Well here we are again, another month, another chapter: GO ME. [It would be
really nice if someone reviewed it this time other than my betas
[/cynicism].
Seriously, more reviews would be great my muse is considering strike
action.
I would like to thank my Betas:
Mich "but Grissom wouldn't say that wait for season three, oh you're in New Zealand" mak
&
Emily "Death to the semi-colon"
Anyway, on with the show
INTERVIEW WITH A TARANTULA
Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine
It's hard to tell the night time from the day
You're loosin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?
Desperado - The Eagles
We wake alone in the blackness
We sleep wherever we fall
One dream all around us
This big hush infects us all Shriekback - This Big Hush
**************
"You have failed us."
"No master."
"The child lives."
"His death was not required, you asked only for the woman."
"He saw us, that cannot be allowed. You will return to him and finish."
"But the child is in the hospital, under guard, there is no way."
"You will find a way. You are chosen to serve, do so."
"Your will, Master."
"There are others who call to us, they too must be released; they must join."
"How many more Master? It is pain; release me."
"Your pain is irrelevant."
***********
"So how do you know all that stuff? The obvious answer is that you're a weirdo, but since that's a given I'm going to ask for further illumination; and next time we play Trivial Pursuit, you're on my team."
"Gee thanks for the compliment Sanders. I don't know everything, it just appears that way because you're so bloody ignorant. Now I'll take this slowly for you so you don't get confused. You have a double degree in music and chemistry, correct? Well I have a double degree in music and English literature."
"So what you're telling me Andrews, is that actually you're no bloody use at all?"
"Not in comparison to you moron."
Grissom had left about half an hour ago and Rilie and Greg were sitting companionably in the café attempting to drink enough coffee to poison a small village. Both had decided to ditch class, Rilie, because she wasn't in any sort of condition to pretend attentiveness, and Greg, because Mueller was on the rampage again and he wasn't in the mood to have himself disembowelled over Mueller's hatred of compositions in the minor keys. Both also had ulterior motives that would have seen the pair of them in their respective graves before admitting to the other what they were thinking.
'So tell me Sanders, what's the deal with this Shakespeare Killer, I only know what I read in the paper, which at best is illiterate sensationalism."
"What do you want to know? It doesn't get any more difficult than that the person's a high grade nutter, and a dangerous one at that."
"Well obviously he's dangerous, he's killed quite a few people, I want to know the inside stuff, what do your former mob think is happening here?"
Greg groaned, "You know that stuff is restricted Rilie, that's why the police are investigating it and not you. If you were investigating the murders then I imagine you would have been informed of the latest developments."
"So you think that I'd go and announce my new-found knowledge to the world at large?"
"No, actually I don't, but that's not the point. Can we change the subject here? I don't want to be rude Rilie, but we're fast approaching a line I won't cross."
Never let it be said that Rilie Andrews was stupid, recognising that Greg was being very serious - which frankly scared her having never previously observed this phenomenon - she decided to let it lie; for the moment anyway. Changing tack, Rilie decided that if she couldn't get information she could at least wind Greg up.
"By the way Sanders, Cassidy thinks you're a bit of a hottie, she was most impressed with your form when leaning over a pool table."
Greg's eyes lit up. "Really? Excellent! Do you have her number, Rilie?"
That was NOT supposed to happen. He was supposed to turn red, stammer and display his stunning propensity to be socially clueless. Dammit, Greg was hers. Scratch that, she thought; since when did I start thinking he was mine, he's vaguely amusing, in a Daliesque way, but he's not boyfriend material...especially not Cassidy boyfriend material.
"Sorry Greg, not on me, you think she's cute or something?" Say yes and die Sanders.
"Oh yes" - his mind flicked back to the previous evening and the clinging black dress Cassidy was wearing - "but it's more than that, we had a good talk last night and we have a lot in common."
"Like what?"
"Well for a start, her degree's in biophysics so there's the whole science thing. Her family's also from the same area as mine, so we had a laugh about Las Vegas' inherent inferiority to our home town."
"Well we agree on that anyway. So you didn't spend all your time staring at her breasts like you did with me then?"
"I did not stare at your breasts!" Greg was indignant.
"So there's something wrong with them is there?"
"No. You've got great...oh shit..."
"Would you care to rephrase that while you still have your health?" Now this was more like it, thought Rilie, hours of entertainment for the entire family.
***********
**CUE MUSIC**
"And welcome back to P.R.A.T. News Television, I'm Nelly Lucid, and tonight we go in depth with the profilers, those behavioural scientists who devote themselves to the study of serial killers. Tonight, with me in the studio, is Dr Hahghem Hai who will be explaining the process by which a serial killer is profiled, and to illustrate this process we'll focus on Las Vegas', Shakespeare Killer; good evening doctor."
'Good evening Nelly. Before we start, I'd like to correct a common misapprehension. A profiler doesn't solely deal with serial killers, although those criminals that fit that particular typology are what our work is most well known for. We provide behavioural profiling for all types of criminals. Largely, our work is based on certain behavioural probabilities and as such can be applied to most forms of criminal behaviour. Serial killers are the most well known subjects of the science for the simple reason that their crimes are the most..." and here the doctor paused while he sought a diplomatic synonym for sensationalised, given that he was being interviewed by a representative of said group of sensationalists "...Likely to generate public interest."
"OK then, so what does a profile allow you to do? Can you accurately identify a criminal based on a profile constructed from the clues and evidence collected from a crime scene?"
"Not really, that is, we can't accurately identify an individual based on a profile, if that was the case a lot of criminals would be arrested at their front door. As I said before, profiling is about probabilities; it allows us to narrow down the options of potential perpetrators. For example, it is common for serial killers to murder members of their own race, so, if a Caucasian female is murdered, a primary supposition is that the killer is, themselves, Caucasoid." Similarly, certain actions against the victims can be indicative of past events in the criminal's life that may, and I stress the may, have triggered the chain of future actions."
"Can you give me any examples of that doctor?" The interviewer seemed subdued. However, it was difficult to determine whether this was from considering the import of her guest's words or, and this was more likely, due to the obvious fact that the doctor did not, in any shape or form, fit the criteria of a 'tabloid' guest. So much for blood and guts.
The doctor paused for a moment, considering, before he replied. "OK. Take Edmund Kemper. Now Kemper, while admittedly having psychological problems, sited his killing of co-eds as a response to the treatment he received from his abusive mother, who constantly told him that those were the type of girls that would never be interested in him; So, in part, Edmund's victims represented possession of that thing he was always told he'd never have."
"So what you're saying is that past events may be a trigger?"
"Certainly, but not necessarily. There have been examples of people who have lead perfectly normal lives up until the point at which some trauma completely changed them, this trauma may be psychological or physical; it is, for example, startlingly common for serial killers to have suffered, at some time, a head injury of some sort."
"Thank you doctor, we'll be right back after these messages"
Nelly was beginning to get frustrated, her interview was beginning to resemble an undergraduate lecture in sicko-psychology and her guest seemed quite content to assume the position of pedagogue.
For his part, the Doctor was well aware of what was going through the presenter's alleged mind; he was, however, thoroughly sick of the media doing all in its power to raise human aberrances, like serial killers, to celebrity status, and thus this interview was a tailor made soapbox.
**CUE MUSIC**
"Welcome back. Tonight in the studio we have behavioural psychologist and criminal profiler Dr Hahghem Hai. Doctor, I'd like now to turn your attention to the serial killer that has been preying on Las Vegas for the past few years."
"I'm assuming that you're referring to the so-called 'Shakespeare Killer'."
"That's correct."
"The short answer Nelly, is that this killer is a complete mystery. From a behavioural and analytical position their behaviour is so contradictory as to make constructing a profiler extremely difficult."
"When you say contradictory what do you mean?"
"You remember that I said that profiling is sited in the sorting of behavioural probabilities based on collected evidence, the type of victims and so forth. With this particular criminal what little evidence we have collected doesn't allow us to exclude certain possibilities and therefore forming a picture, even a simplified one, is complicated. For example, if someone is in a psychotic state their actions usually lack planning, evidence extreme rage and can be generally summed up as uncontrolled or chaotic. On the other hand, a psychopathic personality is ordered, clinical and almost detached; what we have with this killer is evidence of both personality types as seen in the extremely careful planning and organisation of the crimes on the one hand, yet on the other, the sheer brutality of the actual killings."
"What does this tell us then?"
"Well frankly, it could mean anything. Some criminals in the past have been smart enough, and aware enough of the profiling science, to leave atypical evidence at the crime scene in the hope of leading the police and others astray. Another possibility is that the person in question is suffering from some sort of psychological problem, perhaps schizophrenia or a type of bi-polar disorder, or less likely, multiple personality disorder."
"Why less likely?"
"Less likely, because true multiple personality disorders are extremely rare, although that hasn't stopped certain criminals in the past from claiming to be under the influence of such, for example Kenneth Bianchi, one of the Hillside Stranglers, concocted an alternate personality named 'Steve', in order to avoid conviction by reason of insanity."
"OK then, accepting the degree of contradictory evidence, what conclusions can you draw from the killings that have been linked to this perpetrator?"
"My personal opinion is that we're dealing with a deeply conflicted individual, one who is compelled to commit these heinous acts yet also feels great remorse for their actions. The messages they have left indicate several things. The first, in the context of the message left, is that the killer feels a sense of superiority to those who pursue him. Secondly, however, is that in the messages the killer is trying to provide those chasing him with clues and evidence of their remorse."
"So what's with the choice of Shakespeare?"
"Shakespeare is essentially the soul of the English literary canon and as such has a quote for all occasions, I know if I wanted to leave an obscure message he'd be my first pick; but the choice of Shakespeare may or may not have any relevance, we could just be dealing with someone who likes literature."
Nelly could see her producer in the operations booth making frantic signals to finish the interview, whether this was due to commercial commitments or to the more than obvious fact that the interview was a bust was unknown. Either way, when this was over she was going to go home, get quietly drunk, and then consider the possibilities for a career change, something probably involving a convent. Acknowledging her producer with a small nod she moved to bring the interview to a close.
"Well, that's all we have time for this evening, I'd like to thank my guest Dr Hahghem. Be sure to return next week when we'll be examining the effects of genetic manipulation on gifted children, until then, goodnight."
Breathing an audible and clearly frustrated sigh of relief, Nelly turned to face her guest, "Well thanks for nothing Doctor."
Hai merely looked amused, "Frankly young lady I'd rather humiliate you than provide the slavering millions with something else to chew over. What you people in the media fail to realise is that these events are more than just sound bites they affect lives. For all you know the gentleman with the fondness for quotations may have been watching this evening. Another thing young woman, this killer cares nothing for race, nor gender in their attacks. I would suggest you go home, bolt your door, and consider that perhaps waving the red rag at the bull you can't see is perhaps not the wisest course of action; now, good evening."
***********
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"What? No."
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"Yes. What? Seriously? No."
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"Which part of no don't you understand?...Ohhh, sorry Martha. Yes, I'll be home on time. Don't forget we have to attend that gala...What do you mean your mother's visiting?"
**KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK**
"Yes Mary?"
"There's a delegation from the Spanish Citizens Association, they want to talk to you about the police persecuting their teenagers."
"Maybe their teenagers should stop committing crimes" was the muttered response.
"What was that Mr Mayor?"
"Nothing..nothing. Do the gentlemen have an appointment?"
"No."
"Well there's a surprise. Make an appointment for them and then make them disappear."
"Yes Mr Mayor. They also asked me to remind you that you're opening their new activity centre next week and that the ceremonial piñata is ready and waiting."
"Do you know what they can do with their piñata Mary?"
"No Mr Mayor, shall I ask them?"
"Just make the appointment Mary."
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"What? No, this isn't Joe's Pizzeria".
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
The Mayor thought about throwing the telephone out of the window; if his timing was good it would hit the Spanish Citizens Delegation just as they were leaving.
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"Yes? The chief of police?...Again?...They wrote what?...And we're doing precisely what?...What do you mean 'the usual'? What is 'the usual'? Actually...no, don't tell me, just get Corbin up here within the next ten minutes...I don't care if he's in bloody Brazil with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, ten minutes."
Waldorf Astoria was a busy man, at least that's what he told everyone; the truth of the matter was that the greater part of his day was spent warding off idiots, social panhandlers and assorted bureaucratic functionaries with an over-inflated opinion of their virtually non-existent importance. When given brief surcease from the human detritus it was his constant trial to endure he made increasingly futile attempts to wade through the morass of red tape that threatened to bury his administration.
Astoria was by trade, an accountant, and as such his administration was run with a meticulous attention to detail or, if you listened to his critics, with a complete lack of imagination. Apolitical by nature, Astoria had entered politics driven by a need to clean up the city. This urge to purge, if you will, came not from any sense of misplaced morality, but through the damage done to his sense of order by past administrations. Chaos was anathema and it was his designated - and self-appointed - role to impose order; be it fiscal or related to the actions of his city's less savoury denizens who imposed disorder - like the Spanish Citizens Delegation.
Now, having imposed some sense of fiscal order on his sprawling metropolis - gotta love those tax revenues from the casinos he thought - that supremely disordered maniac, the Shakespeare Killer, was, with supreme irony, he noted, severely disordering his citizens, it was not to be tolerated. Astoria firmly believed that having been elected on a law and order platform that actions that were neither lawful nor orderly were to be discouraged in the strongest possible terms; possibly with the creation of statute outlawing them.
**KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK**
"If that's not the Chief of Police, Mary, then it better be good."
"Don't call me Mary" was the gruff reply. In all honesty, this was a fair enough request as Corbin Calliope looked about as different from anyone named Mary as was possible to imagine. Standing six foot four and apparently constructed out of reinforced concrete, Corbin looked more like a well-groomed lumberjack than a policeman - although the badge and the uniform tended to give it away.
"What can I do for you this evening Waldorf? Mary indicated that you were most anxious for my company."
"Very funny" replied the mayor sourly. "Have you read the paper?"
"The Tribune?"
Receiving only an abrupt herk of the head by way of acknowledgement, the Chief continued. "Can I surmise that you are somewhat perturbed by the headline?"
" 'Killer Dances on City Hall's Ineptitude', you expect me to be happy about this?"
"It's not particularly flattering" was the laconic response.
"Flattering?!" bellowed Astoria, "Are you trying to be funny? This is appalling; it makes me look like an idiot. How many men do you have on this, Corbin?"
"As many as can be spared"
"Spared? What do you mean, spared?!"
"We don't have enough staff to devote to this and the other crimes that are happening. It's not like the other criminals are taking a holiday while this guy roams the streets; for them this is Christmas."
"Why don't you have enough staff"
"That would be because you cut our budget fifteen percent, you mentioned something about efficiency at the time if I remember correctly."
"Don't you get hissy with me Corbin, this is too important, there are citizens lives at risk here."
"And your job"
That's right, and my jo...watch yourself Corbin, save your petty point scoring for the police bar. If nothing else, we need to get the message out that we're doing something about this, so in light of this, you're going to go speak with this reporter, this...this.."
"Babylon?"
"Yes, Babylon, as in The Whore, thereof. Fix it so she shuts up or at least gives us some good press."
"You want me to organise a hit squad boss?" this was said in a faux nineteen-thirties gangster voice.
"Very funny. Actually, why don't you organise someone else to talk to her, the last thing I need right now is some insensitive clod with no media savvy screwing things up."
"Yes Mr Mayor, I'll get right on it, I know just the person."
*********
It was just after 6PM when Greg turned into the parking lot of the CSI building, he'd thought that he'd pop in to talk to Grissom about the part- time work he had been offered when he'd encountered his former boss at the university that morning. Getting out of his car, he almost immediately run into Jim Brass, who wore the look of the terminally harassed. With the ascension of the new police chief, Calliope - the unctuous Mobley having succumbed to the rare PPE virus several months previous - Brass had found himself back in favour with the powers that be. From an administrative perspective this was excellent, no more red tape battles over mindless ephemera, unfortunately, however, having the backing of the laconic chief meant that Jim could no longer coast by with his primary function being that of conspiring with Grissom to antagonise their boss.
" 'lo Greg, What brings you here?"
"Ran into Grissom, he's asked me to do some part time work" Greg grinned mischievously, "I'm going to be a consultant."
"Not with me signing the bills you're not."
"Oh well, can't hurt to try. Anyway, is Grissom in?"
"No." At this, Jim grinned evilly; "he's on media duty, special request of the Mayor.
Personally, I don't think the mayor asked for Grissom specifically, but I do know that Corbin - that's the new chief, Greg - has a twisted sense of humour and he knows how much Grissom hates the media."
"How does he know this?"
Brass chuckled, "That would be because I told him. I've got to go, someone dug up some corpses at the cemetery again and this time they dressed them in army surplus. The priest thought he was being raided."
Shaking his head at how little things changed, Greg entered the building and wandered down to the break room to see if anyone was around. Finding no- one, he swung by Grissom's office to leave a note and then, just as he was preparing to leave
it began raining CSIs and soon he was surrounded by a pointing, jabbering mob.
Well, not really, but they asked many questions.
Tactful as ever, Sara demanded to know when he was coming back, complaining that Vincent was an ungrateful incompetent; of course this was heard by Vincent passing through on his way to the ballistics lab and he stared daggers at Sara who turned a particularly unflattering shade of purple.
"Way to go Sidle. Please tell us you're coming back Greg, Sara's ready to murder Vincent and it looks like the feeling's mutual."
Greg shrugged "No idea Nick, that's why I'm here. Unfortunately, Grissom's undergoing trial by media at the moment so it will have to be sorted out later."
"But you are coming back?"
"That's the idea Sara, but in a part time capacity only, I told Grissom that it couldn't interfere with what I was currently doing."
"Which is? You still haven't told us what it is you're doing."
"No I haven't have I? Oh well, the suspense is good for you." Just as well I made Grissom's discretion a condition of coming back he thought to himself
Catherine rolled her eyes a Greg's reticence; truth be told, she was glad he was coming back, not only because of the regard in which she held his technical skills, but because she also felt that his particular brand of chaos kept the rest of them losing their minds over the stressful situations they encountered. "So what's the deal Greg?"
"In the mornings before cl...before what I'm doing and then for a few hours after I ...er...finish what I'm doing, so anywhere between five and six hours, although that is severely situation dependant. I made sure that Grissom understood that this would be fitted in around my current schedule. I need to maintain some form of income."
"Aha! So you're not currently working."
"Nick, leave it alone, Greg's said he's not telling, so let it go."
"You spoil all my fun Warrick" replied Nick, pretending to sulk. Warrick merely shook his head in bemused exasperation.
"Look guys, I've got to go, I need to feed Benzine."
"Your car?"
"No, my cat."
"You've got a cat? Poor creature."
"Shut up Nick. We'll see you later Greg, c'mon guys, let's go stuff Nick in the morgue with a soup-y."
Greg grinned as he left; Nick's despairing cries and pleadings following him down the corridor.
**********
For all his faults, there was one thing that Gil Grissom wasn't and that was political. He hated the thought that the scope of his job was essentially run at the whim of a person's morality. Grissom wasn't so naive as to think that he could avoid politics he just wished that he could be removed from some of it's more capricious acts, like being directed to talk to the media and in particular The Las Vegas Tribune's senior crime reporter, Agatha Babylon.
So here he was, waiting in the foyer of the Tribune. He'd been told to be here at 5:00 and it was now 6:30. Finally, fed up - and having read through all the available magazines - he decided that an hour and a half was an acceptable period to devote to the cause of politics. Preparing to leave, he was almost run down by a long-haired, midget who swept past him and charged straight up to the receptionist, who, after a few muttered words, pointed at Grissom's retreating back.
"Mr. Gruesome? Mr. Gruesome...please, wait."
A CSI would have hastily headed for the nearest exit at this point; long exposure to Grissom having preternaturally tuned their senses to the grinding of his teeth. This person - and that was mere approximation on Grissom's part - was another matter entirely
"It's Grissom, actually," he said mildly as he turned to face her. On closer inspection, Grissom conceded that calling this annoying little bug a midget wasn't entirely fair; yes she was short but no threat to any respectable garden gnome. Her diminutive stature was compensated for - and Grissom used that term in its broadest possible sense - by a personality that bore a remarkable resemblance to nails on a blackboard and a voice that could bend metal at a thousand yards.
"Mr. Gruesome," she continued, ignoring his correction "I'm Agatha Babylon." Here she paused as if waiting for unheard applause to finish, "If you'll come this way please, we'll begin." Grissom, resigned to his fate, followed, escorted only by a sympathetic look from the receptionist as she watched his retreating back.
After following his tormentor down a maze of corridors for what seemed like an eternity, Grissom found himself escorted into a large office that had recently been under nuclear attack.
"Take a seat Mr. Gruesome."
"It's Grissom"
"Yes that's right, sorry; so you're here to talk about the Shakespeare Killer, correct?" This was said with the enthusiasm of a shark invited to spend the afternoon in a crowded paddling pool.
"I have been asked, by way of the Mayor, to answer those questions you feel are pertinent to providing a degree of reassurance to the public that everything is being done to catch the person or persons responsible for these killings."
"That being said then, just how much of a sick, twisted pervert is this killer Mr. Grissom?"
"I don't think the answer to that would be reassuring Ms. Babylon, and since we haven't caught him I couldn't tell you."
"But surely you have some idea, I mean this man hangs people from ceilings from meat hooks and nails pages of hardcore pornography into their foreheads, that's pretty twisted is it not?"
Grissom was flummoxed "Where did you hear these things?"
"I have my sources who shall, of course, remain confidential"
"You should probably invest in some new sources then, it would appear that their contact with the facts is sporadic at best."
Ms. Babylon was not amused. Ms. Babylon, it appeared had no discernable sense of humour at all. "My readers have a right to know, Mr. Grissom."
"That's why I'm here."
"Let's continue then. Did the killer have sex with the corpses? Did he desecrate them?"
"Well firstly, you're assuming that the killer is a male. We have no evidence that this is the case."
'Surely it must be a male, Mr. Gibbon..."
"Grissom."
"Grissom...sorry...no female could possibly do that."
"Do what?"
"That."
"That?"
"That. You're not helping Mr. Grissom. Let's try that again: did the killer desecrate or in any way sexually violate the corpses?"
"No."
"How disappointing," she murmured.
"Alright then, how about messages, Mr. Grissom. Did the killer leave any messages?"
"For whom?"
"Father Christmas perhaps? Stop playing stupid Grissom. Were any messages, notes or forms of communication left by the killer?"
"Other than the bodies? I'd consider leaving a body as a pretty big message."
"Yes. Other than the bodies." Babylon let out a long-suffering sigh, this interview wasn't going as she planned. For a start, this man, Crispen...no that wasn't it...aha! Grissom was his name, was completely unhelpful, she wasn't sure if he was being deliberately misleading or completely clueless. She didn't think the Mayor would have sent her an idiot, but then again, since she had called the Mayor an uptight prig with a messiah complex, she wasn't expecting any favours. She returned her attention to the man realising she'd just caught the end of what he'd been saying.
"Could you repeat that for me please?"
Grissom shrugged. He had to admit that he was having more fun with this interview than he thought he would, previously aware, as he was, of Ms. Babylon's reputation for, at best, scare-mongering, tabloid journalism. There was, he prided himself, a lot to be said for being profoundly literal at times. If nothing else it annoyed the hell out of people, and the several years practise he'd had baiting his staff was paying dividends.
"I said that the only messages that the killer left were the Shakespearean quotations you and your colleagues are so fond of."
"What do they have to do with the killings?"
"I don't know, maybe he didn't have a pen with him for the first killing and had to improvise and liked the idea so much he kept doing it."
"I meant," - this through clenched teeth - "Is there a link between what the messages say and a possible motive for the killings."
"I'll ask him, or her, when we catch them."
"So you expect to catch them soon?"
"I didn't say that."
"Do you expect to catch them at all?"
"We have hopes."
"How about a clue?"
"Several."
"Such as?"
"Now that would be telling Ms. Babylon, and we can't afford to compromise the investigation."
"But my readers..."
"Yes your readers would perhaps be best advised not to let any strangers into their house and indeed pay attention to any strangers in their area."
"But that sort of information is no different from the previous interviews given by the Chief of Police and the Mayor, it doesn't tell us anything."
"So precisely what sort of information did you want Ms. Babylon? Something prurient perhaps? A little scandal? A vivid description, or maybe even the killer's summer fashion colours? Look Ms. Babylon, I care nothing for your newspaper and even less for your style of - and I hesitate to use the word in your case - journalism. Why don't you tell your readers that the police are doing everything they can and leave it at that."
"You have no right to talk to me that way, Grissom," she spat. "I have important friends and people listen to me."
"I'm very happy for you Ms. Babylon, have a pleasant day." And so saying, Grissom rose from his chair and left the office, the penetrating shrieks of the enraged harpy following him to the lobby. Handing his visitor's pass to the receptionist, he paused briefly and asked if Babylon was normally like that - the shrieks still clearly audible throughout the building.
Maintaining a bland expression, the receptionist informed him that this was a good day and that leaving now would be the course of wisdom before Ms. Babylon came looking for him with a knife.
Taking such wisdom advice under advisement, Grissom beat a hasty retreat.
*********
It had been a long day, a day without respite or surcease from the slings and arrows thrown his way without a hint of compassion or remorse; truth be told, Greg felt like a dishrag, wrung out by an indifferent world.
If Benzine had been human she would have mocked him for the melodrama, but being a cat, she settled for looking infuriatingly superior; Greg got the idea though.
"Yeah, Yeah, I know. Go chase a mouse or something."
Benzine ignored him, curled up on his latest copy of Hustler and went to sleep.
Greg thought briefly about throwing a cactus at the cat, but in the interests of domestic tranquillity decided to start his latest composition assignment from Mueller. In her wisdom, Mueller had stated that the composition was to be a minimum of ten minutes in length but no longer than two movements; in short her scope was so broad as to called 'The Rope' assignment by the students - as in 'give 'em enough rope...'
Choosing a composition style was never difficult for Greg since he invariably chose a minor key so that he could wander around in the sombre, muted tones of his own despair; even when he was happy his music walked in a reverie accompanied only by his own self-induced solitude. As for a format, well, the stately grace of the fugue gave Greg all the scope he needed to be as depressing as hell. If nothing else, it would be worth the trouble merely for the sight of Mueller as soon as she saw the key signature.
Nevertheless, for the moment, he was weary, weary and a little confused; his life was taking twists he hadn't imagined when he left the lab and now he was returning. Then there was Rilie. Rilie of the viperish tongue and the tar pit of a mind - not forgetting of course the body, but going there was just asking for a slapping not that that was completely objectionable either. He was rambling now, time to call it a night, maybe the world would be less confusing in the morning.
I would like to thank my Betas:
Mich "but Grissom wouldn't say that wait for season three, oh you're in New Zealand" mak
&
Emily "Death to the semi-colon"
Anyway, on with the show
INTERVIEW WITH A TARANTULA
Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine
It's hard to tell the night time from the day
You're loosin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?
Desperado - The Eagles
We wake alone in the blackness
We sleep wherever we fall
One dream all around us
This big hush infects us all Shriekback - This Big Hush
**************
"You have failed us."
"No master."
"The child lives."
"His death was not required, you asked only for the woman."
"He saw us, that cannot be allowed. You will return to him and finish."
"But the child is in the hospital, under guard, there is no way."
"You will find a way. You are chosen to serve, do so."
"Your will, Master."
"There are others who call to us, they too must be released; they must join."
"How many more Master? It is pain; release me."
"Your pain is irrelevant."
***********
"So how do you know all that stuff? The obvious answer is that you're a weirdo, but since that's a given I'm going to ask for further illumination; and next time we play Trivial Pursuit, you're on my team."
"Gee thanks for the compliment Sanders. I don't know everything, it just appears that way because you're so bloody ignorant. Now I'll take this slowly for you so you don't get confused. You have a double degree in music and chemistry, correct? Well I have a double degree in music and English literature."
"So what you're telling me Andrews, is that actually you're no bloody use at all?"
"Not in comparison to you moron."
Grissom had left about half an hour ago and Rilie and Greg were sitting companionably in the café attempting to drink enough coffee to poison a small village. Both had decided to ditch class, Rilie, because she wasn't in any sort of condition to pretend attentiveness, and Greg, because Mueller was on the rampage again and he wasn't in the mood to have himself disembowelled over Mueller's hatred of compositions in the minor keys. Both also had ulterior motives that would have seen the pair of them in their respective graves before admitting to the other what they were thinking.
'So tell me Sanders, what's the deal with this Shakespeare Killer, I only know what I read in the paper, which at best is illiterate sensationalism."
"What do you want to know? It doesn't get any more difficult than that the person's a high grade nutter, and a dangerous one at that."
"Well obviously he's dangerous, he's killed quite a few people, I want to know the inside stuff, what do your former mob think is happening here?"
Greg groaned, "You know that stuff is restricted Rilie, that's why the police are investigating it and not you. If you were investigating the murders then I imagine you would have been informed of the latest developments."
"So you think that I'd go and announce my new-found knowledge to the world at large?"
"No, actually I don't, but that's not the point. Can we change the subject here? I don't want to be rude Rilie, but we're fast approaching a line I won't cross."
Never let it be said that Rilie Andrews was stupid, recognising that Greg was being very serious - which frankly scared her having never previously observed this phenomenon - she decided to let it lie; for the moment anyway. Changing tack, Rilie decided that if she couldn't get information she could at least wind Greg up.
"By the way Sanders, Cassidy thinks you're a bit of a hottie, she was most impressed with your form when leaning over a pool table."
Greg's eyes lit up. "Really? Excellent! Do you have her number, Rilie?"
That was NOT supposed to happen. He was supposed to turn red, stammer and display his stunning propensity to be socially clueless. Dammit, Greg was hers. Scratch that, she thought; since when did I start thinking he was mine, he's vaguely amusing, in a Daliesque way, but he's not boyfriend material...especially not Cassidy boyfriend material.
"Sorry Greg, not on me, you think she's cute or something?" Say yes and die Sanders.
"Oh yes" - his mind flicked back to the previous evening and the clinging black dress Cassidy was wearing - "but it's more than that, we had a good talk last night and we have a lot in common."
"Like what?"
"Well for a start, her degree's in biophysics so there's the whole science thing. Her family's also from the same area as mine, so we had a laugh about Las Vegas' inherent inferiority to our home town."
"Well we agree on that anyway. So you didn't spend all your time staring at her breasts like you did with me then?"
"I did not stare at your breasts!" Greg was indignant.
"So there's something wrong with them is there?"
"No. You've got great...oh shit..."
"Would you care to rephrase that while you still have your health?" Now this was more like it, thought Rilie, hours of entertainment for the entire family.
***********
**CUE MUSIC**
"And welcome back to P.R.A.T. News Television, I'm Nelly Lucid, and tonight we go in depth with the profilers, those behavioural scientists who devote themselves to the study of serial killers. Tonight, with me in the studio, is Dr Hahghem Hai who will be explaining the process by which a serial killer is profiled, and to illustrate this process we'll focus on Las Vegas', Shakespeare Killer; good evening doctor."
'Good evening Nelly. Before we start, I'd like to correct a common misapprehension. A profiler doesn't solely deal with serial killers, although those criminals that fit that particular typology are what our work is most well known for. We provide behavioural profiling for all types of criminals. Largely, our work is based on certain behavioural probabilities and as such can be applied to most forms of criminal behaviour. Serial killers are the most well known subjects of the science for the simple reason that their crimes are the most..." and here the doctor paused while he sought a diplomatic synonym for sensationalised, given that he was being interviewed by a representative of said group of sensationalists "...Likely to generate public interest."
"OK then, so what does a profile allow you to do? Can you accurately identify a criminal based on a profile constructed from the clues and evidence collected from a crime scene?"
"Not really, that is, we can't accurately identify an individual based on a profile, if that was the case a lot of criminals would be arrested at their front door. As I said before, profiling is about probabilities; it allows us to narrow down the options of potential perpetrators. For example, it is common for serial killers to murder members of their own race, so, if a Caucasian female is murdered, a primary supposition is that the killer is, themselves, Caucasoid." Similarly, certain actions against the victims can be indicative of past events in the criminal's life that may, and I stress the may, have triggered the chain of future actions."
"Can you give me any examples of that doctor?" The interviewer seemed subdued. However, it was difficult to determine whether this was from considering the import of her guest's words or, and this was more likely, due to the obvious fact that the doctor did not, in any shape or form, fit the criteria of a 'tabloid' guest. So much for blood and guts.
The doctor paused for a moment, considering, before he replied. "OK. Take Edmund Kemper. Now Kemper, while admittedly having psychological problems, sited his killing of co-eds as a response to the treatment he received from his abusive mother, who constantly told him that those were the type of girls that would never be interested in him; So, in part, Edmund's victims represented possession of that thing he was always told he'd never have."
"So what you're saying is that past events may be a trigger?"
"Certainly, but not necessarily. There have been examples of people who have lead perfectly normal lives up until the point at which some trauma completely changed them, this trauma may be psychological or physical; it is, for example, startlingly common for serial killers to have suffered, at some time, a head injury of some sort."
"Thank you doctor, we'll be right back after these messages"
Nelly was beginning to get frustrated, her interview was beginning to resemble an undergraduate lecture in sicko-psychology and her guest seemed quite content to assume the position of pedagogue.
For his part, the Doctor was well aware of what was going through the presenter's alleged mind; he was, however, thoroughly sick of the media doing all in its power to raise human aberrances, like serial killers, to celebrity status, and thus this interview was a tailor made soapbox.
**CUE MUSIC**
"Welcome back. Tonight in the studio we have behavioural psychologist and criminal profiler Dr Hahghem Hai. Doctor, I'd like now to turn your attention to the serial killer that has been preying on Las Vegas for the past few years."
"I'm assuming that you're referring to the so-called 'Shakespeare Killer'."
"That's correct."
"The short answer Nelly, is that this killer is a complete mystery. From a behavioural and analytical position their behaviour is so contradictory as to make constructing a profiler extremely difficult."
"When you say contradictory what do you mean?"
"You remember that I said that profiling is sited in the sorting of behavioural probabilities based on collected evidence, the type of victims and so forth. With this particular criminal what little evidence we have collected doesn't allow us to exclude certain possibilities and therefore forming a picture, even a simplified one, is complicated. For example, if someone is in a psychotic state their actions usually lack planning, evidence extreme rage and can be generally summed up as uncontrolled or chaotic. On the other hand, a psychopathic personality is ordered, clinical and almost detached; what we have with this killer is evidence of both personality types as seen in the extremely careful planning and organisation of the crimes on the one hand, yet on the other, the sheer brutality of the actual killings."
"What does this tell us then?"
"Well frankly, it could mean anything. Some criminals in the past have been smart enough, and aware enough of the profiling science, to leave atypical evidence at the crime scene in the hope of leading the police and others astray. Another possibility is that the person in question is suffering from some sort of psychological problem, perhaps schizophrenia or a type of bi-polar disorder, or less likely, multiple personality disorder."
"Why less likely?"
"Less likely, because true multiple personality disorders are extremely rare, although that hasn't stopped certain criminals in the past from claiming to be under the influence of such, for example Kenneth Bianchi, one of the Hillside Stranglers, concocted an alternate personality named 'Steve', in order to avoid conviction by reason of insanity."
"OK then, accepting the degree of contradictory evidence, what conclusions can you draw from the killings that have been linked to this perpetrator?"
"My personal opinion is that we're dealing with a deeply conflicted individual, one who is compelled to commit these heinous acts yet also feels great remorse for their actions. The messages they have left indicate several things. The first, in the context of the message left, is that the killer feels a sense of superiority to those who pursue him. Secondly, however, is that in the messages the killer is trying to provide those chasing him with clues and evidence of their remorse."
"So what's with the choice of Shakespeare?"
"Shakespeare is essentially the soul of the English literary canon and as such has a quote for all occasions, I know if I wanted to leave an obscure message he'd be my first pick; but the choice of Shakespeare may or may not have any relevance, we could just be dealing with someone who likes literature."
Nelly could see her producer in the operations booth making frantic signals to finish the interview, whether this was due to commercial commitments or to the more than obvious fact that the interview was a bust was unknown. Either way, when this was over she was going to go home, get quietly drunk, and then consider the possibilities for a career change, something probably involving a convent. Acknowledging her producer with a small nod she moved to bring the interview to a close.
"Well, that's all we have time for this evening, I'd like to thank my guest Dr Hahghem. Be sure to return next week when we'll be examining the effects of genetic manipulation on gifted children, until then, goodnight."
Breathing an audible and clearly frustrated sigh of relief, Nelly turned to face her guest, "Well thanks for nothing Doctor."
Hai merely looked amused, "Frankly young lady I'd rather humiliate you than provide the slavering millions with something else to chew over. What you people in the media fail to realise is that these events are more than just sound bites they affect lives. For all you know the gentleman with the fondness for quotations may have been watching this evening. Another thing young woman, this killer cares nothing for race, nor gender in their attacks. I would suggest you go home, bolt your door, and consider that perhaps waving the red rag at the bull you can't see is perhaps not the wisest course of action; now, good evening."
***********
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"What? No."
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"Yes. What? Seriously? No."
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"Which part of no don't you understand?...Ohhh, sorry Martha. Yes, I'll be home on time. Don't forget we have to attend that gala...What do you mean your mother's visiting?"
**KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK**
"Yes Mary?"
"There's a delegation from the Spanish Citizens Association, they want to talk to you about the police persecuting their teenagers."
"Maybe their teenagers should stop committing crimes" was the muttered response.
"What was that Mr Mayor?"
"Nothing..nothing. Do the gentlemen have an appointment?"
"No."
"Well there's a surprise. Make an appointment for them and then make them disappear."
"Yes Mr Mayor. They also asked me to remind you that you're opening their new activity centre next week and that the ceremonial piñata is ready and waiting."
"Do you know what they can do with their piñata Mary?"
"No Mr Mayor, shall I ask them?"
"Just make the appointment Mary."
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"What? No, this isn't Joe's Pizzeria".
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
The Mayor thought about throwing the telephone out of the window; if his timing was good it would hit the Spanish Citizens Delegation just as they were leaving.
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**
"Yes? The chief of police?...Again?...They wrote what?...And we're doing precisely what?...What do you mean 'the usual'? What is 'the usual'? Actually...no, don't tell me, just get Corbin up here within the next ten minutes...I don't care if he's in bloody Brazil with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, ten minutes."
Waldorf Astoria was a busy man, at least that's what he told everyone; the truth of the matter was that the greater part of his day was spent warding off idiots, social panhandlers and assorted bureaucratic functionaries with an over-inflated opinion of their virtually non-existent importance. When given brief surcease from the human detritus it was his constant trial to endure he made increasingly futile attempts to wade through the morass of red tape that threatened to bury his administration.
Astoria was by trade, an accountant, and as such his administration was run with a meticulous attention to detail or, if you listened to his critics, with a complete lack of imagination. Apolitical by nature, Astoria had entered politics driven by a need to clean up the city. This urge to purge, if you will, came not from any sense of misplaced morality, but through the damage done to his sense of order by past administrations. Chaos was anathema and it was his designated - and self-appointed - role to impose order; be it fiscal or related to the actions of his city's less savoury denizens who imposed disorder - like the Spanish Citizens Delegation.
Now, having imposed some sense of fiscal order on his sprawling metropolis - gotta love those tax revenues from the casinos he thought - that supremely disordered maniac, the Shakespeare Killer, was, with supreme irony, he noted, severely disordering his citizens, it was not to be tolerated. Astoria firmly believed that having been elected on a law and order platform that actions that were neither lawful nor orderly were to be discouraged in the strongest possible terms; possibly with the creation of statute outlawing them.
**KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK**
"If that's not the Chief of Police, Mary, then it better be good."
"Don't call me Mary" was the gruff reply. In all honesty, this was a fair enough request as Corbin Calliope looked about as different from anyone named Mary as was possible to imagine. Standing six foot four and apparently constructed out of reinforced concrete, Corbin looked more like a well-groomed lumberjack than a policeman - although the badge and the uniform tended to give it away.
"What can I do for you this evening Waldorf? Mary indicated that you were most anxious for my company."
"Very funny" replied the mayor sourly. "Have you read the paper?"
"The Tribune?"
Receiving only an abrupt herk of the head by way of acknowledgement, the Chief continued. "Can I surmise that you are somewhat perturbed by the headline?"
" 'Killer Dances on City Hall's Ineptitude', you expect me to be happy about this?"
"It's not particularly flattering" was the laconic response.
"Flattering?!" bellowed Astoria, "Are you trying to be funny? This is appalling; it makes me look like an idiot. How many men do you have on this, Corbin?"
"As many as can be spared"
"Spared? What do you mean, spared?!"
"We don't have enough staff to devote to this and the other crimes that are happening. It's not like the other criminals are taking a holiday while this guy roams the streets; for them this is Christmas."
"Why don't you have enough staff"
"That would be because you cut our budget fifteen percent, you mentioned something about efficiency at the time if I remember correctly."
"Don't you get hissy with me Corbin, this is too important, there are citizens lives at risk here."
"And your job"
That's right, and my jo...watch yourself Corbin, save your petty point scoring for the police bar. If nothing else, we need to get the message out that we're doing something about this, so in light of this, you're going to go speak with this reporter, this...this.."
"Babylon?"
"Yes, Babylon, as in The Whore, thereof. Fix it so she shuts up or at least gives us some good press."
"You want me to organise a hit squad boss?" this was said in a faux nineteen-thirties gangster voice.
"Very funny. Actually, why don't you organise someone else to talk to her, the last thing I need right now is some insensitive clod with no media savvy screwing things up."
"Yes Mr Mayor, I'll get right on it, I know just the person."
*********
It was just after 6PM when Greg turned into the parking lot of the CSI building, he'd thought that he'd pop in to talk to Grissom about the part- time work he had been offered when he'd encountered his former boss at the university that morning. Getting out of his car, he almost immediately run into Jim Brass, who wore the look of the terminally harassed. With the ascension of the new police chief, Calliope - the unctuous Mobley having succumbed to the rare PPE virus several months previous - Brass had found himself back in favour with the powers that be. From an administrative perspective this was excellent, no more red tape battles over mindless ephemera, unfortunately, however, having the backing of the laconic chief meant that Jim could no longer coast by with his primary function being that of conspiring with Grissom to antagonise their boss.
" 'lo Greg, What brings you here?"
"Ran into Grissom, he's asked me to do some part time work" Greg grinned mischievously, "I'm going to be a consultant."
"Not with me signing the bills you're not."
"Oh well, can't hurt to try. Anyway, is Grissom in?"
"No." At this, Jim grinned evilly; "he's on media duty, special request of the Mayor.
Personally, I don't think the mayor asked for Grissom specifically, but I do know that Corbin - that's the new chief, Greg - has a twisted sense of humour and he knows how much Grissom hates the media."
"How does he know this?"
Brass chuckled, "That would be because I told him. I've got to go, someone dug up some corpses at the cemetery again and this time they dressed them in army surplus. The priest thought he was being raided."
Shaking his head at how little things changed, Greg entered the building and wandered down to the break room to see if anyone was around. Finding no- one, he swung by Grissom's office to leave a note and then, just as he was preparing to leave
it began raining CSIs and soon he was surrounded by a pointing, jabbering mob.
Well, not really, but they asked many questions.
Tactful as ever, Sara demanded to know when he was coming back, complaining that Vincent was an ungrateful incompetent; of course this was heard by Vincent passing through on his way to the ballistics lab and he stared daggers at Sara who turned a particularly unflattering shade of purple.
"Way to go Sidle. Please tell us you're coming back Greg, Sara's ready to murder Vincent and it looks like the feeling's mutual."
Greg shrugged "No idea Nick, that's why I'm here. Unfortunately, Grissom's undergoing trial by media at the moment so it will have to be sorted out later."
"But you are coming back?"
"That's the idea Sara, but in a part time capacity only, I told Grissom that it couldn't interfere with what I was currently doing."
"Which is? You still haven't told us what it is you're doing."
"No I haven't have I? Oh well, the suspense is good for you." Just as well I made Grissom's discretion a condition of coming back he thought to himself
Catherine rolled her eyes a Greg's reticence; truth be told, she was glad he was coming back, not only because of the regard in which she held his technical skills, but because she also felt that his particular brand of chaos kept the rest of them losing their minds over the stressful situations they encountered. "So what's the deal Greg?"
"In the mornings before cl...before what I'm doing and then for a few hours after I ...er...finish what I'm doing, so anywhere between five and six hours, although that is severely situation dependant. I made sure that Grissom understood that this would be fitted in around my current schedule. I need to maintain some form of income."
"Aha! So you're not currently working."
"Nick, leave it alone, Greg's said he's not telling, so let it go."
"You spoil all my fun Warrick" replied Nick, pretending to sulk. Warrick merely shook his head in bemused exasperation.
"Look guys, I've got to go, I need to feed Benzine."
"Your car?"
"No, my cat."
"You've got a cat? Poor creature."
"Shut up Nick. We'll see you later Greg, c'mon guys, let's go stuff Nick in the morgue with a soup-y."
Greg grinned as he left; Nick's despairing cries and pleadings following him down the corridor.
**********
For all his faults, there was one thing that Gil Grissom wasn't and that was political. He hated the thought that the scope of his job was essentially run at the whim of a person's morality. Grissom wasn't so naive as to think that he could avoid politics he just wished that he could be removed from some of it's more capricious acts, like being directed to talk to the media and in particular The Las Vegas Tribune's senior crime reporter, Agatha Babylon.
So here he was, waiting in the foyer of the Tribune. He'd been told to be here at 5:00 and it was now 6:30. Finally, fed up - and having read through all the available magazines - he decided that an hour and a half was an acceptable period to devote to the cause of politics. Preparing to leave, he was almost run down by a long-haired, midget who swept past him and charged straight up to the receptionist, who, after a few muttered words, pointed at Grissom's retreating back.
"Mr. Gruesome? Mr. Gruesome...please, wait."
A CSI would have hastily headed for the nearest exit at this point; long exposure to Grissom having preternaturally tuned their senses to the grinding of his teeth. This person - and that was mere approximation on Grissom's part - was another matter entirely
"It's Grissom, actually," he said mildly as he turned to face her. On closer inspection, Grissom conceded that calling this annoying little bug a midget wasn't entirely fair; yes she was short but no threat to any respectable garden gnome. Her diminutive stature was compensated for - and Grissom used that term in its broadest possible sense - by a personality that bore a remarkable resemblance to nails on a blackboard and a voice that could bend metal at a thousand yards.
"Mr. Gruesome," she continued, ignoring his correction "I'm Agatha Babylon." Here she paused as if waiting for unheard applause to finish, "If you'll come this way please, we'll begin." Grissom, resigned to his fate, followed, escorted only by a sympathetic look from the receptionist as she watched his retreating back.
After following his tormentor down a maze of corridors for what seemed like an eternity, Grissom found himself escorted into a large office that had recently been under nuclear attack.
"Take a seat Mr. Gruesome."
"It's Grissom"
"Yes that's right, sorry; so you're here to talk about the Shakespeare Killer, correct?" This was said with the enthusiasm of a shark invited to spend the afternoon in a crowded paddling pool.
"I have been asked, by way of the Mayor, to answer those questions you feel are pertinent to providing a degree of reassurance to the public that everything is being done to catch the person or persons responsible for these killings."
"That being said then, just how much of a sick, twisted pervert is this killer Mr. Grissom?"
"I don't think the answer to that would be reassuring Ms. Babylon, and since we haven't caught him I couldn't tell you."
"But surely you have some idea, I mean this man hangs people from ceilings from meat hooks and nails pages of hardcore pornography into their foreheads, that's pretty twisted is it not?"
Grissom was flummoxed "Where did you hear these things?"
"I have my sources who shall, of course, remain confidential"
"You should probably invest in some new sources then, it would appear that their contact with the facts is sporadic at best."
Ms. Babylon was not amused. Ms. Babylon, it appeared had no discernable sense of humour at all. "My readers have a right to know, Mr. Grissom."
"That's why I'm here."
"Let's continue then. Did the killer have sex with the corpses? Did he desecrate them?"
"Well firstly, you're assuming that the killer is a male. We have no evidence that this is the case."
'Surely it must be a male, Mr. Gibbon..."
"Grissom."
"Grissom...sorry...no female could possibly do that."
"Do what?"
"That."
"That?"
"That. You're not helping Mr. Grissom. Let's try that again: did the killer desecrate or in any way sexually violate the corpses?"
"No."
"How disappointing," she murmured.
"Alright then, how about messages, Mr. Grissom. Did the killer leave any messages?"
"For whom?"
"Father Christmas perhaps? Stop playing stupid Grissom. Were any messages, notes or forms of communication left by the killer?"
"Other than the bodies? I'd consider leaving a body as a pretty big message."
"Yes. Other than the bodies." Babylon let out a long-suffering sigh, this interview wasn't going as she planned. For a start, this man, Crispen...no that wasn't it...aha! Grissom was his name, was completely unhelpful, she wasn't sure if he was being deliberately misleading or completely clueless. She didn't think the Mayor would have sent her an idiot, but then again, since she had called the Mayor an uptight prig with a messiah complex, she wasn't expecting any favours. She returned her attention to the man realising she'd just caught the end of what he'd been saying.
"Could you repeat that for me please?"
Grissom shrugged. He had to admit that he was having more fun with this interview than he thought he would, previously aware, as he was, of Ms. Babylon's reputation for, at best, scare-mongering, tabloid journalism. There was, he prided himself, a lot to be said for being profoundly literal at times. If nothing else it annoyed the hell out of people, and the several years practise he'd had baiting his staff was paying dividends.
"I said that the only messages that the killer left were the Shakespearean quotations you and your colleagues are so fond of."
"What do they have to do with the killings?"
"I don't know, maybe he didn't have a pen with him for the first killing and had to improvise and liked the idea so much he kept doing it."
"I meant," - this through clenched teeth - "Is there a link between what the messages say and a possible motive for the killings."
"I'll ask him, or her, when we catch them."
"So you expect to catch them soon?"
"I didn't say that."
"Do you expect to catch them at all?"
"We have hopes."
"How about a clue?"
"Several."
"Such as?"
"Now that would be telling Ms. Babylon, and we can't afford to compromise the investigation."
"But my readers..."
"Yes your readers would perhaps be best advised not to let any strangers into their house and indeed pay attention to any strangers in their area."
"But that sort of information is no different from the previous interviews given by the Chief of Police and the Mayor, it doesn't tell us anything."
"So precisely what sort of information did you want Ms. Babylon? Something prurient perhaps? A little scandal? A vivid description, or maybe even the killer's summer fashion colours? Look Ms. Babylon, I care nothing for your newspaper and even less for your style of - and I hesitate to use the word in your case - journalism. Why don't you tell your readers that the police are doing everything they can and leave it at that."
"You have no right to talk to me that way, Grissom," she spat. "I have important friends and people listen to me."
"I'm very happy for you Ms. Babylon, have a pleasant day." And so saying, Grissom rose from his chair and left the office, the penetrating shrieks of the enraged harpy following him to the lobby. Handing his visitor's pass to the receptionist, he paused briefly and asked if Babylon was normally like that - the shrieks still clearly audible throughout the building.
Maintaining a bland expression, the receptionist informed him that this was a good day and that leaving now would be the course of wisdom before Ms. Babylon came looking for him with a knife.
Taking such wisdom advice under advisement, Grissom beat a hasty retreat.
*********
It had been a long day, a day without respite or surcease from the slings and arrows thrown his way without a hint of compassion or remorse; truth be told, Greg felt like a dishrag, wrung out by an indifferent world.
If Benzine had been human she would have mocked him for the melodrama, but being a cat, she settled for looking infuriatingly superior; Greg got the idea though.
"Yeah, Yeah, I know. Go chase a mouse or something."
Benzine ignored him, curled up on his latest copy of Hustler and went to sleep.
Greg thought briefly about throwing a cactus at the cat, but in the interests of domestic tranquillity decided to start his latest composition assignment from Mueller. In her wisdom, Mueller had stated that the composition was to be a minimum of ten minutes in length but no longer than two movements; in short her scope was so broad as to called 'The Rope' assignment by the students - as in 'give 'em enough rope...'
Choosing a composition style was never difficult for Greg since he invariably chose a minor key so that he could wander around in the sombre, muted tones of his own despair; even when he was happy his music walked in a reverie accompanied only by his own self-induced solitude. As for a format, well, the stately grace of the fugue gave Greg all the scope he needed to be as depressing as hell. If nothing else, it would be worth the trouble merely for the sight of Mueller as soon as she saw the key signature.
Nevertheless, for the moment, he was weary, weary and a little confused; his life was taking twists he hadn't imagined when he left the lab and now he was returning. Then there was Rilie. Rilie of the viperish tongue and the tar pit of a mind - not forgetting of course the body, but going there was just asking for a slapping not that that was completely objectionable either. He was rambling now, time to call it a night, maybe the world would be less confusing in the morning.