HA!! Chapter 6.I think. I sweated blood over this - why do stories have to
be consistent: stupid concept.
Mainly story building this chapter, tho Greg pops up at the end, more of him next chapter, Gawd Bless 'Im.
Please review lots - please tell me if you think it makes sense etc, suggestions, criticisms welcome.
I'd also like to take this opportunity to apologise to William Shakespeare and science in general for this chapter.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn't an afterlife.
Douglas Adams
I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if He didn't.
Jules Renard
Warrick Brown hated crime scenes. Blood he could handle. He had, over time, inured himself to the pain and suffering. But he could never, in all his time on the job and in all the time to come, condition himself to accept the stupidity and barbarity inherent in the purported concept of humanity. He had also long given up on the concept of an eternal soul, much to his Grandmother's dismay, "Warrick", she'd say, "You have to have faith, without faith we are nothing". Warrick would shrug, mumble something about how he'd try and then beat a hasty retreat, his Grandmother's dismay the one thing he never wanted to face.
Then again, his Grandmother never had to face anything like this.
The CSI's had pulled up about fifteen minutes previously and that fifteen minutes had been all it had taken to shake Warrick to the core and to also confirm that Las Vegas' least favourite psycho had resurfaced with the style that could truly be called their own. The other CSI's mirrored Warrick's inner turmoil, Nick was currently experimenting with new shades of green, while Sara had immediately turned on her heel with a promise to be 'back in a minute'.
Even Grissom was disturbed; if possible he became even more intent, more studious and most unnervingly even quieter than usual; the usual low- pitched monologue of instructions, observations and redundant warnings were absent as Grissom stared at the work of the person who had, over the last four years, become his nemesis.
Death was not a stranger to Grissom, in fact, in the deepest recesses of his consciousness he considered death a friend. Death told him things; he learned from death. If Grissom had to personify death, he would have imagined death as the character that popped up in the Terry Pratchett books from time to time, not of course, that he ever would have admitted to having read anything quite so frivolous.
In Grissom's mind death also held a dignity, almost as if the final gift of the departing soul was to grant the body some surcease, a last vestige of goodwill and respect for housing it. Even those who'd died in the most horrific and tragic circumstances appeared to Grissom to have found some small measure of peace, that in the knowledge that their pain was over they could truly let go; this killer didn't even leave them that. That he, for all concerned from CSI to FBI profilers believed this 'person' was a male, delighted in the agonies of his victims was apparent, but he went further, degrading them after death so that his mark was upon them and that even in death they were his.
The first death had been a young woman, mid-twenties: professional. The killer had come upon her in her apartment and there, he had preyed upon her and finished her. She had been crucified, nailed to the wall, her throat slashed wide. The blood had cascaded from her and pooled beneath her; it was the blood that eventually seeped through the floor of her apartment into the apartment below that had prompted the call to the police. That she was crucified was not enough, gouged into her stomach was what appeared to be a code: KR3/V-III. It was only months later that the code was identified and by then two more were dead; each was killed in a similar fashion, each left with their own unique code.
It had been Doc. Robbins who'd eventually solved the puzzle. A keen amateur dramatist, he and his wife were members of a Shakespearean theatre group, one night during a read-through of King Richard III, the doctor had had an epiphany, a blinding moment of intuitive clarity, flicking through the play he came to Act 5 Scene III, and there it was: 'Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe'. The investigative team, immediately informed, found that the other codes corresponded to more of Shakespeare's plays, Grissom, when informed, merely grunted something about 'everybody's a critic' before returning to his office.
The killings had tailed off the following year and it was assumed - or more probably hoped - by some that the person responsible had either been locked up for another, lesser, crime, had died or had expunged the rage, which triggered his murderous fury in the first place. The profilers, however, said he'd be back, and the cynical agreed, arguing that it was more than likely that the killer had gone into hiatus in order to research more Shakespearean plays to source more quotes for his hobby.
Two years ago he had returned with more fury, more hate, more despite; his lust for violence unquenched. In that one year, the pace of his killing increased and seven people were slaughtered - for there is no other word that can justly describe the ferocity of those attacks. The experts opined, that soon this creature would fall victim to his own madness and make a mistake; that the increased tempo of his murders spoke of an uncontrollable compulsion; soon, the experts said, soon. And the people waited.
And there was nothing. No mistake. No evidence; only the mockery of his codes carved into the bodies of his victims.
Again he was gone.
Until now.
Grissom cursed silently under his breathe.
If there was one thing in this world Gil Grissom hated more than anything it was mockery; it didn't even have to be personal, merely the taunting assumption of a being holding something over another set his teeth on edge. Each time the killer returned, the miasma of despite and mockery that he carried was ever stronger, more redolent of his internal decay. 'Look on my works ye mighty and despair' was the ever-present subtext, taunting those who would catch him and subjugate him beneath the rules and restrictions of their pitiful existence. Grissom was interrupted from his silent meditation by the return of Sara to the crime scene; she was pale, and obviously angry with herself for her lack of professional detachment.
"It all gets to us at some point Sara, it's more important that you learn to recognise it and deal with it".
"I know Grissom, that doesn't mean I have to like it; does it?"
"But at least you didn't throw up on the body", this from Nick who had come over to the pair, "Grissom, you'll want to see this, looks like our resident evil has finally slipped up".
Walking towards the body; that of a young African-American woman, Nick pointed at a large, bloody thumbprint on the wall beside the body, "Maybe we can finally track this." his voice trailed off as the police officer who secured the crime scene came towards them with an apologetic look on his face; 'No. Please. Not the thumbprint" whispered Nick.
"About that thumbprint" interrupted the officer, "One of my guys slipped in the blood and put his hand on the wall to steady himself. Sorry 'bout that"
"Never mind Nick, let's just get to work. Can I assume it's the same M.O. as usual?"
"Uh-huh. No forced entry, no visible sign of struggle, the victim's crucified, throat slashed etc, you know the drill. One thing tho, not an apartment complex like the others, maybe he's moved to the suburbs, got himself a wife, kids and a station wagon He's still so meticulous it's sickening; why couldn't we have an untidy psychopath, Grissom?"
"Because then he'd be a psychotic. Did our friend leave his usual message?"
"Yep, JC/I-II; I didn't bring my complete works with me, you?"
"In the car. Sara, can you go get it?"
Moments later she was back with the book. Quickly scanning the index for the letters JC, she soon had the answer. "It's from Julius Caesar guys, the actual quote is.there.here we go: Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings".
"Same pattern as the other quotes: all about control, whether mental, physical, internally or externally imposed; my guess is our guy has issues".
Nick snorted, "One look at the body could have told you that Grissom, The thing is, however, we have no pattern, nothing to identify what precisely this guy has issues with. We thought we were onto a good thing with that second victim, you know, the lawyer, he used Henry VI pt 2 for that one, then obviously just to be difficult, he killed a school teacher, a prostitute and a tax consultant". He sighed in frustration "Why can't he just pick a profession and stay with it?"
"You're not helping Nick. Where's Warrick?" "He's taking the outside, seeing if the killer left anything behind, you know, ticket's to the Globe, pictures of Sir Laurence Olivier, first folios, that sort of thing".
"How do you feel about checking the body Nick?"
"I'll go help Warrick".
"Good idea".
Grissom looked round to see who was left, other than himself that is. Sara was dusting for prints, everywhere except near the body and Catherine, his right hand, his second-in-command, was still to arrive. "Sara, you know where Cath is?"
"Sorry Grissom no idea, she left with the rest of us. You check your cell?"
"Hmm, no, I turned it off". Turning his phone on he found there was indeed a message from Catherine saying that her sitter had called while she was en- route and that she had to turn around and take Lynsey to the doctor and she'd get to the scene as soon as she could. Grissom shrugged, some things he couldn't control, however, he was at a loss to explain what had his team so spooked, they dealt with death and the consequences of human selfishness and stupidity every night, why on this occasion couldn't they be professional, detached like he was. Or, at the very least they could do a better job of pretending - just like he was.
Sara appeared to sense Grissom's internal monologue from where she was dusting. "This guy is scary Grissom, there's nothing human in his actions except his disdain. It's like trying to catch a ghost, a ghost with an inferiority complex".
Grissom motioned for her continue, his expression thoughtful.
"Maybe it's because you're less human than the rest of us. It's like." seeing her superior's reaction to that statement caused Sara to wince, clearly chagrined, before rushing on, the words tumbling from her mouth as she sought to clarify her seeming harshness. "It's not that you're not human, Grissom, but you seem so detached from an emotional response. I mean, there's a disaster and your immediate reaction is 'hmmm, problem to solve, what happened here?'"
"I'm a scientist, Sara, it's what I do".
"But do you ever feel, Grissom? I mean really? This killer, he's sick beyond the wildest imaginings of the worst degenerate and you just sit there with a look of mild fascination; dammit Grissom, where's your revulsion, where's your empathy? The rest of us are sickened, scared, this isn't about science for us now, this is threatening our sense of identity".
The outburst appeared to tire the young CSI, and her shoulders slumped in resignation, "Sorry, Grissom, you didn't."
"Don't apologise, Sara. You, and the others no doubt, are right; this person, this - if you will - monster, doesn't exactly fill me with the joy of the scientific hunt, but I can't allow myself to let my feelings stop me doing my job. This isn't about morality, no matter how wrong it may be, nor is it about justice or stopping evil, we're not about judgements; not on work time. We're about putting things together so that they make sense. If anything, this killer offends me because I can't make sense of him, and without understanding we have nothing".
At that moment Catherine arrived, followed by Warrick and Nick who had finished their sweep of the grounds.
"Well, we got a boot print, quite a deep impression, but it doesn't look fresh, then again it hasn't rained for a few days so it could have been left from his casing the place earlier. We'll compare it with all the shoes in the house and see what we come up with".
"Have the uniforms started questioning the neighbours yet?"
"Tomorrow"
"OK, get them to ask if they'd seen anyone new around the area in the past week, possibly a workman or something".
"You're reaching Griss", Warrick remarked," I doubt these people could remember what they had for dinner a week ago let alone someone who may have been around here for a short time; and no-one's seen anything or anyone in the last ten homicides so we've got nothing for comparison ".
Grissom sighed. "I know, but this boot print is the only thing we've got other than his love of Shakespeare and someone has got to see something eventually. This is the first time he's gone residential rather than killing in an apartment complex, people in the suburbs are more communal, less insular, they notice things; they could probably tell you who the next- door neighbour is having an affair with; we can, at the least, hope they saw something. Look, we found this incident days earlier than the other victims just because the neighbours hadn't seen her around and called it in."
"What if it isn't the killer's boot print?"
"Then at the very least we can exclude the person to whom the boot belongs; that's one less suspect ".
"Out of over a million, Grissom? I hate your odds".
"One less is one less" was the sententious reply, "Now let's process this mess and get out of here".
With a will the CSI's set to, unified by a singular urge to get in, get the job done and get out with the uppermost thought in their minds being a long hot shower to wash their sullied souls clean. Blood washed clean; eventually, but this went far deeper because it made them question why they did what they did, why they opened themselves to this.
The words of his Grandmother came back to Warrick, as he knelt on the floor amongst the blood, looking for fibres where past experience told him there would be nothing; "You have to have faith" the voice said, "Faith defines us; without faith, we are nothing. It doesn't have to be God; although my heart aches that you should turn your back on Him, but you have to feel somewhere in you that there is a point to what you're doing, otherwise, why do it? Faith is not about mechanics child, it's about giving a damn. Ask yourself, why. Why do you do anything?"
"You get the feeling we're missing something Grissom? Not just us I mean, but the police, the coroner, the FBI, even the dayshift. I mean; we know how he kills them, right? Post mortem agrees that they died from blood loss on site, but why does no one, like the neighbours, hear anything? There's nothing in their systems to indicate they were drugged, it's as if the victims surrendered willingly but you can't tell me eleven people are going to quietly allow some maniac to nail them to a wall and then slash their throats while they're conscious and then he leaves no footprints or blood trail to show he was there; what the fuck does he do, hypnotise them then levitate out?"
The tension in the room spiked sharply, Warrick's outburst vocalising the thoughts of the others. There's nothing a scientist hates more than being confused and a room full of confused scientists and stressed-out cops was a powder keg looking for a match. Grissom looked tiredly at his colleague. "Warrick, I don't know - do I look like the Oacle at Delphi?"
Warrick was about to launch an angry retort when Catherine stepped in to prevent another homicide. "Minds on the job guys. You want to fight? Go beat the crap out of each other after the shift. Look, I've just had a thought. The other victims had blood tests done right?"
"Yeah, but they came up blank Cat, you know that. Ten tests, ten negatives".
"Yes Nick, I know, but the thing is, we discovered those bodies at least three days post mortem, this one's barely twenty-four hours old; there are poisons that breakdown over that time, even in dead tissue, and some quicker than others. Maybe there is something in the blood, we just haven't got to it early enough".
"But they died on site"
Catherine shrugged. "It doesn't have to be fatal, the poison, that is. There are plenty of neurotoxins or paralytics that would render someone immobile, but alive, and that would stop them screaming.
"But why haven't we picked anything up?"
"Probably a combination of assumption and negative results. The first murders were probably tested and came back clean, so after that they were tested less rigorously. Human nature I guess. We are going to do a blood test and everything this time, right.Grissom.Please tell me we're doing a blood analysis?"
"Sounds good Cath, can you swab it for Jackson to analyse immediately?"
"Ummm Grissom?"
"Yes Nick" was the exasperated response.
"Errr Jackson resigned, remember?"
"What about one of you then?"
The four CSI's glanced nervously at each other desperately pressing a metaphorical thumb to their forehead to say 'not me', finally Sara braved the now ominous silence. "Sorry Grissom, it's just way too specialised for any of us, at least to do within a limited timeframe. If we had thirty-six hours, sure, but that would put us outside our window, hell we might even be outside it now"
"What about Vincent? This through clenched teeth.
"Leave. That's one of the reasons we're leaking lab techs, Day shift is passing on their stuff to us; I thought you knew? Ecklie said you knew".
Grissom's teeth could be heard grinding at a distance of ten feet. If any of the CSI's had been adept at telepathy they would have picked the image from Grissom's mind of Conrad Ecklie crucified in place of the current victim, unfortunately all any of them could do was back slowly away from their boss and look nervously around for the nearest escape route.
"What about Greg?"
"Grissom, he resigned. As in: He Doesn't Work For Us Anymore". Catherine spoke slowly, clearly enunciating the obvious.
"Just call him. Please"; the 'please' being little more than a rasp.
Nick shrugged, "OK, I'll try". Taking out his mobile phone, Nick sorted through the various numbers in its memory, trying Greg's home, he got the answer phone and was about to leave a message when the former lab tech picked up.
"Greg speaking".
"Greg, hi, it's Nick"
"Nick? Nick who? .oh. Nick, what do you want?"
"Ummm I need a favour, actually we all do. We don't have a lab tech and we've got something urgent, super urgent".
"And this concerns me because? I quit. Remember?"
Nick looked at Grissom and shook his head, indicating that Greg wasn't interested. Grissom gestured for Nick to pass him the phone. "Greg, Grissom. Look, we need help. Please, this is urgent".
"And why should I help you Grissom, what's in it for me?"
"I don't have time for this Greg, yes or no".
Something in Grissom's voice seemed to penetrate the antagonism Greg felt towards his former colleagues. Resigning himself to the fact that he knew he'd eventually give in he decided to do it gracefully. "Alright Grissom, I'll be at the lab in twenty minutes, but it better be good" and with that the connection was abruptly severed.
Grissom looked at the phone for a second before returning it to Nick. "He said he'd do it. Catherine, you have the samples?" Receiving an affirmative nod, Grissom continued, "Go. Take the samples and get to the lab, the rest of us will tidy up here, if you're right, we don't have time to waste".
Mainly story building this chapter, tho Greg pops up at the end, more of him next chapter, Gawd Bless 'Im.
Please review lots - please tell me if you think it makes sense etc, suggestions, criticisms welcome.
I'd also like to take this opportunity to apologise to William Shakespeare and science in general for this chapter.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn't an afterlife.
Douglas Adams
I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if He didn't.
Jules Renard
Warrick Brown hated crime scenes. Blood he could handle. He had, over time, inured himself to the pain and suffering. But he could never, in all his time on the job and in all the time to come, condition himself to accept the stupidity and barbarity inherent in the purported concept of humanity. He had also long given up on the concept of an eternal soul, much to his Grandmother's dismay, "Warrick", she'd say, "You have to have faith, without faith we are nothing". Warrick would shrug, mumble something about how he'd try and then beat a hasty retreat, his Grandmother's dismay the one thing he never wanted to face.
Then again, his Grandmother never had to face anything like this.
The CSI's had pulled up about fifteen minutes previously and that fifteen minutes had been all it had taken to shake Warrick to the core and to also confirm that Las Vegas' least favourite psycho had resurfaced with the style that could truly be called their own. The other CSI's mirrored Warrick's inner turmoil, Nick was currently experimenting with new shades of green, while Sara had immediately turned on her heel with a promise to be 'back in a minute'.
Even Grissom was disturbed; if possible he became even more intent, more studious and most unnervingly even quieter than usual; the usual low- pitched monologue of instructions, observations and redundant warnings were absent as Grissom stared at the work of the person who had, over the last four years, become his nemesis.
Death was not a stranger to Grissom, in fact, in the deepest recesses of his consciousness he considered death a friend. Death told him things; he learned from death. If Grissom had to personify death, he would have imagined death as the character that popped up in the Terry Pratchett books from time to time, not of course, that he ever would have admitted to having read anything quite so frivolous.
In Grissom's mind death also held a dignity, almost as if the final gift of the departing soul was to grant the body some surcease, a last vestige of goodwill and respect for housing it. Even those who'd died in the most horrific and tragic circumstances appeared to Grissom to have found some small measure of peace, that in the knowledge that their pain was over they could truly let go; this killer didn't even leave them that. That he, for all concerned from CSI to FBI profilers believed this 'person' was a male, delighted in the agonies of his victims was apparent, but he went further, degrading them after death so that his mark was upon them and that even in death they were his.
The first death had been a young woman, mid-twenties: professional. The killer had come upon her in her apartment and there, he had preyed upon her and finished her. She had been crucified, nailed to the wall, her throat slashed wide. The blood had cascaded from her and pooled beneath her; it was the blood that eventually seeped through the floor of her apartment into the apartment below that had prompted the call to the police. That she was crucified was not enough, gouged into her stomach was what appeared to be a code: KR3/V-III. It was only months later that the code was identified and by then two more were dead; each was killed in a similar fashion, each left with their own unique code.
It had been Doc. Robbins who'd eventually solved the puzzle. A keen amateur dramatist, he and his wife were members of a Shakespearean theatre group, one night during a read-through of King Richard III, the doctor had had an epiphany, a blinding moment of intuitive clarity, flicking through the play he came to Act 5 Scene III, and there it was: 'Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe'. The investigative team, immediately informed, found that the other codes corresponded to more of Shakespeare's plays, Grissom, when informed, merely grunted something about 'everybody's a critic' before returning to his office.
The killings had tailed off the following year and it was assumed - or more probably hoped - by some that the person responsible had either been locked up for another, lesser, crime, had died or had expunged the rage, which triggered his murderous fury in the first place. The profilers, however, said he'd be back, and the cynical agreed, arguing that it was more than likely that the killer had gone into hiatus in order to research more Shakespearean plays to source more quotes for his hobby.
Two years ago he had returned with more fury, more hate, more despite; his lust for violence unquenched. In that one year, the pace of his killing increased and seven people were slaughtered - for there is no other word that can justly describe the ferocity of those attacks. The experts opined, that soon this creature would fall victim to his own madness and make a mistake; that the increased tempo of his murders spoke of an uncontrollable compulsion; soon, the experts said, soon. And the people waited.
And there was nothing. No mistake. No evidence; only the mockery of his codes carved into the bodies of his victims.
Again he was gone.
Until now.
Grissom cursed silently under his breathe.
If there was one thing in this world Gil Grissom hated more than anything it was mockery; it didn't even have to be personal, merely the taunting assumption of a being holding something over another set his teeth on edge. Each time the killer returned, the miasma of despite and mockery that he carried was ever stronger, more redolent of his internal decay. 'Look on my works ye mighty and despair' was the ever-present subtext, taunting those who would catch him and subjugate him beneath the rules and restrictions of their pitiful existence. Grissom was interrupted from his silent meditation by the return of Sara to the crime scene; she was pale, and obviously angry with herself for her lack of professional detachment.
"It all gets to us at some point Sara, it's more important that you learn to recognise it and deal with it".
"I know Grissom, that doesn't mean I have to like it; does it?"
"But at least you didn't throw up on the body", this from Nick who had come over to the pair, "Grissom, you'll want to see this, looks like our resident evil has finally slipped up".
Walking towards the body; that of a young African-American woman, Nick pointed at a large, bloody thumbprint on the wall beside the body, "Maybe we can finally track this." his voice trailed off as the police officer who secured the crime scene came towards them with an apologetic look on his face; 'No. Please. Not the thumbprint" whispered Nick.
"About that thumbprint" interrupted the officer, "One of my guys slipped in the blood and put his hand on the wall to steady himself. Sorry 'bout that"
"Never mind Nick, let's just get to work. Can I assume it's the same M.O. as usual?"
"Uh-huh. No forced entry, no visible sign of struggle, the victim's crucified, throat slashed etc, you know the drill. One thing tho, not an apartment complex like the others, maybe he's moved to the suburbs, got himself a wife, kids and a station wagon He's still so meticulous it's sickening; why couldn't we have an untidy psychopath, Grissom?"
"Because then he'd be a psychotic. Did our friend leave his usual message?"
"Yep, JC/I-II; I didn't bring my complete works with me, you?"
"In the car. Sara, can you go get it?"
Moments later she was back with the book. Quickly scanning the index for the letters JC, she soon had the answer. "It's from Julius Caesar guys, the actual quote is.there.here we go: Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings".
"Same pattern as the other quotes: all about control, whether mental, physical, internally or externally imposed; my guess is our guy has issues".
Nick snorted, "One look at the body could have told you that Grissom, The thing is, however, we have no pattern, nothing to identify what precisely this guy has issues with. We thought we were onto a good thing with that second victim, you know, the lawyer, he used Henry VI pt 2 for that one, then obviously just to be difficult, he killed a school teacher, a prostitute and a tax consultant". He sighed in frustration "Why can't he just pick a profession and stay with it?"
"You're not helping Nick. Where's Warrick?" "He's taking the outside, seeing if the killer left anything behind, you know, ticket's to the Globe, pictures of Sir Laurence Olivier, first folios, that sort of thing".
"How do you feel about checking the body Nick?"
"I'll go help Warrick".
"Good idea".
Grissom looked round to see who was left, other than himself that is. Sara was dusting for prints, everywhere except near the body and Catherine, his right hand, his second-in-command, was still to arrive. "Sara, you know where Cath is?"
"Sorry Grissom no idea, she left with the rest of us. You check your cell?"
"Hmm, no, I turned it off". Turning his phone on he found there was indeed a message from Catherine saying that her sitter had called while she was en- route and that she had to turn around and take Lynsey to the doctor and she'd get to the scene as soon as she could. Grissom shrugged, some things he couldn't control, however, he was at a loss to explain what had his team so spooked, they dealt with death and the consequences of human selfishness and stupidity every night, why on this occasion couldn't they be professional, detached like he was. Or, at the very least they could do a better job of pretending - just like he was.
Sara appeared to sense Grissom's internal monologue from where she was dusting. "This guy is scary Grissom, there's nothing human in his actions except his disdain. It's like trying to catch a ghost, a ghost with an inferiority complex".
Grissom motioned for her continue, his expression thoughtful.
"Maybe it's because you're less human than the rest of us. It's like." seeing her superior's reaction to that statement caused Sara to wince, clearly chagrined, before rushing on, the words tumbling from her mouth as she sought to clarify her seeming harshness. "It's not that you're not human, Grissom, but you seem so detached from an emotional response. I mean, there's a disaster and your immediate reaction is 'hmmm, problem to solve, what happened here?'"
"I'm a scientist, Sara, it's what I do".
"But do you ever feel, Grissom? I mean really? This killer, he's sick beyond the wildest imaginings of the worst degenerate and you just sit there with a look of mild fascination; dammit Grissom, where's your revulsion, where's your empathy? The rest of us are sickened, scared, this isn't about science for us now, this is threatening our sense of identity".
The outburst appeared to tire the young CSI, and her shoulders slumped in resignation, "Sorry, Grissom, you didn't."
"Don't apologise, Sara. You, and the others no doubt, are right; this person, this - if you will - monster, doesn't exactly fill me with the joy of the scientific hunt, but I can't allow myself to let my feelings stop me doing my job. This isn't about morality, no matter how wrong it may be, nor is it about justice or stopping evil, we're not about judgements; not on work time. We're about putting things together so that they make sense. If anything, this killer offends me because I can't make sense of him, and without understanding we have nothing".
At that moment Catherine arrived, followed by Warrick and Nick who had finished their sweep of the grounds.
"Well, we got a boot print, quite a deep impression, but it doesn't look fresh, then again it hasn't rained for a few days so it could have been left from his casing the place earlier. We'll compare it with all the shoes in the house and see what we come up with".
"Have the uniforms started questioning the neighbours yet?"
"Tomorrow"
"OK, get them to ask if they'd seen anyone new around the area in the past week, possibly a workman or something".
"You're reaching Griss", Warrick remarked," I doubt these people could remember what they had for dinner a week ago let alone someone who may have been around here for a short time; and no-one's seen anything or anyone in the last ten homicides so we've got nothing for comparison ".
Grissom sighed. "I know, but this boot print is the only thing we've got other than his love of Shakespeare and someone has got to see something eventually. This is the first time he's gone residential rather than killing in an apartment complex, people in the suburbs are more communal, less insular, they notice things; they could probably tell you who the next- door neighbour is having an affair with; we can, at the least, hope they saw something. Look, we found this incident days earlier than the other victims just because the neighbours hadn't seen her around and called it in."
"What if it isn't the killer's boot print?"
"Then at the very least we can exclude the person to whom the boot belongs; that's one less suspect ".
"Out of over a million, Grissom? I hate your odds".
"One less is one less" was the sententious reply, "Now let's process this mess and get out of here".
With a will the CSI's set to, unified by a singular urge to get in, get the job done and get out with the uppermost thought in their minds being a long hot shower to wash their sullied souls clean. Blood washed clean; eventually, but this went far deeper because it made them question why they did what they did, why they opened themselves to this.
The words of his Grandmother came back to Warrick, as he knelt on the floor amongst the blood, looking for fibres where past experience told him there would be nothing; "You have to have faith" the voice said, "Faith defines us; without faith, we are nothing. It doesn't have to be God; although my heart aches that you should turn your back on Him, but you have to feel somewhere in you that there is a point to what you're doing, otherwise, why do it? Faith is not about mechanics child, it's about giving a damn. Ask yourself, why. Why do you do anything?"
"You get the feeling we're missing something Grissom? Not just us I mean, but the police, the coroner, the FBI, even the dayshift. I mean; we know how he kills them, right? Post mortem agrees that they died from blood loss on site, but why does no one, like the neighbours, hear anything? There's nothing in their systems to indicate they were drugged, it's as if the victims surrendered willingly but you can't tell me eleven people are going to quietly allow some maniac to nail them to a wall and then slash their throats while they're conscious and then he leaves no footprints or blood trail to show he was there; what the fuck does he do, hypnotise them then levitate out?"
The tension in the room spiked sharply, Warrick's outburst vocalising the thoughts of the others. There's nothing a scientist hates more than being confused and a room full of confused scientists and stressed-out cops was a powder keg looking for a match. Grissom looked tiredly at his colleague. "Warrick, I don't know - do I look like the Oacle at Delphi?"
Warrick was about to launch an angry retort when Catherine stepped in to prevent another homicide. "Minds on the job guys. You want to fight? Go beat the crap out of each other after the shift. Look, I've just had a thought. The other victims had blood tests done right?"
"Yeah, but they came up blank Cat, you know that. Ten tests, ten negatives".
"Yes Nick, I know, but the thing is, we discovered those bodies at least three days post mortem, this one's barely twenty-four hours old; there are poisons that breakdown over that time, even in dead tissue, and some quicker than others. Maybe there is something in the blood, we just haven't got to it early enough".
"But they died on site"
Catherine shrugged. "It doesn't have to be fatal, the poison, that is. There are plenty of neurotoxins or paralytics that would render someone immobile, but alive, and that would stop them screaming.
"But why haven't we picked anything up?"
"Probably a combination of assumption and negative results. The first murders were probably tested and came back clean, so after that they were tested less rigorously. Human nature I guess. We are going to do a blood test and everything this time, right.Grissom.Please tell me we're doing a blood analysis?"
"Sounds good Cath, can you swab it for Jackson to analyse immediately?"
"Ummm Grissom?"
"Yes Nick" was the exasperated response.
"Errr Jackson resigned, remember?"
"What about one of you then?"
The four CSI's glanced nervously at each other desperately pressing a metaphorical thumb to their forehead to say 'not me', finally Sara braved the now ominous silence. "Sorry Grissom, it's just way too specialised for any of us, at least to do within a limited timeframe. If we had thirty-six hours, sure, but that would put us outside our window, hell we might even be outside it now"
"What about Vincent? This through clenched teeth.
"Leave. That's one of the reasons we're leaking lab techs, Day shift is passing on their stuff to us; I thought you knew? Ecklie said you knew".
Grissom's teeth could be heard grinding at a distance of ten feet. If any of the CSI's had been adept at telepathy they would have picked the image from Grissom's mind of Conrad Ecklie crucified in place of the current victim, unfortunately all any of them could do was back slowly away from their boss and look nervously around for the nearest escape route.
"What about Greg?"
"Grissom, he resigned. As in: He Doesn't Work For Us Anymore". Catherine spoke slowly, clearly enunciating the obvious.
"Just call him. Please"; the 'please' being little more than a rasp.
Nick shrugged, "OK, I'll try". Taking out his mobile phone, Nick sorted through the various numbers in its memory, trying Greg's home, he got the answer phone and was about to leave a message when the former lab tech picked up.
"Greg speaking".
"Greg, hi, it's Nick"
"Nick? Nick who? .oh. Nick, what do you want?"
"Ummm I need a favour, actually we all do. We don't have a lab tech and we've got something urgent, super urgent".
"And this concerns me because? I quit. Remember?"
Nick looked at Grissom and shook his head, indicating that Greg wasn't interested. Grissom gestured for Nick to pass him the phone. "Greg, Grissom. Look, we need help. Please, this is urgent".
"And why should I help you Grissom, what's in it for me?"
"I don't have time for this Greg, yes or no".
Something in Grissom's voice seemed to penetrate the antagonism Greg felt towards his former colleagues. Resigning himself to the fact that he knew he'd eventually give in he decided to do it gracefully. "Alright Grissom, I'll be at the lab in twenty minutes, but it better be good" and with that the connection was abruptly severed.
Grissom looked at the phone for a second before returning it to Nick. "He said he'd do it. Catherine, you have the samples?" Receiving an affirmative nod, Grissom continued, "Go. Take the samples and get to the lab, the rest of us will tidy up here, if you're right, we don't have time to waste".