AN: Here is another Greg POV. This is mostly a case-file centered part. Oh how the angst will
come. No end in sight...well there will be... I hope my case seems slightly believable...
Disclaimer: I don't own the show and the title comes from an Orgy song, whose name is escaping
me.
Warnings: Blood
Title: Dancing All Alone.
Part 3: It seemed to be an act of God.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
People are crying, wailing; so many people are in pain or shock. I just can't seem to block it out.
Their sobs are seeping through the Tahoe's windows and frame. There is just devastation as far as
I could see.
I'm still sitting in the passenger seat.
"Greg?" Catherine. She is still staring at me strangely. I turn and avoid her eyes and look outside
my window once more.
It is dark outside, we work the graveyard shift, so that doesn't surprise me, yet it was near the
end of our shift and the beginning of the workday so the Las Vegas morning should have been
shining. But it was dark.
It was then I remembered watching the Twin towers collapse and the spreading dust afterwards.
It was the dust from the collapsed building that obliterated the sky.
From where I am sitting, I should see the sky above.
There is a jagged column of steel jutting out of the concrete; smoke is still billowing out of a first
floor window that managed to stay relatively intact. But that isn't what I really noticed. What I
really see are the charred remains of the mass spectrometer, the shattered fume hood, and for
some reason, the way each small vial in the gas chromatograph had popped when I laid on the
floor.
I can see the lab in the remains of the First Continental Trade Bank.
Catherine tried again. "Greg, cat scratch or not, clean up and lets get going." she was out of the
SUV in no time, leaving me to stare down at my arm. Slowly I peel back the sleeve and wince as
part of the fabric stuck to the scabbing cut. There are only two 30 cuts on this arm and the one
that I reopened was the closest to my wrist. It looked better now, just a black, fresh scab. I knew
what Catherine meant when she told me to clean up, cross-contamination, so I just grabbed some
sanitized wipes and gauze to clean my arm.
Now, I'm good to go.
But looking outside the window, I wonder if I really want to...
I have a job to do and every dark thought has to be shoved to the side and I need to leave this
Tahoe.
The sound of people crying assaults me as soon as I open the door. It is chaotic as EMTs race by
with gurneys and even more navy jackets carrying bags.
Body bags.
This is serious, I know that now. This much more than the bombing that happened at the Hansen
Building. This could be that proverbial terrorist attack that everyone has been afraid of since
September of 2001.
The rest of the CSIs are standing slightly off to the side. It is strange to see Grissom and Ecklie
standing next to each other without trying out-macho-forensically each other. Catherine and Sara
are whispering softly, white-knuckled grips on their field kits while Nick and Warrick are both
looking at the site, grim expressions around their face masks.
I warily join the group. It is the EMTs and firefighters's scene right now. We can't do much. But
Catherine is giving me that searching look again as she snaps on her mask.
The dust choked sky is harmful to our lungs, but I conveniently forget to place one over my nose
and mouth, instead taking in a deep breath of harmful air particles.
Nick noticed my lack of protection as I slouched into position next to him. "Hey! G, here put this
on." he thrust a medical mask into my hands. "Don't want you scorching your lungs, now."
I take it quietly and watch the rescue operation and listen to the low buzz of conversation over
the wails of the injured.
"What are we looking at, Griss?" Catherine.
"All reports say that there was an explosion in the lobby subsequently followed by a series of
smaller explosions at surrounding support beams."
Sara. "This guy must have some prior construction knowledge."
"Doesn't take too much to put two and two together, Sara; blow support beams, building comes
down." Warrick was logical as ever.
"So then he wanted that building to come down." Sara crossed her arms under her chest and
stared ahead.
"Or he wanted to inflict maximum casualties." Nick quietly pointed it.
If that was this bomber's, excuse me terrorist's, goal, then he was successful. The paramedics
looked tapped out; too many hurt and too many dead. The First Continental Trade Bank was a
bank on the first floor, but it also housed ad businesses on the other floors. Looking down at my
watch, it says a little after nine, so we would have gone off shift by now if the night shift hadn't
been in the middle of a double and Vegas blue-collar workers would have been sitting behind their
desks when these bombs went off.
This guy knew when to hit.
Or guys, for that matter.
There was a tap on my should that caused me to turn and meet the harried expression of an EMT.
"Can any of you help with triage?" he asked, directing the question to entire ensemble of the Las
Vegas Crime Lab.
Well, as part of crime department, we all basically had medical training. I know I have. All eyes
turned to Grissom, who nodded and gestured to me and Nick, "You two go and help, the rest are
going to start combing the tertiary and secondary areas; lets leave the impact zone to the rescue
teams for now."
I winced as Nick and I followed the EMT. He handed us the color coded tags to help sort the
victims.
"You guys know which colors, right?" the man raised an eyebrow over his mask. If they weren't
so desperate, I know they would never have asked the crime lab for help.
"Red: immediate stabilization. Yellow: care can be somewhat delayed. Green: doesn't need or just
delayed treatment. And black: dead or imminent death." I whispered through my mask.
The EMT gave me a look similar to the one a kindergarten teachers gives the idiot child that
unexpectedly gives a right answer. "Yes, now the victims have been relocated into the secondary
area, just sort them by color." with his slightly obvious direction, the EMT rushed off to do his
own work.
Nick gave me a look that I couldn't identify with the mask covering the lower half of his face.
"You sure you can do this Greggo?" he asked quietly. Out of all the CSI, Nick seemed to
understand what I was feeling the most.
"Yeah." I answered shortly, I just needed to get this over with. Looping the tags around my wrist,
I pulled the plastic tightly so that it dug into a cut. I moved away from him to check on the first
patient that I came across.
It was a middle aged woman who was holding her head. "Ma'am, my name is Greg Sanders. How
are you feeling?" she looked alert enough to answer. But while waiting, I pulled my small
flashlight from my pocket and went about checking her vital.
"My head hurts." she stated simply, looking lost. I didn't blame her. "I..I can't seem to remember
what happened."
It looked like a concussion. Her pupils were sluggish, but she was responding. She also had what
seemed to be a broken arm. Unfortunately I couldn't spend much more time with her, there were
so many more people out there. So I smiled thinly, in an effort to reassure her and placed a green
tag around her neck and moved on.
The next person was much more difficult. There was a large chunk of metal lodged in the throat
of a young man dressed in what once was a crisp suit. Blood was bubbling out from around the
wound, staining his lips, even some from his ears. He looked so young, my age maybe; probably
one of those straight from college on the up and up type business majors on his first job. Now he
was shaking as his blood poured out. I knew he was going to make it.
My hands started to tremble as I reached for a black tag. I was about to give this guy a death
sentence. Paranoia struck then. What if I was wrong? What if the doctors at the hospital could
save him?
But as I saw his eyes start to turn red and more blood spilled out from his mouth; I knew he was
slipping. Wincing, I placed the black tag around his neck, avoiding the object that jutted out.
I had to move on.
Red tags, green tags, yellow and black. So many people I had to pick and choose to live and die.
But I surprised myself that I didn't freeze. I was numb, actually.
A couple of hours ago I was thinking of the different ways to end my life. Now here I am ending
others. I felt, in a sadistic way, like God.
"Oh God..." I didn't realized that I had dropped my tags and was just staring blankly around the
site. "I don't know what to do..."
A hand closed around my forearm and twisted me around. The noise from all around me covered
my gasp of pain from where the hand gripped my cut arm. I was turned to meet the wild eyes of
an aging man, who was dressed like a homeless man.
Then again, with all the dust and debris, everyone was looking like a bum.
"Mister, mister please....you need to help me." he spoke with a slight slur but he seemed to have a
head wound.
Funny he should ask me that, when I can't even help myself.
"Please, mister, my friends....where...where are they?"
"What floor did they work on?" I asked dully, besides the triage, we've been sorting the victims
that were mobile by floors and business.
"They didn't work on any of the floors." the man gripped my other hand and pulled me closer.
"Mister, this building, it is, it was, our home. The alley, we sometimes stayed there in the night.
No one bothered us. It was safe."
I could smell a slight bit of alcohol now as he pulled me close to him. I took a closer look and
realized my first impression was right, he was a homeless man. All my frustration seemed to
dissipate as I heard his words.
"I'm afraid, mister, no one knows we were there...no one knows if they are dead." the dust
covered face did nothing to hide the wide, fearful eyes.
It seemed to be an act of God.
CSIs can tract who was all in the building at the time of the bomb's denotation, they could find
everyone who worked there, alive, hurt, dead, or dust, but no one could find out for sure how
many homeless people were using the surrounding areas as their home, or just a place for a nap.
They would have died alone.
Could this be an act of God?
"Please, mister, find them..."
come. No end in sight...well there will be... I hope my case seems slightly believable...
Disclaimer: I don't own the show and the title comes from an Orgy song, whose name is escaping
me.
Warnings: Blood
Title: Dancing All Alone.
Part 3: It seemed to be an act of God.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
People are crying, wailing; so many people are in pain or shock. I just can't seem to block it out.
Their sobs are seeping through the Tahoe's windows and frame. There is just devastation as far as
I could see.
I'm still sitting in the passenger seat.
"Greg?" Catherine. She is still staring at me strangely. I turn and avoid her eyes and look outside
my window once more.
It is dark outside, we work the graveyard shift, so that doesn't surprise me, yet it was near the
end of our shift and the beginning of the workday so the Las Vegas morning should have been
shining. But it was dark.
It was then I remembered watching the Twin towers collapse and the spreading dust afterwards.
It was the dust from the collapsed building that obliterated the sky.
From where I am sitting, I should see the sky above.
There is a jagged column of steel jutting out of the concrete; smoke is still billowing out of a first
floor window that managed to stay relatively intact. But that isn't what I really noticed. What I
really see are the charred remains of the mass spectrometer, the shattered fume hood, and for
some reason, the way each small vial in the gas chromatograph had popped when I laid on the
floor.
I can see the lab in the remains of the First Continental Trade Bank.
Catherine tried again. "Greg, cat scratch or not, clean up and lets get going." she was out of the
SUV in no time, leaving me to stare down at my arm. Slowly I peel back the sleeve and wince as
part of the fabric stuck to the scabbing cut. There are only two 30 cuts on this arm and the one
that I reopened was the closest to my wrist. It looked better now, just a black, fresh scab. I knew
what Catherine meant when she told me to clean up, cross-contamination, so I just grabbed some
sanitized wipes and gauze to clean my arm.
Now, I'm good to go.
But looking outside the window, I wonder if I really want to...
I have a job to do and every dark thought has to be shoved to the side and I need to leave this
Tahoe.
The sound of people crying assaults me as soon as I open the door. It is chaotic as EMTs race by
with gurneys and even more navy jackets carrying bags.
Body bags.
This is serious, I know that now. This much more than the bombing that happened at the Hansen
Building. This could be that proverbial terrorist attack that everyone has been afraid of since
September of 2001.
The rest of the CSIs are standing slightly off to the side. It is strange to see Grissom and Ecklie
standing next to each other without trying out-macho-forensically each other. Catherine and Sara
are whispering softly, white-knuckled grips on their field kits while Nick and Warrick are both
looking at the site, grim expressions around their face masks.
I warily join the group. It is the EMTs and firefighters's scene right now. We can't do much. But
Catherine is giving me that searching look again as she snaps on her mask.
The dust choked sky is harmful to our lungs, but I conveniently forget to place one over my nose
and mouth, instead taking in a deep breath of harmful air particles.
Nick noticed my lack of protection as I slouched into position next to him. "Hey! G, here put this
on." he thrust a medical mask into my hands. "Don't want you scorching your lungs, now."
I take it quietly and watch the rescue operation and listen to the low buzz of conversation over
the wails of the injured.
"What are we looking at, Griss?" Catherine.
"All reports say that there was an explosion in the lobby subsequently followed by a series of
smaller explosions at surrounding support beams."
Sara. "This guy must have some prior construction knowledge."
"Doesn't take too much to put two and two together, Sara; blow support beams, building comes
down." Warrick was logical as ever.
"So then he wanted that building to come down." Sara crossed her arms under her chest and
stared ahead.
"Or he wanted to inflict maximum casualties." Nick quietly pointed it.
If that was this bomber's, excuse me terrorist's, goal, then he was successful. The paramedics
looked tapped out; too many hurt and too many dead. The First Continental Trade Bank was a
bank on the first floor, but it also housed ad businesses on the other floors. Looking down at my
watch, it says a little after nine, so we would have gone off shift by now if the night shift hadn't
been in the middle of a double and Vegas blue-collar workers would have been sitting behind their
desks when these bombs went off.
This guy knew when to hit.
Or guys, for that matter.
There was a tap on my should that caused me to turn and meet the harried expression of an EMT.
"Can any of you help with triage?" he asked, directing the question to entire ensemble of the Las
Vegas Crime Lab.
Well, as part of crime department, we all basically had medical training. I know I have. All eyes
turned to Grissom, who nodded and gestured to me and Nick, "You two go and help, the rest are
going to start combing the tertiary and secondary areas; lets leave the impact zone to the rescue
teams for now."
I winced as Nick and I followed the EMT. He handed us the color coded tags to help sort the
victims.
"You guys know which colors, right?" the man raised an eyebrow over his mask. If they weren't
so desperate, I know they would never have asked the crime lab for help.
"Red: immediate stabilization. Yellow: care can be somewhat delayed. Green: doesn't need or just
delayed treatment. And black: dead or imminent death." I whispered through my mask.
The EMT gave me a look similar to the one a kindergarten teachers gives the idiot child that
unexpectedly gives a right answer. "Yes, now the victims have been relocated into the secondary
area, just sort them by color." with his slightly obvious direction, the EMT rushed off to do his
own work.
Nick gave me a look that I couldn't identify with the mask covering the lower half of his face.
"You sure you can do this Greggo?" he asked quietly. Out of all the CSI, Nick seemed to
understand what I was feeling the most.
"Yeah." I answered shortly, I just needed to get this over with. Looping the tags around my wrist,
I pulled the plastic tightly so that it dug into a cut. I moved away from him to check on the first
patient that I came across.
It was a middle aged woman who was holding her head. "Ma'am, my name is Greg Sanders. How
are you feeling?" she looked alert enough to answer. But while waiting, I pulled my small
flashlight from my pocket and went about checking her vital.
"My head hurts." she stated simply, looking lost. I didn't blame her. "I..I can't seem to remember
what happened."
It looked like a concussion. Her pupils were sluggish, but she was responding. She also had what
seemed to be a broken arm. Unfortunately I couldn't spend much more time with her, there were
so many more people out there. So I smiled thinly, in an effort to reassure her and placed a green
tag around her neck and moved on.
The next person was much more difficult. There was a large chunk of metal lodged in the throat
of a young man dressed in what once was a crisp suit. Blood was bubbling out from around the
wound, staining his lips, even some from his ears. He looked so young, my age maybe; probably
one of those straight from college on the up and up type business majors on his first job. Now he
was shaking as his blood poured out. I knew he was going to make it.
My hands started to tremble as I reached for a black tag. I was about to give this guy a death
sentence. Paranoia struck then. What if I was wrong? What if the doctors at the hospital could
save him?
But as I saw his eyes start to turn red and more blood spilled out from his mouth; I knew he was
slipping. Wincing, I placed the black tag around his neck, avoiding the object that jutted out.
I had to move on.
Red tags, green tags, yellow and black. So many people I had to pick and choose to live and die.
But I surprised myself that I didn't freeze. I was numb, actually.
A couple of hours ago I was thinking of the different ways to end my life. Now here I am ending
others. I felt, in a sadistic way, like God.
"Oh God..." I didn't realized that I had dropped my tags and was just staring blankly around the
site. "I don't know what to do..."
A hand closed around my forearm and twisted me around. The noise from all around me covered
my gasp of pain from where the hand gripped my cut arm. I was turned to meet the wild eyes of
an aging man, who was dressed like a homeless man.
Then again, with all the dust and debris, everyone was looking like a bum.
"Mister, mister please....you need to help me." he spoke with a slight slur but he seemed to have a
head wound.
Funny he should ask me that, when I can't even help myself.
"Please, mister, my friends....where...where are they?"
"What floor did they work on?" I asked dully, besides the triage, we've been sorting the victims
that were mobile by floors and business.
"They didn't work on any of the floors." the man gripped my other hand and pulled me closer.
"Mister, this building, it is, it was, our home. The alley, we sometimes stayed there in the night.
No one bothered us. It was safe."
I could smell a slight bit of alcohol now as he pulled me close to him. I took a closer look and
realized my first impression was right, he was a homeless man. All my frustration seemed to
dissipate as I heard his words.
"I'm afraid, mister, no one knows we were there...no one knows if they are dead." the dust
covered face did nothing to hide the wide, fearful eyes.
It seemed to be an act of God.
CSIs can tract who was all in the building at the time of the bomb's denotation, they could find
everyone who worked there, alive, hurt, dead, or dust, but no one could find out for sure how
many homeless people were using the surrounding areas as their home, or just a place for a nap.
They would have died alone.
Could this be an act of God?
"Please, mister, find them..."