Well, here we are chapter 7. I was having my doubts that this chapter would
ever finish. It's a fair bit longer than my usual chapter, which is either
a good thing or indicative of far too much pretentious waffling. Hopefully
the next chapter won't take three weeks, but since I am starting work on
another fic you never know.
Please review and gimme lots of criticism.
BTW: The song quoted is by:
*The Cowboy Junkies - 'CAUSE CHEAP IS HOW I FEEL - The Caution Horses (1990)
------------------------
A Crippin for your Conscience
-------------------------
I used to wake up at 4 A.M. and start sneezing, sometimes for five hours. I tried to find out what sort of allergy I had but finally came to the conclusion that it must be an allergy to consciousness.
James Thurber
----
The television shows that evening presented a vast array of high quality programming obviously targeted at the intellectual and cultural elite of a generation; if, Greg mentally added, you were the supreme overlord of the cabbage people. He had long ago come to the conclusion that television wasn't an attempt to dumb down the masses and subvert their consumer choices, which as a by-product reduced the population to a homogenous herd, television was actually a brazen attempt by some secret, government- sponsored, black-ops unit to suck people's intelligence - or what there was of it - out through their toes and turn them into pod-people, thereafter at the whim of those who held the reins of power. Watching what was ostensibly a comedy, Greg was certain that the Stepford Wives showed more animation and a greater range of actual human emotion than the purported 'actors' on the screen. It was a sad state of affairs, he thought, when you cheered for random vehicles, pot-plants or even UFOs on the off-chance that the core cast was reduced by one or more.
The decision to change the channel or even turn the television off would have been an easier one if he hadn't carelessly left the remote out of reach on the coffee table. As with all males of the species the urge to move once in a state of repose was virtually nil and he glared at the remote control as if blaming it for purposely placing itself out of range. Greg's cat, Benzine, regarded her human with the amused condescension reserved solely for moments of feline superiority. Deciding that now was an appropriate time to be fed she capitalised on her owner's restlessness and judiciously applied her claws to the back of Greg's knee; the resultant scream of agony sent Benzine under the couch but she was soon back and headed for the kitchen, head high and tail raised in victory.
While scraping Benzine's food into her bowl several thoughts competed in Greg's mind, foremost of those was the urge to turn his cat into a pencil case, but practicality won out and he decided to stuff her down the bottom of the bed to keep his feet warm. He was exceptionally fond of his cat, whom he had discovered while studying for his finals in his last year of undergraduate study. He was in the lab alternately studying the structure of various hydrocarbons and attempting not to blow himself up when he had heard a piteous mewling coming from under the fractional distillation unit - which at this time of year was pressed into service for its intended function rather than the its usual purpose; as the source of the upperclassmen's illicit liquor supply. Squatting down, Greg spied a small, grey lump that regarded him with suspicious yellow eyes. The tiny creature stubbornly refused to submit to his attempts at coax it out, so he eventually resorted to a long pipette and some cream stored in the lab's fridge eventually drawing the wee beast out until he could grasp it by the loose fur at its neck.
Unappreciative of its alleged rescue, the kitten signalled its displeasure and Greg was forced to dodge claws and teeth while he checked it for signs of injury. Finding nothing, he was about to deposit the kitten somewhere quiet when his neglected experiment decided that this was the appropriate moment to explode and since it was Benzine he had been examining - until it had spread itself over the walls and ceiling - the kitten was named Benzine in it's honour; and in recognition of the similarities in their temperaments.
Of similar temperament to his cat was Rilie, whom he had encountered only once since his rush to his first class. She had been friendly enough, asking how things were going and rolling her eyes in empathy as he related how Prof. Mueller had examined everybody's preparation for the class; a one minute piece in A minor, and roundly informed them that they knew nothing about composition, music and indeed life in general. Fortunately for Greg, he hadn't been the target of her ire that day; instead she chose to vent on a poor girl from New York, informing her that if she presented such a travesty in her class again she'd rip out the girls lungs and use them to make bagpipes.
"So it was a really good piece then?" asked Rilie.
Greg nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it was. I thought Sam was going to go for Mueller's throat, but instead she ducked and covered. Apparently assaulting a professor is grounds for expulsion".
"., which is just as well for Mueller or she'd have needed to have been resurrected several times by now"; Rilie had then headed off to class, with a parting jibe that Greg was probably safe from Mueller's wrath.
Greg was having problems figuring the woman out. One minute she was friendly, ten seconds latter she showed all the empathy of a Klan rally; it was just fortunate she was a complete babe otherwise he might just have to kill her.
The phone ringing interrupted Greg's reminiscences; he wasn't expecting anyone to call but as it was only 9:30PM it wasn't really that late. Pausing to place Benzine's food on the floor - of course the cat was nowhere to be seen - and snagging the remote to mute the television he slid across the floor to pick up the phone before the answerphone cut in. He was only partially successful getting there halfway through the message.
'.Hi this is Greg, the aliens are planning on returning me sometime soon..'
"Greg speaking"
"Greg? Hi, it's Nick"
"Nick? . Nick who? . Oh, Nick". What the hell is Nick Stokes ringing me for? I quit didn't I, I'm sure I quit. "Why are you calling, Nick?"
"I need.well actually we need a favour".
They need a favour? And I repeat; I quit.
"Nick, I quit. Remember? Greg has left the building. Hasta la vista, Greg".
"Yeah, I know.look, here's Grissom".
Greg did a little dance of non-joy as he waited for his former boss to pick up the phone. Benzine, who had come stalking out of the bedroom, seeing her human acting more strangely than usual, immediately turned around and retreated; she wanted none of this, whatever it was.
Greg's thoughts were interrupted by Grissom's voice, abrupt as usual. "Greg, Grissom. Look, we need help. This is urgent".
"And why should I help you Grissom, what's in it for me?" How about a million dollars? I know I quit I know I quit I know I quit. Maybe I'll just tap my heels three times and he'll go away. OK Greg, calm, listen to the man, no obligation here.
"I don't have time for this Greg, yes or no".
You don't have time for this? He thought. Gee thanks Grissom, who's doing the favour for whom? I quit dammit; I quit! I don't work for you. "All right Grissom", Greg said, resigned to his fate. "I'll be down at the lab in about twenty minutes dependent on the traffic; make sure there's someone there to meet me. Later".
"Way to stand strong Sanders; you really showed them who's boss". Greg was not happy with himself. In truth, he was several miles beyond angry, incandescent with fury at his own inability to stand up for himself was probably a more accurate assessment. At times like these he often wondered why he did anything because he inevitably felt like he had achieved nothing.
Reaching for his jacket and keys, Greg headed out the door followed only by a resigned flash of yellow eyes.
Traffic wasn't too bad on the way into the lab and Greg could have arrived much sooner than he did, but the obvious antipathy he'd experienced when speaking to Nick and Grissom, translated into a rigid, and wholly uncharacteristic, adherence to the speed limit. The usual soundtrack of hard-driving punk and nu-metal with which he had always psyched himself up for a shift was also absent, instead the radio was tuned to 666 HURT fm and the melancholy sounds of the Cowboy Junkies guided him towards his destination.
"Half moon in the sky tonight, bright enough
to come up with an answer
to the question why is it that every time I see you
my love grows a little stronger
But your memory leaves my stomach churning,
feeling like a lie about to be revealed,
but I'll horde all this to myself
'cause cheap is how I feel"*
Turning into the car park, Greg was struck by the inevitable sense of déjà vu; of course this was a factual kind of déjà vu rather than a memory inspired by a feeling or a dream. Truth be told, if Greg had had his way this moment would have been a deja wasn't or a deja didn't, but you can't have everything. Irony was obviously smiling beatifically down on Greg this evening for his old park was free, a point that would have been obvious if he had been aware of the revolving door policy adopted by the lab techs who had briefly filled the position in his absence.
Exiting his car and striding across the car park everything appeared to be where it should be, except for himself, he noted wryly. The only thing that did not appear to be as it should was the lack of a CSI waiting for him at reception. This did not endear Grissom to him in the slightest, 'so much for professional courtesy' he muttered. Deciding that he had better things to do than wait around on someone else's pleasure, Greg decided to leave and had just reached the electronic doors at the front of the building when he, almost literally, ran into Catherine coming in the other direction.
"You're late".
"And hello to you too Greg. Yes, I'm late and I'm sorry, there was a pile up on the road coming back in; I had to divert".
"Fine, did you not think to call ahead?"
"No, sorry. Look, what's with the hostility?"
"I don't work here anymore Catherine, remember? I don't appreciate being called, at home, at night, and being virtually ordered to come here. To top it all off, you're late; you expect me to be a little ray of sunshine?
"You all wanted to know why I left? Here's a reason right here. I am not your fucking slave. I am not at your beck-and-call".
Catherine was taken aback by the sheer vehemence of Greg's tirade, privately she agreed with the former tech that Grissom was indeed way out of line in asking him to come in, but she kept her visage neutral. "So why don't you go home? Nothing's keeping you here".
"Well it's either this or Celebrity Plastic Surgery on the TV and since I'm here now." he shrugged. "Look, let's just get it done so I can go, all right?" Greg's curiosity finally got the better of him, "So what have we got?"
"Shakespeare killer"
"Oh goody. Let me guess, it was a pile up of news crews that delayed you?"
The press had named their resident psycho, The Shakespeare Killer in their enthusiasm for the carved references on each body; ghoulish it may have been, but it was good copy and that was inevitably all that mattered. Ecklie had been heard to mutter that the killer should go butcher a few reporters and that was the one and only time in recorded history that Grissom had been in total agreement with his day-shift adversary. Such was the revulsion evoked by the Shakespearean quoting maniac, that even Ecklie had put aside his normal political agenda for the purpose of nailing this particular bastard to a wall.
"So what have brought me Catherine?"
"Blood sample. We want you to test it for foreign substances: toxins, poisons, the whole deal".
"But this has all been done before, and every time it's come up blank, what's the rush?"
"This victim got found early, within twenty-four hours, we're hoping something might still be in the system. Grissom also thinks that we've got sloppy, the first few tests found nothing and thereafter everyone's been focusing on the slashed throat and the crucifixion".
"But the slashed throat was the cause of death"
Catherine waited for Greg's years of experience to catch up with his weeks of inactivity; for obvious reasons he was a little rusty. Watching her former colleague deep in thought, Catherine realised how quiet the lab had become without his somewhat manic presence. The professional side of her personality also made a sotto voce notation as to how inefficient the lab had become since Greg's departure.
".unless of course you're asking me to search for something prior to death; perhaps an immobilising agent perhaps or a neurotoxin or something similar?"
Catherine nodded "Collect Two-Hundred, Greg".
Greg smiled briefly, "We'd better move Catherine, most neurotoxins and paralytics break down in twenty-four hours or less, assuming it's organically based of course. You've got the blood sample? Then let's go"
Twenty minutes later, Catherine was starting to feel completely useless. It wasn't as if she didn't know her way around the lab it was just that watching Greg, made her feel like a neophyte who'd just mastered 'Chopsticks' watching Artur Rubinstein casually play a Liszt etude. The ease with which he moved from analyser to spectrometer to chromatograph was akin to a dance and underlined what a loss to the lab he really was; not that she was going to say anything of course, Greg was aggravated enough already this evening; turning him homicidal would probably be counter productive to the ongoing development of the investigation.
"Got anything yet Greg?"
"Other than a headache?"
"Yes, other than a headache"
"No".
Without turning from the analysis he was doing he pointed at the Mass Spec, "That thing should be done, give me a printout of the results.please" the courtesy, obviously an absentminded afterthought, did nothing to lessen the tense atmosphere of the lab. Catherine would, at that precise point in time, have preferred fighting with Eddie over Lyndsey, or disembowelling one of Ecklie's lascivious asides - or even Ecklie himself if necessary - rather than spend a moment longer with Greg who was muttering all manner of vile imprecations under his breath as he worked.
"Greg? I'm going to see how far away the others are, if you want me I'll be down in Grissom's office". Receiving an inarticulate grunt in response she left.
Thank god she's gone, thought Greg; I hate being watched, especially when the person watching me isn't sure if I am going to pull a machete on them or not and who also tiptoes around me with all the subtlety of an Eddie Murphy stage show.
Suppressing a sigh, he returned to the puzzle in front of him, Catherine, in her nervousness hadn't been particularly forthcoming with useful information and he'd had to piece together various assumptions dredged from his memories of the case from when he had worked at the lab. It was funny; funny strange that is, not funny haha, but it was almost as if he'd never left the lab. For all his eagerness to depart, never to return, the various instruments welcomed him like an old friend; even his secret stash of ultra- special coffee was still in it's hiding place - if he'd been feeling less antagonistic he could have read all number of hidden meanings into this - however, Greg's thoughts were currently alternating between swearing at the results the sample was returning and picturing Grissom being run down by a hungry tyrannosaur.
The tyrannosaur won.
Studying the printouts in front of him Greg wasn't sure what he was reading as the results were conflicting; the only thing of which he could be certain was that the only foreign substance in the victim's blood - if indeed there was anything in the blood because he printouts didn't agree on that either - wasn't synthetic: synthetic compounds had a tendency to hang around in the system longer than organic compounds especially in cases where the victim was post mortem and the biological systems were no longer able to filter out or neutralise the various chemical components extant.
Determining that it wasn't a synthetic compound meant, by an obvious process of exclusion, that the toxin used was organic, however, Greg had come to the conclusion that the time period between the actual moment of death and his examination of the blood was long enough for any chemicals within the system to begin the process of decay and it was this which was screwing up his test results.
OK, he thought, since I'm pretty sure that we're dealing with an organic toxin what else do we know? He recalled that the actual cause of death was blood loss from the slashed throat, but as others before him had commented, he didn't see the victims volunteering to be nailed to a wall then mutilated, so it was possible to logically infer that the victims' were immobilised in some way and since there were no ligature marks or signs of blunt force trauma it pointed to the toxin being the disabling component. Greg snorted in aggravated bemusement; an organic toxin that disabled and didn't kill; well that only left several thousand possibilities including a good stiff drink, which Greg was all in favour of at this point in time.
His vision of a large Gin and Tonic was interrupted by Catherine's return.
"Warrick just called, they'll be back in about twenty minutes".
"Have they got anything else for me to work with?"
"Not really, just the usual hair and fibre samples, but we can give those to the day shift; if nothing else it will aggravate Ecklie and that will cheer Grissom up some. Anyway, you come up with anything?"
"Nothing concrete. I can tell you that it's organic, but it had degraded too much for a positive ID. If I had to guess I'd say it's probably an alkaloid of some sort, but that's just a stab in the dark. Whatever it is though, it's not a fatal dosage as everyone has said that it was the blood loss that killed the victims".
"Well I suppose that's something," said Catherine, "Do you want to wait around for the others or do you want to go?
"Well, there's not really much point in staying as there's not a lot more I can do. Tell Grissom the bill's in the mail".
"Bill?"
"Remember Catherine, I don't work here now, consider me a consultant; a high-priced consultant".
"Grissom, will be pleased" Catherine replied, her sarcastic tone failing to completely mask the humour of the moment, "Just as well you're going to mail it Greg, or you'll end up in one of his specimen bottles; alive I imagine, as there's no fun poking you with sticks if you're dead".
"Nice image Cath, makes me feel all warm and." Greg's retort stopped cold. "Catherine, just how big a nut job do you think we're dealing with? Seriously, I mean do we have a psych profile on the guy?"
Catherine paused a moment before answering as she searched her memory for anything relevant. "Well we know he's not psychotic, he's too organised, too tidy - obsessively so in fact. We don't think it's sexually motivated; at least there's nothing to indicate that type of pathology. There's no doubt though that he enjoys what he does, the victims are purposely arranged to display his handiwork, Sara said it was like the guy was looking for audience approval".
"Back up a sec, has anyone made a link between the organisation and the enjoyment aspects? It's not like he has an audience because the victim's disable.Whoa, hold everything, Catherine, do you think it's possible that the victim's aware of what's going on, aware of what he's doing to them?"
Catherine paled "Greg, that's sick, there's no way he could do that".
"Actually there is Catherine" the voice came from behind her "There's several families of toxins which completely disable the victim, but also leaves them conscious and aware of what's happening. I assume that's what you're thinking, Greg?"
A fleeting scowl crossed Greg's features before he answered "Yes, Grissom. That's exactly what I'm thinking".
"Curare?"
".Probably the same family, but not curare itself".
"Why?"
"Curare will kill you, unless you've got someone independently resuscitating you until the effects of the toxin wears off; somehow, I can't see your nutter administering mouth-to-mouth while he nails them to the wall, even physically it would be just about impossible"
"What about a breather tank or something like that?"
"If what Catherine tells me is true, it would appear that he gets off on the whole pain and control situation, he's not going to use anything that is going to require him to change his focus". Greg grimaced, "Anyway, that's purely supposition; getting back to why I'm here, I can't tell you anything else, the sample's too degraded" Grabbing his jacket off the back of his - the - chair he corrected himself he turned to go, "Well, I'll see you later and" having noticed that he hadn't hidden his secret coffee stash "tell Sara that she can keep the coffee, probably time she upgraded from the vague facsimile she usually drinks".
Halfway down the corridor he heard someone call his name, turning Greg was unsurprised to see the CSI head jogging to catch up with him.
"Greg, have you got a minute?"
"Alright, Grissom".
"My office?"
"Here is fine".
If Grissom was at all taken aback he hid it well, "Ok. Fine. Look, Greg, I'd like you to come back to the lab, we need an experienced tech".
"No".
"No? Is that it? Just no?"
"Yes.
"I left Grissom, you didn't fire me. I went for my own reasons and my actual feelings for this place were, at best, peripheral in making that decision".
"But we're getting behind in our work we can't afford to let that happen". Grissom mentally winced, he sounded like he was whining, the last thing he ever thought he would do was approach Greg Sanders in the position of the supplicant; but here he was and he had to make the bet of it.
"But that's not my problem Grissom, I don't work here, it's not my work that's falling behind". Even to himself he sounded harsh but he was determined not to give in to the little voice in the back of his mind that was trying to make him feel guilty. For too long he had listened to his guilt and finally having broken the shackles he wasn't going to let it come back, even with reinforcements.
Grissom's frustrations boiled over. He could understand Greg's position and his former lab tech wasn't, if he was being honest, the cause of his problems, but in the here and now, Greg was right in front of him and that was enough for the normally tightly controlled professional to lose it.
"Not your problem" he hissed "No, it's never anyone's problem. When push comes to shove just walk away. Where the hell is your loyalty? I really thought you gave a damn about this" - about us, his mind whispered - "And what happens when the next person struck down in someone you care about."
The last comment was too close to home for Greg, Grissom for all that he was not in control of his emotions had crossed a line and the look in Greg's eyes stopped him cold. Greg crossed the distance between them in a second and with his face less than an inch from Grissom's he stared icily at the older man. "It was always going to happen Grissom, that one day you would say the wrong thing. Don't talk to me about loyalty and how dare you lecture me on devotion when I've never been anything more to you than a useful tool"
Grissom, realising that he had gone too far attempted to deny the accusation but he never got the chance.
"What I choose to do is my business, not yours. Even when I worked here your authority extended to neither my mind nor my soul, so who the hell do you think you are to lecture me? Go sort your own issues out; I don't need this". Moving to brush past Grissom he noticed that the rest of the CSI team had gathered in a little knot at the end of the corridor and they were watching the performance while pretending to look at everything other than the two protagonists.
"Enjoying the show?
"Grissom, your cheerleaders are here".
Grissom said nothing, his silence articulation enough.
"Well, I'll be going then. Have a pleasant evening". There was no mistaking the irony in his words as he headed down the corridor away from the CSIs who had gathered about their leader.
"Greg? Greg, wait up".
What now? Can't they leave me alone? No doubt they're here to tell me that Grissom didn't mean it and that he's under a huge amount of pressure.
"Look, Greg", it was Sara - Grissom's chief apologist - "Grissom didn't mean it, he's under a huge amount of pressure. Really, he appreciates your help this evening; we all do", she made as if to lay a reassuring hand on his arm but withdrew the gesture uncertain as to how it would be received.
"Yes, I noticed all that appreciation" Sara winced. Greg continued, wielding his sarcasm like a scalpel. "Remember back Sara, to the night I left? You said almost exactly the same things Grissom just did, so all things considered, can I assume you didn't mean it either?"
"That's not fair, the circumstances are completely different".
"So you did mean it?"
"Yes.No.Yes. Greg, that's not the point, the point is that neither Grissom, nor myself or the others wanted you to leave".
"We're going in circles Sara. Again, and, god willing, for the last time, it comes back to my wanting to leave having nothing to do what you want. This evening you asked for my help and for some reason, call it sentiment if you like, I said yes; I won't make that mistake again. I know Grissom, you all in fact, are under pressure, but the thing is he doesn't treat any of you like he treated me this evening or in the past; I'm a tool to him Sara, and while it's not the reason I left, it is one of the reasons why I won't come back. You can deny it all you want but you know it's true".
Sara didn't bother to deny the accusation, not because she completely agreed with Greg, but she knew that anything else she said at this point in time would only make things worse. Disheartened she turned away, saddened by the thought that she couldn't make things right, that she couldn't mend the fences her mentor had torn down.
Sensing Sara's dejection, Greg's manner softened somewhat for despite the previous pronouncement sentiment strongly bound him to this place. "Look Sara, if there is ever a real need then call, and if I can I'll help; I have only one condition, you don't tell Grissom".
"But.Greg.he has to know."
"No. I'm not doing this for him, or even for you; I'm doing it for me, you can accept my condition or look for your help somewhere else".
"That's blackmail"
"Not really, the only thing I'm getting out of this is karmic brownie points. If it was blackmail I'd bill you and let you explain that to Grissom instead". "OK Greg, you're right, it's not blackmail it's sadism".
"We aim to please. Please me that is, but you can't have everything. Can I go now?"
"Sure you can go, who was stopping you?" Grinning at the murderous look Greg gave her, Sara unleashed a brilliant smile on her wary victim, "And Greg, thank you".
"OK. Bye Sara".
I quit. I'm sure I quit. Dammit, I know I quit. But if I quit then what the hell was that? Sanders, you're too damn soft. But for all his misgivings he felt good. Must be that damn karma he muttered as he climbed into his car and headed home.
Please review and gimme lots of criticism.
BTW: The song quoted is by:
*The Cowboy Junkies - 'CAUSE CHEAP IS HOW I FEEL - The Caution Horses (1990)
------------------------
A Crippin for your Conscience
-------------------------
I used to wake up at 4 A.M. and start sneezing, sometimes for five hours. I tried to find out what sort of allergy I had but finally came to the conclusion that it must be an allergy to consciousness.
James Thurber
----
The television shows that evening presented a vast array of high quality programming obviously targeted at the intellectual and cultural elite of a generation; if, Greg mentally added, you were the supreme overlord of the cabbage people. He had long ago come to the conclusion that television wasn't an attempt to dumb down the masses and subvert their consumer choices, which as a by-product reduced the population to a homogenous herd, television was actually a brazen attempt by some secret, government- sponsored, black-ops unit to suck people's intelligence - or what there was of it - out through their toes and turn them into pod-people, thereafter at the whim of those who held the reins of power. Watching what was ostensibly a comedy, Greg was certain that the Stepford Wives showed more animation and a greater range of actual human emotion than the purported 'actors' on the screen. It was a sad state of affairs, he thought, when you cheered for random vehicles, pot-plants or even UFOs on the off-chance that the core cast was reduced by one or more.
The decision to change the channel or even turn the television off would have been an easier one if he hadn't carelessly left the remote out of reach on the coffee table. As with all males of the species the urge to move once in a state of repose was virtually nil and he glared at the remote control as if blaming it for purposely placing itself out of range. Greg's cat, Benzine, regarded her human with the amused condescension reserved solely for moments of feline superiority. Deciding that now was an appropriate time to be fed she capitalised on her owner's restlessness and judiciously applied her claws to the back of Greg's knee; the resultant scream of agony sent Benzine under the couch but she was soon back and headed for the kitchen, head high and tail raised in victory.
While scraping Benzine's food into her bowl several thoughts competed in Greg's mind, foremost of those was the urge to turn his cat into a pencil case, but practicality won out and he decided to stuff her down the bottom of the bed to keep his feet warm. He was exceptionally fond of his cat, whom he had discovered while studying for his finals in his last year of undergraduate study. He was in the lab alternately studying the structure of various hydrocarbons and attempting not to blow himself up when he had heard a piteous mewling coming from under the fractional distillation unit - which at this time of year was pressed into service for its intended function rather than the its usual purpose; as the source of the upperclassmen's illicit liquor supply. Squatting down, Greg spied a small, grey lump that regarded him with suspicious yellow eyes. The tiny creature stubbornly refused to submit to his attempts at coax it out, so he eventually resorted to a long pipette and some cream stored in the lab's fridge eventually drawing the wee beast out until he could grasp it by the loose fur at its neck.
Unappreciative of its alleged rescue, the kitten signalled its displeasure and Greg was forced to dodge claws and teeth while he checked it for signs of injury. Finding nothing, he was about to deposit the kitten somewhere quiet when his neglected experiment decided that this was the appropriate moment to explode and since it was Benzine he had been examining - until it had spread itself over the walls and ceiling - the kitten was named Benzine in it's honour; and in recognition of the similarities in their temperaments.
Of similar temperament to his cat was Rilie, whom he had encountered only once since his rush to his first class. She had been friendly enough, asking how things were going and rolling her eyes in empathy as he related how Prof. Mueller had examined everybody's preparation for the class; a one minute piece in A minor, and roundly informed them that they knew nothing about composition, music and indeed life in general. Fortunately for Greg, he hadn't been the target of her ire that day; instead she chose to vent on a poor girl from New York, informing her that if she presented such a travesty in her class again she'd rip out the girls lungs and use them to make bagpipes.
"So it was a really good piece then?" asked Rilie.
Greg nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it was. I thought Sam was going to go for Mueller's throat, but instead she ducked and covered. Apparently assaulting a professor is grounds for expulsion".
"., which is just as well for Mueller or she'd have needed to have been resurrected several times by now"; Rilie had then headed off to class, with a parting jibe that Greg was probably safe from Mueller's wrath.
Greg was having problems figuring the woman out. One minute she was friendly, ten seconds latter she showed all the empathy of a Klan rally; it was just fortunate she was a complete babe otherwise he might just have to kill her.
The phone ringing interrupted Greg's reminiscences; he wasn't expecting anyone to call but as it was only 9:30PM it wasn't really that late. Pausing to place Benzine's food on the floor - of course the cat was nowhere to be seen - and snagging the remote to mute the television he slid across the floor to pick up the phone before the answerphone cut in. He was only partially successful getting there halfway through the message.
'.Hi this is Greg, the aliens are planning on returning me sometime soon..'
"Greg speaking"
"Greg? Hi, it's Nick"
"Nick? . Nick who? . Oh, Nick". What the hell is Nick Stokes ringing me for? I quit didn't I, I'm sure I quit. "Why are you calling, Nick?"
"I need.well actually we need a favour".
They need a favour? And I repeat; I quit.
"Nick, I quit. Remember? Greg has left the building. Hasta la vista, Greg".
"Yeah, I know.look, here's Grissom".
Greg did a little dance of non-joy as he waited for his former boss to pick up the phone. Benzine, who had come stalking out of the bedroom, seeing her human acting more strangely than usual, immediately turned around and retreated; she wanted none of this, whatever it was.
Greg's thoughts were interrupted by Grissom's voice, abrupt as usual. "Greg, Grissom. Look, we need help. This is urgent".
"And why should I help you Grissom, what's in it for me?" How about a million dollars? I know I quit I know I quit I know I quit. Maybe I'll just tap my heels three times and he'll go away. OK Greg, calm, listen to the man, no obligation here.
"I don't have time for this Greg, yes or no".
You don't have time for this? He thought. Gee thanks Grissom, who's doing the favour for whom? I quit dammit; I quit! I don't work for you. "All right Grissom", Greg said, resigned to his fate. "I'll be down at the lab in about twenty minutes dependent on the traffic; make sure there's someone there to meet me. Later".
"Way to stand strong Sanders; you really showed them who's boss". Greg was not happy with himself. In truth, he was several miles beyond angry, incandescent with fury at his own inability to stand up for himself was probably a more accurate assessment. At times like these he often wondered why he did anything because he inevitably felt like he had achieved nothing.
Reaching for his jacket and keys, Greg headed out the door followed only by a resigned flash of yellow eyes.
Traffic wasn't too bad on the way into the lab and Greg could have arrived much sooner than he did, but the obvious antipathy he'd experienced when speaking to Nick and Grissom, translated into a rigid, and wholly uncharacteristic, adherence to the speed limit. The usual soundtrack of hard-driving punk and nu-metal with which he had always psyched himself up for a shift was also absent, instead the radio was tuned to 666 HURT fm and the melancholy sounds of the Cowboy Junkies guided him towards his destination.
"Half moon in the sky tonight, bright enough
to come up with an answer
to the question why is it that every time I see you
my love grows a little stronger
But your memory leaves my stomach churning,
feeling like a lie about to be revealed,
but I'll horde all this to myself
'cause cheap is how I feel"*
Turning into the car park, Greg was struck by the inevitable sense of déjà vu; of course this was a factual kind of déjà vu rather than a memory inspired by a feeling or a dream. Truth be told, if Greg had had his way this moment would have been a deja wasn't or a deja didn't, but you can't have everything. Irony was obviously smiling beatifically down on Greg this evening for his old park was free, a point that would have been obvious if he had been aware of the revolving door policy adopted by the lab techs who had briefly filled the position in his absence.
Exiting his car and striding across the car park everything appeared to be where it should be, except for himself, he noted wryly. The only thing that did not appear to be as it should was the lack of a CSI waiting for him at reception. This did not endear Grissom to him in the slightest, 'so much for professional courtesy' he muttered. Deciding that he had better things to do than wait around on someone else's pleasure, Greg decided to leave and had just reached the electronic doors at the front of the building when he, almost literally, ran into Catherine coming in the other direction.
"You're late".
"And hello to you too Greg. Yes, I'm late and I'm sorry, there was a pile up on the road coming back in; I had to divert".
"Fine, did you not think to call ahead?"
"No, sorry. Look, what's with the hostility?"
"I don't work here anymore Catherine, remember? I don't appreciate being called, at home, at night, and being virtually ordered to come here. To top it all off, you're late; you expect me to be a little ray of sunshine?
"You all wanted to know why I left? Here's a reason right here. I am not your fucking slave. I am not at your beck-and-call".
Catherine was taken aback by the sheer vehemence of Greg's tirade, privately she agreed with the former tech that Grissom was indeed way out of line in asking him to come in, but she kept her visage neutral. "So why don't you go home? Nothing's keeping you here".
"Well it's either this or Celebrity Plastic Surgery on the TV and since I'm here now." he shrugged. "Look, let's just get it done so I can go, all right?" Greg's curiosity finally got the better of him, "So what have we got?"
"Shakespeare killer"
"Oh goody. Let me guess, it was a pile up of news crews that delayed you?"
The press had named their resident psycho, The Shakespeare Killer in their enthusiasm for the carved references on each body; ghoulish it may have been, but it was good copy and that was inevitably all that mattered. Ecklie had been heard to mutter that the killer should go butcher a few reporters and that was the one and only time in recorded history that Grissom had been in total agreement with his day-shift adversary. Such was the revulsion evoked by the Shakespearean quoting maniac, that even Ecklie had put aside his normal political agenda for the purpose of nailing this particular bastard to a wall.
"So what have brought me Catherine?"
"Blood sample. We want you to test it for foreign substances: toxins, poisons, the whole deal".
"But this has all been done before, and every time it's come up blank, what's the rush?"
"This victim got found early, within twenty-four hours, we're hoping something might still be in the system. Grissom also thinks that we've got sloppy, the first few tests found nothing and thereafter everyone's been focusing on the slashed throat and the crucifixion".
"But the slashed throat was the cause of death"
Catherine waited for Greg's years of experience to catch up with his weeks of inactivity; for obvious reasons he was a little rusty. Watching her former colleague deep in thought, Catherine realised how quiet the lab had become without his somewhat manic presence. The professional side of her personality also made a sotto voce notation as to how inefficient the lab had become since Greg's departure.
".unless of course you're asking me to search for something prior to death; perhaps an immobilising agent perhaps or a neurotoxin or something similar?"
Catherine nodded "Collect Two-Hundred, Greg".
Greg smiled briefly, "We'd better move Catherine, most neurotoxins and paralytics break down in twenty-four hours or less, assuming it's organically based of course. You've got the blood sample? Then let's go"
Twenty minutes later, Catherine was starting to feel completely useless. It wasn't as if she didn't know her way around the lab it was just that watching Greg, made her feel like a neophyte who'd just mastered 'Chopsticks' watching Artur Rubinstein casually play a Liszt etude. The ease with which he moved from analyser to spectrometer to chromatograph was akin to a dance and underlined what a loss to the lab he really was; not that she was going to say anything of course, Greg was aggravated enough already this evening; turning him homicidal would probably be counter productive to the ongoing development of the investigation.
"Got anything yet Greg?"
"Other than a headache?"
"Yes, other than a headache"
"No".
Without turning from the analysis he was doing he pointed at the Mass Spec, "That thing should be done, give me a printout of the results.please" the courtesy, obviously an absentminded afterthought, did nothing to lessen the tense atmosphere of the lab. Catherine would, at that precise point in time, have preferred fighting with Eddie over Lyndsey, or disembowelling one of Ecklie's lascivious asides - or even Ecklie himself if necessary - rather than spend a moment longer with Greg who was muttering all manner of vile imprecations under his breath as he worked.
"Greg? I'm going to see how far away the others are, if you want me I'll be down in Grissom's office". Receiving an inarticulate grunt in response she left.
Thank god she's gone, thought Greg; I hate being watched, especially when the person watching me isn't sure if I am going to pull a machete on them or not and who also tiptoes around me with all the subtlety of an Eddie Murphy stage show.
Suppressing a sigh, he returned to the puzzle in front of him, Catherine, in her nervousness hadn't been particularly forthcoming with useful information and he'd had to piece together various assumptions dredged from his memories of the case from when he had worked at the lab. It was funny; funny strange that is, not funny haha, but it was almost as if he'd never left the lab. For all his eagerness to depart, never to return, the various instruments welcomed him like an old friend; even his secret stash of ultra- special coffee was still in it's hiding place - if he'd been feeling less antagonistic he could have read all number of hidden meanings into this - however, Greg's thoughts were currently alternating between swearing at the results the sample was returning and picturing Grissom being run down by a hungry tyrannosaur.
The tyrannosaur won.
Studying the printouts in front of him Greg wasn't sure what he was reading as the results were conflicting; the only thing of which he could be certain was that the only foreign substance in the victim's blood - if indeed there was anything in the blood because he printouts didn't agree on that either - wasn't synthetic: synthetic compounds had a tendency to hang around in the system longer than organic compounds especially in cases where the victim was post mortem and the biological systems were no longer able to filter out or neutralise the various chemical components extant.
Determining that it wasn't a synthetic compound meant, by an obvious process of exclusion, that the toxin used was organic, however, Greg had come to the conclusion that the time period between the actual moment of death and his examination of the blood was long enough for any chemicals within the system to begin the process of decay and it was this which was screwing up his test results.
OK, he thought, since I'm pretty sure that we're dealing with an organic toxin what else do we know? He recalled that the actual cause of death was blood loss from the slashed throat, but as others before him had commented, he didn't see the victims volunteering to be nailed to a wall then mutilated, so it was possible to logically infer that the victims' were immobilised in some way and since there were no ligature marks or signs of blunt force trauma it pointed to the toxin being the disabling component. Greg snorted in aggravated bemusement; an organic toxin that disabled and didn't kill; well that only left several thousand possibilities including a good stiff drink, which Greg was all in favour of at this point in time.
His vision of a large Gin and Tonic was interrupted by Catherine's return.
"Warrick just called, they'll be back in about twenty minutes".
"Have they got anything else for me to work with?"
"Not really, just the usual hair and fibre samples, but we can give those to the day shift; if nothing else it will aggravate Ecklie and that will cheer Grissom up some. Anyway, you come up with anything?"
"Nothing concrete. I can tell you that it's organic, but it had degraded too much for a positive ID. If I had to guess I'd say it's probably an alkaloid of some sort, but that's just a stab in the dark. Whatever it is though, it's not a fatal dosage as everyone has said that it was the blood loss that killed the victims".
"Well I suppose that's something," said Catherine, "Do you want to wait around for the others or do you want to go?
"Well, there's not really much point in staying as there's not a lot more I can do. Tell Grissom the bill's in the mail".
"Bill?"
"Remember Catherine, I don't work here now, consider me a consultant; a high-priced consultant".
"Grissom, will be pleased" Catherine replied, her sarcastic tone failing to completely mask the humour of the moment, "Just as well you're going to mail it Greg, or you'll end up in one of his specimen bottles; alive I imagine, as there's no fun poking you with sticks if you're dead".
"Nice image Cath, makes me feel all warm and." Greg's retort stopped cold. "Catherine, just how big a nut job do you think we're dealing with? Seriously, I mean do we have a psych profile on the guy?"
Catherine paused a moment before answering as she searched her memory for anything relevant. "Well we know he's not psychotic, he's too organised, too tidy - obsessively so in fact. We don't think it's sexually motivated; at least there's nothing to indicate that type of pathology. There's no doubt though that he enjoys what he does, the victims are purposely arranged to display his handiwork, Sara said it was like the guy was looking for audience approval".
"Back up a sec, has anyone made a link between the organisation and the enjoyment aspects? It's not like he has an audience because the victim's disable.Whoa, hold everything, Catherine, do you think it's possible that the victim's aware of what's going on, aware of what he's doing to them?"
Catherine paled "Greg, that's sick, there's no way he could do that".
"Actually there is Catherine" the voice came from behind her "There's several families of toxins which completely disable the victim, but also leaves them conscious and aware of what's happening. I assume that's what you're thinking, Greg?"
A fleeting scowl crossed Greg's features before he answered "Yes, Grissom. That's exactly what I'm thinking".
"Curare?"
".Probably the same family, but not curare itself".
"Why?"
"Curare will kill you, unless you've got someone independently resuscitating you until the effects of the toxin wears off; somehow, I can't see your nutter administering mouth-to-mouth while he nails them to the wall, even physically it would be just about impossible"
"What about a breather tank or something like that?"
"If what Catherine tells me is true, it would appear that he gets off on the whole pain and control situation, he's not going to use anything that is going to require him to change his focus". Greg grimaced, "Anyway, that's purely supposition; getting back to why I'm here, I can't tell you anything else, the sample's too degraded" Grabbing his jacket off the back of his - the - chair he corrected himself he turned to go, "Well, I'll see you later and" having noticed that he hadn't hidden his secret coffee stash "tell Sara that she can keep the coffee, probably time she upgraded from the vague facsimile she usually drinks".
Halfway down the corridor he heard someone call his name, turning Greg was unsurprised to see the CSI head jogging to catch up with him.
"Greg, have you got a minute?"
"Alright, Grissom".
"My office?"
"Here is fine".
If Grissom was at all taken aback he hid it well, "Ok. Fine. Look, Greg, I'd like you to come back to the lab, we need an experienced tech".
"No".
"No? Is that it? Just no?"
"Yes.
"I left Grissom, you didn't fire me. I went for my own reasons and my actual feelings for this place were, at best, peripheral in making that decision".
"But we're getting behind in our work we can't afford to let that happen". Grissom mentally winced, he sounded like he was whining, the last thing he ever thought he would do was approach Greg Sanders in the position of the supplicant; but here he was and he had to make the bet of it.
"But that's not my problem Grissom, I don't work here, it's not my work that's falling behind". Even to himself he sounded harsh but he was determined not to give in to the little voice in the back of his mind that was trying to make him feel guilty. For too long he had listened to his guilt and finally having broken the shackles he wasn't going to let it come back, even with reinforcements.
Grissom's frustrations boiled over. He could understand Greg's position and his former lab tech wasn't, if he was being honest, the cause of his problems, but in the here and now, Greg was right in front of him and that was enough for the normally tightly controlled professional to lose it.
"Not your problem" he hissed "No, it's never anyone's problem. When push comes to shove just walk away. Where the hell is your loyalty? I really thought you gave a damn about this" - about us, his mind whispered - "And what happens when the next person struck down in someone you care about."
The last comment was too close to home for Greg, Grissom for all that he was not in control of his emotions had crossed a line and the look in Greg's eyes stopped him cold. Greg crossed the distance between them in a second and with his face less than an inch from Grissom's he stared icily at the older man. "It was always going to happen Grissom, that one day you would say the wrong thing. Don't talk to me about loyalty and how dare you lecture me on devotion when I've never been anything more to you than a useful tool"
Grissom, realising that he had gone too far attempted to deny the accusation but he never got the chance.
"What I choose to do is my business, not yours. Even when I worked here your authority extended to neither my mind nor my soul, so who the hell do you think you are to lecture me? Go sort your own issues out; I don't need this". Moving to brush past Grissom he noticed that the rest of the CSI team had gathered in a little knot at the end of the corridor and they were watching the performance while pretending to look at everything other than the two protagonists.
"Enjoying the show?
"Grissom, your cheerleaders are here".
Grissom said nothing, his silence articulation enough.
"Well, I'll be going then. Have a pleasant evening". There was no mistaking the irony in his words as he headed down the corridor away from the CSIs who had gathered about their leader.
"Greg? Greg, wait up".
What now? Can't they leave me alone? No doubt they're here to tell me that Grissom didn't mean it and that he's under a huge amount of pressure.
"Look, Greg", it was Sara - Grissom's chief apologist - "Grissom didn't mean it, he's under a huge amount of pressure. Really, he appreciates your help this evening; we all do", she made as if to lay a reassuring hand on his arm but withdrew the gesture uncertain as to how it would be received.
"Yes, I noticed all that appreciation" Sara winced. Greg continued, wielding his sarcasm like a scalpel. "Remember back Sara, to the night I left? You said almost exactly the same things Grissom just did, so all things considered, can I assume you didn't mean it either?"
"That's not fair, the circumstances are completely different".
"So you did mean it?"
"Yes.No.Yes. Greg, that's not the point, the point is that neither Grissom, nor myself or the others wanted you to leave".
"We're going in circles Sara. Again, and, god willing, for the last time, it comes back to my wanting to leave having nothing to do what you want. This evening you asked for my help and for some reason, call it sentiment if you like, I said yes; I won't make that mistake again. I know Grissom, you all in fact, are under pressure, but the thing is he doesn't treat any of you like he treated me this evening or in the past; I'm a tool to him Sara, and while it's not the reason I left, it is one of the reasons why I won't come back. You can deny it all you want but you know it's true".
Sara didn't bother to deny the accusation, not because she completely agreed with Greg, but she knew that anything else she said at this point in time would only make things worse. Disheartened she turned away, saddened by the thought that she couldn't make things right, that she couldn't mend the fences her mentor had torn down.
Sensing Sara's dejection, Greg's manner softened somewhat for despite the previous pronouncement sentiment strongly bound him to this place. "Look Sara, if there is ever a real need then call, and if I can I'll help; I have only one condition, you don't tell Grissom".
"But.Greg.he has to know."
"No. I'm not doing this for him, or even for you; I'm doing it for me, you can accept my condition or look for your help somewhere else".
"That's blackmail"
"Not really, the only thing I'm getting out of this is karmic brownie points. If it was blackmail I'd bill you and let you explain that to Grissom instead". "OK Greg, you're right, it's not blackmail it's sadism".
"We aim to please. Please me that is, but you can't have everything. Can I go now?"
"Sure you can go, who was stopping you?" Grinning at the murderous look Greg gave her, Sara unleashed a brilliant smile on her wary victim, "And Greg, thank you".
"OK. Bye Sara".
I quit. I'm sure I quit. Dammit, I know I quit. But if I quit then what the hell was that? Sanders, you're too damn soft. But for all his misgivings he felt good. Must be that damn karma he muttered as he climbed into his car and headed home.