Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life."
This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.
As regards the title - heh. Despite four years of high school Latin, I wouldn't know a genitive if it came up and tried to kiss me while waving a banner for the International Grammar Recognition Challenge. I put the word I wanted into an online English/Latin translator, and took what came out.
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David could move surprisingly quickly when he wanted to; as Sara pushed through the morgue doors she saw him vanish around the corner at the end of the hall, and dashed after him. The next hallway was empty when she got to it, but it didn't matter. She knew where he'd gone.
The small bathroom at the far end of the building was never used because the toilet was broken, and its repair always seemed to fall off the bottom of the budget. Sara had found it not long after taking the CSI position in Vegas, and had made use of it as a refuge twice before noticing that someone else was disturbing the dust. A little observation had told her whose retreat it was, and she'd found someplace else to go instead, not willing to disturb the shy coroner's privacy.
But she remembered.
The toilet didn't work, but the lock did. Sara tried the knob, and then tapped lightly on the door. "David? It's me."
There was no response, and she rested her forehead on the cool metal and tapped again. "I'm not going away, so you might as well let me in."
After a moment she heard a rustle inside, and the lock snapped off. Sara turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door after her and locking it again, to be safe.
David had apparently replaced the harsh bulb with something lower-watt. The room was dim, and he sat slumped against the wall with his elbows on his knees and his hands over his face, eschewing the battered chair he'd dragged in. His glasses dangled from one hand, the earpiece caught between his fingers.
Sara put her back to the wall next to him and slid down to the floor. They sat for several minutes before she chose to break the silence. "Want to talk about it?"
"Nope." The word was muffled.
"Want to talk about it anyway?" When no answer was forthcoming, she bit her lip but continued. "Is it someone you know, David? We don't have an ID yet - "
"You don't need one," he said, and lowered his hands, blinking at the ceiling. His face was drawn, as though he had aged a decade in his flight down the corridor, and for the first time in Sara's experience he looked not at all boyish. "He's 'Natha's fiancé. Ex-fiancé."
Sara swallowed as the implications fell into place. If David was correct, and she had no doubt that he was, that probably made David's family members primary suspects in the man's murder.
Including his little sister. Including David himself.
"What's his name?" she managed at last.
"Corey Abel," David answered, putting on his glasses in an automatic move. "He's twenty-seven."
Sara had rarely felt so helpless. Before she could sort out her thoughts, however, her hip buzzed, and she reached down to unclip her phone.
Need help? G. read the text display, and one corner of her mind tucked away the surprise at his expressed concern.
Not yet. Get Brass, she typed and sent, and then set the phone down and just sat for a moment, trying to absorb it all and deal. Finally she nudged David's shoulder with her own.
"We have to go back out there," she said softly.
David sighed as though trying to push all the air out of his lungs. "I know," he muttered. "Geez, my dad - "
He cut off the words, and Sara pretended not to notice, pushing herself to her feet and holding out her hand for the second time that night. David looked up at her, and her stomach lurched at the anguish in his gaze. "Sara - I didn't kill him."
She looked back at him, her mind flashing to the memory of his elemental rage, to the fierce protectiveness in his voice when he'd told her of his little sister.
And spoke from the heart.
"I believe you."
The relief that swept over his face put a lump in her throat. She arched a brow, and he cleared his own throat, then leaned over to scoop up her phone before clasping her hand and letting her pull him up. His hand was cooler than Grissom's, and not so large; he handed her the phone with grave courtesy, then began dusting off his lab coat.
Sara glanced at the display, which now read only OK, and clipped the device back at her waist before taking off her own coat and shaking it out. David coaxed a thin stream of water from the sink and splashed his face, drying it on his sleeve, then squared his shoulders. "Shall we?"
Sara shrugged back into her coat. "Let's do it." And with equal courtesy, held the door for him.
xxxx
Brass was swearing. Grissom was grateful, in a sense; it meant he didn't have to do any swearing himself. The situation was not at all good.
"Are you sure about the ID?" he asked suddenly, rounding on Grissom, who folded his hands on the conference table with deliberate care.
"We matched his license photo," he reminded the captain. "Corey Abel hasn't been seen for two days, and that matches our TOD estimate." He looked around the table at the worried faces - Sara, David, Robbins. The door to the conference room was firmly closed, a rarity, but he didn't want them disturbed just yet. This news would get out soon enough, and then things would really hit the fan.
Brass heaved a sigh, rubbed his face, and matched Grissom's folded hands with his own. "You're going to have to turn this over to day or swing shift."
"Swing. Day'll screw it up," Sara said sourly. She was leaning back in her chair, arms folded, but Grissom noticed that she'd pulled a little closer to David in silent support.
"Do you have to?" Robbins asked thoughtfully. "David isn't a CSI, he's not a member of your team."
"We're personally involved," Grissom protested. "We know David. On the stand we could legitimately be accused of bias."
"Not by anyone who knows you." David flushed at his own words, but pushed his glasses up defiantly. "Dr. Grissom, you're one of the most objective people I know. And Sara's the best. I'd rather have you guys..." He trailed off, apparently unable to articulate his thought, but Grissom understood, and was obscurely flattered.
"Even if the evidence points in the direction of a family member?" he asked, deliberately not naming names.
"That's just it. You'll follow the evidence." David straightened in his chair, looking determined. "And I know that none of my family did this." He looked around the table, wide-eyed but firm. "I know it."
Grissom sighed. "Well, ultimately it's not up to us. It's up to Ecklie, unfortunately. But if you want us to handle it, I'll try."
David's face was a study in gratitude, but it was Sara's expression of mingled approval and apprehension that stuck in Grissom's mind. He knew he could trust himself to be objective, and he knew he could trust her. And while he would depend on the evidence, he really didn't think David had murdered Corey. But what if it was his sister or his father? What will that do to him? Or to Sara?
He didn't know.
xxxx
The lab was a little quieter than usual the next night. Pulling into the parking lot, Grissom noticed that David's Honda cycle was missing from its usual spot, and guessed that the assistant coroner had probably been put on administrative leave pending the outcome of the investigation.
Grissom was early, but Sara still caught him in the hallway near his office. "Did we get it?" she asked without preamble.
"Yes," he said shortly. "Dayshift is overbooked as it is." He'd met with Ecklie that morning, and had more than a sneaking suspicion that the man was hoping they would screw up so he could accuse them of bias. "But we document everything, Sara. For this case, we become paranoids."
"Yessss," she said fiercely, her grin hard, and Grissom felt a surge of delight at pleasing her even as he made his expression stern.
"Can you be objective about this?" It was more a reminder to curb her enthusiasm than a true question, but the brief flash of hurt in her eyes made him wonder if she understood that.
"As much as you can," she retorted coolly. "When do we start?"
"As soon as I've handed out assignments."
Corey Abel's apartment was about what they expected - the casual messiness of a young single man, and the luxuries consistent with someone who made a very good living at an investment bank. Grissom had elected to keep Greg and Sofia out of this investigation if possible, and seeing Greg's worried face that evening as he and Sofia waited for their nightly instructions strengthened his resolve.
The apartment showed no points of disturbance, no signs of cover-up. Wherever Abel had been murdered, it wasn't at home. Grissom sifted through the contents of the living room, finding three soft porn DVDs and a VHS tape of "Hee Haw" on top of the entertainment center and a small stash of marijuana behind some books in the bookcase, and wondered idly which was worse - the young man's drug use or his taste.
Lacking anything probative, he headed for the bathroom, sticking his head into the bedroom on the way and admiring the curve of Sara's bottom as she bent over the bed. "Anything?"
He half-expected her to jump, but she merely straightened, displaying a pair of pink lace panties hooked over one gloved finger. "Too small for him," was her only comment.
Grissom snorted. "What size?"
"Two."
He nodded, wondering what size 'Natha Phillips wore, and withdrew.
xxxx
They aren't hers. Sara looked through the glass into the interrogation room; Brass had asked 'Natha to come in for an interview, and her father had come with her. 'Natha was unmistakably David's sister, Sara thought - sweet of face and pleasant rather than beautiful, with eyes as large as her brother's and filled with the same kindness. And, Sara's own feminine eye told her, the young woman probably wore a size five or six in panties.
Colonel Phillips was taller than both his children, a solid man who exuded military authority. What hair he had left was cut close to his head, and he wore civilian clothes, but his shoulders were carried at an angle that left little room for doubt as to his position. He was scowling, while 'Natha looked worried, toying with the long braid that hung over one shoulder.
Brass sat opposite them, having taken over the case while O'Reilly was out for a family emergency. Assessing the situation with his usual skill, he was the consummate professional, one man in authority speaking to another - with respect, but without deference. "We need to know your whereabouts two nights ago, Colonel, Miss Phillips."
"I was at home with my wife," Phillips answered, and Sara knew from talking to O'Reilly that the only reason Mrs. Phillips wasn't in the room with her husband and daughter was the fact that she was a victim of muscular dystrophy; while she was not yet confined to a wheelchair, her muscles were too weak and her balance far too poor for her to have struck Abel multiple times.
"Well..." 'Natha shifted a little in her chair, and a blush crept over her cheeks. "What time?" Given that the body had been dumped, Grissom's insect timeline would not be of any use in determining time of death, but both he and Robbins had estimated that Abel had died about thirty-six hours before he'd been found, which meant that he'd probably been murdered sometime around dawn. But Brass didn't mention this, instead giving 'Natha a kind smile. "Why not give me the whole evening, Miss Phillips? I understand that it's embarrassing, but any detail could be important."
She looked at Brass, brown eyes guileless. "I...after dinner I went over to Susan's. I wanted to show her my veil, I'd picked it up that afternoon, and I let myself in - we have keys to each others' apartments and we're always going in and out." Her face was blotchy now, as though she were holding back tears or anger. "I didn't see Corey's car out front, but he was there, they both were, and - "
She gulped, and the colonel's hand tightened on her arm, but the young woman mastered her emotion and went on. "I didn't stay. I just ran." Her shoulders sagged. "I went right home and...I guess I kind of hid...I went to bed and didn't move until morning."
Brass' brows went up. "You didn't talk to anyone? Call someone?"
'Natha shook her head. "It's hard to explain...I was too...too embarrassed."
The interview was fairly standard, in Sara's experience; her off-the-cuff guess, were she green enough to go with it, was that neither the colonel nor 'Natha were responsible for Abel's murder, but she knew better than to jump to any conclusions.
She emerged from the observation room just before Brass let the Phillipses out, in time to see Grissom rounding the far corner of the hallway. At the sight of them, he came forward, brows going up, and Sara was slightly startled to see Colonel Phillips step forward and hold out one hand. "Doctor Grissom. It's good to see you again."
"Hello, Colonel." Grissom returned the firm handshake. "I wish the circumstances were better." He turned a polite gaze to 'Natha, and the colonel introduced her.
"My daughter 'Natha. David says you're handling this mess, Doctor."
"Miss Phillips." Grissom nodded to the young woman, who smiled shyly back. "Myself and CSI Sidle, yes."
Colonel Phillips exhaled heavily. "Glad to hear it. David says you two are the best."
"We'll follow the evidence, Colonel," Grissom warned evenly. "No matter where it leads."
The other man raised his chin, his gaze unyielding. "That's what I want to hear. None of mine did this, Dr. Grissom. And that's what your evidence will show."
Grissom tilted his head, raising one brow in acknowledgement and warning, and said a courteous goodbye before stepping past them to meet Sara. "We're meeting Brass in his office," he said.
"Where do you know him from?" Sara asked quietly as they walked down the hall.
Grissom smiled faintly, touching the small of her back lightly in one of those unconscious gestures that drove her up the wall. "An old case. The four Buddhist monks, shot in their own temple?"
"Right," she answered. "The cook did it. It's not going to come up in court?"
He shrugged. "The association was peripheral to the case; I mentioned it to Ecklie, and he gave us the go-ahead anyway. At this stage, Sara, the odds are that I'll encounter someone I know in about five percent of the cases I investigate. Vegas isn't that big a town."
"As long as the defense attorney knows that," Sara muttered.
Brass caught up with them just outside his office, and ushered them inside. "We're still trying to track down Susan Methody," he reported, leaning back in his desk chair. "She's a saleslady at one of the Atlantis boutiques, and she hasn't shown up at work for two days either."
"Do you think she's hiding?" Sara asked, and Brass shrugged.
"She might be hiding, she might be dead. If one of the Phillips clan killed Abel for cheating on 'Natha, they might have killed Susan too."
"I hate to say this, but could someone under Colonel Phillips' command have killed him?" Sara said reluctantly. "David said that his dad probably had people out looking for Abel."
Brass heaved a sigh. "Let's keep this down to a manageable number of suspects for the moment, huh?"
Grissom cocked his head. "It's something to keep in mind. At the moment, we have nothing to tell us who our murderer is, though we might have more when we finish processing. Follow the evidence, Sara. Let the police work motive." He ignored Brass' rude gesture.
On leaving Brass' office, Grissom and Sara decided to pick up with Robbins' report on their corpse, since his prelim had been interrupted by David's reaction. Grissom fetched properly doctored tea while Sara collected the paperwork, and they settled down in the breakroom to absorb caffeine and information.
Sara paged slowly through the medical examiner's file. "Doc says COD is definitely exsanguination," she reported absently. "A couple of the blows severed a major artery. They seem to have come in at a slight downward angle, but other than that there's nothing particularly distinguishing about them."
Grissom looked up from a file from Trace. "Abel was about six-two. That would mean that the blows delivered while he was standing were made by someone of less than average height."
"Oh, that's a lot of help," Sara said dryly.
Grissom didn't rise to the bait. "Tox?"
Sara flipped a page. "Traces of marijuana, but nothing recent. Certainly nothing that would have incapacitated him. Blood alcohol level was point-oh-two."
"So he'd had a drink, maybe two, but again, not enough to impair him." Grissom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "May I have the autopsy photos please?"
She slid the thin sheaf of glossies over, and he went through them slowly before laying one out on the table. "Bruising."
Sara craned her neck to look. "Yeah, around the second set of stab wounds. Whoever did it was pretty pissed to use that much force."
"But there's no bruising on the first set." Grissom held up one of the photos at a fresh angle, eyes narrow. "So were the first blows impulse? Or was the killer someone without much upper body strength?"
Sara thought about that for a moment. "You're thinking gravity helped on the second set?"
He gave her a small smile. "Assume nothing."
She looked back down at her file. "Yeah...it always gets me in trouble."
Grissom's smile faded at her words.
The cool silence lasted for a while. Grissom had found a few fibers in examining Abel's clothing, but nothing that pointed them in any one direction; they needed a comparison sample. No prints had turned up on anything printable from the body, and while Sara had matched the tire treads in the relevant database, they were an extremely common make. There was a distinguishing nick on one tire, but again, without something to compare to, the information was useless.
Finally the sound of a clearing throat made them both look up. Mia was standing in the doorway, and the expression on her face did not bode well. "Excuse me..."
Grissom regarded her over the edge of his glasses. "I assume you have something for us?" "Yeah," Mia replied, but it was to Sara she turned. "That hair you brought me? I found a match."
Sara sat up, feeling her mood improve. "What did CODIS give us?"
"It wasn't CODIS," Mia said, looking grave. "It was a compliance match."
Oh no. Sara's heart sank, and across the table she saw Grissom's lips move slightly, as though he were swearing under his breath. "Well?" he asked shortly.
"It's David Phillips," Mia said, and laid the printout down on the table carefully. "I triple-checked, Dr. Grissom, before you ask."
"I would expect no less," Grissom replied, his tone somehow making it a compliment. "Thank you, Mia." He lifted his eyes from the paper to those of the DNA tech. "I realize this won't stay private for long, but I'd prefer if nobody heard about it from you."
Mia straightened. "I don't gossip."
"Very good." Grissom picked up the printout, and Mia turned back towards the door
"Thanks," Sara added, and the tech gave her a sad smile before disappearing.
The two CSIs were silent a moment; Grissom stared at the paper, but he didn't really seem to be reading the data. Sara bit her lip, her mind beating against the thought that the gentle coroner might actually be responsible for Abel's death. It didn't seem possible, and yet she kept remembering his rage in the locker room, and the calm implacability in his voice when he'd spoken of the man. What is it that Catherine says? Anybody's capable of anything?
"It's not his style," she blurted out, surprising herself. "If David were going to kill someone he'd do it from the front, while they were looking at him. He wouldn't attack someone from behind."
Grissom looked up, his face drawn. "I agree with you. However, we have to go with what the evidence shows. And this is enough to get a search warrant for David's apartment." He snapped the paper down onto the table, the angry movement at odds with the calmness of his face.
"I'll call Brass," Sara said dully, but Grissom shook his head, his expression softening a little. "I'll do it, Sara. You go get some lunch or something."
"Oh, that's okay, I'm not hungry."
Her eyes widened as Grissom leaned over and took the file she was holding. "So? Go eat anyway. It's probably going to be a long shift."
"Uh...okay." Sara, puzzled at this sudden concern, stood hesitantly, and Grissom raised his brows at her and pointed at the door. Politeness was a reflex. "Do...do you want anything?"
"I've got a sandwich in my office. Go."
She went, heading for the nearest vending machine. What's with him? Where'd all this thoughtfulness come from? It was weird, how the man could change, and she wondered sometimes if there was any limit to his ability to baffle her. It's like taking me home that night gave him the right to be worried about me or something. No, what was it? "Concerned," that's right. She smirked a little, remembering his discomfort over that conversation.
She jammed coins into the slot and got herself two granola bars, then moved on to the soda machine for a cola. Well, I wish he'd quit the back-and-forth. Make up your mind, Grissom.
So I can deal with it.
See Chapter 3