A/N: I'm back from my cruise! It was great, and I want to thank everyone who wished me a good vacation *grin* I was able to post chapter 10 rather easily while on the cruise ship, which was very cool. Now that I'm home, I'll try to go back to my previous posting schedule for the new chapters. Thanks again to all who have reviewed this story so far! I hope you enjoy this next chapter, too. I know I left off in the middle of things, but if I had continued to a more logical breaking point, this chapter would have been too long. So things will pick up right from the 'end' of this chapter next time. Enjoy!
Chapter 11: Art
Sara jerked awake, and looked around, getting her bearings. Grissom! she remembered suddenly, realizing what had woken her; she had thought she had heard him. She pulled off the headphones and listened, but only the faint strains of Mozart filled the air. Once she reached full awareness, she hit the button to stop the CD player and went to check on Grissom.
Opening his door as quietly as possible, she slipped inside. In the light filtering in from the other room, it looked like he was still sleeping, so she must have only imagined hearing his voice. Turning on the lamp to make sure he was okay, she saw that he had rolled onto his back now. The covers had fallen below his shoulders, and he was sweating profusely. Drops of moisture stood out on his forehead and face, and had even soaked into the collar of his sweatshirt. She knew that was good; it meant that fever was finally breaking, but he didn't seem at all comfortable.
Sara slipped into the bathroom and found a clean washcloth. She turned on the sink, letting the water run. Her first instinct was to use cold water, but she didn't want to cool him off too quickly or he might start shivering again and that would only raise his temperature. So she waited until the water felt lukewarm, and then saturated the washcloth. She wrung it out until it no longer dripped and then took it to Grissom.
As gently as she could, so she wouldn't wake him, she wiped the damp cloth over his face. He stirred a little, and turned his head toward her, but remained asleep. She adjusted the blankets, pulling them further down his chest, trying to figure out where she should place them to make him to most comfortable; she decided to stop at about the level of his ribs.
She stood by his bedside for a few minutes, just watching him. Then she reached down, and brought the back of her fingers close to his hair, barely brushing them against the curls. He moved slightly just then, mumbling something unintelligible and pulling his arms out from under the covers. Sara jumped a little and jerked back her hand. She waited to see if he was going to shift his position on the bed or awaken, but he seemed to still be deep in slumber. She knew she really should leave the room so she wouldn't run the risk of disturbing him further, but she was reluctant. She wanted to make sure she had done as much as she could to help him.
Sara went back into the bathroom and wet the washcloth again, using water a little bit cooler this time. She carefully ran the cloth over his face once more, then turned off the light and left him to sleep.
She found herself back in the main area of the townhouse, not knowing what to do. She was no longer tired, and felt the need to busy herself with something.
Flipping through the small pile of magazines on the corner of Grissom's coffee table, she located a recent forensics journal that she hadn't yet had the chance to read. Flopping back down on the worn leather sofa, she began to peruse the table of contents.
* * * * * * *
Sara had been enjoying the article on "Blood Spatter Analysis and Distortions on Irregular Surfaces," but now she leaned back on the cushions, the magazine lying upside down on her lap. She was zoning out, staring at the ceiling and thinking. Then she started to feel drowsy, and allowed her heavy lids to close.
She didn't know if a minute had passed or an hour, but her eyes snapped open, seemingly of their own accord, and she was instantly totally alert. She sensed, rather than heard, that Grissom was awake. There was nothing but silence coming from his bedroom, but as she made her way there, she simply knew she would find him awake.
Even though she had been certain of the state she would find him in when she pushed open the door, it was still a little disconcerting to see his motionless, shadowy form sitting fully upright on the bed in the darkness. His eyes were obviously open, but he wasn't moving or speaking. He was just…there. He didn't even acknowledge her presence when she came over and sat down next to him on the edge of the bed. She kept the bedside lamp off, not wanting to shock his eyes with sudden brightness.
"Jackson Pollock," he said, staring straight ahead, the words directed not toward Sara but to the room at large.
"What?" she asked.
"Jackson Pollock," he repeated.
Oh, God, maybe he was delirious, Sara worried, echoing her earlier thought. She flipped on the light so she could get a good look at him. Grasping his arm, she said, "Grissom, are you okay?"
Blinking in the unexpected illumination, he finally turned toward her. She could see that his eyes were a little red, but otherwise alert. He didn't look confused or show any other signs of true delirium. In fact, he even looked a little better than he had before, so Sara allowed herself to relax somewhat. She was sure that what Grissom had said made perfect sense to him—even though she didn't understand it yet.
"What were you just saying, Gris?" she asked him.
He shook his head, clearing the last bits of sleepy haze, and tried to explain everything to Sara, "The blood on the walls? It just occurred to me what the patterns resemble—they're like a Jackson Pollock painting."
She nodded, and he continued, "I'm sure you know the techniques he used in his paintings? He would just kind of 'toss' the paint onto the canvas, or 'fling' small amounts. The blood spatter on the walls of our crime scenes—both the old and the new—looks like the paint on Pollock's canvases; it has the same overlapping patterns of elongated tendrils spreading from larger centers."
"So you're saying the killer collected the blood and then splattered it onto the walls purposely?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know, Sara, but it explains the odd blood patterns."
"So, our killer creates art with his victims' blood?" It always amazed her—the twisted things human beings do to one another. Just when she thought she'd seen it all, something newly horrible cropped up. She shuddered inwardly. "Creepy…" she added quietly. But then her CSI instincts kicked back in, and she tried to look at the situation more objectively. "So how do you think he does it?" she asked Grissom. "What does he put the blood in, and how does he get it onto the walls?"
He was quiet for a minute, but then spoke quickly as the memory clicked, "I saw a lot of bowls in the dishwasher when I checked out the kitchen. I was looking for knives, but didn't find any. The bowls didn't have any importance then, but now…" He shifted his weight and started to get off the bed. "We need to collect those bowls and check them for blood residue. Luminol will still show blood evidence, even after they were run through the dishwasher."
"Whoa, whoa," Sara said, grabbing his arms. "Where are you going?"
He looked at her like she should know exactly where he was going.
"I'll call Catherine and tell her what you figured out," she told him. "She and Warrick can check out the scene. You don't have to go anywhere. Just sit back and relax."
But he didn't relax at all; she felt his arms tense beneath her hands as he hurriedly continued his line of thought, "And we need to check the house for art supplies. There may have been some in the garage, but Cath and I didn't pay much attention to them. Pollock didn't use paintbrushes for his abstract work—he would fling the paint off sticks, trowels, or even palette knives. The killer probably knew this and used a similar technique with the blood. There could be important evidence on any art materials or tools at the crime scene."
"All right, I'll tell Catherine that, too. She and Warrick can handle it. They were going back to the scene again anyway, right? To look for evidence of Joey Winston's murder." Her tone was firm as she met his eyes.
"Right," he agreed grudgingly, and she felt his muscles loosen and his forward momentum ease off. He stretched behind him, trying to arrange the pillows so he could sit up comfortably on the bed. Sara reached over and helped him, placing a couple of pillows vertically to pad the headboard.
He fell back against the soft pillows, exhaling deeply. His head was starting to hurt again; he closed his eyes for a moment, covering them with his hands and rubbing them. Although he had seemed ready to run off to the crime scene a few minutes ago, Sara could tell it had only been an act or a brief burst of adrenaline. Now he looked completely spent, and she knew he needed sleep more than anything else.
Certain that he wasn't going anywhere fast, she pulled her phone off her belt and dialed up Catherine. Sara quickly filled her in, telling her what Grissom had realized, and what she and Warrick should look for. Then Catherine asked how Grissom was doing. "Okay, I guess," Sara responded. "He slept for a while."
Grissom gave her a weak glare, knowing she and Catherine were talking about him. Sara caught his eye, smiled sweetly, then turned away and continued her conversation. "I think his fever came down a little. I'm going to check in a minute."
Sara gave Catherine a few more details, and then Catherine wondered, "Does Grissom want us to go back to the crime scene now? Before he wanted us to wait for all the results from Greg."
"I'll find out." She turned back around. "Hey, Gris, Catherine wants to know if they should go back to the house now or keep waiting on Greg?"
"Tell her they might as well just head over there," he decided. "I'm sure Greg will be finished very soon. Just make sure Cath has him call her as soon as the results are in."
"Right after he calls us you mean."
"Yeah."
She relayed the information to Catherine who said, "Tell Grissom that I hope he feels better," before offering a goodbye and ending the conversation.
Sara shared Catherine's sentiment with Grissom.
"I'll tell her thanks the next time I talk to her."
Sara nodded. "She said she'd let us know if they find anything at the Rosen house."
"Great," he replied, trying to stifle a yawn.
He looked almost ready to fall asleep again, but Sara wanted to take his temperature first and then try to find something he could eat. She picked up the thermometer and shook it down to about 96°. Putting the thermometer in his mouth again, she said, "Let's see how you're doing." After the necessary time had elapsed, she let him know that his temperature had gone down to one hundred two. "We're making progress here," she commented, "but I think it's time for another dose of ibuprofen, okay?"
He nodded and picked up the bottle of water still sitting on his nightstand. Twisting it open, he waited for Sara to hand him the pills. When she did, he swallowed them, and then took another long swig of the water before sinking back into the pillows. His insistence on going to the crime scene had quickly disappeared as his intense exhaustion had taken over.
Studying him, Sara noticed the dark circles under his eyes for the first time. She once again reconsidered offering him food. She figured he was too tired to be interesting in eating, so she encouraged him to lie back down instead, "Maybe you should try to sleep some more. You look beat."
"Will you wake me if you hear from Greg or Cath?"
She thought about it, realizing the answer she had to give to get him to rest. "Of course I'll wake you," she promised. But I didn't say I'd do it as soon as the call comes in, she added silently, knowing that, once he was asleep, she wouldn't be willing to disturb him right away.
He was about to slide down under the covers when he stopped, plucked a few tissues from the box by his bedside, and began coughing. The hacking spasms came from deep within his chest, and Sara didn't like how they sounded; his cough had definitely gotten worse.
"You know what, Gris? I think you have to take something for that cough—it sounds awful." She searched the variety of boxes and bottles on his nightstand, and located the cough medicine she had purchased. She opened the package and read the label. "I'll get you a spoon—be right back." She quickly returned from the kitchen with a teaspoon and handed it to him.
Skimming over the information on the bottle himself, he pointed out, "This stuff is probably one-tenth alcohol, Sara."
"I know," she replied. "But you're going to sleep, so that's actually helpful, isn't it? It should knock you right out."
"I guess," he agreed, as she poured the thick, reddish liquid onto the spoon. He tried not to grimace too much or to gag as he swallowed one teaspoon of the medicine, then another, followed rapidly by some water to wash away the horrible taste.
"Does that taste as gross as it smells?" she asked, a sympathetic grimace plastered across her face.
"Worse," he informed her.
"Well, they say the worse it tastes, the better it works, so that's something, I guess."
"If that's true, I should be completely cured almost instantaneously," he joked weakly.
She gave him a little grin. "Can I get you anything before you settle in?" she asked. "Do you want some more tea or…"
"I'm fine, Sara," he said, stopping her mid-sentence. He yawned again behind his cupped hands. "I'd probably be asleep before you could bring it anyway. But thank you." He got under the blankets and closed his eyes.
To be continued…