Gil Grissom was sleepy-eyed and lethargic when he arrived on the scene that had pulled him from his apartment at the dead of night. He tried to hide it and did a good job, surprised and pleased with himself that he had slept at all.
A robbery of a 24-hour convenience store called Stop-n-Go had ended in three DB's and a missing cache of two hundred dollars. Catherine on the phone had said the scene was "red", meaning there was a lot of bloodshed. Blood didn't ruffle Grissom at the least, but it was always nice to have a heads-up, especially at five AM.
"Hey, Gil," Catherine greeted. She was waiting outside the door of the Stop-n-Go with her field kit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
"Good morning," Grissom said tersely as he ducked under the crime scene tape.
"You look like crap," she said, jokingly. She could tell by the way his eyes drooped that he hadn't gotten much sleep.
"Thank you. Where's Nick?"
"On his way; Brass's behind him."
Grissom tucked his CSI cap in his jacket pocket. "What's the scene?"
"Well, an older gentleman walked into the Stop-n-Go on an early-morning run for a paper and some cigarettes. What he actually walked into was a scene. He took one look at the blood on the counter, ran down the street to a payphone and called the cops. Like I said, three DB's: two male, one female—"
"Catherine?" Connie Timmons, one of the paramedics, popped out her blonde head of the Stop-n-Go, her gray eyes wide. "Grissom? You guys better come see this."
Catherine dropped her coffee and hightailed it into the store and Grissom followed suit, still clutching his field kit.
They entered the Stop-n-Go and saw four paramedics swarming around a stretcher that supposedly held a body. They could hear one of them speaking to it,
"Sir, Can you hear me?…what's his name? Adrian?…Adrian! Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me Adrian! Adrian! Can you hear me? Open your eyes again, Adrian…"
Catherine gave Connie a curious look.
"We have a live one," Connie replied.
"He's alive?"
"I went to check his pulse and heartbeat and he opened his eyes. I put my hand in his and he gripped it a bit."
Grissom frowned, "Are you sure it wasn't a reflex?"
"He blinked four times. We checked him out, Grissom, he's got a pulse and a heartbeat. They're weak, but he's got 'em. We're rushing him to ICU as fast as we can."
"By all means," Catherine flashed a small smile. She went to talk to another paramedic while Connie explained the situation to Grissom.
"I swear, we thought he was cooked," Connie said, her eyes sparkling with adrenaline. "When we arrived, there was just so much blood. But, as you know, it's standard procedure to check for pulse and heartbeat, regardless.
"He was shot twice in the back but the bullets didn't exit. One went though and through via the liver and a fourth nicked his hip. Look, I'm really sorry if this screws up your crime scene, but if we don't get him to Emergency and put a few pints of blood back into him, the body count will go up to three for real."
Grissom looked around the convenience store. He saw the body of a Hispanic woman lying face-down, swimming in a pool of her own blood by the checkout counter, which was also covered in blood. The third body was yet to be seen. "Go ahead," he directed. "But be careful."
As the paramedics pulled the stretcher out of the Stop-n-Go, Grissom caught a glimpse of the young man. He did indeed look dead, his skin pale and his eyes closed. Blood was matted in his reddish-brown hair. A breathing apparatus was attached to his nose and mouth and an IV was already inserted into his arm. The paramedics whisked him away and into the truck.
"Has anyone identified him yet?" Grissom asked Catherine as they watched the ambulance turn on its lights and whisk away.
"Yep," Catherine said. "Adrian Lowe. Twenty-one years young. They found his wallet. He's not local—his driver's license says California. Palo Alto, to be exact. He had a few pictures in there." Catherine tugged on a pair of gloves and dipped into a plastic bag she took from her field kit, withdrawing a brown leather wallet. "Pictures are in here…girlfriend and his kids, maybe?"
Grissom took the wallet from Catherine, but not before putting on gloves of his own, pulling them from his vest pocket. She showed him a picture of two girls, identical twins, with long, dark red hair. They were blowing kisses to the camera. He took the picture from it's holder and scrutinized it. It was recent. The date on the back stated that it was taken only last year.
"No," Grissom said. "They look too old."
"Think this might be his girlfriend?" Catherine flipped to a photo of a strikingly gorgeous woman with strawberry-blond hair and bluish eyes. Grissom felt a bit of a déjà vu coming on as he examined it. He shook his head and said no.
"Anything missing from the wallet?" he then asked.
"Nope. Well, minus five dollars," Catherine said sadly. "All he wanted was some milk." She gestured towards a white plastic bag, bloodied and ripped, revealing the carton. "Poor kid."
"What about the others?" Grissom asked. He put his field kit down carefully.
"If you look behind the counter, you'll find contestant number two," Catherine said. "Mason Ziegler, a.k.a. Mazz, Stop-n-Go employee. Twenty-five. Shot once in the head, point black. That's all it took."
Grissom gingerly stepped over and peered behind the counter as Catherine suggested. A white male was sprawled on his back, dressed in a faded T-shirt advertising Ozzfest '97 and baggy, torn up jeans. His dark brown hair was dreadlocked and adorned with a macramé hair wrap and he sported a scruffy goatee. He looked, unfortunately, like one of the many Rastafarian-wannabe-potheads one would occasionally encounter in a high school environment. He gave Catherine an odd stare.
"Did this boy think he was Bob Marley? Because he's not the only one. Can't go a day without seeing one somewhere."
Catherine shrugged. "No woman no cry."
"I don't know about that—what about the woman over there?"
"Pancha Nichols. Forty-two. She was shot in the head, stomach and chest an estimated total of six times."
Grissom knelt down beside the body of Pancha Nichols, taking pity on her and the violence she'd suffered. Her black hair was matted and her face was covered in blood. Her eyes, once a rich chocolate brown, were clouded over with death. As he leaned in to inspect what looked like a knife wound on her cheek, he heard a crash. He cocked his head, making sure that wasn't his imagination.
"Did you—?"
"Yeah," Catherine's hand went to her gun. "I did."
Grissom stood. "Shh," he ordered her, though she said nothing. They stood still until they heard another crash. It was softer but still audible. He pointed in the direction of where he figured the sound was coming from, towards the back of the store. He and Catherine tiptoed until a third crash sounded.
This one led them exactly to the point of origin—the broom closet. The pair approached it silently. They were both thinking the same thing: the criminal often returns to the scene of the crime.
"I'm going to open the door," Grissom whispered. "You ready?"
Catherine nodded and removed her gun from her holster. She cocked it and aimed. "Ready."
Taking a deep breath, Grissom quickly flung open the door and a high-pitched scream emitted from within. Catherine, frightened, gave a yelp and dropped her gun. Thankfully, it didn't go off when it hit the floor.
"What? What is it?" Grissom prompted Catherine to answer. When she didn't speak and just stood frozen from shock, Grissom peered inside for a look.
Surrounded by brooms and cleaning supplies, fallen buckets and brushes, was a young girl, cowering in the fetal position, trembling. Her skin was light brown, her hair black-blue. The front of her white long-sleeved T-shirt was covered in blood. She also wore silky blue pajama pants adorned with yellow moons and stars and her feet donned battered white tennis shoes She was sobbing, obviously frightened to death at seeing a gun being pointed at her, perhaps for the second time that night.
"I'm okay," Catherine said, breathlessly. "I think I just had a stroke, but I'm okay." She bent down to pick up her gun and replaced it in her holster.
"You sure you're alright?"
"I'll live another day, Gil. But I'm not the one who needs help now," She knelt in the doorway. "Hello," she said to the girl in a calm voice, though her heart was pounding in her throat. "Can you tell me your name?"
The girl, startled, inched away from Catherine.
"My name is Catherine," Catherine continued. "Can you tell me yours?"
No answer.
Grissom jumped into the conversation. "Do you speak English?" he asked curiously.
To the surprise of the CSI's, the girl slowly lifted her head and nodded.
"At least that's progress," Catherine murmured.
"My name," the girl said in a soft whisper, "is Marquita Dali. I am Pancha Nichols's niece. Is she still here?"
Catherine's face fell. She helplessly looked up at Grissom, who was leaning against the door in defeat.
"Marquita," Grissom said, his tongue getting the crisp Latino pronunciation of her name, "how old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Are you hurt, Marquita?" Catherine asked. She eyed the blood on the girl's shirt.
Marquita un-scrunched herself from the position she was sitting in, unwrapped her left hand from a cleaning rag and, like a terrified kitten, crept over to Catherine on her hands and knees, holding out her hand.
"Gil," Catherine said, taking Marquita's bloodied hand in her gloved ones. "Get down to kiddy-level and take a look at this."
Grissom knelt beside Catherine, slid his glasses on over his face and saw clearly what Marquita was displaying.
She had been impaled through the hand with a very sharp object, perhaps a knife or dagger, and a long one at that. Her hand was covered in blood, but the stab wound was clear and clean, through-and-through. She had been pierced through the palm and the tip of the blade had come out on the other side and then hastily pulled out. It was gruesome and would definitely need stitches.
"You poor thing," Catherine cooed. "Gil, get me some swabs please."
Grissom went to his field kit and pulled out some cotton swabs and a few envelopes for Catherine, who pulled on a clean pair of gloves. When he came back to the broom closet, Marquita was being a little more piqued.
"I don't need sympathy," Marquita said, pulling her hand away. "Or doctoring. I want my aunt and I want to go home."
Catherine took Marquita's hand back. "We'll let you go home, Marquita, if you please tell us what happened."
"And Aunt Pancha and me can go home?"
Grissom looked over his shoulder and saw where Pancha Nichols was still lying, her blood empty from her body. In the distance, he could see Nick pulling up in the CSI Tahoe. Captain Jim Brass wasn't far behind in his cop car.
"Yes," Catherine was saying, babying the girl as if she was Lindsey's age, not having the guts to tell her Marquita would be going home alone.
"Marquita," Grissom said as Catherine swabbed the wound, "Will you be able to tell us what happened?"
"I was stabbed like a side of beef, that's what happened. Look, are you guys cops? Because that last time? With that rock thing? It wasn't my fault. It was my friend Paula, see, and she was the one who picked up the rock and—"
"We're not cops," Grissom said, trying to keep Marquita from babbling and saying something she might regret later on. "We're just Crime Scene Investigators."
"You mean, CSI's? Hey, that's cool. Why didn't you say so?" Marquita brightened a little. "My brothers watch those shows on TV all the time—Forensic Files and shit like that. Pretty blazin'. Aunt Pancha likes 'em too. She'll wanna meet you guys. Where did she go?"
The entrance bell of the Stop-n-Go rang and Catherine could feel Marquita's muscles tense up, even just by holding her hand.
"Hello? Anyone alive in here?" came Nick Stokes's Texas drawl.
"In the back," Grissom called, not taking his eyes off of Marquita's palm. "Is Brass with you?"
"Right here," Jim Brass replied, a northern New Jersey accent in his voice. He looked in the direction of Pancha Nichols's "You guys weren't kidding—'red scene' is right."
"Really," awed Nick, eyeballing the mass quantities of blood. "I thought you said three DB's. I only see one." He approached the closet, where Catherine and Marquita were crouched on the floor. Catherine had one hand by Marquita's wrist and the other underneath her hand. The blood from Marquita's stab wound was still fresh, and was pooling in the cavity of Catherine's palm. Nick rested his field kit on a shelf of paper towels and took a roll. He unwrapped it, tore a few sheets off and handed them to Catherine, who took them graciously.
"Jim Brass, Nick Stokes, meet Marquita Dali," Grissom said to the police captain and his fellow CSI. "Right now she's our only conscious survivor."
"Hi," Marquita said softly. She took one look at Nick, blushed and fluttered her eyelashes. Then she stared at her hand. It killed like a bitch but she didn't want to tell them that, especially this sexy stud. Marquita felt her fingers going numb and her palm pulsated with searing pain but she held her tongue.
"I thought you said three DB's," Nick repeated.
"Interesting story," Grissom said. "One of our gunshot victims? He was still alive when the meds arrived."
"Twenty-one-year-old kid survived two to the back and one through the liver," Catherine added. "He's supposedly in surgery right now." Her eyes flew to Grissom's watch on the wrist that hung at his side. "If he makes it…"
"One DB is behind the counter. Nick, if you could take care of the pictures…?"
"Sure."
"The other DB, which you probably saw on your way in, is…" Grissom glanced at Marquita Dali. "I'm sorry Marquita," he said sadly. "But one of the dead is your aunt."
Marquita gasped. She felt nauseous and light-headed. Her hand flew to her throat—unfortunately, it was her injured hand. It smeared blood along her neck and the collar of her shirt. Then, unconsciously, her hand went to her forehead, smearing more blood. She began to cry, tears pouring from her eyes faster than the blood from her hand. Her body heaved with sobs.
"Whoa," Nick jumped in with a second paper towel, trying to wipe off the blood as Catherine prompted her to stay cognizant.
"Marquita?" Catherine put her hands on the girl's shoulders. "Stay conscious, honey."
"Ask her questions, Cath, keep her alert," Grissom advised. "Don't let her slip away."
"C'mon, stay strong, Marquita," Nick cheered her on.
Instead, Marquita made a strange guttural noise and the three CSI's and police captain watched in horror as the teenager's eyes rolled back into her head and promptly fainted, falling forward into Catherine's embrace.