Another chapter finished. This took even longer than usual – which I bet most of you thought was well nigh impossible. Actually, I'm pretty happy with this, I picked it apart with a fine tooth comb about five times. Anything you hate about this chapter is entirely my doing as I gave my Betas the chapter off as there was some things I wanted to try. I actually gave up on this story at one point and was planning on having a one paragraph epilogue where a stray missile from a nuclear test facility took out the city, but that would have been bad.
Music in this chapter comes from two excellent albums: Brother Where You Bound – by Supertramp and Oil and Gold by Shriekback.
I hope those of you who read this enjoy the chapter and if so inclined write and tell me so.
**********************
"If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?". (The Merchant of Venice: Act III, Scene I).
After all, all he did was string together a lot of old, well-known quotations.
H. L. Mencken, on ShakespeareHe who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche**************************
When the wind is still, there is an almost mournful, elegiac quality to the rain, a grey haze washing the world with a sepia-toned palette.
So pardon me boys
I'm gonna be late
Don't have much choice
I've got to get into shape
The rhythmic thwapping of the windscreen wipers provided a metronomic counterpoint to the restrained pathos coming from the radio. Today was the first day back at the lab and while Greg was prepared to admit to excitement, he was even more aware of the trepidation that crawled along his spine like a mosquito searching for an exposed vein.
Ain't got no feelingsAin't got no pain
Ain't got no reason
To try again
Perspective now allowed him to admit that following his dreams was only part of the reason for leaving the lab. Not that he was ashamed of his decision. At the heart of any professional is a need for respect; the greater the talent the greater the need, and Greg was exceptional. To his credit, and unlike Vincent, he never sought plaudits or attention – if one discounted his flirting and the incessant music. Instead, he stood by his work, and waited. Sometimes he felt like an obedient hound waiting for the approving sound of his master's voice, and perhaps, if especially fortunate a friendly pat.
The waiting, the quiet competence, the robust professionalism – albeit with red and green spiked hair – amounted, in his eyes, to nothing and in his bitterness the slights and the perfunctory acknowledgement of his worth assumed an significance far beyond its actual meaning.
He had realised that once he'd left. Hindsight is an equal opportunity guilt trip.
Don't need no fingerTo point at me
Can't let it linger
I must get free
And so he had run; not that he'd admit to anything other than a dignified departure.
Now he was back - definitely more with the grace and less with the running - and the crux of it all was discovering that he really was needed. Even with that added perspective he didn't stop worrying, worrying more than anything about the reactions of his colleagues. On a personal level he didn't care, life wasn't a popularity contest, but professionally he wondered if he could deal with Sara's cool disdain or Catherine's sardonic detachment. Warrick, he could handle. Warrick had too much of his own private hell to deal with, and as for Nick, well there was only so much of the patronising 'good ol' boy' routine he could stomach before stuffing the affable Texan into the fractional distillation unit; if only as an extension of an ongoing fantasy.
Then there was Grissom.
Somewhat paradoxically, Greg felt the least 'professional' discomfort when considering the lead CSI. To a degree, he considered the air cleared between them, due in part to the encounter at the university and by extension the fact – no matter how dubious – that Grissom was now able to identify his former lab tech as several phyla above the flatworm. Less openly considered, and even less likely to be admitted, was the idea that in some ways the two men, although separated by a generation in age and attitude, were similar; similar in their tendency to present a façade to the world at large and to quietly observe the world through the protection offered by the close-fitting mask of their constructed social persona. Mayhap life was indeed a masquerade, but for both men it was one observed from the edge of the salon.
Anyway, it was also commonly acknowledged that Sara was the sorcerer's apprentice; a position she guarded jealously, and one she would never willingly relinquish no matter how many times Greg asked her if someone had dropped a house on her sister.
With less than a hundred metres to go Greg fought the urge to turn around and head towards anywhere other than the lab, Brazil for example. In fact, the only thing that stopped him was the appearance of Jim Brass in his rear view mirror. Fortunately for Greg's sense of surreality, Brass was in the car behind Greg and not plastered across his back window. Acknowledging Brass' toot with a raised hand, the former and now undisputed lab tech, turned into the parking lot.
After drawing a final, fortifying breath, Greg got out of his car and found that Brass had waited for him, a curiously bemused expression etched on his weathered features.
"We have to stop meeting like this, people will talk."
"Let them talk, I don't care. I'll never tell."
Brass laughed. "It's good to see you again Greg, and for what reason do you grace our humble abode this evening? I don't even think we've vacuumed."
"Never mind, let the dust bunnies have a night off. You should remember why I'm here, you signed the form giving me a pay rise for returning on a consultancy basis."
"I did? I thought that was this month's stationary order. Oh well, now that you're here….."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"That's my job now Greg, staff morale. Since the new chief put me in charge I'm little more than an office functionary; my typing has improved though."
This was a side of Brass, Greg had rarely seen. The relaxed sardonic version of Brass was usually found commiserating - over an alcoholic beverage of Scots origin- with Grissom after the forces of evil had defeated the forces of science in another of the interminable courtroom battles waged in the eponymous name of justice.
"You happy to be back Greg?"
"I think so."
"That doesn't sound overwhelmingly positive."
"You have good hearing."
"So what's up?"
"Just nervous I guess. Why is it that I'm always playing the prodigal, even when I have no wish to."
"That's a problem of your own making Greg, only you can decide where you belong." At this point Brass' cell phone decided to ring, and his answering grimace was enough to indicate his displeasure.
"What's up?"
"Someone's painted all the crypts at St Matilda's neon pink and they also dyed the sacramental wine blue, I guess I better go speak to the pastor, I'll see you later."
"Okay then; and Brass, thanks."
"No problem Greg, don't let the bastards get you down. Not, I hasten to add, that any of the team are bastards, but you know what I mean."
Rolling his eyes in amused resignation, Greg bid the former detective goodbye and headed for the front doors; if anyone had been watching they would have thought that at the very least, Cerberus itself, was guarding the entrance so filled with trepidation was Greg's approach.
It was funny, he thought, how a new perspective on life in general affected the way one perceived those things that had been regarded as commonplace in the past. The CSI building was a case in point, previously, it had been a surrogate home – at least insofar as it gave him somewhere to hide – now, the fluorescent lights created an stark, clinical chiaroscuro, which further emphasized the alienation Greg felt towards this place. Yet, to be fair, it could not be said that the building was lifeless; inasmuch as such an animated hatred of beauty could hardly be completely lacking in some kind of emotional resonance; the Spanish Inquisition would have felt right at home, Greg, however, did not.
Briefly pausing at the reception desk to collect his identity card, Greg acknowledged the message to report to Grissom's office before starting for the evening. While he was certain that the shift head wasn't going to fetter him like a recalcitrant horse there was still a lingering sense of foreboding, a remnant of times past. You're being stupid, he told himself, there is no way that Grissom would treat you like that, and there is even less likelihood you would allow yourself to be treated so.
'Hello Greg." A softly modulated voice roused him from his reverie. Doc Robbins regarded the young man with a patient gaze, which in one questioned and affirmed the presence before him.
"Hi Doc, how're things."
"Dead."
"Other than the morgue."
"Slightly less dead, but just as exciting. Things have been pretty quiet lately, even the resident psycho seems to have gone on sabbatical; I guess even maniacs need a break, either that or they've imploded."
"Interesting thought."
"Well one tries to stay positive. Anyway, how are you Greg? It's been rather quiet with you gone."
"Thank you…..I think."
The coroner regarded the young man with calm eyes. He could see that things had changed, perhaps not so much in outward appearance - for Greg Sanders still resembled the aftermath of an nuclear assault - but in the quiet confidence that bespoke a renewed faith in oneself; he only hoped that it wouldn't be shattered by returning here. While Doc Robbins didn't doubt the integrity or indeed the manifest goodness of those who worked here he was well aware that the endless exposure to the darker side of the human condition inevitably pulled those who associated with it into the abyss and they in turn pulled those around them in. It was one of the reasons why so few relationships in this business lasted, as partners and children often took the only alternative left to save their sanity and ran. Perhaps not literally, but they left, and the police officer or coroner or CSI was pulled that much deeper into the abyss. Some had said that the job was like a whirlpool, but Al Robbins preferred a bleaker metaphor, he likened the job to a black hole and if light could not escape then he held out little hope for a lab assistant. Yes, he was glad to see the young man again for his talent was undeniable, but not here, not in this place.
"Have you seen Grissom, Doc?"
"He was with me earlier, he wanted to discuss the murder at Los Carnivale."
"What happened?"
"One of the human cannonballs was disintegrated."
"Possibly an accident?"
"The additional twenty pounds of TNT stuffed into the back of the canon tend to argue against that."
Greg smiled wryly "I imagine it would. So what did Grissom want to discuss?"
"Just how much of a body I'd need for a legally verifiable autopsy."
"You don't have a body?"
"Technically speaking no; they're still picking pieces out of the ceilings and walls of the theatre. But I told Grissom that if they bring me a large enough chunk I should be able to test for chemical imprinting."
"Lovely. Anyway, do you know where Grissom went?"
"Back to his office, or that was the idea."
"OK, thanks Doc."
At least some things never change, thought Greg; the Doc is still the most humane person here and probably the most human for all that. He gave an involuntary shudder; he could never be a coroner, searching for a DNA strand from a piece of brain matter was one thing digging around in the brain pan itself was something else entirely. It was actually a standing joke around the lab that Greg could identify anything so long as he didn't have to look at it. Strangely enough, the one person whom had understood was Sara Sidle, as she also had a tendency to turn green at a moment's notice. Fortunately, for the CSI, her predisposition for digestive discomfort was far less pronounced than Greg's but that hadn't stopped a certain colleague with a distinctive accent asking her to please not vomit on the evidence. It had never happened of course, but Sara's rictus-like grimace at crime scenes was a point of humour and occasional wagering between Warrick and Nick.
It was the music that reached him first, the dark strains of Mussourgsky's 'Night on Bare Mountain'; something must have gone wrong for Grissom to be playing such a primally emotive piece. He paused before knocking, and receiving no response poked his head inside; Grissom sat with his back to the door and the music, combined with his failing hearing, made it hardly surprising that he hadn't heard the knock at the door.
"Grissom…..Grissom!…..GRISSOM!!"
*Crash*.
A surrealistic Zen moment fluttered through Greg's consciousness - for this was the sound of one man crashing - before he moved to help Grissom dis-entangle himself from his chair. If Grissom felt any embarrassment at his predicament it didn't show as he stood up and regarded his visitor.
"Hello Greg. Good to see you. Take a seat."
Greg glanced suspiciously at the proffered chair before seating himself. "The message at reception said you wanted a word before I started this evening."
"Nothing major Greg, just checking everything is in order before you start. Any problems?"
Greg briefly looked like he was going to debate the merits of what precisely constituted a problem, but to Grissom's relief displayed remarkable forbearance and instead mutely indicated with a shake of the head that there were indeed no problems of which he was currently aware. Grissom had no doubt that this state of affairs would be immediately rectified within fifteen minutes of Greg's return to his demesne.
Grissom's estimation was far more prescient than even he could have predicted.
Vincent, who had been in the lab processing blood samples, had taken less than five seconds to process Greg's presence, and the implications thereof, and promptly storm out muttering dire imprecations - all of which Greg ignored as he assumed his rightful place beside the Mass Spectrometer. Moments later the unmistakeable sounds of Shriekback scorched the halls of the previously sedate building.
Our time has
come: Age of the Hammerheads
This is our mission, to be the Daleks of God
Too late for silence, too late for anything
It's all too much for me, its roots go down too deep for me
A punishing
fire, an animal frenzy
These hammerhead people know what danger is for
You let them in and now they're everywhere
If it's mineral or vegetable it's back a little up a little
Newton's third law went into immediate effect and within seconds, a bushy-haired, laconic presence stood in the entranceway to the lab.
"Greg? You're back."
"Remarkable deduction Warrick, I see you've been honing your investigative skills in my absence….."
"…..and your sense of humour still needs work."
Having dispensed with the basic pleasantries, an awkward silence settled between the two men, a bit like a concrete piñata whose attackers had only a used sponge with which to unlock it's secrets. For his part, Warrick was wary, he didn't wish to repeat the mistakes of times past, which had contributed to Greg's original departure. On the other hand, Greg was as nervous as a Corporate CEO at an anti-globalisation rally, sure the CSI's had been friendly enough when he had visited recently, but how would they react now that he was officially back on their turf? While not wishing to appear ungrateful that he had been welcomed back – even though they had asked him and not vice versa - he had no wish to assume the position of the supplicant.
Go ahead, chided his self-conscious, beat yourself up before they get a chance.
"…..Greg…..hello…..Earth to Greg……"
"Huh? Oh sorry Warrick, I guess I'm still getting my bearings. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, just heard the music and came-a-running. What's the deal, Griss mentioned that you were coming back, but he didn't say for how long."
Greg chuckled, 'Griss mentioned', was CSI shorthand for 'insert appropriate conjunctions, prepositions and verbs into this group of nouns'. "I'm back part time, Warrick, I ran into Grissom, who said you guys were really stretched and would I object to helping out. After suitable monetary incentive was dangled in front of yours truly, I consented to provide a limited degree of assistance out of the goodness of my heart".
"So basically what you're saying is that you're a mercenary."
"Consultant, Warrick, the correct term is consultant. Mercenary sounds so….."
"Mercenary."
"Yup."
A slow grin hovered fleetingly in the tall man's eyes before he assumed a serious mien, "You realise that since you have assumed the role of a consultant you work will have to meet high standards of professionalism and accuracy."
"Like before?"
"Well…..yes….. But realise this Greg, if we need you in court, as a consultant, you'll have to wear a tie."
"Are you threatening me Warrick? I mean a tie is pretty strong language to use in front of someone doing you a favour."
Warrick merely smirked. "Fair enough. Anyway, I do have something for you to look at." Warrick held out a shirt, which, if one was being generous, could have been called white in a previous existence.
"No way Warrick."
"No way what?"
"I am not doing your laundry." Warrick could see that Greg was joking around and after he had offered the CSI some advice on personal hygiene and cleanliness around the home, took the shirt.
"What am I looking for?"
"Soil composition, the shirt belongs to a missing person, we have the clothes but no body and the soil stains on the clothes don't match where they were found. It's fairly routine, but the missing person is a kid." Warrick didn't need to say any more. Kids and crime had always been a big thing for the CSIs, Greg included, and they tended to unconsciously prioritise those cases where a child was involved; not that they let their other work slip, but the emotions involved with children drove them that much harder to find the answers.
From that point on Warrick ceased to exist as Greg went Zen with the gas chromatograph, issuing, a muttered "Come back in an hour," that followed Warrick out the door. Smiling wryly, he headed towards the break room barely covering half the distance before encountering a posse of Nick, Catherine and Sara heading towards the lab. "Slow down guys, he's communing with machinery, you'd need to physically assault him to get a response."
"So he's definitely back?"
"Part time apparently, he's, to use his words, 'consulting' and he doesn't do laundry either."
"Laundry?"
"Never mind, Sara. C'mon guys, we've got a briefing, you can see him later."
***********
While the instruments went about their jobs, their various whirrs and clicks a staccato counterpoint to the chaos of his music, Greg set about re-personalising the lab. First, and most importantly was the placement of the coffee stash. The Sander's coffee stash had assumed a status of almost mythical proportions in Greg's time at the lab and in his absence the stories had grown in the telling. Two distinct factors contributed to this renown, the first, and of primary importance as a strategic counterpoint to the wondrous aromas that regularly emanated from the DNA lab, was the – purported – coffee that lived in the break room.
Lived, was, in this instance, a fairly accurate term, as all tests on the break-room coffee had failed to identify it as such. In addition, Archie had sworn that the coffee was up to something, when a random review of the security cams had revealed it missing from its beaker. Since no-one would drink it, it therefore - according to Archie - had to be moving about of its own volition. That no-one, not even Grissom, challenged Archie on this point said more than a thousand logical, scientific refutations.
Secondly, Greg's coffee was good. Actually, it was beyond good it was currency. Numerous techs throughout the building traded their skills and time for a share of Greg's stash and with Machiavellian wit and guile, Greg was able to completely revolutionise the way information was processed within the office. The speed of light may have held some small status as a scientific constant but it was nothing compared to the news that the coffee had returned.
After the coffee was hidden, the chairs adjusted, the screensaver changed and Vincent's login disabled, Greg felt himself able to return to the business at hand. Spreading various reports, printouts and charts across the worktable he quickly ascertained that the predominant characteristic of the soil-stained shirt was the high silica content, what was more interesting, however, was the accumulated residue of chemicals usually associated with a tannery. Quickly noting this down, the young man headed off to find Warrick, the thrill of the chase pumping through his veins.
After checking, and finding the break room empty, Greg headed for Grissom's office working on the assumption that since Grissom was the boss he should have an idea where his staff were. Rounding the corner he heard the slightly muffled sound of a Texan twang, a twang not quite muffled enough for him to not pick his name out of the random surrounding sounds. Moving closer he found his 'consultant' status to be the subject of some heated discussion.
"What's your problem Nick?"
"My problem is that I'm a CSI and he's now accorded a professional status that makes him my equal."
"So you don't think Greg deserves your professional respect."
"No…..yes……dammit Catherine that's not the point."
"You do have a point then?"
Nobody had seen or heard Greg quietly approach and lean against the doorframe his expression somewhere between annoyed and amused.
"The point is Catherine that he is a lab tech not….."
"…..a CSI." Greg finished for him
"That's right, he's not a CS……I." Nick's voice petered out as he realised who'd completed his sentence. "Greg, I…..I didn't mean to…..I didn't think that….."
"I see you've retained your legendary eloquence Nick. Warrick? Here are the results on your shirt; you're looking for a tannery or something similar near sand." Returning his attention to the group at large Greg continued, "Would anyone else like to comment to my face on the conditions of my employment?" This last comment whilst general was clearly directed at Nick who had the grace to look abashed; Catherine merely grinned evilly.
"I take it then that your return has also seen the return of your coffee? I need something to bribe ballistics with."
"Sara, does that statement not strike you as being somewhat unprofessional?"
She shrugged, "Not really, it gets me what I want and it's far more professional than having to sleep with whomever happens to be on duty."
Grissom looked mildly scandalised, "You wouldn't."
"Bless your literal heart Grissom, of course I wouldn't, I'd send Catherine."
"Hey. We are so not going there, I just danced, and Sara, you are so dead. By the time I finish with you the Lord God Almighty won't be able to find you with a radio-telescope." Sara merely smiled.
"Nice to see things haven't changed since I left. Tell me again why I came back Grissom?"
"Something about the goodness of your heart was what you were telling me if I remember correctly; now if you don't mind, I have a briefing to finish." Greg acknowledged his dismissal with a grin and left for the lab leaving the CSIs' in a state of confusion as to the apparent state of amity between Grissom and the lab tech.
'Is there something you haven't told us Grissom?"
"About…..?"
"Why you and Greg are acting like long-lost family now newly reunited."
"I would hardly say that was the case Catherine, the fact of the matter is that Greg and I have addressed our differences and found that we have enough common ground to work in a mutually beneficial capacity."
"Are you OK Grissom, you sound like you swallowed a Human Resources manual?"
"Just fine thank you. Now, if we could return to what we were supposed to be discussing?"
Grissom couldn't help but feel a degree of satisfaction, and truth be told, a little smug. Not only was his relationship with Greg on solid ground but the rest of the CSIs were completely at a loss to explain the change in relations, although they were intelligent enough to realise that something must have changed in order for Greg to return the office as willingly as he appeared to have done. At heart, Grissom had a streak of mischievousness a mile wide, and the more often he could keep his people guessing the better, for a curious mind to Grissom, was one that kept looking for answers.
On the other hand, Greg wasn't so sure. Walking back to the lab, his primary thought was one of annoyance, initially at Nick for being an arsehole, but more at himself for letting Nick's comments get to him. The one thing he had sworn to himself was that he wouldn't let this place get him down and here he was, less than two hours after starting his first shift, regretting his decision to return.
Listen to yourself, his subconscious noted. You're beating yourself up over something of which you have no control. Nick has small man's disease about Grissom's apparent distrust of his abilities. Grissom has no issue with Nick's abilities, but the only person who doesn't see that is Nick. Now, here you are, freshly minted and back in the fold and a consultant, of course that insecure Texan is going to get his back up; just remember, it's about him, not you.
Greg hated it when his subconscious was right; it was like being lectured by an arrogant ghost who had all the answers with none of the accompanying baggage. It was also important to note that just because his subconscious was right it didn't mean that he wasn't going to spend a half hour or so engaged in an ecstasy of self-flagellation; you had to get your kicks somehow and frankly the nuns at the St Euphemia Noli Me Tangeri you Male Bastard Convent got more action than he did. Even his impure thoughts had given him up as a lost cause.
Shrugging to himself, Greg began to head back to the lab before, on a whim, changing direction in mid-stride, deciding that terrorising Vincent for an hour or two would be far more productive and decidedly more entertaining than waiting for the inevitable and teeth-grindingly sincere apology that Nick would soon be on his way to deliver.
The apology never had a chance to come, however. As Grissom's briefing was finishing, Rosemary from reception charged through the door.
"Mr Grissom! It's Mr Ecklie, he's been in a car accident; the paramedics said he was asking for you."