Grissom parked his car and approached the crime scene tape, stopping to greet Brass and get some details.
"Jim. What've we got?"
"Looks like a hit. Two to the head, small caliber. No ID on the vic. Some college kids found him. They were out hiking, figured they'd camp out in the desert tonight. Lucky for us they found the body before dinner."
Grissom smirked, but Brass was right. The visceral reaction civilians often experienced when confronted with death could compromise important evidence, if their aim was unfortunate.
He ducked under the tape and approached the body, eyes scanning for footprints, fibers, anything probative.
The victim was wearing a grey suit, not new but not threadbare either. Average. There was a bullet hole in his third eye and a second wound in his chest, but surprisingly little blood or brain matter surrounding the body. Grissom snapped photos, recording the scene automatically.
"Hey, Grissom. What've we got?" It was Sara, crossing the tape with Greg and David Phillips at her heels.
He didn't look at her, didn't want to see her glowing from her days off. Days she'd traded from Greg without saying why. Days she'd spent with him.
Ignoring his silence, she began to examine the scene. He couldn't help but watch her out of the corner of his eye. It was a warm night, but she was wearing a red turtleneck and black pants.
Somehow it was sexier than Catherine's most revealing tank tops.
Don't. She's moved on. You have no right. Be a friend, let her go.
David called his attention back to the task at hand. "Lividity is unfixed. From the liver temp, I'd estimate T.O.D. at about 4 hours ago."
"The scene's still fresh. Sara, check the area for tire treads and footprints. Be very thorough." She's always thorough, idiot. And she knows what to do at a crime scene.
"I'm on it." Her voice was pleasant, and distant.
He handed her his camera, and as she reached for it her sleeves rose, and he saw a dark bruise on her wrist.
He grabbed her hand, turning it for a better look. Brass moved closer, as if to defend Sara.
"What?" She asked.
"This is a defensive bruise." Grissom frowned at it. Could this guy have hurt her? No, Sara knows self defense, she can look after herself. Maybe she likes it…No. I am not going there.
Sara's chuckle broke through his mental struggle, and he shoved aside his speculations.
"Well, you certainly know your job. It is a defensive bruise. I have one to match on the other arm, want to see?" What? Why is this funny? Why is she laughing at me? Even Brass looked disturbed; he was staring at Sara, apparently stunned.
"Look, I was showing a friend of mine some self-defense moves. She, uh, learned quickly."
She. Grissom felt his heart slow down as he was finally able to shelve speculation into Sara's sex habits. Brass continued to stare at Sara, his face expressionless. Grissom handed her the camera, and turned to Greg.
Greg was staring at the sky, looking pensive. Grissom found himself looking up as well, doing a spot check for aliens and rogue asteroids, but it was only the moon, large and nearly full, and red.
"Harvest moon," he commented.
"In April? It's a blood moon. Bad omen."
"Greg, it's not an omen. You watch too much TV. It's a normal visual effect, caused by pollen and dust in the air."
Greg still looked disturbed, and Grissom wondered when his newest CSI had become such a believer in omens. Worse, now Brass was watching the moon with a wary eye.
Grissom shot Brass a questioning look. Not you, too?
Brass tilted his head and gave a little smile. "Hey, I'm open minded. There are more things on heaven and earth, and all that."
"Right. Let's get back to work."
He knelt towards the body, ignoring his superstitious co-workers.
But he couldn't hold back a tiny smile when he recognized what Sara was humming. Bad Moon Rising.
A/N: "Bad Moon Rising" is by Creedence Clearwater Revival.