Chapter 7 – We Have a Problem...

Disclaimer – Don't own it, apart from Kyle Andrews.

Notes – Spoilers from 'Committed', and 'The Accused is Entitled.' I cannot believe I have taken this long to update! I didn't think anybody was reading this story anymore. Please forgive me?

The entrance of Kyle Andrews into the Las Vegas police department became the stuff of legend. Imagine if you will, a car-transporter pulling up right outside the station, almost blocking the road as it does so. Three detectives exit the vehicle, guns drawn and safeties off. They all converge around a single car that is mounted on the truck's gigantic back.

From out of this car steps a man. This man is easily seven and a half feet tall if he's an inch. He is big, bearded, heavily muscled, and he has a vicious smile on his face. The kind of smile that says, "If you mess around with me, I will damage you. I will do things to you that are irreparable, things that you will not recover from if you lived to be a hundred." Which gives you some idea of just how expressive this smile can be.

The three (very apprehensive) detectives, all holding their guns on this man, are followed by three CSI's. Two of them are men, one black and one white. Both would look large and in charge under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances, and next to this man their physical presence is entirely overshadowed. They are fully aware of this, and continue to shoot sideways glances at the (much) larger gentleman.

The third CSI is a woman. She is petite, redheaded and looks like a matchstick next to the awesome bulk of this man. She does not join her beweaponed colleagues, but instead goes to the driver of the transporter and enters into what appears to be a very apologetic speech. We can assume that she is explaining to Jimmy (for so he is named) her reasons for not telling him that they were going to be transporting a car containing a very large and very angry murder suspect. Jimmy makes some very unflattering hand signals, climbs into the massive vehicle's cab, and pulls away, leaving his redheaded companion looking somewhat remorseful.

Meanwhile, our attention is drawn inexorably back to the main event of the hour: namely the fifteen to twenty armed beat cops who move to surround the walking behemoth that is Kyle Andrews. He looks vaguely amused at this display, and we see now that his hands are not cuffed. We guess correctly that this is because the rings of the cuffs would not fit upon his enormous wrists.

However, preparations for Mr. Andrews' arrival have clearly been made in more ways than one, as one officer (looking for all the world as though he has just been ordered to jump off a cliff) approaches Kyle with a length of steel rope. Kyle's easy smile vanishes and we clearly hear the sound of guns being cocked. Resignedly, the big man holds out his hands.

After the simple process of restraining him is complete, the uniformed officers begin to disperse, and the three detectives, looking somewhat more confident, march their huge charge into the station, followed by the three scientists.

As the procession makes it's way towards a holding cell, we cannot help but notice the air of awe and fear that follows it throughout the crime lab, due entirely to their vast visitor. Judy the Receptionist, for example, shakes like a leaf as they pass. Other crime lab personnel are affected in a similar manner: Hodges makes a concerted effort to become invisible, Jaqui Franco stares in slack-jawed amazement and whips her head away like lightning when Kyle notices her observations.

Gilbert Grissom, emerging from one of the evidence labs directly in Mr. Andrews' path, promptly backs up until his butt hits the door he just opened. Mia Dickerson is composed enough, until Kyle, without warning, lets off a series of half-yelps, half-barks that have the intended effect of making her climb the nearest wall. The big man expresses his considerable sadistic amusement at this. Sara Sidle is unpleasantly reminded of the esteemed gentlemen in Desert State Mental Hospital. She has seen the look in Kyle Andrews' eyes before...

Sophia Curtis observes all from the safety of a nearby lab with wide, frightened eyes. Here indeed is the monster that ripped Angela Ecklie to pieces as she begged for mercy. She doesn't have the evidence yet, but CSI or no CSI, she feels it in her soul that this is the killer. And she is more terrified now than she has ever been in her life. She even knows what weapons the killer used. They are currently bound by a length of steel industrial wire.

As Kyle Andrews is led into the nearest interrogation room, Grissom looks after him for a moment, wondering if Catherine, Nick and Warrick know what they've gotten themselves into here...

"No more questions, your Honour." Marjorie Wescott returned to her seat at the defence table next to her client, the insufferable Conrad Ecklie.

Greg blinked. Was that it? She was done? He had heard the courtroom legends about Marjorie Wescott from his fellow CSI's, particularly Sara and Grissom, whose memories of their last encounter with the shark-like defence lawyer were most unpleasant. He had expected much worse from her, yet all that she had asked of him was that he repeat a few of the final points of his investigation, such as how Brass had aided, and what weapon Ecklie had attacked with.

Greg had answered all of her questions and shrugged off a few cheap shots she had thrown in about his lack of experience. He had at least expected a challenge from her. Still, if she said she was done, there was little else Greg could say. Feeling very much as though he had just missed something crucial, he stepped down from the stand and left the courtroom.

In the courtroom corridor he passed Captain Brass, patiently waiting for his turn to testify. Greg informed him that it was his turn, and waited. Brass didn't move. Greg, after a moment, repeated himself loudly. Brass jumped out of the seat as if he had been shocked, then, excusing himself to a confused Greg, marched somewhat stiffly towards the courtroom.

Brass, sweating like a pig in a sauna, stepped up to the stand, dreading what he was about to do. He went through the legal motions of the Oath and stating his name and badge number for the record, and responded to Abbie Carmichael's questioning in much the same way that a robot would.

Then the dreaded moment came. Abbie Carmichael said "Your Witness." And Marjorie Wescott stood up, barely restraining a predatory smile from touching her lips as she forced her eyes to become cold, dead orbs. She moved in for the kill.

"Captain Brass, did Conrad Ecklie attack Gregory Sanders at any time with a knife?"

"No, he did not."

A murmur of astonishment rippled across the courtroom. As the Judge tapped his gavel and called gently for order, Wescott could no longer keep the smile from forming on her face.

"Did he attack Greg Sanders at any time with any weapon?"

"No, he did not."

Brass didn't say this last as much as he sighed it. Stealing a glance upwards, he saw the expression on Abbie Carmichael's face (the one that said 'What in the fuck are you DOING to me!') and promptly decided that his feet presented a better view.

"No further questions, your Honour."

"What the hell just happened in there, Brass?" Carmichael raged as soon as the session was adjourned. "Ecklie attacked Greg with a knife and you just said he didn't! Not only has this torpedoed our case, but it looks like Greg just perjured himself!"

A confused Greg turned into a panic-stricken Greg as the two law enforcers walked past him without realising that he was listening. The words 'Torpedoed' and 'Perjured' stood out in particular like bright red lights. What the hell was going to happen to his career now?

"Shut up and listen!" Brass' voice broke slightly, instantly capturing the attention of his two companions. "I had to say what I said in there! They didn't give me a choice!"

Abbie felt a cold pellet of fear settle in her gut. "Who didn't?"

"The bastards who have my daughter."

Greg felt as though someone had slapped his forehead and kicked him in the guts. Abbie's eyes widened in sympathy as Brass handed her a photo. She took it, looked at it, and dropped it like it was a biting snake. She held a hand to her forehead and whispered "Bastards...bastards..."

Greg looked at the photo and wished he hadn't. Brass, meanwhile was barely holding himself together. Greg offered a supporting hand as Brass collapsed into broken sobs.

And wondered what the hell they were going to do now...