Another chapter out the way: you know, I'm starting to think that if I
actually planned things out instead of just writing this off the top of my
head this fic would move a bit faster.
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to my betas. After the last update I decided I hated the grammar form so much in the first 3 pages that I essentially rewrote large bits of it. So, large bits of this are unbeta- d, blame me, not them. Then again, Mich has been distracted of late and Emily is probably convinced I'm a psycho, so we'll just have to see.
On a side note: I hate this chapter, it sucks, badly, please feel free to agree with me.
Finally, [god I'm longwinded], does someone want to give me a CSI writing challenge, any character/ inclusions etc. I'm thinking a change of pace might help with this nightmare.
If anyone is still out there, reading and enjoying this fic, please read and review.cheers
Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid. (Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856))
What can you say about a society that says that God is dead and Elvis is alive? (Irv Kupcinet)
Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality. (Jules de Gaultier)
The hospital had been built in a wealthy area, which in and of itself was a bold move by the city authorities, in that while the rich approved of the concept of health care, a hospital was where one went, it wasn't located down the road from the country club. Yet, the location of the hospital wasn't the only brave decision made by the County Council. In naming the facility after Saint Ignatius the Lame, the Council had demonstrated once again the bureaucratic talent for adopting the wildly inappropriate. Saint Ignatius was famous not so much for his miraculous powers of healing as he was for making the blind lame and the live dead. His beatification and eventual elevation to sainthood was testament more to delicious irony than a coherent policy of spiritual recognition and reward, it was a sainthood bestowed, when at his death, all his patients made a remarkable recovery. Due to the lack of medical knowledge at the time, this mass return to health was interpreted as a miracle, and a sign of Ignatius' divinity.
The newest arrival at the hospital was a celebrity for all the wrong reasons. The latest, and youngest victim of the Shakespeare Killer, or so the maniac was known, was rushed to Saint Ignatius' after his mother was found butchered and he nailed to a wall sans tongue beside her. To the surgeons' relief the tongue was found affixed to the wall and in a marathon session of surgery, the tongue was successfully reattached and the child was now recovering in a private suite under twenty-four guard.
The chief administrator of the hospital, had protested vehemently about the presence of police in his hospital, questioning whether one child really need so much protection. The chief administrator didn't mention his fear that the presence of the police would scare away the wealthy reconstructive surgery patients - essentially the hospital's bottom line- who filled its private wing to overflowing.
The police response had been blunt having dealt with hospital administrators and their bottom line in the past. In terms as polite as their limited patience would allow, the police put it to the administrator that having a temporary police presence at the hospital was probably less damaging in terms of publicity, than having a well-known and universally unloved maniac turn up in search of the child and deciding, while waiting, to attach a few of the hospital's other - read wealthy - patients to the walls. Unsurprisingly, the administrator caved in at this point.
Of course, neither the hospital, nor the police, had consulted with the killer who had made other plans; at least inasmuch as he was able to call the echoes that crawled mellifluously through the inner reaches of his mind, plans. Compulsion is a dangerous thing, and a concept difficult for those not similarly compelled to understand. Accusations to the effect that if the subject had exerted a modicum of self-control then the geas could at least have been subliminated behind an appropriate social façade could be safely ignored. When he was able to gain some freedom, a surcease from the rage and unquenchable hatred, remorse and compassion almost overwhelmed him. But never for long enough. Never for a period of time that would allow him to escape the iron fist that grasped his mind and repent of his sins.
Hell would be a welcome respite, for in hell there was death.
He approached from the East, waiting in the twilight-shrouded wood that surrounded the hospital for the appropriate moment. Waiting was the key, waiting and watching, as the unending commands had driven him from the meticulous planning so intrinsic to his nature and his success evasion of capture. He had tried to argue that the masters' purpose was best served by giving him time to plan, to observe; but their lust for the task, in their eyes, unfinished, precluded caution, prevented planning.
There were police everywhere, what with their comings and goings and the regular patrols through the hospital grounds; it was as if they were expecting company. He wondered what, or whom, the police on guard had been told to watch out for, probably someone 'suspicious', a category that pretty much covered most of the population of metropolitan Las Vegas.
Making his way through the shadows, he entered the hospital through the deserted ambulance bay, the police having decided that they couldn't effectively guard a continuously busy driveway. Taking the back stairs he quickly ascended to the second floor, which housed the reception. Slipping quietly into the waiting area, he took a seat making himself inconspicuous shrouded by the cloak or ordinariness woven about his person.
"Can I help you sir?' inquired a nurse from the reception counter.
Raising his head slightly, he responded with a polite "No thank you, I am waiting for someone", before returning to the magazine he was ostensibly reading. In reality he was watching for the police, not out of fear of discovery, but because the best place to find a person under police protection was to look for where the police were moving to and from. Sure enough about twenty minutes after he had sat down, two uniformed officers emerged from the lift in front of reception, nodded amiably at the desk nurse, and made their way down the corridor.
After waiting a suitable interval, he rose from his seat and headed in the direction the police officers had gone. Even with the officers no longer in sight, his final destination became clear as signs directed him firstly towards the children's ward and then towards the private wing of that self- same area. He didn't know for sure that the child would indeed be there but logic dictated that the police would want to keep the child in a more secure area than a general ward.
A few minutes of silent prowling eventually led him to a corridor that branched off from the main ward, pausing at the junction he heard the basso rumble of muted voices and a surreptitious glance around the corner confirmed the presence of the police - four of them; probably a shift change.
It was then that a small voice interrupted his meditations.
"Hello mister."
The source, located somewhere below his hip, was blond with a puckish face and bright blue eyes.
He knelt to be closer to her eye level, "Hello child, what can I do for you?"
"Kill her!" screamed the familiar voices, "We demand this child."
"No." He answered silently, "You may not have her, she is not why I have come."
"Have you seen my Mummy and Daddy? They were supposed to come see me."
"Sorry child, I have not. Where is your bed, you should not be wandering the corridors alone."
"It's this way, do you want to come play?" Innocent, questioning eyes regarded him briefly before she grasped his hand and dragged him behind her; the child and the giant.
"Obey us."
"No Master, this is neither the time nor the place, she does not challenge you; I will not submit."
Nearing the main children's ward, the oddly matched pair encountered a flustered looking man and woman, who with a startled exclamation swept the child into their arms.
Grave eyes regarded them from the safety of their arms. "I didn't think you were coming. I thought you had forgotten me."
"No sweetie," replied the mother, "we were held up in traffic"; she turned her gaze to the stranger before her and her husband, "Who is your friend?"
He answered softly, "I found her walking the halls; she had decided that she would find someone else to play with since you had not come. I was returning her to her bed."
The child's parents exchanged relieved glances, "Thank you. We didn't mean to be late, but getting to the hospital since that child escaped that...that psycho, has been just about impossible, you can't move five feet without having to identify yourself."
The killer smiled understandingly, "No offence taken, you can never be too careful. Now, you must excuse me, I have to go." Turning his attention to the child, he gently extended a large hand, which she took in her small one, "Take care little one, it was a pleasure to meet you," releasing her had he nodded silently once more to her parents and began the journey to leave the hospital grounds.
"Where are you going slave, there is work to be done."
"Not in this time, not in this place master. Let the child be, he is not yours to claim."
"You will pay for this slave, you will pay."
"Your will master."
*************
It had been a long day. Admittedly, it was only 7:30, and shift wasn't due to start for another half hour or so, but Gil Grissom felt like he'd been put through the proverbial wringer; but then repeatedly bashing your head against a brick wall tended to have that effect. In fact, after dealing with that Babylon woman, Grissom had firmly resolved to mend his relations with Conrad Ecklie, for in comparison, Ecklie was a paragon of reason and virtue. Breezing past the receptionist with a vague nod, and an even vaguer wave when told he had messages waiting, Grissom headed for his office where he dropped his gear before heading for the one place where he knew he'd find peace and solitude; the morgue.
Unbeknownst to the majority of the staff, Grissom had long ago smuggled a small portable stereo system into the morgue. He'd also - and even more unbeknownst - smuggled in a particularly fine bottle of aged tawny port. When the need took him, he retreated here to collect his thoughts and to make sense of the world around him. Foremost in his mind was not the interview he'd just subjected himself to, nor was it the continuing forensic nightmare that was the Shakespeare Killer, instead his mind turned to the enigma that was Greg.
Grissom knew that his people skills were not the strongest, however, unlike most of the interpersonally clueless, Grissom's lack of skills was due more to unconscious personal choice than through any particular lack of empathy or intuition. Far from being an emotional cripple, Gil Grissom was intensely sensitive, but he had turned those feelings inward, towards his passions and his career, and as a result the connection that most people have with their fellow beings attenuated, then severed, leaving Grissom sometimes grasping for understanding. It was only in the past few years that Grissom, in working with his current colleagues, had been allowed - and indeed allowed himself -a glimpse into a room long forgotten.
Yet for all his failings, Grissom didn't understand how he could have misread Greg to the degree that he had. It wasn't his estimation of Greg's intelligence that Grissom was berating himself over, he was well aware how intelligent the young lab tech was. What was grating on his nerves was the fact that he had mistaken Greg for a cultureless savage. If there was one thing Grissom impressed upon all his staff it was that they should never accept anything at face value.
And lo, the master himself had been undone by the subtle sounds of Black Flag. Next time, he thought, I'll know better, grateful indeed, since his visit to the university, that there would be a next time
**********
Gaunt to the point of emaciation, and enveloped in a penumbra of pure maleficence, the person at reception had had the receptionist suppressing involuntary thoughts involving garlic; in fact, if Brass had been around, he would have arrested the visitor for impersonating the living.
"Can I help you sir?"
"Indeed you may," was the reply, which was more akin to a hollow echo in a long-abandoned corridor than a human voice, "I am seeking a gentleman by name of Grissom. Would you be so good as to inform me if such a personage is currently located on the premises."
"You wish to know if Grissom is here?" asked the receptionist, who had taken a moment to decipher the request.
"I believe that is what I said. Would you be so good as to summon Mr. Grissom, so than one may briefly converse with him on a matter of some import."
"I'll need some sort of identification first sir; for obvious reasons we don't allow unrestricted access to the staff. Past experience has shown that those members of the public whom have had less than favourable dealings with the CSI unit have proven to be somewhat antagonistic."
Digesting this information with due consideration, the gaunt figure reached into the inner pocket of their immaculately presented, grey suit and withdrew a billfold. From this was withdrawn a small rectangle of heavily embossed card from which, after careful examination - the copperplate script being so intricate - the receptionist read that it identified the holder as Jeremiah Doom, attorney-at-law (and senior partner) with Doom, Petit-Morte and Avariss.
"Very well Mr. Doom, I will try to locate Mr. Grissom for you. Might I ask what this visit is in connection with?"
"You may ask," was the only reply.
Fantastic, thought the receptionist, Grissom will be completely overjoyed, so overjoyed in fact, that I can look forward a fifteen-minute bollocking for disturbing him. First, he had to deal with the media and now he is going to go head-to-head with Death's, younger, less-attractive brother. Let's face it, Grissom's never going to win any awards for charm and interpersonal relations, but this guy makes him look like the head of the United Nations Diplomatic Corps.
The receptionist decided that the logical place to start was Grissom's office - so of course Grissom wasn't there. She knew he wasn't with Jim Brass, because Brass had headed out earlier muttering something about cemeteries; she didn't know what it was with Brass and cemeteries but thought that he was probably working himself too hard. If she'd had a few drinks she probably would have sent the sepulchral presence after Brass, if nothing else Jim would have been able to house the guy in an abandoned crypt.
The break room also proved to be another place where the CSI shift supervisor wasn't. Warrick, who'd answered the phone, replied that neither he nor Nick, who was with him, had seen Grissom since last night's shift and that wasn't Grissom supposed to be doing some sort of interview; or at least that's what Greg had said when he'd dropped in earlier.
As a last hope, the receptionist put a call through to Doc Robbins, in what was routinely called 'the butcher's shop' around the lab. Robbins said that no, Grissom wasn't with him, but he had seen him earlier on his way to morgue proper, and since he hadn't, to Robbins knowledge returned, he was, in all probability, still there.
Thanking the doctor, the receptionist dialled the direct extension for the morgue and after a few rings, Grissom answered.
"Mr. Grissom? It's Rosemary at reception, there's a lawyer here to see you, a Mr..." she paused briefly to clarify the visitors name, "...a Mr Doom."
"Did this Mr. Doom tell you WHY he wants to see me?" The receptionist winced at the heavy emphasis placed on the interrogative.
"Sorry Mr. Grissom, he refused. Would you mind coming to reception sir, I get the feeling that nothing short of a death, probably his own, will remove him from the foyer; and frankly, he's giving me the creeps."
Swallowing his instinctive antagonism at such an unprofessional comment and suppressing his resignation at having to surrender his port and music for another time, Grissom agreed to come to reception. Walking back through the 'butchery' he received a sympathetic look from the Doc, as if to say, 'Sorry Gil, but I had no choice'. Acknowledging Robbins' unspoken empathy, Grissom made his way to reception with the incipient dread of a fundamentalist preacher approaching Playboy Mansion. If there was one thing Gil Grissom hated more than the media, it was lawyers. In his mind. while the media were guilty of mere sensationalism, lawyers did everything in their power to muddy the waters of his clean, precise evidence. While Grissom would never go so far as to impugn the integrity of all lawyers, in general he trusted them about as far as he could throw them uphill...into a strong wind...with a fork.
Approaching reception, Grissom was able to see the doom that awaited him, it didn't look promising; only tax lawyers, ambulance chasers or attorneys to the rich and famous wore suits like that.
"Mr. Doom? I'm Gil Grissom, may I help you?" Grissom did not extend his hand.
In return, the lawyer regarded Grissom in such a manner as to make Grissom feel like he was one of his own bugs under a very malicious microscope. "Indeed Mr. Grissom I believe you may. I am given to understand that you are acquainted with the person who has retained my services, a Ms. Babylon."
"I wouldn't say that I 'know' Ms. Babylon, I was, however, at her place of business this afternoon to provide information about a current investigation she has been covering for the Tribune."
"So I am led to believe. Mr. Grissom, my client has retained me in order to initiate slander proceedings against you."
"Slander? Surely, you're not serious."
"Indeed I am Mr. Grissom. Ms. Babylon has stated, and I quote, 'Mr. Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, called into question my personal and professional ethics in such a manner as to cause severe emotional and psychological trauma'. I can assure you Mr. Grissom, that we, at Doom, Petit Morte and Avariss, take such matters quite seriously. However, Ms. Babylon has, quite generously in my opinion, allowed me to approach you with a potential settlement. If you agree to remit payment of one hundred thousand dollars, Ms. Babylon is quite prepared to forgive and forget."
"Mr. Doom, I'm not one to cast professional aspersions, but your willingness to chase such a spurious action is somewhat disconcerting. Inform Ms. Babylon, that there will be no settlement, and further, advise her that if she wishes to engage in a competition of professional ethics I am more than happy to oblige."
Doom received this information with a granite-like expression. "Very well Mr. Grissom, I shall pass on your refusal, of this most generous offer, to our client, be assured, I will be recontacting you shortly. Good day."
Grissom watched the lawyer depart; some small part of him hoping that he would trip and impale himself on the garden stakes that lined the entranceway. Turning to the receptionist he shrugged, and headed towards his office before pausing and turning back to face her. "Rosemary?"
"Yes Mr. Grissom?"
"If Mr. Doom, or any of his associates, call again, call an exorcist or even an exterminator, but don't call me. Clear?"
"Crystal, Mr. Grissom."
**********
Conrad Ecklie was excited, he still looked as stoic as a prohibitionist, but to those who knew him he was bouncing up and down like an excited child after consuming way too much sugar. He couldn't believe no one had thought of it before - and he had checked to make sure, past experience with Grissom having firmly embedded that lesson - and now he knew he had something, something which could blow the case wide open; he couldn't wait to get to work.
**********
It was girls' night; a semi-occasional event where Rilie, Cassidy and a few of their friends gathered to talk, drink and generally raise a little bit of mayhem. This particular evening the group had gathered at Cassidy's and were already several bottles of beer and bourbon into things
"So how long you been banging Greg, Rilie?"
"Huh?"
"You know, Greg. The cutie who was playing pool with us at Uncle Mike's."
"I'm not."
"Who's Greg?" Asked Jacklyn, Cassidy's younger sister, and a fellow music student, although at undergraduate level.
"He's this hottie that Rilie dug up in the music department, she dragged him along to pool night."
"Christ Cass, he's not a hottie, he's just a friend" - well I think he's a friend, he is hot...whoa...so not going there, "I felt kinda sorry for him; think of it like a homeless animal adoption thing."
"Well, if you're not making with the wild monkey sex, can I have him? I told you I thought he was cute"
"No!" Rilie wasn't pleased by this development
"Why not? You can't have it both ways you know."
Rilie sighed to herself, frankly, and if she was being brutally honest with herself, she didn't know how she felt about Greg. Admittedly, a great deal of her ambivalence came from her own insecurities. Sure, it was a cliché, but she'd been hurt before, badly, and she'd sworn that it would never happen again. It wasn't like she was damaged goods, she hastily amended, it was just that trust was a precious commodity, one she wasn't wild about sharing.
But her insecurities didn't address how she felt about Greg.
She wasn't naïve enough to think she was in love with Greg, god, she - being brutally honest - barely knew him. But there was something about him that made her feel good about herself, maybe it was because she recognised a kindred spirit, someone else fighting for acceptance, fighting for their identity, or maybe it was just that he was easy to insult. Whatever it was she felt like herself around him.
"So, what does he look like? Is he a tall, dark stranger?"
"Christ Amie, too many Mills and Boon's for you. What next? Does he ride a bloody white horse?"
"No, but is he hung li.."
"You are so not going there. In fact I don't want to hear any more, see, I am putting my hands over my ears...lalalala..I can't hear what your saying..lalala.."
Shaking her head in comic dismay, Rilie made an abrupt, strategic retreat at that point, throwing a comment about going to the bathroom over her shoulder as she hurried from the room. When she emerged she found Jacklyn waiting for her.
"Alright Rilie, spill, what's really going on, I don't think I've ever seen you this confused over a guy, normally you couldn't care less, and if you're horny you grab what's available...as it were, so what's the what?"
For all her bravado, Rilie didn't know how to answer, at least not in the conventional sense. Her discomfort with her innermost feelings was such that she really should have been born a male: hardly surprising with being raised in a family of males that had a fight when they were feeling emotionally naked. Discussion was carried out through curses, insults and violence, the only thing agreed on that neither their mother nor Rilie was to be involved. This bastardised code of chivalry did more to heighten the tensions in the household than resolve them, as her father and brothers constantly tried to manipulate the women in an eternal endgame of spite and manipulation that had only ended when Rilie's mother had died and Rilie had left.
She sighed, "I don't know Jac, half the time I want to kill this guy, but just when I'm about to slug him he makes me laugh; it's a special thing, especially as I've had precious little to laugh about lately."
Her friend regarded her with sympathy. Considering how hard being Rilie's friend was - Alcatraz had been less closely guarded - Jacklyn understood that Rilie must indeed be truly rattled by this guy, this Greg, to get her to admit to some degree of human frailty. The Rilie, Jacklyn had always known, was as tough as old boots and stable as bedrock, now she seemed to have the emotional calm of a jelly in a high wind, it was most disconcerting.
"Look Jac, don't stress it, Cass just pissed me off because I'm still trying to figure things out and she pushed a bit far, if she wants to chase Greg, then fine, I don't care."
Jacklyn was not convinced.
************
"Alright Sanders, what is a scale?"
Greg groaned; he hated it when Mueller decided to treat the class like a group of retarded lab rats. "A scale is a defined mathematical progression where each note holds a specific, defined relation, not only to the notes before and after but also to the specific construction, or if you prefer label, of the defined or identified sequence."
"Thank you for that Sanders, precisely what language was that in?"
"You asked for a definition professor, I gave you a definition, I wasn't aware that you were after one, specific definition." At the best of times, it was a knife-edge thing to wind Mueller up, but today for some reason, Greg didn't seem to care.
"Strangely enough, this being a composition class, in music no less, I expected a definition that bore some a passing resemblance to music."
"I did" Greg replied shortly. "Music is essentially a form of mathematics, well at least everything from the notation to the intervals to the scales...shall I go on?"
Mueller looked like she was going to implode, her face taking on the semblance of an overstimulated baboon's backside. Out of the corner of his eye Greg also noted a few of the other people in the class preparing to 'duck and cover' for when the inevitable eruption occurred: Greg, however, was not concerned, having endured the various vicissitudes of Grissom at his most pedantically enraged, Mueller was a minor annoyance by comparison.
For some reason the expected explosion didn't eventuate, slowly, heads emerged from beneath desks while others remembered to draw breath. All eyes turned to Mueller, who was looking even more sadistic than ever. "Mr Sanders, come here", the voice had an ominous ring of finality to it.
"Watch out Greg" someone hissed from behind him, "She's dangerous when she's wounded."
Momentarily, the image of putting a bullet between the professor's eyes to finish her off, flashed through Greg's mind but he cast it aside as he slowly - and warily - rose from his seat.
"Now Mr Sanders, since you appear so sure about your knowledge of scales, let us see how it extends into the realm of the practical." Mueller was almost purring. "Your term composition...front and centre" she said, indicating with her hand the piano at the front of the room, "A demonstration is in order."
Greg stopped dead.
"There's nowhere to run Mr Sanders. In addition, I don't want to hear that you don't have your composition here, after all, this is composition class."
"Would you believe that I'm working on it at home?"
"Next."
"Next what?"
"Contrary to popular opinion Mr Sanders, I am neither naïve, insane, nor for that matter, particularly gullible. Whatever excuse you care to create I've heard. Whatever evasion you may conjure it won't work. So I suggest, in the interests of saving us both a great deal of time and effort why don't you shut up and get on with presenting what you've done; clear?"
Resigned to the inevitable, Greg made his way to the piano. He gave brief thought to making a run for it, but Mueller, perhaps sensing his line of thought, had moved to block the door and since she was built along the lines of a steroid-enhanced linebacker, the chances of Greg barging past were vanishingly small. He also decided against diving out the third-floor window, as the nearest fountain was several hundred metres out of range.
Seating himself at the piano, Greg went through the mandatory stretches; fingers, shoulders, neck - he would have stretched his toes if he thought he could have got away with it, but a murderous look from Mueller convinced him he should stop stalling and just get the exercise in ritual disembowelment over and done with; Greg was well aware that he could compose Beethoven's fifteenth symphony and Mueller would still tell him it sucked.
A note, adagio and then another, a skeletal framework constructed from a barren sound-scape slowly began to emerge, each note flaring then dying in a stately march that bespoke a desolation that hammered on the unconscious mind of the listener and was more affecting for the evocation of remembered hurt than of pain imagined.
The silence left by the final note was shattered by the sound of several students surreptitiously swallowing tears, hoping that no one would notice. Even Mueller seemed strangely quiet, "Very affecting Mr Sanders, and pray, what do you call this piece?"
"D.O.A , Professor; Dead On Arrival."
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to my betas. After the last update I decided I hated the grammar form so much in the first 3 pages that I essentially rewrote large bits of it. So, large bits of this are unbeta- d, blame me, not them. Then again, Mich has been distracted of late and Emily is probably convinced I'm a psycho, so we'll just have to see.
On a side note: I hate this chapter, it sucks, badly, please feel free to agree with me.
Finally, [god I'm longwinded], does someone want to give me a CSI writing challenge, any character/ inclusions etc. I'm thinking a change of pace might help with this nightmare.
If anyone is still out there, reading and enjoying this fic, please read and review.cheers
Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid. (Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856))
What can you say about a society that says that God is dead and Elvis is alive? (Irv Kupcinet)
Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality. (Jules de Gaultier)
The hospital had been built in a wealthy area, which in and of itself was a bold move by the city authorities, in that while the rich approved of the concept of health care, a hospital was where one went, it wasn't located down the road from the country club. Yet, the location of the hospital wasn't the only brave decision made by the County Council. In naming the facility after Saint Ignatius the Lame, the Council had demonstrated once again the bureaucratic talent for adopting the wildly inappropriate. Saint Ignatius was famous not so much for his miraculous powers of healing as he was for making the blind lame and the live dead. His beatification and eventual elevation to sainthood was testament more to delicious irony than a coherent policy of spiritual recognition and reward, it was a sainthood bestowed, when at his death, all his patients made a remarkable recovery. Due to the lack of medical knowledge at the time, this mass return to health was interpreted as a miracle, and a sign of Ignatius' divinity.
The newest arrival at the hospital was a celebrity for all the wrong reasons. The latest, and youngest victim of the Shakespeare Killer, or so the maniac was known, was rushed to Saint Ignatius' after his mother was found butchered and he nailed to a wall sans tongue beside her. To the surgeons' relief the tongue was found affixed to the wall and in a marathon session of surgery, the tongue was successfully reattached and the child was now recovering in a private suite under twenty-four guard.
The chief administrator of the hospital, had protested vehemently about the presence of police in his hospital, questioning whether one child really need so much protection. The chief administrator didn't mention his fear that the presence of the police would scare away the wealthy reconstructive surgery patients - essentially the hospital's bottom line- who filled its private wing to overflowing.
The police response had been blunt having dealt with hospital administrators and their bottom line in the past. In terms as polite as their limited patience would allow, the police put it to the administrator that having a temporary police presence at the hospital was probably less damaging in terms of publicity, than having a well-known and universally unloved maniac turn up in search of the child and deciding, while waiting, to attach a few of the hospital's other - read wealthy - patients to the walls. Unsurprisingly, the administrator caved in at this point.
Of course, neither the hospital, nor the police, had consulted with the killer who had made other plans; at least inasmuch as he was able to call the echoes that crawled mellifluously through the inner reaches of his mind, plans. Compulsion is a dangerous thing, and a concept difficult for those not similarly compelled to understand. Accusations to the effect that if the subject had exerted a modicum of self-control then the geas could at least have been subliminated behind an appropriate social façade could be safely ignored. When he was able to gain some freedom, a surcease from the rage and unquenchable hatred, remorse and compassion almost overwhelmed him. But never for long enough. Never for a period of time that would allow him to escape the iron fist that grasped his mind and repent of his sins.
Hell would be a welcome respite, for in hell there was death.
He approached from the East, waiting in the twilight-shrouded wood that surrounded the hospital for the appropriate moment. Waiting was the key, waiting and watching, as the unending commands had driven him from the meticulous planning so intrinsic to his nature and his success evasion of capture. He had tried to argue that the masters' purpose was best served by giving him time to plan, to observe; but their lust for the task, in their eyes, unfinished, precluded caution, prevented planning.
There were police everywhere, what with their comings and goings and the regular patrols through the hospital grounds; it was as if they were expecting company. He wondered what, or whom, the police on guard had been told to watch out for, probably someone 'suspicious', a category that pretty much covered most of the population of metropolitan Las Vegas.
Making his way through the shadows, he entered the hospital through the deserted ambulance bay, the police having decided that they couldn't effectively guard a continuously busy driveway. Taking the back stairs he quickly ascended to the second floor, which housed the reception. Slipping quietly into the waiting area, he took a seat making himself inconspicuous shrouded by the cloak or ordinariness woven about his person.
"Can I help you sir?' inquired a nurse from the reception counter.
Raising his head slightly, he responded with a polite "No thank you, I am waiting for someone", before returning to the magazine he was ostensibly reading. In reality he was watching for the police, not out of fear of discovery, but because the best place to find a person under police protection was to look for where the police were moving to and from. Sure enough about twenty minutes after he had sat down, two uniformed officers emerged from the lift in front of reception, nodded amiably at the desk nurse, and made their way down the corridor.
After waiting a suitable interval, he rose from his seat and headed in the direction the police officers had gone. Even with the officers no longer in sight, his final destination became clear as signs directed him firstly towards the children's ward and then towards the private wing of that self- same area. He didn't know for sure that the child would indeed be there but logic dictated that the police would want to keep the child in a more secure area than a general ward.
A few minutes of silent prowling eventually led him to a corridor that branched off from the main ward, pausing at the junction he heard the basso rumble of muted voices and a surreptitious glance around the corner confirmed the presence of the police - four of them; probably a shift change.
It was then that a small voice interrupted his meditations.
"Hello mister."
The source, located somewhere below his hip, was blond with a puckish face and bright blue eyes.
He knelt to be closer to her eye level, "Hello child, what can I do for you?"
"Kill her!" screamed the familiar voices, "We demand this child."
"No." He answered silently, "You may not have her, she is not why I have come."
"Have you seen my Mummy and Daddy? They were supposed to come see me."
"Sorry child, I have not. Where is your bed, you should not be wandering the corridors alone."
"It's this way, do you want to come play?" Innocent, questioning eyes regarded him briefly before she grasped his hand and dragged him behind her; the child and the giant.
"Obey us."
"No Master, this is neither the time nor the place, she does not challenge you; I will not submit."
Nearing the main children's ward, the oddly matched pair encountered a flustered looking man and woman, who with a startled exclamation swept the child into their arms.
Grave eyes regarded them from the safety of their arms. "I didn't think you were coming. I thought you had forgotten me."
"No sweetie," replied the mother, "we were held up in traffic"; she turned her gaze to the stranger before her and her husband, "Who is your friend?"
He answered softly, "I found her walking the halls; she had decided that she would find someone else to play with since you had not come. I was returning her to her bed."
The child's parents exchanged relieved glances, "Thank you. We didn't mean to be late, but getting to the hospital since that child escaped that...that psycho, has been just about impossible, you can't move five feet without having to identify yourself."
The killer smiled understandingly, "No offence taken, you can never be too careful. Now, you must excuse me, I have to go." Turning his attention to the child, he gently extended a large hand, which she took in her small one, "Take care little one, it was a pleasure to meet you," releasing her had he nodded silently once more to her parents and began the journey to leave the hospital grounds.
"Where are you going slave, there is work to be done."
"Not in this time, not in this place master. Let the child be, he is not yours to claim."
"You will pay for this slave, you will pay."
"Your will master."
*************
It had been a long day. Admittedly, it was only 7:30, and shift wasn't due to start for another half hour or so, but Gil Grissom felt like he'd been put through the proverbial wringer; but then repeatedly bashing your head against a brick wall tended to have that effect. In fact, after dealing with that Babylon woman, Grissom had firmly resolved to mend his relations with Conrad Ecklie, for in comparison, Ecklie was a paragon of reason and virtue. Breezing past the receptionist with a vague nod, and an even vaguer wave when told he had messages waiting, Grissom headed for his office where he dropped his gear before heading for the one place where he knew he'd find peace and solitude; the morgue.
Unbeknownst to the majority of the staff, Grissom had long ago smuggled a small portable stereo system into the morgue. He'd also - and even more unbeknownst - smuggled in a particularly fine bottle of aged tawny port. When the need took him, he retreated here to collect his thoughts and to make sense of the world around him. Foremost in his mind was not the interview he'd just subjected himself to, nor was it the continuing forensic nightmare that was the Shakespeare Killer, instead his mind turned to the enigma that was Greg.
Grissom knew that his people skills were not the strongest, however, unlike most of the interpersonally clueless, Grissom's lack of skills was due more to unconscious personal choice than through any particular lack of empathy or intuition. Far from being an emotional cripple, Gil Grissom was intensely sensitive, but he had turned those feelings inward, towards his passions and his career, and as a result the connection that most people have with their fellow beings attenuated, then severed, leaving Grissom sometimes grasping for understanding. It was only in the past few years that Grissom, in working with his current colleagues, had been allowed - and indeed allowed himself -a glimpse into a room long forgotten.
Yet for all his failings, Grissom didn't understand how he could have misread Greg to the degree that he had. It wasn't his estimation of Greg's intelligence that Grissom was berating himself over, he was well aware how intelligent the young lab tech was. What was grating on his nerves was the fact that he had mistaken Greg for a cultureless savage. If there was one thing Grissom impressed upon all his staff it was that they should never accept anything at face value.
And lo, the master himself had been undone by the subtle sounds of Black Flag. Next time, he thought, I'll know better, grateful indeed, since his visit to the university, that there would be a next time
**********
Gaunt to the point of emaciation, and enveloped in a penumbra of pure maleficence, the person at reception had had the receptionist suppressing involuntary thoughts involving garlic; in fact, if Brass had been around, he would have arrested the visitor for impersonating the living.
"Can I help you sir?"
"Indeed you may," was the reply, which was more akin to a hollow echo in a long-abandoned corridor than a human voice, "I am seeking a gentleman by name of Grissom. Would you be so good as to inform me if such a personage is currently located on the premises."
"You wish to know if Grissom is here?" asked the receptionist, who had taken a moment to decipher the request.
"I believe that is what I said. Would you be so good as to summon Mr. Grissom, so than one may briefly converse with him on a matter of some import."
"I'll need some sort of identification first sir; for obvious reasons we don't allow unrestricted access to the staff. Past experience has shown that those members of the public whom have had less than favourable dealings with the CSI unit have proven to be somewhat antagonistic."
Digesting this information with due consideration, the gaunt figure reached into the inner pocket of their immaculately presented, grey suit and withdrew a billfold. From this was withdrawn a small rectangle of heavily embossed card from which, after careful examination - the copperplate script being so intricate - the receptionist read that it identified the holder as Jeremiah Doom, attorney-at-law (and senior partner) with Doom, Petit-Morte and Avariss.
"Very well Mr. Doom, I will try to locate Mr. Grissom for you. Might I ask what this visit is in connection with?"
"You may ask," was the only reply.
Fantastic, thought the receptionist, Grissom will be completely overjoyed, so overjoyed in fact, that I can look forward a fifteen-minute bollocking for disturbing him. First, he had to deal with the media and now he is going to go head-to-head with Death's, younger, less-attractive brother. Let's face it, Grissom's never going to win any awards for charm and interpersonal relations, but this guy makes him look like the head of the United Nations Diplomatic Corps.
The receptionist decided that the logical place to start was Grissom's office - so of course Grissom wasn't there. She knew he wasn't with Jim Brass, because Brass had headed out earlier muttering something about cemeteries; she didn't know what it was with Brass and cemeteries but thought that he was probably working himself too hard. If she'd had a few drinks she probably would have sent the sepulchral presence after Brass, if nothing else Jim would have been able to house the guy in an abandoned crypt.
The break room also proved to be another place where the CSI shift supervisor wasn't. Warrick, who'd answered the phone, replied that neither he nor Nick, who was with him, had seen Grissom since last night's shift and that wasn't Grissom supposed to be doing some sort of interview; or at least that's what Greg had said when he'd dropped in earlier.
As a last hope, the receptionist put a call through to Doc Robbins, in what was routinely called 'the butcher's shop' around the lab. Robbins said that no, Grissom wasn't with him, but he had seen him earlier on his way to morgue proper, and since he hadn't, to Robbins knowledge returned, he was, in all probability, still there.
Thanking the doctor, the receptionist dialled the direct extension for the morgue and after a few rings, Grissom answered.
"Mr. Grissom? It's Rosemary at reception, there's a lawyer here to see you, a Mr..." she paused briefly to clarify the visitors name, "...a Mr Doom."
"Did this Mr. Doom tell you WHY he wants to see me?" The receptionist winced at the heavy emphasis placed on the interrogative.
"Sorry Mr. Grissom, he refused. Would you mind coming to reception sir, I get the feeling that nothing short of a death, probably his own, will remove him from the foyer; and frankly, he's giving me the creeps."
Swallowing his instinctive antagonism at such an unprofessional comment and suppressing his resignation at having to surrender his port and music for another time, Grissom agreed to come to reception. Walking back through the 'butchery' he received a sympathetic look from the Doc, as if to say, 'Sorry Gil, but I had no choice'. Acknowledging Robbins' unspoken empathy, Grissom made his way to reception with the incipient dread of a fundamentalist preacher approaching Playboy Mansion. If there was one thing Gil Grissom hated more than the media, it was lawyers. In his mind. while the media were guilty of mere sensationalism, lawyers did everything in their power to muddy the waters of his clean, precise evidence. While Grissom would never go so far as to impugn the integrity of all lawyers, in general he trusted them about as far as he could throw them uphill...into a strong wind...with a fork.
Approaching reception, Grissom was able to see the doom that awaited him, it didn't look promising; only tax lawyers, ambulance chasers or attorneys to the rich and famous wore suits like that.
"Mr. Doom? I'm Gil Grissom, may I help you?" Grissom did not extend his hand.
In return, the lawyer regarded Grissom in such a manner as to make Grissom feel like he was one of his own bugs under a very malicious microscope. "Indeed Mr. Grissom I believe you may. I am given to understand that you are acquainted with the person who has retained my services, a Ms. Babylon."
"I wouldn't say that I 'know' Ms. Babylon, I was, however, at her place of business this afternoon to provide information about a current investigation she has been covering for the Tribune."
"So I am led to believe. Mr. Grissom, my client has retained me in order to initiate slander proceedings against you."
"Slander? Surely, you're not serious."
"Indeed I am Mr. Grissom. Ms. Babylon has stated, and I quote, 'Mr. Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, called into question my personal and professional ethics in such a manner as to cause severe emotional and psychological trauma'. I can assure you Mr. Grissom, that we, at Doom, Petit Morte and Avariss, take such matters quite seriously. However, Ms. Babylon has, quite generously in my opinion, allowed me to approach you with a potential settlement. If you agree to remit payment of one hundred thousand dollars, Ms. Babylon is quite prepared to forgive and forget."
"Mr. Doom, I'm not one to cast professional aspersions, but your willingness to chase such a spurious action is somewhat disconcerting. Inform Ms. Babylon, that there will be no settlement, and further, advise her that if she wishes to engage in a competition of professional ethics I am more than happy to oblige."
Doom received this information with a granite-like expression. "Very well Mr. Grissom, I shall pass on your refusal, of this most generous offer, to our client, be assured, I will be recontacting you shortly. Good day."
Grissom watched the lawyer depart; some small part of him hoping that he would trip and impale himself on the garden stakes that lined the entranceway. Turning to the receptionist he shrugged, and headed towards his office before pausing and turning back to face her. "Rosemary?"
"Yes Mr. Grissom?"
"If Mr. Doom, or any of his associates, call again, call an exorcist or even an exterminator, but don't call me. Clear?"
"Crystal, Mr. Grissom."
**********
Conrad Ecklie was excited, he still looked as stoic as a prohibitionist, but to those who knew him he was bouncing up and down like an excited child after consuming way too much sugar. He couldn't believe no one had thought of it before - and he had checked to make sure, past experience with Grissom having firmly embedded that lesson - and now he knew he had something, something which could blow the case wide open; he couldn't wait to get to work.
**********
It was girls' night; a semi-occasional event where Rilie, Cassidy and a few of their friends gathered to talk, drink and generally raise a little bit of mayhem. This particular evening the group had gathered at Cassidy's and were already several bottles of beer and bourbon into things
"So how long you been banging Greg, Rilie?"
"Huh?"
"You know, Greg. The cutie who was playing pool with us at Uncle Mike's."
"I'm not."
"Who's Greg?" Asked Jacklyn, Cassidy's younger sister, and a fellow music student, although at undergraduate level.
"He's this hottie that Rilie dug up in the music department, she dragged him along to pool night."
"Christ Cass, he's not a hottie, he's just a friend" - well I think he's a friend, he is hot...whoa...so not going there, "I felt kinda sorry for him; think of it like a homeless animal adoption thing."
"Well, if you're not making with the wild monkey sex, can I have him? I told you I thought he was cute"
"No!" Rilie wasn't pleased by this development
"Why not? You can't have it both ways you know."
Rilie sighed to herself, frankly, and if she was being brutally honest with herself, she didn't know how she felt about Greg. Admittedly, a great deal of her ambivalence came from her own insecurities. Sure, it was a cliché, but she'd been hurt before, badly, and she'd sworn that it would never happen again. It wasn't like she was damaged goods, she hastily amended, it was just that trust was a precious commodity, one she wasn't wild about sharing.
But her insecurities didn't address how she felt about Greg.
She wasn't naïve enough to think she was in love with Greg, god, she - being brutally honest - barely knew him. But there was something about him that made her feel good about herself, maybe it was because she recognised a kindred spirit, someone else fighting for acceptance, fighting for their identity, or maybe it was just that he was easy to insult. Whatever it was she felt like herself around him.
"So, what does he look like? Is he a tall, dark stranger?"
"Christ Amie, too many Mills and Boon's for you. What next? Does he ride a bloody white horse?"
"No, but is he hung li.."
"You are so not going there. In fact I don't want to hear any more, see, I am putting my hands over my ears...lalalala..I can't hear what your saying..lalala.."
Shaking her head in comic dismay, Rilie made an abrupt, strategic retreat at that point, throwing a comment about going to the bathroom over her shoulder as she hurried from the room. When she emerged she found Jacklyn waiting for her.
"Alright Rilie, spill, what's really going on, I don't think I've ever seen you this confused over a guy, normally you couldn't care less, and if you're horny you grab what's available...as it were, so what's the what?"
For all her bravado, Rilie didn't know how to answer, at least not in the conventional sense. Her discomfort with her innermost feelings was such that she really should have been born a male: hardly surprising with being raised in a family of males that had a fight when they were feeling emotionally naked. Discussion was carried out through curses, insults and violence, the only thing agreed on that neither their mother nor Rilie was to be involved. This bastardised code of chivalry did more to heighten the tensions in the household than resolve them, as her father and brothers constantly tried to manipulate the women in an eternal endgame of spite and manipulation that had only ended when Rilie's mother had died and Rilie had left.
She sighed, "I don't know Jac, half the time I want to kill this guy, but just when I'm about to slug him he makes me laugh; it's a special thing, especially as I've had precious little to laugh about lately."
Her friend regarded her with sympathy. Considering how hard being Rilie's friend was - Alcatraz had been less closely guarded - Jacklyn understood that Rilie must indeed be truly rattled by this guy, this Greg, to get her to admit to some degree of human frailty. The Rilie, Jacklyn had always known, was as tough as old boots and stable as bedrock, now she seemed to have the emotional calm of a jelly in a high wind, it was most disconcerting.
"Look Jac, don't stress it, Cass just pissed me off because I'm still trying to figure things out and she pushed a bit far, if she wants to chase Greg, then fine, I don't care."
Jacklyn was not convinced.
************
"Alright Sanders, what is a scale?"
Greg groaned; he hated it when Mueller decided to treat the class like a group of retarded lab rats. "A scale is a defined mathematical progression where each note holds a specific, defined relation, not only to the notes before and after but also to the specific construction, or if you prefer label, of the defined or identified sequence."
"Thank you for that Sanders, precisely what language was that in?"
"You asked for a definition professor, I gave you a definition, I wasn't aware that you were after one, specific definition." At the best of times, it was a knife-edge thing to wind Mueller up, but today for some reason, Greg didn't seem to care.
"Strangely enough, this being a composition class, in music no less, I expected a definition that bore some a passing resemblance to music."
"I did" Greg replied shortly. "Music is essentially a form of mathematics, well at least everything from the notation to the intervals to the scales...shall I go on?"
Mueller looked like she was going to implode, her face taking on the semblance of an overstimulated baboon's backside. Out of the corner of his eye Greg also noted a few of the other people in the class preparing to 'duck and cover' for when the inevitable eruption occurred: Greg, however, was not concerned, having endured the various vicissitudes of Grissom at his most pedantically enraged, Mueller was a minor annoyance by comparison.
For some reason the expected explosion didn't eventuate, slowly, heads emerged from beneath desks while others remembered to draw breath. All eyes turned to Mueller, who was looking even more sadistic than ever. "Mr Sanders, come here", the voice had an ominous ring of finality to it.
"Watch out Greg" someone hissed from behind him, "She's dangerous when she's wounded."
Momentarily, the image of putting a bullet between the professor's eyes to finish her off, flashed through Greg's mind but he cast it aside as he slowly - and warily - rose from his seat.
"Now Mr Sanders, since you appear so sure about your knowledge of scales, let us see how it extends into the realm of the practical." Mueller was almost purring. "Your term composition...front and centre" she said, indicating with her hand the piano at the front of the room, "A demonstration is in order."
Greg stopped dead.
"There's nowhere to run Mr Sanders. In addition, I don't want to hear that you don't have your composition here, after all, this is composition class."
"Would you believe that I'm working on it at home?"
"Next."
"Next what?"
"Contrary to popular opinion Mr Sanders, I am neither naïve, insane, nor for that matter, particularly gullible. Whatever excuse you care to create I've heard. Whatever evasion you may conjure it won't work. So I suggest, in the interests of saving us both a great deal of time and effort why don't you shut up and get on with presenting what you've done; clear?"
Resigned to the inevitable, Greg made his way to the piano. He gave brief thought to making a run for it, but Mueller, perhaps sensing his line of thought, had moved to block the door and since she was built along the lines of a steroid-enhanced linebacker, the chances of Greg barging past were vanishingly small. He also decided against diving out the third-floor window, as the nearest fountain was several hundred metres out of range.
Seating himself at the piano, Greg went through the mandatory stretches; fingers, shoulders, neck - he would have stretched his toes if he thought he could have got away with it, but a murderous look from Mueller convinced him he should stop stalling and just get the exercise in ritual disembowelment over and done with; Greg was well aware that he could compose Beethoven's fifteenth symphony and Mueller would still tell him it sucked.
A note, adagio and then another, a skeletal framework constructed from a barren sound-scape slowly began to emerge, each note flaring then dying in a stately march that bespoke a desolation that hammered on the unconscious mind of the listener and was more affecting for the evocation of remembered hurt than of pain imagined.
The silence left by the final note was shattered by the sound of several students surreptitiously swallowing tears, hoping that no one would notice. Even Mueller seemed strangely quiet, "Very affecting Mr Sanders, and pray, what do you call this piece?"
"D.O.A , Professor; Dead On Arrival."