running DMV records," Sara explained, "trying to cross-check owners of those specific types of GM vehicles with a list of Joey Winston's friends and acquaintances that his mother provided. We don't know what the connection is between the victims, but it's possible that they were chosen carefully, that maybe the killer knew them or had watched them for a while. When we have a suspect in custody, we can use the shoeprint for comparison."
"They were chosen," he said softly. "All three of them…"
Sara furrowed her brow in confusion. "Gris, what are you talking about? There are only two victims."
He turned toward her quickly, not realizing he had said the words out loud. Then he shook his head distractedly and reached for the mug of tea. He held it with both hands again and swallowed several mouthfuls. He took a moment to savor the comforting warmth as it started to spread from his stomach to his icy extremities. As he put the cup back down, Sara noticed that his shivering had subsided just a little.
Catherine decided to take this chance to fill Grissom in on her and Warrick's end of the investigation. "Besides the sneaker treads, we had your partial fingerprint. Jacqui studied it and she thinks it may be part of a thumbprint. We also ran the prints you got from the door. There are matches to both our victims, and one set of unknowns. The print you lifted from the doorbell was a match to Joey Winston."
"Was that the only print you got off the bell, Grissom?" Sara asked.
"The only clear one," he replied.
"So Joey was the last one to ring that bell," Sara concluded.
"That tells us that no one ran the bell for five days," Catherine stated. "And that if Joey rang the bell he probably knew the other victim or had a job where he had to go door-to-door. Did Mrs. Winston mention if Joey worked?"
"No, she didn't," Sara answered. "But I think we should go ask her."
"Brass could bring her back in," Catherine suggested. "What do you think, Grissom?"
He didn't respond; he didn't even seem to hear her. Sara grasped his arm and shook him. "Grissom?"
He lifted his head slightly, but kept his gaze trained down. "Uh, yeah, Cath, that's a good idea," he agreed absently. "Bring the mother in and ask her about her son's employment. Also see if she recognizes a photo of our other victim, or Jessica Rosen's name, or the address of the house where Joey was killed." He withdrew back into silence, not making eye contact with either of the women.
Many things were spiraling through Grissom's mind. He was trying to think about what Catherine had just said about how Joey's fingerprint fit in with the case. He was thinking about all the blood—from this case and the old one—and wondering why he hadn't heard from Brass or Greg about the third victim he was sure was out there. But these thoughts floated about without really sinking in. He couldn't focus or concentrate as waves of agonizing pain radiated through his head. He sat back on the couch, closed his eyes tightly, and massaged his forehead and the bridge of his nose with his fingers.
Sara and Catherine stared at him worriedly as he lowered his hands and blew out a deep breath.
"Grissom, are you all right?" Sara asked, gently gripping his arm with one hand and his shoulder with the other. "Grissom?"
He reacted to her voice, turning and looking right at her. When she saw the pain darkening his eyes, she knew the decision had been made. Enough was enough—she was getting him out of there. Laying a palm again his forehead, and then sliding it to his cheek just proved her point further; he felt as hot to her as he had earlier—his fever was still not improving. Sara's urgent concern was mixed with anger—anger directed at Grissom for pushing himself too hard and at herself and Catherine for not stopping him. Yeah, this case was important—all their cases were—but nothing was as important as Grissom. She just wished she had acted sooner.
"Come on," she said to him. She stood and then gently pulled him off the sofa. He seemed a bit confused, but didn't resist Sara's leading movements. She turned to their coworker, "This is ridiculous, Catherine," she told her. "He can't stay here any longer. I'm taking him home." Her voice held just a hint of indignation. She knew she was right, and hoped that Catherine didn't intend to argue.
It seemed that Catherine was going to say something to stop Sara, but she just shook her head and replied, "You're right, Sara. Go. Get him out of here." Then she added apologetically, "I was just trying to take charge and think about the case. I guess I went too far."
Sara continued pulling Grissom out of the room.
"But the case…" he protested weakly, echoing Catherine's sentiment.
"Forget about the case, Grissom," she instructed. Her tone was gentle, but her motion and demeanor were firm as she led him toward his office. Once inside, she tossed everything she had purchased earlier back into the drug store bag, and grabbed it along with his leather portfolio. Then they headed out of the building.
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