Illusions

Author: Jess

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. They all mean a lot to me. Special thanks to my betas, Rouch and CSI4nsicAce.

Disclaimer: I looked in my wallet, and I still don't have enough to buy the rights to CSI.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Control, order, restraint, focus. These were the cornerstones of Gil Grissom's life. As a CSI, he saw the horrible actions human beings enacted upon one another. In order to deal with the harsh reality, he had created the wall, locking away his emotions so that he could focus his energy on finding the evidence. Otherwise, he knew he would risk becoming emotionally involved in the case and burnout would be sure to follow. It had taken him a lifetime to build the perfect wall that contained his emotions, and it was taking less than a week for the wall to come crumbling down.

Grissom snapped the evidence bag shut, his mouth tight with anger, and scribbled his name and the case information. A year ago, it hadn't been Debbie Marlin's face that he saw when looking at the body on the floor. It had been Sara's face. Sara's throat slashed. Sara's blood pooled beneath her body. Never Debbie's. He had worked the house meticulously, going over every inch of it five or six times. He had wanted no one else there. No one to get in his way, no one to see the trouble he was having; the toll the case was taking on him. Just like he didn't want anyone else processing the current scene with him.

The difference this time around was that it wasn't his subconscious playing tricks on him; it really was Sara's face in the pictures he was finding. Sara had almost been the next body he had to process. Images of her naked with lilies covering her body filled his head, her brown hair splayed behind her head, her appearance almost angelic except for the two long gashes on both arms.

Grissom shook his head in an attempt to remove all wandering thoughts. He needed to focus on the task at hand. All of his energy needed to be directed at finding the evidence. 'If I overlook even the smallest thing…' He frowned. That would not happen. He would not leave the house until he had everything.

As he knelt, his muscles groaned in protest. Not since the Debbie Marlin case had he processed to the point of physical pain. Pushing his discomfort to the back of his mind, he used the flashlight to scan under the bed. The light landed on two suitcases pushed to the wall in a halfhearted attempt to remove them from sight. Groaning, he laid flat on the floor and reached out, grasping the closest bag, and pulled. He raised an eyebrow at the effort it took to pull the bag from the bed. 'It's full,' he observed, placing it on the mattress and scanning the surface, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Running his gloved fingers over the gold letters CMG that were embroidered in the middle of the bag, Grissom turned it over, a smile forming on his face as he located the address slip attached to one handle. 'One of Christine McGraw's missing bags.' He opened the bag and found various types of women's clothing neatly packed. Pulling the bed away from the wall, he walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled out the other bag. Like the larger one, it had embroidered letters, and Christine McGraw's address attached to it. Upon opening it, he found a plethora of cosmetic supplies.

The doctor's story of bringing Christine to the airport was beginning to unravel. What reason could he have for keeping her suitcases under a bed in his dead wife's house? He turned his attention to the closet located on the other side of the bed.

Grissom's eyes narrowed as he opened the closet doors. He knew the clothing that hung on the handful of hangers in the closet. He had seen them repeatedly over the years, memorizing their every detail, cataloguing the different texture and color of each. His fingers moved to the multicolored scarf that was wrapped around one of the hangers, and he brought it to his nose, breathing deeply. Sara's scent filled his nose, and he yanked the scarf, sending the hanger falling, landing with a thump against a box that lay on the closet floor.

Grissom knelt and roughly opened the box, his heart rate accelerating as he surveyed the contents. New bottles of perfume, body wash, shampoo, and conditioner were packed neatly inside. He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the one touch number he had assigned to Sara's cell.

"Grissom? We haven't made it to my apartment yet," she said, confusion and slight annoyance evident in her voice.

"What shampoo and conditioner do you use?" Grissom asked, dreading the answer he feared he already knew.

Her reply confirmed his suspicion as he warily eyed the bottles in the box.

"Why?" she asked.

"Where did you last see that scarf you always wear? The multicolored one?" Grissom asked.

"Grissom what's going on?" Sara demanded.

"He has some of your clothes," Grissom said, staring at the scarf on the floor. "And he bought the brands you use."

"What do you mean he has some of my clothes?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.

"A multicolored scarf that you wear whenever it's cold. Your red tank top with the white material around the arms and neck. The blue one with the buttons on the left shoulder," Grissom replied, looking up at the clothing. "There's more than that."

"But how do you know they're mine?" she asked.

"Your scent is on the scarf," he told her seriously.

"How could he have gotten into my apartment, Grissom?" she asked, trepidation filling every word.

"I don't know, Sara," he said, trying to sound soothing. "Let me talk to Jim."

After a few seconds, Brass' voice came on the line. "Gil, what's going on?"

"The bastard has some of her clothes here," Grissom said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. "He's been in her apartment, Jim."

"What do you want me to do, Gil?" Brass asked.

"Take her to the lab, stay with her. I'm going to call Greg and have him process Sara's apartment," Grissom instructed. "I'll let him know what we're looking for. Sara will need to give him keys."

"Not a problem," Brass answered. "She wants to talk with you," he added.

A moment later, Sara's voice came over the line, "Lab?"

"Stay there," Grissom ordered. "I don't want to hear about you stepping one foot outside of it. Stay with Brass."

"Grissom--" she started to protest.

"I mean it, Sara," Grissom interrupted. "He wants you. Stay with Brass in the lab. Work as much evidence as you want. Start going over an old case file, I don't care. But you are staying with Brass, and you are not leaving the lab."

Her frustrated breathing was his only answer.

"Sara, please," he pleaded, looking frantically at the clothing in the closet.

Slowly she surrendered, "Fine."

"Promise me," he said, willing her to do so.

"Grissom…fine, I promise," she exhaled deeply. "You better collect enough evidence to put Dr. Doyle away for good because I am not going to live like a prisoner, Grissom. I won't do it."

"I know," Grissom replied. "I know."

He heard her end the call and sighed, turning his attention back to his task. He needed to gather the evidence carefully and quickly because knowing Sara, she wouldn't allow being confined to the lab for very long.


After an hour wasted pouring over the evidence from the three cases again, Sara had decided to look more closely at the death of Dr. Doyle's wife. It had taken half an hour for the correct file to be located and then another fifteen minutes before she had finally been able to look at it. Now that she finally had it in front of her, she wanted to focus her attention and see what information she could gather from it that might be useful. Unfortunately, Brass was making her task rather difficult.

'Put the pencil down!' Sara willed with her mind as she directed her patented glare at Brass. The tapping stopped, and she returned her attention to the case file in front of her. She flipped to the autopsy report and began reading. 'Xanax in her system and her left Ulnar artery was cut.' Flipping through the report, she located the autopsy photographs and removed them for a closer look.

The cut on the arm did visually match those present on the three victims; however, the one she was currently examining lacked the precision. 'There's only one way to be sure,' she thought and flipped back through the report, looking for which coroner performed Michelle Thorne Doyle's autopsy. 'Dr. Robbins,' she read, stood, and began her trek towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Brass asked, rising quickly from his seat.

"I need to speak with Dr. Robbins," Sara replied.

Brass caught up with her and looked quizzically at the file in her hand. "Find something interesting?" he asked as they traveled the crime lab hallways.

"I don't know yet," she answered and pushed open the autopsy bay doors. "Hey, Dr. Robbins," she greeted.

Robbins looked up from the report he was typing. "What brings the two of you here?" he asked, quickly saving the document.

"You did the autopsy on Michelle Thorne Doyle," Sara said and handed him the file.

He quickly looked over the report and cringed. "I remember this one," he told her as he removed the photographs. "I found Xanax and heparin in her system. Heparin is a powerful anticoagulant found in hospitals and research laboratories. I believe it was determined that she took it from one of the university labs. Her left Ulnar artery was severed, and with the anticoagulant running through her system, she died of exsanguination."

The doctor placed the photographs back in the file and handed it to Sara. "The cuts are not the same as Christine McGraw's and Kimberly Witt's," he explained, reading her mind. "The blade from this one was much thicker, and the cut was not as precise. She actually exacted two cuts on her arm to successfully cut the artery. On the other two women, each cut was precise, and a smaller blade, most likely a scalpel, was used."

"Thanks," Sara said and began walking towards the door, Brass trailing after her.

"Did you get what you needed?" Brass asked as they reentered the Evidence room.

"Mhm," was her only answer as she thumbed through the file again.

Brass sighed and sat in Grissom's chair, looking around the office for anything that might hold his attention. 'This is going to be a very long morning.'


'He who restrains his anger overcomes his greatest enemy.' Grissom kept repeating that phrase over and over in his mind. He needed to rein in his anger; it would only hinder the investigation. . He needed to focus on the house, on collecting the evidence. If he didn't, he could miss something, and Dr. Doyle could be freed because of a technicality.

He didn't know how to rein in his emotions when every piece of evidence he was finding was tied to Sara. Her clothes, pictures, and the brands of toiletries she used were in the bedroom. The kitchen held the exact inventory of food that was currently in her apartment. And now, looking at the hallway linen closet, it took every ounce of control not to throw the contents to the floor. It was identical to her linen closet. The majestic purple and baby blue towels were folded and stacked on the top shelf, hand towels and washcloths were placed on the next, and at the bottom were two wicker baskets. One held different feminine products and toilet paper. Grissom had acquainted himself with her closet before, and after his shower, he took time to learn small minute details.

Frustrated, he took photographs of the contents and knelt to get a better look at the other basket. His eyebrows rose slightly as he removed three white sheets, a set of silver candlesticks, and long, spiraled red candles. 'The same items found at the murders,' he thought, photographing his findings.

After bagging and labeling the evidence, he stood and made his way to the next door. Grissom frowned as his cell phone interrupted the quiet. "Grissom," he answered, opening the door and revealing a bathroom.

The smell of bleach engulfed him. "It's Greg," announced the CSI's voice.

"What did you find?" Grissom asked, removing the ALS from his kit.

"There was no sign of forced entry, and I couldn't tell if anything was taken," Greg answered. "I took some fingerprints from the various door handles."

Grissom sighed. He hadn't been expecting Greg to find anything incriminating. "But," Greg continued, "one of Sara's neighbors was being nosy and wondering what I was doing."

"Greg," Grissom started.

"I didn't say anything," he interrupted. "We were talking and she told me that she has keys to Sara's apartment. Sara has her water the plants whenever she works doubles. She told me that a gentlemen friend of Sara's had come by and had left his shirt in the apartment. She let him in, said she knew the man, and that he was a trusted citizen."

"Dr. Doyle?" Grissom asked through clenched teeth.

"Yeah."

"Take the women's statement," he continued.

"I already did," Greg assured him. "I'm going to head back to the lab and start processing the prints."

"Let me know the results," Grissom said and closed the phone.

His pulse was soaring, well over ninety-five. He placed the ALS down and leaned against the hallway wall, trying to calm himself, to regain his control. 'He who restrains his anger overcomes his greatest enemy.' He kept repeating it over and over in his mind. After a few minutes, his breathing was returning to normal, and his fists slowly unclenched. He picked up the ALS again and walked back into the bathroom, determined more than ever to put the bastard away.

He moved the ALS over the bathmat. Finding nothing, he bagged and labeled the carpet before turning to the kit. Putting on his eyewear, he removed the luminol from the kit and turned off the lights. Spraying the liquid, he watched as the tub glowed a bright blue. He frowned as the glow engulfed the whole tub and let out a silent curse. 'The luminol is cross-reacting with the bleach.'

He turned his attention to the rest of the bathroom, squirting the luminol over the different surfaces. The sink showed the same cross-reaction as the tub. A faint smile graced his face as he located blood drops between the toilet and bathtub. It was a hard to reach spot, and without looking for them the probability of seeing the drops was slim. After taking a few photos of the drops, he carefully took a sample of the blood.

Turning the lights back on, he turned his attention to the cabinet beneath the sink. Inside was a bunched up white terry cloth towel jammed in the back right corner. Grissom removed the towel and slowly opened it. His faint smile grew to a genuine one. A scalpel with dried blood lay in the middle of it.

He knew he had found a sample of the victim's blood, most likely Kimberly Witt's. Unfortunately, they had to wait for the lab to prove that it and the rest of the evidence that he had collected also belonged to the victims. All of it was circumstantial until the lab results were in. Until then, Dr. Doyle would be on the streets, free to fulfill his every twisted desire.


"Okay, let's go over what we have," Sara said, simultaneously opening Kimberly Witt's, Angie Moore's and Christine McGraw's case files.

She laid out a photograph of each woman in a row on the board in the evidence room. "All of the victims were displayed in the same manner," she stated, removing three photographs, each showing one victim's body laid out in the same ritualistic display: feet crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over the chest, lilies scattered along the naked bodies. Studying each, she placed the correct one under each file.

"Vicuna fibers found on each of the victims," Greg stated and scrawled the word vicuna on three index cards. He placed one underneath each victim's photograph. "Same candles, candlesticks, and sheets were used for the display."

"Were the same type of lilies used?" Brass asked, watching the two CSIs from the corner of the room.

"Yes," Sara answered. "Spathiphyllum Gioant, the peace lily. There were exactly seventy-five lilies on each body. Also, in each victim's mouth a silk Lilium longiforum, or Easter lily, was found."

"Each victim had Xanax in their system," Greg said as he placed a card under each victim.

"And identical fingerprints were obtained from Kimberly Witt's and Angie Moore's apartments," Sara remarked, adding the information.

Brass stepped forward and added a picture of Dr. Doyle from his driver's license photo to the line. "An identical print was also on the SPCA files that the doctor gave us," he said.

"Dr. Doyle also has vicuna seat coverings in his car," Greg pointed out and tacked the information under the veterinarian's picture.

"The tire tracks found at Kimberly Witt's crime scene were from a 2001 Honda Civic LX, which is the car he drives," Sara added, placing the information in the appropriate spots.

"Cat hair found on Christine McGraw is from a Russian White, and Dr. Doyle owns one," Greg said.

The three stood and looked at the board, each taking a moment to contemplate the information before them. Despite all of the information on the board, only four out of ten items could be tied to Dr. Doyle. One: the vicuna fibers were found on each body, but each could be accounted for in their usual contact with the man. Two: fingerprints were found at Angie Moore's and Kimberly Witt's residence, but again, this could be explained away by a previous encounter, as could the cat hair found on Christine McGraw's body. The tire tracks found at Kimberly's crime scene could have belonged to another 2001 Honda Civic LX. Dr. Doyle had been smart enough to have new tires placed on his car within the last week. It was circumstantial evidence and wouldn't be enough to show the District Attorney for an arrest warrant.

'There are some advantages to being the mayor's nephew,' Sara thought bitterly, letting out a heavy sigh. She looked down at the case files on the table, anxiously reading over each, hoping that she would find something they had missed.

"Grissom," Greg said in greeting.

She looked up, her eyes locking with their supervisor's. He looked as alert as ever, his body radiating an energy she couldn't define, but in his eyes she could see the exhaustion that was threatening to envelope him. He nodded to the group and closed the door behind him before taking a seat at the table. The others quickly followed.

"What did you find?" Greg asked, voicing everyone's unasked question.

Grissom grimaced. "Underneath the bed were two suitcases, both belonging to Christine McGraw," he began. "I also found two trash bags full of clothes in the trash out back. We need to process them for fibers and get them to DNA as soon as possible to see who they belong to."

"In the hallway closet I found candles, candlesticks, and sheets identical to the ones found at each scene," he continued, his eyes darkening slightly before returning to normal. "In the backyard is a working greenhouse."

"Lilies?" Brass asked.

Grissom nodded. "In the hallway bathroom, the tub had recently been cleaned, and the bleach cross-reacted with the luminol. However, I did find blood drops between the tub and the toilet seat," he stated, his frown deepening. "Underneath the bathroom sink, wrapped in a towel, was a scalpel with dried blood."

He watched the others' reactions before continuing, "Mia is currently analyzing the blood I collected. Prints I found on the knife need to be analyzed, and the trash bags and Ms. McGraw's suitcases need to be dusted for prints."

The two CSIs nodded, each of them eager to begin a new task. "Greg, start looking at the clothes in the trash bags. Send anything you find to trace for analysis," Grissom instructed.

The young CSI nodded and exited the room. "What do you need me to do?" Sara asked, rising from her seat.

"Sit," he stated and removed a set of photographs from the evidence bag he was holding.

She gave him a perplexed look and sat down. Slowly, he placed one photograph on the table at a time. Her eyes widened with each one. These were pictures of her clothes, her brands, and the exact layout of her closet. Anger, embarrassment, and outrage intertwined and became one emotion, filling every cell of her body. She wanted to take each photograph and rip it to shreds, to destroy any evidence that Dr. Doyle had been able to enter her apartment, that he had free rein of all of her possessions.

"You can't be on this case anymore, Sara," Grissom stated softly.

Her head rose, eyes staring him down, mouth ready to offer a harsh retort. The open compassion on his face squelched the desire, and she looked down again, breathing heavily. She didn't know what to do or how to react. Instinct told her to lash out, to push him and everyone else away from her, and to run somewhere safe. It was what she had done in the past; it was her way of coping. As a child, she had done it to get away from the fights her parents had, running to the safety of a closet, her brother, or the tree house. As a young adult, she had done it to leave behind her tumultuous Harvard days, leaving the east coast for the familiar west coast of her childhood. Lately, her safety net had been work. It was easy to bury her fears in each case, working to the point of exhaustion, sleeping only when it was absolutely needed. But now, even work was torn from her. She had never felt so lost.

She felt Grissom's hand take hold of hers firmly and looked down at the pair. He always seemed to be the one to hold her hand. "I can't go home," she said, her voice foreign to her own ears.

"No," he replied, entwining their fingers. "I have a spare bedroom. You can stay there."

She raised an eyebrow at this unusual response.

He smiled tentatively at her. "Do you have spare clothes in your locker?"

She nodded and then frowned as he was gently tugging her to her feet. "But, what about the evidence?" she asked. "Greg can't do this all by himself."

"I called the guys," Grissom answered. "They're all on their way. As soon as I inform them of what needs to be processed, we're leaving."

"The protective detail is still assigned to her, so I'll have them follow you home and then set up camp outside your place," Brass said.

Sara blinked, remembering that the captain was still in the room. She looked down at the hand Grissom still held and then up at him, surprised that he hadn't let go of it.

"We came as soon as possible," Warrick said from the doorway, causing her attention to shift there.

Warrick, Nick, and Catherine filed into the room, closing the door behind them. Warrick and Catherine nodded in greeting, each offering tentative smiles, and quickly sat.

Nick stopped beside her and cleared his throat, struggling for the correct words to say. "If you need someone to talk to, Sar, call me," Nick said. "I… I know how it is… having someone invade your personal space."

She remembered Nigel Crane and the effect he'd had on Nick. Disengaging her hand from Grissom's, she hugged Nick, thankful for her friend's compassion and understanding. Ending the hug, she gave him a ghost of a smile, cursing herself for not being able to offer more.

He nodded at her and then took his seat.

"I'm going to get my spare set of clothes," Sara stated, having no desire to hear what they would be doing.

Grissom looked hastily at Brass, who nodded before replying, "Why don't I come with you?"

She shrugged and left the room, the captain on her heels. "Are you okay?" he asked as she opened her locker.

She stared at the gym bag resting at the bottom and shook her head. "It's like this is all just a really bad dream," she murmured and removed the bag.

"Ready?"

She looked up and saw Grissom standing in the doorway. Nodding, she closed the locker and followed him towards the Denali. She sighed as she buckled her seatbelt. 'Why does life have to be full of so many complications?'