Author's note: Please read my updated profile for my take on GSR, particularly in this story. I want readers, and no flames, but I'm going to be honest. Thank you, and keep reading:-)

Sara's mind awoke slowly to consciousness, emerging from a haze of vague nightmare that eluded memory. In the fog of half-sleep, she rolled over onto her right side, fingers tightly gripping the edge of the sheets as a dull ache throbbed through her body. The memory of what had happened trickled back to her in a sluggish stream of stinging cruelty, and she groaned painfully against the pillow. Her lashes fluttered open, pushing out sleep and lingering tears, and she took a deep breath as she remembered where she was. The air in her lungs smelled faintly of tasteful cologne, and her eyes closed slowly at the feelings it stirred. It was Brass' scent. Unconsciously she burrowed her face more deeply in the pillow, fiercely pushing away the shadow, a visceral wave of emotion burning down her spine.

Turning her head, lips brushing across the pillowcase, Sara forced her eyes to open and squinted in the filtered morning light. She sat up gingerly, wiping the sleep from her eyes, and gazed absently around the comfortable room, noting the dark wood furnishings, light green walls, and white sheer panels drawn across the window. Her eyes caught on a small frame on the bureau, and she got up slowly and walked over to it, bare feet padding across the soft tan carpet. It was a photograph of a young girl, about six years old, with feathery brown hair pulled back in red barrettes and wide dark eyes. Sara could tell that it was Brass' daughter Ellie, and she smiled faintly, savoring its bittersweetness.

Over a few minutes, Sara got out her clothes, and straightened up and changed in the neighboring bathroom. She washed her hair as best she could, since showering was a challenge with her few stitched wounds that could not get wet. Surveying her reflection, she frowned at her slowly curling damp hair—since she had forgotten her hairdryer—and the conspicuous cut across her left cheek. Straightening her brown v-neck shirt with a dissatisfied grunt, she finally made her way toward the kitchen, following the tantalizing smell of fresh coffee.

Sara turned the corner to find Brass standing at the counter with his back to her, wearing his tan suit pants and a cream shirt with a faint blue windowpane pattern, humming to himself. Pausing, she leaned against the doorframe, a smile creeping slowly across her face, thinking that she had never seen him look so endearing. "I smell breakfast," she remarked.

Brass turned, revealing two plates of waffles on the counter. "Hey Sara," he smiled warmly, dark circles faintly visible under his eyes. "How are you?"

"Well," she replied wryly as she sat at the small table, "I look like crap, and I don't feel much better."

"You're beautiful," Brass returned gently, leaning forward slightly to slip a damp strand of hair behind her ear, and she smiled again. "So, I cooked up some waffles—well, technically, I thawed some of those frozen ones, but they're pretty good, anyway. I mean, it's not quite gourmet . . ."

"It's fine," Sara smiled gratefully as Brass put the plates on the table, beside a bottle of maple syrup and a stick of butter.

"Well, I promise I'll make up for this meager fare in the future," Brass added, setting down a steaming cup of coffee by her plate. His eyes flickered with a charming smile.

Sara squeezed some maple syrup onto her waffles, taking a deep breath of the sunlit air, focusing her mind on the immediate future. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

"Well," Brass began, watching his butter melt in yellow rivulets, "at 12, I'm going to run out and grab some Chinese, and the three of us are going to have our good old-fashioned meeting of the minds. You know, to go over everything and figure out what we need to do next."

"Good," Sara nodded. "Maybe we'll find something we missed. After we're done, I'll go to the AV lab," she added. "Then I can start analyzing of the answering machine tape."

"Are you sure you want to go back to work so soon?" Brass asked, concern in his eyes.

Sara patted his arm with a faint smile. "I'll just be sitting in the lab in front of a computer. Besides, I need to help catch this guy."

"Okay," Brass agreed, solemn eyes contradicting his smile.

Grissom stood outside the lab, leaning against the wall beside the side door. His arms were folded, glasses in his hand, as he watched the bright Nevada sun start to melt away the dew. Absently he brushed his glasses' earpiece across his lips, his clear blue eyes staring vacantly over the parking lot. He thought there was something cruel about a world where the sun could shine while everything inside him was coming undone. The fragile chrysalis of emotion, tightly sealed within him, had been violated as the knife had wounded Sara. Her presence was a concrete fact in his mind, something he had unconsciously felt could never change. Now it seemed that she would soon be lost to him, either through the killer's malice or something worse. Perhaps it would be better for her to die as his distant butterfly, not in the arms of someone else.

Grissom's lip curled with repulsion at the raw thought, but it was followed by a serpentine hiss of wordless jealously. He felt like he was swinging a baseball bat in the dark, knowing that something was working against him, but unable to find it. The inability to classify what was happening frustrated his scientist's mind, and his seeming powerlessness to change it angered his humanity.

You know, by the time you figure it out . . .

Grissom flinched visibly as Sara's voice flashed into his thoughts with fatalistic clarity. Eyes fading into hollowness as his hand clenched around his glasses, he muttered, "It's too late."

He jumped as his pager went off, then glanced at it with a slight frown. Curious, he slipped his glasses into his pocket, then turned and reentered the lab, stopping at the desk near the main entrance. "You called?" he asked the diminutive receptionist, Judy.

"A woman is here to see you, Dr. Grissom," Judy replied, looking like one of his insects with her thick, black-rimmed glasses. She gestured across the hallway and added, "She said she's Jillian Edwards' mother."

Tilting his head, Grissom walked down the hallway toward a woman with short red hair, standing with her back to him. "Mrs. Edwards?"

The woman turned, revealing freckles and green eyes that matched her murdered daughter's. "Mr. Grissom," she returned tensely. "I've been waiting to talk to someone on my daughter's case."

"I'm sorry we haven't spoken with you yet," Grissom sighed. "This is a very complex investigation."

"I heard on the news that the rapist who ran that glass place turned up dead," Edwards continued, strain in her voice. "So right now you don't have a suspect."

"We're still following leads . . ." Grissom began cautiously, then hesitated as he saw irritation flaring in the woman's eyes. "No," he admitted. "But we do have a consistent profile, and a pool of possible suspects we're looking into right now."

Edwards sighed, rubbing her temple. "I'm not trying to be rude with you, Mr. Grissom. I'm sure you're working very hard. It's just incredibly frustrating to have to trust you cops without knowing what's going on. I mean, Jill's murderer is . . ." She paused, taking a ragged breath as she wiped tears from her eyes. "He's still out there. And it feels like no one's doing anything about it."

"I promise you, Mrs. Edwards, we're doing everything we can," Grissom said quietly. "We're going to catch your daughter's killer." He paused, then continued, "This man is very clever, and leaves almost nothing behind after committing a crime. We don't have much to go on, through forensics or detective work. He's a highly proficient serial killer."

"On the news, they're saying he could be an ex-cop," Edwards suggested.

Grissom tilted his head, wondering where the reporters had gotten that detail. "We're looking at all possibilities."

She frowned, dissatisfied, and added, "What are the chances that you'll catch this guy?"

Grissom paused, thinking. What could he tell her? That they had DNA but no suspect? That a shard of one-way glass was their next-strongest piece of evidence? "It's hard to say," he replied slowly. "With enough hard work, we should be able to catch him, but it just takes time. If he makes a mistake, we'll get him sooner."

"So we wait," Edwards nodded bitterly. They were silent for a moment, then she asked, "Have you ever lost someone you love, Mr. Grissom?"

Grissom flinched imperceptibly, forehead creasing. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.

"A part of your soul dies," Edwards continued, her eyes piercing but sorrowful. Without another word, she turned and left the lab.

A frown crept darkly across Grissom's face, and he glanced up at the clock. 12:01 PM. Groaning, he turned and marched down the hall. In a moment he reached the room with the large table, to find a small array of Chinese food spread across its surface. He paused a short distance from the doorway, gazing through the glass beside it at Sara, who was sitting at the table. She was looking at something across the room, her distinctive smile spreading like faint sunrise across her face. Grissom bit his lip absently, studying that delicate profile that wounded him in a way he could not understand.

Suddenly, Grissom jumped as someone crashed into him. "Hello, Hodges," he remarked with irritation as he saw who it was.

"Sorry boss, sorry," Hodges apologized nervously, straightening his lab coat. "You must be clairvoyant—I was just about to page you."

"I'm busy," Grissom muttered, glancing back at the meeting room to see Brass sit down across from Sara.

Hodges nodded emphatically. "I know—you're such a dedicated worker. And I would know, since I am, too."

"Get to the point, Hodges."

"I finished analyzing the black fibers torn from the attacker's clothes," the trace analyst said quickly. "It's a blend of cotton and polyester, used in knit clothing. Maybe from his ski-mask." He shook his head. "You know, at times like this I'm glad I work in the lab. You guys have a dangerous job. Is Sara okay?" he added hesitantly.

"She's fine," Grissom frowned, waving his hand dismissively. "Anything unique on the fibers?"

Hodges shook his head. "Not until I have something to compare it—"

"Then get back to work," Grissom returned sharply, continuing his march down the hall, leaving a startled Hodges to scurry back to the trace lab.

"So we had to bring this character into P.D. in a furry blue cat costume," Grissom heard Brass telling Sara as he paused just outside the doorway. "Seriously. And when we took off the costume, we discovered that 'Sexy Kitty' was really some bald guy with huge glasses like an inch thick."

Sara laughed, her smile widening. "I can just picture you bringing him in, too."

"I know," Brass smiled back. "It was like 'The Twilight Zone' meets 'Animal Planet.'"

"Well, I'm ready," Grissom announced from the doorway, interrupting Sara and Brass' laughter. The two of them glanced up at him, noting the irritation still lingering on his face.

"So are we," Brass replied, raising an eyebrow.

Sara glanced at both of them, sensing Grissom's tension. "Why don't you, uh, sit down and grab some food?" she suggested.

Taking a deep breath, Grissom reluctantly complied, taking only a plastic fork and a small paper box filled with noodles. "So," he sighed, slipping on his glasses, "let's get to work. Could you give us a quick review, Sara?"

Sara nodded. "Between late January and early February, the killer murdered three victims in the Reno area. Starting twenty-five days later, from late March through April, he murdered three victims in the Las Vegas area. The most recent victim, Jillian Edwards, was killed after six days, instead of the usual seven. She was also kidnapped the day after the fifth victim, Samantha Guerin, was killed. This suggests a continued pattern of acceleration." She paused, then continued, "Since we know he works in threes, it's very likely that he has moved on to a new area, and is currently selecting his next three victims."

"How do we know he's moved on?" Brass asked quietly, concern in his dark blue eyes. "His attack on you was unsuccessful. Why wouldn't he stay here and . . . finish the job?"

"Because he was unsuccessful," Grissom suggested. "The killer hates women viciously, and is highly disturbed by a woman investigating his case. In his mind, no female can be a worthy adversary. If his intent was to . . . to kill Sara, he failed—meaning he was indirectly beaten by a woman, which to him is unthinkable. Returning to kill her would mean admitting that initial failure. Instead, he'll occupy his mind with his signature killings, continuing to play out the fantasies and actions that he's most comfortable with. If he runs into Sara again, I think he would try to kill her, but he's not going to seek her out."

"That makes sense," Sara returned softly. "Fits the profile." She turned to Brass. "What did you find out about Jillian Edwards?"

"Well," Brass sighed, "from all accounts she was outgoing and well-liked. Involved in a lot of school events, clubs, that sort of thing. And yes, her boyfriend is on the basketball team."

Sara nodded. "The all-American girl."

"That's the connection between victims," Grissom remarked, becoming absorbed in the case. "Serials hunt stereotypes. It makes it easier to dehumanize the victims, to turn them into flat symbols. In this case, all of them fit a certain social type, though their physical appearance differs. The victims are young, attractive, well-adjusted, gregarious, and accepted romantically." His eyes were lit with inquisitive fire. "So what can this very specific choice tell us about the killer? Let's go through some of the victim's traits."

"The murders are highly sexual," Sara began thoughtfully. "The victims are just about at the age of sexual maturity, a few years after puberty. Part of his rage may be at what he sees as women's promiscuity, but is actually anything to do with female sexuality and freedom. These girls, as young, beautiful, and romantically successful, represent a kind of sexual object, at the ideal stage for his deepest rage."

Brass tilted his head, intrigued. "So what causes that kind of rage?"

"A variety of factors," Grissom shrugged. "The killer may have had a domineering mother, or one who was too promiscuous and exposed her son to her sexuality. He may feel a lack of masculinity for some reason, possibly a domineering father, and be lashing out at his weakness by projecting it onto victims. Maybe he's been rejected by women in general, or was abused in some way by a female."

"We won't know the reason until we have him in custody," Sara added, glancing at Brass. "But we can keep those things in mind when we look at a suspect's profile."

Brass nodded. "You know, since the victims are popular, the killer could've been a social outcast. Maybe a loner, without any friends."

"It's likely," Grissom agreed. "Serials often are. I think it also contributes to his whole "lone warrior" mentality. From his notes, it sounds like he considers himself to be some kind of social crusader, getting rid of "evil" women after having taught them a lesson. In his mind, it's justice."

"John Wayne joins the Dark Side," Brass remarked with a sigh. "Swell."

"Yeah." Grissom straightened his glasses. "So, what else should we be looking for?"

"Someone inside," Sara stated. "Or formerly inside. This guy has access to records, uses chloroform and one-way glass, and knows too much about forensics. He got information on me, and on Hunter and Scott. Most killers wouldn't go through all that trouble, unless they had fairly easy access."

"So, what are we thinking?" Brass wondered. "Cop, lawyer . . . CSI?"

"Well," Grissom said hesitantly, "I don't think he's currently in law enforcement. I mean, where would he get the time to torture and murder all these young women?"

"Guys." Sara's forehead creased pensively. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. The killer hasn't framed anyone else here, or in the Reno area, right?"

"Right," Grissom frowned, unsure of where she was headed.

"He also hasn't attacked any other members of law enforcement, or threatened them with information from their past, right?"

"Right."

"So maybe it's not about having access to records," Sara continued. "Maybe it's about having access to those records. Hunter and Scott's crimes occurred in the eighties."

"Yeah," Brass nodded slowly, catching on as he flipped through his papers. "Scott was convicted in 1989, Hunter in '87."

"My . . . my mother was convicted in '84 in Modesto," Sara said quietly. "We need to look at someone who was in law enforcement during the eighties. Someone who either worked on those cases, or worked with someone who did."

Grissom tilted his head. "So this hypothetical person would have worked in Stanislaus County, California, and then moved to Clark County between '84 and '87?".

"Roughly. He could've worked with an outside lab that processed any of the evidence, too," Sara added. "We need to figure out everyone who was connected to those three cases. We have a profile to limit our search. And he may be a Nevada native, since none of the murders occurred in California."

"Still, we're talking a large pool of people, Sara," Grissom shrugged. "And who's to say that it's even the right direction?"

"It's better than no direction," Sara replied firmly. "Think about it. He knew details from my father's death . . . about the blood, that the cop got sick . . . things that aren't in any legal records. He worked on the case or heard people talking about it."

Brass nodded. "So we're looking for a former member of law enforcement connected to all three cases, who was in the field at least during the eighties, and worked in both California and Nevada."

"Exactly," Sara agreed. "He could be anything from a professor to a janitor at this point."

"Delivery guy," Grissom muttered.

Brass raised an eyebrow. "You expecting a package?"

"We can't forget that the victims let the killer in," Grissom continued. "Maybe he's working as a delivery guy now, or at least posing as one." With a shrug, he added, "So we have a better idea of who this guy is, and a few weeks before he kills his next victim. But where is he going to go next?"

"Well," Brass began, spreading out a small map of Nevada, "the first three victims were in Washoe County, from Reno and Sparks. The next three were from Clark County, Vegas and Henderson. Three victims per county, all in metropolitan areas."

"He also selected the county seat, and a city nearby," Grissom added. "So it's likely that he'll pick another county, starting with its county seat."

"And he likes urban areas," Sara continued. "The next largest is Carson City, but that's not a traditional county, and there's no smaller city nearby."

"Elko is the next largest that's not in Clark County," Brass suggested. "Then either Carlin or Wells could serve as the second location."

Tilting his head, Grissom gazed at the map. "Reno, Vegas, Elko," he said quietly, tapping the map with his finger at each location. "Forms a triangle across the state."

"A trinity," Sara nodded.

"That's where he'll strike next," Grissom stated firmly. "He's probably on his way there now, getting ready to pick out his next three victims."

"I'll notify their police department," Brass nodded.

"Tell them to contact us if they notice anything suspicious, and the minute a girl matching the victim's description is kidnapped," Grissom ordered. "I want everything sent here. Our crime lab is far better, anyway."

"I'll analyze the answering machine tape, then work on the records," Sara added.

"Good," Grissom nodded. "I'll get started with the records. Brass, you can do the footwork."

"Pounding pavement," Brass smiled wryly. "My favorite job."

Grissom gazed silently at the map as Brass and Sara stood and left. He tilted his head, eyes tracing between the three locations in an endless triangle.