Grissom left the apartment in a daze, Sara's words ringing in his ears.
She told me to get out. What did I do wrong?
His feet carried him to his car without conscious direction.
I only wanted to help. Why is she so angry at me? I never meant to hurt her.
Wait. What did she say?
Sara's words echoed in his head again.
I said I'd never meant to hurt her, and she said "That's what Tim always said."
Something in that remark was rubbing at the edges of his mind, reminding him of… what? Grissom knew this feeling. He had it often when he was working a case, just before all the pieces came together. He tried to relax his mind, allow the answer to clarify itself. It did.
Those bruises on her wrists. Defensive marks. After she took time off to spend with him
No.
She'd explained that. She'd laughed about it.
It was nothing, she was teaching self-defense to a friend. She laughed.
But it hadn't been all that genuine a laugh, he remembered, and even as he tried to quash the idea, his mind was racing into investigative mode, assembling other memories, other evidence. Her withdrawal from him after that case. Those bruises. Her clothing- a turtleneck and pants on a warm night. She'd worn turtlenecks for a week.
The story of her childhood, told tearfully and incompletely. Her voice again, "I thought it was the way that everybody lived..." Children who grow up in abusive households often repeat the cycle in their adult lives, Grissom knew. But I never thought that could include Sara.
More evidence:
Her voice, fierce and dedicated in defense of the Andersen woman. Her certainty that that stabbing had been self-defense. He had thought she was defending the spectre of her mother or even simply doing her job, but now… "7.7 percent of U.S. women report having been raped…45.9 percent of women who reported physical abuse…7.7 percent…raped…physical abuse…She won't admit it but it's true…raped…" He could hear Sara's words in his head, and this time he was listening.
Grissom felt his heart turn to ice, hard and cold and burning with anger.
For the first time in his life, he genuinely wanted to commit murder.
He got into the car and started the engine, his exhaustion forgotten. He peeled out onto the road, and began driving angrily west, away from the morning sun. He didn't know where he was going- not home, not yet- but he knew he needed to think, and he needed to move.
As he drove, his mind continued to process, trying to find more evidence to support the hypothesis that his gut told him was correct. My gut. Great, now I'm sounding like Jim.
And it hit him. Again. Jim, watching Sara laugh off the bruises, looking disturbed and protective. Jim, staring at that bloody bed, inviting Sara over for a movie. Pressing her. He had thought at the time that he was missing something, he knew he had, but he had been focused on the case, he hadn't been thinking about Jim Brass' social life.
Jim knew. He knew and he did nothing.
Suddenly Grissom knew where he was driving to.
Brass' door rattled beneath his fists, and Grissom dimly realized that he was hurting his knuckles, but he pushed the thought aside, to be dealt with later. He'd been pounding on the door for two minutes. There was no response yet from within, but he had seen the car in the garage. Brass would just have to wake up, because Grissom wasn't going anywhere.
As he thought that, he heard the tumblers move in the lock, and the door swung open to reveal a sleepy James Brass.
"Gil? What's going on?"
"You know." Grissom didn't try to hide the rage in his voice.
"I know what?"
Jim blinked, waking up a bit more. "What happened? Is Sara alright?"
He didn't try to deny it, didn't even have to think. Knew just what I was talking about.
Grissom hear the dull roar of blood in his ears, and realized he had somehow pinned Jim to his own wall.
"Is she okay?" Jim wasn't fighting him. Somehow that only fueled his anger. He slammed Jim back against the wall again, harder, and found that his forearm was across his friend's throat, not pressing yet, but threatening.
"Gil, calm down. Talk to me. What happened? Is Sara okay?" This time, Sara's name penetrated Grissom's brain, and he began to take stock of his surroundings. Brass was still pinned, still not trying to break free, and as angry as he was Grissom began to notice his rumpled hair, his undershirt, and the concern in his eyes. What was he doing? He let go and took a step back.
Brass took the opportunity to place his gun on the table in the hall. Grissom hadn't realized he was holding it.
"Do you always answer the door with your weapon?"
"Only when I think someone might break it down. What happened?"
"You tell me, Jim. You're the one who knows."
"I don't know. What happened last night? Why are you here now?"
"Tell me how you could know about a crime against Sara and do nothing."
"She told you."
Grissom said nothing, hoping Brass would take his silence as confirmation. Pretend you already know what happened, and sometimes the subject will just tell you.
Brass was an old hand at interrogation, he knew that tactic. "She didn't tell you. How did you find out? Is she okay? He couldn't have come back."
"She said something, and I deduced the rest. Now you need to tell me, and you'll want to be especially detailed when you get to the part where you covered up a crime." Grissom had a grip on his anger now, but it was on a very tight leash.
Brass studied him for a moment, and began to speak.
"One of the patrol officers called me. This was maybe two or three months ago. He'd had a domestic disturbance call, and he recognized Sara. He somehow knew we were friends, so he called me. I went right over, but she'd already cleaned up the whole apartment. She wouldn't talk to me unless I agreed to keep my mouth shut."
"And you agreed to this?"
"Yeah, I did."
"He raped her, Jim. I know he did. You just let that go? She wouldn't have needed to talk, that's what evidence is for."
"What evidence? She showered, she washed the sheets. Sara knows what she's doing. She's a big girl. She can make her own choices."
Brass paused for a moment before confessing, "The truth is… she didn't tell me that part. I didn't deduce it until a few weeks later, and she still didn't confirm it."
"If you'd done your job, maybe-"
"Done my job? I was being a friend, Gil. You heard of that? It's something humans do? Friendship? People caring about other people?"
"I care about people." His hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
"Oh, that's right. You care so much about Sara it only took you three months to notice anything was wrong. Dr. Grissom, Ph.D. and a genius IQ, and you buy her stupid little cover story without a second thought. She cracked her ribs and you had her stooping all over crime scenes and you never even noticed.
"You don't pay enough attention to the living, Gil. You never will. Don't second-guess my decisions. I was there. She needed to talk. She needed someone to just fucking be there for her. Where were you?"
Where was I? I was at work, stewing over Sara's big date weekend. Grissom was feeling guilty now, and it only made him angrier, but he wasn't turning all of that anger onto Brass anymore. He'd found a better target: himself. His head was aching. He cracked her ribs? And I didn't notice any of this?
Still, Jim had made a mistake, hadn't he? Just letting it go like that? The system was there for a reason. How could Jim work for the justice system and refuse to let it do its job? How could he put Sara at risk like that? And I am Sara's friend. I care about her. I'm there for her. I just didn't know I needed to be, this time. I'm not psychic.
Energized by that though, he snarled, "I'm still waiting for you to explain why you'd put Sara at risk. If you'd booked him, or gone to a judge, she could have a restraining order."
"Those don't work. We see it all the time. Anyway, I took care of it," Jim said, satisfaction evident in his voice. Grissom frowned. What did he do?
"Don't worry, I didn't put out a hit or anything."
"I wasn't worried."
"I got on the computer, checked records for Sara Sidle in California. A lot of those as a CSI, but she was only listed as a victim on one, and that gave me his name."
"Tim." She knew him in California? This happened before? Why don't I know this?
"She told you? She wouldn't give him up to me, I think she was buying him time to leave town. Yeah, Tim Connolly, born in San Francisco, currently residing in Los Angeles. He has a bit of a sheet there- a Drunk and Disorderly and a DUI. Got probation for the DUI, and agreed to go to treatment.
"After I tracked him down, I called a friend of mine on the LAPD, and she had some of her guys give him a little special attention. Figured that way I'd know he was still in L.A., and maybe they'd catch him on another DUI, get him some jail time. Sara said he was sober, but then Sara thought he was gentle. She needs to raise her standards."
Grissom had been cooling down, but he was sure that last sentence was aimed at him, and he glared at Brass, who took no notice.
"Sure enough, he got arrested for a DUI about 6 weeks ago. Turns out he's got some pull, does research at UCLA with a lot of government grants, something to do with the space program. Anyway, they didn't want him in jail but I guess they don't want spaceships designed by drunks either. He got probation again, but he's enrolled at some inpatient treatment place. Won't be able to bother Sara for a while."
"He is a rocket scientist?" I thought she was kidding.
"There are a lot of stupid smart people, Gil. Now you know everything, tell me what happened tonight."
"Did he hurt her?" Does Jim know she was pregnant? I shouldn't say anything if he doesn't.
"What have we been talking about? What do you think?"
"I meant… you said her ribs were cracked."
"You saw her the next night, Gil."
"I didn't notice."
Jim sighed. "He hurt her. If it wasn't Sara you wouldn't think it was too bad. You saw her, and you didn't notice. She had bruises on her throat, and I'm pretty sure she had a broken rib, but she never got it checked out. Tell me about tonight."
"What makes you think there's anything to tell?"
"I am a detective. You don't usually come here and assault me over breakfast, Gil. And Sara wouldn't have said anything to you if it was nothing- she was dead set against you ever knowing anything about it. Someone would have called me by now if she was hurt on the job, so it's something else." Why would someone call Jim if Sara was hurt? I'm her supervisor. Why didn't that patrol cop call me? And I didn't assault him…well, not really.
"I'm sorry I pushed you. Sara didn't tell me, really. We had an argument, and she said something, and it got me thinking." There. All true.
"And now you're going to apologize?"
"I said I was sorry for pushing you. I am, Jim. I didn't mean to lose it like that."
"I meant you should apologize to Sara for whatever you did. And you should never do it again. I'm protective." Oh. Right, he thinks I did something to hurt her. Great. Now I'm the bad guy.
"I noticed. I'll make things right with Sara." Somehow.
"Good. Go do it. I need my beauty sleep."