Brass raised an eyebrow, glancing back at Sara as Grissom closed the hospital door. "What's eating him?"
"The usual," Sara replied with a shrug. "He's . . . suspicious, but he doesn't know about us."
"Ah." Brass felt a sudden warmth at the word, then sighed as he leaned against the bedside chair. "I think I'm going to talk to him. I'd hoped to avoid too much conflict—for the sake of the case, too. But I'm afraid he's going to insist on getting mad."
Sara shook her head. "Grissom has no right to be mad at you. If anything, he should be mad at himself." She sighed, leaning tiredly against her pillows. "So what are you going to tell him?"
"Not much," Brass shrugged hesitantly. "Just that we have a date pending. I mean, none of it's really his business, anyway, but I don't want him finding out about it from the lab's friendly local gossip factory."
Sara nodded with a faint smile, then covered her mouth as she yawned.
Brass clutched his hands to his heart with mock distress. "I'm crushed. I know I'm not the most exciting speaker . . ."
Sara exhaled in a laugh, smile spreading unguarded across her face, keeping the nightmare at the borderline of her vision. "You're a funny man, Jim Brass."
He shrugged, dark blue eyes lit with his own smile. "I try."
"I'm just exhausted," she added, grimacing as she rubbed one of her bandages. "I think it's partly the meds."
"I know—I'm sorry," Brass replied gently. "Have you, ah, decided what you'd like to do?"
Sara nodded slowly, a faint light in her eyes. "I think I'd feel better staying with someone else right now, at least for tonight."
"Okay," Brass nodded thankfully. He felt it was the best way to protect her, though the thought of it made him feel strange. "We can stop by your apartment so you can get whatever you need. Anyway, I'll be on the couch in the living room, so you won't hear a peep from me. Believe me," he added wryly, "I did it for a few years."
"Yeah, but you're not in trouble," Sara corrected with a slight tired smile.
Brass smiled warmly for her, mind wandering uneasily to his upcoming conversation with Grissom. Not yet, anyway.
Grissom straightened his pale blue lab coat as he stepped into the morgue, surveying the cold, stainless space. "Sorry I'm late," he told Dr. Robbins, who was sitting at one of the tables against the wall. "Where's Jillian Edwards?"
"I rushed her body to her parents," Robbins replied, reaching for a file of papers on the desk. "They were pretty distraught. Told me she'd just moved out to live with a few friends, but that she was still on good terms with her family."
"So she had roommates," Grissom remarked, tilting his head. "P.D. will have to talk to them." He rubbed his temple with a sigh. "We've been off track for the past two days."
Robbins nodded thoughtfully. "You didn't miss anything in the post. Cause of death was ligature strangulation, with the same markings from the belt used as the ligature. Scratched, bruised, underfed for a week, and raped repeatedly with an indeterminate foreign object. Plus the signature small cuts numbering her as the sixth victim."
"Same as the five other victims," Grissom sighed. "Anything unique?"
The medical examiner shook his head. "All I can say is the attacks grow more brutal with each victim."
"Escalation," Grissom muttered.
"Makes you wonder where it ends," Robbins remarked as he stood awkwardly, gripping his crutch.
"Yeah." Grissom shook his head as they walked over to where Josh Hunter lay on an examining table. "On to our framed friends."
"Well," Robbins commented as he pulled the sheet down Josh Hunter's body, "it's never a good day when both of your suspects turn up dead."
"No," Grissom agreed tersely, glancing down at the body. "So what's the story, Doc?"
"Pretty straightforward. Both men have been dead about a week, and both died of stab wounds to the torso and neck area. Hunter's aorta was pierced, causing him to exsanguinate immediately." Robbins pointed across the room to where Martin Scott lay on another table. "His buddy's C.O.D. seems to have been a slash to his carotid, but his other wounds would have caused him to bleed out in minutes regardless."
"Their killer meant business," Grissom nodded thoughtfully. "Defensive wounds?"
"That's the strange thing." The medical examiner glanced back at Hunter's body, and held up his hand, palm up. "Slightly scratched, but otherwise unharmed. Scott's the same way."
"So they didn't fight back," Grissom frowned. "He must have used chloroform on them."
Robbins nodded. "I suspected possible chemical restraint, so I sent blood samples to Tox." His forehead creased thoughtfully. "I know the killer chloroforms his victims to transport them. But why sedate these two, if he was just killing them to finish off some loose ends?"
"Maybe the killer isn't physically strong enough to kill them if they struggle. Either that, or he likes the power trip." Grissom gnawed his lip. "That would explain why he used chloroform on Sara."
"I thought I heard something had happened to her," Robbins frowned, concerned. "Is she all right?"
Grissom nodded, shifting uncomfortably. "A few superficial stab wounds, but otherwise okay. The hospital stitched her up, then released her. She's just going to need a little rest."
Robbins shook his head. "Well, I hope she has somebody looking out for her. This guy seems determined."
"She's . . . fine," Grissom replied hesitantly. "Besides, we think the killer has skipped town, looking for his next location. He's going to want to get back on "schedule" with his usual victims." He straightened, glancing down at the body. "What about the, uh, weapon used? Anything unusual?"
Robbins shrugged. "The knife was single-edged, about three-quarters of an inch wide, and probably about six inches long. Standard kitchen knife—the killer could've gotten it anywhere."
"Okay," Grissom nodded, starting to leave. "Thanks, Doc."
"One more thing." Robbins gripped his crutch and hobbled to a table across the room. He picked up two stained pieces of paper and held them so Grissom could see. "Murder, he wrote."
Raising an eyebrow, Grissom stepped closer. Each sheet was marked with small, nondescript typed letters. "'This is the way . . .'" Grissom glanced to the second sheet. ". . . the world ends.'"
"Apocalyptic mumblings?" Robbins suggested.
"T. S. Eliot," Grissom muttered. "From The Hollow Men. The killer used the same part of the poem in the first message we received—'Not with a bang but a whimper.' Arrogant piece of . . ." He shook his head. "So where'd you find these?"
"Inside the victims' mouths," Robbins replied, "one in each. Folded up neatly under the tongue."
"More confirmation that they were both killed by our serial." Grissom commented. He glanced at his pager as it beeped loudly. "Well, looks like we've got the DNA results."
"I thought the killer never left DNA."
"He did when Brass shot him," Grissom remarked, taking the two notes from the medical examiner.
Robbins raised an eyebrow. "Should I clear a table?"
"It was just a nick," Grissom shrugged as he headed out the door. "But I'd make reservations. He'll probably show up here eventually."
Brass sat in his living room's brown leather chair, gazing across the dark, silent house. Faint silver moonlight seeped in between the closed wooden blinds, tracing down the green walls and thick, richly colored carpet. The light lingered on an antique medal, hanging on the wall in a shadowbox frame, its silk ribbon the color of freshly fallen blood. He sighed, fingers flexing habitually as he took a sip of his hot coffee. Even without it he was a light sleeper, but he was not taking chances. Not after what had happened to Sara. She was going to be fine, but he knew she was in pain, partly physical but mostly emotional. Like him, she smiled because smiling was a bandage, hiding the wounds beneath. She had gone to sleep almost immediately after arriving, without even having anything to eat. He hoped that her chloroform nightmares had passed, that she would feel better. Until then, and as always, it was his job to protect her.
Brass jumped sharply at a sudden noise, every tensed nerve springing alive, then cursed under his breath as he realized it was only his cellphone. His hand slid from his gun's grip and reached for the phone in his other pocket. "Yeah," he answered quietly.
"Hey Jim, it's Gil."
"Hey insomniac." Brass raised an eyebrow. "What, warm milk and cookies aren't helping?"
"Very funny." Grissom's voice was somewhat flat, but not irritated. "We just got the results on the killer's DNA."
Brass' grip tightened on the arm of the chair. "You got a hit."
"Actually, no. It came up empty."
"You're kidding," Brass frowned, disappointed. "I guess he is a first-timer, then."
Grissom sighed. "Either that, or he slipped through the cracks. We ran it through every database we've got, but he's not in the system."
"Swell," Brass muttered. "So until we have a suspect, DNA is useless."
"Yeah." He paused. "I was going to call Sara to tell her, but I figured she'd be asleep after what happened today."
"Probably," Brass replied, feeling slightly nervous.
"Hey, did you figure out where that cop went? The one that I, uh, sent to watch Sara."
Brass frowned. "Yeah—I talked to Dispatch. He responded to a 444 call less than a block away, which ended up being bogus."
"It's like the Klinefelds and that vigilante," Grissom muttered. "'Officer down' is like a magic phrase or something. I mean, the guy was ordered to stay with Sara."
"I know. I gave him a verbal beating and put him on leave for a few days. Our dear friend the sheriff won't like it, but it made me feel better."
"Yeah," Grissom sighed. "Did you get the caller's phone number?"
"Yep. It came from a payphone within eyeshot of Edwards' apartment."
"What about the call to—"
"Already checked," Brass interrupted with a nod. "The threatening call to Edwards' apartment was made from the same phone."
"So the killer still likes payphones." Grissom paused thoughtfully. "Well, anyway, we'll go over everything tomorrow afternoon—actually, that's today at this point. Sara needs to hear this stuff, too. Is 12 noon okay?"
"I'll bring Chinese," Brass suggested. "It'll be like old times. Plus, chicken teriyaki always helps me think."
"Well, whatever works," Grissom replied wryly. "I'll call Sara in the morning to let her know."
"Don't worry about it, Gil," Brass said, a bit too quickly. "You're busy. I'll, uh, just pick her up when I go get lunch. I'm kind of keeping an eye on her, anyway."
"Okay," Grissom agreed, a slight note of curiosity in his voice. He was oblivious as usual, much to Brass' relief. "So I'll see you then."
"Sweet dreams," Brass returned, sighing as he hung up. He slid his phone into his pocket, feeling more than a little guilty, though he knew it was unnecessary. Grissom was his best friend, and had been for the past six years. Brass knew that Grissom had no "claim" to Sara, and had said clearly that he could not have a relationship with her. Still, Brass knew it was an uncomfortable situation, even if it was Sara's choice.
Swallowing the last of his coffee, Brass stood slowly, glancing around the room and its renewed silence. Quietly he walked to the door, peering outside through an old-fashioned peephole. The street was empty, with only the neighbors' car parked in their driveway, and a stray cat trotting down the road under the orange streetlights. Ears strained to hear any errant noise, Brass turned and headed cautiously through the kitchen and down the hall, glancing into every room.
Brass paused as he reached the master bedroom at the end of the hall, and peered hesitantly around the slightly open door. Sara was soundly asleep, face toward the door, dark hair striking against the white sheets. Moonlight trickled down her pale freckled skin and long eyelashes, casting a shadow below her full lower lip, the cut on her cheek outlined cruelly in its glow. A sudden sharp image of her body against stainless steel, a vicious crimson slash across her slender neck, flashed darkly into his mind. Brass winced, fist tightening. Taking a ragged breath, he pulled away from the door, pushing it so it was only slightly open, as before. He glanced over his right shoulder at his reflection in the large bathroom mirror, lit by the tiny golden nightlight. Brass tilted his head, seeing every year written across his strong features in a novel of pain, trial and betrayal, and the weathered soul behind his searching dark blue eyes. His mind a wordless storm of raw emotion, he turned and walked down the silent hall.