I can't do this. There are just too many of them. Every time I see one I get all goose pimpled and my heart starts racing. But who could have guessed that a B&E would have so many friggin' bugs? It looks like this lady has been here for a few weeks, at least. There are roaches, maggots and other creepy crawlies. The back door was left open by the perp, I suppose, and I guess that's how all the unindigenous bugs in here.
Its been two weeks and several sessions with the staff psychologist but I'm still not 100. I like to think that I am, but I'm not. I've been prescribed something for my nerves and the panic attacks I've been having ever since being in that box; sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Its all a crap shoot. Life, that is. My fate was determined by the flip of a coin. It could have just as easily been Warrick in that box, but it was me; my fate laid by a small silver disc with some long dead president on it. I wonder how I would have reacted if our places were reversed. Would I have stayed by the computer like he did or would I have done something else? I'd like to think that I would have sat vigil the way he did for me, but I honestly can't say. Its hard to put yourself in someone else's shoes when confronted by a situation such as mine was.
Right now its creeping the hell out of me to see all these little creatures literally covering this body. I need to relax. Just one little blue pill and half an hour later I'll be fine. It's the waiting that's killing me. It doesn't help that I'm here all by myself, either. I'll just go outside and sit until the pill takes effect. Opening the back door and closing it behind myself, I sit on the back stoop and close my eyes, slowly breathing in and out through my nose; slow, deep breaths, that's the key.
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I hate to have to take those damned pills, but truth be told, I think they're the only reason I've been able to keep my head during the workday. Through the bodies, the bugs, the crepulance of man and the general nonsensical nature of some crimes, I find myself wondering how we, as a civilization have advanced as far as we have. Like the one last week that Greg and I were working. We were called to a scene where a dead teen was found laying face first in a sandbox in a community park, his trainers missing. With further investigation we found the killer and that's what it was over; a damn pair of trainers. What have we become when we're willing to take a life for a simple pair of shoes? Well, maybe not simple; they were $175.00 Reeboks. First off, who would shell out that much for a pair of tennis and secondly, what sort of person would kill for said shoes?
Greg made a comment, saying that's why he wears Van's, because they're stylish, comfortable and cheap. Me, I wear boots; ASOLO hiking boots, more often than not. They're comfy and offer great arch support. I know I sound like my mother when I say that, but its true.
More and more, I find myself thinking about the evil done by one man to another for trivial things. True, we, as a civilization have advanced a great deal in the last hundred or so years, but I think that we've also regressed quite a bit. When I see someone that is clearly on drugs, willing to do just about anything for their next fix, I think of the depression in the 30's, where people would do just about anything for food. Then I think of the hunter gatherers of thousands of years ago. They killed because they had to and not because they wanted to, and they weren't wasteful either. They ate the meat, used the pelts for clothing and warmth and the bones jewelry and such. The Indians of America before it was America had it right. They'd hunt for what they'd use and not a single deer or buffalo more. They prayed when they took a life and thanked their Gods for the bounty and were very respectful of everything. Sometimes I find myself wishing for simpler times in which you could just live your life in peace and watch your children and grandchildren grow up in front of your eyes. Now, we've got parents outliving their kids. No parent should ever outlive their child, but it's a pity that that's the world we live in now.
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I'm feeling a bit better now, so back to the evidence. Thus far I've got treads, prints from various areas around the victim and house as well as what looks like what could be a big glob of spit right beside the victim's head. Someone must have hated her with a passion to have done all this damage and then spit on her. Well, once we get her back to the lab we'll know more. I know I shouldn't be here in the house before David comes and releases the scene, but I'm already here and the sooner in, the sooner out. I haven't touched the body but I've taken lots of fun photos for Grissom so he can identify the bugs, some of which I recognize and some I don't.
Finally, the pill has taken full effect and I can do my job without the panic attacks. David has come and gone, so now I'm truly the only one here in this house, this house that smells of death and fear. Gathering up my kit and camera, I take one last series of photos of the front door that looks as if it had been kicked in. Stowing my crap in the boot of the truck, I slide behind the wheel and head for the lab.
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Sitting in an empty room, the one with the table that Doc Robbins lusts after, I sift through all the things that I'd collected from the scene including the clothes, if you want to call them that, that the good doctor was so gracious to provide me, I find what looks to be acid burns of some sort, or maybe they're cigarette burns. I'd sniff them, but for the funk, so I grab my glass for a better look. Yup, charred edges and easy crumbling; cigarette burns. Funny, though, I didn't see an ashtray anywhere while I was processing. It must have been due to the perp. Looking through the bindles I've collected I find one with a butt and said bindle in hand, I go down to DNA for identification. Even though Greg isn't so much in DNA anymore, he's there right now. He takes the butt and does his thing.
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I'm home and I'm dog tired. Tossing the mail on the coffee table, I shuffle my way to my bedroom and slide out of my clothes, climb into bed in just my shorts. Some Cymbalta and I'm out like a light in half an hour. These pills, I don't mind so much taking because they help me sleep which has been hard lately, for obvious reasons. The dreams are kind of weird sometimes, but as long as I'm asleep I'm happy……….for the most part.
Someone let me out of here. I feel the walls closing in around me and the air is as stale as the recycled air on an airplane. There's no light, no glow sticks…….just me and a gun. I pop the clip and there's only one bullet, one meant for me. No recorder to leave a goodbye message on, just me and a gun. On my shoulders I can feel the glass pressing hard. I feel like an old car at some junkyard that's being pancaked. Now I feel it on the soles of my boots and the top of my head. I'm gonna be squished to death in this box and the only relief in sight is in my right hand, pressed to my chin. I've been here before, I know the drill. This dream is not new, but it is recurring verbatim. As my finger tenses against the trigger and as I squeeze everything goes black.
"Agh, crap" I say, sitting bolt upright in bed, covered in sweat. I look over at the clock on the bedside table and its only been a few hours since I've retired. Looks like another night of infomercials and re-runs of Night Court and The Facts of Life.