A/N: Here we go! Sorry for the delay once again, but I appreciate all of you who keep on coming back! I hope you enjoy this chapter. There are some more developments in the case involving the other characters, but Grissom and Sara do appear before the end of the chapter. The remaining chapters should be even heavier on the Gris and Sara interaction. I'm so grateful for all of the reviews so far! Thanks to everyone who has left a review or many reviews, and thanks to everyone else who is out there reading this story! Enjoy!
Chapter 17: Searches
"Thanks, guys," Warrick called to the departing tow truck before lowering the garage door and hearing it clank loudly into place. He turned and stared at the shiny silver Corvette in the center of the large space. It was clear that Daniel Sampson had taken very good care of his classic vehicle, keeping it in tiptop shape—that is, until he decided to transport two bloody bodies in it. Warrick knew that he could have had the car meticulously detailed and cleaned until the sun didn't shine, but he would never get rid of all the traces of blood—a fact that worked to the CSIs' advantage.
Nick, who had managed to get into his navy coveralls, stood by the trunk balancing on his crutches, a spray bottle in his hand.
Then Greg came in, also dressed for the possibly messy work of the garage. Warrick stepped over to his coworkers. "All right, guys, let's get started." He turned to the CSI-in-training. "So what do we look for, Greg?" he asked, trying to get the lab tech to think like an investigator.
Greg barely had to consider before replying confidently, "Blood, trace evidence, and fingerprints."
Warrick grinned at him. "Pretty good."
"Thanks."
"So let's get going."
"I'll take the trunk," Nick offered, hopping one step closer to the car.
"I'll do the seats," Greg volunteered eagerly, grabbing a spray bottle off a nearby counter.
"I guess I'll get the lights," Warrick said, realizing the prime locations had been claimed. He walked over to the main switch and waited. "Tell me when you're ready, guys."
Nick and Greg went about dousing their respective areas with generous amounts of luminol. Nick sprayed all around the interior of the trunk, while Greg saturated the front and back seats, dashboard, and floors. "Hit it, Warrick," Nick called out when they were both finished.
As Warrick clicked off the switch, the car lit up, casting an eerie blue glow onto the faces of the two men standing near it.
"Wow," Greg whispered, unable to keep his comment to himself. While this may have been a commonplace sight for Warrick and Nick, Greg's experience with the tools of a CSI's trade was very limited. It wasn't just the fascinating effect of the fluorescent blue that the luminol put out as it found traces of otherwise invisible blood that shocked and awed Greg; rather it was the ramifications the glowing aura held—this car had been used to transport at least one victim of a cold, vicious murder, and the driver was most likely the man who perpetrated the horrible crime.
Forcing himself into action, Greg quickly took some swabs from the seats and the trunk before the glow of the luminol faded.
Warrick turned the lights back on, and he and Greg began a careful search of the interior of the vehicle by double flashlight beams. Balancing against the trunk, Nick performed an equally meticulous examination of that area.
Nothing much seemed to be coming from Warrick and Greg's work, but Nick easily found several threads and held them up in his tweezers for a closer look. "Got some fibers, guys," he reported. He squinted at the thin strands. They look like clothing fibers—probably transferred from what the vic was wearing." He dropped them into an envelope, which he placed on the counter next to Greg's swabs.
"Great, Nick," Warrick replied, still trying to find something inside the car. His flashlight beam passed over the gas pedal, and he thought he saw something. Backing up the circle of illumination, he saw it more clearly—a small patch of maroon on the left edge of the accelerator. "Hey, Greg," he announced, "I think we've got blood. Pass me the phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide please."
Greg picked up the appropriate squeeze bottles and walked around to Warrick's side of the car. "Here you go," he said, trying to peer over the taller man's shoulder.
"Hold your light on the gas pedal, Greg," Warrick instructed. He squatted down to swab the speck and check for a reaction from the chemicals. When the end of the swab turned pink after Warrick squirted it with phenolphthalein, he knew for sure that it was blood.
Warrick smiled as Greg breathed, "Cool." Then, more loudly, he added, "That must be victims' blood transferred from the bottom of the killer's shoe. I remember that Grissom found a bloody shoeprint on the kitchen floor."
"Works for me, Greg, but you'll have to prove it with DNA." After a pause, he said, "Why don't you grab the swabs, Nicky's fibers, and a sample from the upholstery to match to that fiber found on the third vic, and take them to the lab? Nick and I will finish up with the car."
"No problem," Greg replied, scooping up all the evidence. Although he was enjoying his 'field' experiences, he knew he could still do the most for the team behind the microscope or the centrifuge. Humming some unidentifiable tune to himself, the lab tech made his way back to his domain.
As Greg left the garage, Warrick picked up the edge of the large plastic sheet lying nearby and dragged it toward the Vette. Starting at the hood, he draped the sheet over the car until it was completely covered. Nick hobbled alongside, trying to help where he could. Then each CSI opened a door and placed a pipe-like apparatus in their respective sides of the Corvette. They shut the doors and watched as the interior filled with fumes. The gray-white swirls of the heated chemicals filled the space inside the vehicle, searching out oily fingerprint residue to adhere to and make visible. Warrick and Nick shared a serious look across the top of the car as they waited for the fuming to finish.
* * * * * * *
Catherine, Brass, and O'Riley moved into the living room of Daniel Sampson's small house after being let in through the front door, where they had hung the search warrant. The interior of this large room was dusty and dingy, yet still fairly neat. The CSI was lugging an ALS in addition to her field kit. She placed them both on the floor near the door as the trio of flashlight beams bobbed around the space; they were all searching for anything that grabbed their attention.
Catherine quickly noticed a large painting on the wall above the couch. Stepping closer, she moved her flashlight over the canvas, trying to make out the details. It was an abstract painting, splattered with strands of different colors, but the main hue was red; it definitely appeared to be in the style of Jackson Pollock. When Catherine's light passed over the lower corner, she squinted at the artist's signature, and wasn't surprised to find that the painting was a Pollock—not an original, of course, but it seemed to be a few steps above one of the inexpensive poster versions you find the museum gift shops. "Hey, guys," she announced to the cops, "we've got a reproduction of a Pollock here."
Brass had found the light switch, and flicked it on, bathing the room in sudden illumination. He and O'Riley came up behind Catherine and looked at the painting with her. "That what the walls looked like at the murder scene?" O'Riley wondered.
"Pretty much," Catherine replied. "But with a lot more red."
"This guy really used blood to decorate the walls?" O'Riley commented, still finding it hard to believe the stories he heard about the crime scene.
"Yeah," Brass replied. "A real whack job."
They stood there a few more seconds before Catherine said, "Why don't we spread out and see what we can find? If you need me to collect or photograph anything, just give me a shout."
"Sure," Brass agreed. "I'll take the kitchen and the rest of this floor."
"I'll check out the upstairs," Catherine offered. "Why don't you check the basement, O'Riley?"
"Okay," the sergeant responded. He walked off to find the door that led downstairs.
"Make sure you wear those gloves," Catherine called after him.
"I'll remember," he promised the CSI.
After some time had passed, all three ended up back in the living room by the front door. Catherine was carrying some things in a variety of evidence bags and bindles. She hadn't heard from either of the two police officers, so she had assumed they hadn't found anything probative or interesting.
O'Riley was the first one to speak, offering his unofficial 'report.' "Nothing special in the basement," he began. "Some old furniture, clothes, boxes, a bunch of blank canvases and cans of paint. This guy thinks he's an artist, right?"
"Right," Catherine replied. "He's turned the spare bedroom upstairs into a studio of sorts. He's got easels, canvases, palettes, lots of paints. The brushes and other art supplies he has are consistent with the ones found at the scene with traces of blood on them. He's even got some finished pieces in there."
"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what do they look like?" Jim inquired.
"A bit like the walls of the Rosen house," Catherine explained, the similarities causing a small shiver of repulsion to course through her. "The paint is just splattered on there, and it's…well, he seems to favor red." She stopped for a moment and saw the same question in both men's eyes. "Before you ask, I checked and it's just red paint."
"He must save the paintings done with the real stuff for his murder scenes," Brass commented in disgust.
"Seems that way," Catherine agreed. After a few seconds of silence, she continued telling the men about the rest of her findings, "I went through Sampson's bedroom with the ALS, checked the sheets and the carpets—nothing. No body fluids of any kind. I found a few hairs, probably his, which I collected. Mr. Sampson definitely did his dirty work in other houses. There didn't appear to be any clothes missing. I checked all the shoes in the closet—our Mr. Sampson is a size eleven, no surprise there—but none had blood on them anywhere. He must have ditched the pair of sneakers that left the prints at the crime scenes. No toiletries seemed to be missing from his bathroom either. I took a DNA sample from his toothbrush for comparison. It doesn't seem like Sampson was planning to go anywhere."
"That jibes with what I found in the kitchen," Brass told them. "Dirty dishes in the sink—didn't look like they had been there too long. And the fridge was fully-stocked. The milk doesn't even expire for four more days. I don't think Mr. Sampson planned to leave at all. It looks like it was a last-minute decision, made when he realized we were onto him."
"Did you check the knives, Jim?"
"I did. They looked clean and I couldn't tell if any were missing."
"So where does that leave us?" Catherine wondered, looking from one police officer to the other. "We have nothing that places Sampson at the scenes of the murders. The tire tracks just prove his car was there, and we know he bought the art supplies. But we haven't found any direct transfer of physical evidence…" She trailed off, considering for a moment. Then an idea occurred to her. It seemed that things couldn't possibly be as simple as what she was thinking—but there had been other cases with similar resolutions. She smiled slyly to herself and then said, "Follow me," to the two men.
She led them out the back door and into a communal alley that ran behind all the neighboring houses. Garbage pails and recycling bins lined the nearby fence, which formed the alley's boundary on one side.
"We still haven't found Sampson's bloody clothes, so maybe…" she began, walking to the first of Sampson's three trash cans.
"You think he just threw his soiled clothes into his own trash?" Brass asked, incredulous.
"Stranger things have happened," Catherine insisted. She pulled the top off the pail and began digging through the plastic bags inside. "Join me, boys?" she asked with a smile. "There's one for each of us."
Brass and O'Riley shared a reluctant look before adjusting their latex gloves and diving into the other trash receptacles.
A loud rumble and mechanical whines drew their attention to the far end of the alley, where a garbage truck had just turned in from the street. They watched as the sanitation workers hopped off the back of the truck and started emptying the cans.
Catherine looked back at the police officers. "Garbage day," she commented. "Looks like we're just in time."
"Chalk one up for our side," Jim said.
"Let's wait and see if we find anything first," Catherine amended.
The sound of rustling was heard as Catherine and the men lifted out and inspected each neatly-tied, white plastic garbage bag. The knots were fastened so tightly that the investigators' only choice was to slit each one open—with great care—in order to sift through the contents.
When Catherine got to the last bag in her can and made the initial opening, she smiled broadly. "Bingo," she said. She cut the bag just enough to get to and pluck out the first item she had seen—a pair of brown pants covered with blood. She held them up and turned them, examining the piece of clothing from all angles.
Brass and O'Riley stopped what they were doing and came closer to see. "Nice job, Catherine," Brass commented.
"There's more." The CSI reached in and pulled out a bloody shirt. She handed it to Brass along with the pants, and then picked up what was in the very bottom of the sack—a pair Nike basketball sneakers, also splattered with even more blood. Peering into the footwear, she read what was written on the underside of the tongue. "Size eleven," she announced triumphantly. She also checked the soles of the shoes and found the right one completely coated in a layer of dried blood.
"Looks like we found our killer," Brass said. "Any sign of the weapon?"
"Nothing in here," Catherine replied, indicating the now-empty garbage bag.
"I guess that means we keep searching, O'Riley."
With very little enthusiasm, the two cops went back to their examination of the pungent-smelling garbage in their respective bins.
While the men worked, Catherine dealt with what she had found. She took photographs, and then folded the clothing and garbage bags as neatly as possible, placing each item in a separate evidence container.
Catherine stood there, staring at the stained wardrobe on the ground by her feet. Her investigating mind was working, trying to visualize what had happened at the murder scenes and what would have gotten on Sampson's clothes. Running a hand over her chin, she said, "Jim, if you had gotten blood all over your clothes, you would have tossed them directly into the trash, right?"
"Probably."
"Okay," she went on, "we've got a shirt, pants, shoes…" She paused, then she had a thought. "Socks," she blurted. "Where are his socks?"
"Nothing in this one," O'Riley informed them as he finished fishing through his final bag.
"Got a knife," Brass announced suddenly. He rose from his squatting position, holding a long, serrated, blood-stained knife by its handle with two fingers.
"Excellent," Catherine said, taking the weapon from him and bagging it. It was a key piece of evidence, but the missing socks were still on her mind. She didn't like holes or things left hanging without an explanation.
"Jim, can you take this stuff out to my truck?" she asked. "I want to check out one more thing in the house."
"Sure, Catherine," he replied. He and O'Riley each grabbed some of the bags and headed through the house to the front.
Catherine, meanwhile, went back upstairs to Sampson's bedroom. Turning on the ALS and sliding her amber-tinted goggles onto her face, Catherine opened the dresser drawers and started searching through them. She ran her latex-clad fingers over and under the pieces of clothing, hunting for any sign of blood. She found nothing, even in the drawer that held Sampson's socks, where she had been hoping to stumble across a clue.
Her eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on the doorway to the bathroom, where she spied the corner of a white wicker hamper. She lugged the ALS into the bathroom, put it down, and then directed the flexible light into the hamper with one hand, while holding open the lid with the other. When she didn't see anything on the top layer of dirty clothes, she flipped the lid all the way open and began to dig through the pile with her free hand. She had gotten almost to the bottom when she finally discovered some splotches that absorbed the bluish light from the ALS. She pulled out the pair of formerly white socks with evidence of blood on them, and smiled. "Gotcha," she said out loud.
She bagged the socks, and then went back outside to share her findings with Brass and O'Riley.
* * * * * * *
In the layout room in the lab, the CSIs were still looking through the boxes of evidence that Ecklie had checked out that morning. All four of them were finally getting to the bottom of their respective piles.
Cohen straightened and pushed back her shoulders backward, attempting to stretch her stiff muscles. Sears stood nearby, leaning over the table, working diligently.
Grissom and Sara sat on stools, also focused on what they were searching through. Grissom had taken off his jacket for ease of movement; as a result, he would alternate between bouts of intense shivering and the feeling that his body was on fire. He wasn't really reading the pages in front of him anymore. He would stare at them, trying to make out the words, but he couldn't get his eyes to focus. The hammering sensation had ripped a path to the left side of his head now; he knew it wouldn't be long until it filled his entire head with horrible, throbbing waves of pain.
Sara turned to look at him, extreme concern visible on her face. She could tell that he was only pretending to read each page that he picked up. If he couldn't even concentrate, she knew his headache must be intensifying, and she could easily tell that his fever was also raging—nearly out of control. What should I do with him? she wondered. She was seriously worried about how much more of this he could take. Hoping he wouldn't notice, Sara surreptitiously slipped some papers out of Grissom's pile and added them to her own. Letting out a breath, she tore her eyes away from him and went back to completing her search through what was in front of her.
After a few more minutes had passed, Cohen announced, "I've got something, guys." Her voice was sudden and loud in the quiet of the room. All other eyes turned toward her as she explained, "These two sheets were kind of stuck together." She made a face as she held up one of them. "I'm sure I don't want to know what they were stuck together with, but… Anyway, I pulled off the bottom page, and it doesn't belong with this evidence. The case file number doesn't match, and it's also yellowed and more brittle than the newer top sheet. I think it's your missing evidence inventory, Grissom." She passed the sheet over to him.
Grissom held it carefully, avoiding the sticky residue. He glanced at the number and date at the top of the page. "This is it," he told them.
"I'm glad we found it," Cohen said. "Does it help at all?"
"We'll see in a second," Grissom replied. Not even attempting to read the small, typed print, he gave the list to Sara.
She skimmed it quickly. "You were right, Grissom, there should have been one more fingerprint in that evidence."
"Well, since we found the missing evidence inventory, maybe that print is in here somewhere, too."
Even though his voice had sounded flat and tired, Sara knew Grissom was very satisfied that they had found at least one of the missing items; he was just far too exhausted and in too much pain to express it very well. "Let's keep looking then," Sara said, trying to raise his spirits. "We've gone through almost everything—if that print is in here, we'll know soon."
"Right," Grissom replied. He went back to looking through the remainder of the small pile in front of him. As long as he didn't have to actually read anything, he was able to muster just enough focus to glance at each item and then relocate it off to the side if it wasn't the missing print.
After checking out a few items, he came across a fingerprint. It was stored, as they all were, on a cardboard backer for ease of viewing and preservation. It appeared to be a thumbprint, and he tried to read the descriptors and file number off the cardboard, but he couldn't. All he got for his efforts were a sharp pain and harsh flashes of light in his left eye. He groaned softly and rubbed his fingers over his forehead. Then he swallowed hard, hoping to control the nausea that had been growing as his migraine continued to build. "Sara, can you read this, please?" he asked in a near whisper, as he handed her the fingerprint.
"Sure, Gris," she responded, looking at him with worry-filled eyes again. She knew he was in bad shape and that he was only getting worse. After reading the information on the print's backer, she said, "No, this thumbprint is supposed to be with Ecklie's file."
"Okay," Grissom replied. "Thanks."
Not even trying to hide her motives this time, Sara scooped up everything that was still on the table in front of Grissom and moved it onto her own pile.
He noticed and tried to protest, "You don't have to…"
But she cut him off, "Don't worry about it, Grissom. You're in shape to do this now."
He nodded, and stared down at the table, his head in his hands.
She lowered her voice, and added in what she hoped was a soothing tone, "As soon as we're done here, I'm going to get you some water and you're going to take your medicine. There's no need to put yourself through this when there's something that can help."
He lifted his head and turned to look at her. "That's the thing, Sara," he began, his voice hoarse. "After a certain point, the prescription doesn't help. I think I may be past that point already."
She brushed her hand through his hair several times. "We'll still give it a try. It certainly can't make things worse." She frowned as she felt the extreme heat coming from his skin. "God, Grissom, you're still so hot," she said quietly. "We need to give you more fever medication, too. I wish we had brought everything with us." She moved her hand to his shoulder and then his back, where she stroked rhythmically, over and over, trying to comfort him in any way she could.
Sara's gentle touches were causing Grissom to get incredibly drowsy, and he was finding it hard to resist putting his head down on the table and just drifting off right there. He knew sleep would make him feel better, but he also knew he still had to see this case through to completion. Both he and Sara had pretty much forgotten there was anyone else in the room, and what they were supposed to be doing.
Then Sears called out, "Got it!" and everyone snapped back to attention.
Cohen moved quickly over to her side to see better. The days CSI examined the print her colleague held between her gloved fingers. The file number matched Grissom's old case, and his name was on there as the CSI-of-record for the print. "That's it," Cohen said, grinning. "Where'd you find it?"
"Right in the bottom of this box," Sears answered. "I guess that moron, Ecklie, got all the evidence mixed up and this ended up in the wrong place."
"That must have been what happened," Cohen agreed. "I mean we know Ecklie's incompetent, but to mix up evidence like that… Not even a rookie…unless…" She paused, thinking. A mixture of confusion and anger spread over her face as she continued, "You don't think he did it on purpose, do you? He wouldn't…"
"Oh, I think he would," Sears replied. There was noticeable ire in her voice as the realization about Ecklie hit.
"Me, too," Sara concurred.
Grissom, who was staring down at the table again, just remained silent; Sara was unsure he had even heard everything they'd said. She ran her hand down his arm, then stood and stepped over to the other two women. At this moment, she was actually glad that Grissom seemed too out of it to listen. Talk about Ecklie's unscrupulous ways would only upset Grissom and make him feel even worse.
"I realize that Ecklie's politic, and that all he cares about are appearances," Cohen began, listing her supervisor's many shortcomings. "He's not a very good CSI, and he seems to care more about what the sheriff thinks than the evidence, but still… To sabotage Grissom's case and possibly let a killer go free? I don't think even Ecklie…"
"Oh, I do think so, Jamie," Sears asserted again. "It wouldn't surprise me if this was done on purpose. Like you said, not even a rookie would be stupid enough to confuse important evidence—especially in ongoing cases."
Cohen was quiet for a moment, as she absorbed her partner's words. She had never liked Ecklie much, nor trusted him, nor even held much respect for him. But she hadn't realized that he was completely without any scrap of moral fiber. This made Cohen dislike him even more, but he was still her boss, so she wasn't willing to express how she felt about him out loud, even when she knew he was nowhere around. "I can't believe this," she muttered. Off Sears's pointed look, she quickly added, "I mean I do believe this. It's just…" She looked down, shaking her head and exhaling deeply. When she raised her head and met Sears's eyes again, only resolve and anger were left on her face. "You're right about Ecklie," she began. "He's a real…"
Sara and Sears watched and waited anxiously to find out what colorful phrase Cohen was going to use to describe the dayshift supervisor.
Cohen seemed to be struggling with what to say. "A real…" she stammered, "…piece of work."
Sears couldn't help but burst out laughing. "That's it, Jamie, don't hold back. Let us know how you really feel."
The other women couldn't help but start chuckling, too.
"Yeah, I really let him have it, didn't I?" Cohen commented. Suddenly, her beeper went off and she pulled it from her belt and read the screen. The smile that was still on her face vanished as soon as she saw who the page was from.
Sears recognized the expression of dread on her partner's face immediately. A summons from only one person ever made Cohen look like that. "Speak of the devil, huh, Jamie?" Sears asked, trying to keep her tone light.
"Yeah…it's Ecklie," Cohen responded.
"What do you think he wants?" her coworker asked.
"What he always wants—an update."
Both Sara and Sears shared a glance with Cohen, and she knew just what they were thinking. "Don't worry, I have no plans to tell him what we found," Cohen assured them. "The last thing we need is Ecklie rushing back here, ranting and raving, and screwing up our case." She was obviously still reluctant, but the dayshift CSI took a deep breath and opened up her cell phone. "Excuse me. I'll be right back," she told Sara and Sears as she headed out of the room for some privacy.
"Will she be all right giving the report to Ecklie?" Sara wondered.
"Yeah, she'll handle it fine," Sears said. "She just hates having to talk to Ecklie, but don't we all? Plus, she's not a very good liar, so it'll be hard for her to give him only the 'edited' version of what's been going on."
"Sounds like she has a really hard time dealing with Ecklie, almost like she's afraid of him."
"Not at all. I mean who'd bother being afraid of Ecklie?" Sears explained, smiling broadly at the ridiculousness of the idea. Then the days CSI got serious once again. "But I do think that Jamie may be afraid of the power he has over us as our supervisor. She doesn't want to rock the boat with Ecklie because of the way he could just wield that power any way he wanted to. He could pull us off cases whenever he feels like it, or even one day just…" Sears took a breath before going on, "Let's just say that Jamie needs this job."
Sara nodded solemnly, signifying that she understood. Then her gaze drifted to Grissom, whose eyes remained trained downward. She was thankful that he still didn't seem to fully realize what Ecklie had more than likely done to the evidence.
Sears followed Sara's gaze. "Is he all right?" the younger CSI asked softly.
Sara shook her head and gestured by touching her temple. "Migraine."
"Ouch," Sears sympathized. "Those can be nasty. Is that what made him sick earlier?"
"No, the migraine is just a recent addition. He has a bunch of other things going on, too. Right now, Gris is pretty much a walking medical encyclopedia," she described with a small grin.
"Anything I can do to help?" Sears offered.
"I don't think so, but thanks. You and Jamie have already helped by finding that missing evidence. Now we're just waiting for the police to bring in our suspect. While we're doing that, I'm going to get Grissom out of here and get some medicine into him," Sara told her. "I'm going to try to get him to go home, but I have a feeling it won't work. So, we'll see you whenever they bring Sampson in."
"Okay."
Sara took a step toward Grissom, but just then, Cohen walked back in. She replaced the phone on her hip, and blew out a breath. She definitely looked relieved that her conversation with Ecklie was over.
"How'd it go?" Sears asked her partner.
"As well as it usually goes, I guess. Why does he always call me?"
"Because he knows that I would end up telling him to go to hell, or to shove something into some anatomically impossible location," Sears answered, a rebellious glint in her eye.
"Right," Cohen agreed.
"So what did you tell him?" Sara asked in a soft voice, turning toward the two women and facing her back to Grissom. She knew he was very out of it, but she didn't want to take the chance of him overhearing something that would set him off.
"I told him pretty much what he already knew, I hope," Cohen began. "That we were waiting on more evidence from the suspect's car and home, and that the police haven't found him yet."
"Come on, Jame," Sears prompted, "that's not all you told him, is it?"
"No…" Cohen admitted cryptically.
"Let's go—give. What else did you say?"
A small grin crept onto Cohen's face as she went on, "All right, I admit it. I did try to fluster Ecklie…just a little. I told him that Grissom had mentioned some missing evidence and I asked Ecklie if he knew anything about it."
"How did he answer that?" Sears asked expectantly.
"Well, he said nothing for about thirty seconds, and then he blurted something about not knowing anything about it and that evidence does sometimes get misplaced, especially if you leave it lying around. And he went on and on. I tuned him out after that."
"Nice," Sears replied, a grin spreading over her face. "But wait. How did he know that Grissom's missing evidence had been 'lying around'?"
"He wouldn't have known," Cohen said, her grin matching her partner's. "He obviously gave himself away. Some investigator he is."
"Not bad, Jame," Sears commented. "You keep at it. Pretty soon I'll have shown you how to treat Ecklie with all the disrespect he deserves. Even if he is our supervisor."
"Easy now, Kimmer. I think you've already corrupted me enough."
"I'm working on it," Sears promised, still smiling.
Shaking her head, Sara wondered, "I don't know how you guys work with Ecklie."
Sears shared a familiar look with her colleague, then explained, "You don't work with Ecklie, Sara, you work in spite of him."
"I'm sure you do," Sara agreed, giving the girls a quick grin. Then she turned around and looked over at Grissom. He was still sitting in the same exact position, with his head down.
Sears tapped the recovered fingerprint against her palm. "Why don't you go take care of Grissom?" she suggested to Sara. "Jamie and I will clean up in here and then bring this print down to Jacqui. Whenever the cops process Sampson, she can do a comparison and match his print."
"All right. Thanks, guys," Sara said to the other women, but she kept her eyes trained on Grissom. She stepped over, dropping onto the stool next to him again. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she called, "Gris?"
It took a moment for her voice to register, but when it did, he glanced up at her.
She hated seeing the pain in his unfocused eyes, and not knowing what she could do to take it away. "We're done here, so let's go," she urged gently.
"What about Ecklie?" Grissom wondered.
"What about him?"
"You were just discussing him. What did he say about the evidence?"
"He said he didn't know anything about it," Sara reported, not wanting to get into the details with him right now. "Come on. Let's get you some water so you can take your medicine." She took his arm and slowly helped him to his feet. He seemed a bit unsteady, so she made sure to keep a firm grip on his arm as she led him out of the room.
Sears and Cohen turned to the papers and items scattered across the table and began to organize them.
* * * * * * *