Chapter Six
II
Rita Williams seemed almost sleeping, hair of gold in the sun that streamed across her bed. Fresh flowers on the bed stand reached with their petals for the sun, but they too would die soon. White sheets underneath, white silk gown and the victim's eyes closed to the sun. Blood wiped away, hair covering the proof of violence where the bullet had struck, leaving the illusion of beautiful Cinderella sleeping.
All too familiar a scene.
'Not this, not now,' Catherine thought and felt so very, very cold. Not the start of a signature killer. Not on her watch.
"Sorry I'm late," Warrick announced, entering with muted footsteps. She merely nodded without looking up, snapping shots of death that sounded loud in her ears.
"Déjà vu," Warrick muttered. She could almost hear him shake his head.
"Yeah," she replied, lowering her camera. Beautiful death all over again and in her blood, she could feel it heralding more to come.
"Same MO by the looks of it," Warrick commented, bending down next to her. "Perhaps Grissom could..."
"No!" she snapped, but regretted it almost immediately as Warrick stiffened slightly next to her. "Sorry. He's got his own case. We're on top of this."
He gave her a sideways glance she couldn't read and wasn't quite sure she wanted to, either. She wanted to scream at him and have him hold her both and she fought back both desires. It was just another case. It didn't matter that she was tired. She could deal.
But her body suddenly felt like it was weighed down, as if her blood had turned to lead and all she wanted was to close her eyes and sink to the bottom. Something hurt in her bones and for a moment, it was all she could do to remain still as the world seemed to drift away.
"Hey..." she heard Warrick's voice and the world came into focus again with a painful jerk.
"Yeah," she replied hurriedly and breathed. "I thought Nick would be with you."
"He got caught up with the John Allen case," Warrick said, opening his field kit case. "I'm all you've got."
"I'm sure I can make do with you," she said lightly, knowing it was flirty and inappropriate, but just not caring. It was a little bit of warmth and she wanted to shake the chill of death and ageing and weariness.
Sometimes, she thought she sought men just to remind herself she was still alive. A different kind of gamble to the kind Warrick had been addicted to, but she wondered if it was why he still seemed to understand her better than anyone. Even Grissom, who had been there for much of her life and did know her, didn't understand her to the marrow of her bones and the abysses of her mind. They worked in silence, she inspecting the body before it was quietly taken away to scalpels and morgue rest, Warrick covering the other rooms and the perimeter. The house felt silent even with cops buzzing outside. It was a world away. Outside, life. Inside, death and its claw marks. And she, always tip-toeing with the beast.
The bed stand held a few fingerprints, but she didn't get her hopes up. Could be the victim's, could be a visiting boyfriend who had since left. With the body taken away, she worked the room as slowly as she had the strength to, picking up a few fibres out of place. Perhaps of significance, perhaps not. When she was younger, every detection of fingerprints and fibres had excited her, but she had soon learned that life left evidence just as well as crimes. A CSI's job was to sort through it all and sometimes recapture the life to see the crime clearer.
And always, the temptation to lose yourself in the victim's life, to be possessed. She had seen it in Grissom at least once, with the murder of Sara's lookalike. Catherine had watched Grissom's reactions and wondered. Was it his attraction to Sara that had driven it, or his fear of being like the killer himself? She hadn't asked and Grissom hadn't told, if he indeed knew himself.
'Sometimes love and possession walks on blurred lines,' she thought and remembered Eddie. Killers too, often sought a possession, but often beyond what any human could give willingly. And so they took it instead, stole it with a death.
What did this one take from Georgina and Rita? Beauty? Innocence? Somehow, it didn't feel to be about sex. The way the victims were arranged and the strange purity and cleaned scenes felt almost like sanctity. But both victims were beautiful, not too young and blonde. It had to mean something.
Provided it was all one case and she wasn't running ahead of the evidence, too tired to go slow.
"I found some shoe prints outside, near the window," Warrick announced, not quite entering and hovering in the doorway instead, his shadow falling over her. "Could be just a gardener. You?"
"Fibres, prints, some unknown substance from under her nails," she replied.
"Any idea what?"
"Smelled like chocolate. From a cake, maybe?" She shrugged. "No signs of struggle. Drugged, possibly. Certainly posed in death."
"Yeah," he said slowly. "What I don't figure... Signature killers often take weeks, months, even years between their kills. Why these two so close together if he's just starting out?"
"Maybe he isn't."
"I was afraid you'd say that. Maybe we should check with the Feds."
"Yeah." The word felt bitter in her mouth and she briefly wondered why. Territorialism? Anger? Fear? "Maybe we just have a killer stopping by in Las Vegas to gamble and deal death."
"Another day in the city of sins," Warrick remarked, shaking his head.
'Yes, another day with sinners and liars and murders to tango with' she thought, and closed her eyes to the shadows and lights.
It was going to be a long, long day.
II
The long day hurtled along with the sun, evidence being catalogued and examined, a life now gone starting to be pieced together. Rita Williams had a mother and father in Santa Fe and a brother in New York. No links to the first victim at first look, but Catherine took nothing for granted. Perhaps the two victims merely shared hair colour and being beautiful. Perhaps not. Even killers could get lazy and seek a new victim close to the previous one.
It was late when she spotted Nick bouncing through the hallways and she knew what he would say even before he opened his mouth. Satisfaction was radiating from him and for a brief moment, she remembered why she liked this job.
The solutions. Always the solutions and the high they gave you.
"John Allen copped to it," he beamed, looking so bright and cheerful for a moment she almost wished she could wear his skin.
"Good work, Nick," she said lightly. "Good timing, too. I'll need you on this case."
"I heard," he said, and the sun faded somewhat from his face. "Do we have anything?"
"Unknown prints. A shoe print, possibly. The PD will look for any witnesses. I'm heading home."
He nodded. "I'm heading out myself before Grissom asks me to watch his spiders while he's gone."
"You can run, but you can't hide from Grissom!" she called after him and he gave her an amused look as he vanished down the hallway. She walked on, noticing Grissom's office was lit and its inhabitant was there, reading and appearing seemingly lost to the world.
"Shouldn't you be packing?" she asked lightly and leaned against the door frame. "I hear you're leaving us a while."
He merely turned a page, keeping his eyes on the book. "I've discovered that the less I say, the more rumors I start. Bobby Clarke, in case you wondered."
"I've discovered the more you quote, the more right I am. Catherine Willows, in case you wondered."
He finally looked up, a slight twinkle in his eyes and a smile haunting his lips. "Ecklie could barely contain his sadness at me leaving him a while. I'm taking Sara and Greg. The Sheriff thinks it's a high profile case and we should help our Norwegian friends."
"Have fun!" she said brightly. "Send us a postcard?"
"With a lovely fjord pictured," he assured her and dipped back into his book. She watched him a moment longer, wondering if Warrick was right and she should ask Grissom's help on the murders. But her head felt like concrete and the words felt lost to her, locked in a tangle of emotions and buried under fatigue.
It was time to go home.
She found Warrick in the locker room, clearly with the same idea as her, buttoning up a new shirt. The blue became him and she let the sight ease into her mind, driving away fingerprint searches and future phone calls to the FBI. Time to be human a while.
"Long day?" he asked, slamming his locker shut.
"Yeah," she breathed and opened her own locker. "I could kill for a long, hot bath right about now."
She could hear his chuckle and imagine his smile even with her back turned. "Many would kill to share that."
"Mmm," she said slowly and let out a sigh. She didn't realise Warrick had noticed until she felt his gaze on her back, hot and lingering.
"You all right?"
She felt a twinge of anger at his constant concern - though mostly at him for sensing it or mostly at herself for feeling this case more than she should, she wasn't sure.
"You're not my keeper, Warrick," she replied tensely and turned, meeting his gaze. For a moment, the silence seemed deafening.
His eyes were dark as he looked at her. "I don't know what I am of yours, Catherine. "
'You're just you!' she thought and wanted to scream at him.
"I know what this is," he went on and cupped a cheek, a thumb gently stroking. Her skin burned as he touched and for a moment, she felt as a moth hurling into the sun.
"Attraction," she breathed. "I don't know if that's enough."
"Tell me when you figure it out," he replied and withdrew. She was left standing looking after him as he walked away, fading into the shadows and away from her. Beautiful, tall, dark Warrick. Sometimes, she thought he could make her feel more alive than anyone. Sometimes, she thought that was enough.
Sometimes.
She closed her locker and left for Lindsey and home, day dying, dead sleeping and Las Vegas ever living.
