Brass glanced over the police report as he entered the interrogation room, rubbing his left temple. Homicide was busy as a termite in a timber-frame, and victims' families were constantly after him. They did not understand that he could not work miracles. Procedure, science, evidence—all of it was meaningless to them. All they strove for was justice, seeking it like moths toward light, not seeing the reality hidden in its blinding glow. He was left with these wounded people in violence's wake, and he knew that no fingerprint or scrap in a plastic bag could ever heal them.

Sighing, Brass dropped the papers on the table. He glanced up and was slightly surprised to see Sara standing by the wall, facing the high window, silent and still. Slowly he walked over and stood beside her. She was staring at the falling rain, drowned in her thoughts, shadowed expression dimmed in the steel-blue light. Her soft brown eyes mirrored the rain in smooth dark pools, and he noticed dampness against her pale cheek. Brass sighed, fearing the thoughts that stained her mind. She had not even noticed him.

"Sara?"

Startled, she turned to face him, the emotion in her eyes raw and unveiled. His eyes flickered at her pain, but she blinked, pushing it back beyond his view.

"Counting raindrops?" Brass asked quietly.

Sara glanced away, eyes lowered. She knew he was not talking about the rain outside. "Yeah. I've got a lot of raindrops, so it takes a while."

"Sometimes it's better not to count." He tilted his head slightly, expression kind. "I take it you've had your ear on the lab grapevine."

She shook her head with a vague bitter smile. "So I'm that obvious."

Brass shrugged. "I can't help it. I'm a detective." He was silent for a moment, studying her. Absently she pushed back a strand of brown hair, still watching the rain. "You know," he began slowly, "Grissom's a good man. Really, he is. But he's just . . ." He paused, weighing his words. "I think you know what you need to do."

Sara glanced at him with a faint grim nod. She did know, but doing it was something different. Letting go of the shipwreck was always the hardest part.

"Our past creates us, Sara. You can't be blamed for anything that's happened, that's made you what you are." Brass paused, forehead creasing. "But the past is only a blueprint. You get to decide what you become."

Sara fought back the tears that stung her eyes, struggling to fall. That was the conflict. She wanted to believe him, but still the memories tore at her with ragged fangs. Her past hung in a shroud of echoes, screaming in the silent eyes of every broken woman, in voids of innocence strangled with pain. It was as insistent as spattered blood on a white sheet.

Brass sighed, watching her. He felt like he was standing at a chasm's edge, helpless as she fell into darkness beyond his reach. A million images flashed through his mind, his own emotion clouding his dark blue eyes. He took a breath and spoke, his low voice rasped with weariness. "You deserve someone who isn't afraid to touch you without wearing latex gloves."

Sara looked up sharply, knowledge flashing between them as their eyes made contact. She realized that he had seen her behind the one-way glass, when Grissom spoke to Lurie in the Marlin case. He knew both sides, and he understood. It was all crystalized in that one sentence, pain that shattered and healed at the same time. They stared at each other in silence, then Sara tilted her head and started to speak.

They both turned as the door opened, and a police officer brought in the victim's boyfriend. "Eric Anderson?" Brass asked. He nodded. "Have a seat." Eric pulled out the chair and sat down. Brass and Sara did the same.

Sara took a deep breath, focusing on her work. She sized up Eric in a single glance, noting his broad shoulders and strong build.

"So, Eric," Brass began, voice even and mellow, "how long have you been seeing Jamie Martin?"

"A few weeks," Eric shrugged. "Met her in English class. We just went out to clubs, nothing special."

"Ah, I see. So that's why you're not upset about her death."

Eric shrugged. "It's sad. She was a pretty cool girl. We just weren't that close."

"A convenient arrangement," Sara commented. "Go out to bars, have sex, no real commitment from you."

"Well, no, it wasn't like that. I mean, I only slept with her like, twice, three times."

"What, once for each week you've known her?" Brass smiled disarmingly, and Eric shrugged vaguely. "Hey man, as long as it was okay with her. But you know, most girls don't like being the flavor of the month. Maybe Jamie wanted a little more from you."

Eric shook his head. "She never said anything like that, okay? She was cool with it."

"Okay," Brass nodded. The kid was unsettled. Now it was time for business. "So, when did you last see her?"

"Thursday. I dropped by to see if she wanted to go out, but she was studying for some test. Her roommate was getting ready for this girls' night out thing, so I figured maybe Jamie was really going with them. You know, sometimes they like to go out without the boyfriends."

Brass' pen moved fluidly across his notepad. "What time was this?"

"Around seven."

"Then where'd you go?"

"Tangiers. Me and my guys save up a pool of money and go out like once a month. It's just a thing." He noticed Sara's raised eyebrow. "Look, you can get the tapes. I was there."

"Oh, don't worry," Sara replied flatly.

Brass leaned forward slightly. "So, when you finished gambling, did you swing by Jamie's apartment?"

"See if your girlfriend was really there studying, or out with some other guy?" Sara added.

"No. And she wasn't my girlfriend."

"Oh, right," Brass nodded sarcastically. "I forgot. You just slept with her, that's all." He leaned back, eyebrow raised in a vague challenge.

Eric shifted uncomfortably. "Can I go now?" he asked, folding his arms. "I've got a game tomorrow."

"Sure," Brass smiled coolly. "Go Rebels."

As Eric left, Sara glanced at Brass. "He didn't do it."

"Nope," Brass agreed. "He's got no motive. Probably already got another girl. Besides, we're dealing with a clever killer. I hate to go with stereotypes, but this kid's not exactly the sharpest spur on the ranch."

Sara nodded. "A jerk, but not a murderer."

"We'll check out the alibi just the same." He sighed, flipping to the next page in his notepad. "So, on to the ex."

A few minutes later, the officer returned with the victim's ex-boyfriend, Shawn Miller. Sara studied him, noting his lanky build and sharp features. The young man sat across from them, adjusted his glasses and folded his arms on the table.

Brass glanced over his papers deliberately, tapping his pen against the table. Shawn shifted slightly, pinned by Sara's piercing gaze and Brass' apparent disinterest. After a maddening moment, Brass commented passively, "Must've really burned you up, huh Shawn."

Shawn looked up, his pale eyes sharp, but said nothing.

"You date this girl for what, three years?" Brass went on. "Buy her flowers, nice dates at fancy restaurants, the whole works. Think you've got something special. And what does she do? She dumps you for some jock who can't tell the difference between a homonym and a herbivore. What kind of person would do that?"

Sara noticed the young man's expression darkening, and hid a faint smile. Brass was almost inside.

"You're a smart guy, aren't you. But you know, even smart people get fooled. See a pretty face, hormones go haywire, end up doing stupid things. I'll bet you didn't even know she was using you."

Shawn's face twitched. "She said she loved me." His tone was hard, colder than Sara expected. "Bitch. I can't believe I didn't figure it out."

"It's a shame," Brass continued, his voice low and subtle. "People like that use other people, then move on. She was probably doing the same thing to the poor dope she left you for. Just as well she's gone."

Shawn blinked, the words catching on his lips. Anger flashed in his eyes. "No," he said sharply.

"You sure?" Brass smiled wryly, contradicted by his deathly cold gaze. "Because I don't know about you, but I'm sensing some bad feelings here." Without giving Shawn the chance to answer, he moved on. "So, where were you that night?"

Shawn frowned. "I was at the Tangiers. It's a monthly thing the guys on my floor do." Brass and Sara glanced at each other. "What? They have surveillance. I'm on tape all night."

Sara looked back at Shawn. "You know Eric Anderson?"

"Yeah, he lives on my floor. He's on the football team. So what?"

Brass shrugged. "Just seems like your world is pretty small."

Sara's cellphone rang, cutting into the room's tense quiet. Quickly she stood and left the room.

"Look," Shawn said as the door closed, "I'm being honest with you. I was mad at Jamie, but I didn't kill her. I wouldn't kill somebody for that."

"Oh, so you've given it some thought?" Brass asked coolly.

Shawn frowned, ignoring Brass' question. "You want me to be really honest? She wasn't even that great." He smirked arrogantly. "I've got this girl named Ashleigh, and believe me, if I'd met her in high school I never would've bothered with Jamie."

Brass leaned forward slightly, the intensity of his presence enough to make the young man's expression fade. "You know," he said, voice quiet as death, "I've got a girl named Sara. And believe me, if there's one shred of evidence to tie you to this murder, she'll find it and tear you apart. Get it?" A shadow of a sneer curled his lip.

Shawn stood roughly, noticeably paler. "I'm outta here," he spat, and left without another word.

Brass slid his notebook into his suit pocket and stood. He walked out into the hallway just as Sara was snapping her cellphone shut.

"That was UNLV returning my call," she said with a raised eyebrow. "Guess who had made a complaint of sexual harassment against a professor."

Brass nodded with a sigh. "Jamie Martin."

"Sounds like we should pay the good professor a visit," came a familiar voice from around the corner. They turned to see Grissom, car keys jingling in his hand. He raised an eyebrow with a slight smile. "Think he'd mind a few drop-ins?"

"Yes, I know Jamie Martin," Daniel Covington nodded, leaning back in his leather desk chair. Brass and Sara sat in the two chairs in front of the desk, while Grissom leaned against the bookcase behind Sara. The office was quiet and warmly lit, filled with books. "She's in my Introduction to American Literature class. A very bright young woman."

"Dr. Covington," Brass began, pen poised over his notebook, "how long have you taught at UNLV?"

"Two years as an adjunct, twelve as a full-time faculty member."

"Long enough to know the school's policy on professor/student relations," Brass commented.

Sara continued, "Jamie Martin made a complaint against you, alleging sexual harassment. Sexual innuendo, propositioning, inappropriate touching—"

"Look," Covington interrupted with a slight laugh, making Grissom's jawline tighten, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. We were involved, yes, but everything we did was consensual. Ask Jamie."

"She's dead," Brass stated flatly.

The professor's forehead creased, eyes sharp with disbelief. "You're not serious."

"Raped and murdered."

Covington frowned, rubbing his right temple. "My God. I can't believe something like this could happen to one of my students. How can this be?"

Grissom fingered his glasses thoughtfully. "We were hoping you could tell us."

A glimmer of suspicion passed over his face. "So that's why you're here. You think I had something to do with this."

Sara gazed at him sharply. "A young woman who declined your advances is dead."

"So what happened?" Brass continued, his voice subtle but insistent. "You're a good professor. You work hard to come up with a few A-students, and all the kids want to do is party, right? Some thanks. After all that stress you're entitled to some extra benefits." He paused, but not long enough to let Covington speak. "So, you see this pretty co-ed and decide to seize the day, but she's not interested. That's a shame, because you can't take no for an answer. Can you."

Covington shook his head, but Sara could tell that he was uncomfortable. "You should be a novelist, detective," he said coldly. "An interesting story, but devoid of truth. I didn't kill Jamie. Besides," he added, shifting slightly, "if the school had any evidence to support these accusations, I wouldn't still be here."

"Bureaucracy is slow, Dr. Covington," Grissom remarked. "But human passions rarely listen to a verdict from some guy behind a desk."

"So where were you last Thursday night?" Brass asked curtly.

Covington sighed with irritation. "You're wasting your time. I was at a conference in Seattle all of last week. I only got back this morning. Check with the school, or my airline and hotel. I wasn't even in the state."

Brass smiled sarcastically. "Of course you weren't. No one was around on Thursday night."

"Except Jamie Martin," Sara added darkly.

"Look," the professor spat, pushing back his chair, "this is bordering on harassment. Now, I have classes to teach. If you wish to speak with me again, you'll have to go through my lawyer." He stood and walked to the door, holding it open for them to leave.

"We'll be in touch," Brass promised as Covington shut the door loudly behind them.

As they started toward the parking lot, Sara shook her head. "Well, we've got three guys, two with motive, all with credible alibis."

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. "Which means we have no suspect."

Brass sighed. "So what do we have?"

"An M.O." Grissom frowned, forehead creasing. "We should lay this thing out from the beginning. Maybe we've overlooked something."

"Break out the coffee maker," Brass said wryly. "This case calls for high-octane black."