Title: Goodbye, Mr. Grissom - Chapter One
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no affiliation with CSI but I really like to borrow the characters occasionally. Stabbing Westward recorded Slipping Away in 1996.
Author's Note: This chapter is written from Greg's point of view.
Summary: Grissom is shot at a crime scene and the CSI's must deal with it.
Spoiler(s): None, so far.
You remember how loud it was, like a clap of thunder. Grissom told you, minutes before, to get the video surveillance tapes. The manager of the convenience store, startled and frightened, gazed into your eyes from behind his desk. You turned and advanced to the open doorway, to be roughly shoved back inside by Brass, as he and two uniforms raced down the dimly lit narrow hall.
"On three." One officer uttered. The others must have nodded in consent, since the next thing you heard was "One, Two, Three!" The door banged open. A rush of footsteps, then the door slammed shut, followed by eerie silence. Heart jack hammering in your chest, you crept back into the hall and listened at the door.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Search the area!" Brass frantically commanded. Hesitantly pushing the door open and slipping outside, you saw Brass kneeling beside a body and heard him call for additional backup on his cell phone. You watched the three of them fan out to search for the perpetrator of this dastardly deed. Staring at the prone form - brown hair sprinkled with gray, clad in a black leather jacket, your mind screamed. "No! Not, Grissom." Jerking into motion, you thought you should be doing CPR or something. Flashlight out to assess the damage, CPR won't help - nothing can be done for someone whose face is gone. Crumpling in a heap beside the body, you stared at the spreading pool of blood, with bits of flesh, bone, hair and clumps of gray matter interspersed. Swirling winds sprinkled dust and sand into the mix. All the important organic material, which comprised this cerebral man, was exploded on the dirty concrete of the alley.
"You shouldn't be out here." Brass savagely gripped you by the arm, yanked you to your feet then propelled you toward the door. You almost made it, before spewing vomit, all over that door, the one you've now begun to hate.
No more pain, no more fear
I feel it slipping away
I just can't learn to forget
Now I'm choking on the memories
"Greg?" Some indeterminable time later, your shoulder is being shaken, waking you from catatonia. Your vacant stare meets the concerned blue eyes of Sheriff Atwater.
"Yes, sir?" Ever polite, just like Grissom, you manage some awareness and feebly respond.
"Perhaps, you should go home. Is there someone who can take you?"
"I need to get the surveillance tapes."
"Greg, we'll handle this, from here on out. I've called in some folks from Dayshift to take over the investigation. I'll find someone to drive you."
You resume the hollow regard of nothing, as he walks away. Thinking, "Grissom wouldn't like this. He wouldn't want Ecklie and the Dayshift investigating his……demise? No, call it what it is - his murder. There you've said it, at least, in your head. Does naming it, make it any better?" You ask, then answer. "No, nothing will make it better."
I will not suffer this loss
Of you again and again and again
I refuse to continue to live
In this perpetual nightmare
Eventually, a pair of shiny black shoes interrupts your contemplation of the pavement directly in front of your feet. "Poromeric uppers." You think, categorizing the glossy mirror finish. Eyes wandering up his body, you note the simulated pressed pleats of his polyester uniform. It evokes memories from childhood, your Grandmother soaking your Grandfather's Bus Driver uniform in pale blue liquid starch then carefully pressing similar pleats into the cotton fabric after it dried. She had a Coca-Cola bottle with an ancient sprinkler corked in the neck with which to wet the more persistent wrinkles. "Do they even make glass Coke bottles anymore?" You wonder. You recall your Grandfather, pipe clenched between his teeth, buffing his worn leather work shoes to a high shine. He liked to recount how Grandma had starched his cotton boxers a couple of times when they were first married and how he had to 'put a stop to that!' You suppress the maniacal giggle threatening at the back your throat; you're pretty sure Grissom never bothered to shine his shoes. In his value system, people weren't totally judged by their appearance.
"The Sheriff told me to take you home." The officer tersely declares. He's not happy with this assignment. Ferrying a member of the Nerd Squad around town will only garner him unmerciful teasing from his more coarse brethren of the LVPD. However, you lack the will to protest so you follow him to the cruiser. Once you're away from the scene that has brutally wrenched your life apart, you ask to be taken to the lab. Someone from the Graveyard shift should know.
You shakily enter the building, through those familiar doors and smell the scent unique to this place: disinfectant, chemicals, burned coffee and just a hint of decay. Funny, how you never noticed that lingering smell of death, before now. Perhaps, it's because you'd never seen it, up close and personal. You feel ripped off; somebody just stole something very precious to you, your Mentor. You head for the break room. Warrick is seated at the table, eating a sandwich and peering at a report. He must be pulling a double. Sara is at the coffeepot.
"Guys…"
"Greg, you don't look so good." Warrick stands and guides you to a chair. "What's up?"
"Grissom's dead." You watch the coffee mug slide from Sara's hand, bang on the edge of the table then shatter on the floor. The handle ricochets off the leg of a chair and skids to rest near the refrigerator. You should've waited, let her sit down first.
"What happened?" You begin to cry - tearing, wracking sobs; you can't tell them because you don't really know. You know only, he's gone.
I feel it slipping away
I gave it all and no one cared
I feel it slipping away
I feel it slipping away
"Greg, calm down and tell me what happened." Warrick places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, offering strength and assurance. He's the real deal, an honest-to-God CSI. He's watching you with those calm, hooded green eyes - ever-assessing, ever-weighing. You wonder why you ever thought you could be one of them.
"Greg?" You snuffle, swallow a giant glob of snot and swipe at your eyes and nose with the back of your hand like the little boy you feel you are.
I tried but I can't find a way
To untangle all the pieces
After they've been thrown away
"I, I,….I'm not sure."
"Start from the beginning." He gently instructs. That's when you notice, you have blood on your hands. It's dried into the lines that cross your palms, and the dry cracked surface of the back, with dark half circles caked in the cuticles of your nails. At some point, you pulled your gloves off and touched him, but you have no idea when.
"Fucking desert air." You mutter, scrubbing your hands on your pant leg. You wash your hands too much, causing them to dry out and crack. It's the odor of the cornstarch used in Latex gloves that bothers you. Two or three change outs and your hands are covered with white residue and then that slightly sweet rubberized scent is stuck in your nose. It doesn't seem to bother any one else so you suck it up, not wanting to appear weak, by asking to wear the more expensive pale blue Nitrile gloves you wore as a lab rat.
"Greg? You with me?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me what happened."
TBC