Fourteen

The sun was barely peaking out from the horizon when we arrived at the lab, the rain still pounding down on Las Vegas. Greg said that Grissom's tone had sounded urgent, so we didn't really have much time to fancy ourselves up. My clothes were wrinkled and my makeup was smudged, and to be honest, I didn't care.

I couldn't figure out what had sparked Grissom's sudden interest in Greg and I. The past hour or so had been such a blur, between the head, the landlord, the call to come to work ASAP. I tried to use logic to explain all of the night's events, but nothing was fitting together. The pieces were all there – they just belonged to different puzzles.

The lab itself was a reflection of the sorry weather. The interior décor had always been drab and minimal, but now, it took on a completely new shade of gloom. The walls were grey and stark, and the overhead lighting was harsh and sterile. But that was nothing compared to the faces of the employees. Each person looked like they belonged in a funeral procession, their expressions almost too grim to comprehend. Maybe the crime lab had always been like this, and I had been too absorbed in my own little world to notice. Or maybe something was seriously wrong.

I followed Greg into a large interrogation room where Warrick, Nick and Sara were already seated around a silver table. They acknowledged our presence, but couldn't seem to find any enthusiasm at our arrival. Sara didn't even look me in the eye when she greeted me; no wide, gap-toothed grin, not even a smirk. Greg took the last empty chair and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the middle of the table. Ordinarily, I'm sure he would have offered me the seat, but Greg had been as out of it as I had been. He didn't say a single word for the entire drive to the lab, even when we passed a strip club and I expected him to make a crude joke. I stood off in the corner, wrapping my arms around my body as if that would protect me from the horrors of the world. I still felt like an outsider around these people. They were the popular kids at the prom, and I was the girl who stood against the back wall, waiting for a boy to ask me to dance. An eternal wallflower.

Grissom came stomping into the room, his obligatory manila folder tucked under his arm. He, too, had a desolate look, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Who knows what this is?" Grissom asked, pulling a small rusted scalpel out of his pocket. The professor waited for his students to answer.

"A scalpel," everyone said in unison.

"Right," Grissom declared, slamming the instrument down on the table. "Does it look familiar to anyone?" Everyone looked at each other, guilty expressions on the faces on the innocent. If this was about somebody not washing their tools, I was certainly not the one to blame.

"You called us down here about a dirty scalpel?" Nick asked in disbelief.

"No, Nick," Grissom replied, tilting his head in an inquisitive manner. "I called you down here because 12 years ago, there were a series of murders in the Las Vegas area. Three women, all of similar appearance, were kidnapped, brutally raped, murdered and beheaded by the same man." A silence fell over the room, either out of fear or anticipation.

"What does the scalpel have to do with it?" Warrick asked.

"The murderer used this very instrument to behead the women," Grissom answered matter-of-factly, picking up the tool and running his thumb over the dull blade. "We found his weapon of choice, but we never found him."

"Wait a second," Sara joined the conversation. "Is it even physically possible to behead someone with just a scalpel?"

"Yeah," Greg replied for Grissom. "It just takes a lot of sawing." I looked at Greg's face and the faces of the others, and I knew they were visualizing the gruesome details of such a murder. I couldn't even begin to do the same: once I got past the skin, the inner workings of a human body were a tangle of veins, bones, and oddly-shaped organs. I couldn't decipher one thing from the next.

"Anyway," Grissom continued. "The killer had a favorite type of victim. She would be in her mid-20s, medium build, dark hair, and pale skin. The profile was foolproof every time." A golf ball sized lump developed in my throat. I wondered if anyone else in the room had noticed that Grissom had just described my outer appearance to a T. "He had a pattern of the days on which he would kill, too. Every February 14th, for three years in a row." February 14th was two days away.

"So he was like the 'Valentine's Day Killer'?" Nick asked. The name alone peaked his interest.

"No dumb names, Nick," Grissom stated firmly, making sure everyone else got the message, too. "Let the Feds commercialize this if they want to. That's not our job." Nick leaned back in his chair, feeling slightly defeated.

"This?" Sara questioned. "I thought you said the murders happened 12 years ago?"

"They did," Grissom quickly responded, reassuring his team that he had not made a mistake. "But they may be happening again."

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, leaning heavily on the table.

"Well," Grissom began, clearing his throat and wording his explanation in his head. "The crime lab received a letter stating that there was going to be another murder under the same circumstances on this February 14th. It could be a hoax, or someone posing as the killer, but that's very unlikely. When these crimes happened, it got little media coverage; it didn't even have a cult following. We suspect the same man has returned, possibly in hopes of gaining the fame that he was denied."

I let the story register in my mind. It was like the plot of a movie: an obsessed serial killer who returns from the grave (or in this case, retirement) to get revenge (or fame). I understood the significance of the others being there. Warrick, Nick and Sara were all certified CSIs who would probably be working on the case under Grissom's supervision. And Greg had just finished his training, meaning that this could be one of his first real cases out in the field. Still, I couldn't quite place where I fit in. Why did Grissom need to speak to a humble receptionist about some savage killings? Greg read my mind and asked the question for me.

"So why is Matilda here?" Five faces turned towards me, and I felt them passing countless judgments on me. Grissom's face was the worst. Instead of his customary distant stare, he had a look of sadness in his eyes. He again cleared his throat and hesitantly answered the question.

"Because she's his next victim."