Well here we are again - I'm back, and more illiterate than ever.
I should note that we're nearly there and that I've finally gotten
around to explaining what makes our killer tick. About bloody time.
Thank you to those of you who wished me well on the Wedding thing, I
repaid your positive thoughts by drinking lots orf good red wine and
eating some yummy food. I also, would you believe, found time to
write.
BTW: I am now safely married and more or less respectable.
In answer to a review for the last chapter: Yes I know the earlier
chapters are a tad dodgy writing wise - I am planning a full rewrite
when this monster is completed. Anyway, somewhere around Ch6 I started
getting enthusiastic, so in the long term I will bring the earlier
chapters up to scratch.
As always, this chapter is a 'Spot the Pop Culture' reference chapter.
For the person who asked, a "Dear Abby" moment refers to the US advise
columnist Abigail van Buren, and her column titled "Dear Abby".
Finally, thanks to 'tasha my beta, who did her usual sterling effort,
despite possessing the audacity to have a life and a job.
Thanks to all who've reviewed: keep'em coming.
As always, I hope you, the reader, derive some small enjoyment from my
efforts.
Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you
nothing. It was here first.
Mark Twain
America had often been discovered before Columbus, but it had always
been hushed up.
Oscar Wilde
Diplomacy is the art of saying 'Nice doggie' until you can find a
rock.
Will Rogers
Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government
and business.
Tom Robbins (1936 - )
"Andrews, where's Sanders?" Rilie's reverie was shattered by the actinic tones of the composition professor. Actually, reverie wasn't precisely accurate - about an hour had passed since Greg had headed of to meet up with Grissom and after spending an extended two minutes basking in the afterglow of not being rejected (actually, if Greg had rejected her she wouldn't have been around to verbally assault, she would have been housed at the local police station on charges relating to either assault or attempted murder dependent wholly on Greg's reaction time) - she was considering her options for this evening. While a strategically manufactured seduction wasn't on the cards she was at the least going to have fun; fun that wasn't of the monopoly variety. Of course the intended fun assumed that she could actually locate chez Sanders she couldn't believe she hadn't asked Greg where he lived; it was all Grissom's fault.
"Ms Andrews, I'm waiting," even by Mueller's standards the tone was irascible. Rilie knew from Greg that he wasn't Mueller's favourite person - actually it was generally believed that Mueller didn't like anyone, herself included - but the active loathing in her voice surprised her.
"I believe he was called into work professor."
"And why would Mr Sanders have the audacity to choose to attend work over gracing my classroom with his presence."
"That would probably be because they pay him and you don't professor."
"He would choose money over art? He truly is a contemptible creature."
"And precisely what would you know about art professor? I've done your class remember? You stomp on anyone who shows the slightest talent or originality; from what others have told me, Greg shows both. I would have thought you would have been delighted not to have him around."
Mueller scowled, her expression darkening. "I have no issue with Mr Sanders' alleged talent, I have issue with his discipline. He is a dilettante; he mocks me with his every movement and his every word. He needs to understand that while he is in my class he is the student and I am the professor."
Biting back a Star Wars moment, Rile regarded the older woman with acid in her gaze. "So what you're saying professor is that you are always right simply because you are the professor?"
"That's not the point," countered Mueller. "The point is that my job is to teach, not chase students around."
"If that's the case, why are you chasing Greg? It's not compulsory for him to attend class, and you're not his mother" - at least I hope not, she thought. "So at best you're contradicting yourself and the other option is that you're a stalker."
"You're a fine one to talk about stalking, Ms Andrews; I'm given to understand that illegal use of the student records database is a serious offence. Now, if you see Mr Sanders, tell him I want a word. Good day Ms Andrews."
Rilie said nothing, aghast that someone - a Mueller-shaped someone - knew something about her extra curricular computing activities. She wasn't worried about Mueller exposing her as the composition professor was far too vindictive to launch a frontal assault. It was then that realisation dawned and Rilie knew how to acquire a certain address.
*******
Greg was torn. Certainly he wanted to assist Grissom with the investigation and he was, in fact, quite flattered to be asked to help but in truth he was somewhat nervous about missing composition class. It wasn't that he was afraid of Professor Mueller; it was just that her mood was more changeable than the English weather and as such he wasn't really sure if he wanted to attract any more lightning than he usually did, which lately, in composition seemed to be the sum-total for the entire class. The professor appeared to take an unholy delight in torturing the young man, so much so in fact, that Greg was beginning to think that he had a target stencilled on his forehead.
The irony, of course, was that he- despite what he told Rilie and others - enjoyed composition. Certainly, Mueller was a small-minded, petty despot whom he suspected of dissecting small animals during the holidays (without, it must be added, benefit of anaesthetic) but she was also a first-rate teacher whose criticism, when circumspectly excised from the accompanying sarcasm and abuse, was succinct, accurate and useful; initially it had been quite difficult for Greg to accept this concept and it had required several glasses of wine to restore his equilibrium.
It was now twenty minutes after the time Grissom had indicated they would meet and once again Greg's thoughts turned to the past and the offhand manner in which he had been treated by the CSI Shift Head - perhaps, he though, re-familiarity breeds re-contempt. His chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a somewhat sweaty Grissom, who had blindsided him while he was thinking.
"Sorry Greg, I had a flat tire," and Greg cursed himself for his lack of faith.
"So what's the deal boss?"
Grissom allowed himself a slight smile at Greg's manner of address. "I called ahead, so Mrs Ecklie is expecting us; this is an investigation, not a raid."
"Any word on Ecklie?"
"His wife said that his condition has stabilised but that he's still in a coma. He's no longer on life-support though so it's simply a case of waiting for him to wake up."
"If he does wake up."
"Indeed, but being positive never hurt anyone."
"I thought you all about empirical evidence and not the power of positive thought." Greg inquired of his superior.
"It's all relative Greg. Whether or not I like Conrad, or indeed even if his consciousness wasn't vital to our progressing the case, I am not so inclined as to wish for the worst solely to appease the gods of chance." Grissom sighed "It also sounds like Conrad and I need to talk, if for no other reason that to clear the air." Abruptly Grissom physically shook himself from his reverie, much like a dog exiting a body of water; once again he was back-at-work. 'Right, to the business at hand. Your note indicated that it appears that no-one had checked to see if Ecklie was working on something the night of the accident; when he rushed out. I checked with his wife and no-one has visited, it would seem that everyone took her at her word when she said that he hadn't been working on anything."
"Has she touched anything?"
"Not that she is aware of, that is, she hasn't tidied the study since the accident and she assures me that everything is - at least as far as she is aware - the same as it was the night of the accident."
"What about that evening?"
"She says that for most of the evening, Conrad was watching television. About nine-thirty he gave up on the box and went into his study and about half an hour after that he came rushing out, told her he'd be back later, and then left; the rest you know. Apparently he wasn't reading anything while watching television and there's no, specific journal article that was left on his desk; even his mail was left unopened, so we can probably discount any form of personal correspondence. Mrs Ecklie did mention that she threw away some flyers from the local junk-food outlets but in the grand scheme of things I don't think our killer is in the pawn of a franchise war."
"You never know" smirked Greg "They've been killing people for years maybe they've just taken a more proactive stance."
The older man said nothing the slight twinkle in his eyes betraying his amusement. Walking up the front path he paused at the door and was about to knock when it swung open unexpectedly; Mrs Ecklie stood askance.
"I was starting to think you were going to spend all day talking; you did, I understand, have things to do other than stand outside my gate. You can, of course, stay there if you wish, if nothing else it keeps the Amway salesmen away."
"Actually..." began Greg "We have a business proposition for...ouch.."
"Don't mind him, Mrs Ecklie" interrupted Grissom, who had abruptly halted the younger man's monologue with an elbow to the floating ribs, "He's young and he thinks he's funny." The woman silently rolled her eyes in pained response, "May we come in?"
"I suppose you'd better Mr Grissom, unless there's some way you can view the contents of Conrad's study from here." With that, somewhat arch comment, the wife of Conrad Ecklie, stepped aside and ushered the two men into her house and thus it was only Grissom who heard Greg's sotto voce comment 'guess who else thinks they're funny'. It was the curse of age and experience that allowed Grissom to maintain his equanimity and peace-of- mind and not send his younger colleague back outside to play in traffic.
The Ecklie home came as a surprise to Greg; for what reason he wasn't entirely sure as he hadn't held any expectations beforehand. Actually, that wasn't precisely true, but the previous ideas he'd held about Ecklie were being rapidly moderated by the internal grape-vine at the lab post- accident. Greg's sub-conscious also thought it worthy of consideration that the sources for his previous suspicions of Ecklie were the same sources that had caused him to re-evaluate his place in the lab - and his life in general - and eventually leave the lab; it appeared that the visits to the home of Conrad Ecklie presaged another one of those annoying re- evaluations.
Architecturally, the house didn't stand out being nothing more than a standard, if well constructed, example of the wave of modernism that had washed over Vegas in the sixties in tandem with the resurgence in the casino industry. What struck Greg, were the myriad pictures that covered the walls, some were photographs - the majority showing Conrad Ecklie as either coach or administrator his pride in the people around him evident - more surprising, however, were the delicate watercolours that were interspersed amongst the photographs. Grissom, too, had noticed and he was similarly taken aback; quieter now, the voice of Ecklie's wife only provided a backdrop to the growing sense of intrusion felt by the two men. Preconception and illusion are difficult things to have shattered especially when the stark gulag envisioned is supplanted by a serenity that it felt almost profane to disturb.
"Conrad has a very delicate touch, he minored in the fine arts when studying law. He no longer takes it seriously as he felt he could do more good in other areas. Now, if you come this way gentlemen, I'll show you the study."
The study was also a contrast, not so much in comparison to the house but with specific reference to Ecklie's office at the lab; where the lab bespoke order and austerity the study was the personification of turmoil; one could have easily come to the conclusion that a stray tornado had taken up residence here and that it had a somewhat lax attitude to housekeeping such was the level of mess. Papers and journals were haphazardly organised into precariously balanced piles with the only common factor beings their seeming ability to defy gravity. Only the desk, in the centre of the room, displayed a semblance of the order the CSIs had come to associate with Ecklie and that was only because parts of the desk could actually be seen beneath the heaving morass of paper. Greg looked despairingly at Grissom, who didn't look to enthused himself, the coming hours were not going to be fun.
"I'm always after Conrad to tidy up in here but he tells me to go clean my own study" Mrs Ecklie smiled fondly, "He calls this his oasis, and frankly, who am I to soil another person's water supply? Please gentlemen, feel free to examine what you feel you must but do keep in mind that some of the documents are quite valuable and some of the correspondence is of a private nature I trust you will be discreet."
Both men indicated their assent and Mrs Ecklie left informing the two that she could be found at the other end of the house if they required her assistance and that she would bring them a coffee in about two hours, which, for Greg at least, was cause for celebration.
"Where do you want to start Grissom?"
The older man surveyed the room briefly, his almost insatiable thirst for knowledge sorely tempted by the large collection of books assembled by his colleague and erstwhile nemesis. Returning his attention to the immediate situation, Grissom vocalised his thoughts. "The desk I think, you remember his wife said that's where he was working before he left."
Greg disagreed "No, you told me that she had said only that he'd been in the study, not that he was at the desk," Greg grinned "That sounded suspiciously like an assumption Grissom, better watch that." The only indication Greg would ever receive that he had made a point, however sardonic, was a slightly raised eybrow.
"True, but you must admit it is the most likely place for someone to be working in a study."
"But we don't know he was working, he could simply have been looking for a book, god knows there's enough of them here."
"But if the discovery was that important would you take the time to put the book back," Grissom gestured to the various books scattered about the floor, the desk and pretty much every available horizontal surface, "And that of course assumes that we're actually looking for a book."
Greg grinned, "True, and if this was back at the lab I would have said yes, but after seeing this place I'm not so sure. Anyway, let's for arguments sake, agree he was working at his desk and start from there."
Twenty minutes later nothing that could be said to be indicative of what either man thought could constitute an epiphany, serendipity - or even a clue - had eventuated, of course it didn't help that they didn't actually know what they were looking for and in Grissom's case the idea of trying to think like Ecklie was somewhat unnerving: of course the state of being 'un- nerved' could be seen as an improvement on the wave of nausea such an action in the past would have caused.
"Well Grissom, it doesn't look like there's anything on the desk that's any use, unless you want to consider the latest supplement from the Master Builders Association, but then I'm not too sure we'd be able to identify our friend from his taste in nails." Grissom silently agreed, hovering as he was on naming the killer Bob in honour of the supplement; Greg's continuing monologue returned him to the present.
"...he probably gets the supplement as a reference work, I imagine there's a special section in the back for psychos and their hardware needs."
"Thank you for that Greg, it's extremely reassuring."
"No problem Grissom, that's why you pay me huge amounts of money...for my valuable insights."
"Obviously we're paying you too much."
Another forty minutes passed and the desk had failed to produce anything useful other than a free pass to the local amusement arcade - a free roller coaster ride included - and the chance to win one million dollars (send no money now); the disappointment was palpable. It was Grissom, head down in disgust, who noticed the journal poking out from under the desk where it had obviously fallen.
"Can you get that Greg," he asked, gesturing in the general direction of the floor "Your knees are younger than mine."
"And better looking I'd imagine" added the younger man as he bent down and grabbed the offending article by its corner. "The Journal of the American Psychiatric Association...think it's relevant?"
"Don't know what's inside yet, have a look at the contents would you?"
Greg turned his attention to the journal and slowly began to read out the titles of various articles as he scanned the contents, "...ummmm...Choosing the Perfect Couch for your Practice...Perfecting your German Accent...Ten Steps to Better Referrals..." he paused, "Sounds like the APA is sponsored by the Better Business Association, Grissom."
Grissom did his best to look stern, although he did, when he admitted to the nasty unprofessional biases that littered his psyche, have some doubts as to the true focus of some psychiatric practitioners. "Now is not the time to throw rocks Greg, what about that article on the Pax Romana Scandal that's on the cover?"
Greg flipped to the offending page and began to skim read aloud. "The Pax Romana or Roman Peace as it's commonly known is an anti-psychotic drug produced by the Italian firm SPQR...it's apparently a lithium-based derivative" he added. The chemist in him quickly scanned the pharmaceutical properties in the sidebar before he returned to his recitation. "...it seems that the company had a bad habit , in years where profit forecasts looked weak they reduced expenditure by substituting a placebo for the active ingredient in Pax Romana.."
"So what you're telling me," interrupted Grissom, "Is that we have an anti- psychotic that isn't. Does the article list the years the placebo was substituted?"
"Hang on...Yep, and wouldn't you know it ladies and gentlemen, we have a correlation; and speaking of correlations, the whole mess was discovered only when some bean-counter in the Italian Bureau of Statistics noticed a very non-statistical blip in domestic violence rates in certain years and, as the French say, 'et voila' . Anyway, our bean-counter backtracked, did some checking and now SPQR is in a whole lot of trouble."
"OK, does the article say anything about Pax Romana distribution to other countries?"
"Nope."
"Not even a note about American distribution seeing as this is the journal of the American Psychiatric Association." For some reason Grissom sounded a little terse.
"Nope, there is an addendum which gives a contact address for a SPQR subsidiary in South Carolina though."
"And you don't consider South Carolina another country?"
"More like a separate species actually."
Grissom surrendered. "OK, I guess we'll start with the subsidary then.." he stopped on seeing the doubtful expression on Greg's face. "OK Greg, what is it?"
"It all sounds very plausible Grissom, but haven't we investigated the whole flipped-out psycho angle to here and back?"
"Not really...well at least not from this angle. We've only looked for people on the loose, people not reporting in or people not collecting their prescriptions, someone taking their medication wouldn't have triggered an alert."
"OK, but maybe we're assuming too much."
Grissom restrained his impatience, "You're kidding, right? This is the best lead we've had in ages and it's plausible...and you accuse me of being negative."
"Don't get me wrong Grissom, it's a lead, a good lead, but we're assuming that, firstly, SPQR is still operating in the US and then, if they are, that they'll release their distribution records for Pax Romana to us."
"If they won't I'm sure a federal warrant will encourage them."
"And if they're solely Italian-based now."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Grissom regarded his colleague curiously "You have heard of international co-operation haven't you?"
"OK. Assuming you get the records of distribution you're going to have to get a patient list from doctors, which even when considering the case in question will have every med-ethics and civil liberties group from here to the moon screaming blue bloody murder."
"I don't believe the right to serial murder is protected under the constitution, Greg."
"Also" continued Greg, "Assuming you get the patient list, you're going to have to find the right person, which when you consider that we don't have a shred of evidence as to this person's identity you're looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack."
Grissom was taken aback and he wondered at precisely what point Greg had started to channel Brass. For his part, Greg knew he was overstating things, but he'd experienced enough disappointments with this case not to get too excited over a single, lean, although admittedly explosive, lead.
*******
The voices were now legion, the omnipresent crush of their constant voice in his head enough to drown out what little was left of the voice that originally was...almost; every now and then, expressed as part conscience, part despair, a thin reed cried out against the inevitable, onrushing tide.
The voice that now responded to the commands of its master (masters?) was now that of an automaton, no timbre, no life, response and compliance were monotone, acquiescence robotic, resistance was, to coin a phrase, not only futile, but irrelevant.
"He will serve without question, we must move forward, time grows short."
"Time is irrelevant, there is always another tool we use this one until it is no more then we move on. This is as it always was, do not seek to disrupt the natural order with senseless concerns, we are, we do, there is nothing else."
"There may not be anything else but the here and now is just that, do not be swayed by the overconfidence of the inevitable. What will be still can not be if we don't not follow our path. We are what we are."
"Our brothers speak plainly, let us move forward as one, for as one we are."
"The sequence must be completed."
"Completion? She is the completion. This is already decided. She has opposed us and thus is subject to us."
"I disagree. The paranoia and anger she sows is kin to us. Why do we seek to remove our own, her outrage hides us, her clouded judgement inflames, better that we seek out the mind of those who hunt us."
"And who is the mind, sister, who shall we fear most?"
"We/I fear no-one/no-thing. Our mind is called Grissom, he hunts us through science, let the whore of the word be she poses no threat."
"Sister, you challenge a made decision. Brethren, a voice is raised in challenge, is silence to be gifted to the mind or to the voice? Answer me brethren, our time drawers near."
******
Greg was torn between amusement and horror when he checked his mobile for messages later that day. That Rilie had called was only mildly surprising and he expected that she'd again been visiting the Student Records database; that Rilie had called to inform him that Mueller wanted to see him gave Greg cause for concern and he wondered if the eternally changeable moods of the composition professor presaged his imminent crucifixion.
Admittedly - a little honesty never hurt outside a ten mile radius of your nemesis - the poor relations that existed between himself and Mueller were due as much to Greg's intransigence as it was to Mueller's complete lack of patience and tact; if one was of an allegorical bent one could happily conclude that the relationship between Messrs Sanders and Mueller was taken directly from Milton, with both figures struggling heroically to demonstrate that it was they who was the more tragic embodiment of Lucifer.
Greg found his relationship with the professor difficult, certainly, he was prepared to admit - albeit somewhat grudgingly (and away from all recording devices) that the professor was a better than adequate composition instructor and that - heaven forefend - he had even learnt things in her class, however, he was also of the opinion that she had the soul of a brick and as such wasn't able to appreciate the result of what she so thoroughly drilled into her students.
As he drove towards the university, the young man considered his options. Certainly, he was prepared to challenge the professor on certain points, but he was not so naive as to think that he could get away with everything; he had, with much effort, began to understand that diplomacy wasn't something that was used by government employees to explain the exact reasons they had for causing the latest international crisis and that there was indeed something to be said in favour of thinking before opening one's mouth. Greg had also learnt that there was a large degree of difference between being diplomatic and maintaining a resentful and wholly immature silence. It was thus, for the sake of diplomacy that he was on his way to see the professor and he was exceptionally grateful to Rilie fore the advance warning. Diplomacy starts at home, he thought to himself, and thus it makes more sense to actually see what's going on before launching a pre- emptive and possibly redundant attack.
Pulling into the main campus area, Greg was surprised at how deserted it was this early in the afternoon; normally the main square teemed with students as they went about their daily rituals the various classes disgorging their populations into overlapping and seemingly eternal lunch hours. He shrugged and decided that unless Mueller had gone mad and had shot or poisoned the majority of the student population then it wasn't really his concern. It wasn't until he was halfway across campus that he came across the first poster: 'Save Our Coffee' it proclaimed, and it duly announced the time and place of the first rally to protest at the University's plans to replace the independent cafeterias on campus with a series of Starbucks. Greg was horrified and would have, if not certain of the importance of finding the composition professor, attended. The arrival of Starbucks was akin to one of the biblical plagues popping in for a visit, and as such required the presentation of a staunch and united opposition otherwise who knew what horror could be next: KFC, Burger King, or the evil Scottish Restaurant and the Clown of Doom that led its armies.
The rally, did of course, explain where all the students were; if there was one thing all students agreed on it was coffee. Left and Right wing, economics and arts, all would band together to repel the threat of this fecund monolith.
The music block, like the rest of the campus, was equally devoid of a meaningful student presence and the departmental secretary acknowledged Greg's arrival with a wry smile, she was, however, able to suspend her amusement long enough to advise Greg, in answer to his query, that Professor Mueller was indeed in her office and that, if the student wanted, she'd be happy to call ahead and advise the professor of his presence. Greg hastily assured the secretary that that wasn't necessary - he did after all want to maintain some small measure of tactical advantage.
The door to the professor's office was devoid of decoration save for a sole panel from a Far Side cartoon, which depicted a vulture preparing to drop a piano on some poor unfortunate lost in the desert, it was, to Greg's mind, as he prepared to knock, a highly appropriate image.
"Come in Mr Sanders."
Fantastic thought Greg, Mueller's clairvoyant and he hastily decided that throwing himself upon her hitherto non-identified mercy might be an idea.
"Are you intending on entering before I apply for my pension Mr Sanders, or should I take your hesitation as an indication that you actually have no reason to see me and that you have in fact merely come to stand in sycophantic awe before the majestic presence of my door." The voice assumed a note of command "Come or go Mr Sanders, God only knows I have so much time to waste trying to teach you let alone wait upon your glacial decision- making skills...come come...civilisations are crumbling as we, excuse me, I, speak." Greg decided to enter, if only to stop the acid-tongued professor from taking any further advantage of his hesitation.
As much as Ecklie's home had been a surprise, the professor's office was a exponential leap in shock value - perhaps Greg had been expecting voodoo dolls and the severed heads of composition students who had failed, he surely wasn't expecting posters from Fantasia, who would have thought Mueller was a fan of dancing alligators?
"It's not what you're thinking, Sanders" came the acid comment from the professor as she noticed Greg's bemused expression. "These are originals, that's why they're framed. My father worked on Fantasia and these" she indicated some of the posters "are his work. Tell me, were you expecting a collection of soft toys as well?"
The image that flashed before Greg's eyes was one of Professor Mueller wading through hordes of teddy bears with a machete, which while disturbing in and of itself, was infinitely less disturbing than imagining her with a Barbie. "Errrr not quite, Professor." He gathered himself, not quite able to rid his mind of Mueller performing unholy acts upon an innocent My Little Pony, "I was told that you were looking for me this morning."
"Andrews?" was the arch response.
"Andrews? Oh, you mean Rilie. Yes, it was she. Look Professor, if it's about missing class this morning I can explain..."
"Don't bother, Mr Sanders," was the bored response "Much as I would like to see you mounted on a blunt spike for missing my class that is not why I wished to see you, rather, it is with reference to your composition assignment."
"D.O.A?"
Mueller visibly winced. "Yes, that's correct. Every year, Mr Sanders, those compositions submitted by the first years as their major project are submitted into the state-wide competition for musical composition, to that end I am bound to inform you that your composition - and I use that term advisedly - has been selected for the finals. You will be advised closer to the date in question as to what is required of you."
You don't seem particularly happy about this Professor," stated Greg, noting that the older woman looked like she was suffering from intense, and extremely painful, indigestion.
"I'm consoling myself by imagining that the judges were drunk at the time. Good day Mr Sanders, your attendance is no longer required," and thus Greg beat a hasty retreat pausing only to roll his eyes at the departmental secretary on his way out, she merely grinned, and mentally counted her winnings from the hastily arranged staff pool; only she had bet on his emerging from Mueller's office with all his limbs still attached.
*****************
Fury etched her features, her very posture the epitome of incandescent rage. Who the hell did the chief of police think he was? How dare he, tell her, Agatha Babylon, that she was inciting panic and that she must cease and desist in her rabble-rousing.
And damn her editor for siding with the police - what did he know about journalism?
Journalism, now there was the rub. She remembered when she was young, when she was idealistic and believed that there was good in people and that the word could be used for the greater good. She never believed that she could change the world, the crusading could be left to other, but at least she could give a damn.
With time came bitterness, a failed marriage and the inner despair of knowing that giving a damn wasn't enough anymore.
So she stopped.
Her idealism died on the cold, infertile plain that had become her passion. Her writing became what she once hated and so, eventually, she came to hate herself and her self-contempt became a contempt and suspicion for all; her arrogance a testament to the fact that she had given up, on herself: on everything.
And no-one noticed.
In the silence of her soul she screamed, while publicly she basked in the adulation she had never wanted.
Not that she would admit this publicly.
Not that she could.
That scientist, Grissom, it was his fault, he didn't take her seriously. It was he, he whose callous disregard for her ego that caused this doubt, this uncertainty; for nothing undercuts an inflated sense of self-worth like being mocked by someone who relied on facts to present the world as it really was. By undercutting her story, he undercut her and then the doubts had come.
"Bzzzzzzzt"
It was perhaps fortuitous, she thought, that the dark shadow that cast itself over her psyche was interrupted by the doorbell, for this path of self-recrimination was going nowhere.
I should note that we're nearly there and that I've finally gotten
around to explaining what makes our killer tick. About bloody time.
Thank you to those of you who wished me well on the Wedding thing, I
repaid your positive thoughts by drinking lots orf good red wine and
eating some yummy food. I also, would you believe, found time to
write.
BTW: I am now safely married and more or less respectable.
In answer to a review for the last chapter: Yes I know the earlier
chapters are a tad dodgy writing wise - I am planning a full rewrite
when this monster is completed. Anyway, somewhere around Ch6 I started
getting enthusiastic, so in the long term I will bring the earlier
chapters up to scratch.
As always, this chapter is a 'Spot the Pop Culture' reference chapter.
For the person who asked, a "Dear Abby" moment refers to the US advise
columnist Abigail van Buren, and her column titled "Dear Abby".
Finally, thanks to 'tasha my beta, who did her usual sterling effort,
despite possessing the audacity to have a life and a job.
Thanks to all who've reviewed: keep'em coming.
As always, I hope you, the reader, derive some small enjoyment from my
efforts.
Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you
nothing. It was here first.
Mark Twain
America had often been discovered before Columbus, but it had always
been hushed up.
Oscar Wilde
Diplomacy is the art of saying 'Nice doggie' until you can find a
rock.
Will Rogers
Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government
and business.
Tom Robbins (1936 - )
"Andrews, where's Sanders?" Rilie's reverie was shattered by the actinic tones of the composition professor. Actually, reverie wasn't precisely accurate - about an hour had passed since Greg had headed of to meet up with Grissom and after spending an extended two minutes basking in the afterglow of not being rejected (actually, if Greg had rejected her she wouldn't have been around to verbally assault, she would have been housed at the local police station on charges relating to either assault or attempted murder dependent wholly on Greg's reaction time) - she was considering her options for this evening. While a strategically manufactured seduction wasn't on the cards she was at the least going to have fun; fun that wasn't of the monopoly variety. Of course the intended fun assumed that she could actually locate chez Sanders she couldn't believe she hadn't asked Greg where he lived; it was all Grissom's fault.
"Ms Andrews, I'm waiting," even by Mueller's standards the tone was irascible. Rilie knew from Greg that he wasn't Mueller's favourite person - actually it was generally believed that Mueller didn't like anyone, herself included - but the active loathing in her voice surprised her.
"I believe he was called into work professor."
"And why would Mr Sanders have the audacity to choose to attend work over gracing my classroom with his presence."
"That would probably be because they pay him and you don't professor."
"He would choose money over art? He truly is a contemptible creature."
"And precisely what would you know about art professor? I've done your class remember? You stomp on anyone who shows the slightest talent or originality; from what others have told me, Greg shows both. I would have thought you would have been delighted not to have him around."
Mueller scowled, her expression darkening. "I have no issue with Mr Sanders' alleged talent, I have issue with his discipline. He is a dilettante; he mocks me with his every movement and his every word. He needs to understand that while he is in my class he is the student and I am the professor."
Biting back a Star Wars moment, Rile regarded the older woman with acid in her gaze. "So what you're saying professor is that you are always right simply because you are the professor?"
"That's not the point," countered Mueller. "The point is that my job is to teach, not chase students around."
"If that's the case, why are you chasing Greg? It's not compulsory for him to attend class, and you're not his mother" - at least I hope not, she thought. "So at best you're contradicting yourself and the other option is that you're a stalker."
"You're a fine one to talk about stalking, Ms Andrews; I'm given to understand that illegal use of the student records database is a serious offence. Now, if you see Mr Sanders, tell him I want a word. Good day Ms Andrews."
Rilie said nothing, aghast that someone - a Mueller-shaped someone - knew something about her extra curricular computing activities. She wasn't worried about Mueller exposing her as the composition professor was far too vindictive to launch a frontal assault. It was then that realisation dawned and Rilie knew how to acquire a certain address.
*******
Greg was torn. Certainly he wanted to assist Grissom with the investigation and he was, in fact, quite flattered to be asked to help but in truth he was somewhat nervous about missing composition class. It wasn't that he was afraid of Professor Mueller; it was just that her mood was more changeable than the English weather and as such he wasn't really sure if he wanted to attract any more lightning than he usually did, which lately, in composition seemed to be the sum-total for the entire class. The professor appeared to take an unholy delight in torturing the young man, so much so in fact, that Greg was beginning to think that he had a target stencilled on his forehead.
The irony, of course, was that he- despite what he told Rilie and others - enjoyed composition. Certainly, Mueller was a small-minded, petty despot whom he suspected of dissecting small animals during the holidays (without, it must be added, benefit of anaesthetic) but she was also a first-rate teacher whose criticism, when circumspectly excised from the accompanying sarcasm and abuse, was succinct, accurate and useful; initially it had been quite difficult for Greg to accept this concept and it had required several glasses of wine to restore his equilibrium.
It was now twenty minutes after the time Grissom had indicated they would meet and once again Greg's thoughts turned to the past and the offhand manner in which he had been treated by the CSI Shift Head - perhaps, he though, re-familiarity breeds re-contempt. His chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a somewhat sweaty Grissom, who had blindsided him while he was thinking.
"Sorry Greg, I had a flat tire," and Greg cursed himself for his lack of faith.
"So what's the deal boss?"
Grissom allowed himself a slight smile at Greg's manner of address. "I called ahead, so Mrs Ecklie is expecting us; this is an investigation, not a raid."
"Any word on Ecklie?"
"His wife said that his condition has stabilised but that he's still in a coma. He's no longer on life-support though so it's simply a case of waiting for him to wake up."
"If he does wake up."
"Indeed, but being positive never hurt anyone."
"I thought you all about empirical evidence and not the power of positive thought." Greg inquired of his superior.
"It's all relative Greg. Whether or not I like Conrad, or indeed even if his consciousness wasn't vital to our progressing the case, I am not so inclined as to wish for the worst solely to appease the gods of chance." Grissom sighed "It also sounds like Conrad and I need to talk, if for no other reason that to clear the air." Abruptly Grissom physically shook himself from his reverie, much like a dog exiting a body of water; once again he was back-at-work. 'Right, to the business at hand. Your note indicated that it appears that no-one had checked to see if Ecklie was working on something the night of the accident; when he rushed out. I checked with his wife and no-one has visited, it would seem that everyone took her at her word when she said that he hadn't been working on anything."
"Has she touched anything?"
"Not that she is aware of, that is, she hasn't tidied the study since the accident and she assures me that everything is - at least as far as she is aware - the same as it was the night of the accident."
"What about that evening?"
"She says that for most of the evening, Conrad was watching television. About nine-thirty he gave up on the box and went into his study and about half an hour after that he came rushing out, told her he'd be back later, and then left; the rest you know. Apparently he wasn't reading anything while watching television and there's no, specific journal article that was left on his desk; even his mail was left unopened, so we can probably discount any form of personal correspondence. Mrs Ecklie did mention that she threw away some flyers from the local junk-food outlets but in the grand scheme of things I don't think our killer is in the pawn of a franchise war."
"You never know" smirked Greg "They've been killing people for years maybe they've just taken a more proactive stance."
The older man said nothing the slight twinkle in his eyes betraying his amusement. Walking up the front path he paused at the door and was about to knock when it swung open unexpectedly; Mrs Ecklie stood askance.
"I was starting to think you were going to spend all day talking; you did, I understand, have things to do other than stand outside my gate. You can, of course, stay there if you wish, if nothing else it keeps the Amway salesmen away."
"Actually..." began Greg "We have a business proposition for...ouch.."
"Don't mind him, Mrs Ecklie" interrupted Grissom, who had abruptly halted the younger man's monologue with an elbow to the floating ribs, "He's young and he thinks he's funny." The woman silently rolled her eyes in pained response, "May we come in?"
"I suppose you'd better Mr Grissom, unless there's some way you can view the contents of Conrad's study from here." With that, somewhat arch comment, the wife of Conrad Ecklie, stepped aside and ushered the two men into her house and thus it was only Grissom who heard Greg's sotto voce comment 'guess who else thinks they're funny'. It was the curse of age and experience that allowed Grissom to maintain his equanimity and peace-of- mind and not send his younger colleague back outside to play in traffic.
The Ecklie home came as a surprise to Greg; for what reason he wasn't entirely sure as he hadn't held any expectations beforehand. Actually, that wasn't precisely true, but the previous ideas he'd held about Ecklie were being rapidly moderated by the internal grape-vine at the lab post- accident. Greg's sub-conscious also thought it worthy of consideration that the sources for his previous suspicions of Ecklie were the same sources that had caused him to re-evaluate his place in the lab - and his life in general - and eventually leave the lab; it appeared that the visits to the home of Conrad Ecklie presaged another one of those annoying re- evaluations.
Architecturally, the house didn't stand out being nothing more than a standard, if well constructed, example of the wave of modernism that had washed over Vegas in the sixties in tandem with the resurgence in the casino industry. What struck Greg, were the myriad pictures that covered the walls, some were photographs - the majority showing Conrad Ecklie as either coach or administrator his pride in the people around him evident - more surprising, however, were the delicate watercolours that were interspersed amongst the photographs. Grissom, too, had noticed and he was similarly taken aback; quieter now, the voice of Ecklie's wife only provided a backdrop to the growing sense of intrusion felt by the two men. Preconception and illusion are difficult things to have shattered especially when the stark gulag envisioned is supplanted by a serenity that it felt almost profane to disturb.
"Conrad has a very delicate touch, he minored in the fine arts when studying law. He no longer takes it seriously as he felt he could do more good in other areas. Now, if you come this way gentlemen, I'll show you the study."
The study was also a contrast, not so much in comparison to the house but with specific reference to Ecklie's office at the lab; where the lab bespoke order and austerity the study was the personification of turmoil; one could have easily come to the conclusion that a stray tornado had taken up residence here and that it had a somewhat lax attitude to housekeeping such was the level of mess. Papers and journals were haphazardly organised into precariously balanced piles with the only common factor beings their seeming ability to defy gravity. Only the desk, in the centre of the room, displayed a semblance of the order the CSIs had come to associate with Ecklie and that was only because parts of the desk could actually be seen beneath the heaving morass of paper. Greg looked despairingly at Grissom, who didn't look to enthused himself, the coming hours were not going to be fun.
"I'm always after Conrad to tidy up in here but he tells me to go clean my own study" Mrs Ecklie smiled fondly, "He calls this his oasis, and frankly, who am I to soil another person's water supply? Please gentlemen, feel free to examine what you feel you must but do keep in mind that some of the documents are quite valuable and some of the correspondence is of a private nature I trust you will be discreet."
Both men indicated their assent and Mrs Ecklie left informing the two that she could be found at the other end of the house if they required her assistance and that she would bring them a coffee in about two hours, which, for Greg at least, was cause for celebration.
"Where do you want to start Grissom?"
The older man surveyed the room briefly, his almost insatiable thirst for knowledge sorely tempted by the large collection of books assembled by his colleague and erstwhile nemesis. Returning his attention to the immediate situation, Grissom vocalised his thoughts. "The desk I think, you remember his wife said that's where he was working before he left."
Greg disagreed "No, you told me that she had said only that he'd been in the study, not that he was at the desk," Greg grinned "That sounded suspiciously like an assumption Grissom, better watch that." The only indication Greg would ever receive that he had made a point, however sardonic, was a slightly raised eybrow.
"True, but you must admit it is the most likely place for someone to be working in a study."
"But we don't know he was working, he could simply have been looking for a book, god knows there's enough of them here."
"But if the discovery was that important would you take the time to put the book back," Grissom gestured to the various books scattered about the floor, the desk and pretty much every available horizontal surface, "And that of course assumes that we're actually looking for a book."
Greg grinned, "True, and if this was back at the lab I would have said yes, but after seeing this place I'm not so sure. Anyway, let's for arguments sake, agree he was working at his desk and start from there."
Twenty minutes later nothing that could be said to be indicative of what either man thought could constitute an epiphany, serendipity - or even a clue - had eventuated, of course it didn't help that they didn't actually know what they were looking for and in Grissom's case the idea of trying to think like Ecklie was somewhat unnerving: of course the state of being 'un- nerved' could be seen as an improvement on the wave of nausea such an action in the past would have caused.
"Well Grissom, it doesn't look like there's anything on the desk that's any use, unless you want to consider the latest supplement from the Master Builders Association, but then I'm not too sure we'd be able to identify our friend from his taste in nails." Grissom silently agreed, hovering as he was on naming the killer Bob in honour of the supplement; Greg's continuing monologue returned him to the present.
"...he probably gets the supplement as a reference work, I imagine there's a special section in the back for psychos and their hardware needs."
"Thank you for that Greg, it's extremely reassuring."
"No problem Grissom, that's why you pay me huge amounts of money...for my valuable insights."
"Obviously we're paying you too much."
Another forty minutes passed and the desk had failed to produce anything useful other than a free pass to the local amusement arcade - a free roller coaster ride included - and the chance to win one million dollars (send no money now); the disappointment was palpable. It was Grissom, head down in disgust, who noticed the journal poking out from under the desk where it had obviously fallen.
"Can you get that Greg," he asked, gesturing in the general direction of the floor "Your knees are younger than mine."
"And better looking I'd imagine" added the younger man as he bent down and grabbed the offending article by its corner. "The Journal of the American Psychiatric Association...think it's relevant?"
"Don't know what's inside yet, have a look at the contents would you?"
Greg turned his attention to the journal and slowly began to read out the titles of various articles as he scanned the contents, "...ummmm...Choosing the Perfect Couch for your Practice...Perfecting your German Accent...Ten Steps to Better Referrals..." he paused, "Sounds like the APA is sponsored by the Better Business Association, Grissom."
Grissom did his best to look stern, although he did, when he admitted to the nasty unprofessional biases that littered his psyche, have some doubts as to the true focus of some psychiatric practitioners. "Now is not the time to throw rocks Greg, what about that article on the Pax Romana Scandal that's on the cover?"
Greg flipped to the offending page and began to skim read aloud. "The Pax Romana or Roman Peace as it's commonly known is an anti-psychotic drug produced by the Italian firm SPQR...it's apparently a lithium-based derivative" he added. The chemist in him quickly scanned the pharmaceutical properties in the sidebar before he returned to his recitation. "...it seems that the company had a bad habit , in years where profit forecasts looked weak they reduced expenditure by substituting a placebo for the active ingredient in Pax Romana.."
"So what you're telling me," interrupted Grissom, "Is that we have an anti- psychotic that isn't. Does the article list the years the placebo was substituted?"
"Hang on...Yep, and wouldn't you know it ladies and gentlemen, we have a correlation; and speaking of correlations, the whole mess was discovered only when some bean-counter in the Italian Bureau of Statistics noticed a very non-statistical blip in domestic violence rates in certain years and, as the French say, 'et voila' . Anyway, our bean-counter backtracked, did some checking and now SPQR is in a whole lot of trouble."
"OK, does the article say anything about Pax Romana distribution to other countries?"
"Nope."
"Not even a note about American distribution seeing as this is the journal of the American Psychiatric Association." For some reason Grissom sounded a little terse.
"Nope, there is an addendum which gives a contact address for a SPQR subsidiary in South Carolina though."
"And you don't consider South Carolina another country?"
"More like a separate species actually."
Grissom surrendered. "OK, I guess we'll start with the subsidary then.." he stopped on seeing the doubtful expression on Greg's face. "OK Greg, what is it?"
"It all sounds very plausible Grissom, but haven't we investigated the whole flipped-out psycho angle to here and back?"
"Not really...well at least not from this angle. We've only looked for people on the loose, people not reporting in or people not collecting their prescriptions, someone taking their medication wouldn't have triggered an alert."
"OK, but maybe we're assuming too much."
Grissom restrained his impatience, "You're kidding, right? This is the best lead we've had in ages and it's plausible...and you accuse me of being negative."
"Don't get me wrong Grissom, it's a lead, a good lead, but we're assuming that, firstly, SPQR is still operating in the US and then, if they are, that they'll release their distribution records for Pax Romana to us."
"If they won't I'm sure a federal warrant will encourage them."
"And if they're solely Italian-based now."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Grissom regarded his colleague curiously "You have heard of international co-operation haven't you?"
"OK. Assuming you get the records of distribution you're going to have to get a patient list from doctors, which even when considering the case in question will have every med-ethics and civil liberties group from here to the moon screaming blue bloody murder."
"I don't believe the right to serial murder is protected under the constitution, Greg."
"Also" continued Greg, "Assuming you get the patient list, you're going to have to find the right person, which when you consider that we don't have a shred of evidence as to this person's identity you're looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack."
Grissom was taken aback and he wondered at precisely what point Greg had started to channel Brass. For his part, Greg knew he was overstating things, but he'd experienced enough disappointments with this case not to get too excited over a single, lean, although admittedly explosive, lead.
*******
The voices were now legion, the omnipresent crush of their constant voice in his head enough to drown out what little was left of the voice that originally was...almost; every now and then, expressed as part conscience, part despair, a thin reed cried out against the inevitable, onrushing tide.
The voice that now responded to the commands of its master (masters?) was now that of an automaton, no timbre, no life, response and compliance were monotone, acquiescence robotic, resistance was, to coin a phrase, not only futile, but irrelevant.
"He will serve without question, we must move forward, time grows short."
"Time is irrelevant, there is always another tool we use this one until it is no more then we move on. This is as it always was, do not seek to disrupt the natural order with senseless concerns, we are, we do, there is nothing else."
"There may not be anything else but the here and now is just that, do not be swayed by the overconfidence of the inevitable. What will be still can not be if we don't not follow our path. We are what we are."
"Our brothers speak plainly, let us move forward as one, for as one we are."
"The sequence must be completed."
"Completion? She is the completion. This is already decided. She has opposed us and thus is subject to us."
"I disagree. The paranoia and anger she sows is kin to us. Why do we seek to remove our own, her outrage hides us, her clouded judgement inflames, better that we seek out the mind of those who hunt us."
"And who is the mind, sister, who shall we fear most?"
"We/I fear no-one/no-thing. Our mind is called Grissom, he hunts us through science, let the whore of the word be she poses no threat."
"Sister, you challenge a made decision. Brethren, a voice is raised in challenge, is silence to be gifted to the mind or to the voice? Answer me brethren, our time drawers near."
******
Greg was torn between amusement and horror when he checked his mobile for messages later that day. That Rilie had called was only mildly surprising and he expected that she'd again been visiting the Student Records database; that Rilie had called to inform him that Mueller wanted to see him gave Greg cause for concern and he wondered if the eternally changeable moods of the composition professor presaged his imminent crucifixion.
Admittedly - a little honesty never hurt outside a ten mile radius of your nemesis - the poor relations that existed between himself and Mueller were due as much to Greg's intransigence as it was to Mueller's complete lack of patience and tact; if one was of an allegorical bent one could happily conclude that the relationship between Messrs Sanders and Mueller was taken directly from Milton, with both figures struggling heroically to demonstrate that it was they who was the more tragic embodiment of Lucifer.
Greg found his relationship with the professor difficult, certainly, he was prepared to admit - albeit somewhat grudgingly (and away from all recording devices) that the professor was a better than adequate composition instructor and that - heaven forefend - he had even learnt things in her class, however, he was also of the opinion that she had the soul of a brick and as such wasn't able to appreciate the result of what she so thoroughly drilled into her students.
As he drove towards the university, the young man considered his options. Certainly, he was prepared to challenge the professor on certain points, but he was not so naive as to think that he could get away with everything; he had, with much effort, began to understand that diplomacy wasn't something that was used by government employees to explain the exact reasons they had for causing the latest international crisis and that there was indeed something to be said in favour of thinking before opening one's mouth. Greg had also learnt that there was a large degree of difference between being diplomatic and maintaining a resentful and wholly immature silence. It was thus, for the sake of diplomacy that he was on his way to see the professor and he was exceptionally grateful to Rilie fore the advance warning. Diplomacy starts at home, he thought to himself, and thus it makes more sense to actually see what's going on before launching a pre- emptive and possibly redundant attack.
Pulling into the main campus area, Greg was surprised at how deserted it was this early in the afternoon; normally the main square teemed with students as they went about their daily rituals the various classes disgorging their populations into overlapping and seemingly eternal lunch hours. He shrugged and decided that unless Mueller had gone mad and had shot or poisoned the majority of the student population then it wasn't really his concern. It wasn't until he was halfway across campus that he came across the first poster: 'Save Our Coffee' it proclaimed, and it duly announced the time and place of the first rally to protest at the University's plans to replace the independent cafeterias on campus with a series of Starbucks. Greg was horrified and would have, if not certain of the importance of finding the composition professor, attended. The arrival of Starbucks was akin to one of the biblical plagues popping in for a visit, and as such required the presentation of a staunch and united opposition otherwise who knew what horror could be next: KFC, Burger King, or the evil Scottish Restaurant and the Clown of Doom that led its armies.
The rally, did of course, explain where all the students were; if there was one thing all students agreed on it was coffee. Left and Right wing, economics and arts, all would band together to repel the threat of this fecund monolith.
The music block, like the rest of the campus, was equally devoid of a meaningful student presence and the departmental secretary acknowledged Greg's arrival with a wry smile, she was, however, able to suspend her amusement long enough to advise Greg, in answer to his query, that Professor Mueller was indeed in her office and that, if the student wanted, she'd be happy to call ahead and advise the professor of his presence. Greg hastily assured the secretary that that wasn't necessary - he did after all want to maintain some small measure of tactical advantage.
The door to the professor's office was devoid of decoration save for a sole panel from a Far Side cartoon, which depicted a vulture preparing to drop a piano on some poor unfortunate lost in the desert, it was, to Greg's mind, as he prepared to knock, a highly appropriate image.
"Come in Mr Sanders."
Fantastic thought Greg, Mueller's clairvoyant and he hastily decided that throwing himself upon her hitherto non-identified mercy might be an idea.
"Are you intending on entering before I apply for my pension Mr Sanders, or should I take your hesitation as an indication that you actually have no reason to see me and that you have in fact merely come to stand in sycophantic awe before the majestic presence of my door." The voice assumed a note of command "Come or go Mr Sanders, God only knows I have so much time to waste trying to teach you let alone wait upon your glacial decision- making skills...come come...civilisations are crumbling as we, excuse me, I, speak." Greg decided to enter, if only to stop the acid-tongued professor from taking any further advantage of his hesitation.
As much as Ecklie's home had been a surprise, the professor's office was a exponential leap in shock value - perhaps Greg had been expecting voodoo dolls and the severed heads of composition students who had failed, he surely wasn't expecting posters from Fantasia, who would have thought Mueller was a fan of dancing alligators?
"It's not what you're thinking, Sanders" came the acid comment from the professor as she noticed Greg's bemused expression. "These are originals, that's why they're framed. My father worked on Fantasia and these" she indicated some of the posters "are his work. Tell me, were you expecting a collection of soft toys as well?"
The image that flashed before Greg's eyes was one of Professor Mueller wading through hordes of teddy bears with a machete, which while disturbing in and of itself, was infinitely less disturbing than imagining her with a Barbie. "Errrr not quite, Professor." He gathered himself, not quite able to rid his mind of Mueller performing unholy acts upon an innocent My Little Pony, "I was told that you were looking for me this morning."
"Andrews?" was the arch response.
"Andrews? Oh, you mean Rilie. Yes, it was she. Look Professor, if it's about missing class this morning I can explain..."
"Don't bother, Mr Sanders," was the bored response "Much as I would like to see you mounted on a blunt spike for missing my class that is not why I wished to see you, rather, it is with reference to your composition assignment."
"D.O.A?"
Mueller visibly winced. "Yes, that's correct. Every year, Mr Sanders, those compositions submitted by the first years as their major project are submitted into the state-wide competition for musical composition, to that end I am bound to inform you that your composition - and I use that term advisedly - has been selected for the finals. You will be advised closer to the date in question as to what is required of you."
You don't seem particularly happy about this Professor," stated Greg, noting that the older woman looked like she was suffering from intense, and extremely painful, indigestion.
"I'm consoling myself by imagining that the judges were drunk at the time. Good day Mr Sanders, your attendance is no longer required," and thus Greg beat a hasty retreat pausing only to roll his eyes at the departmental secretary on his way out, she merely grinned, and mentally counted her winnings from the hastily arranged staff pool; only she had bet on his emerging from Mueller's office with all his limbs still attached.
*****************
Fury etched her features, her very posture the epitome of incandescent rage. Who the hell did the chief of police think he was? How dare he, tell her, Agatha Babylon, that she was inciting panic and that she must cease and desist in her rabble-rousing.
And damn her editor for siding with the police - what did he know about journalism?
Journalism, now there was the rub. She remembered when she was young, when she was idealistic and believed that there was good in people and that the word could be used for the greater good. She never believed that she could change the world, the crusading could be left to other, but at least she could give a damn.
With time came bitterness, a failed marriage and the inner despair of knowing that giving a damn wasn't enough anymore.
So she stopped.
Her idealism died on the cold, infertile plain that had become her passion. Her writing became what she once hated and so, eventually, she came to hate herself and her self-contempt became a contempt and suspicion for all; her arrogance a testament to the fact that she had given up, on herself: on everything.
And no-one noticed.
In the silence of her soul she screamed, while publicly she basked in the adulation she had never wanted.
Not that she would admit this publicly.
Not that she could.
That scientist, Grissom, it was his fault, he didn't take her seriously. It was he, he whose callous disregard for her ego that caused this doubt, this uncertainty; for nothing undercuts an inflated sense of self-worth like being mocked by someone who relied on facts to present the world as it really was. By undercutting her story, he undercut her and then the doubts had come.
"Bzzzzzzzt"
It was perhaps fortuitous, she thought, that the dark shadow that cast itself over her psyche was interrupted by the doorbell, for this path of self-recrimination was going nowhere.