Well, here we are, Chapter 8 - at least I think it's 8. This has taken me a
god's age to get done and I apologise, but unfortunately life and the mean
management types at work don't stop for a hobby. I went back and re-read
the earlier chapters the other day and winced in horror at the earliest
chapters, I must, - to quote Star Trek - have been channelling an Andorian
Spirit Dancer with a Scrabble set when I wrote those, I promise to go back
and revise them at some point. On a technical note: Does anyone know how,
when this is uploaded as a word document to make the damn FF formatting
keep the ellipses that I put in - I swear, I know what a comma is.
BTW: Anyone wanna be a Beta Reader?
Every man is guilty of all the good he didn't do. Voltaire
All God's children are not beautiful. Most of God's children are, in fact, barely presentable. Fran Lebowitz
The small knot of CSIs watched Greg stalk down the hall and more than one imagined they heard the electronic sliding doors slam shut behind him. The stereotypical pin drop would have sounded like a thunderclap in the echoing silence that the former lab tech left behind him but inevitably the silence was filled with the returning sounds of the workplace and a slowly growing susurration tinged with acrimony and exasperation.
"What the hell was that Grissom?"
Unsurprisingly, it was Catherine, flame-haired and strangely reminiscent of pissed off valkyrie, who addressed her boss. Actually, addressed isn't strictly accurate. Much in the manner of Greg, Catherine stood less than a foot from Grissom when she addressed him; unlike Greg, the finger she waved in his face appeared, from Grissom's perspective, to have assumed a particularly unhealthy resemblance to a poniard and his subconscious, unsure of which organs to protect, reflexively covered his groin and eyes.
"What was what, Catherine?"
If Grissom's response had been in any way a justification of his actions his accuser would in good grace have pinned him to the wall, but the sheer naiveté of his statement brought Catherine up short; so dumbstruck in fact by the cluelessness of her colleague that her mouth continued to move but only muted strangling sounds came forth, and the hand, which seconds before sought to skewer him, now made to repeatedly hit its owner in the forehead.
"I think what Catherine's suggesting Grissom, is that you handled that poorly. Given, however, that Catherine is inclined to be slightly more tactful than myself, let me just add that even by your own completely oblivious standards what you said to Greg will go down in history as being only slightly less sensitive than when Vlad the Impaler nailed a response to an emissary's head".
Grissom looked bewildered, it was rare indeed for Warrick to call him on his behaviour. "Sara, was what I said really that bad?"
The head CSI's staunchest supporter, shook her head "Oh no you don't, not me, Grissom, I am so not going there, you messed up big this time and even the fact that I want to jump." she blushed, reduced to Catherine-like levels of articulation.
Nick grinned evilly at his colleague, "Close Sidle, too close".
If anything, Grissom was now even more confused "OK, what was that about? And would someone please tell me what I did wrong".
"Well Grissom" began Nick, in a gentle voice, "it's like this, when a girl likes a OW!!!" Grimacing at Sara: who had stood on his toes, the beatific expression of her face not fully disguising the annoyed flash in her eyes, Nick reverted to the topic at hand. "What the others are suggesting Grissom, is that you treated Greg badly. Actually, if I were to characterise your actions, I would suggest that I've seen pieces of evidence treated with more respect and courtesy than you showed Greg this evening".
"Well maybe I was a bit harsh, but that's not the point, we need him to work and he wouldn't come back".
So intent was he on explaining his reasoning that Grissom didn't noticed the expressions on the faces of his colleagues, which ranged from bemusement at Grissom's single-mindedness to outright disbelief at the head CSI's separation from reality.
"Grissom, it's not like he's on leave, you can't order him to come back", remarked Catherine. "You know, I'm starting to see Greg's point, you do treat him like a piece of furniture. Actually, if he was a piece of furniture he'd get treated with a bit more respect".
"Now Catherine, that's not fair, Grissom treats the furniture extremely well, considering of course that it's inanimate, and doesn't possess a personality in any measurable sense of the word; a bit like Grissom really".
"Thanks for that Warrick. Now if we can.." Grissom paused to glare at Nick and Sara who were desperately trying to suppress laughter. "Return to the matter at hand; we still don't have a lab tech and the amount work backing up is reaching almost legislative proportions. Short of kidnapping someone from out of state or launching a raid on some of the local colleges we're royally screwed".
While Grissom was saying this, Sara was battling her conscience. Greg had made her promise that she wouldn't tell Grissom about his offer to help, but the seriousness of the situation, and her inherent loyalty to her mentor, was creating a conflict she would have preferred not to deal with; life was difficult enough without acting as a double agent. Deciding that inference was the best form of offence, and the only option, which allowed her complete deniability, Sara decided to play both ends against the middle.
"You could try calling Greg, again"
"You're crazy Sidle, the only thing that's gonna happen if Grissom calls Greg, is that Greg will take a restraining order out on him".
"He could apologise, Nick". Sara paused glancing towards her boss, "You do know how to apologise don't you Grissom?" Receiving no response, Sara turned to Catherine, "You've worked with him longest, can he apologise?"
Smiling at her colleague, Catherine ensured there was a wall of Warrick between herself and Grissom before answering. "It's been known to happen Sara, I think the last recorded incidence was three years ago when he spilled his coffee on the mayor, however, you can't make him. I remember, just before you started, Grissom was ordered to apologise to Ecklie for something, Grissom looked like he was going to have a stroke so the matter was dropped".
"Do you mind" was the acid response, "I am right here".
"So you are!" exclaimed Catherine excitedly
"She's been taking lessons from Lyndsey" was Warrick's, sotto voce remark to Nick who smirked in response.
With enormous dignity, Grissom turned his back on the others and addressed Sara directly, "Do you think it would help if I called him and apologised?"
"I do Grissom, but you've got to mean it, he'll know if you don't".
Clearly unhappy, but faced with no viable alternative, Grissom nodded resignedly and wandered off down the corridor; to practise apologising in front of the mirror, if Nick was to be believed.
**************
THE NEXT DAY
**************
Yawning mightily, a very dishevelled Greg Sanders wandered across campus in search of coffee. He had got home around midnight, which in the scheme of things wasn't that late, but the following three hours were spent in a futile search for sleep. He'd ended up giving his hot milk to Benzine who mewed piteously at the prospect of being left out and eventually, after several hours of alternating between staring at the ceiling and a futile effort at counting sheep - he'd quit somewhere around the eight hundred mark - he'd done some thinking.
Resentment wasn't something that came easily to Greg, wallowing in self- pity as he usually was. Even when he'd left the lab to come to university, the feelings of being thought of as little more than a tool were essentially a pretext to get out of the excuse for a life he was living without being questioned too closely as to his real motivations, which even now he had no real wish to share. But last night had left him bitter and ruing his weak will. Hindsight informed him that he should have just told Grissom to go fuck himself on the phone, but then, he mused, if I had told him that on the phone then I wouldn't have had a reason to go to the lab and then I wouldn't have had a reason to tell him anything on the phone.
Hindsight hated its little brothers: irony, paradox and logic.
After a disjointed five hours sleep, Greg had thrown himself out of bed, clad himself on those things that most closely resembled clothing and left, pausing only to feed Benzine and turn his shirt outside out. The drive to the university was uneventful - inasmuch as he didn't hit anything - and after sleeping through Mueller's class, he went in search of nourishment, preferably of the black, viscous kind.
"Sanders!"
Wheeling around in bewilderment, Greg belatedly realised he had walked past the café and it was only through dubious fortune that Rilie, coming in the other direction, had hailed him. Greg wasn't entirely sure whether he was conscious enough to deal with Rilie this morning, but this line of thought was curtailed as she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him, bodily towards the café.
"Sanders, you look like shit, have a coffee".
"Good morning to you too Rilie, are you normally this officious before lunch?"
"No, just for you".
"Oh good, don't I feel special?"
"Probably, but I doubt your conception of special and mine are in any way similar".
"That would be because I'm normal. and sane".
"Only in your little corner of the universe. Anyway, you going to order or just stand here being objectionable? Seriously, you look like shit".
Ordering accomplished, the two found themselves a quiet corner to sit with a view of open auditorium that housed the university's drama productions. Greg was so tired that he simply disappeared into a separate space-time continuum and was only brought back to the here and now by the dual arrival of the coffee and Rilie's hand to the back of his head.
"Wake up Sanders, coffee's here".
All conversation was terminated as Greg buried himself in his triple-shot, full-fat Vienna, only coming up for air when two thirds of the coffee was gone, then, prompted by his companion's enquiring look he volunteered the fact that he was tired. Rilie, completely underwhelmed by this stating of the blindingly obvious bluntly enquired as to whom had been the unlucky recipient of Greg's amorous intentions.
"Subtle Andrews, even by your remarkably tactless standards. Anyway, what does it matter to you if I am screwing someone?" Greg continued over the top of Rilie's furious and obscenity-laced denials of interest, "The truth of the matter is that I was working at the CSI lab and didn't get home 'til late then I had trouble sleeping".
"But I thought you'd quit" she replied.
"I did, but they're short of lab techs; apparently they keep resigning, so I got a call begging me to come in".
"What did you get out of it?"
"Apart from a stay of execution on my eternal soul? Not a lot; I thought about billing them though".
"Are you going to?"
Greg looked dubious, as much as he wanted to emphasize the fact to Grissom that he didn't work for him any more, he also knew in just how dire a condition the LVPD was in terms of funding. It was ironic, he thought, that they had to have a mayor who had run on the twin platforms of Law and Order and fiscal austerity. In practise, this meant that the mayor wanted increased police efficiency and effectiveness without having to actually pay for it; the end result being an angry police union and happy criminals - and a mayor unlikely to win re-election.
"It would be quicker if I just raided the petty cash but that's so not my scene, I'll probably just forget about it, consider it a favour, a tally mark on the positive side of my karmic balance sheet if you like".
Rilie shook her head in aggravation; she couldn't make Greg out. Sometimes he was this cocky bastard with a smart mouth and sexy eyes and other times he was Mr Introspective, who wouldn't raise his voice in anger; she wasn't sure whether to jump him, slap him, or put him out of his - and her - misery. She settled for taking another sip of her coffee. "So, what are you doing this afternoon?"
"Meeting Hiller and the rest of the herd at the Idiot Savant" he said, naming the campus' local bar, "Apparently we're discussing the impact of karaoke on social interaction, personally I think the mean bastard's gonna get us all to sing".
Rilie snorted, "He did that to us last year too, turned into a major piss- up and ended up with a couple of the girls doing a strip to the Wild Thing".
"I bet the guys enjoyed that".
"Well it was only fair, they got their asses kicked at pool by Nikki and yours truly and had just run naked around the pub three times in forfeit; in the end it didn't matter, everyone was so smashed and so completely embarrassed the next day that nothing was ever said about it except as part of campus folk law".
"Surely Hiller got censured by the Board of Governors?"
"Nah, no-one reported what was going on. Anyway, rumour has it that Hiller caught the chairman doing something, or more correctly someone, he shouldn't have and thus he has professional immunity. What is fact is that his family are big donors to the alumni association and the board doesn't want to piss them off".
"Politics is a wonderful thing".
"Indeed it is. Look, Greg, you busy tonight? I mean are you going to be working again?"
"No, last night was special, why you asking?
"Some of my friends are getting together for some pool later on, you want to come?"
"Do I get to keep my clothes?"
"We'll see. Meet me here at six, OK?" Rilie looked at her watch, "Shit! I'm late, Mueller's gonna gut me, I'll see you later".
Watching Rilie's retreating back, Greg mentally shrugged to himself, decided that she was indeed strange, but nonetheless still pretty cool for all that; tonight promised to be interesting.
Several hours later, Greg found himself at the Idiot Savant and true to predictions Hiller was employing various leveraging tactics in order to get his class to make fools of themselves. Having failed in his attempt to get two of the girls to perform, Hiller turned his attention to Greg, who was doing his best to appear inconspicuous by hiding behind several pitchers of beer.
"C'mon Sanders, you're up".
"No, I'm sitting and not moving".
"Consider it an extra-credit assignment".
"My marks are high enough thanks professor, I don't need the extra-credit".
"Where's your sense of adventure then?"
"Strangled at birth. Look, why don't you sing something if you're so keen on the whole idea?"
The professor snorted, "I learnt long ago not to inflict my voice on anyone when I was studying as an undergraduate. I only teach the graduate survey course because I was away when they nominated me for it and since this is my burden I try and derive some small measure of amusement from it; you'll get to do my real course next year if you survive".
"And what's that?"
"Neurolinguistic composition. Essentially it looks at the structuring of sounds and lyrics to effect moods, emotions, and reactions. My PhD studied the application of NLC to violent offenders and psychiatric patients, interesting, but pretty freaky. Now, are you going to sing?".
Again, Greg started to refuse but his refusal was eviscerated when the other students decided that he was indeed going to sing and that he was going to sing now. Years of dealing with Grissom had taught Greg when the inevitable was indeed inevitable, and he acceded with passing good grace. Walking towards the stage, that was set up to the right of the bar, he snared a song list and scanned it quickly. To his relief, there were an acceptable number of alternative tracks available in addition to the sappy love songs and aggravating rock anthems that usually dominated such affairs.
Greg arrived at the end of the song list before he made his choice; smiling grimly, he indicated his decision to the student operating the sound system, and took his place on the stage. Clearing his throat, Greg addressed the bar at large, and more specifically, the small knot of music students.
"Hi folks. This is for the music department students who are here this evening, take your opportunities to wish them well because it's unlikely they'll survive the evening"
With that said, Greg indicated that he was ready and the music began. The unmistakeable piano chords of World Party assaulted the audience and Greg smiled maliciously as he followed the intro into the first verse:
"We're setting sail To the place on earth From which no-one has ever returned Drawn by the promise of the joker and the fool By the light of the crosses that burn Drawn by the promise of the women and the lace And the gold and the cotton and pearls It's the place where they keep all the darkness you need Where you sail away from the light of the world, Come on this trip baby
You will pay tomorrow You're gonna pay tomorrow You will pay tomorrow-oooohh oh oh oh
Save me Save from tomorrow I don't want to sail with this ship of fools
OHHH-Oh-Oh
Save me Save from tomorrow I don't want to sail with this ship of fools
I want to run and hide Right Now
Avarice and Greed Are gonna drive you over the endless sea They will leave you a-drifting in the shallows Drowning in the oceans of history..
The crowd that had gathered in the bar started to get into the music [AN: It has a really catchy tune - ask any 80's refugee] and Greg, swept up by the enthusiasm that he appeared to be generating, redoubled his efforts; such as they were. By the time the song neared its finish the whole bar was singing the final chorus, Greg glanced towards the back of the room and spied Rilie, leaning against the wall and trying desperately not to laugh.
With the music finished, Greg jumped of the stage and headed for the back of the bar, acknowledging the good-humoured ribaldry of his fellow patrons as he pushed through them. Pausing only to inform Heller that he was owed a drink, Greg waded to the place where he had last seen Rilie, only to find her gone. Looking around, and not seeing her in the bar, he headed outside and found her perched on the bonnet of her car, obviously waiting for him.
"Well I did warn you".
"Yes you did. But it could have been worse, Heller was threatening me with country music".
"A fate worse than death".
"Well it's not that bad, a former colleague of mine used to listen to it all the time; it was a trade off, I didn't complain about his country and he didn't complain when I played Black Flag and The Ramones".
"Black Flag?" Rilie's glance was questioning.
"You don't know who Black Flag is." Greg was horrified, his voice fading out as he sought to comprehend the mystifying presence of someone, obviously a musical luddite, who didn't worship at the alter of the Gods of Punk Rock. "You have a lot to learn Rilie, and we may as well begin your education over that game of pool you were promising me".
"Right. Let's go".
************************ THE LAB THAT EVENING ************************
Conrad Ecklie was not a popular man.
Conrad Ecklie was a man who went by The Book.
There were those that said that Conrad Ecklie had The Book jammed so far up his arse that it affected the way he walked; in fact they wondered how he managed to kiss the mayor's ass as much as he did with The Book interfering with what was considered a normal human reaction.
Conrad Ecklie was a man wronged.
Ecklie himself, if anyone had bothered to ask him, was more than happy to admit his shortcomings. Yes, he went by the book, but that was more an acknowledgement that he lacked the intuition and creativity to wing it and he'd rather play the percentages than screw it all up. As for the alleged brown-nosing, sure, he was an inherently political animal, but he also understood that the action at the coal-face, especially in law-enforcement, didn't happen just because there was an urge for justice to be achieved, it needed those in power - idiot, ignorant or otherwise - to grease the wheels; and if he could assist in the greasing then so be it.
His colleagues didn't see the non-office Ecklie: his love of classical music, his regular volunteer work, his close-knit family; all they saw was the bureaucrat and the image of the bureaucrat obscured the fact that Ecklie was just as brilliant in his own way as Grissom.
Grissom, the mere thought set Ecklie's teeth on edge. He didn't hate Grissom; in fact he respected him, or more correctly, his ability. What he couldn't stand was Grissom's pigheadedness, his tendency to plough ahead when a little discretion would have saved a whole lot of trouble; but perhaps most of all he hated Grissom's assurance that he was right.
If he were being honest he would have admitted that what he hated most in Grissom was what he hated most in himself - then again, he would have had to kill himself first, or more probably kill Grissom, then himself is such thought s became public.
The latest cause for conflict between the two shift-heads was the chronic shortage of decent; read any, lab techs. To Ecklie's mind, the problem had started with the departure of that weirdo Sanders, and since Sanders worked on Grissom's shift it was obviously Grissom's fault that he'd left; he'd stated as much when he encountered his adversary in the parking lot after his shift had ended.
Grissom's immediate response was to less-than-politely inform Ecklie that he was a grade-A arsehole for palming off his work on the already overburdened night shift. Things had degenerated from there and it was only the physical intervention of Brass arriving for work that had prevented the two men from going for each other's jugular; as it was, Brass had to literally drag Grissom into the building.
"That was dumb Gil, what are you, six?"
"Don't blame me Jim, he started it".
"Sorry, make that five. Look Gil, he's not that bad, you just don't get on, you know that, so why tempt fate? Anyway, what was the problem this time". Brass spoke with the long-suffering air of someone whom had heard chapter and verse on the numerous imperfections and faults of the Day Shift head.
"He was blaming me for the lab-tech shortage".
"And your response was to." Brass' voice was gently encouraging.
Grissom had the grace to look embarrassed. "ummmmmm. blame him for dumping his work on us".
"I definitely gave you the benefit of the doubt when I suggested that you were acting like a five year old, didn't I?". The question was clearly rhetorical. "So what's the solution Gil?"
"We need Greg back. But after last night's performance that's less than likely".
"So I heard".
"What precisely did you hear?" Grissom's words were clipped, agitated in fact and Brass made a mental note not to say who had filled him in on the previous evening's events; they had enough murders to worry about at present without having to deal with one at home.
"Let's just say that reports of last night's performance made the display in the car park look like the epitome of mature restraint. I'll see you later Gil, I've got things to do". Then, in response to Grissom's unspoken question, Brass continued, "Do you remember a few weeks back when I had those bodies turning up in the cemetery? Well they're back, only this time whomever is doing it is leaving the bodies and taking the headstones; it's like a bloody swap meet".
"I'll let you know if someone tries to sell me a headstone".
"Thanks Grissom". Irony tinged the captains voice, then turning serious he continued Look, things will get better, it's not like they can get any worse".
It was only later that Brass learnt how wrong he was.
****************** SOMEWHERE ELSE ****************** Order is often a random thing; arbitrarily assigned by those who cannot make sense of what they see around them, thus they apply their own understanding, their own sense, and their own worldview. It is common in religion, where ignorant men preach on the shortcomings of others in order to ameliorate their own failings. It is the raison d'etre of politics where opposing viewpoints fight to demonstrate hitherto undreamt of levels of incompetence; and then there are those who take it further.
It was a grey room, dimly lit and distinguished only by the books, which crowded the walls. The books, if one had cared to make a closer examination, were predominantly Of two types: Shakespeare and authors of a similar ilk and texts of an apocalyptic nature.
The sole exception to the wall of books was a small television perched precariously on a coffee table in a corner of the room. Always on, the television set blared with the latest in news; it appeared that the four horsemen had been busy this day and they'd seemingly acquired reinforcements; possibly a work-experience programme for some of the lesser evils.
The last segment finished and the female presenter reappeared on screen and began to relate the next riveting item, the inevitable human-interest story about a dumb animal and an even dumber child.
"Pointless trash" snarled the watcher "a pointed argument for pre-natal euthanasia". The sudden anger was expressed in the lashing out of a foot, which sent the collected detritus of empty pill bottles and other containers ricocheting around the room. With the anger came a change in the watcher's demeanour. The remote fell to the floor ignored and the room darkened - at least in the perception of the watcher - and a voice, different than before was heard; or maybe just imagined
"The crusade shall renew. Only by the hand of the servant shall it come to pass and only from the hand of the servant shall it be delivered and in that delivery shall all things begin and all things shall end".
The watcher shuddered and lay still, and in the background the television continued its pointless narration.
BTW: Anyone wanna be a Beta Reader?
Every man is guilty of all the good he didn't do. Voltaire
All God's children are not beautiful. Most of God's children are, in fact, barely presentable. Fran Lebowitz
The small knot of CSIs watched Greg stalk down the hall and more than one imagined they heard the electronic sliding doors slam shut behind him. The stereotypical pin drop would have sounded like a thunderclap in the echoing silence that the former lab tech left behind him but inevitably the silence was filled with the returning sounds of the workplace and a slowly growing susurration tinged with acrimony and exasperation.
"What the hell was that Grissom?"
Unsurprisingly, it was Catherine, flame-haired and strangely reminiscent of pissed off valkyrie, who addressed her boss. Actually, addressed isn't strictly accurate. Much in the manner of Greg, Catherine stood less than a foot from Grissom when she addressed him; unlike Greg, the finger she waved in his face appeared, from Grissom's perspective, to have assumed a particularly unhealthy resemblance to a poniard and his subconscious, unsure of which organs to protect, reflexively covered his groin and eyes.
"What was what, Catherine?"
If Grissom's response had been in any way a justification of his actions his accuser would in good grace have pinned him to the wall, but the sheer naiveté of his statement brought Catherine up short; so dumbstruck in fact by the cluelessness of her colleague that her mouth continued to move but only muted strangling sounds came forth, and the hand, which seconds before sought to skewer him, now made to repeatedly hit its owner in the forehead.
"I think what Catherine's suggesting Grissom, is that you handled that poorly. Given, however, that Catherine is inclined to be slightly more tactful than myself, let me just add that even by your own completely oblivious standards what you said to Greg will go down in history as being only slightly less sensitive than when Vlad the Impaler nailed a response to an emissary's head".
Grissom looked bewildered, it was rare indeed for Warrick to call him on his behaviour. "Sara, was what I said really that bad?"
The head CSI's staunchest supporter, shook her head "Oh no you don't, not me, Grissom, I am so not going there, you messed up big this time and even the fact that I want to jump." she blushed, reduced to Catherine-like levels of articulation.
Nick grinned evilly at his colleague, "Close Sidle, too close".
If anything, Grissom was now even more confused "OK, what was that about? And would someone please tell me what I did wrong".
"Well Grissom" began Nick, in a gentle voice, "it's like this, when a girl likes a OW!!!" Grimacing at Sara: who had stood on his toes, the beatific expression of her face not fully disguising the annoyed flash in her eyes, Nick reverted to the topic at hand. "What the others are suggesting Grissom, is that you treated Greg badly. Actually, if I were to characterise your actions, I would suggest that I've seen pieces of evidence treated with more respect and courtesy than you showed Greg this evening".
"Well maybe I was a bit harsh, but that's not the point, we need him to work and he wouldn't come back".
So intent was he on explaining his reasoning that Grissom didn't noticed the expressions on the faces of his colleagues, which ranged from bemusement at Grissom's single-mindedness to outright disbelief at the head CSI's separation from reality.
"Grissom, it's not like he's on leave, you can't order him to come back", remarked Catherine. "You know, I'm starting to see Greg's point, you do treat him like a piece of furniture. Actually, if he was a piece of furniture he'd get treated with a bit more respect".
"Now Catherine, that's not fair, Grissom treats the furniture extremely well, considering of course that it's inanimate, and doesn't possess a personality in any measurable sense of the word; a bit like Grissom really".
"Thanks for that Warrick. Now if we can.." Grissom paused to glare at Nick and Sara who were desperately trying to suppress laughter. "Return to the matter at hand; we still don't have a lab tech and the amount work backing up is reaching almost legislative proportions. Short of kidnapping someone from out of state or launching a raid on some of the local colleges we're royally screwed".
While Grissom was saying this, Sara was battling her conscience. Greg had made her promise that she wouldn't tell Grissom about his offer to help, but the seriousness of the situation, and her inherent loyalty to her mentor, was creating a conflict she would have preferred not to deal with; life was difficult enough without acting as a double agent. Deciding that inference was the best form of offence, and the only option, which allowed her complete deniability, Sara decided to play both ends against the middle.
"You could try calling Greg, again"
"You're crazy Sidle, the only thing that's gonna happen if Grissom calls Greg, is that Greg will take a restraining order out on him".
"He could apologise, Nick". Sara paused glancing towards her boss, "You do know how to apologise don't you Grissom?" Receiving no response, Sara turned to Catherine, "You've worked with him longest, can he apologise?"
Smiling at her colleague, Catherine ensured there was a wall of Warrick between herself and Grissom before answering. "It's been known to happen Sara, I think the last recorded incidence was three years ago when he spilled his coffee on the mayor, however, you can't make him. I remember, just before you started, Grissom was ordered to apologise to Ecklie for something, Grissom looked like he was going to have a stroke so the matter was dropped".
"Do you mind" was the acid response, "I am right here".
"So you are!" exclaimed Catherine excitedly
"She's been taking lessons from Lyndsey" was Warrick's, sotto voce remark to Nick who smirked in response.
With enormous dignity, Grissom turned his back on the others and addressed Sara directly, "Do you think it would help if I called him and apologised?"
"I do Grissom, but you've got to mean it, he'll know if you don't".
Clearly unhappy, but faced with no viable alternative, Grissom nodded resignedly and wandered off down the corridor; to practise apologising in front of the mirror, if Nick was to be believed.
**************
THE NEXT DAY
**************
Yawning mightily, a very dishevelled Greg Sanders wandered across campus in search of coffee. He had got home around midnight, which in the scheme of things wasn't that late, but the following three hours were spent in a futile search for sleep. He'd ended up giving his hot milk to Benzine who mewed piteously at the prospect of being left out and eventually, after several hours of alternating between staring at the ceiling and a futile effort at counting sheep - he'd quit somewhere around the eight hundred mark - he'd done some thinking.
Resentment wasn't something that came easily to Greg, wallowing in self- pity as he usually was. Even when he'd left the lab to come to university, the feelings of being thought of as little more than a tool were essentially a pretext to get out of the excuse for a life he was living without being questioned too closely as to his real motivations, which even now he had no real wish to share. But last night had left him bitter and ruing his weak will. Hindsight informed him that he should have just told Grissom to go fuck himself on the phone, but then, he mused, if I had told him that on the phone then I wouldn't have had a reason to go to the lab and then I wouldn't have had a reason to tell him anything on the phone.
Hindsight hated its little brothers: irony, paradox and logic.
After a disjointed five hours sleep, Greg had thrown himself out of bed, clad himself on those things that most closely resembled clothing and left, pausing only to feed Benzine and turn his shirt outside out. The drive to the university was uneventful - inasmuch as he didn't hit anything - and after sleeping through Mueller's class, he went in search of nourishment, preferably of the black, viscous kind.
"Sanders!"
Wheeling around in bewilderment, Greg belatedly realised he had walked past the café and it was only through dubious fortune that Rilie, coming in the other direction, had hailed him. Greg wasn't entirely sure whether he was conscious enough to deal with Rilie this morning, but this line of thought was curtailed as she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him, bodily towards the café.
"Sanders, you look like shit, have a coffee".
"Good morning to you too Rilie, are you normally this officious before lunch?"
"No, just for you".
"Oh good, don't I feel special?"
"Probably, but I doubt your conception of special and mine are in any way similar".
"That would be because I'm normal. and sane".
"Only in your little corner of the universe. Anyway, you going to order or just stand here being objectionable? Seriously, you look like shit".
Ordering accomplished, the two found themselves a quiet corner to sit with a view of open auditorium that housed the university's drama productions. Greg was so tired that he simply disappeared into a separate space-time continuum and was only brought back to the here and now by the dual arrival of the coffee and Rilie's hand to the back of his head.
"Wake up Sanders, coffee's here".
All conversation was terminated as Greg buried himself in his triple-shot, full-fat Vienna, only coming up for air when two thirds of the coffee was gone, then, prompted by his companion's enquiring look he volunteered the fact that he was tired. Rilie, completely underwhelmed by this stating of the blindingly obvious bluntly enquired as to whom had been the unlucky recipient of Greg's amorous intentions.
"Subtle Andrews, even by your remarkably tactless standards. Anyway, what does it matter to you if I am screwing someone?" Greg continued over the top of Rilie's furious and obscenity-laced denials of interest, "The truth of the matter is that I was working at the CSI lab and didn't get home 'til late then I had trouble sleeping".
"But I thought you'd quit" she replied.
"I did, but they're short of lab techs; apparently they keep resigning, so I got a call begging me to come in".
"What did you get out of it?"
"Apart from a stay of execution on my eternal soul? Not a lot; I thought about billing them though".
"Are you going to?"
Greg looked dubious, as much as he wanted to emphasize the fact to Grissom that he didn't work for him any more, he also knew in just how dire a condition the LVPD was in terms of funding. It was ironic, he thought, that they had to have a mayor who had run on the twin platforms of Law and Order and fiscal austerity. In practise, this meant that the mayor wanted increased police efficiency and effectiveness without having to actually pay for it; the end result being an angry police union and happy criminals - and a mayor unlikely to win re-election.
"It would be quicker if I just raided the petty cash but that's so not my scene, I'll probably just forget about it, consider it a favour, a tally mark on the positive side of my karmic balance sheet if you like".
Rilie shook her head in aggravation; she couldn't make Greg out. Sometimes he was this cocky bastard with a smart mouth and sexy eyes and other times he was Mr Introspective, who wouldn't raise his voice in anger; she wasn't sure whether to jump him, slap him, or put him out of his - and her - misery. She settled for taking another sip of her coffee. "So, what are you doing this afternoon?"
"Meeting Hiller and the rest of the herd at the Idiot Savant" he said, naming the campus' local bar, "Apparently we're discussing the impact of karaoke on social interaction, personally I think the mean bastard's gonna get us all to sing".
Rilie snorted, "He did that to us last year too, turned into a major piss- up and ended up with a couple of the girls doing a strip to the Wild Thing".
"I bet the guys enjoyed that".
"Well it was only fair, they got their asses kicked at pool by Nikki and yours truly and had just run naked around the pub three times in forfeit; in the end it didn't matter, everyone was so smashed and so completely embarrassed the next day that nothing was ever said about it except as part of campus folk law".
"Surely Hiller got censured by the Board of Governors?"
"Nah, no-one reported what was going on. Anyway, rumour has it that Hiller caught the chairman doing something, or more correctly someone, he shouldn't have and thus he has professional immunity. What is fact is that his family are big donors to the alumni association and the board doesn't want to piss them off".
"Politics is a wonderful thing".
"Indeed it is. Look, Greg, you busy tonight? I mean are you going to be working again?"
"No, last night was special, why you asking?
"Some of my friends are getting together for some pool later on, you want to come?"
"Do I get to keep my clothes?"
"We'll see. Meet me here at six, OK?" Rilie looked at her watch, "Shit! I'm late, Mueller's gonna gut me, I'll see you later".
Watching Rilie's retreating back, Greg mentally shrugged to himself, decided that she was indeed strange, but nonetheless still pretty cool for all that; tonight promised to be interesting.
Several hours later, Greg found himself at the Idiot Savant and true to predictions Hiller was employing various leveraging tactics in order to get his class to make fools of themselves. Having failed in his attempt to get two of the girls to perform, Hiller turned his attention to Greg, who was doing his best to appear inconspicuous by hiding behind several pitchers of beer.
"C'mon Sanders, you're up".
"No, I'm sitting and not moving".
"Consider it an extra-credit assignment".
"My marks are high enough thanks professor, I don't need the extra-credit".
"Where's your sense of adventure then?"
"Strangled at birth. Look, why don't you sing something if you're so keen on the whole idea?"
The professor snorted, "I learnt long ago not to inflict my voice on anyone when I was studying as an undergraduate. I only teach the graduate survey course because I was away when they nominated me for it and since this is my burden I try and derive some small measure of amusement from it; you'll get to do my real course next year if you survive".
"And what's that?"
"Neurolinguistic composition. Essentially it looks at the structuring of sounds and lyrics to effect moods, emotions, and reactions. My PhD studied the application of NLC to violent offenders and psychiatric patients, interesting, but pretty freaky. Now, are you going to sing?".
Again, Greg started to refuse but his refusal was eviscerated when the other students decided that he was indeed going to sing and that he was going to sing now. Years of dealing with Grissom had taught Greg when the inevitable was indeed inevitable, and he acceded with passing good grace. Walking towards the stage, that was set up to the right of the bar, he snared a song list and scanned it quickly. To his relief, there were an acceptable number of alternative tracks available in addition to the sappy love songs and aggravating rock anthems that usually dominated such affairs.
Greg arrived at the end of the song list before he made his choice; smiling grimly, he indicated his decision to the student operating the sound system, and took his place on the stage. Clearing his throat, Greg addressed the bar at large, and more specifically, the small knot of music students.
"Hi folks. This is for the music department students who are here this evening, take your opportunities to wish them well because it's unlikely they'll survive the evening"
With that said, Greg indicated that he was ready and the music began. The unmistakeable piano chords of World Party assaulted the audience and Greg smiled maliciously as he followed the intro into the first verse:
"We're setting sail To the place on earth From which no-one has ever returned Drawn by the promise of the joker and the fool By the light of the crosses that burn Drawn by the promise of the women and the lace And the gold and the cotton and pearls It's the place where they keep all the darkness you need Where you sail away from the light of the world, Come on this trip baby
You will pay tomorrow You're gonna pay tomorrow You will pay tomorrow-oooohh oh oh oh
Save me Save from tomorrow I don't want to sail with this ship of fools
OHHH-Oh-Oh
Save me Save from tomorrow I don't want to sail with this ship of fools
I want to run and hide Right Now
Avarice and Greed Are gonna drive you over the endless sea They will leave you a-drifting in the shallows Drowning in the oceans of history..
The crowd that had gathered in the bar started to get into the music [AN: It has a really catchy tune - ask any 80's refugee] and Greg, swept up by the enthusiasm that he appeared to be generating, redoubled his efforts; such as they were. By the time the song neared its finish the whole bar was singing the final chorus, Greg glanced towards the back of the room and spied Rilie, leaning against the wall and trying desperately not to laugh.
With the music finished, Greg jumped of the stage and headed for the back of the bar, acknowledging the good-humoured ribaldry of his fellow patrons as he pushed through them. Pausing only to inform Heller that he was owed a drink, Greg waded to the place where he had last seen Rilie, only to find her gone. Looking around, and not seeing her in the bar, he headed outside and found her perched on the bonnet of her car, obviously waiting for him.
"Well I did warn you".
"Yes you did. But it could have been worse, Heller was threatening me with country music".
"A fate worse than death".
"Well it's not that bad, a former colleague of mine used to listen to it all the time; it was a trade off, I didn't complain about his country and he didn't complain when I played Black Flag and The Ramones".
"Black Flag?" Rilie's glance was questioning.
"You don't know who Black Flag is." Greg was horrified, his voice fading out as he sought to comprehend the mystifying presence of someone, obviously a musical luddite, who didn't worship at the alter of the Gods of Punk Rock. "You have a lot to learn Rilie, and we may as well begin your education over that game of pool you were promising me".
"Right. Let's go".
************************ THE LAB THAT EVENING ************************
Conrad Ecklie was not a popular man.
Conrad Ecklie was a man who went by The Book.
There were those that said that Conrad Ecklie had The Book jammed so far up his arse that it affected the way he walked; in fact they wondered how he managed to kiss the mayor's ass as much as he did with The Book interfering with what was considered a normal human reaction.
Conrad Ecklie was a man wronged.
Ecklie himself, if anyone had bothered to ask him, was more than happy to admit his shortcomings. Yes, he went by the book, but that was more an acknowledgement that he lacked the intuition and creativity to wing it and he'd rather play the percentages than screw it all up. As for the alleged brown-nosing, sure, he was an inherently political animal, but he also understood that the action at the coal-face, especially in law-enforcement, didn't happen just because there was an urge for justice to be achieved, it needed those in power - idiot, ignorant or otherwise - to grease the wheels; and if he could assist in the greasing then so be it.
His colleagues didn't see the non-office Ecklie: his love of classical music, his regular volunteer work, his close-knit family; all they saw was the bureaucrat and the image of the bureaucrat obscured the fact that Ecklie was just as brilliant in his own way as Grissom.
Grissom, the mere thought set Ecklie's teeth on edge. He didn't hate Grissom; in fact he respected him, or more correctly, his ability. What he couldn't stand was Grissom's pigheadedness, his tendency to plough ahead when a little discretion would have saved a whole lot of trouble; but perhaps most of all he hated Grissom's assurance that he was right.
If he were being honest he would have admitted that what he hated most in Grissom was what he hated most in himself - then again, he would have had to kill himself first, or more probably kill Grissom, then himself is such thought s became public.
The latest cause for conflict between the two shift-heads was the chronic shortage of decent; read any, lab techs. To Ecklie's mind, the problem had started with the departure of that weirdo Sanders, and since Sanders worked on Grissom's shift it was obviously Grissom's fault that he'd left; he'd stated as much when he encountered his adversary in the parking lot after his shift had ended.
Grissom's immediate response was to less-than-politely inform Ecklie that he was a grade-A arsehole for palming off his work on the already overburdened night shift. Things had degenerated from there and it was only the physical intervention of Brass arriving for work that had prevented the two men from going for each other's jugular; as it was, Brass had to literally drag Grissom into the building.
"That was dumb Gil, what are you, six?"
"Don't blame me Jim, he started it".
"Sorry, make that five. Look Gil, he's not that bad, you just don't get on, you know that, so why tempt fate? Anyway, what was the problem this time". Brass spoke with the long-suffering air of someone whom had heard chapter and verse on the numerous imperfections and faults of the Day Shift head.
"He was blaming me for the lab-tech shortage".
"And your response was to." Brass' voice was gently encouraging.
Grissom had the grace to look embarrassed. "ummmmmm. blame him for dumping his work on us".
"I definitely gave you the benefit of the doubt when I suggested that you were acting like a five year old, didn't I?". The question was clearly rhetorical. "So what's the solution Gil?"
"We need Greg back. But after last night's performance that's less than likely".
"So I heard".
"What precisely did you hear?" Grissom's words were clipped, agitated in fact and Brass made a mental note not to say who had filled him in on the previous evening's events; they had enough murders to worry about at present without having to deal with one at home.
"Let's just say that reports of last night's performance made the display in the car park look like the epitome of mature restraint. I'll see you later Gil, I've got things to do". Then, in response to Grissom's unspoken question, Brass continued, "Do you remember a few weeks back when I had those bodies turning up in the cemetery? Well they're back, only this time whomever is doing it is leaving the bodies and taking the headstones; it's like a bloody swap meet".
"I'll let you know if someone tries to sell me a headstone".
"Thanks Grissom". Irony tinged the captains voice, then turning serious he continued Look, things will get better, it's not like they can get any worse".
It was only later that Brass learnt how wrong he was.
****************** SOMEWHERE ELSE ****************** Order is often a random thing; arbitrarily assigned by those who cannot make sense of what they see around them, thus they apply their own understanding, their own sense, and their own worldview. It is common in religion, where ignorant men preach on the shortcomings of others in order to ameliorate their own failings. It is the raison d'etre of politics where opposing viewpoints fight to demonstrate hitherto undreamt of levels of incompetence; and then there are those who take it further.
It was a grey room, dimly lit and distinguished only by the books, which crowded the walls. The books, if one had cared to make a closer examination, were predominantly Of two types: Shakespeare and authors of a similar ilk and texts of an apocalyptic nature.
The sole exception to the wall of books was a small television perched precariously on a coffee table in a corner of the room. Always on, the television set blared with the latest in news; it appeared that the four horsemen had been busy this day and they'd seemingly acquired reinforcements; possibly a work-experience programme for some of the lesser evils.
The last segment finished and the female presenter reappeared on screen and began to relate the next riveting item, the inevitable human-interest story about a dumb animal and an even dumber child.
"Pointless trash" snarled the watcher "a pointed argument for pre-natal euthanasia". The sudden anger was expressed in the lashing out of a foot, which sent the collected detritus of empty pill bottles and other containers ricocheting around the room. With the anger came a change in the watcher's demeanour. The remote fell to the floor ignored and the room darkened - at least in the perception of the watcher - and a voice, different than before was heard; or maybe just imagined
"The crusade shall renew. Only by the hand of the servant shall it come to pass and only from the hand of the servant shall it be delivered and in that delivery shall all things begin and all things shall end".
The watcher shuddered and lay still, and in the background the television continued its pointless narration.