Title: Unknown

Warnings: Domestic abuse, slash.

Chapter 5

-----

Not much happened while I was gone yesterday. DNA ran the blood drops we found, and while they haven't matched it to anybody yet, they did confirm that the blood belonged to a male donor other than Brendan Carver. During the autopsy, Alexx took some scrapings from under Carver's fingernails. As of H's last trip to the DNA lab, those scrapings still hadn't been tested, but we're guessing they'll match our blood sample.

Alexx noticed considerable bruising on the vic's hands, as well as defensive wounds on the inner part of his forearm. This suggests that Carver put up quite a fight.

We also found a trace amount of some sort of grease or oil on Carver's shirt. So that means I finally have something useful to do.

Right now, I'm trying to determine the precise type of oil. So far, I've learned that the sample is standard motor oil, the kind anybody would use in their car. That doesn't tell us much. There's a possibility that the oil came off the killer, but it's also plausible that Carver got it on himself. From what Tripp says, the kid did work on his own car.

As I peer into the microscope at a slide dabbed with oil, Eric bounds into the room. Grinning, he slaps me on the shoulder. "Hey, faker!"

I feel my face begin to flush. Staring intently into my microscope, I say, "You know, Delko, some of us are actually sick when we call off."

I'm such a liar.

"I was just kidding," Delko says, his tone soft. He walks around to my work station and plunks himself down into the chair next to me. "So, what've you got?"

I glance up at him. "Dead teenaged golden boy. Stabbed. You?"

Smirking, Delko says, "Gunshot victim." He pauses. "And get this. The guy was found wearing a huge pickle suit."

"You're joking, right?"

Leaning proudly back in his chair, Delko shakes his head. "Nope."

I stare at him. "Your guy died dressed like a giant pickle?"

"What a way to go, huh?" Massaging his neck, Delko asks, "What's the story with your guy?"

"Killed while his parents were out of town. They walked in and found him the next day."

Delko lets out a breath. "That's hard."

"We'll probably find out the parents are the doers," I say bitterly.

"Says the cynic."

Narrowing my eyes, I stand up and stalk across the room. "I fell for that old man's sob story. Let's just say I won't be surprised if Mom and Dad stabbed their son."

Delko's gaze follows me. "Tell me something, Speedle. Do you actually like being angry all the time?"

I turn to him and glare.

"You know what I think?" Delko says, "I think you do."

"Whatever."

"I think you just wait for something to go wrong on a case so you can say, 'See. I told you life sucks.'"

"That's right, Delko," I say impassively, "It's my mission."

He shrugs. "I'm saying is all."

Just then, Calleigh walks into the room. Beaming, she says, "Hi, Speedle. You feelin' better?

"Yeah, Cal," I say, scowling at Delko, "Thanks for asking."

"Hey, listen," Delko says, suddenly standing up, "I'm going to catch up with autopsy. See what they've found on our vic." Eric gazes at me for a moment, and then he disappears into the hallway.

Calleigh watches as Delko hurries toward the elevator. After a few seconds, she turns to me. "Did Eric tell you about our victim? He really got himself into a pickle this time."

I lick my bottom lip, fighting a smile. "You've been waiting all day to say that haven't you?"

"Yes, I have," she says sweetly.

Finally, I give into the temptation to grin. "Funny, Cal. Funny."

She leans against the counter. "So, what's on your plate today?"

"Well," I say, letting out a breath, "H and I are going to interview our vic's girlfriend. Or try to anyway. She was a mess when H and Tripp talked to her yesterday."

Walking over to a cabinet in the back of the room, I reach up to grab some extra slides. When I can't get to them, I grab a shelf with one hand and reach up with my other arm until my shoulder hurts.

Calleigh walks toward me. "That would be so hard to go through that, wouldn't it, Tim? I wouldn't—Oh my gosh." She hurries over to me and grabs my hand. "What did you do to your wrist?"

Damn. My wrist and the back of my arm are black and blue from where Mark grabbed me and slammed me against the wall. Usually, I wear shirts a little long in the sleeve, so I figured nobody would be able to see my wrist. Calleigh must've noticed the bruise when I stretched my arm.

Unbuttoning my sleeve, Calleigh gingerly presses the bruised area. "This does not look good, Tim," she informs me.

"I fell off my bike," I lie.

"You fell off your bike?"

"Yeah," I say, yanking my hand away, "Must've been the fever. I parked, got dizzy, and tripped. I caught myself, though."

Calleigh narrows her eyes. "Well, that's odd," she says distractedly, "Why isn't the ball of your hand bruised?"

What?

"What?" I say.

Calleigh grabs my hand again. "Well," she says, "If you caught yourself with your hand, the worst of the bruising would be on the ball of your hand."

Inhaling deeply, I shove my free hand into my pocket in an attempt to keep Calleigh from noticing the bandage I have on that arm. The last thing I need is to explain multiple injuries.

"Cal," I say, my voice unsteady.

She presses on. "The bulk of the bruising is on the back and side of your wrist, as well as the back of your arm. That indicates—"

"Cal," I say harshly, "I'm not one of your victims."

"I know that," she drawls, "But your story is inconsistent with—"

Scowling, I snap, "I got into a bar fight, all right? This guy and I . . . It was no big thing."

Calleigh caresses my hand. Lifting my hand up to eye-level, she says, "You don't have any bruising on your knuckles. Did you get a punch in?"

I wrench my hand away, but this time, I take a couple of steps away so that I'm out of Calleigh's reach. "It was a shoving match, Calleigh," I shout, my words coming in a flurry, "I went to hit the guy, and he grabbed my arm and pushed me up against the wall. Okay? I wound up at the ER. That's why I missed work. And no. I don't want to talk about it. Okay?"

"You don't have to be so surly," she scolds, "And you don't have to be so secretive."

Yes I do. I just do.

"Look, Calleigh," I snarl, "My personal life is nobody's business. I didn't want to have to call H and tell him I was missing work because I got into a fight." I turn my back to her. "Get off my case."

About that time, I glance up and notice Horatio standing in the doorway. I have no idea how long he's been there, but I think everything I said to Calleigh proves me to be a liar. No matter how long he's been there, I'm screwed.

Shaking, I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them, H and Calleigh will disappear, and everything will be all right.

But when I do open my eyes, Calleigh is still behind me, her eyes boring into my back. And H is still standing in the doorway of the lab, gazing at me with disappointment all over his face.