"Hey, Gil, it's one of your little friends," Brass said, pointing to the cockroach as it scurried from the room.
Grissom restrained his eye roll. People always assume an entomologist is interested in every bug that crosses their path.
Be honest. You are interested.
In this situation, though, a cockroach was not likely to be probative.
The house was a wreck. It looked like someone had initially intended to use the garbage can, which was lined with a trash bag and conveniently placed in a corner of the kitchen, but they had lacked the motivation to empty the can. It looked like it held a years worth of rotting food and coffee grinds.
Grissom noted the orange peels, and was impressed that anyone who spent time in this house bothered to eat fruit.
The primary crime scene wasn't in the kitchen, but in the larger room just off of it. Grissom supposed it should be called a living room, and there was a couch there, looking like it had been rescued from the side of the road.
After a tornado.
"What a dump," he commented as he bagged a used syringe. "No wonder this place is condemned."
"Mmm," agreed Brass. He walked to the window and looked out through the broken pane.
Grissom rose, knees cracking, and deposited the bagged syringe in his kit. He bent again, noticing a fiber on the floorboards. In a place as dirty as this, it was impossible to know what was relevant. This fiber could be the case-breaker, or it could have been lying there for months.
He sighed. The victim hadn't been IDed yet, but it looked like a drug killing.
The perp probably hadn't been too careful about evidence, but from the looks of things a lot of people had used this derelict house recently, and they'd all left a trace. He'd been processing for hours, and his knees were aching.
He heard the soft creaking of the floorboards from a back room. He tensed, and glanced at Brass, who quietly drew his gun.
It was probably just a rat, but there were smashed windows in all the rooms. A lock had been placed on the door when the building was condemned, and the footprints he had found earlier indicated that the windows had been serving as entrances for humans as well as vermin.
The floorboard creaked again, and there was a thumping sound. If it was a rat, it was a large one.
Human sized.
Brass held his gun in both hands, but kept it aimed at the ground. He began to move toward the door. Grissom wondered if he should be providing back-up, but realistically there was little he could do. He had been called in from home, and his gun was at the lab.
The door opened, and a man crashed in. Grissom wondered how he had moved so silently through the house: he was swaying unsteadily in the doorway, the gun in his hand wavering.
"Th'hell is this? Who're you? I need Keanan, man."
"Drop the gun," said Brass, his own weapon now aimed at the filthy man in the doorway.
"I need my stuff, man, why you pointing that thing at me? Put it down, I jus' wanna talk to Keanan." He waved the gun a little as he spoke, his finger resting on the trigger.
The intruder's eyes were bright. They darted around the, unable to settle on anything. Grissom wondered what exactly he was on, and decided that it didn't really matter: the effects were obvious enough, and they didn't bode well. The man could pull the trigger at any time.
"Put the gun down," Brass repeated. Grissom wondered how Brass could sound so calm.
His heart was pounding and he tried to remain as still as possible, wishing himself invisible. The man steadied the gun a little, aiming it toward Grissom.
This guy is high as a kite. He's going to shoot without even meaning to. This idiot kid is going to kill me by accident.
It was a black automatic, and Grissom found his eyes glued to it. The matte black seemed to absorb all the light in the room.
This is why witnesses are so useless. They only remember the weapon. Look at his face, Gil.
But he couldn't take his eyes off the gun.
Grissom felt tiny droplets of sweat forming at his hairline and on the back of his neck. If he died tonight, he'd have curly hair for his autopsy.
"What? Shit, back off. I just want my stuff, I gotta right, you can't stop this shit. I got friends, pig. I got people I can call."
'But will they come when you do call for them?' thought Grissom irrationally.
"Put. It. Down." Brass' voice was hard and soothing at the same time. If Grissom had had a gun, he would have put it down.
"I got friends, you faggot. You can't talk to me like that." But as he was insulting Brass, he was lowering the gun.
In seconds Brass had him on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. Grissom radioed for backup.
Keeping his eyes and gun trained on the junkie, Brass spoke.
"Where was your gun?" His voice was stern and humourless.
"At the lab."
Brass was silent.
"It won't happen again. I'm sorry."
Brass didn't reply.
Grissom felt a rush of shame. Why hadn't he brought the gun? Would he have been any use if he had had it?
A uniformed officer came in and took charge of the cuffed man, effectively ending the conversation.
Grissom finished working the scene in silence.
A/N: Grissom is quoting Shakespeare, from Henry IV, Part I. Thanks to all who have reviewed. One chapter to go, and barring computer trouble it should be up tonight.