Title: Goodbye, Mr. Grissom - Chapter 2
Disclaimer: These guys don't belong to me. Van Morrison owns the lyrics to Irish Heartbeat.
Catherine's POV
"What a night!" You exclaim, entering the CSI building. Nick Stokes, ever the Gentleman, holds the door for you, with an elbow, as the two of you enter the crime lab with the first load of evidence. Warrick returned earlier, with the most pertinent items, to begin analyses.
"Yeah. Sorry we had to call you in on your night off. Were you doing anything fun?"
"Not really, just dinner."
"Did you smoke that tenderloin?"
"Yes."
"How'd it turn out?"
"It was great. Thanks for the recipe and the smoker. I'll try to get it cleaned up and bring it back to you tomorrow."
"Hey, no hurry."
"If I don't get it back to you pronto, I'll forget about it."
"It sure is quiet in here, tonight." Nick spookily observes, seconds later, as you make your way down the hall. You pause at the break room door, taking in the surreal scene before you. Warrick and Sara stare at unfocused spots on the wall, in opposite directions. Archie fiddles with a water bottle, Bobby sporadically rubs at a spot on his forehead and Jacqui periodically blots an eye with a tissue. Greg is staring at his hands, rubbing the trembling fingers of one across the back of the other, over and over.
"Hey, what's with the long faces?" You ask, attempting to shake off the sense of foreboding that has settled heavily between your shoulder blades.
"Grissom's gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"The morgue."
You're stunned and can only think. "This can't be!" You were with him, mere hours ago. He had dinner with you and Lindsey. Lately, you've realized; you desperately need two people – Lindsey, your daughter, and Gil Grissom, your best friend. The rest of the world can go screw itself, for all you care.
Dinner was smoked pork tenderloin, prepared with Nick's special recipe and smoker. He stopped by on his day off to set the smoker up on your patio. All you had to do was add water to the pan in the bottom, light the charcoal and wait. Baked potatoes and a spring greens salad, sprinkled with raspberry walnut vinaigrette dressing, rounded out the meal. Dessert was rich New York style cheesecake topped with fresh blackberries accompanied by strong black coffee. It was all so nice, exactly how you wanted, just the three of you.
Then, cell phones rang, almost in unison. Nick and Warrick called you with a drive-by, multiple victims, very messy. They desperately needed another set of hands to help process the scene. Greg called Gil; Sophia and Sara were already out on a case and he was not allowed work alone. Most of all, you remember Lindsey's downcast eyes and slumped posture. This enjoyable evening - which she had looked forward to all week, almost as much as you - just ended. Once again, she would be dumped with Aunt Nancy while you worked all night.
Sending Lindsey to pack her schoolbooks and an overnight bag, you walked Gil to the door, grasped the lapels of his black leather jacket and admonished him to be careful. "Umm, you are the one who needs to be careful. This is just a convenience store robbery, but Greg's not fully qualified, yet." He replied with just a hint of consternation. You shared a long searching look; he wanted to kiss you, but didn't. You should have kissed him.
You feel the box sliding from your grasp but you're powerless to stop it. Greg has bloodstains on his clothes – Gil's blood. Now, you notice, his hands are red and chapped, which you suspect is from the scrubbing he must have given them. You're not sure if it's a nervous habit or some sort phobia, but he washes them frequently. The box hits the floor with a thump. Something tinkles inside, as broken as you now feel. You're mind just can't seem to get a handle on this. Seeing is believing, so you turn, push Nick out of the way and stumble blindly down the hall.
In the morgue….
Al Robbins stands just outside his office leaning heavily against a counter. David waits nearby, worry and sadness morphing across his bespectacled features. What remains of Dr. Gilbert A. Grissom, PhD in Entomology; lies, hidden from view, beneath a sheet on the stainless steel autopsy table a few feet away.
"Should we……..…..perform an autopsy?" David questions.
"No. We know the cause of death." Robbins can't bear the thought of dissecting his long-time friend. "Shot gun blast to the head, I'd say both barrels of a double barrel, point blank range. At least, he didn't feel anything. Probably never saw it coming, until it was too late." He uttered these words, not only, to comfort David, but also, himself. The words to of a song careen about in his head.
'cause the world is so cold
Dont care nothing for your soul
He remembers; the mournful voice belongs to Van Morrison. Grissom presented him with the CD, Irish Heartbeat, after they'd spent a New Year's Eve at a local Irish pub. He recalls his wife whispering to him that they made a good couple, Gil and Catherine. Brass and Warrick had each brought a date; Gil and Catherine came alone, yet together. Cheap champagne, hugs, whistles and a bit of confetti blew in the New Year. They had drunk too much, that night. The bartender made wonderful Irish coffees comprised of strong black coffee, Amaretto, smooth Jamesons's Irish whiskey and Bailey's Irish Cream. His bearded chin fell to his chest as more mournful lyrics reverberated through his numb mind.
Oh won't you stay
Stay a while with your own ones
Don't ever stray
Stray so far from your own ones
'cause the world is so cold
Dont care nothing for your soul
That you share with your own ones
"Why couldn't you stay?" The thought coursed through his mind, then anger rose to displace grief. "What a complete waste!" He caught a flurry of movement in his peripheral vision as Catherine Willows burst through the doors of the morgue.
"Catherine! No! You don't want to remember him like this." Robbins hobbles toward her, David in tow. She stares at the sheet covering his body then yanks it back.
"Oh, my God!" She whispers, not prepared for the visage that greets her. "His face is gone." Actually, most of his head is missing, her analytical mind corrects…….no more, crooked little grin or inquisitive glance from bright blue eyes. No more whimsical, but seemingly appropriate quote effortlessly snatched from thin air. No more Kennedy half-dollars, palmed then produced from behind Lindsey's ear.
One hand at her mouth, in horror, the other fell to his cool forearm. Slowly she lowers her hand from her face. She gathers his cold hand in both of hers as tears dim her eyes. Suddenly, she gasps and frantically wipes at her eyes with the back of one hand.
TBC