Ha!!! Chapter 5 that I've progressed this far is right up there with the seven wonders of the ancient world. You do realise that I am now going to have to come up with a plot, which is most unfair. Thanks to all those who have reviewed, remember more is good – especially constructive criticism.
If you leave me, can I come too?
Give me a child at seven and I will show you the man
Attributed to the JesuitsGreg remembered his schooling vividly; from the merciless terror campaigns of the nuns at his parochial school to the bored indifference of professors who turned up because they had to justify the University paying them a salary.
He thought of Sister Torquemada, lean to the point of emaciation who hovered over her classes like an angry buzzard; the young Greg had no idea why she was so angry but if she was Christ's bride then he felt sorry for Christ. He also felt sorry for himself, but HE wasn't married to her.
Sister Torquemada wielded her ruler like an executioner's axe, the only thing stopping her from inflicting more serious injuries upon her students being the layout of the classroom, which prevented her from taking a run up. Her standards of perfection defied belief - they defied logic too but the students were too scared of her to bring that up. Woe betide the student that failed to cross their I's and dot their T's; lateness was ranked with the Seven Deadly Sins and disrespect earned you your own private crucifixion. For some reason, she held Greg in the same regard that the Philistines held the Israelites, and his mere presence in her class was enough to initiate an involuntary clutching motion in the old woman's hands. Greg remembered the day she gave him a detention for holding his pen at an angle she didn't like, that he hadn't opened his pencil case was irrelevant, his pen was at the wrong angle and he would be punished.
She was a malicious, vindictive old bat but at least she prepared Greg for dealing with Eckli.
Not all the penguins were homicidal sadists with unresolved issues; dear old Sister Amnesia was a particular favourite. Sister Amnesia, who was about a hundred and ninety, taught the new entrants. Every morning she stood at the door to her classroom endeavouring to remember who she was and why she was there, her eyes bright and frighteningly vacant; rumour had it that she was the Catholic Church's first attempt at cryogenesis and that she went into storage at the end of each semester. The little kids loved her because she loved them. Class was an extended period of hugs and stories; Sister Amnesia made the kids feel special and out of gratitude the kids stopped her falling out the window or drowning in the classroom fish tank.
Somewhat ironically, however, it was Sister Torquemada who prepared Greg for higher education and in the final analysis she was infinitely preferable to some of his university professors who appeared to believe that the undergraduate lifeform was only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale than the flatworm. At least Sister Torquemada loathed Greg's very existence, for some professors Greg's existence completely failed to register. He never knew what caused professors to be so indifferent, maybe it was oxygen deprivation resulting from their lofty ivory-towered status, but on occasion he had felt like suggesting to Grissom that he should collect specimens.
Six years later he was back, not entirely sure why, but back nonetheless, knocking at the doors of knowledge and enrichment; or at least that was what he was fervently telling himself as he stood outside the entrance to the music department desperately trying to calm the furious palpitations of his heart as it fought desperately to escape.
I want to be here, he reminded himself; I chose to come back
'Sure you did' snapped his subconscious 'I've seen zombies with better impulse control'
I could have stayed at the lab it was a good job. I did good work.
'And basked in the warmth of your colleagues regard no less'
Greg mentally kicked his subconscious back under its rock, put on his best 'face of determination' and entered the building.
The first thing he noticed was the music, and while ignoring his subconscious' sardonic remark asking if he was expecting an autopsy, he let the calming, sepulchral tones of Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor seduce his nervous tension. As appeared to be customary, there, in the middle of the lobby, was the generic information/ administration desk, behind the desk, however, was a creature far from the beatific drones from the Graduate Admissions Office.
"I hope you didn't drive over here".
Yes indeed, the gods were truly against him.
"Please, don't tell me you work here".
"What would you like me to tell you? I am sure I can make something up that you can handle".
"Are you always this pleasant, or do they leave you at reception to terrify the freshmen?"
"Only on alternate Mondays. Actually, I'm a student, this just pays the bills when I'm not in class".
"What are you studying? Other than music I hasten to add". The foremost thing running through the former lag tech's mind being, 'please not composition, please not composition, please not compo…'
"Compostion".
Sighing deeply, Greg rolled his eyes. "Of course you are, and I expect the fates are pissing themselves at this very moment".
"You too huh? Well, I hope you're a better at composition than you are at driving".
"Can we stop with the driving jokes, it's not like I ran over your mother, I'm about twenty years too late for that to have a positive outcome. Let's start again. OK? I'm Greg Sanders".
The woman appeared uncertain for a moment, uncertain that is whether to accept Greg's proffered hand, or to get up and slug him for the comment about her mother; in the end good manners won out and she grudgingly accepted the hand, "Hi Greg, I'm Rilie Andrews".
The formal introduction was immediately followed by a painful silence as the two desperately sought a topic of conversation based on something other than insults, retorts and abuse. There was, as a last resort, the weather, but talking about the weather was usually reserved for that annoying person you'd just met at a party whom you really wish your 'friend' hadn't introduced you to. Then Greg had an idea, an idea so obvious that he was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier.
Greg's subconscious, never one to ignore an opportunity, reminded Greg that he was being a prat earlier.
Ruthlessly beating his over-opinionated sub-conscious into submission, Greg voiced his genius epiphany, "You've been a student here a while, right Rilie?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well you'd know the staff, and more importantly what I can expect, it's been a while since I've studied professionally"; the last was said with a wry smile.
Rilie paused in thought for a moment. "Well OK, but if anyone asks, you didn't get this from me", Getting a confirming nod from Greg, she continued. "The head of department is Dr. Doppler. You would have spoken to him on the phone or something – all the post-grads have to. Really nice guy, completely incomprehensible, but really nice; he's some sort of world leader in experimental electronic music. You'll just have to smile and nod like the rest of us when he starts talking about it, just sounds like bleeps and feedback to me, but the electronic crowd get a hard-on for it, so I just smile politely"
"I bet that's a mission for you, smiling politely I mean…"
"Do you want me to go on? Or do you want to crash and burn on your first day?" this was said with a evil grin and in response Greg held up his hands in mock supplication.
"Ok, where was I? 'Cos you're doing composition you'll get stuck with Dr. Mueller; affectionately known 'round here as the Bride of Frankenstein. You'll find the more talented you are the more she'll hate you. Don't misunderstand, she's a really good teacher, but her compositions are unimaginative and worse, she knows it, so for relaxation she takes it out on those of us with talent; just keep your head down and you'll be fine.
"You'll also have to do a survey course this semester".
"You're joking", replied Greg. "We were buried in survey courses at undergrad level, what's the point".
"There isn't a point, that's why it's compulsory; you know, university logic. Fortunately, Doc Hiller who takes it knows the course is a crock, so he goes easy on us in terms of content; so none of that crap about the inside of Handel's bassoon. Last year one of the finals exam questions asked whether Britney's tits were fake and if that affected her ability to sing".
Seeing Greg's look of disbelief, Rilie grinned, "No, seriously, it was. Look, don't sweat it too much, last year we spent most of our time at the local café arguing about why alternative music was dead. Actually, Doc Hiller ended up giving us a fifteen percent assessment based on our arguments. He does tend to mark hard, but is more interested in your arguments that anything else, just go toe-to-toe with him and you'll be fine".
Greg grinned, "He sounds like my old boss, I sometimes think Grissom used to disagree with people just to make them think about what they were doing".
"So what did you used to do?"
"I was a forensic chemist. Well, my degree was chemistry and I ended up working in the lab for the Las Vegas Police Department. It was a good job, the hours sucked, but it could have been worse".
"So, if it was such a good job why did you quit, and if you're a chemist what are you doing in the music department?"
"Just had enough of the lab, time to move on and all that blah blah blah". The previous discomfort Greg had experienced in with the line of inquiry carried over from the inquisition he had experienced at the lab and moved quickly on to the second part of the question. "As for the musician in a lab coat thing, I did a double degree in music and chem. I was going to do my post-graduate study in music when the job at the lab came up and I needed the money more than the extra letters after my name…so I took the job".
He didn't mention that he'd moved to Las Vegas from another state, or any of the real reasons why he had given up music. Fortunately, Rilie did seem to notice and Greg turned the focus back on her.
"Did you do your undergraduate study here, you seem to know the place pretty well".
"Nah. This is my second year in the post-grad programme; I spent most of last year getting lost. I only know the east and central sides of Vegas I haven't had any reason to venture out west; the strip's scary enough, god alone knows what sort of life forms lurk out west".
"Like me for example?"
"Now that you mention it….".
"Gee thanks, and I was just starting to think you were human. Look, I've gotta get to my first class with Dr Mueller, from your description I don't want to be late and dazzle her with my brilliance all on the first day", Rilie rolled her eyes, "I'll see you around perhaps".
With that said, Greg took off down the corridor. Rilie didn't move, an expectant look on her face. Precisely thirty seconds later, Greg came charging back towards her; saying nothing, Rilie pointed in the opposite direction to which Greg had been originally travelling and deftly stepped out of his way as he hurtled past, an echoing 'thank you' in his wake. Shaking her head sadly, she murmured to herself that it was indeed going to be an interesting year.
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Back at the CSI lab [the night before]
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It was twenty minutes before shift started when Sara Sidle wandered in. Nodding absent-mindedly to the night-shift receptionist she headed towards the staff room in search of the ubiquitous sludge they generously called coffee. Damn Greg, she muttered, he could have at least had the decency to leave us his stash.
The halls were quiet, quieter than usual for this time; normally there was the intermingling between the day shift heading for the hills and the night shift crawling in with all the enthusiasm of an impending tooth extraction, the sole exception being the chance to view another episode in the ongoing drama of Grissom v. Eckli. Tonight, however, everything was relatively quiet, the dayshift having taken the opportunity to slip out early as Ecklie was off kissing the butt of the local high flying political candidate; he, unlike everybody else in the CSI building, didn't seem to realise that his complete lack of personality couldn't be ameliorated through excess saliva production.
Nearing the break room Sara could hear Warrick and Nick engaging in their favourite, ongoing activity, wagering.
"C'mon Nick, one knee or two?"
"Well I reckon two. Where do you stand on the pleading?"
"Well, if he's gonna do both knees I reckon there's a pretty good chance of pleading".
At that point Sara walked in, "Hi guys, who's pleading and why?"
Both men grinned. Nick, looked at Warrick who shrugged and Nick, taking his cue, choked out a "Grissom" before dissolving into silent laughter.
"And why would Grissom be begging, and to whom would he be going begging to? Not Ecklie, surely?" Receiving no easily decipherable response, Sara began to get tetchy, "C'mon guys, what's the joke? Stop holding out on me".
"OK, OK", laughed Warrick, "The answer to your question is Greg". Taking Sara's puzzlement as a prompt, Warrick continued, "Jackson resigned this morning".
Sara winced. "That's the third in three weeks".
"The third what?" asked Catherine, walking in on the end of the conversation.
"Lab Tech" supplied Warrick, for her benefit, "Jackson resigned this morning".
Catherine grimaced.
"What's he doing to them?" moaned Nick. "Christ Cath, can't you put a leash on him, one of us is going to end up in the lab if we don't stop leaking lab techs; it's not like they wander around loose on the Strip or something".
"Greg, come back, all is forgiven"
"Can I get an Amen Brothers and Sisters?"
Stuck somewhere between a glare and a giggle, Catherine made hushing motions at Sara and Warrick, "ssshhhh, Grissom's just down the hall".
Fortunately, by the time Grissom arrived ten minutes later, the CSI's had managed to restore a degree of dignity to their proceedings. Grissom, however, was obviously not a happy man.
"What's on the bill tonight, Grissom?" asked Nick.
"Just the one tonight so far, but we're all on it. Our local serial killer has made another starring appearance, so get your things, we're out in fifteen minutes".