A/N: Well, finally, here it is: the next chapter of 'No Rest for the Weary.' I know it's been a long time since I updated this story, but I guess real life just got in the way, as it often does. I was on vacation, and then my beta was on vacation, and I guess time just got away. There's only one more chapter left after this, though, and then the story will be all wrapped up! Once again, I have to thank every single reader who has posted a review so far, and I especially thank the three of you who left reviews during the long interim between chapter 18 and this one. Thank you so much for letting me know that folks out there were watching this story and waiting for updates. I never had any intention of dropping this story. I always meant to continue, and ultimately finish, it—it just took much longer than I ever would have thought! *grin* So, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter after the long wait!
Chapter 19: Time
Grissom and Sara walked into the observation room. They sat down on chairs facing the large pane of glass that looked into the interrogation room and waited for Daniel Sampson to be brought in. Glancing over at Grissom, Sara thought that he looked a bit better. At least it no longer appeared that he was about to pass out or vomit at any second.
A few minutes passed, and then Cohen and Sears came in, taking up positions leaning on either end of the long table that was behind where Grissom and Sara sat. "Hey," the dayshift CSIs greeted.
"Hey," Sara returned. "Glad you two could join us."
"We wouldn't have missed this," Sears assured her.
Their attention was drawn straight ahead as they all noticed flickers of movement in the adjacent room. They heard Brass's voice over the microphone pickups as he, Catherine, Warrick, and Daniel Sampson filed in. "I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown from the crime lab."
The suspect had taken up a position sitting at the table with his back to the CSIs in the observation room. They could only see the ratty flannel shirt he wore and the back of his balding head.
Brass was continuing, "Do you know why you're here, Mr. Sampson?"
"No," Sampson answered simply.
"No?" Brass repeated. He was trying to keep his tone civil, but his anger and revulsion were boiling just below the surface. "Four police officers pull you out of your motel room and drag you down here, and you have no idea why?"
"No. But if you'd tell me, I'll do what I can. I always want to help out the authorities." Sampson's gaze was cool and unemotional as he regarded Brass.
Catherine could sense that the police captain's patience was just about to snap, so she stepped in, sliding some photos across the table to Sampson. "Do you recognize any of these people, Mr. Sampson?"
He shuffled through the stack, glancing at each picture. Not even the slightest flicker of recognition broke the controlled expression he wore. "I'm sorry, Ms. Willows," he said, emphasizing Catherine's name, "but I've never seen any of these people before."
"Are you sure?"
Sampson nodded.
"What about their names?" She took the photos back from him and arranged them in a row on the table, facing the suspect. She pointed to each one and ticked off the names of the victims.
"That still doesn't help," Sampson claimed.
"Okay," Catherine said, her frustration building. But she kept her calm outer exterior as she scooped up the pictures of the victims. Pulling two new 8 by 10's out of the folder in front of her, she placed them down on the table. "What about these clothes? Do you recognize them?"
Sampson seemed to be completely unaffected by the blood-covered state of the shirt and pants in the photos.
"Still nothing, Mr. Sampson?" Catherine asked.
"I'm afraid not."
"That's interesting," Catherine commented, "because these clothes were found in the trashcans outside your house."
A slight widening of his eyes was the only sign Sampson gave that Catherine was getting to him.
The observant CSI noticed, though, and sat down, deciding on her next move. Stealing a glance under the table, she made her decision. Wearing a small, unreadable smile, Catherine asked, "May I see your shoes, Mr. Sampson?"
"Excuse me?" the man across the table replied.
"Your shoes. May I see them?"
Sampson looked uncertain, but decided he'd better play along. "How do you want me to…?" he questioned.
"Just removing one and passing it over here would be fine," she explained.
He did as she had requested. Catherine picked up the nearly spotless sneaker and looked it over. She held it up for Warrick, who was standing behind her, to see. A raised eyebrow was his only comment.
"Nice," Catherine said, to no one in particular. Then her attention turned to Sampson. "They look brand new."
"I just bought them a couple of days ago."
"Size eleven," Catherine said casually, handing the shoe back to the suspect.
"Yes, they are," he replied. He looked at the female CSI with just the tiniest hint of suspicion in his eyes.
There was silence as Sampson replaced his sneaker on his foot. Then Catherine asked, seemingly out of nowhere, "What did you do with the old ones?"
The suspect appeared confused.
"What did you do with your old pair of sneakers?" Catherine clarified. "The ones you bought this new pair to replace?"
After an almost unnoticeable hesitation, Sampson answered, "I gave them away."
"Really?" Catherine replied, incredulously. "Because we found an old pair of sneakers in your garbage, too." She slid a photo out of the folder--one she had purposely not shown him before. "They were a size eleven, just like the ones you have on now," she continued. "But, unlike the ones you're wearing, Mr. Sampson, these sneakers were covered with blood." She placed the photo on the table in front of him. "And prints made by this exact pair of shoes were found at two crime scenes."
Sampson remained stoically silent.
Catherine just went on, "Your garbage cans contained a wealth of fascinating items, Mr. Sampson. Including this knife, also stained with blood." She showed him a file photo of the weapon that Brass had discovered. "You might be interested to know that we ran tests on all this blood, and it came from some murder victims who were killed in Henderson. Do you remember the photos I showed you earlier? Well, the blood on these clothes, shoes, and knife belong to three of those people."
"Just because those items were found in my trash, Ms. Willows," Sampson replied coolly, "doesn't mean I put them there."
"That's true," Catherine agreed, wearing a humorless smile. She thought of what she had told Greg earlier. Guess I was right about this guy. Smart… "But we also found other bloody clothing that was not in your trash." She paused dramatically, then showed him the photo of the socks she had discovered. "I found these in the bottom of your hamper, Mr. Sampson," she explained. "Are you going to tell us that you don't recognize these either?"
Sampson didn't break down and confess, but he also didn't deny knowledge of the blood-splattered socks. He just sat there, glaring at Brass and the CSIs, seemingly silently daring them to go on.
So Warrick stepped up to the table, pulling pictures out of his copy of the case file. "We also found evidence of blood in your car," he began, diving right in with no preliminary setup or introduction. He showed Sampson the pictures. "Someone had attempted to clean it, but we still found traces of blood in the trunk, on the back seat, and on the gas pedal. It matched our three victims, too."
"That's not my car," Sampson asserted, glancing quickly at the images. "I sold it to an acquaintance of mine, Marty Stout."
"Yes, we know that," Warrick went on. "We got the car from Mr. Stout and processed it in our garage."
"The car hasn't been in my possession since I sold it to Marty," Sampson answered unemotionally.
"And when, exactly, did you sell it to Mr. Stout?" Warrick asked, trying to keep his irritation in check.
"Four days ago," Sampson informed them.
Catherine stepped forward again. "You're certain of that time frame?" she asked.
"Absolutely. I have the bill of sale somewhere, if you would like to see it."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Sampson, but thanks anyway," Catherine said, obvious sarcasm edging her words. "You say you sold your car to Mr. Stout four days ago. Well, we have an entomologist who studied the insects on Joey Winston's body and he calculated that Joey had been dead for five days when we found him; that was nearly three days ago. So, Mr. Sampson, that means that Joey was killed and dumped in the desert almost eight days ago--when the car was in your possession."
For the first time since he had arrived, Sampson seemed shaken. His stoic façade melted away, leaving glazed anger in his eyes. He stared at Brass and the CSIs, but said nothing.
"That's okay, Mr. Sampson," Catherine said, quiet satisfaction ringing in her tone. "You don't have to say anything. The evidence says it all for you."
At that moment, there was a knock on the interrogation room door. Brass walked over and opened it. Greg stood on the other side, holding a folder and looking keyed up, but obviously trying to rein in his excitement. He peeked into the room and caught Catherine's eye. He made a subtle gesture with his head to let her know he needed to see her. She caught on and stepped outside for a moment, telling Brass, "Be right back," as she moved past him.
"What's up, Greg?" she asked the lab tech once they were safely out in the hall with the door closed behind them.
"I got some DNA off the shirt—there was sweat present, just like you said—and it matches the sample from Sampson's toothbrush that you had brought in."
"Great," Catherine replied. "I knew we'd get him."
She turned to go back into the interrogation room, but Greg spoke again, stopping her. "There's something else, Catherine." His voice sounded unusually hushed and serious.
Catherine faced him once more.
"I was looking over the knife--you know just to make sure I hadn't missed anything?" Greg explained. "And I found another blood stain. It was small, almost hidden under the knife handle, and it looked old. I ran some tests and it matches one of the victim's from Grissom's fifteen-year-old case."
"Excellent, Greg," Catherine said. "Now we have something to link Sampson to the old murders, too. That, plus Grissom's unknown thumbprint, is all we'll need." She took the folder from him. "Good work, Greg. Really good work. Thanks," she added sincerely.
Catherine's compliment caused an embarrassed grin to find its way onto Greg's face as he watched her return to the room. He retreated back to his lab, glad to have made a significant difference in the investigations.
She handed the new folder to Warrick and took up her previous position, facing Sampson down from across the table. Warrick took a look at Greg's new findings.
"Well, Mr. Sampson," she began. "Our lab technician did some more tests and we found your DNA on the collar of that bloody shirt." She paused to let that sink in. "So, now that we know the bloody items found in the trash actually do belong to you, do you have anything you'd like to tell us?"
As he glanced around the small room, Sampson's eyes moved from one person to another but they never lost their outward calmness, even as a curtain of blankness descended over them. When he spoke again, his voice was completely devoid of emotion. "It was time," was all he said.
Catherine and Warrick stared at him, then at each other. When it was clear that Sampson wasn't going to be forthcoming with any more information, Catherine tried to prompt him. "It was time for what?" she asked.
He remained silent, and Catherine changed her approach. She brought out the photos of the two victims from Grissom's original crime scene again. "Do you still claim not to know these women, Mr. Sampson?" she inquired.
His eyes dropped toward the table, and he seemed to be studying the pictures again, but Catherine wasn't even sure he was truly seeing them. He looked back up, a tinge of madness apparent in his glazed eyes, and said, "I waited. And then it was time again."
Catherine figured that was about all they were going to get out of him, but it didn't matter. She knew the evidence they had was strong enough to convict him of all five murders. She turned to Brass and was about to suggest that Sampson be escorted out and placed under arrest, when the suspect spoke again. "There was supposed to be another one, you know," he began. "The first time? Three. It was supposed to be three."
The two criminalists and Brass froze and listened as Sampson gave them details they hadn't known they had missed.
"There was going to be a third," Sampson continued. "I had her picked out. But the investigator was getting too close."
Brass, Catherine, and Warrick shared an intense glance as they all immediately realized Sampson was referring to Grissom. Their eyes automatically drifted to the mirrored window they knew Grissom was sitting behind.
But Grissom was completely unaware of their concerned looks, and of what Sampson was saying as he continued his rambling confession. The nightshift supervisor had had to give up listening as the overwhelming pain in his head had grown. First his ears had filled with a buzzing and his vision had blurred. He had dropped his head down and stared intently at the floor as he attempted to drive back the anguish, even just a little. But the intensity of the pain had only increased and he had been forced to close his eyes tightly against the fierce onslaught. His hands had automatically gone to his head in a futile effort to massage away the pain. Now all he could hear was the rushing of his own blood through his ears, and all he could see was the red-tinged blackness behind his closed lids.
Then, sudden, intense surges of nausea flooded his stomach, quickly increasing to a powerful level he knew he couldn't ignore or control for very long.
The three CSIs around him stood, seemingly hypnotized as they stared straight ahead through the one-way window, listening to Daniel Sampson's twisted words. Cohen finally averted her eyes and swallowed hard against the unexpected churning in her stomach. The coldness with which Sampson was relating more details of his killings was making her feel physically ill. But when she glanced over at Grissom, her own queasiness was quickly forgotten; he looked terrible—even worse than earlier. "Hey, are you all right?" she asked quietly, touching his shoulder.
He glanced up at her and she knew, without a doubt, that he wasn't all right, not at all.
Becoming more concerned, Cohen stepped over and nudged her partner. When Sears looked her way, Cohen indicated Grissom's appearance. "He does not look good," she whispered to the younger CSI.
By this time, Sara had realized something was going on behind her and she pulled her eyes away from Sampson's interrogation.
"Sara," Sears said, directing her attention to Grissom.
Once Sara fully focused on him, she recognized the greenish-gray pallor of his skin right away. She took his arm, rapidly helping him to his feet. "You're going to be sick?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
He moved his head just slightly, which was close enough to an affirmation for Sara to be certain she had to hurry him out of the observation room. "Come on," she said, trying to be gentle, but forceful, at the same time.
She led him down the hall, not caring where they ended up as long as it was in time and there was some kind of receptacle in the vicinity. She knew the bathrooms were nearby—she hoped close enough. They rounded a corner and the men's room was right there. The ladies' room was down a little further, but if that one had come first, she would have taken him in there; at this point, speed had become the sole determining factor. She pushed open the door and dragged him inside.
Grissom rushed into the first stall, dropped to his knees, and began retching violently. Sara cringed, sympathy for him flooding through her. She stood there in the middle of the men's bathroom, unsure what to do. She wanted to stay and take care of him, but at the same time she wanted to try and leave him with some semblance of dignity. She finally decided on the latter and stepped back out into the hall. The door closed and she began pacing back and forth in front of it.
After a few minutes, she heard the muffled sound of a toilet flushing, and then the faint squeak and rush of one of the sinks being turned on. She waited several more seconds, and then walked back inside. She found Grissom bent over the far sink; he was collecting double handfuls of water and lifting them to his face. After splashing the cold liquid onto his face and wetting down the back of his neck, he turned off the faucet. But he didn't straighten up; he remained there, leaning over and staring into the basin as the excess moisture dripped off his face, and blowing out the water that had gotten into his mouth.
Sara handed him a couple of paper towels and he dabbed at his wet face. She ran a hand up and down his back. "You all right?" she asked softly.
He looked at her, and his eyes were extremely weary, yet still held a touch of annoyance and disbelief.
"I'm sorry, I know that's the stupidest question ever," she said, giving him a small grin. She moved her hand to the side of his face and then began stroking his damp hair. "Are you ready to go?" she ventured carefully.
After a second, he nodded, finally standing up straight. She took his arm and they went back into the hall. Sara was glad that no one else had entered the bathroom while they had been in there; it would have only created an even more awkward situation. Unfortunately, that feeling left quickly as she noticed a familiar figure walking briskly toward them. He spotted them and Sara knew there was no avoiding him now. She and Grissom just stood there as Ecklie took three more long strides down the hall and stopped right in front of them.
"Well, hello, Gil," he said in an overly friendly tone. "I hear you were having a little trouble with your evidence this morning."
Sara wished that they had run into Ecklie a few minutes sooner. If the timing had been right, Grissom might have vomited all over the dayshift supervisor's shoes. Now that would have made her day. She smiled to herself at the thought, but tried to hide her imagined glee as she told Ecklie, "There was no problem. I don't know what you're talking about."
Ecklie directed a pointed glance toward the silent Grissom. "What's the matter, Gil, cat got your tongue?"
Grissom glared weakly at the other man; he was in no mood to discuss things right now. Everything that was going on around him felt far away and removed, like he wasn't really standing there. He was way beyond exhaustion and he was uncertain how much longer he could even stay on his feet. Grissom didn't have the patience or stamina to get into it with Ecklie, although he wanted to. He was furious with the dayshift supervisor and wanted to let him know exactly why, but at that moment he felt like he could barely utter a word. So he remained quiet, content to express his opinion of Ecklie through his eyes and body language.
Sara sensed Grissom's feelings and she knew that now was not the time for him to confront Ecklie.
Grissom still didn't say anything, but Ecklie continued to talk. "I'm surprised to see you here since I heard you were sick," he said. He pretended to study Grissom's appearance with concern. "You do look awful, Gil," he commented, not succeeding in completely keeping the perverse joy out of his voice. "It looks like you were heading home, which is probably a good idea. Don't worry. I'll hold down the fort while you're gone." He flashed the others an arrogant grin. "In fact, some of my team just broke open a huge case. That's why I'm here. I need to find Brass."
"Well, he's in interrogation right now," Sara informed him, in a mock-friendly tone. She began leading Grissom down the hall as she added, "You were right, we're just on our way out. So if you don't mind, we'll talk later." She managed to sound like she really meant it, and Ecklie finally walked away from them, making his way further down the corridor.
"Come on," Sara coaxed, getting Grissom moving again. She realized that the situation with Sampson wasn't quite over yet, but she was certain Grissom had no more interest in heading back to watch the rest of the interrogation. He looked completely spent, and she knew he must feel totally miserable. The fact that he was also being so quiet just made those things even more clear.
They had gone a few more steps when they saw Cohen and Sears coming from the other direction. "Hey," Sears said.
"Hey," Sara replied. "Is it over already?"
"Pretty much," Sears explained. She spoke quietly, but quickly, knowing that Sara needed to get Grissom home. "Sampson didn't exactly confess to everything, but he implied that he had been involved in the deaths of the women and Joey Winston. The evidence is strong enough that we didn't need him to just come out and say that he had done it." She took a breath before adding, "It was clear to everyone that this guy was very disturbed, although he projected control and intelligence. He fit the signature killer profile to a 'tee.'"
Cohen shuddered inwardly at the thought of Sampson calmly killing all those people. "Extremely creepy guy," she commented, nodding
"Yeah," Sara agreed.
The women's eyes moved to Grissom, and they realized they should wrap up the conversation quickly.
"Well, I'm gonna get him out of here," Sara said. "If you guys see Catherine would you tell her I took Grissom home?"
"Sure," Cohen answered. Suddenly remembering the Styrofoam cup she had in her hand, she offered it to the obviously ailing Grissom. "We grabbed some tea for you," she told him. "We thought you might need it on the way home. You know, to help settle your stomach?"
"Thanks," he whispered hoarsely.
"No problem," Cohen said, smiling. "Feel better."
"Yeah, get some rest," Sears added.
The two dayshift investigators headed away, but stopped and turned when they heard Sara's voice. "Hey, guys," she called to them. "Be on the alert, your boss is around here somewhere. Grissom and I just ran into him."
"Thanks for the warning, Sara," Sears called back. "We'll keep an eye out for him and use our best avoidance patterns."
She and Cohen continued on their way back to the interrogation area, as Sara and Grissom resumed walking in the direction of the exit. They reached it and she shuttled him out the door and toward her SUV, glad that he was finally going home and staying there.
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