A/N: I accredit all my ballistics and gun information to www.beretta.com. Special thanks to the gun enthusiasts on that website and to Janet Finch for making the Beretta Astrid's favorite gun in White Oleander .
Sara found the gun exactly where Catherine said it would be. A little black gun, as unintimidating as a water pistol, encased in plastic. She took it and the small evidence bag of bullets that were taken from the bodies of Pancha Nichols and Mason Ziegler to ballistics, where Wesley Kildare was on shift, taking over for Bobby.
Wesley was one of Sara's favorite ballisticians. He was one of the new guys, been at CSI for only five years, but he was a fast learner and extremely erudite in his field. He was about twenty-seven and kept his hair buzzed close to his head, so determining its color was impossible, and he had dark green eyes. Plus he was about as gay as they came, which was no secret at CSI.
Commonly called Kill or Killshot due to his last name and expertise and adorned with more tattoos than Sara could count, Wesley Kildare was from New York, and proud of it. He was a reformed gang member—probably the only gay gang member in that tri-state area—turned science geek. His extensive knowledge of the ballistic field earned him a high ranking.
"Kill," Sara said, coming into the ballistics lab, "I got a gun for you."
"Aha," Kill smiled. He sat up from his chair, which he was tilting back in, reading a book in a tank top and a pair of jeans covered in pen doodles. A stereo in the corner softly played Paul McCartney, a welcome change from the usual heavy metal that secreted from Greg's DNA lab like a nasty wound. "And it's not even my birthday."
Sara laughed and then became serious. She held out the bags with the gun and bullets. "This is evidence in a robbery/murder case at a little convenience store on Howell called the Stop-n-Go. Two people dead. This is probably the murder weapon; it was found at the scene and these are the bullets pulled from the bodies of the vics. What can you tell me about this little number?" she nodded towards the gun.
Kill tugged on a pair of gloves and as he did so, Sara admired his tattoos. She estimated there were at least a dozen on his right arm alone. Then her eyes wandered to the book he was reading as Kill pulled on his lab coat.
"A Clockwork Orange?" she commented.
"Yeah. Have you read it?" Kill asked, taking the gun from it's bag.
"In tenth grade," Sara shrugged. "I walked around speaking in nadsat for about a week afterwards. It's a…zammechat razkazz," she said, using the language Anthony Burgess had created specifically for the novel.
"I always liked: 'what does God want? Does God want goodness or choice of goodness? Is the man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better than the man who has the good imposed on him?'" Kill shot Sara a sideways glance and flashed a prizewinning smile like a thespian finishing a successful audition.
"That's not nadsat. Where's the fun in it?" Sara grinned.
"It's a really great passage. Ooooh, this is a nice one, no doubt," Kill exclaimed, changing directions once he had the firearm in his hands. He held it carefully so he wouldn't smudge any prints that were on there. "Yeah, yeah. When I was still in the Wulf Pac, Denmark used a gun like this to kill Jimmy-Jimmy Larson from the Red Triangle Boys ten years ago. Damn, that was a great rumble. Jimmy-Jimmy comes out all yellin' like how he's gonna kill Denmark and shit and the sonuvabitch pulls a letter opener. A letter opener, Sara! He might as well have drawn a credit card. We were all laughing like crazy. But the laughter sure as hell stopped when Denmark whipped out his…Beretta pistol." Kill twirled the gun on his finger and laid it on his examination table.
"It's a Beretta?" Sara crossed her arms.
"Cute aren't they?" Kill sank back into his chair. "Sleek, simple and discreet—much like a Kate Spade purse. Do you like Kate Spade?"
"I'm a couple of zeros short in my paycheck to be sporting a Kate Spade, Kill. Let's not get off topic or else we're not going to the mall after shift."
"Well, fine, be like that," pouted Kill. "Unlike me, the Beretta compact pistol is only about seven inches long and four and a half inches high. Weighs about two pounds. This particular baby is a Beretta Cougar. Or, more specifically, and eighty-forty Mini Cougar F. The Cougar's a relatively new model."
"It's new?"
"Yeah. Well, not new-new, but it's new as guns go. I'd say this model came out three years ago, about six years after I did," Kill kidded. "It's one inch shorter in the grip and weighs about four ounces lighter than the Cougar L, its big brother. The one that Denmark used to kill Jimmy-Jimmy was a Beretta 21 Bobcat, but I digress."
"Okay, great," Sara said, nodding. "Uh, at the scene, there was a total of eleven shots fired at the robbery so the eighty-forty would work right?"
"Surely. The eighty-forty Beretta can carry up to eleven magazines, as opposed to the eight thousand which can carry fifteen and the eighty-forty-five which can carry eight. This thing was practically made for robberies, especially the Cougar here. See how all the edges are rounded? It's carefully finished, which makes it virtually snag-proof and superbly simple to draw and conceal. It's one of the most advanced pistols in its class. It's called 'user-friendly', due to the contoured frame and grips that make it easy to control during firing." Kill stroked the barrel like a kitten.
"What can you tell me about the bullets the Cougar can take?"
"A spectrum, my dear Miss Sidle, a spectrum. A lot of heavy shit: nine millimeter, 357 SIG, 40 Smith & Wesson or the 45 ACP."
"Wow. High power."
"Hell yes. This thing couples 'concealability' with serious firepower. This little prick can pack a punch, lemme tell ya, Sara. Everyone thinks the Glock is the perfect gun? Puh-leeze, they are so wrong! I mean, I could kiss this gun, it's so perfect."
"Please don't, Kill," Sara winced. "Grissom would be all over your ass for contaminating evidence."
"I wouldn't mind having him on my ass," joked Kill.
Sara shuddered. "Ew. Kill, come on."
"What's the matter, don't like a pretty man like me all over your sugar daddy?"
"You know, you're lucky that this Beretta Cougar F isn't loaded right now."
"I know…I know. But listen, you better jump on that man's bones before they turn to dust."
"Kill!"
"Just giving you my professional opinion!" Kill held his hands up in defense.
"Your professional opinion is only valid in the field of firearms only. So let's talk about that other than my sex life, okay? Talk about the bullets."
"Okay, okay." Kill sighed and emptied the bullets onto his table beside the Beretta. There were seven so far: six from Pancha Nichols and one from Mason Ziegler. The two bullets lodged in Adrian Lowe had yet to be handed over. He whistled along to "Blackbird" as he held each bullet up to the light, rolled it around between his thumb and forefinger and then carefully placed it upright. "Congratulations, Sara Sidle. It's a healthy, standard nine millimeter."
"Is it?" Sara got a little excited.
"Looks like it." Kill rubbed his cheek with his forearm.
"That's pretty standard. Should be tricky but you said the Beretta Cougar was a new model, right?"
"No, not really. It's at least three years old."
"Think we could get any prints off any of the bullets?"
"Nope," Kill shrugged.
"No? Why?" Sara crinkled her brow.
"You asked me what I think, and I'm telling you. It's not my job to think. I do the CSI shit work."
"You think playing with guns and bullets is shit work, Kill? Let's trade places for a day and after you go through liquefied body parts and decomposing flesh, we'll see who does the shit work."
"Do you need some Midol, sweetie?"
"You know, I hate you so much right now."
Gil Grissom was turning a corner on his way to the DNA lab when he slammed right into Sara Sidle who was exiting ballistics.
"Oh!" they both exclaimed at the same time and both went down to collect the papers that had scattered all over the floor, which they were both carrying.
"Sorry," Grissom mumbled.
"My bad," Sara apologized. "Um, I just got out of ballistics."
"I know. What'd you find out?" asked Grissom as he stood up. Sara followed suit.
"Kill said that the gun is an eighty-forty Mini Beretta Cougar F. The bullets are a nine millimeter and that this particular model was relatively new," Sara replied, chipper about her findings and hoping to please her dour supervisor.
"Oh?" Grissom said, somewhat disconnected.
"Gris, are you okay?" Sara blurted suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Well, you're just…" she sighed. "You know what? Never mind. I gotta go get to my fingerprinting."
"Okay," Grissom tilted his head as he watched Sara walk away, who was looking the way he felt right now—completely tired and utterly angry at the world.
"Beretta Cougar?" Nick scratched his head. "I've never even heard of those. Is it a new model?"
"Wesley Kildare said it was at least three years old," Sara explained. Nick and Catherine were getting ready to take their track to Mason Ziegler's home, the address of which they'd gotten from Stop-n-Go employee records. They'd contacted Steven Markham, the manager, who'd given them all the specifics. Mason lived with his older brother on Clearview Road, quite a drive from HQ.
"Relatively new," Nick nodded. "What's it carry?"
"Well, it can take, according to Kill, a proverbial spectrum of bullets, including nine mil, which is what was found in Pancha Nichols and Mason Ziegler."
"Great start," Catherine complimented. "Nick, we better be getting a move-on."
"Gotcha," Nick said, tugging his CSI cap on his head. "Good luck on the fingerprinting, Sara."
"Thanks," Sara sighed.
"Oh, and make sure Warrick is on the video tape?" Catherine reminded her. "Check up on him every few minutes."
"Will do."
"And remember—Grissom equals eggshells."
Sara didn't have to be told that twice.
Sara enjoyed peace and quiet in a little corner of the lab as she took apart the Beretta and dusted each part carefully and hoped Kill didn't smudge anything. As much as she adored Kill, he'd royally pissed her off. Usually, she let him because sometimes it was funny. But even Kill knew he'd crossed the line and had apologized with a peck on the cheek as Sara left the ballistics lab and a promise to get her a Kate Spade bag for her next birthday.
"You'll be twenty-nine, right?" he winked.
To Sara's contentment, there was only one set of fingerprints on the Beretta. This was not unusual and it made everything easier, because this would point them to the shooter and hopefully end the case as quickly as possible.
"Tah-dah!" she sang to herself as she held up the transfer tape up to the light with one clear fingerprint off the magazine holder and a partial off the trigger. She did not, however, find one on the firing pin release, which she found odd. How do you fire a gun without cocking it first?
She scanned the print into the computer and entered it into AFIS. Then she sat back with a can of Dr. Pepper and waited for a match. She watched all the fingerprints, green from the screen's LCD, flash by, one by one. She sat back and relaxed as she sipped her coffee.
"Sara?"
Sara jumped at the sound of another voice. She had grown accustomed to working quietly. "Yes?" she said hoarsely before she turned around.
"What's up?"
She turned. It was Grissom, who was looking like a lost little boy, apologetic, his hair damp against his forehead.
"Just waiting for a match on the Beretta to pop up on AFIS," Sara replied and yawned unintentionally.
"Tired?"
"Oh, just a bit," Sara gave a half-moon smile and then relaxed. "Hell of a forty-eight hours for you, huh?"
"Tell me about it," Grissom sank into the chair beside her and looked unperturbed for the first time in a few days. "I now know why people complain about their families."
"What's there to complain about? Don't you like Chloe?"
"Oh…Chloe…yes, I like her."
"Then what do you have to complain about?"
"It's not just Chloe," Grissom sighed. "It's much more than that."
Just as Grissom was going to let the Nicolette story out, the computer beeped and the flashing window popped up: MATCH FOUND.
"Ah, wonderful." Sara sat up and clicked on it. The read for a few seconds and then gave a queer look. "Uh, Grissom?" she tapped her forefinger to the computer screen. "You might wanna take a look at this."
Grissom took his glasses from his jacket pocket, slid them on and peered at what Sara was pointing out: the one set of fingerprints on the gun belonged to Chloe Haydn.
"That can't be right," Grissom whispered.
"That's your niece!"
"How did Chloe's prints get on AFIS?"
"Ummm, shoplifting," Sara replied, scrolling down. "Back in 1999. Huh. You'll never believe what she took."
"What?"
"According to police reports: a package of diapers, three cans of baby formula, a half a gallon of milk and a bottle of NyQuil."
"Shane," Grissom said after a pause.
"Who?"
Grissom drummed his fingers on the computer table. "Shane is Chloe's four year old son."
"So in 1999, he would have been a newborn."
"She stole to provide for him."
Sara skimmed the report again. "It says she hid the items in the baby carriage."
"How'd they catch her?"
"Eyewitness."
"Thought so."
"Grissom?" Sara tucked some hair behind her ear. "What do you want to do?"
"What do you mean?" Grissom asked, removing his glasses.
"She's your niece."
"So?"
"You'd really convict your niece?"
"She's not my niece right now. She's a suspect," Grissom said, beginning to pace. "We treat her like we treat any other suspect. Regardless. Right now, Chloe Haydn is the possible shooter in the Stop-n-Go robbery, as hers are the only prints on the gun found at the scene. Warrick's looking at the surveillance tape from the night of the shooting. I'll tell him to look for Chloe." Grissom turned to leave the room, but before he did, he looked Sara square in the eye.
"What?" she said.
"This," Grissom replied. "This conversation. It stays between us, understand?"
"What conversation?"
"You got it."
Sara stared back at the computer screen. She was in disbelief. Then she heard the door open and close sharply and Grissom was gone from the room.