Cardinality
Summary: A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.
Rating: R for subject matter
A/N: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

"I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me." – Alfred de Musset

Chapter 13

Nick walked into the Microscopy Lab, a puzzled look on his face. Pulling up a stool beside Catherine, he waited until she finished her phone call.

"You know what's up? Got a page from Griss to get back here ASAP."

"That was Sara," she replied in confusion, holding up her phone. "Gil just called her. Told her to stay inside her apartment because the killer was still alive."

"But Carrasco's dead, isn't he?"

"You can't get much deader than blowing your brains out," she said, letting out a long breath. "Bakersfield confirmed it was Carrasco."

"But he's not the killer," Brass said, walking in and crossing the room to join them. "At least according to Gil."

"Based on what?" she asked.

"Hell if I know. Cath, I'm tellin' ya, he wasn't making any sense. Kept talking about the photocopies."

Catherine frowned as she gave her head a shake. Gil had been working on very little sleep for days, and there was no denying the case was bothering him. She and Brass had discussed their concern for him earlier. Sara hadn't said anything outright, but she'd been concerned enough to call. Had exhaustion finally caught up to him?

She looked at Brass, who gave her a half-shrug, indicating he had his doubts as well.

"There were photocopies of articles and some text books. What did he say about them?"

"That he missed 'it' earlier. Repeated that a couple of times. Then he hung up on me. Said he had to call Sara."

"Did you send any officers?"

"Yeah. The sheriff is going to raise hell about it, but I figured Gil's track record is worth taking a chance on. He's usually right," Brass answered uneasily. "He said he'd explain it once he got here."

"What does he think he missed?" she mused rhetorically, running down the evidence they had collected. "The warfarin was consistent with what was used in the poisoning. The boots matched the prints Nick lifted at the warehouse, and Greg verified the blood on them matched two of the victims."

"Did Bakersfield fax over the ten-card yet?" Nick asked.

"No. Carrasco had sanded his fingers. They couldn't get any prints," she said slowly.

Using sandpaper to remove fingerprints wasn't an uncommon practice among criminals, but why had Carrasco waited to do it until after committing the murders? He hadn't planned on losing the brush – maybe it was an afterthought.

"Interesting," Brass said.

"Yeah, but we lifted the prints from the photos, the documents, the mortar and pestle, the card table, the door handles. They all match the partials we found."

"DNA?"

"Bakersfield can do it, but they're still using an RFLP analyzer. It'll take them weeks to get a match."

"Even if Gil is right, none of this explains Carrasco. Why would he kill himself? Are we sure he committed suicide?"

"It was a gunshot to the head, Jim," she stated, shaking her head. "You know how hard that is to fake."

"Could Bakersfield have overlooked something?" Nick asked.

"They e-mailed us a copy of the report. The angle of entry on the bullet is right for a self-inflicted wound. I examined the pictures. There's definite blowback spattering on the hands. He was holding the gun."

"Rigged so someone else pulled the trigger?" Brass ventured half-heartedly.

"There weren't any voids on the shirt, or his arms. If someone else pulled the trigger, there would have been," she said firmly. "Carrasco killed himself. That much is clear."

"So what was in those photocopies?" the detective asked after a long sigh. None of this was making any sense, and he didn't like that. If Grissom had rattled out long Latin names or quoted some obscure fact, he would have accepted his friend's statement more readily.

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "Gil's the one with the experience with signatures."

The subject of their discussion stormed by the lab down the hallway. They caught up with him leaving the Print Lab, calling back over his shoulder to tell Jacqui to rush it.

"Did you send the officers?" he asked without stopping.

"Yeah. What's up Gil?" Brass asked bluntly.

"Nick, shoes," Grissom said, heading towards the Layout Room, a confused trio following in his wake.

"What about them?"

"Did you find any shoes other than the work boots in Carrasco's house?"

"No."

Grissom looked up from the box of evidence to give him a harsh look. "Didn't it occur to you that was a little odd? Why didn't you mention it at the time?"

"Griss," he began slowly, "that place was a dump. The guy didn't have any money. He sure wasn't the Imelda Marcos of the neighborhood."

"He wasn't that poor. They didn't find any warfarin, the knife or the blood in Carrasco's car, did they?"

"He could have ditched that stuff along the road," Brass pointed out.

"What size shoes was he wearing when Bakersfield found him?"

"I don't know," Catherine replied. "They sent a copy of the coroner's prelim. They didn't have the tox screens back yet, but it's obvious he shot himself."

"That doesn't change the fact he's not the killer."

"Gil, start at the top and explain this for the rest of us. You're not making any sense," Brass demanded.

"Photocopies. The killer wrote notes in the margins, and he highlighted other areas of those textbooks," he said with a long sigh. Pulling out the documents, he indicated various sections. Seeing the confused looks, Grissom again pointed out the areas in question.

"He did that before he made the photocopies. The originals, with his notes, are still out there somewhere. The newspaper clippings are photocopies, too. Why would he leave copies laying around unless he wanted to throw us off his trail?"

The others exchanged a series of looks and shrugs.

"You were right, Catherine. He's taunting us. That's why he wrote that smiley-face in blood under Sara's address. Why else would he do something like that unless he intended for us to find those pages?"

"But you lifted the killer's prints off of Sara's door, Gil. If he did that just to taunt us, why did he go back?" she asked softly.

"I don't know. Maybe to keep us off balance. Maybe he was going to kill her after Max went to the hospital. I don't know!"

"Gil, you're tired. We'll look into this. Why don't you …" Brass started, only to have Grissom turn quickly to face him.

"No. Signature killers are smart. You said it yourself: the neighbors all reported Carrasco was an idiot. There's no way he could have worked out a plot this detailed, let alone handle the mathematics involved."

"But Max said he made all kinds of basic mistakes," Nick said, casting a worried look at Catherine.

"Excuse me," Jacqui said knocking softly on the door. "I checked those prints you brought in from the house, Grissom. They all came from the same person."

The others turned to look at Grissom expectantly, but were interrupted again by Jacqui.

"But they don't match the prints from the brush or lifted at the scenes."

"Thanks, Jacqui," Grissom said with a smile, waiting until she was gone before turning to the others.

"Where did you lift those prints?" Nick asked.

"The killer's prints were found in the obvious places. On the evidence we took from the house, on the card table, the door handles. I went back and checked the less-obvious places. Carrasco's toothbrush, his shampoo bottle, the toilet seat."

"Carrasco lived alone," Brass said, nodding his head. "Not likely there'd be anyone's prints on his personal items."

"Could he have been helping the killer?"

"I doubt it, Nick. A signature killer rarely works with another person. The murders are very personal to them; they wouldn't share it with someone else."

"It still doesn't explain why Carrasco killed himself," Catherine pointed out.

"I know. The killer may have forced him. Have Al go over the report from Bakersfield. Make sure it wasn't faked some how."

"Okay, Gil, but I already checked the photos. The splattering on his arms and hands shows he was holding the gun."

Grissom let out a sigh and leaned against the table. Running both hands over his face and through his hair, he took in a deep breath before standing upright.

"All right. Let's pull all the evidence on this case. We'll start at the top and go over everything. We know he planted evidence at Carrasco's house; he may have done the same at the other scenes."

"Nick," Brass said softly, pointing towards the door with his head. The younger man nodded in return and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. "Go home, Gil."

"Jim," he began.

"Go. Home. Now," the detective said firmly. "You're beat. You're barely coherent. Let me do my job, finding out Carrasco's whereabouts the past week or two, see how he ties into this case."

"I'm fine," Grissom said.

"No, you're not," Brass said, letting out a frustrated grunt. "Don't make me go to the sheriff. Look, I know you're worried about Sara. I sent officers there. She's sharp. If there's anything suspicious going on, she'll call it in."

"Jim's right, Gil. You know more about signatures than the rest of us put together. If we're going to crack this case, we need you in shape to work," Catherine said kindly. "You can't help Sara this way."

"Fine," he muttered.

"Let the rest of us piece together what happened to Carrasco. You rest. We'll review everything tomorrow," she said, curious as to why he agreed so quickly.

"Right," Grissom said as he headed out the door.

Brass gave her an eye roll before leaving. Deciding to play a hunch, Catherine pulled out her cell phone.

Grissom ran his hand over his face as he walked down the hallway of Sara's apartment building. He had called her earlier, after he got off the phone with Brass, but wanted to verify she was okay. When he'd pulled into the complex, he'd been pleased to see a police car parked in sight of her building.

As he came around the corner, he saw Sara's door open, a deputy standing outside. Scowling deeply, Grissom waited until they finished chatting and she said goodbye before following her inside.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"What?" she asked, walking around the breakfast bar to hand him a glass of juice.

"Opened the door for him. He could be the killer for all we know."

"Using that logic, so could you."

"You know me."

Sara gave him a measured look. She had been on her way to do laundry when he had called, barely making any sense as he made her promise to stay in her apartment. He explained briefly that he thought the killer was still on the loose.

She didn't know whether to believe him or not. He hadn't been very convincing in his explanation. Her phone call to Catherine confirmed what she suspected: he hadn't been sleeping since she had been taken to the hospital. Looking at him, it was obvious he was exhausted.

Catherine had called her back later, saying she thought Grissom would be headed to her apartment. She expanded on his reasons for believing Carrasco hadn't been the killer. While he had brought up some valid points, it wasn't any reason to get paranoid.

As it was, it was hard enough to figure out how to deal with this. Being targeted by a serial killer had been disturbing. Finding out he could still be alive and out to get her made Sara both angry and frightened.

Now, she had to deal with a man she loved, but who wasn't the most emotionally secure person in the world.

"Deputy Eric Holson. Lived in Las Vegas for the past eleven years. Moved here from El Paso. Allergic to strawberries," she replied, taking her own glass from the breakfast bar.

"I didn't realize you knew him so well," he said shortly.

Sara rolled her eyes, biting back her comment. She was willing to cut him some slack due to his lack of sleep. Grissom had yet to even register the fact that she had the drink ready for him before he got there. But his comments were pushing the limits of her patience.

"Been married for nine years. Wife is expecting their third child in a couple months," Sara said pointedly. "We work with these guys on a daily basis, Grissom. Of course, I know them."

"Really," he said, refusing to look up at her.

She took a deep breath before blowing it out softly, forcing herself to remember he was tired. Add his insecurities, and she could understand where his comments were originating. Still, he needed to get his jealousy under control.

"Do you want hear how many guys I've known since I moved to Las Vegas?" she asked with a forced calm. She didn't want this to blow into a fight, but she wasn't going to back down, either.

Sara's irritation finally made its way through his mental fog to register with his brain. Looking up sheepishly, he saw her watching him intently.

"No," he said quietly, giving his head a slight shake.

"One. Hank. The dumb guy who was cheating on me. Well, no, using me to cheat on his girlfriend," she added with a shrug.

"Sara,…"

"No. Listen. I spent over a year dating the jerk and never realized he was using me. Maybe I should have, but I was so lonely at that point, I didn't go looking for faults. I made an ass out of myself. So don't think you can make me feel any worse over that incident than I already do."

"I didn't mean," he said, pausing when she raised a challenging eyebrow.

"Look, I know you're tired. I know you have doubts about us ever getting together. But your jealousy isn't going to win you any brownie points."

"I'm not looking for brownie points," he snapped. Maybe his comment earlier had been uncalled for, but that didn't mean he liked that she'd been hurt. "I didn't know who he was. He could have been one of the guys you're always flirting with."

Sara set her glass down sharply, causing him to look up in time to see her gripping the edge of the counter. He winced when she let go suddenly, the pain it caused her clear. The bruising and swelling on her right arm was noticeable; he could only imagine how bad it was on her left arm, hidden by the sling.

"Grissom. I just got out the hospital. My friend is still there. If you're right, there's a serial killer who wants to cut my head off and drain my blood to paint a crime scene. You'll have to excuse me if dealing with your hang-ups isn't high on my list of priorities right now."

"I'm worried," he finally offered. "This killer's fooled me once. I don't know if you were really a target, or if he's messing with us. I don't know if your safe or not, and that bothers me," he said, staring into his empty glass.

"I understand that. I really do. But do you really think comments like that are helping anything?"

She watched as Grissom stared at his hands. She could tell he was trying to figure out how to respond to her comments. She hadn't meant to be so harsh on him.

"Do you think I sleep with every guy who comes along?"

"Of course not!"

"Do you think I lie? That I hurt people for fun?"

"No," he insisted.

"Then why are you acting like that's what I'm doing? Think about the implications of your comments, Grissom."

"I didn't mean it that way," he said softly.

After a pregnant pause, Sara placed the glasses in the sink before giving him a half-grin. There would be time to talk about this later.

"Are you always that cranky when you're tired? If so, I'm going to switch all your coffee to decaf," she promised. "Come on, bedtime."

"What?"

Sara gave him an incredulous stare before shaking her head in disgust. "Don't even think about it. You're beat. You shouldn't be on the road. Go ahead and get some sleep. You know where the bedroom is."

"I'm not taking your bed. You should be resting."

"I'm wide awake. If the doctor clears me in the morning, I'll be back at work tomorrow night. If I sleep now, I won't be able to get any sleep tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll take the couch," he offered as a compromise.

"Fine," she said with a chuckle, heading into the bedroom to retrieve a blanket and pillow.

"You know, the least you could have done was wait until I had finished my laundry before you told me to stay in here," she quipped, picking up the laundry basket that had been resting by the door. "I guess I'll go do some hand wash."

"Save it for tomorrow. You can use the washer at my place," he said, taking his shoes off. "We can swing by after we leave the hospital."

"Thanks," she said, noticing that Grissom placed his gun within reach on the coffee table. He really did think the killer was after her.

Waiting until he was asleep, she went back to double-check that the door was locked, shivering involuntarily.

Once again, a ringing phone woke Grissom up. He was momentarily confused when he opened his eyes, but quickly got up when he saw Sara smiling at him as she talked on the phone.

"That's Brass. He's on his way over. There's clean towels in the closet by the bathroom if you want to grab a shower before he gets here."

Grissom nodded, heading to the bathroom quietly. Did he say what he thought he said last night? If so, why didn't Sara seem more upset? Quickly stripping, he stepped into the shower wondering if he had ruined things before they had even started.

He was still in the shower when Brass arrived at Sara's apartment, carrying a box under one arm.

"You didn't have to bring anything," she teased as she let him inside.

"Yeah, I did. Wear this whenever you're outside," he said, opening the box to reveal one of the full bulletproof vests worn by the police. "No arguments."

"Right," she said softly, staring at the vest. Unlike the lighter vests the CSIs normally wore, this model covered more of the trunk, but was too bulky to have the mobility their job required.

"I'm not kidding, Sara. No risks. It looks like Gil was right about Carrasco. Where is he, anyway?"

"In the shower," she replied, noticing the detective's tone of voice. "He was beat. He slept on the couch. You shouldn't have let him drive last night."

"Yeah. Probably. Doubt he would have listened to us, though," he said, playing with his coffee cup. "Look, just be careful. The uniforms watching your place had to noticed he never left last night."

"Nothing happened."

"Sure, but that's not the point. We're talking politics. Reality isn't as important as the perception of reality. If rumors about the two of you get started, the sheriff isn't going care what the truth is."

"What we do – or don't do – on our free time isn't anyone else's business," Sara stated.

"Hey, I don't care what the two of you do. Or don't do. I'm only telling you to be careful," he said, holding up his hands defensively.

"What's up, Jim?" Grissom asked as he padded towards the breakfast bar and coffee. From Sara's defensive posture, he could imagine what the topic of conversation had been. He already knew what Brass thought about older men dating younger women.

"Spent the night on the phone with Bakersfield. Finally got someone to check Carrasco's shoe size. He wears an eleven."

"The boots weren't his," Sara said.

"Yeah. They also got the basic blood panel back," Brass said, pulling a fax out of his pocket.

"His epinephrine levels were through the roof and his acetylcholine levels low," Grissom read.

"Classic hormonal reaction to fear. He was terrified when he died," Sara stated evenly. "Suicides are usually calm."

"So did the real killer force him to commit suicide, or is something else going on?"

"I don't know. I talked to Max's doctor. He thinks he'll be able to answer questions this morning. I'm on my way over to the hospital."

After a quick breakfast, Sara slipped the heavy bulletproof vest on, giving Grissom a smile when he moved to help her get her injured arm through the opening. He grabbed her laundry, an eyebrow raised pointedly at Brass as he draped his free arm around Sara's shoulders on the way out.

The captain kept his comments to himself, taking up position on the other side of Sara. It wasn't likely the killer would try to go after her. If he had gone to the trouble to try and frame Carrasco, he'd probably lay low until they had let their guard down.

He wasn't taking any chances; the killer wasn't exactly stable.

The drive to the hospital was silent, Brass leading the procession, with Grissom and Sara following and her police escort bringing up the rear. Once there, they escorted her to an examination room and waited as the attending physician examined her arm while they waited for the blood work.

Making their way upstairs later, Sara flexed her arm, glad that the doctor had told her she didn't need to sling any longer.

She let out a sad sigh as they stood outside Max's room in ICU. He was still connected to IVs and monitoring equipment. He was pale, the extensive bruising on his arms standing out in stark contrast. When Grissom rubbed his hand reassuringly across her back, she turned to give him a brief smile.

"Dr. Brandenburg is still weak. Keep your questions short. He needs to rest," the physician warned them.

The ICU room was crowded. Brass took the seat beside the bed while Grissom and Sara waited by the door.

"Max. Hey, Max. You awake?" he asked softly.

Brandenburg rolled his head towards the sound, his eyes fluttering open.

"Why am I in the hospital?" he asked after a minute.

"Warfarin poisoning. The killer spiked your carryout."

"Sara?" he asked quickly, trying to lift himself off of the bed.

"Fine," she called from the door, giving him a wave when he turned towards her.

"Hi," he said weakly before dropping back down.

"Max, I'm going to show you some pictures, okay?" Brass said, pulling out a card with six photos arranged in two rows of three. Carrasco's photo was on the bottom-left corner. "Do you recognize any of these guys?"

"No," he said after taking a minute to examine the pictures.

"Do you remember what the delivery guy looked like?"

"Which one?" he chuckled.

"The one who brought the sandwiches to Sara's apartment."

"Kinda short," he said after a few moments. "I think light brown hair. Maybe a dirty blond. Skin was a lot lighter than any of the guys in those photos."

"Do you think you could talk to a sketch artist?" Grissom asked from the doorway.

"Doubt it. Didn't pay much attention to him, you know? I'll try. Later," Brandenburg said, closing his eyes.

"You take it easy, Max," Brass said as he walked to the door. "I'll see to it that an artist comes talk to him this afternoon. O'Riley was arranging for another canvas of your complex. Maybe someone saw something."

Brass nodded to them as he left the room.

"Go ahead," Grissom said, nodding back to the bed. "I'll wait outside."

"Thanks," she said before walking over to take a seat by Max's bed.

"Hey."

"Hi. Again," he smiled weakly. "You really all right?"

"Yeah. Doctor said I can go back to work tonight."

"Why?"

"I wasn't that sick," she said softly.

"No. Why going back to work? Shouldn't," he said sleepily.

"I'm fine."

"Not safe. I have cabin in the mountains. Tennessee. You should go. Can charter you a flight. Killer couldn't follow you."

"I'm not running," she said, running a hand lightly across his arm. "Thanks for the offer."

"Still a rat," he said in a weak voice.

"What?" she asked, moving closer to hear him better.

"Even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat," he said with a wan smile. "Need to learn to relax."

"That's a little hard to do with that guy still out there."

"Plenty of others can catch him," he said, his eyes closing briefly.

"I know. You rest. I'll come visit again tomorrow, okay?"

"Things okay? With your boss?"

"Sure. Why?"

"He's pacing outside," Brandenburg said, pointing towards the window that looked into the room.

"He's worried," she answered vaguely.

"You love him?"

"Max, look, you rest, okay? We'll talk later. I mean it."

"Hot or cold," he said, forcing his eyes open again and turning to give her another smile. "He'll either do everything to make you happy, or he's going to hurt you bad."

She gave him arm another gentle rub as he closed his eyes for the final time. After watching him sleep for a few moments, Sara got up to leave. Max's pained tone had little to do with his injuries she suspected.

Grissom waited until she was outside the room to approach her. Walking down the hallway, he put a discreet distance between them and the police officers.

"Sara," he began hesitantly. "If you want to take some time off, to spend with Max, that's fine."

She looked up to give him a resolute stare.

"I want to get the bastard who did this."

TBC