Another chapter. At this rate we'll be finished by 2007.

I would like to note that the end is in sight. Sort of.

As always, thanks to my wonderful betas, Kat and 'tasha

Now: Go. Read. Enjoy. Review. [Be honest and brutal]

Also: If anyone would like to suggest another project please do; it doesn't have to be pure CSI.

There is no end to this.

I have seen your face.

But I don't recognize all these things.

You must have kept behind.

It's a problem, you know.

That's been there all your life.

Tries to make you see the world without you.

That's just some black and white.

At night it gets cold and.

You'd dearly like to turn away.

An escape that fails.

And makes the wounds that time won't heal.

Hello, hello, hello, hello.

There is no end to this.

I can't turn away.

Another picture would deceive.

History'd say.

There is no room to move.

Or try to look away.

Remember, life is strange.

And life keeps getting stranger every day.

A mass of harmless attitudes.

All tied up all subside.

No matter what they say.

You knew your heart beats you late at night.

Your heart beats you late at night.

NEW ORDER: PROCESSION
"Sanders!"

It was a voice that could bend metal and one, which even in the depths of Rilie-induced sleep deprivation, he could instantly recognise.

"Professor Mueller" he replied, turning to face the autocratic presence bearing down on him with all the grace of Jaggernath mashing hapless Indian peasants, "what can I do for you this morning?"

"Your composition," she snapped peremptorily, "where is it?"

"Composition? What compo....ohhh for the competition you mean? That's at home somewhere."

"What do you mean by 'at home' and 'somewhere'. You know full well that it is to be submitted by the end of next week. "

"How could I forget?" he murmured before catching the look of impending implosion of the professor's face. He shrugged, "Sorry, I've been busy with other things. Don't you worry though professor it will be submitted on time." Assuming the world doesn't end, or we get a rash of killings, or a busload of nuns explodes...or...or something, he thought. Of course, he pondered, there's always the possibility that Rilie could abduct me for the weekend. Or I could abduct her. Or we could abduct each other. Or there could be a cream shortage and we'd have to investigate....and then abduct each other.

It appeared that the professor didn't wholly accept his explanation and Greg was distracted from his internal monologue by a sharp slap across his face.

"Professor, I don't think you're supposed to assault the students. In fact, I'm fairly certain that the reason half the senior class had a restraining order served on you was for that very reason." Rilie was a mine of useful information.

"Then pay attention. And stop smiling."

"Smiling?" Christ, he thought, would you like me to fetch a stick? Or perhaps roll over and play dead? He rapidly quashed the later thought as Mueller would happily arrange his death and then set fire to the casket with a flame-thrower just to make sure.

"Yes, smiling, you scabrous little insect. Nobody smiles at me. Why are you smiling you insubordinate little pustule?"

Greg attempted to remodel his expression into something suitably grave and attentive and failed miserably. In fact, the harder he tried the worse things got. He tried to defend himself, assuring the professor that he wasn't laughing at her but that only made things worse. Fortunately, for Greg, he lived in enlightened times, and as such the professor's threat to attach electrodes to his testicles - and connect him to the national grid - was greeted with something approaching equanimity; assuming, of course, that the definition of equanimity involves collapsing to your knees with tears of laughter streaming down your face.

Mueller had gone nuclear by this point and it was that which saved him as staff appeared from all corners of the faculty to drag the irate professor off as she made a last, desperate grab at the silently convulsing student while threatening to rip his lungs out through his rib cage and mount them on either side of his head.

As the yelling, screaming and threats followed the inchoate professor, and her minders, down the hallway, Professor Doppler, the Head of the Music Department, poked his head around the corner of his office door. "We really have to do something about the amount of coffee that woman drinks," he mused. He didn't appear surprised, or even upset, at Mueller's outburst, as if what had happened was an infrequent, but not entirely unknown, occurrence. Shrugging, he turned his attention to Greg, who was no longer laughing and seemed to be internally debating whether to be outraged or to go into shock.

"I wouldn't worry too much Mr Sanders. In fact, one might even construe the professor's behaviour as a compliment."

"So if she really liked me I'd be dead?"

The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop several degrees "How very glib."

The Professor shook his head sadly, "You misunderstand me young man, perhaps purposely, one cannot say, however, you have been privy to the idiosyncrasies of this establishment long enough, combined with your liaison with the inestimable Ms Andrews, to be aware that Professor Mueller's reaction to your presence is inversely proportional to the amount of talent you display. While I certainly can't condone her behaviour, I'm merely suggesting that you take it for what it was instead of treating it as an unprovoked attack from a maniac."

"They would appear to be somewhat difficult to differentiate Professor."

Doppler smiled tolerantly, "And that young man, is why I am the head of department and you are the student. Good day."

If Greg had been confused before he was now completely bewildered; yet, instead of pondering the imponderable and because he was meeting Rilie for coffee, he merely thanked any deities present for the fact that his name wasn't Mozart, picked up his scattered books and headed in the direction of the cafeteria.
Ten minutes later Greg managed to wrap himself around a coffee. The bemused resignation of moments past had now assumed a different mien and as such he was too shell-shocked to consider that he was indulging in a potent stimulant to calm his shattered nerves; to all intents it could have been a rat-poison cocktail and he wouldn't have noticed. The Barista-on-Duty hadn't even commented when Greg had asked for the equivalent of a triple- double; if you can consider not commenting within the purview of asking if Greg was channelling his girlfriend. Then again, in the coffee lexicon according to Rilie, a triple-double was a beginner's drink.

Despite Doppler's 'explanation', Greg was several stages beyond bemused but not quite in the realms of terrified. Certainly, he had, in the past, become used to being dressed down by Grissom, but then Grissom had never assaulted him. It was ironic, he thought, I fled the lab to get away from being treated like a piece of dirt and here I am getting beaten at university and respected at work. Greg was beginning to think that the universe had it in for him personally but was distracted from this line of thought, by the appearance of Rilie, who was wearing what a generous person might have termed a skirt - although the pedantic would have argued it was a belt - and a top that would have made a lycra body suit seem baggy and ill-fitting by comparison. Maybe the universe wasn't so completely against him after all. At odds with his girlfriend's appearance, however, was an expression that bore closer resemblance to snake poked with a stick than that of a thoroughly ravishing young woman.

"Sanders, you okay?" Obviously she had heard about this morning's excitement.

"Within a broad definition of the word term, yes." He smiled wryly, "yet I must admit that this morning's encounter wasn't exactly how I was planning to start my day."

"I can imagine; you certainly woke up with a very broad smile."

"I'm surprised I woke up at all after what you put me through last night."

"I didn't see you complaining."

"True. But it was also touch and go as to whether I'd walk again. I have to admit Rilie, your enthusiasm is even scarier than your sarcasm."

Rilie blushed. "I need coffee," she declared in an obvious ploy to distract attention from herself. She turned to get up, only to have a coffee plonked in front of her before her backside had risen a millimetre from the chair. Greg smirked, his amusement at his girlfriend's predictability too obvious to hide successfully. "They know you too well, Andrews; they'd probably started making that as soon as you walked through the door."

She shrugged, "Probably. So, what happened this morning? All I've heard is that Mueller tried to rip your throat out with her teeth."

"That's pretty close. Actually, I'm pretty happy that the psychotic bitch wasn't holding a pencil or she would've tried to stake me like a vampire. Anyway, best I can figure is that she got upset because I hadn't given her my composition for that competition thingy she is continually raving about in class."

"She must rate it quite highly then."

"That's what Doppler said; can I add that I think you're both nuts."

"Maybe so, but if Mueller is prepared to kill for your work then it must be pretty good; her usual reaction is arrogant indifference."

"I can live with that. What I can't live with is being assaulted for not jumping through a hoop." Greg was confused, he was at a loss to understand why everyone in the music department, and his girlfriend, seemed to accept the fact that the composition professor was completely insane. Maybe it was a relativist conspiracy, where music departments determined acceptable standards of mental health differently across the country and that secretly, every music department had a secure ward where the composition teacher was returned after each day's classes.

Rilie nodded sympathetically, "Sure, no argument, but it could have been worse."

"What do you mean...worse?"

"Well..." Rilie grinned evilly, "She might not have liked your composition..."

"Yes I can see how that would far outweigh assault as an issue. Maybe I was overreacting, I mean the fact that my professor tried to strangle me in the hallway is only a minor anomaly!!!" Greg's voice rose as his shock-induced calm gave way to anger at Rilie's apparent lack of anything resembling empathy - or sympathy for that matter. "So, has Professor Mueller ever attacked you?"

"No. Why?"

"Obviously your compositions aren't any good then."

Rilie flushed, firstly with embarrassment, then rage. "Shove it Sanders, where do you get off being such an arsehole?"

"Simply following your lead."

That brought her up short. Everything was going wrong. Sure, she had only been teasing, or so she thought, and then Greg had lashed out. For a moment she was lost, but then, when you're brought up in a culture of abuse you tend to take for granted what others not only won't tolerate but also can't understand. For Rilie, who was so far past feeling anything when it came to the slings and arrows cast upon her by her own family that she was unable to extend the empathy required by another; sadly, she didn't even recognise the need. Yet while she didn't understand why Greg was so upset, that he was upset made her wince, not shared pain but the pain of knowing that her actions were self-limiting and damaging. A rogue Star trek thought invaded her mind and she cursed her tar pit memory for the spear in the other's heart was indeed the spear in her own.

Greg regarded Rilie curiously; it appeared that she had shut down, as her eyes grew distant and unfocused. He was, to his surprise, no longer angry, in fact, he wasn't entirely sure why he had been angry with her in the first place; maybe he expected Rilie not to have the failings of common mortals or to at least share his outrage, but he couldn't be certain. Admittedly, Rilie's lack of empathy had hurt and he had reacted without thinking - but then, feelings are, at best, capricious, and wont to act to their own dictates. He had not meant to hurt merely make a point and while there was many a slip 'twixt cup and lip there was no doubt in his recrimination. Only now, in the taut silence, did the inevitability of all conflict come home to roost. He had no wish to be at odds with this woman, his woman, even when her words struck to the heart; of course the nine million years he had spent under Sister Torquemada's regime had permanently imprinted on his psyche that he deserved everything he got and while there was obvious evidence contrary, he wanted someone, anyone, to be unquestionably on his side.

It was Greg's hand that brought Rilie out of her reverie, that and the aroma of the triple espresso that happened to be in his hand and was being gently wafted back and forth under her nose.

"You okay?" The tone held nothing but concern.

Rilie ducked her head, embarrassed; she didn't like people seeing her like this. "Yeh, I guess so," she smiled tentatively, "and you?"

"I'll live."

Forget entropy, it is recrimination that is the most powerful negative force in the universe and both Greg and Rilie seemed to realise this; unspoken, the two shared a single thought; that they both felt particularly stupid and adolescent-like. Unsurprisingly, the likelihood of either giving voice to this was only slightly higher than Lucifer heading up the first united ice hockey squad from the nine planes of Hell; of course this was due mainly to there being only a handful of demons and devils that could actually skate.

The pair moved on.

"Dinner tonight?"

"I can't, Grissom wants me at the lab."

"More Shakespeare guy?"

"No, the whole lab's backed up. One of the days shift's kids got chickenpox and in the spirit of collegiality he decided to share, so we, apparently meaning my stash of coffee and yours truly, are taking over some of the dayshift's cases. You could drop in if you want although I don't promise to be good company."

"I wouldn't know the difference."

"True." He agreed. "But come by anyway."

"Sure, you want me to bring some dinner?"

"Thanks mum."

"No problem. Now, how about another coffee."
Grissom had just woken when he received the call and as such was a little slow on the uptake. For this reason it had taken him a little while to process that he did indeed know a Mrs Ecklie and yes, he did remember that her husband was in a coma.

The operative word being 'was'.

"He's awake?"

"Yes."

"So he's regained consciousness?"

"If you consider that a reasonable synonym for awake, then yes, Mister Grissom, he's awake."

"So he's awake then?"

"Really Grissom," the honorific 'Mister' now excluded, "I thought you to be an intelligent individual, I'm starting to have my doubts. Yes, Conrad is awake, and for some reason, known only to God I imagine, he wants to talk to you."

"Me?"

"No. I'm calling to tell you that Conrad wants to speak to someone else."

"Now?"

"Would you like me to make an appointment?" While he had, in the last few months, made some progress in interpreting the subtle undercurrents in people's communications he was far from adept, but not even Grissom missed the warning tone in the woman's voice.

"No, no, I'll be right there, just let me have a coffee."

"If you insist."

Grissom was left staring at the receiver, which, if such a thing were possible, sarcastically informed him that the connection had been broken.

In the hospital lobby, Mrs Ecklie stared at the telephone wondering why she hadn't ignored her husband's request. Really, she thought, if I wanted to torture him with imbeciles I could take him up to the psychiatry outpatients ward it would have saved the bother of having to get someone to come in specially.

Twenty minutes later Grissom charged through the doors to the waiting room looking for all the world like an unmade bed albeit somewhat better dressed - his shirt wasn't covered with duckies and microscopes like his duvet.

Mrs Ecklie was waiting for him, looking like a vengeful valkyrie who'd lost her steed and was, by Thor, going to make the bastard who stole it pay; fortunately for Grissom, he didn't appear to have arrived by winged beast and as such was spared the indignity of being smote with lightning; nevertheless, he approached the balefully glowering woman with caution.

"Good evening," he offered tentatively.

For a brief moment it looked likely that his colleague's wife was going to tell him precisely where to stuff his 'good evening'. However, she simply cocked a bemused eyebrow in his direction, nodded in response, and gestured for him to follow; Grissom, like a well-trained Labrador, followed in her wake wanting only for a freshly murdered duck to complete the image of subservient obedience.

"You can't speak with Conrad for too long Grissom, he's still very tired, and quite weak. The only reason I, and the doctors, are letting you anywhere near him was because he insisted; it's possible that he's even more stubborn than I."

What Mrs Ecklie had failed to mention was her husband's politely, and perfectly enunciated, threat to tear the I.V. out of his arm and go find Grissom himself if his team of attendants didn't accede to his softly worded request. While all in attendance agreed that the newly awakened man was the soul of courtesy there was a steely ring to his tone that clearly indicated the intrinsic lack of humour in his statement; his wife simply sighed in resignation, she was used to her husband demonstrating this level of brinkmanship on bridge nights and knew better than to argue; anyone brave enough to overcall her bid would easily chew up and spit out any doctor who had the temerity to object.

Grissom could only nod, being a scientist he applied empirical laws to determine his imminent death if he disobeyed this clearly ironclad condition, he did, however, venture a question. "Do you know why Conrad, wishes to see me so urgently?"

Mrs Ecklie's forbidding expression noticeably softened and a fond smile had a Moses-like effect as the worry lines on her forehead disappeared. "I gave up trying to figure out precisely what percolates in my husband's mind Mr Grissom. It could be that he simply wants to tell you that he won't be in for work this week. It's also just as likely that's going to tell you something else, heaven forefend that one such as I should attempt to delve into the inner thoughts of such a man."

'I would have thought after so many years of marriage you would have an understanding of his thoughts."

"That would be boring Mr Grissom, and boredom leads to entropy." She grinned impishly, "and entropy leads to anger and anger leads to hate and hate leads to the dark side; and we couldn't have that," she looked at her watch, "especially before dinner."

Grissom was somewhat startled.

"Come along Grissom, stop standing around like a pudding, Conrad is waiting."

Grissom wondered if his visit with his erstwhile nemesis was going to be a continuation of this current 'torture by Ecklie' or if the lighter side of the man's personality, that everyone kept talking about, and very obviously absent from his wife, would surface; anything had to be better than being tormented by this...this...woman.

"Well, here we are." Mrs Ecklie indicated a small room to Grissom's left; he had obviously been following on autopilot, lost in his thoughts of pushing the woman off a cliff or into the ravening maw of a large ravening thing; there weren't to many large ravening bugs so Grissom made do with a mental approximation.

"Well, are you going to go in? Or stand here looking stupid?"

"I'll go in," replied Grissom politely, if only to escape from you, he thought.

Mrs Ecklie made a shooing motion and watched as the man entered her husband's hospital room. She grinned broadly as he disappeared, she hadn't had this much fun in ages; she would have to suitably reward Conrad for telling her which buttons to push.

The last shafts of late afternoon sun filled the room shining down on the recumbent form of Conrad Ecklie and sheathing him in an opalescent fire to the point where he resembled the Renaissance ideal of an angel, the irony wasn't lost on Grissom whom had oft considered Ecklie his own personal devil. In repose, Ecklie seemed peaceful and certainly more at ease than the peripatetic frenzy that terrorized the day shift; Grissom was unnerved.

"Are you planning to paint a picture or just stand there staring?" The words were softly spoken but they were unmistakably and indisputably Ecklie.

Grissom started, before somewhat ruefully taking a seat in the chair by the bed. "Sorry Eck...I mean Conrad, I thought you were sleeping."

"I've done that. I got bored."

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Speaking in a soft voice, Grissom tried to make his words as soothing as possible; he wasn't very good at it.

"I was in a coma Grissom, not a mental hospital, don't patronise me. Yes, I asked to speak to you, I surely didn't ask you here for the pleasure of your company."

Grissom was fast losing his temper. "...And maybe you should have stayed in a coma, it distinctly improved your personality."

"...At least I have a discernable personality " was the tart rejoinder.

Ecklie looked like he was going to continue in the same vein but forcibly controlled himself, his sharply exhaled breath clear indication of his frustration. 'As entertaining as this is Grissom, I didn't ask you here to argue."

His counterpart shrugged wryly, "Old habits...."

"Indeed. Anyway, my wife told me you searched my study, did you find the journal?"

"We did, and assuming I drew the same conclusions you did we're currently trying to persuade the medical association to unlock it's sphincter."

"Best of luck with that."

Grissom looked puzzled, "Isn't that what you were on your way to tell me? What you'd found in the journal?"

"Initially, but then I thought of something else. I thought, like you, that the medical community would be less than helpful although, to be fair, they do have to protect their interests and the interests of their patients. However, I also had the thought that a lot of severely ill people have access to public monies in order to survive and this information is not protected by something like doctor/ patient privilege. Certainly, there is a degree of privacy around precisely who gets what but the general information is public record."

"But didn't the investigation check all those records?"

"No. Criminal records. Outpatient records. Even day-patient records but not everyone with a mental condition has been a guest of the State, or indeed, of a medical facility, so searching there wouldn't find anything."

"But surely, Conrad, with a condition as serious as this person's appears to be there must have been some record of what might happen."

"That's where doctor/ patient privilege comes in and thus as serious as it was, sorry is, we'd never know what was happening. You also have to remember that some mental and physical conditions can develop quite late in a person's life, like Type-II. Diabetes, and therefore there'd be no history of mental illness recorded in the public health system. Also, if you'd read the article, you'd know that Pax Romana wasn't always devoid of its active ingredients so it's entirely possibly that our friend wasn't un- medicated for quite some time."

"That's true, I suppose."

"Perhaps most importantly, however, is that Pax Romana, like many drugs proscribed for psychiatric conditions, has a very short half-life in the body but unlike the majority of drugs it doesn't work solely by treating the damaged or deteriorating areas of the brain but it also makes changes to the existing body chemistry to bring it into a kind of holistic balance. Now, from a continuing care perspective, this is excellent, however, from the perspective that we have an un-medicated maniac with altered brain chemistry running around, it's not so good."

"You have a wonderful gift for understatement."

"Thank you; it took me years to shake off the hyperbolic training I received in law school. Anyway, I'd suggest you run along and start checking some records; from what my wife told me it doesn't sound like you have a lot of time." Neither man had given voice to the thought that they might be wrong and that Pax Romana was just another wild goose chase, they needed something to hang their hopes on.

Grissom nodded. "Thanks Conrad, I'll keep you posted."

Ecklie only nodded in response turning his head towards the sunlight an indication that the meeting was over. Grissom began to leave and then stopped, he thought about how helpful Ecklie had just been and how what he had been told about Ecklie differed so much from his experience and preconceptions; maybe it was time for him to grow up. "Conrad, would you mind if I came a visited you again?"

Although his face was turned away, there was no mistaking the slight smile in Conrad Ecklie's voice, "Not at all Grissom, not at all."
There had been five of them - with the emphasis on the had. Now, hung about the house, they resembled nothing so much as a somewhat macabre family portrait. The children decorated the hallway and, in a nod to kitsch art deco humour, had been positioned to look like a row of ceramic ducks in flight. Of course the blood, which coated the walls, floor and in some cases, ceiling, tended to detract from the aesthetics of the affair, although a connoisseur of Jackson Pollack could possibly have commented favourably about the splatter patterns giving testament to the brutal and banal realism of life's rich pageant.

Aesthetics, however, were not the concern of the hardened police officers who were leaving the premises faster than they went in, usually with the intention of emptying their stomachs of assorted donuts coffees. The CSIs, however, weren't granted the pleasure of purgation instead they could only attempt to mount a façade of professionalism in the face of the horror before them. Even the ever-stoic Grissom was silent; his usual speech to the effect that a CSI must be professional at all times was left at the threshold. Battling Grissom's professionalism for non-entering rights were Brass' cynicism and Brown's laconic air as neither gave adequate testament to a scene that immediately sandblasted a psyche raw.

The scene spoke of barrenness beyond humanity, beyond compassion, beyond understanding. If Grissom could have wept he would have, for a scientist's job, indeed their life, was to explain; but how could he explain this? Sometimes words, even the most explicit, stand defiant; for neither etymology nor definition provide context or grant understanding.

"Well Grissom, where do we start?"

The question returned Grissom to the present. Looking at the assembled faces of his staff he was struck by the possibility that for the first time in CSI history every one of the night shift looked like they were going to offer to search the perimeter. Immediately. For several hours. With the perimeter extending as far away from the house as possible.

"Nick, Sara, you take the outside," both looked grateful. "Warrick, Cath, we'll take the lounge since that's where the parents are." No one felt the need to comment that that was where the slaughter had started; insane the killer might have been, but there was still method in his madness with the greater threat neutralised first.

The horror that greeted the CSIs in the lounge was not as intense as the hallway; although it wasn't any less unpleasant. To the practised eye, it appeared as if the killer had rushed his work here, certainly the meticulous and fastidious attention to detail previously attributed to him was absent, also, furniture was cast about indicating that the killings had not proceeded in the orderly fashion of the past acts.

"Run children!" She screamed.

"There is no escape. There is only death," intoned the figure who stood over her. The words were not cruel, nor did they hold the stereotypical malevolence; there was only resignation and a sense of finality.

Further cries were silenced with the back of his hand and the woman crumpled to the floor next to the body of her husband. The children, bar one, had not moved, stricken by the sight of their mother falling to the floor; that they were too young to comprehend the scene before them, and the consequences implicit, only hindered any thought of escape.

The eldest child, the one who had started to run, stopped at her mother's fall, torn between the fear of disobeying the parental command and wanting to run to comfort, and be comforted by, her mother.

The child, cowed by indecision, stood transfixed as the figure approached, roughly hurling chairs aside in his desire to reach her...

...And all she heard was the crying of her siblings...

...Then, as his hand descended, only darkness...

"Maybe, this wasn't where the killings started Grissom," stated Catherine, "even a brief examination of the bodies tells me at least one of them was dead before they were attached to the wall, look at the extremities and the way the blood has settled."

"Possibly Cath," argued Warrick. "But it's just as likely that the adults were killed first and left here while he chased the children down, the way the furniture is scattered would indicate that some sort of struggle occurred."

"It's just as likely, if not more so, that he struggled with the parents. Look at the male, bruising about the neck, defensive marks on the wrists and arms and..." Catherine paused to gently roll up the shirt of the victim, "it would appear that he was kicked while on the ground," she indicated the bruising about the man's ribcage and abdomen, "and that possibly, he died there."

"Any chance of epithelials?"

"Too early to say, we'll have to wait until Robbins checks him out. I'd be surprised though; we haven't had so much as a fingerprint before now. I can't see our friend with the knife suddenly leaving us available hunks of skin. Of course" she conceded, "anything is possible." Catherine looked around as if trying to place someone or something that was, to her mind, missing "Do we have an ETA on the coroner?"

Warrick went outside to check and returned a moment later with the news that David had been held up in traffic and wouldn't be there for another half hour. Grissom shrugged inured to the fates playing with his crime scenes. "Bag his hands Warrick" he said, indicating the male victim, "I don't want to lose anything when we take him down."

Moving the focus of his attention Grissom indicated the woman "What about her?"

"A cursory examination indicates a single blow to the head although I would guess, judging by the way that her remaining blood has pooled in her extremities, that she died on the wall."

"Remaining blood?"

"Well, per custom, the throats have been slashed, however, the volume of blood splatter from the severing of the carotid artery would tend to indicate that only one victim was alive when cut and to my mind that would support my belief that the husband died beforehand."

"But his throat was cut?"

"Yes."

"That would indicate that whatever ritual this guy's following still went ahead wouldn't it Grissom?"

"I guess. I'm not a forensic psychologist and I'd really rather not try and rummage around in this guy's skull, I'll leave that to the experts."

The man was not meant to have died as he did but for some reason he had not succumbed to the toxin and had attacked the intruder; his need to protect his family overriding his instinct for self-preservation.

The response was brutal and merciless.

While the woman and children watched he systematically beat the man stopping only when the pathetic whimpering sounds emanating from beneath his feet had ceased.

The man was heavy, his weight a burden as he was affixed, first one hand then the other, to the wall. After assuring himself that the man would not fall from his place of honour, he tuned to the woman. She had not stirred from her position at his feet. He initially feared her dead but the caress of her pallid breath on his skin as he lifted her high reassured him.

She resembled a broken Madonna.

Black eyes staring sightlessly past him.

He waited, for only in the moment of her return to consciousness could she be taken.

As the spark of life returned to her eyes and a whispered "my children" crawled past broken lips did the blade slice downward...

...and the blood flowed.

"You finished photographing the area yet Warrick?"

"Just about. I still need to get a few close-ups of the victims. Cath, you finished with the blood?"

"Yup," she nodded, "Not much to go on really. Spray pattern indicates a right to left cut and that's about it." She paused for a second before adding with gallows intent, "Did I mention how well shagpile absorbs blood?"

"No, but thanks for the thought."

"We aim to please," she informed brightly.

Grissom silently watched the pair banter knowing that their words were little more than a poorly disguised coping mechanism. "We ready to move onto the children?" The question was more about state of mind than professional preparedness and Grissom knew he'd been right to ask as both Warrick and Catherine visibly drew a calming breath before indicating their assent. Professionalism was one thing but there was something different about child victims, and it took a toll of every person who worked in the area of criminal justice. Maybe it was the innocence, or the sense of waste, but it always hit and it always hit hard; especially those with children of their own.

"You alright Cath?"

Grissom heard Warrick's quiet comment. "You can go and join Nick and Sara outside if you'd like Catherine.

Outraged fire flashed in the redhead's eyes before she acknowledged Grissom's question with a shrug "I'll be fine. If the bastard that did this was around then I'd probably try to rip his throat out with my teeth, but for the moment I'm..." she looked like she was going to throw up "...OK." The trio had re-entered the hallway and the bodies of the three children hung in visceral splendour before them.

"You sure?"

"Just give me a moment Gil."

"Fine." He turned to Warrick, "Start taking pictures, Warrick, I'll see if I can find anything like a message, he didn't leave anything on the parents so if he's running true to form there should be something on one of the kids."

"He's killed five this time Griss, somehow I think he threw the form book out the window. I mean, escalation is one thing, but this? I'd have preferred it if he'd just left a courtesy card."

"There's not a whole lot of courtesy going on here Warrick." This came from Catherine, who while still pale, appeared composed, "Let's get this over with shall we?"

"Masters, please, not the children." It was possibly the one thing that could rouse his soul from it catatonia.

"You disobeyed us once and let a child live, this time our will be done."

The oldest child was, at best, nine; a pretty child with straw blond hair and an elfin face, she lay where she had fallen earlier beneath the oppression of his hand, but had roused to the point where she could frame, with pointed innocence, a question that had no answer in a world where sanity was master here sanity held no sway.

"Why did you hurt my mummy?"

"Your mother is to do with as I will it. She belongs to me, child, as do you." The eyes told a tale different from that spoken. They bespoke horror and a helplessness that even a scared child could see.

"Why are you sad, mister? Did my mummy make you sad?"

He silenced her with a heavy fist. "You need to learn your place." A pause, then a brutal, malicious smile, "and I will teach it to you."

Reaching down he roughly grasped the child about the throat, her weight, compared to that of her parents, nothing. Raising the child high he shifted his grip to the other hand and from the child's throat to her hair. She was beautiful in her unconscious state, a state forever to be preserved as he drove forward with his free hand and the spike, which he held there pinned the child to the wall.

She looked much like a butterfly, pinioned for eternity in death to preserve a fragile beauty, yet the splintered wreck that had been her throat spoke of something far removed.

Satisfied, he turned his gaze to the younger children that lay at her feet.

It wasn't pretty. But it was effective. Certainly those were the only thoughts that crossed Grissom's mind as he supervised the careful examination of the children's bodies in the hallway. Actually, they were the only thoughts that Grissom allowed to cross his mind, he didn't want to think of anything else; anything, that is, that would allow him to absorb the horror that now resided here.

"What've we got guys?"

"I'm assuming you mean other than three kids pinned to the wall by their throats?"

"Well that's kind of obvious, Catherine," pointed out Warrick, "I'm assuming Gris means is there anything different."

"You mean you see this sort of thing on a regular basis?"

"Not lately. But I haven't had time to keep up with my sacrifices. I just drop a dollar or two in the offertory on the way home, but that's it. How about you?"

"Well Lindsey had a project for school..."

Grissom rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait his senior staff were rolling out for him. "Would you two just answer the question without all the exciting editorialising."

"Well the throats weren't slashed, although the spike punctured enough arteries and veins to account for the squelching carpet. The oldest child has some bruising about the throat and a mark on the face but otherwise all three victims appear to have been handled quite gently. Strange as it sounds, Grissom, I don't think he wanted to do this."

"No masters, not the children."

"Well he failed miserably then."

"Silence. Exercise our will."

"He's completely lost control."

"For our glory my brethren, for our glory."

"Not entirely Grissom, look." Warrick stepped to the left of the eldest child gently lifting and drawing her body with him. Behind her, in the blood that had run down the wall was a clear impression of a hand and scrawled below were two words, 'I'm sorry'.