Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
A/N: Wow, this thing is old. I started it ages ago—right before the Yahoo G/S group started discussing whether Grissom was capable of violence, ironically. And then life got in the way, and I can't even remember when or how this story got finished. It's major angst and most likely OOC for Grissom, but after working on it for so long and FINALLY registering on this site, I couldn't just file it away somewhere.
And while I did mess with this thing a little before I posted it (because I'd like to think my writing skills have improved at least slightly since I first wrote it), I am not writing in the swing shift debacle or Ecklie's promotion, and Mobley is still the sheriff, because it's my story and I can live in denial if I want to. And because I have no idea of the new sheriff's name, and the story wouldn't work now, with all the changes in the show. Also, any mistakes you see are mine, as I have no beta.
Grissom stalked into the sheriff's office, his blue eyes cold and angry. Mobley knew he'd be coming, and had his answer ready.
"No."
"Mobley—"
"No, Grissom. We can't prosecute Kent Fowley for murder."
The CSI supervisor exploded. "Mobley, the man murdered two people! He knows it, we know it, and you know it." He pointed at the sheriff for emphasis.
Mobley sighed. "Grissom, I wish I could charge him, but you can't convict a man without any proof. You know that. Your team did their best, but when there's no evidence to be found, it doesn't matter if everyone knows he did it."
"There has to be something we can charge him with."
The sheriff smiled ruefully. "I wish there was." A pause. "Catherine can supervise the shift. I want you to take the night off. You need time, time to…" Grissom stared at him, daring him to finish the sentence. Mobley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Time to…take care of some things."
"Yes, there are some things I need to take care of. One thing in particular." The sheriff watched Grissom's retreating form with something, he decided, very close to unease.
Grissom walked silently through the back-alleys of Las Vegas. Investigating a suspect for days on end gives you glimpses into the person's life. What he does for a living—if anything, where he lives, what he does in his time off. Kent wouldn't be any different. He turned the last corner and saw Fowley spray-painting a gang symbol on the shadowed wall. "You could get arrested for that."
The man jumped at the sound of his voice, then smirked when he saw who had spoken. "Hey, man, what you comin' 'round here for? Tryin' to get more evidence? Look all ya want. My lawyer said there's no way you can get me for murder."
"No, I came here for you, Kent." Grissom pulled out the handgun hidden in his jacket and pointed it at Kent's face. As Fowley's eyes widened with fear, Grissom detachedly noticed that his arm wasn't shaking like it used to at the firing range.
"Hey, hey man," Kent said nervously, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. "Don't go doin' nothin' you'll regret."
"I won't regret this. We both know that you should be on death row right now. The women you murdered," Grissom's jaw jerked slightly, "they had friends, families. I've learned a lot about you during this investigation, and I'm pretty sure nobody is going to miss you when you're gone."
Kent's eyes hardened. "You don't have the balls."
He was surprised at how easy it was. Fowley slumped to the ground after one shot. Grissom looked at the body for a moment, watching the pool of blood grow, and then turned and disappeared into the Vegas night.
"Shit."
Warrick, Catherine, and Nick had arrived at the crime scene at the end of their shift, just as the first rays of sunlight touched the Strip.
"Please tell me that's not Kent Fowley," Warrick pleaded.
Nick bent down to look at the body and sighed. "No can do, bro."
The three CSI's silently analyzed the scene. It was obvious who had killed Fowley—they just didn't want to admit it.
Warrick was the first to speak. "It could be a suicide."
"Where's the gun?" Nick asked.
"Yeah," Warrick sighed. "Gang murder, maybe?"
The sound of crunching gravel filled the air, and they turned around to see a dark SUV pull up behind them. The door opened, and three hearts dropped as Ecklie got out and slowly walked toward them.
"It's our crime scene, Ecklie!" Catherine called out as he got closer. "It came in on our shift, and we will fight you for it."
Ecklie held up his hands in defense. "I'm here on Sheriff's orders. He wants me to supervise." He looked at Catherine. "So. Any ideas?"
"Could be a gang shooting," Catherine said.
Ecklie nodded and surveyed the scene. As much as they disliked the man, he wasn't stupid. It was only a matter of time before he figured out what they already knew.
"Sounds good to me."
Warrick, Nick, and Catherine looked at him in shock.
"Sounds. Good. To. Me," he repeated, emphasizing each word. "Okay?"
Warrick was the first to recover. "Thank you, Ecklie."
"Yeah." The day shift supervisor shook his head sadly, then looked at the body in disgust. "Justified homicide," he muttered, barely audible. To the three CSI's in front of him, he said, "I've done enough supervising—I'm going back to the lab."
Catherine, Nick, and Warrick watched Ecklie drive away, then turned their attention to dismantling the crime scene.
Next shift Catherine found Grissom sitting at a table in the break room, an untouched crossword puzzle in front of him. He didn't look up when she sat down beside him.
"Kent Fowley was murdered last night." It was best to just plunge right in.
Although his body tensed slightly, Grissom managed to keep his eyes on the puzzle. "Hmm."
"Mobley made Ecklie supervise us."
Grissom's stomach lurched, and his gaze shot up to meet Catherine's. This couldn't end well.
"We all agreed that it was probably gang related."
He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and slumped down into the chair. Catherine put her hand on top of his. "Go home, Grissom. Get some sleep. It's been dead tonight—we'll be fine."
"I'd really rather not."
"Then take tomorrow off. Please."
Grissom sighed. "Fine."
Catherine squeezed his hand and silently left the break room. He spent the rest of the shift staring at the door, wishing that Sara would walk through it, gap-tooth grin and all.
She never did.
Sleep came, but it wasn't peaceful.
Grissom tossed and turned on his side of the bed. A small cry filled the room, waking him. Out of habit he mumbled, "I'll get her," before stumbling to the crib in the corner of his bedroom. He picked up his tiny brown-eyed daughter and placed her on his shoulder, rocking and shushing her in an attempt to stop the infant's sobs.
"It's okay, Kelly. It's okay. Daddy's here," he whispered into her ear. She cried on.
"I bet you miss Mommy, don't you? I do too. I miss her so much." The tears he had been holding back for days spilled onto his cheeks. "I never should have let her go to that crime scene alone. It was just supposed to be a simple murder. No reason to believe the killer would come back."
Grissom took a deep breath and continued. "I committed a crime, Kelly. I killed the man who took your mother away from us. When I pulled that trigger I was convinced that it was justified. Now, I'm not so sure. What have I done?"
He slowly crumpled to the floor, sobbing with his daughter. Suddenly he stopped, noticing that Kelly had become quiet. He looked down at her and saw that she had fallen asleep, a beautiful smile on her tiny face.
A warm feeling formed in his stomach, spreading throughout his body. At that moment he knew that somehow, he was forgiven. He would spend the rest of his life atoning for the blood on his hands, but when it was his time, he would be allowed to see his wife again. He wasn't sure how he could be so certain, but he was. He just knew.
Smiling now, Grissom kissed his baby girl, put her back in her crib, and went back to bed.
And for the first time since Sara was murdered, he slept without nightmares.