It's that time again ladies and gentlemen, where proof that iscariot has indeed gotten of his backside and been writing is produced. Thank you for your patience. It's funny, this chapter took me six weeks to start, in part because of the short piece on Brass that I wrote, but once it got going it flowed quite nicely.

To the shock of many assuming there's actually a 'many' reading this this chapter actually has some story development instead of my usual, feeble attempts to see how many cultural references I can jam into a chapter or to try and convince myself that I am humorous.

As always, thanks to my loyal betas, who despite having the audacity to have lives of their own, produced their usual sterling work in stopping my megalomania run completely rampant.

My gripe this week is fanfiction authors who write popular stories but don't review other people's work...bastards.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and if you feel so inclined, please review.

"Do you know who you are talking to, with your confounded tomfooleries?"

"I never talk tomfooleries," said the other, "without first knowing my audience"

GK Chesterton. 'The Painful Fall of a Great Reputation' from The Club of Queer Trades

"Good evening, this is Desiderata Rampage, coming to you live from the scene of yet another chapter in the campaign of murder most foul; where the Shakespeare Killer, Las Vegas' most notorious criminal, has once again struck into the heart of suburbia, shattering the innocence of yet another neighbourhood. Early reports state that there are ten victims this time, and in an apparent Satanic ritual, the killer quoted sections from the Necronomicon, Paradise Lost, Dante's Divine Comedy and the sports pages of the National Enquirer. We are unable at this point to bring you the names of the victims, but we will be speaking to neighbours of the deceased who saw the events happen."

The blonde, Rampage, was about to continue, after strategically fluffing her already impressively mane of hair to even greater heights, when her cameraman pointed to a tired figure emerging from the house. Sighting her prey, and with the instincts of a ravenous eagle in pursuit of a doomed water buffalo, set forth in full flounce.

"Captain Brass? Captain Brass!"

Brass, with an expression reminiscent of a piece of steak at a carnivores convention looked like he was considering running back into the house and hiding, or, failing that, shooting the reporter. He sighed resignedly – because he knew it would be he that would be gunned down if shot her. Giving up any thoughts of escape he prepared to answer with a firm 'No Comment' whatever inanity spewed forth from the collagen enhanced lips.

"Captain Brass, is it true there are ten victims?"

"No comm...How many did you say?"

"Ten."

Brass smiled inwardly, for as the carnivores circled, the piece of steak unveiled the machine gun it had hidden.

"Oh yes, at least."

"This then would be the worst act perpetrated by the Shakespeare Killer."

"Who said it was the Shakespeare Killer?"

"The witness."

A witness? Brass' mind filed that piece of information away for further investigation, although considering the source; he wasn't prepared to attest to its probable veracity.

"And how does this 'witness'," he lightly emphasized the word, "know that this was the work of the Shakespeare Killer?"

"I can't say, Captain."

"Perhaps your witness is the Shakespeare Killer?"

"I consider that highly unlikely."

"Why? Do you know who the Shakespeare Killer is?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that the witness is not the person in question?"

"Because they...hold on, I'm asking you the questions."

"No. You were."

"I was?"

"Yes, you were; but I'm leaving now."

"Leaving? You can't leave."

"...and why would it be that I can't leave?"

"Because I'm...." The reporter gave up, surrendering in acknowledgement of being completely outmanoeuvred by the wily detective. "You can leave Captain."

"How kind," murmured Brass, who permitted himself a small smile for he knew it would be the only victory he would have that evening. He surveyed the scene surrounding the house: police cars warred with news vans for parking, while reporters jostled local residents as they sheltered behind the lines the police had erected in a futile attempt to protect the crime scene, he half expected hotdog and t-shirt vendors to make an appearance hawking their wares with the subtlety only the truly capitalistic could manage. It was times like these, when Brass was forced to watch the venal interplay of human curiosity and greed, that he wondered whether people – although he used the nomenclature advisedly – such as the maniac, whose work decorated the inside of the house, had the right idea and that the larger percentage of the population was useful for little more that wholesale butchery. Maybe they could replace cows, he mused, for at the very least cows performed some useful social functions.

"Jim?"

The ever-tightening spiral of the man's dark thoughts were interrupted, which, he would silently admit, was probably a good thing. "What is it Gil?' He hadn't needed to turn to know who had addressed him.

"We're almost done in there." The slight emphasis Grissom placed upon the adverb caused Brass to regard his colleague with something approaching wariness.

"What do you mean, 'almost'?"

Grissom sighed. "We're pretty much wading in blood, I shudder to think how much trace evidence has been tracked backwards, forwards or otherwise." He continued before Brass could interrupt. "It doesn't help that the people securing the scene made complete mess of things – incidentally, I'll need their shoes – but all things considered, and short of wrapping the entire house in a sheet of plastic, they didn't have a huge range of options."

"I'll see what I can do about getting you a large sheet of plastic."

The answering grin was acerbic albeit tinged with resignation; "That's not going to help anyone this time, Jim." Grissom's eyes were haunted, "I've seen a lot, but this," he gestured towards the house, "this is something else entirely."

The detective, for, titles notwithstanding, that's what Brass would always be, nodded in understanding. "How're the guys holding up?"

"Catherine's wavering between homicidal rage and shock and Warrick? Well Warrick's Warrick. Sara and Nick are doing the perimeter check and haven't been inside yet, but as there's kids involved it might be the wiser course to keep Nick outside, you know how he gets."

Brass' answering shrug indicated his tacit agreement, as it was well known that exposing the young Texan CSI to circumstances involving murdered children was akin to playing with a flamethrower in a fuel tank; it wasn't that Nick didn't perform his job professionally and to the utmost of his abilities in such situations it was more that he took such incidents personally and his investigation became a wrath-fuelled crusade with little thought given to consequence; and frankly, the two men privately admitted to themselves, the last thing this investigation needed was to be turned into a witch hunt. Brass did admit privately, however, that if they ever caught the son-of-a-bitch responsible for this, and the other killings, he was entirely supportive of going medieval on the bastard and toasting his unmentionables on an oversized bonfire.

"Fine. I guess." It wasn't that Brass had any real misgivings as to how the investigation was handled being as how the staff involved were Grissom's responsibility. He was, however, resigned to the inevitable conversation with his political masters involving which would inevitably involve selections from his compendium of bureaucratic doublespeak such as 'all available resources' and 'a comprehensive investigation', which, in the grand scheme of things, didn't mean squat other than being something to feed the electorate in order to keep the mayor in office. "Anyway, what have you got so far?"

"No pressure, Jim? We've only been in there for..." Grissom paused to look at his watch, "three, no, four hours."

"Time flies when you're having fun..."

"...Thanks Jim..."

"...Or so I'm told..."

"That's a sad commentary on your existence; surely the sisters at St Maudlins provide you with all the excitement you could ever want."

"If you call exploding Mother Superiors fun, then yes..."

"You mean they're not?"

"Fun?"

"Exploding" smirked Grissom, purposely misinterpreting his colleague.

"I'm going to send you home in a box" Retorted Brass with the icy control of a saint on anti-psychotics. "Now, did you plan on answering the question or just stand there and take the piss?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"No."

"In that case I'll take..."

"Grissom...." Brass' tone was menacing, although he was well aware that Grissom was, in his own peculiar way, simply relieving stress."

The other man grinned, or at least he tried to, summoning as much humour from the situation as he could, before responding. "You've seen it in there Jim, it's a mess. While I have no doubt as to the identity of the perpetrator, the crime scene would indicate something else is going on."

"Like what?"

"Precisely? I couldn't tell you. Personally, I think that whomever is responsible for this" he indicated the house "and all the other killings, is losing it. Badly."

"...and you don't think that his previous killings would indicate some measure, however small, of mental-unhingedness?"

"Unhingedness isn't a word Brass."

"It is now. Anyhow, you were telling me...."

"...About why I think our 'friend with the knives' is coming apart at the seams? Firstly, I would have to point to the lack of order. As you're fully aware, the other crime scenes were tidy, excepting of course the blood splatter, with nothing disturbed; this scene had furniture scattered all about the room where two of the murders took place. Secondly, this time we've got some degree of trace evidence, specifically, bloody footprints and a potential palm print and that's with only a cursory search conducted. It's tricky though Jim, there's so much blood in there that it's difficult to tell what's what, particularly as you squelch between the hallway and the lounge." Grissom sighed, "my guess is that we're going to have to take the whole damn carpet with us if only to avoid missing something; I may just need that plastic sheet you were offering me after all."

Both men paused in their conversation as they saw the vulture-like presence of the reporter to whom Brass had spoken to earlier heading their way. It was Brass who responded first, beating a strategic retreat towards his car.

"I'll see you later Gil."

"Dr Grissom? Dr Grissom!" The harpy-like screech cut the air and Grissom couldn't help wondering to himself where Agatha Babylon was when he needed her.

Press Conference Later That Evening.

In attendance: His Worship, The Mayor, Waldorf Astoria; Chief of Police, Corbin Calliope.

Calliope peered through the door into the auditorium where the members of the press thronged in a seamlessly regenerating series of whorls and eddies. A less kind person would have suggested that a more appropriate metaphor was the resemblance of the press to a school of piranha closing in on a particularly ill-conceived bovine river crossing, but Corbin was doing his damnedest to spare Astoria from hearing such things, for the Mayor was already pale enough to out-Casper the ghost and had been forced to attend the hastily arranged press conference by reminding him that his only other option for the evening was attending a charity bridge evening with his wife and Mother-in-law.

The mayor had chosen the press conference but nevertheless looked like a man on his way out to face a firing squad.

"It's bad, isn't it Corbin?"

"Five people being butchered is generally considered so."

"No, that's not what I meant, I mean, politically."

"You're worried about your career? Now? A little bit of perspective would probably wouldn't hurt Waldorf."

The Mayor grimaced. He pouted. Then he grimaced again. It didn't matter, however, Corbin was still right; sort of. "Sure, my career. But, let's face it, no matter what I say or do, I'm toast." He began to pace back-and-forth his hands waving in the unmistakeable oratorical gestures of a demagogue, "The thing is that no matter what we decide to do, be it give the police more powers or undermine doctor-patient privilege, or whatever," he threw his hands in the air in a dramatic caesura, "we're going to not only majorly piss someone off ..."

"When haven't you?..."

The mayor ignored the interruption ... "but we're going to leave whichever poor bastard comes into office behind us with one hell of an unholy mess to try and fix. Face it Corbin, if we try and increase the powers of the police, and nail the medical establishment to the wall, every bleeding-heart liberal and left-wing ass-hat will converge on Las Vegas like locusts on a cornfield. If we don't bolster the police every in-bred red-neck and their gun-toting cousin will swap their Tupperware parties for vigilante 'love-ins;' I think I'll move to Nepal, I'm sure they don't have these problems."

"Assassinations, pro-democracy riots, anti-democracy riots and corruption if I remember correctly; not a good time to be a member of their royal family"

"You're joking."

"Nope. At least I don't think so."

"Suddenly this press conference doesn't seem so bad, lets go."

The pair entered exited the small room and emerged into the glare of a hundred lights and flashing bulbs, where a chorus of voices raised as one to independently scream incoherent questions at the pair as they took a seat at the table facing the auditorium. The aide, who had been prepping the media prior to their entrance, spoke over the ongoing ruckus.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll take your seats, and attempt to act with some small measure of decorum, we'll begin. Please remember to identify yourself and your media affiliation when asking your question." Then, prepared for the worst, the aide rolled his eyes, shrugged at the seated pair and beat a hasty retreat.

"Not very brave is he?" came the sotto voce comment from Calliope.

"Can you blame him?"

"Well...no..."

"Mister Mayor!" And it was on. "Mr Mayor, Otto Arotikfixiation, Vegas Latin Tribune; why does it appear that City Hall still appears unwilling to intervene in the current crisis?"

Calliope glanced sideways at the mayor with a sly smile on his face a slightly raised eyebrow the only indication that he would take this question; Astoria, knowing his Chief of Police, set his stopwatch and made himself comfortable.

"Which current crisis are you referring to, Otto?" Calliope would see his tongue hung, drawn and quartered before he tried to pronounce that last name.

"The Shakespeare Killer of course."

The chief nodded sagely, "Ah yes, and precisely what would this 'crisis intervention' consist of?"

The reporter appeared somewhat nonplussed by this somewhat staid reply and he stopped and took a moment to reassure himself of his point of view before pressing on.

"I would expect you to intervene to stop the killings."

"...And precisely how am I, or more correctly, are we..." his gesture took in the mayor... "supposed to achieve this cessation? It's not like we keep this gentleman on retainer."

"But...but...that's not what I..."

"I suppose we could take out an advertisement in the paper, although under current budgetary constraints I'm not sure such an expense could be justified and I'm not entirely sure that a plea to the gentleman's better nature would have any ameliorative result."

"But you... I mean... City Hall appears to be prevaricating in its attempts to even capture this person."

Corbin sighed; sometimes the press were like little children, all about instant gratification and no concept of anything else except the fulfilling of that want. "Might I remind you that the perpetrator of these acts is not a butterfly and as such the chances of our running down the street and capturing them in a net is, sadly, highly improbable. However, if you know where this person is, or, better yet, where they will commit their next act, maybe we can catch them in the act and save ourselves the burden of all that pesky procedural stuff like evidence and proof..."

Arotikfixiation gave up and slumped back into his chair.

"How long?" Calliope, with ventriloquist-like subtlety, asked the mayor,

Astoria surreptitiously glanced at his stopwatch, "One minute fifty."

"Damn! I'm losing my touch."

"Getting old Corbin, getting old." Astoria refocused on the crowd; maybe the next question wouldn't be so stupid. "Next question please."

"Fallow Pastures, SPYN TV. Gentlemen, assuming that you can confirm current suspicions as to the perpetrator of this act, is there any new information that you can release, which would best serve the public interest?"

Again, the mayor and the chief shared a look, mentally tossing up who was to answer the politely expressed, and reasonably framed question. Although definitively non-verbal, the two men shared an intense conversation that consisted of a brief argument over how much should be revealed and the degree of explicitness that was appropriate within that ambit; eventually, the Mayor stood.

"Ms Pastures, don't you normally cover gardening?" The mayor remembered her from the opening of the annual flower show.

The young woman grinned in response, "Yes Mr Mayor, however, our regular crime correspondent in being held uptown for multiple unpaid traffic violations and we couldn't get a lawyer to him in time. As I was in the area covering the mysterious disappearance of a dentist, apparently attributed to the actions of a rather large, carnivorous plant, the boss told me to take this one; looks like, if you'll excuse the pun, I'm branching out."

Astoria smiled slightly, for despite all rumours to the contrary, he liked intelligent people, except of course when they were too intelligent for their own good; like that pesky Babylon woman. "To answer your question, Ms Pastures; at this stage we are treating the latest killings as if they are the work of the so-named, Shakespeare Killer. However, as there are some variations from what is considered that person's standard methodology, the police have asked that only certain information be released until such time as they are able to confirm certain points of difference against the existing body of knowledge concerning said suspect. I understand that you all have been given fact sheets insofar as information could be made available; that being said, we can confirm that, for perhaps the first time in the series of killings that have taken place in the Las Vegas Metropolitan area, that a degree of physical trace evidence has been recovered, however, as of this time the precise nature of that evidence can not be divulged."

As Pastures resumed her seat, the remaining reporters seemed unsure as to whether to continue asking questions; the information sheet handed out before the press conference answered the most basic of questions, and the mayor's response to the aforementioned Pastures, had pretty much concluded any thought of trying to pry specific case information out of the duo. Yes, the reporters wanted answers, but they were not prepared to risk panicking the entirety of Las Vegas simply for being the one to acquire information that not even the deepest and darkest of secret sources would confirm. For their part, Astoria and Calliope looked satisfied, they had managed to escape yet another potentially tricky press conference without being put to the sword.

Of course, whoever said that fate didn't have a wonderful sense of timing – and a particularly nasty sense of humour - was obviously extremely stupid, or dreaming.

"Mr Mayor," a voice rang out from the back of the room "can you tell us whether there has been any progress in regard to attempts to challenge the medical profession's stance on patient client privilege, which have arisen, I might add, as a result of the murders currently under investigation."

"Identify yourself!" Snapped the voice of the petty functionary who was presiding over the meeting's equivalent of dotting Is and crossing Ts.

"Don't bother Anton," Astoria interrupted wearily, "good evening Ms Babylon, how delightful that you could join us, where did the mother ship drop you off?"

"Nice to see you Waldorf, shall I call your wife and tell her you still have time to meet her for bridge?"

The mayor visibly shuddered, "No no, that's fine, I'll stay here and answer your question; in detail, over dinner if necessary."

"Answering the question will suffice."

"No."

"No, you won't answer my question?"

"No, the answer to your question is no."

"What happened to the detail?"

"Errrr that was the detail. Put more explicitly, and using small words so you understand, we are not touching the medical profession with any legal documentation, any legal queries, any subtle pressure from on high or, for that matter, a barge pole – of any length."

"Do you have a reason or is this a shining example of bureaucratic arbitrariness?"

"Does the fact that we don't have a legal leg to stand on ring any bells? Don't misunderstand me, Ms Babylon; I would wholeheartedly support any practitioner who, moved no doubt by the stirrings of their conscience, came forward with important information, to that end I have approached our representatives to the senate and have had a meeting with our chief justices in order to draft a bill, which would protect those professionals, who come forward in cases where the public interest is at odds with patient client privilege, from being ruined professionally or financially."

Babylon looked thoughtfully at the ornate ceiling for a moment before returning her gaze to the mayor, "So what you're suggesting is that doctors who want to spill the beans on a patient can do an end run around the privacy laws?"

"Not at all. First of all, the practitioner must show that their actions are in the public good. Secondly, they must demonstrate that their actions in no way benefit themselves personally or professionally; the proposed bill recommends that any doctor seeking to utilise the relevant statutes is subjected to a series of audits in order to satisfy the sections relating to personal gain."

"Don't you feel, however, that some people will attempt to abuse this proposed law change?"

"Certainly. It's human nature. That's why I have asked to chief justices to draft the proposal very narrowly in order for its area of effect to be tightly and explicitly defined. Plain and simple Ms Babylon, neither I, nor any member of my administration is prepared to legally attack doctor patient privilege, however, we are prepared to attempt to provide some measure of protection to those members of the medical profession who feel that their duty to society outweighs their duty to their patient. Is that all?" The question was addressed not only to Agatha Babylon, but the room at large.

The resounding silence appeared to indicate assent, or complete shock, in either case the mayor took it as his cue to beat a hasty retreat and with Calliope at his heels he left the auditorium.

As the mayor and Calliope entered the anteroom, Astoria's progress was abruptly halted by a sharp jolt to the ribs, "And when pray, did you plan on telling me about this little proposal of yours?"

Astoria attempted to look innocent, "You mean I didn't?"

"No."

"Oops."

"Astoria..." emerged from Calliope's lips in a menacing growl, however, and somewhat surprisingly, the mayor didn't flinch, he simply shrugged and moved towards the executive drinks cabinet.

"Take a seat old boy and I'll tell you about it; would you like a drink?"

Back in the auditorium a lone, pensive figure stood, a contemplative look decorating her attractive brow, "Who would have thought," she murmured, "the mayor's grown a spine."

Greg's Lab: The Following Evening.

The life of a lab tech was obviously one filled with excitement thought Greg as he examined yet another square of carpet for identifiable blood samples. So far, nothing of any startling relevance had come to light, other than that the blood belonged to the people that had had the misfortune to be pinned to the walls of their house, which in the grand scheme of things wasn't hugely surprising.

In fact, the entirety of the trace evidence taken from the house was turning out to be one Moby-Dick sized red herring, it was as if the killer, in their own spectacularly random way, had decided to entice the investigation with a whole lot of hope and little else; maybe, Greg shrugged, the killer felt sorry for the police and it was that which the hastily written script found behind the child's body referred to, and not an apology for the killings themselves.

There wasn't, of course, a whole lot Greg could do about the situation, evidence didn't, as Grissom was wont to state, appear out of thin air and it was also something that wasn't spontaneously created through the vigorous rubbing of a lamp; thus he was left with the option of continuing to process the seemingly interminable number of carpet fibres that clogged his lab, or he could go and bug people.

Five minutes later he was standing outside Grissom's office.

The older man appeared to be engrossed with something on his computer, yet without looking up he invited Greg in and told him to sit down.

"Now," he said, eventually looking up, "how can I help you Greg?"

"I don't think you can Grissom, help that is. I just needed a break; and as soon as I get home I'm going to rip up my carpet and replace it with wood panelling; or maybe plastic, I can't tell you how sick I am of carpet. I've spent two nights looking at this carpet; did you really need to bring all of it with you?"

"Can I take that you haven't found anything then."

"How'd you guess?"

"You could attribute it to my astounding powers of observation."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm your boss."

"Now that I think about it Grissom, you do indeed have astounding powers of observation."

"See, told you. Now, seriously, have you been able to find anything..."

"...Other than traces of the five victims? No."

Grissom grimaced, "This isn't good. It seems like every lead we thought we had from this latest scene is backfiring on us. You know about the handprint on the wall? It came back as belonging to the father. Don't," he added, forestalling the question he knew was bound to come, "we don't know how he did it, especially since the father's hand was apparently free of blood, even under luminol. Our best guess though, is that he somehow carried the father out into the hall and pressed his hand into the wall, post-mortem not only to his own death but also to that of the children. The problem of course is that there is no sign of the children's blood on his, the fathers, clothes or his skin; nor is there any sign of his being washed."

Greg looked thoughtful for a moment especially, considering what Grissom had told him; it looked better than looking stupid, "I take it the liver temps and all that stuff were too close together to give us a specific order of death?" Grissom nodded silently in affirmation. "...And, correct me if I'm wrong, but the father was the only one who wasn't killed by having his throat slashed?" Again, Grissom nodded, adding that the father had been beaten to death. "From a logical standpoint it would make sense that our killer removed the opponent with the greatest potential to stymie his plans, but why..."

"...Greg, would you get to the point, we, being myself, Brass, every CSI within a ten mile radius have already covered this..."

His agitation apparent at the interruption, Greg began to pace "No, Grissom, let me finish; ...but why" he continued, resuming from the point at which he had been interrupted, indulging himself in a Holmesian moment of deductive ecstasy, "would he wash the hand of the father after using his print? All the other victims were covered in blood, being killed on the wall...Grissom?"

"Yes Greg" was the tired response.

"Did has the M.E. make any definitive statement as to how long the father was dead before having his throat slashed post mortem?"

"No."

"Do you think she'd be able to provide an estimate of how long he'd have to be dead in order for the blood not to...to..." Greg paused looking for the right word "...um spurt everywhere" he glanced apologetically at Grissom, "after his throat was cut?"

"She probably could, but I can answer that for you too. The simple answer is not long; simply because arterial blood splatter is predicated on the sudden release of blood pressure through the severed artery, one a person is dead then they don't really have the requisite blood pressure to produce any respectable amount of spray. A fairly hearty dribble, perhaps, dependant on the body's position at the time of having their artery severed, but since our dearly-departed victim was not only lying on the ground before being hung up, but was cut whilst hanging I would have to say there would be little to no blood splatter at all." Grissom paused in his recitation, "Can I ask why you want to know this Greg?"

"Because it makes no sense for the killer to clean the victim's hands of their own blood. With the other victims at this scene, and in all the other murder sites, he made no effort to clean the victims of their blood, so why now? To me that would indicate that there was another reason for cleaning the victim's hand and that would be because..."

"...The blood on their hand was not their own" concluded Grissom who had begun to catch the direction of Greg's line of thought.

"...And if we logically follow on from that, then whose blood is most likely to warrant being cleaned off the victim's hand after being used to make an imprint on the wall?"

Grissom sighed almost reverently, "Our killer."

"In which case," surmised Greg, "my question would be whether anyone has performed any analysis on the actual blood in which the hand impression was found."

"No," was the strangled response "we were too busy concentrating on the finger and palm prints..."

"Would you like me to do that then Grissom...Grissom, come back Grissom, I haven't finished making you feel your world's been reordered by those Queer Eye people."

Grissom wasn't listening. Grissom wasn't even present; for as soon as Greg hammered the final logical nail into his analytical coffin he was off and running. Well, sort of running, inasmuch as your prototypical middle-aged, slightly overweight and non-exercising professional geek ever runs; alright, he was off and un-cordinatedly shambling towards the fingerprint lab hoping, that just for once, the gods of 'hindering criminal investigations at the really important bit' had decided to leave his evidence alone.

Maybe, just for once, the fates decided to give Gil Grissom a break.

Maybe, just for once, the bureaucratic red-tape demon had decided to let things be.

Or maybe, just maybe, someone other than Grissom wasn't so frazzled as to forget how to use the telephone and call ahead. Fortunately, for Grissom, other people had retained some small degree of professional sang froid, and as the harried, and clearly frustrated, man charged into the print lab he was brought up short by a beatifically smiling tech, who held up one hand in a manner similar to a policeman directing traffic.

Grissom stumbled to a halt. "Whaaaa....?"

"It's on the table."

"...?!!"

"Your piece of wall."

"We bought the whole wall?"

"Nope, just the bit with the handprint on it."

"Why?"

"You're asking me? I'm just a lowly fingerprint technician, who'm I to question if them that gathers the evidence bring me a piece of wall; I'm checking for fingerprints not critiquing how the evidence arrives."

"Are you finished with it?"

"Well I wasn't planning on framing it, if that's what you meant."

"Can I take it?"

The tech shrugged, "Sure. Knock yourself out."

Grissom carefully picked up the piece of wall and backed away from the strange fingerprint tech. "Thank you" he said, before turning and fleeing back from whence he had come."

The tech poked her head out the door to make sure he had gone before ducking back inside and picking up the phone.

"Greg?...Yep, he's been and gone....Heh, you were right, he was nearly out of his head with worry that the evidence may have disappeared... Back to you I guess...Nah, no problem, haven't had that much fun in ages...and yes, you owe me coffee...no, the good stuff, not that crap in the break room pretending to be coffee...What?...He's coming down the corridor?...'K I'll catch you later."

Back in Greg's Lab:

In the time it had taken Grissom to hurtle (sort of) to the print lab and acquire his piece of wall, Greg had sauntered back to his lair in preparation for his boss' return. He hadn't planned to play the bastard child of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, the image alone, of those two engaged in any sort of mating ritual, being enough to make him shudder, but the issues that Grissom had raised had, with the inevitability of a black hole chasing down a sloth, drawn him to an inescapable series of conclusions that he felt he couldn't ignore. Perhaps, in the past, where he felt his insight would have been ridiculed or ignored, he might have kept things to himself, but with the redrawing of his relationship with Grissom, and, to a lesser extent the others, he felt more confident in putting his ideas into the ether without a retaliatory lightning strike being the result.

He had just settled himself comfortably, after firing up the jug to prepare some coffee, when the phone buzzed; probably Zippy, in the print lab calling to tell him Grissom was on his way. Proven correct, he took the time, and with only the slightest hesitation, to offer her some of his special coffee stash in thanks, before he busied himself preparing for Grissom's arrival. He had no concerns as to being able to draw a DNA sample from the blood on the piece of wall, certainly, from an evidentiary perspective he wasn't concerned that Zippy had tainted his sample, if anything, she was even more fastidious around evidence than Grissom and Greg combined. Greg smiled as he worked, thinking back to when Zippy had started and how harassed Brass had looked as he passed Greg in the corridor and wanted to know why the department had hired his sister. Greg, mystified by this comment, had wandered around the building until the dulcet strains of The Clash had led him to the print lab, where, to his astonishment a lithe, mohawked figure was attacking her computer with a pipe wrench.

"I've found the sledgehammer works better."

"Maybe so" was the reply, "But I don't want to have to glue it back together later."

Despite her tendency towards arbitrary PC demolition, Zarabel, or Zippy as she preferred, had proven to be efficient, hardworking and shared Greg's love of coffee, early punk and harassing Hodges. If she had been around when Greg's troubles at the lab had started it was possible that Greg would have talked to her instead of leaving, however, at that time, she had taken a year's leave to travel, and thus wasn't around when the shit hit the fan.

The opportunity for more, happy, Hodges-baiting reminiscence, was interrupted by the simultaneous whistling of the kettle and arrival of a red-faced and slightly out-of-breath Grissom; with his piece of wall clutched protectively to his breast.

"Coffee, Grissom?"

"Sure, thanks." Grissom paused to take a breath, "I'll sort out the coffee Greg; could you make a start on getting a DNA sample from this blood?" he indicated the board, where a distinct handprint was outlined against as crimson background.

Greg looked at the older man suspiciously, unsure if he should entrust the making of his precious beverage to one whose skills and knowledge in the area were unproven. However, it took only a second of looking into the almost plaintive expression on the older man's face before he gave in, muttering under his breath about what he'd do to his boss if he burnt the coffee. Turning to the piece of wall that Grissom had presented him, Greg proceeded to work through the series of arcane rituals involved in first taking, then analysing the blood sample before, finally, with a satisfied 'clunk', he closed the lid on the DNA analyser and let it do its thing.

It was a bit like baking a cake, he thought. Arrange and prepare your ingredients, turn the oven on. Mix ingredients. Put in oven, come back when the little bell rings to tell you it's done. The only difference was that baking a cake was much more difficult, especially sponge-cake, which in Greg's universe bore closer resemblance to a small windowless building than a cake; fortunately, none of his DNA samples had turned out the same way.

"So Grissom," he said, turning towards the older man, his senses directed by the aroma of non-burnt coffee, "can I have my cup of life support now?"

Grudgingly, or so it would appear to the untrained eye, Grissom handed over a steaming mug of liquid, which was remarkably similar in both colour, and viscosity, to something more likely to be found flowing from a ruptured Iraqi pipeline.

"I didn't think you could make this stuff any stronger, Greg."

Greg shrugged. "Normally you can't, but this stuff is my latest experiment. I've been wandering around buying the darkest roasts I can find and then combining them until I get the strongest, yet best balanced, brew. So far this is what I've come up with."

Grissom winced as he sipped at the bitter brew, "But why? Surely no human would voluntarily partake of this."

"Rilie likes it."

"Well that would it explain it; and how, may one ask, is the redoubtable Ms Andrews?"

"Well, I think. Or at least she was when I last saw her, although at that point she'd just had her third coffee for the day."

"What time was that?"

"About eight o'clock."

"At night?"

"Are you crazy? Morning! If Rilie isn't fully caffeinated by midday then you'd better watch out."

Grissom just smiled. The conversation between the two carried on in a collegial fashion for the better part of an hour as they waited for the DNA analyser to do its thing, finally, the machine chimed petulantly, indicating its job was completed.

"What've we got Greg?" Grissom asked as the younger man peered at the printout.

"Well, the good news is that it isn't a member of the family."

"...and the bad news?"

"Ummm that would be that it isn't a member of the family."

"So of course," sighed Grissom, in resignation, "we don't know who it belongs to, it could have come from anywhere. If only we had something to compare it with."

Both men slumped, dejected, it was as if, once again, the gods were doing everything in their power to deny the team the break they needed. Then Grissom started, for like the cavalry coming over the hill an epiphany charged into his consciousness.

"Wait right there Greg, I'll be back I a minute," and before Greg had a chance to respond Grissom had dashed from the room.

"Who was that masked man?" Greg murmured.

Less than two minutes later, Grissom was back, this time holding a small plastic evidence pouch instead of a piece of wall.

"What've you got there Grissom?"

"You remember the other night when Agatha Babylon dropped in?"

"Yes. Wasn't she claiming that someone was watching her apartment?"

"That's right. Anyway, after you and Rilie left, and I got the others actually doing some work, I went around to her place and had a look at where she said she was being watched from, there I found a small tear of fabric caught on a tree and also a hair."

"You think it might be a match?"

"It's certainly worth a look, it's not like we have anything else to do."

And so it was that the two men found themselves once again sitting and talking as they waited for the infernal piece of machinery to do its job. Finally, after what seemed an eternity their cake was ready.

"Well...?"

"Give me a minute, Grissom, it's not like reading Harry Potter, I have to actually think for a second."

Grissom could barely control himself, subconsciously bouncing on the balls of his feet in agitated anticipation. Finally, just before he was about to elbow Greg in the ribs, the younger man turned to him with a grin, "We've got a match."