I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my beta readers, Michmak and
Emily for putting up with my flights of fantasy and I'd especially like to
thank Michmak for convincing me that there is someone out there who wants
to read this.
For those of you who have been loyally following this, thank you, and I apologise for the delay. Things have been somewhat hectic here in the last month and when you realise that I have no discipline it rather explains the delay. I'll try to do better.
Finally: This chapter is dedicated to the memory of mine and my partner's beloved little cat, Ahli, who was killed by a car a few weeks ago - this one's for you little guy.
Hamsters of the Apocalypse:
Show my heart some devotion
Push aside those that whisper never
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing there were some kind of heaven
I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hand for a while
The victims we know them so well, so well...
Culture Club: Victims
Someone take these dreams away
That point me to another day
A duel of personalities
That stretch all true reality
That keep calling me - they keep calling me
Keep on calling me - they keep calling me Joy Division: Dead Souls
Some people believe that the full moon causes people to act differently, as if the moon calls to a more primitive part of the human psyche. Certainly, myth and legend are replete with tales of the moon's effects; be it through the tale of the werewolf, in the summoning of the unicorn, or in pointing to the behaviours of family pets. Then again, there are those who simply view the moon as a pretty ball in the sky providing a picturesque backdrop for a romantic walk; and then there are those who ignore the moon altogether so intent are they on their purpose that all else ceases to have meaning, or indeed exist.
The street was secluded, a cul-de-sac some distance from the main road. It was, judging by the size and appearance of the houses, a well-to-do area; affluent, and considering the almost pathological attention to order, somewhat conservative. The only light came from the moon as the local residents had opposed a council initiative to install street-lighting, arguing that the man-made luminescence would adversely affect their sleep. The council, as is usually the case when faced with money and influence, backed down with the ostensible result being that all were happy: the residents, the councillors who lined their pockets and the local predators who no longer had to suffer their every move being lit from above. In fact, the lack of light was something that a visiting predator had come to rely on.
The Watcher had been observing this area for several weeks, noting movements, determining targets, choosing their strike with care. Failure was not an option that could be considered, for only success eased the pain and the murmurings in the silence of their mind. With all care the sacrifice was selected: a young woman whose husband was often away on business, with a house, shrouded in ancient elms and oaks, well back from the street. As evening fell and the shadows merged into darkness The Watcher prepared and the tension of waiting segued into the excitement of the hunt and the release it would bring. Darkness itself was not enough and The Watcher stilled themself as the sounds of early evening echoed throughout the neighbourhood; families laughed over dinner, couples recounted their day and children screamed and laughed as they played then tried to avoid the inevitable when they were sent to bed. Finally, silence followed darkness and The Watcher emerged.
Moving from where they had lain for the better part of the afternoon, The Watcher checked that everything was in place. Even in summer, they chose their clothing with care; the jacket was long and bulky with a deeply recessed hood and the hands gloved. Not only was the jacket long, but it also contained many pockets and within held the tools of the trade.
Moving assuredly, yet keeping to the shadows, they approached their target, the only sound being the barking of a dog a few houses over. Turning into the drive they saw to their satisfaction that the lights were still on; it was much easier going in through the front door, invited if you will, it left less evidence. The barking of the dog was much louder now and suddenly it burst through the bushes, barked madly then galloped off. About to return to their task, the soft slapping of sneakers on asphalt rapidly approaching stayed their progress. A teenager, male, no older than twelve, paused;
"He mister, did you see my dog?"
The Watcher raised their arm slightly and gestured in the direction the dog had gone.
"Thanks mister," and the child was gone.
Pausing for a moment to ensure that there were no more incipient interruptions, The Watcher trod with ordained certainty towards the front door. The door was set back in an alcove, which was designed to provide the occupants and their a degree of privacy, but in this instance only provided The Watcher greater freedom to act.
A deep breath and a tension-relieving shake of the hands preceded a sharp rap on the door to initiate the evening's festivities. After waiting a few minutes, the echo of footsteps on a wooden floor drew close, followed in turn by the rattle of keys in a dead bolt, finally the door opened to the extent of the security chain. Solemn grey-green eyes regarded The Watcher passively.
"Yes?" was the softly spoken query.
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour ma'am, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in supporting the local literary society? We're running our book drive for charity this week and are currently looking for donations of books."
The voice of the person at the door was quietly compelling, with a subtle, gravely undertone and for a second the woman looked like she would open the door, then distracted by a sound coming from behind her, her expression tightened and she shook her head. "No thank you, I'm afraid I can't help. Good evening to you." Moving to close the door, the woman paused as what appeared to be a severe coughing spasm struck the visitor. "Are you alright?" she inquired.
From their bent-over position the figure could be heard to murmur that everything would be fine; the woman at the door having not seen the subtle transference from pocket to hand of a small wooden pipe. Straightening, the figure looked squarely at the woman, and on clearly sighting the visage for the first time, she drew back. That was all the invitation The Watcher needed and with a deft movement to their lips and a sharp exhalation of air a dart lodged in the woman's throat.
"What have you done!?" was the startled cry, which faded to a whispered "Why?" as she slid bonelessly to the floor, eyes wide with a terrified certainty of what was to come.
Moving quickly, The Watcher slid their hand around the door and unfastened the security chain, seconds later they entered the door closing with an ominous finality behind them. Knowing they only had a few minutes before the woman succumbed to oxygen deprivation and the inevitable brain death that followed The Watcher moved quickly. It was essential that the woman was conscious and aware, otherwise he may as well kill her now and not bother with the effort; attention to detail was everything and the payoff was in doing it right the first time. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, The Watcher efficiently laid out the tools they had carried and it became evident why the jacket contained so many pockets as short of a portable iron maiden the display looked like the contents of the advanced torturers catalogue had been deposited on the coffee table.
Grabbing a small oxygen bottle and mask he bent over his victim and briefly resuscitated her, when he saw awareness flicker in her frightened eyes he grasped her arms and dragged her to the wall farthest from the door. Returning to the table, The Watcher paused savouring the ecstasy of the rush that such control imparted before grabbing the next tools in their gruesome trade and attached them to the work belt he wore.
Ever practical, The Watcher ran a stud-finder over the wall and located the appropriate position to mount their trophy, before again checking the woman carefully and deciding that a judicious application of oxygen was appropriate if the entertainment was to continue. Applying the mask to her face, he watched for the spark that indicated a functioning mind or at least a mind capable of terror; checking his watch he calmly noted that time was passing.
Dragging a couple of chairs from an adjoining room he placed the woman on one and stood on the other then, grasping the woman by the hair, he dragged her to a semi-standing position and took her arm. Stretching the arm as high as he could, he took the nail gun he had attached to his work belt and stapled her arm to the wall through the wrist making sure the nails went into the stud he had located earlier. Moving his chair to the other side of his victim The Watcher took her other arm and repeated the process, essentially crucifying her; even through the effects of the toxin the pain was excruciating and the agony she was suffering resonated in her eyes.
Again, he chose to resuscitate the woman before taking a sharp knife from his belt and stripping the clothes from her upper body. If he had held any prurient interest he would have paused to admire the lush curve of her breasts through to the gentle swell of her stomach and gentle flaring of her hips, instead he took his knife to her abdomen in order to present his latest message; no more Shakespeare, time for something different. For the woman, pain was taken to a new, exquisite level, as the knife etched its bloody message.
Standing back to review his handiwork, he regarded his victim. "You know why this must be, don't you? There is no other way. They must not come. I honour your sacrifice," and taking the knife he raised it ceremonially to his lips in salute then in one quick motion slashed the woman deeply across the throat. The violently severed arteries sprayed crimson gouts of blood across the carpet and The Watcher knelt to one side head bowed as if in prayer. He was roused from his reverie by a sound that came from behind him and one uttered word changed the evening.
"Mummy."
The child could have been no older than three, a blond moppet with a co- starring role with the obnoxious twins from Full House written into his stars.
"Child, you should not be here. This is not your place, it is not ordained that you should be present."
The child looked quizzically at the stranger standing in his house. "Are you a friend of my mummy?"
"No, she was merely helping me with something. Now please, return to your bed."
************** Two Hours Later **************
The flashing lights and the wail of sirens illuminated the suburban street that had just hours before been Norman Rockwell HQ.
Jim Brass stood at the door to the house and waited patiently for the CSI ensemble to arrive; god knows everyone else and their dog was either here, or had been here and left. Foremost amongst them - at least in terms of impassioned rhetoric - the sheriff, the mayor's assistant and a particularly annoying FBI representative who blathered about 'conjoint operations' and 'civic interest' causing Brass to wonder if such agents were cloned, so close was he in composition to the arsehole that had headed up the ubiquitous 'Strip Strangler' case several years ago.
Then there was the press, who to a man and an over-peroxided woman, had been virtually beaten back with sticks, so rabid were they in their attempts to interview the corpse and to lick the blood from the carpets in the 'interests of their listeners'. That last comment had had Brass subconsciously reaching for his gun and only his lieutenant had heard and raised an eyebrow at the sotto voce comment about 'just this once', which was fortunately circumscribed by the arrival of Grissom and his band of grumpy scientists.
"Looks like we're getting closer Jim."
"Not really, we just caught a lucky break, the husband's an airline pilot, he just flew in from Europe; obviously our friend with the knives didn't check the arrivals lounge before coming over."
"Well that's good, some fresh evidence might just help us break the case open."
Brass looked abashed, "Errrr Gil, we had to move some of the 'evidence'."
Grissom's voice headed into the ultrasonic, "You did what?" Even the normally imperturbable Warrick looked pissed.
"It wasn't like we had a lot of choice, the victim was still alive."
"Will we be able to question them?"
"Well...maybe." Brass paused, "Brace yourself folks, this is where it gets nasty. There were two victims this time, the mother, who is dead like the others, and her son, who is four. Whoever did this, let the kid live, but not before, they crucified him and ripped his tongue out. They did leave a message though," Brass pointed through the open door to where, clearly emblazoned beneath where the second body had been positioned were the words 'In nomine patri mea culpa'.
"Where's the child now?" asked Sara, the professionalism of her tone failing to hide the ghostly pallor which made her eyes stand out in stark contrast to her skin.
"Emergency surgery, our friend with the knives was kind enough to leave the tongue nailed to the wall beside the body."
"Not a trophy then," murmured Grissom.
"What's that Gil?"
"A lot of serial killers like to take things from their victims, something to play with after the fact; gives them a chance to relive the moment. In sexually related crimes, it's the equivalent of a marital aid, yet I don't think this is the case here, instead our friend is leaving a simple message, he didn't want to hurt the child, but couldn't take the risk of him talking."
"And you call what he did 'not hurting' the child, Grissom you need to go back to definition school."
Grissom peered over the top of his glasses at Catherine, "Crucifixion or death Cath, take your pick." Turning his attention back to Brass, Grissom inquired as to the husband's state of mind.
"Well he won't be visiting planet coherence anytime soon if you're thinking of questioning him; you'll also be overjoyed to hear that he made a complete mess of the scene..." Raising his voice over the discontented mutterings of the CSI's, Brass continued, "...which is hardly surprising given the situation. He found his wife and child nailed to the wall, you expect him to tape the area off and call the police?"
"Well it would be ni...", Nick was abruptly silenced by the simultaneous application of Sara's elbow to his mid-section and Warrick's hand to the back of his head. Grissom, however, had moved on, stepping across the threshold and pausing to survey the carnage in greater depth. The panicked footprints and the bloody mark of a person's palm gave clear indication of the husband's frenzied reaction when he discovered the scene.
"Any message on the body Jim?"
"Yep, usual code," he consulted his notebook, "TJoM:2" he read; "not Shakespeare this time, we checked, seems like homicide are carrying the collected works as part of their standard issue."
"Any ideas?"
"We haven't had a chance to review the entire literary canon but we'll run it past the universities in the morning and see if the experts can help; knowing our friend it will no doubt be an edifying piece of prose."
"I'll do it if you like Jim, I've got to visit the entomology department anyway, so a trip to the university won't be out of my way."
"OK Grissom, thanks. I've gotta go marshal the troops, I'll see you back home."
The head CSI turned back to his team. "OK guys, we know the scene is pretty much a bust but do what you can. Cath, there's not a lot of point doing blood splatter since the husband has tracked it everywhere, can you help Warrick with fibres? Nick, you've got the outside. Sara, you can play Jimmy Olsen. Questions? No? Right, get to it."
It didn't take long to establish that this evening's carnage was just like the killer's previous efforts; no fibres, no prints, not even an autographed photograph.
"You know Catherine, I reckon this guy must be a maid when he's not killing people, if it wasn't for all the blood I'd swear he was shampooing the carpet before he left. What do you think, you reckon we can do a handwriting analysis on the message he left?"
"Warrick, it looks like he's been practising kanji with a power sprayer and somehow I don't think 'bloody scrawl' is covered in the user manual, although it might turn up in the psych listings under parental conflict issues."
"So you reckon he's pissed at his parents?"
"Well he's certainly pissed at someone."
"We collecting a blood sample? We got here pretty quick this time so something should show up on a tox screen."
"Dunno, I'll ask. Hey Grissom," called Catherine without looking up from what she was doing, "We collecting a take-home?"
Glancing up from his conversation with Nick, who'd returned from his sweep of the grounds, Grissom looked blankly at Catherine who didn't notice his regard until Warrick tapped her with the side of his boot. When she indicated the blood, he nodded, the came over, Nick in tow. "Who's on shift tonight?"
"In the lab? Vincent I think, he got called back from holiday, so don't expect any favours."
Grissom looked vaguely annoyed, "I'll settle for competence, Vincent's not Greg, but he's not completely useless."
"That's on a relative scale of course."
"Do you want to check the outside of the house again Nick?"
"No, that's OK Grissom, thanks though. Are we done here? Sara's already left with Brass and I'm finished, how about you two?"
The two CSI's shrugged and looked at their boss. Indicating his assent, they repacked their kits and headed back to base where a fun night of futile swearing and cursing awaited them.
*************** ACROSS TOWN ***************
There is something about a pool hall that immediately screams low-rent; perhaps it's the associations of years gone by, of fat men in braces, carefully placing their beer on the side of the table and peering through the acrid haze of cigarette smoke to determine not only their next shot, but precisely which of the myriad balls in front of them is white, and thus by a process of elimination, the cue ball. As times changed and the pools halls were overrun by the glitz of bright lights and trendy cocktails, there was still the feeling of stepping back into a bygone age of illicit liquor and ubiquitous monikers and where sex was still sex and not an advertisement for the abilities of your plastic surgeon.
The place where Rilie had taken Greg was somewhat of an amalgam between the old and the new; the room was spacious and well lit, but apparently uninhabited by the cologne and cleavage set, instead having the feel of a private retreat for old friends. Indicating with a jerk of her head that Greg should follow, Rilie made her way to the bar, which was located in the centre of the room. The bartender, a giant of a man glowered menacingly in their direction as they approached.
"Are you sure this is a good idea Rilie, he doesn't look very friendly." Waving away Greg's concerns, Rilie stepped up to the bar and grabbed the giant by the front of his shirt.
"Enough with the menacing act, Uncle Mike, he's OK; a little strange, but OK. Greg? C'mere and meet my uncle." Greg tentatively approached the bar and warily extended a hand any moment expecting to have it ripped off and handed back to him.
Rilie grinned; "Greg Sanders, this is Mike Andrews, my dad's kid brother."
"Just how big is your dad Rilie?" Further questions were curtailed as the giant turned Greg's hand to a flesh-coloured paste.
"He's about four inches taller than me, standing on a box that is. Good to meet you Greg; make sure you treat her well. Rilie, the others are out back."
"Thanks Mike. C'mon Greg, this way," indicating a door at the back of the hall.
Almost jogging to keep up, Greg uttered the first thing that crossed his mind. "What did he mean, 'treat her well'? It's not like we're dating or anything."
"To my uncle's mind, you're male, you're with me, therefore you treat me well...or else."
"Gee, I bet you get plenty of long term boyfriends."
"Well, none that survived" and although said with a cynical smirk there was no disguising the wistfulness of Rilie' tone.
"So what's the deal, you don't seem very happy about this?"
"It's not a matter of not being happy it's a matter of having four older brothers and a father and his brothers and their sons. I'm the only girl on my father's side of the family, at times I feel like I'm Fort Knox, except more closely guarded."
"Remind me to keep my hands to myself then." This only elicited a raised eyebrow, so Greg continued on to the indicated door and thus missed Rilie's quiet "just once, I wish someone wouldn't..."
***************** BACK AT THE LAB ******************
Vincent was not a happy man; actually there was a picture of Vincent beside the definition of unhappy in the dictionary. Of course, this choice of definition was due only to the fact that people like Vincent only owned 'nice' dictionaries where more apt definitions had been studiously excised by those of a higher moral compass than the average reader who since the age of seven had used the dictionary only to enhance their knowledge of rude words and synonyms for the interesting parts of their anatomy.
Pissed-off would have been closer.
Homicidally enraged would have been more accurate.
But 'not happy' would have to do.
Vincent was especially unhappy because he had been called back from holiday, a holiday where, after putting in hours of spadework and alcoholic largesse, he had been about to score with a particularly scrumptious divorcee with a huge chest and an even bigger bank balance. Vincent was at an age where he no longer believed in the idealistic things in life like love, now, it was comfort all the way baby. Vincent was honest enough to admit that his idealism had been sacrificed in the service of justice, or the law, which was close enough.The daily grind of processing a never ending supply of human detritus had eventually - and inevitably, if you believed Vincent - soured him towards humanity in general.
Department scuttlebutt told a different story; a story named Sanders. Before the arrival of Greg, Vincent had been top dog; for there was no doubting that Vincent was good in the lab. He wasn't, however, Greg. In Greg's first week, Vincent had tried to play the heavy, imposing his authority, his experience, his droit de seigner over the lab and its environs. Greg had taken this in his stride for about a minute and a half, turned on his stereo and proceeded to drown Vincent out with the poetic tones of The Clash. Taken aback, Vincent had wanted to retaliate, but ingrained wisdom told him to await the inevitable arrival of Thunderstorm Grissom, who was well known for his dislike of loud noise and chaos. True to predictions, Grissom materialised in the lab in under a minute and turned the music off with such force that only Greg's quick reactions prevented the stereo unit from tumbling off the desk.
"What the hell is that racket?" Vincent sat back, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Music," was the calm response "Why?"
"You can't work with that on, turn it off."
"Which work is that? The six DNA reports and the five anomalous fibre samples?"
"That's right, I expect them done by the end of the shift."
Greg picked up the pile of notes sitting in his out tray, "There you are then."
Grissom was gobsmacked. "What do you mean 'there you are'? You only got these a couple of hours ago."
"I could take longer if you like."
Grissom was tempted to respond to the slightly sarcastic edge in Greg's tone, but settled for warning Greg that the reports better be correct, or else.
Of course, much to Vincent's chagrin, the reports were not only correct but the level of cross correlation Greg had produced saved the team about a weeks worth of slog. Thereafter, the only acceptable speed was Greg speed, which, unless you happened to wear red underwear outside of your clothes, just wasn't possible. From that point on in Vincent's mind, nothing he ever did was good enough; it was, but that wasn't the point, he, Vincent, wasn't Greg, and it gnawed at him until its bitter juice poisoned him towards the world at large.
Now, even with Sanders gone, every other lab tech was expected to perform at the same levels he had done. Now, the shift heads wondered why they couldn't keep new techs and the answer, to Vincent, was obvious. They wanted Sanders, and if the new techs couldn't be Sanders, then they weren't good enough. Vincent smiled cynically, at present working at the lab was like finding a lover whose previous partner was a cross between John Holmes and the Energiser Bunny - no matter how hard you tried you couldn't measure up. The damn Shakespeare killer was a case in point, Sander's, while not even officially working there, had opened up a whole new avenue of investigation, told Grissom to go fuck himself, then left the other techs to pick up the pieces.
Vincent, at the very least would have settled for telling Grissom to go fuck himself, but for the moment was too busy playing 'Guess that Neurotoxin'.
*************************** UNIVERSITY THE NEXT DAY ***************************
Coffee, blessed coffee, was Greg's only thought as he sat in the campus café.
The previous evening had been fun despite the fact that Rilie had given him a serious lesson in how to play pool; fortunately, he was competitive enough to retain some small measure of dignity - and his trousers. In addition, Rilie's friends were, while not a revelation, a pleasant surprise, at least in their ability to be completely humiliated at the pool table. So, together in their inept misery they plotted their revenge, spiked her drinks and eventually wiped the floor with her - although by that point in time Rilie was so drunk that it took two of them to hold her up while she took a shot.
The university café had become a haven for Greg, at least inasmuch as it was the only place on campus that served something that actually resembled coffee, it also gave him somewhere to come when he wasn't involved with classes. Sometimes he just sat and watched the antics of the undergraduates and wondered if he had ever been so young: 'young' being a polite substitution for ignorant. Generally though, he just came to read the paper and avail himself of the coffee, which was generally refilled free of charge by the staff who had come to regard him as a regular.
He was halfway through his second mug of the morning when a familiar voice interrupted his contemplation of the latest antics of the Shakespeare Killer. The reporter in question - who had obviously been seconded from the tabloid section - was waxing lyrical about the latest homicide. While concerned at the latest turn of events, Greg, was also bemused at the article, which was written in such a way that he half expected to find a sub-heading titled "Diet Secrets of the Shakespeare Killer."
Turning his attention from the article, Greg was surprised to find that the familiar voice didn't belong to the expected Rilie, but was a very obviously surprised Gil Grissom.
"Grissom...good morning" Greg's tone was, to say the least, wary.
"Hello Greg. What are you...I mean...I didn't expect..what a surprise." He finished lamely.
Despite the pleasure he took from watching Grissom flounder, Greg decided to throw him a lifeline. "I'm studying, Grissom." Grissom's puzzled expression made Greg wonder what he'd said for a second before realising that his former boss was interpreting what he'd said too literally, "I meant the university, Grissom, not the café."
"Yes, of course, I knew that." Grissom paused, seeming to steel himself for something unpleasant, "Look...Greg, I...er...I want to apologise for what I said the other night. I was wrrrrr..wrrrr", the head CSI appeared to choke on the word.
"You were what? Sorry Grissom, I didn't catch that."
"I was....wrong" the last word spat from his mouth like an unpleasant aftertaste.
Greg, having never heard the word 'wrong' uttered by Grissom in living memory nearly fell off his chair in shock; so shocked in fact that he failed to ask if Grissom was ill.
"Also, Greg", here it comes, Greg thought, the other shoe " I was wondering whether you could see your way clear to doing some additional work for us."
"Grissom, I'm studying. Classes are held during the day, which means at night I'll be sleeping, I don't function on a twenty-four hour basis, I am, contrary to popular opinion, human."
"Obviously. Would you be open to a few hours in the evening and if possible a few in the morning before classes?" Reading the former lab tech's scepticism correctly, Grissom continued, "We'll pay of course."
Instantly intent, Greg inquired precisely how much said remuneration would entail and Grissom was about to answer when a bleary-eyed, blond haystack interrupted him.
"Coffee! Now!" was articulately grunted in Greg's direction.
"Yes ma'am"
"You", this in Grissom's direction, "Move."
Grissom was about to protest when a warning shake from the returning Greg silenced him. "Don't do it Grissom, I don't want to have to scrape you off the walls."
"Grissom? I've heard of you" snarled the haystack before Greg distracted it by waving coffee in range of its sensors.
Grissom, in the process of moving, glanced at Greg questioningly and received a guilty shrug in return, an action that was noted, categorised and filed away for later consideration.
"Grissom, may I introduce Rilie Andrews, Rilie's also completing her Master's degree in composition. Rilie, this is my former boss, Gil Grissom."
"Pleeztameetcha"
"Likewise, Ms Andrews. Composition? You're studying composition, Greg?."
"That's right Grissom. Musical composition no less."
"Thank you Greg, I worked that out all by myself.'
"Well done then. Anyway Grissom, why are you up here, the university isn't normally part of your territory."
"I told Jim Brass that I'd pop into the English department for him since I was visiting the entomology department anyway; I'm doing some research for them on Terpsichorean Choreographic Fertility rituals."
"Huh?"
"Mating rituals" supplied the haystack.
"That's right" acceded Grissom, glancing curiously at Rilie.
"Don't mind her, she's like that: informative but weird. Anyway, what's up with the English department?"
"Everybody's favourite psycho left us another message, this one's not Shakespeare though, so we're trying to save a bit of time by consulting the experts."
"Same code thing?"
Grissom nodded and searched through his pockets for the scrap of paper with the message on it, finding it, he took it out to show Greg. "TJoM:2? What's that?"
"Well Greg, that's why I'm here."
"It's from Christopher Marlowe" groaned the haystack. Further explanation was halted by a pitiful moan from Rilie as she adopted a position more indicative of her status amongst the vertebrates. "The Jew of Malta, Act Two to be precise, and if my memory serves me there's only one quote from that act that even comes close to fitting the bill, at least in terms of presenting a message." Rilie gazed at the ceiling as she dredged her memory, eventually finding the exact words she recited: "Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool."
Grissom glanced worriedly at Greg, "Looks like it's going to get worse."
For those of you who have been loyally following this, thank you, and I apologise for the delay. Things have been somewhat hectic here in the last month and when you realise that I have no discipline it rather explains the delay. I'll try to do better.
Finally: This chapter is dedicated to the memory of mine and my partner's beloved little cat, Ahli, who was killed by a car a few weeks ago - this one's for you little guy.
Hamsters of the Apocalypse:
Show my heart some devotion
Push aside those that whisper never
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing there were some kind of heaven
I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hand for a while
The victims we know them so well, so well...
Culture Club: Victims
Someone take these dreams away
That point me to another day
A duel of personalities
That stretch all true reality
That keep calling me - they keep calling me
Keep on calling me - they keep calling me Joy Division: Dead Souls
Some people believe that the full moon causes people to act differently, as if the moon calls to a more primitive part of the human psyche. Certainly, myth and legend are replete with tales of the moon's effects; be it through the tale of the werewolf, in the summoning of the unicorn, or in pointing to the behaviours of family pets. Then again, there are those who simply view the moon as a pretty ball in the sky providing a picturesque backdrop for a romantic walk; and then there are those who ignore the moon altogether so intent are they on their purpose that all else ceases to have meaning, or indeed exist.
The street was secluded, a cul-de-sac some distance from the main road. It was, judging by the size and appearance of the houses, a well-to-do area; affluent, and considering the almost pathological attention to order, somewhat conservative. The only light came from the moon as the local residents had opposed a council initiative to install street-lighting, arguing that the man-made luminescence would adversely affect their sleep. The council, as is usually the case when faced with money and influence, backed down with the ostensible result being that all were happy: the residents, the councillors who lined their pockets and the local predators who no longer had to suffer their every move being lit from above. In fact, the lack of light was something that a visiting predator had come to rely on.
The Watcher had been observing this area for several weeks, noting movements, determining targets, choosing their strike with care. Failure was not an option that could be considered, for only success eased the pain and the murmurings in the silence of their mind. With all care the sacrifice was selected: a young woman whose husband was often away on business, with a house, shrouded in ancient elms and oaks, well back from the street. As evening fell and the shadows merged into darkness The Watcher prepared and the tension of waiting segued into the excitement of the hunt and the release it would bring. Darkness itself was not enough and The Watcher stilled themself as the sounds of early evening echoed throughout the neighbourhood; families laughed over dinner, couples recounted their day and children screamed and laughed as they played then tried to avoid the inevitable when they were sent to bed. Finally, silence followed darkness and The Watcher emerged.
Moving from where they had lain for the better part of the afternoon, The Watcher checked that everything was in place. Even in summer, they chose their clothing with care; the jacket was long and bulky with a deeply recessed hood and the hands gloved. Not only was the jacket long, but it also contained many pockets and within held the tools of the trade.
Moving assuredly, yet keeping to the shadows, they approached their target, the only sound being the barking of a dog a few houses over. Turning into the drive they saw to their satisfaction that the lights were still on; it was much easier going in through the front door, invited if you will, it left less evidence. The barking of the dog was much louder now and suddenly it burst through the bushes, barked madly then galloped off. About to return to their task, the soft slapping of sneakers on asphalt rapidly approaching stayed their progress. A teenager, male, no older than twelve, paused;
"He mister, did you see my dog?"
The Watcher raised their arm slightly and gestured in the direction the dog had gone.
"Thanks mister," and the child was gone.
Pausing for a moment to ensure that there were no more incipient interruptions, The Watcher trod with ordained certainty towards the front door. The door was set back in an alcove, which was designed to provide the occupants and their a degree of privacy, but in this instance only provided The Watcher greater freedom to act.
A deep breath and a tension-relieving shake of the hands preceded a sharp rap on the door to initiate the evening's festivities. After waiting a few minutes, the echo of footsteps on a wooden floor drew close, followed in turn by the rattle of keys in a dead bolt, finally the door opened to the extent of the security chain. Solemn grey-green eyes regarded The Watcher passively.
"Yes?" was the softly spoken query.
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour ma'am, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in supporting the local literary society? We're running our book drive for charity this week and are currently looking for donations of books."
The voice of the person at the door was quietly compelling, with a subtle, gravely undertone and for a second the woman looked like she would open the door, then distracted by a sound coming from behind her, her expression tightened and she shook her head. "No thank you, I'm afraid I can't help. Good evening to you." Moving to close the door, the woman paused as what appeared to be a severe coughing spasm struck the visitor. "Are you alright?" she inquired.
From their bent-over position the figure could be heard to murmur that everything would be fine; the woman at the door having not seen the subtle transference from pocket to hand of a small wooden pipe. Straightening, the figure looked squarely at the woman, and on clearly sighting the visage for the first time, she drew back. That was all the invitation The Watcher needed and with a deft movement to their lips and a sharp exhalation of air a dart lodged in the woman's throat.
"What have you done!?" was the startled cry, which faded to a whispered "Why?" as she slid bonelessly to the floor, eyes wide with a terrified certainty of what was to come.
Moving quickly, The Watcher slid their hand around the door and unfastened the security chain, seconds later they entered the door closing with an ominous finality behind them. Knowing they only had a few minutes before the woman succumbed to oxygen deprivation and the inevitable brain death that followed The Watcher moved quickly. It was essential that the woman was conscious and aware, otherwise he may as well kill her now and not bother with the effort; attention to detail was everything and the payoff was in doing it right the first time. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, The Watcher efficiently laid out the tools they had carried and it became evident why the jacket contained so many pockets as short of a portable iron maiden the display looked like the contents of the advanced torturers catalogue had been deposited on the coffee table.
Grabbing a small oxygen bottle and mask he bent over his victim and briefly resuscitated her, when he saw awareness flicker in her frightened eyes he grasped her arms and dragged her to the wall farthest from the door. Returning to the table, The Watcher paused savouring the ecstasy of the rush that such control imparted before grabbing the next tools in their gruesome trade and attached them to the work belt he wore.
Ever practical, The Watcher ran a stud-finder over the wall and located the appropriate position to mount their trophy, before again checking the woman carefully and deciding that a judicious application of oxygen was appropriate if the entertainment was to continue. Applying the mask to her face, he watched for the spark that indicated a functioning mind or at least a mind capable of terror; checking his watch he calmly noted that time was passing.
Dragging a couple of chairs from an adjoining room he placed the woman on one and stood on the other then, grasping the woman by the hair, he dragged her to a semi-standing position and took her arm. Stretching the arm as high as he could, he took the nail gun he had attached to his work belt and stapled her arm to the wall through the wrist making sure the nails went into the stud he had located earlier. Moving his chair to the other side of his victim The Watcher took her other arm and repeated the process, essentially crucifying her; even through the effects of the toxin the pain was excruciating and the agony she was suffering resonated in her eyes.
Again, he chose to resuscitate the woman before taking a sharp knife from his belt and stripping the clothes from her upper body. If he had held any prurient interest he would have paused to admire the lush curve of her breasts through to the gentle swell of her stomach and gentle flaring of her hips, instead he took his knife to her abdomen in order to present his latest message; no more Shakespeare, time for something different. For the woman, pain was taken to a new, exquisite level, as the knife etched its bloody message.
Standing back to review his handiwork, he regarded his victim. "You know why this must be, don't you? There is no other way. They must not come. I honour your sacrifice," and taking the knife he raised it ceremonially to his lips in salute then in one quick motion slashed the woman deeply across the throat. The violently severed arteries sprayed crimson gouts of blood across the carpet and The Watcher knelt to one side head bowed as if in prayer. He was roused from his reverie by a sound that came from behind him and one uttered word changed the evening.
"Mummy."
The child could have been no older than three, a blond moppet with a co- starring role with the obnoxious twins from Full House written into his stars.
"Child, you should not be here. This is not your place, it is not ordained that you should be present."
The child looked quizzically at the stranger standing in his house. "Are you a friend of my mummy?"
"No, she was merely helping me with something. Now please, return to your bed."
************** Two Hours Later **************
The flashing lights and the wail of sirens illuminated the suburban street that had just hours before been Norman Rockwell HQ.
Jim Brass stood at the door to the house and waited patiently for the CSI ensemble to arrive; god knows everyone else and their dog was either here, or had been here and left. Foremost amongst them - at least in terms of impassioned rhetoric - the sheriff, the mayor's assistant and a particularly annoying FBI representative who blathered about 'conjoint operations' and 'civic interest' causing Brass to wonder if such agents were cloned, so close was he in composition to the arsehole that had headed up the ubiquitous 'Strip Strangler' case several years ago.
Then there was the press, who to a man and an over-peroxided woman, had been virtually beaten back with sticks, so rabid were they in their attempts to interview the corpse and to lick the blood from the carpets in the 'interests of their listeners'. That last comment had had Brass subconsciously reaching for his gun and only his lieutenant had heard and raised an eyebrow at the sotto voce comment about 'just this once', which was fortunately circumscribed by the arrival of Grissom and his band of grumpy scientists.
"Looks like we're getting closer Jim."
"Not really, we just caught a lucky break, the husband's an airline pilot, he just flew in from Europe; obviously our friend with the knives didn't check the arrivals lounge before coming over."
"Well that's good, some fresh evidence might just help us break the case open."
Brass looked abashed, "Errrr Gil, we had to move some of the 'evidence'."
Grissom's voice headed into the ultrasonic, "You did what?" Even the normally imperturbable Warrick looked pissed.
"It wasn't like we had a lot of choice, the victim was still alive."
"Will we be able to question them?"
"Well...maybe." Brass paused, "Brace yourself folks, this is where it gets nasty. There were two victims this time, the mother, who is dead like the others, and her son, who is four. Whoever did this, let the kid live, but not before, they crucified him and ripped his tongue out. They did leave a message though," Brass pointed through the open door to where, clearly emblazoned beneath where the second body had been positioned were the words 'In nomine patri mea culpa'.
"Where's the child now?" asked Sara, the professionalism of her tone failing to hide the ghostly pallor which made her eyes stand out in stark contrast to her skin.
"Emergency surgery, our friend with the knives was kind enough to leave the tongue nailed to the wall beside the body."
"Not a trophy then," murmured Grissom.
"What's that Gil?"
"A lot of serial killers like to take things from their victims, something to play with after the fact; gives them a chance to relive the moment. In sexually related crimes, it's the equivalent of a marital aid, yet I don't think this is the case here, instead our friend is leaving a simple message, he didn't want to hurt the child, but couldn't take the risk of him talking."
"And you call what he did 'not hurting' the child, Grissom you need to go back to definition school."
Grissom peered over the top of his glasses at Catherine, "Crucifixion or death Cath, take your pick." Turning his attention back to Brass, Grissom inquired as to the husband's state of mind.
"Well he won't be visiting planet coherence anytime soon if you're thinking of questioning him; you'll also be overjoyed to hear that he made a complete mess of the scene..." Raising his voice over the discontented mutterings of the CSI's, Brass continued, "...which is hardly surprising given the situation. He found his wife and child nailed to the wall, you expect him to tape the area off and call the police?"
"Well it would be ni...", Nick was abruptly silenced by the simultaneous application of Sara's elbow to his mid-section and Warrick's hand to the back of his head. Grissom, however, had moved on, stepping across the threshold and pausing to survey the carnage in greater depth. The panicked footprints and the bloody mark of a person's palm gave clear indication of the husband's frenzied reaction when he discovered the scene.
"Any message on the body Jim?"
"Yep, usual code," he consulted his notebook, "TJoM:2" he read; "not Shakespeare this time, we checked, seems like homicide are carrying the collected works as part of their standard issue."
"Any ideas?"
"We haven't had a chance to review the entire literary canon but we'll run it past the universities in the morning and see if the experts can help; knowing our friend it will no doubt be an edifying piece of prose."
"I'll do it if you like Jim, I've got to visit the entomology department anyway, so a trip to the university won't be out of my way."
"OK Grissom, thanks. I've gotta go marshal the troops, I'll see you back home."
The head CSI turned back to his team. "OK guys, we know the scene is pretty much a bust but do what you can. Cath, there's not a lot of point doing blood splatter since the husband has tracked it everywhere, can you help Warrick with fibres? Nick, you've got the outside. Sara, you can play Jimmy Olsen. Questions? No? Right, get to it."
It didn't take long to establish that this evening's carnage was just like the killer's previous efforts; no fibres, no prints, not even an autographed photograph.
"You know Catherine, I reckon this guy must be a maid when he's not killing people, if it wasn't for all the blood I'd swear he was shampooing the carpet before he left. What do you think, you reckon we can do a handwriting analysis on the message he left?"
"Warrick, it looks like he's been practising kanji with a power sprayer and somehow I don't think 'bloody scrawl' is covered in the user manual, although it might turn up in the psych listings under parental conflict issues."
"So you reckon he's pissed at his parents?"
"Well he's certainly pissed at someone."
"We collecting a blood sample? We got here pretty quick this time so something should show up on a tox screen."
"Dunno, I'll ask. Hey Grissom," called Catherine without looking up from what she was doing, "We collecting a take-home?"
Glancing up from his conversation with Nick, who'd returned from his sweep of the grounds, Grissom looked blankly at Catherine who didn't notice his regard until Warrick tapped her with the side of his boot. When she indicated the blood, he nodded, the came over, Nick in tow. "Who's on shift tonight?"
"In the lab? Vincent I think, he got called back from holiday, so don't expect any favours."
Grissom looked vaguely annoyed, "I'll settle for competence, Vincent's not Greg, but he's not completely useless."
"That's on a relative scale of course."
"Do you want to check the outside of the house again Nick?"
"No, that's OK Grissom, thanks though. Are we done here? Sara's already left with Brass and I'm finished, how about you two?"
The two CSI's shrugged and looked at their boss. Indicating his assent, they repacked their kits and headed back to base where a fun night of futile swearing and cursing awaited them.
*************** ACROSS TOWN ***************
There is something about a pool hall that immediately screams low-rent; perhaps it's the associations of years gone by, of fat men in braces, carefully placing their beer on the side of the table and peering through the acrid haze of cigarette smoke to determine not only their next shot, but precisely which of the myriad balls in front of them is white, and thus by a process of elimination, the cue ball. As times changed and the pools halls were overrun by the glitz of bright lights and trendy cocktails, there was still the feeling of stepping back into a bygone age of illicit liquor and ubiquitous monikers and where sex was still sex and not an advertisement for the abilities of your plastic surgeon.
The place where Rilie had taken Greg was somewhat of an amalgam between the old and the new; the room was spacious and well lit, but apparently uninhabited by the cologne and cleavage set, instead having the feel of a private retreat for old friends. Indicating with a jerk of her head that Greg should follow, Rilie made her way to the bar, which was located in the centre of the room. The bartender, a giant of a man glowered menacingly in their direction as they approached.
"Are you sure this is a good idea Rilie, he doesn't look very friendly." Waving away Greg's concerns, Rilie stepped up to the bar and grabbed the giant by the front of his shirt.
"Enough with the menacing act, Uncle Mike, he's OK; a little strange, but OK. Greg? C'mere and meet my uncle." Greg tentatively approached the bar and warily extended a hand any moment expecting to have it ripped off and handed back to him.
Rilie grinned; "Greg Sanders, this is Mike Andrews, my dad's kid brother."
"Just how big is your dad Rilie?" Further questions were curtailed as the giant turned Greg's hand to a flesh-coloured paste.
"He's about four inches taller than me, standing on a box that is. Good to meet you Greg; make sure you treat her well. Rilie, the others are out back."
"Thanks Mike. C'mon Greg, this way," indicating a door at the back of the hall.
Almost jogging to keep up, Greg uttered the first thing that crossed his mind. "What did he mean, 'treat her well'? It's not like we're dating or anything."
"To my uncle's mind, you're male, you're with me, therefore you treat me well...or else."
"Gee, I bet you get plenty of long term boyfriends."
"Well, none that survived" and although said with a cynical smirk there was no disguising the wistfulness of Rilie' tone.
"So what's the deal, you don't seem very happy about this?"
"It's not a matter of not being happy it's a matter of having four older brothers and a father and his brothers and their sons. I'm the only girl on my father's side of the family, at times I feel like I'm Fort Knox, except more closely guarded."
"Remind me to keep my hands to myself then." This only elicited a raised eyebrow, so Greg continued on to the indicated door and thus missed Rilie's quiet "just once, I wish someone wouldn't..."
***************** BACK AT THE LAB ******************
Vincent was not a happy man; actually there was a picture of Vincent beside the definition of unhappy in the dictionary. Of course, this choice of definition was due only to the fact that people like Vincent only owned 'nice' dictionaries where more apt definitions had been studiously excised by those of a higher moral compass than the average reader who since the age of seven had used the dictionary only to enhance their knowledge of rude words and synonyms for the interesting parts of their anatomy.
Pissed-off would have been closer.
Homicidally enraged would have been more accurate.
But 'not happy' would have to do.
Vincent was especially unhappy because he had been called back from holiday, a holiday where, after putting in hours of spadework and alcoholic largesse, he had been about to score with a particularly scrumptious divorcee with a huge chest and an even bigger bank balance. Vincent was at an age where he no longer believed in the idealistic things in life like love, now, it was comfort all the way baby. Vincent was honest enough to admit that his idealism had been sacrificed in the service of justice, or the law, which was close enough.The daily grind of processing a never ending supply of human detritus had eventually - and inevitably, if you believed Vincent - soured him towards humanity in general.
Department scuttlebutt told a different story; a story named Sanders. Before the arrival of Greg, Vincent had been top dog; for there was no doubting that Vincent was good in the lab. He wasn't, however, Greg. In Greg's first week, Vincent had tried to play the heavy, imposing his authority, his experience, his droit de seigner over the lab and its environs. Greg had taken this in his stride for about a minute and a half, turned on his stereo and proceeded to drown Vincent out with the poetic tones of The Clash. Taken aback, Vincent had wanted to retaliate, but ingrained wisdom told him to await the inevitable arrival of Thunderstorm Grissom, who was well known for his dislike of loud noise and chaos. True to predictions, Grissom materialised in the lab in under a minute and turned the music off with such force that only Greg's quick reactions prevented the stereo unit from tumbling off the desk.
"What the hell is that racket?" Vincent sat back, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Music," was the calm response "Why?"
"You can't work with that on, turn it off."
"Which work is that? The six DNA reports and the five anomalous fibre samples?"
"That's right, I expect them done by the end of the shift."
Greg picked up the pile of notes sitting in his out tray, "There you are then."
Grissom was gobsmacked. "What do you mean 'there you are'? You only got these a couple of hours ago."
"I could take longer if you like."
Grissom was tempted to respond to the slightly sarcastic edge in Greg's tone, but settled for warning Greg that the reports better be correct, or else.
Of course, much to Vincent's chagrin, the reports were not only correct but the level of cross correlation Greg had produced saved the team about a weeks worth of slog. Thereafter, the only acceptable speed was Greg speed, which, unless you happened to wear red underwear outside of your clothes, just wasn't possible. From that point on in Vincent's mind, nothing he ever did was good enough; it was, but that wasn't the point, he, Vincent, wasn't Greg, and it gnawed at him until its bitter juice poisoned him towards the world at large.
Now, even with Sanders gone, every other lab tech was expected to perform at the same levels he had done. Now, the shift heads wondered why they couldn't keep new techs and the answer, to Vincent, was obvious. They wanted Sanders, and if the new techs couldn't be Sanders, then they weren't good enough. Vincent smiled cynically, at present working at the lab was like finding a lover whose previous partner was a cross between John Holmes and the Energiser Bunny - no matter how hard you tried you couldn't measure up. The damn Shakespeare killer was a case in point, Sander's, while not even officially working there, had opened up a whole new avenue of investigation, told Grissom to go fuck himself, then left the other techs to pick up the pieces.
Vincent, at the very least would have settled for telling Grissom to go fuck himself, but for the moment was too busy playing 'Guess that Neurotoxin'.
*************************** UNIVERSITY THE NEXT DAY ***************************
Coffee, blessed coffee, was Greg's only thought as he sat in the campus café.
The previous evening had been fun despite the fact that Rilie had given him a serious lesson in how to play pool; fortunately, he was competitive enough to retain some small measure of dignity - and his trousers. In addition, Rilie's friends were, while not a revelation, a pleasant surprise, at least in their ability to be completely humiliated at the pool table. So, together in their inept misery they plotted their revenge, spiked her drinks and eventually wiped the floor with her - although by that point in time Rilie was so drunk that it took two of them to hold her up while she took a shot.
The university café had become a haven for Greg, at least inasmuch as it was the only place on campus that served something that actually resembled coffee, it also gave him somewhere to come when he wasn't involved with classes. Sometimes he just sat and watched the antics of the undergraduates and wondered if he had ever been so young: 'young' being a polite substitution for ignorant. Generally though, he just came to read the paper and avail himself of the coffee, which was generally refilled free of charge by the staff who had come to regard him as a regular.
He was halfway through his second mug of the morning when a familiar voice interrupted his contemplation of the latest antics of the Shakespeare Killer. The reporter in question - who had obviously been seconded from the tabloid section - was waxing lyrical about the latest homicide. While concerned at the latest turn of events, Greg, was also bemused at the article, which was written in such a way that he half expected to find a sub-heading titled "Diet Secrets of the Shakespeare Killer."
Turning his attention from the article, Greg was surprised to find that the familiar voice didn't belong to the expected Rilie, but was a very obviously surprised Gil Grissom.
"Grissom...good morning" Greg's tone was, to say the least, wary.
"Hello Greg. What are you...I mean...I didn't expect..what a surprise." He finished lamely.
Despite the pleasure he took from watching Grissom flounder, Greg decided to throw him a lifeline. "I'm studying, Grissom." Grissom's puzzled expression made Greg wonder what he'd said for a second before realising that his former boss was interpreting what he'd said too literally, "I meant the university, Grissom, not the café."
"Yes, of course, I knew that." Grissom paused, seeming to steel himself for something unpleasant, "Look...Greg, I...er...I want to apologise for what I said the other night. I was wrrrrr..wrrrr", the head CSI appeared to choke on the word.
"You were what? Sorry Grissom, I didn't catch that."
"I was....wrong" the last word spat from his mouth like an unpleasant aftertaste.
Greg, having never heard the word 'wrong' uttered by Grissom in living memory nearly fell off his chair in shock; so shocked in fact that he failed to ask if Grissom was ill.
"Also, Greg", here it comes, Greg thought, the other shoe " I was wondering whether you could see your way clear to doing some additional work for us."
"Grissom, I'm studying. Classes are held during the day, which means at night I'll be sleeping, I don't function on a twenty-four hour basis, I am, contrary to popular opinion, human."
"Obviously. Would you be open to a few hours in the evening and if possible a few in the morning before classes?" Reading the former lab tech's scepticism correctly, Grissom continued, "We'll pay of course."
Instantly intent, Greg inquired precisely how much said remuneration would entail and Grissom was about to answer when a bleary-eyed, blond haystack interrupted him.
"Coffee! Now!" was articulately grunted in Greg's direction.
"Yes ma'am"
"You", this in Grissom's direction, "Move."
Grissom was about to protest when a warning shake from the returning Greg silenced him. "Don't do it Grissom, I don't want to have to scrape you off the walls."
"Grissom? I've heard of you" snarled the haystack before Greg distracted it by waving coffee in range of its sensors.
Grissom, in the process of moving, glanced at Greg questioningly and received a guilty shrug in return, an action that was noted, categorised and filed away for later consideration.
"Grissom, may I introduce Rilie Andrews, Rilie's also completing her Master's degree in composition. Rilie, this is my former boss, Gil Grissom."
"Pleeztameetcha"
"Likewise, Ms Andrews. Composition? You're studying composition, Greg?."
"That's right Grissom. Musical composition no less."
"Thank you Greg, I worked that out all by myself.'
"Well done then. Anyway Grissom, why are you up here, the university isn't normally part of your territory."
"I told Jim Brass that I'd pop into the English department for him since I was visiting the entomology department anyway; I'm doing some research for them on Terpsichorean Choreographic Fertility rituals."
"Huh?"
"Mating rituals" supplied the haystack.
"That's right" acceded Grissom, glancing curiously at Rilie.
"Don't mind her, she's like that: informative but weird. Anyway, what's up with the English department?"
"Everybody's favourite psycho left us another message, this one's not Shakespeare though, so we're trying to save a bit of time by consulting the experts."
"Same code thing?"
Grissom nodded and searched through his pockets for the scrap of paper with the message on it, finding it, he took it out to show Greg. "TJoM:2? What's that?"
"Well Greg, that's why I'm here."
"It's from Christopher Marlowe" groaned the haystack. Further explanation was halted by a pitiful moan from Rilie as she adopted a position more indicative of her status amongst the vertebrates. "The Jew of Malta, Act Two to be precise, and if my memory serves me there's only one quote from that act that even comes close to fitting the bill, at least in terms of presenting a message." Rilie gazed at the ceiling as she dredged her memory, eventually finding the exact words she recited: "Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool."
Grissom glanced worriedly at Greg, "Looks like it's going to get worse."