Another chapter: This one was a real battle – not only did I end up hating it, but I also crashed my motorbike halfway through it so writing was the last thing on my alleged mind. As always, to the readers, thanks for the patience; those of you still awake.
This is a major Greg/ Rilie chapter full of shippy goodness that just makes me ill [and I wrote it]
As always, thanks to my beta 'tasha, who has the patience of a Saint Bernard, or maybe a gerbil, who still returns my emails - even when I yell at her and other kind, respectful stuff.
Special thanks to first-time ego-deflater, Kat, whose fault it is for the appearance of a certain Godmother; you asked for chains and whips and this is best I could do.
Finally, a plug. If there's one thing I hate it's good stories that don't get appreciated and I recently came across a little gem in Stargate Section by Bizzylizzy titled: "A Go'uld in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush." It's probably not everyone's cup of tea, but it's very well written with excellent characterisations. Please note that I neither know Lizzie, nor am I connected with her in anyway, so I'm getting nothing for being nice.
For those of you interested, I'm going to start on another short Miss Edith adventure.
I am a man
Cut from the know
Rarely do friends
Come and then go
She was a girl
Soft but estranged
We were the two
Our lives rearranged
Feeling so good that day
A feeling of love that day
[Breaking the Girl – Red Hot Chilli Peppers]
"So, where we going?"
Rilie rolled her eyes, albeit good-naturedly for Greg resembled nothing so much as an overexcited border collie whose master had been overgenerous with the canine equivalent of methamphetamine. She did, however, refuse to mentally extend the analogy to comparisons about soulful eyes and lolling pink tongues; then again, there were all sorts of interesting things one could do with a lolling pink tongue if one was suitably encouraged.
"Well, there's always Mike's, but I had something a little more private in mind; you, me, a bowl of whipped cream..."
Greg smiled nervously.
"...and speaking of whipping, how do you feel about being tied up for a few hours?"
Where Greg had been nervous, he was now positively terrified. Sure it was terrified in a good way – assuming you can be terrified in a good way – but it wasn't one of his life's ambitions to be tied up in such a literal sense. "Thanks all the same Rilie, but the idea of being tied up and beaten doesn't really appeal; well not in the short term anyway."
"What a shame," she murmured. "Are you sure? I learnt from the best. Anyway, who said anything about being beaten, you're not an egg and I've already prepared the cream."
Greg pursued the earlier statement, his concern manifest, although not as manifest as his suspicion which was telling him to back carefully away from the strange woman – whom, his libido reminded his adrenal gland, he was currently dating. "What do you mean 'learnt'?"
"A family friend is a highly regarded member of the profession."
"I should have known." A horrifying thought occurred to Greg, "Please, tell me that this person doesn't work in Las Vegas and that she doesn't go by the name Heather, or more precisely, 'Lady' Heather."
Rilie smirked, "Sorry Greg, can't tell you that. Why?"
"She's a friend of Grissom's. He takes her his the weird-ass cases when he wants a different perspective. She gets on really well with detective Brass too; apparently they're kindred spirits; actually, they're kindred cynics but you don't want to say that too loudly around Brass. Anyway, Lady Heather has pretty much become the departmental consultant on all things involving leather."
"Sounds fabulous, you'll have something to talk about when we visit, anyway, she wants to meet you."
"You told her about me?" he asked, attempting, and failing miserably to make his high pitched squeak register somewhere in what could be charitably considered a baritone range.
"Of course. I have tea with her every Sunday after she gets back from church; I mean, what sort of Godmother would she be if she wasn't looking after my best interests?" The women grinned at the young man's discomfort, "Don't worry Greg, I only told her that I was seeing someone and it wasn't serious." Yet, she added mentally. " "Anyway, Heather's not the sort of person who plays twenty questions about jobs and parents, her line of questioning is a lot more, shall we say, direct." Rilie fixed him with a piercing look, "I just hope you come up to standard boyo, cos sure as toasters lay eggs I'll get chapter and verse if you don't."
Somewhat confused, Greg tentatively inquired as to why it would be Rilie who would get hell from her Godmother if he didn't measure up. Rilie refused to answer and her normally imperturbable demeanour glowed a healthy pink. Greg briefly considered emigrating to Siberia but decided that it was probably more chivalrous to see just how much trouble his girlfriend was going to get him into, although with the inimitable Lady Heather involved just about anything was possible. In a general sense, it was usually a toss up between Grissom and Rilie as to whom he least liked to annoy, but not turning up to work was, in the long term, less of a worry than upsetting a woman who in all probability had access to whips and sharp, pointed objects through her connection to her Godmother.
The reality, of course, was somewhat different. In actuality, Rilie was blushing at what Greg thought Heather would question her about in terms of his performance. In truth, her Godmother would have gutted the younger women if Greg had turned out to be afflicted with any number of the infamous social diseases and lack of social graces that routinely cropped up in the non-distaff side of the Andrews gene pool, for if there was one thing the redoubtable madam constantly reinforced to her young protégé it was that rakish good looks and a spectacular sexual endowment did not automatically bestow grace, charm or intelligence. Certainly, Heather acknowledged that physical attraction was important. But so was the ability to count past twenty without removing ones shoes. Indeed, the ability to converse without resorting to crudities or monosyllabic grunts was something to be highly prized. In the final analysis, if Rilie ended up with someone whose resemblance to a Neanderthal was more than simply picturesque, then Rilie was in for a world of hurt. Unbeknownst to Rilie, Heather had sworn to the girl's mother before she died that she wouldn't let Rilie end up with someone like Rilie's father and to that end she had taken a personal interest in her closest friend's only daughter.
Too much thinking about one's chances for survival in the face of an expectant, and potentially wrathful, godmother - with a checklist - inevitably sent Greg off on a weird mental tangent. He was just beginning to consider whether the priests' got danger money and additional counselling for hearing Lady Heather's confession when Rilie pointedly kicked him in the ankle in an attempt to regain his attention.
"So. Are. We. Going?"
"Going where?"
"Mars, to look for Osama bin Laden."
"Gee, sarcastic much."
Rilie rolled her eyes theatrically, "You don't miss much do you Greg; we're going to Lady Heather's where you will be tied to a chair, a bright light shone in your face and all manner of questions will be asked about your relationship with your cat."
"What about my cat?"
"Are you being purposefully thick Sanders? Or is this a heretofore- undiscovered natural ability because if it's the former and not the latter you're going to be more celibate than a monk marooned on a leper colony."
"But I'm celibate at the moment."
"...and if you don't shut up you'll die that way."
Even Greg could take a hint...eventually. "So..." he ventured bravely after a period where several couples skated past the pair and numerous elves could be heard muttering about being lost and how this didn't look anything like the North Pole, "...Lady Heather's then?"
Rilie simply held out her hand and, with something resembling equanimity, the young couple walked hand-in-hand towards their cars.
"Yours or mine?" Greg asked politely.
"Mine I think." Rilie replied. "First of all, if we leave your car here overnight, no-one's going to call the bomb squad out to examine an unknown vehicle and second" she continued over Greg's muttered comment about paranoia, "I know where I'm going, so I may as well just take my car. I can give you a lift to varsity in the morning."
"OK," said Greg. "Ummmm Rilie? Why are you giving me a ride to school tomorrow?"
"Because you're staying at my place."
"I'm staying at your place?...I'm... staying... at your place...ohhhhhh...I'm staying at YOUR PLACE!!!"
It was sad, Rilie thought, that someone so intelligent and so talented – and so goddamned cute – was at times just so completely clueless. It was, she decided, probably the fault of the penguins in Greg's childhood. They had scarred his ability to have a normal relationship; this, ironically, from the woman with Las Vegas' most notorious madam as a godmother. Nevertheless, Rilie knew that she was going to be pretty upset if she had to dress in heavy, starched cotton and carry a ruler in order to make Greg's temperature rise.
The ride through the city to Lady Heather's was uneventful, that is, no one was run over, which was always a good chance if Greg was driving. Also, most of the traffic laws were obeyed; except for the pesky one that required cars to slow to a reasonable speed when travelling through residential areas, Rilie was too determined to get her, somewhat spooked, boyfriend to her Godmother's before he chickened out and took a header out of the still moving car; thankfully the locking was central and childproof. It's not that Rilie was speeding – much – it was more that she was going fast enough to dissuade Greg from any precipitous, and wholly reflexive, action.
Greg, for his part, was in a daze; it was like Santa and the Easter Bunny had come to visit on his birthday. Certainly, he had some concerns about meeting Lady Heather, but that concern largely arose from the grandiose epics Brass had been known to regale the staff with in between murders, mayhem and the occasional act of gross stupidity on the part of the citizenry-at-large. Brass, usually silent and severe – although Greg, well aware of Brass' despair at his daughter's lifestyle, knew that was just an act – always seemed to warm at mention of the woman and his usual, gruff responses became positively Homeric in singing her praises. Privately, Greg thought it was some sort of private joke, at Lady Heather's expense, on Brass' part and the young man sincerely hoped he was around for the punch line; assuming, that is, that he survived this evening. The fact of the matter was not that Greg was scared of Rilie. Far from it. He wasn't in his heart-of-hearts overly concerned about Lady Heather either; if necessary, he smiled inwardly he could still run. What he was scared of, and you'll excuse the pun, was screwing things up. Not in the sense of saying the wrong thing or using the sugar tongs to pluck his nose hairs, but in opening himself up for rejection. Certainly his confidence in himself and his faith in the world and (some) of its denizens had grown of late but one swallow does not a summer make and six months of happiness doesn't make up for a lifetime of disappointment and self-doubt
It was in the midst of this introspection that they arrived and it was only as Rilie's door opened that Greg returned to the present. Rilie had briefly wondered why Greg had fallen silent on the drive but as he didn't look upset she decided that it wasn't worth pursuing, after all, people were allowed to not speak if they wanted.
On getting out of the car, Greg took a second to review his surroundings; they certainly didn't 'wholly' resemble the description handed down by Brass for if that were the case there would have been dragons and a moat. However, Lady Heather's mansion, for want of a better word, was Victorian, elegant and large, with, an admittedly discreet, car park filled almost to overflowing with Euro-luxury cars in which Rilie's battered Toyota seemed like a somewhat bewildered intruder parked as it was beside a monolithic silver Mercedes with city hall number plates; probably the Mayor, Greg surmised, if what he'd heard about the man's wife was anything to go by.
"Greg? You ready?" It was Rilie, looking mildly impatient as she gestured towards the entrance.
"What? Sorry, just admiring the view" he gestured towards the panoramic display of the city below. "This place must be worth a fair bit,' he said, gesturing towards the building and its surrounds.
"I guess." Rilie shrugged, "I don't know a lot about real estate. I know Heather picked it up about ten years ago. It belonged to an apocalyptic cult or some such. Anyway, they all topped themselves in accordance with the instructions left by the flying saucer taxi service and after the investigation was closed it went on the market; apparently it was pretty cheap."
"That's not uncommon," Greg replied. "Once you take away the ghoul-factor, your average person doesn't want a lot to do with places where people have been killed, bad karma I guess. There was an investigation a few years back into a mob-controlled property scam where the occupants were killed on a 'to-order' basis and the mob picked up the houses cheap later on."
"How were they found out?"
"The average house price in Vegas Heights dropped a hundred and fifty thousand dollars" Greg grinned, "That, and there were nine murders in a two block radius over a fifteen month period; the police might be a little slow but they're not entirely stupid." He looked up and gestured towards the house "Is that someone waiting for us?"
Rilie turned to look where Greg was facing where the light coming from the open door of the house silhouetted a woman's figure. "C'mon, that's Heather," she said as she grabbed his arm and dragged him forcibly in the direction of the light.
"Good evening Rilie," and with a polite inclination of her head in his direction, "This would be Greg?"
Greg nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and groped for a response somewhat removed from an asphyxiated gurgle.
The older woman turned an exasperated, yet amused, gaze on her Goddaughter, "What have you been telling the boy Rilie? I don't bite Greg; it's not part of the service. I knew who you were through a simple process of deduction, well that and Mike described you in greater detail than Rilie did." A bell- like laugh pealed in the evening air as Greg's expression assumed a hunted mien, "Not to worry dear boy, Mike recalled you from when you were playing pool."
"Rilie didn't tell me her family ran a spy network."
"You've got it easy Sanders," was the riposte, "You try living with it. I swear sometimes I come up here for Sunday lunch and Heather's got a list of everything I've done that week."
"One likes to keep informed Rilie, you never know when I might have need to blackmail you into painting the fence or weeding the garden."
"You have a gardener, and you could probably buy any decorating business in the Las Vegas area."
"But that's not the point is it? What is the point in having family if you can't put them to work? Come, let's go inside, I have a nice pot of tea waiting in the study."
Greg was slowly relaxing, Lady Heather appeared not to be the terrifying presence of his imagination and so far she seemed far more in keeping with the stereotypical dotty British Aunt than an infamous dominatrix; the study, beautifully appointed in wood panelling and redolent with the smells of beeswax candles and rosewater, appeared only to confirm this assessment of channelled Britishness. This was not to suggest of course that the woman in question was elderly or a frump bedecked in a curious hodgepodge of cast- offs and ill-considered finery. Lady Heather was elegant, dressed to the height of, albeit somewhat gothic inspired, fashion; and to call her beautiful was to slight the woman whose bearing was at once both regal and the embodiment of alluring.
"Tea, Greg?"
"Pardon...? Oh, yes please. As God intended it, thanks."
"Can I assume that means without milk or sugar."
Greg grinned, "Yes ma'am." Oh God, he thought, I'm channelling Nick.
"Ma'am? I know you were a little freaked about coming here Greg, but reverting to manners and courtesy? You must have been more traumatised than I thought."
"That will do Rilie."
"Yes ma'am."
Lady Heather, or Heather, as she had asked Greg to call her, gestured for her guests to sit and Greg found himself reclining in a sturdily made leather armchair that just reeked of understated class and taste. Just as well Benzene isn't here, he thought, she'd take one look at this set-up and I'd be short a cat.
"So, I guess this is the bit where you quiz me about my intentions towards your Goddaughter."
The older woman laughed, "Heavens no. Rilie is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Has she been feeding you stories about how I was going to Gestapo you until such time as I decided that you were an appropriate suitor?"
Greg nodded mutely while Rilie tried not to laugh.
"Rilie? Have you been telling lies?" Lady Heather's failure to keep a straight face was matched by Rilie's twinkling eyes.
"No ma'am, but then," she conceded, "I haven't been telling the whole truth either." She looked fondly at the young lab tech, "Then again, Greg's so damn trusting that I could have sold him the Brooklyn Bridge if I'd wanted to."
"That's not true Rilie," Greg protested, "You know I couldn't afford it."
"You're a highly paid consultant Greg, of course you could." Greg snorted in amusement.
"So, what do you do Greg? Rilie's mentioned that you're a scientist, but she wasn't particularly forthcoming when I asked her what you did, which was most unusual." She cast an arch glance in her Goddaughter's direction, "Normally, I can't shut her up."
Curiouser and curiouser Greg thought, "Are you sure this is the same Rilie we're discussing? I've met bricks more inclined to garrulousness."
"It's a familiarity thing. That and the fact that if she didn't talk me to me she'd probably implode; her family was never one to actually listen, especially to a woman."
Greg shrugged as Rilie tried to disappear into her chair. To save her blushes – for 'twas the gentlemanly thing to do – Greg returned to the topic at hand. "To answer your question, I'm a forensic chemist, I work for the LVPD Crime Lab."
Lady Heather smiled delightedly, much like a shark let loose in a paddling pool, "You don't work with Grissom and Brass do you?"
"Grissom's my boss. I'm not quite sure how to describe Brass."
"Comic relief." Was the murmured response.
"Maybe," he conceded dubiously, "But at work it's more a case of a bad cop, worse cop, with Brass in both roles. Sometimes I think he's competing with himself to see how long it takes to terrify the latest victim into submission; either that or he needs to severely reduce his caffeine intake."
"He's good people."
"Certainly, although I think you'll find the wider Las Vegas criminal community might beg to differ. Then again, he's not running for King-of-the- Underworld so it's unlikely that he's chasing the popular vote."
Rilie sat and watched the banter between the two, her stoic impression hiding the degree of relief she felt. True, her intimations of torture had been somewhat overstated, but she also knew her Godmother. Heather, while the epitome of courtesy wasn't one to swallow her opinions for the sake of politeness – at least not with family – and it was the plain truth that if she didn't like Greg then that feeling would have been patently obvious even to the most obtuse of individuals. Fortunately, at least for Rilie, Heather seemed delighted to find another person to swap innuendo and veiled insults with. That being said, Rilie wanted to leave, she had an itch that needed scratching and the cream wouldn't keep forever.
Lady Heather, for her part, hadn't reached her position in society, or business, by being stupid. She knew that Rilie genuinely liked this young man and that in itself was enough for her to cut Greg some small measure of slack and she had found that, once he had overcome his initial trepidation of the Big-Bad-Lady-Heather, Greg proved to be a wholly acceptable young man. Certainly, from cursory examination, he could verbally fence with the best of her clients and friends and to Heather's mind, anyone with command enough of the language to fence with her was a welcome addition to the social circle. Now it was time for the young people to leave, not so much because she was especially busy, but because her goddaughter looked ready to implode; sexual frustration was no-one's friend, especially the young, and Heather hoped that Rilie – and Greg – got what they both so obviously deserved.
"Well, Rilie, you'd best be off, I have things to do. I have to untie the Mayor in about ten minutes and the Archbishop has a flagellation booked with one of my new staff that I have to oversee." She gave the young woman a hug discreetly whispering in her ear that she wanted a full report after church on Sunday. "Greg, it was a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again. Do give my regards to Brass and Grissom won't you?"
"Yes ma'am."
Lady Heather grinned, in a refined and dignified sort of way. "He's such a nice boy. Alright then children, good evening. Rilie, you'll see yourself out?"
"Sure Heather, goodnight."
Greg and Rilie left the mansion, neither looking behind to see the clandestine rustle of the curtain as they climbed into the car and drove away.
"Right. My place."
"Your place it is."
"You leave food out for that psycho cat of yours?"
"She'll be OK. She's got the automatic feeder and I set the postman trap before I left."
"Postman trap?"
"You know, from the children's television show," Greg whistled a jaunty jingle, then proceeded to sing, "Postman trap, Postman trap, built to feed his black and white cat...."
"Sanders you're nuts."
"...and that's why we're going back to your place so you can cover me in whipped cream?"
"Something like that."
"Right" he said, turning on the car stereo, "Let's get going then."
If Joan of Arc had a heart
Would she give it as a gift
To such as me who longs to see
How an angel ought to be
Her dream's to give her heart away
Like an orphan on a wave
She cared so much she offered up
Her body to the grave
Grissom and Babylon had escaped the ordered chaos that had descended on the lab as people left to perform various duties. Despite the fact that Grissom had assigned, no, ordered, everyone back to work, several members of the team had hung around to talk. In Catherine's and Warrick's case it wasn't so much a case of engaging in idle gossip as it was that they didn't want to venture into the lair of the Hodges; the tech being an eternally, slimy, irascible presence unless of course Grissom was around, whereupon he was merely slimy and unctuous. Now, seated in Grissom's office, Agatha again recounted what had happened outside her apartment albeit minus the repartee, bitchy commentary and seemingly constant interruption as one CSI after the other attempted to demonstrate whose foot fit best in their mouth.
"OK Agatha, we've established that you saw someone outside your apartment that severely spooked you, largely, because you believe you caught them watching you on your balcony."
"Yes."
"What we weren't able to establish, due to my colleagues 'enthusiasm' was why you thought this person might be the Shakespeare Killer." Grissom winced as he uttered the despised moniker. He intensely disliked the media's almost childlike joy in applying a garish label to such criminals. In Grissom's mind it only granted such people a degree of social glorification they weren't entitled to.
"As I was trying to say back in lab, I don't know what made me think it was him; call it a feeling, call it journalistic instinct, hell, call it a woman's intuition if you like but don't ask me to quantify something that I can't." She grinned wryly, "Anyway, it's not like we've been introduced so I couldn't put a name to the face; not of course," she added, "that I actually saw a face."
"Can you describe this person?"
"Well, they were big."
"How big?"
"This big."
"That big?"
"That big,"
"That's big."
"I thought so."
"Clothing?"
"Yes."
"I meant can you describe the person's clothing?"
"I couldn't make out designer labels if that's what you're asking but they weren't dressed in rags either. Maybe army surplus? I don't know. They just looked like clothes, big clothes, but just clothes. Maybe he shops and tall- and-wide or whatever those oversized clothes places are called."
"Somehow I can't see us having much luck asking questions about whether any of their regulars has killed anyone lately."
'They might be able to give you an inside leg measurement though."
"An inside leg measurement is not a murder weapon Ms Babylon."
"Have you ever had your trousers ride up on you?"
There wasn't a whole lot Grissom could say to that, so he suggested that the two of them go to the area where Agatha had purportedly seen her ominous looking watcher and from there decide what, if anything, could be done.
He stood, automaton-like in the corner a stringless golem no more capable of independent action than a mewling child, for all that he made less noise.
"We were seen. The voice saw. How can we silence the voice if it spies our coming?"
"Peace brother, there will be other opportunities." "That as may be sister, but this vessel is failing us. Should happenstance and mercurial chance take vengeance upon us then how long must we wait until such an opportunity presents again itself?"
The response was passionless. "We are eternal. Should this vessel fall by the wayside then shall we continue in another time and another place."
"The point is acknowledged. Yet sacrificing such a powerful vessel seems wasteful."
A third voice entered the conversation.
"It would have been less wasteful if hadn't left our scent back at the house of the voice."
"Then let us return and remove all trace our presence."
"It is too late. The voice has gone and she shall return with the mind. The hunt is on my brethren, let us not tarry in its playing out."
"Alright Agatha, where did you see this person?" The two were standing on Agatha Babylon's balcony looking out towards the area where she had seen the watcher. Despite the fact that it well after dark, so after dark in fact that even the more respectable muggers and rapists were making their way home, the area was dimly, but clearly, lit by one of the many streetlamps that proliferated; it was actually surprising that people managed to navigate a straight path safely due to their profusion; the local skating clubs regularly used the area for close-quarters slalom practise.
"Down there," she indicated a large oak.
"Shall we take a look?"
"I guess." It was the uncertainty in her voice that made Grissom regard the small woman beside him with more intensity than usual and what he saw there surprised him, Agatha Babylon was scared.
"It'll be fine, even in the unlikely event that he's still around he's not going to attack the two of us in broad day...night...errrr...streetlight." Well I hope not thought Grissom, it's not like I can beat him off with red fingerprint dust.
The pair left the apartment and cautiously, perhaps overly so to Grissom's mind, approached the area that Babylon had indicated from her balcony. The tree in question was relatively old, not so old that Robin Hood was about to swing down from the branches, but old enough that long-time residents of the area remembered it being there when they first built their condominiums.
"Nice tree." Excellent Grissom. Way to instil confidence. She thinks sees a maniac and you comment on the tree.
Babylon looked at him oddly.
"Never mind," continued Grissom. "Now, where was this person in relation to the tree?"
"He was about...." She began to move to indicate the position more closely when Grissom stopped her.
"Just point, he may have left shoe prints in the dirt."
"OK," she pointed "There."
The CSI carefully approached the area indicated and lo, there were two clear impressions in the soil at the base of the tree. He snorted internally; this was the closest anyone had come to finding anything resembling a physical clue in the years the case had been open. This guy's getting sloppy, Grissom thought, he's usually far more careful. If Grissom had been able to see into the killer's mind he would have seen not a tendency towards sloppiness, but like an omnipresent ticking, an imminent and inevitable countdown to implosion.
As he bent to more closely examine the impressions he extracted his tape and began to take precise measurements of every aspect of their appearance and, some ten minutes after he'd sent Babylon back to his van to get some plaster for a mould, he began to cast. For her part, Agatha hadn't been very happy about being sent, by herself, to the van but two things had swayed her. The first, was that the van was in a clear line of sight of the tree, the second, and probably more cogent reason, was that Grissom offered to let her stay by the tree while he got the plaster; that had pretty much decided things.
"Well, you were right about one thing."
"And what was that."
"That whomever was here was pretty big."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, the size of the imprint for a start, but also the depth they've sunk into the ground, large people have greater mass and sometimes that mass is expressed in ways useful to the evidentiary process."
"Huh?"
"We can make a good estimate as to the person's height and weight based on these impressions."
"Oh."
As Grissom bent to examine the casting, Babylon found herself looking more closely at the tree. For what, she didn't know, maybe Grissom was rubbing off on her. She was just about to turn away when something caught her eye.
"Grissom?"
"Yes?"
"What's that?"
"What's what?"
"There, on the tree."
Grissom examined the area beside the impressions left by the Watcher's shoes not knowing precisely where Agatha was indicating.
"No. Further round." And there, at elbow height, or neck height on Babylon, was a tiny patch of fabric, green, similar in style to the fabrics regularly used in army-surplus.
Grissom rose, carefully, and stepped around the plaster mould taking great care not to disturb anything. Withdrawing a magnifying glass, from one of his many pockets, he bent to examine the fabric and there, tightly wound and caught in the tear was a single, dark hair.