Well, another chapter completed – this one took a wee while because my muse hi-jacked me and made me write a one-off Stargate Fic; which hardly anyone read mutter grumble snarl. Anyway, after sulking for a while, I managed to grind this chapter out.

This chapter differs slightly from pretty much the entire work as it doesn't focus on the CSI's, but frankly folks, if I didn't do some criminal exposition somewhere and progress the story otherwise we'd still be watching everybody spin their wheels for another hundred thousand words or so and I wouldn't want to do that to anyone, least of all myself.

Thus, here we are – parts of this are quite good, other bits bark like a dog; unfortunately you get that. As always thanks to 'tasha the wonder beta and to those readers who've taken the time to review, I sincerely appreciate it Do it more

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one
persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all
progress depends on the unreasonable man.
George Bernard Shaw

Love is a word that is constantly heard,
Hate is a word that is not.
Love, I am told, is more precious than gold.
Love, I have read, is hot.
But hate is the verb that to me is superb,
And Love but a drug on the mart.
Any kiddie in school can love like a fool,
But Hating, my boy, is an Art.
Ogden Nash

I value kindness to human beings first of all, and kindness to
animals. I don't respect the law; I have a total irreverence for
anything connected with society except that which makes the roads
safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper, and old men and women
warmer in the winter, and happier in the summer.
Brendan Behan

A policeman's lot is apparently – with apologies to Messer's. Gilbert and Sullivan -never a happy one; unless, of course, one happens to be a policeman in the latest Hollywood blockbuster, in which case, the likelihood of your catching the bad guy, winning the girl, humiliating your superiors and getting all the catchy one-liners is upward of one hundred percent. It goes without saying that you will be brilliant, but deeply misunderstood. That your partner will be the diametric opposite of you and that you will take time to adjust to each other with the evolution of this relationship being shown through 'clever' sight gags and the use of the 'catchy' – but seldom witty – one liners. You can also guarantee that the main bad guy will always have one fatal flaw; usually very fatal if the film is particularly stereotypical; it is also par for the course, that any and all henchman of said bad guy will retain the native wit and intelligence of a brick while lacking the general charm and aesthetic appeal of said brick.

Oh yes, inevitably the hero will be placed in a situation that will result in an opportunity for the shackles of mediocrity to be cast aside as the hero leaps into action, defeats the bad guy, gets the girl, saves Christmas, cures AIDS and brings about world peace- although not necessarily in that order.

Of course, the relationship between the life of a Hollywood cop and the real thing is about as close as the loving relationship shared by the respective heads of Mossad and the KKK on any given day.

Another thing that was ominously self-evident to Patrolman Cassidy O'Shamrock, was that the brass of the LVPD hadn't seen a lot of Hollywood movies of late, otherwise they would have given him a medal for 'interrogating' Linda, from the typing pool, on top of the photocopier, instead of sending him off to one of the slightly less salubrious suburbs in the sprawling metropolis in search of those traffic offenders who were derelict in settling those matters of financial reconciliation so dear to the heart of the current administrative regime. It didn't help matters that the list he was working from was obviously a direct translation from dyslexic Serbo-Croatian and as such he had spent at least half and hour walking in circles while he sought to understand how he was supposed to issue a ticket to a loading zone for parking on a bakery.

Startling intelligence was not something the patrolman was known for.

Nor was, despite his name, the luck of the Irish.

Both would prove his undoing.

It was several hours and numerous loud and acrimonious visits into his perambulatingly circuitous torture before he arrived at the relatively respectable looking apartment building. The building was relatively unscathed as buildings go, insofar as the local graffito artists had not yet graced the exterior surfaces with either the benefits of their wisdom or their epileptic-like scrawl which indicated to others of that ilk that said being had been in the area; O'Shamrock, in one of his more lucid moments, wondered why they didn't simply cock a leg against the side of the building if leaving their mark was their major purpose in life. Likewise, those miscreants who usually spent several hours a day pulling the wings off flies and bullying those shorter than themselves had, at this juncture in time, been good enough to leave all the ground-floor windows, intact and all the exterior light-fittings attached. However, the apartment block, for that it retained some semblance of superficial respectability, held the overall aesthetic appeal of a transvestite, heavyweight boxer; that is, squat, blockish and largely immovable with a façade reminiscent of poorly applied makeup; even the plants that sporadically decorated the various window boxes looked like they'd rather be somewhere else.

The young patrolman stopped, checked the address of the building against his notes, and resignedly, finding that this was indeed his next stop, proceeded to wearily climb the abbreviated flight of stairs to the entrance; a faux-Victorian affair with a doorknocker that made your average gargoyle appear attractive by comparison. As was usually the case with the less well-to-do neighbourhoods the door was not linked to any sort of security buzzer and thus O'Shamrock let himself in. He paused to ponder, in his own glacial way, the irony that meant that those that really needed protecting from their neighbours were the ones most exposed to them. Of course O'Shamrock didn't really know what a wealthy person's apartment block looked like as his captain had informed him that he'd shoot the younger officer himself if he went anywhere near the richer parts of town.

Just inside the doors was a bank of letterboxes, thirty in all - ten per floor. According to his notes, O'Shamrock's client (as such people were now referred to in the updated bureaucratic lexicon) was supposed to live on the second floor and surprisingly on the requisite apartment's letterbox, written in a bold clear hand, was the occupant's name right where it was supposed to be; this should have immediately alerted the officer to the fact that something was seriously wrong; normal people weren't prone to openly admitting that they lived in such quarters, but here, clear as day, was a bold declaration to the effect that you were at the right place to find this person. O'Shamrock, instead of being suspicious, took it as the first piece of good luck he'd had that day.

Of course, O'Shamrock was the sort of person whom, if he'd been a male black widow spider, would have brought the wife flowers in anticipation of a positive outcome; training, observation and even basic intuition were things that appeared to have either been left out of, or had completely bypassed, his set of operating instructions.

Taking the stairs, as even his weary feet couldn't justify a two-flight elevator ride, O'Shamrock rapidly ascended to the second floor, it was, despite the relatively dim lighting, in relatively good repair; that is, all the doors were attached to their respective frames and the majority of the walls were not rent with the signs of limited impulse control. Directly across from the stairs was apartment 2E and, to its right, in the murky, barely visible distance, 2D, thus the young officer turned to his left and proceeded, at an easy pace, down the hallway mentally ticking each apartment off in his mind until he arrived at his destination: apartment 2J. The door was non-descript without even the slightest indication of the owner having made any attempt to personalise the entrance to their demesne; even the brass numbers were dull and lifeless appearing to capture and devour the available light in a manner similar to that of a black hole.

Of course O'Shamrock, intent as he was on ensuring that this was indeed apartment 2J, noticed none of this; his attention to detail was clearly indicative of a time when the department had been somewhat lax in applying certain basic standards to their recruiting procedures; although some citizens, more cynical that others, would have considered it a resounding success that a police officer was able to recognise and form the letters of the alphabet without the assistance of a seeing-eye dog.

Transferring his papers to his left hand, the officer knocked politely at the door, waited a second, and then repeated the process. Not hearing any movement from behind the door he shrugged and decided to simply note down that there had been nobody home and leave the collection to the next poor bastard who happened to offend the powers that be.

Turning towards the stairs he didn't hear the door quietly open behind him and thus nearly leapt out of his skin when a quiet voice addressed him.

"What can I do for you, officer?"

The quietness of the voice was at odds with the size of the man it came from, who at well over six foot and clearly not likely to be boxing in the featherweight division not only dwarfed O'Shamrock, who was not a small man, but filled the door frame with ominous ease.

Taken somewhat aback, O'Shamrock floundered briefly with his notes in a desperate attempt not to scatter paper about the hallway. Recovering his composure, he peered at the documents in his hand, "Mister…Bates? Mister Anthony Bates?"

The man nodded his assent. "That is I. How can I help you?"

O'Shamrock consulted his papers, "It says here that you have over twenty unpaid parking tickets going back five years and…" he flipped over a page, "several others that while not due as of yet will soon be added to that total."

Bates seemed momentarily confused, his face appearing to go blank as if he was consulting an inner voice as to how best to respond. "That is most peculiar officer, I don't have a car; in fact I have never owned a car."

O'Shamrock again referred to his papers, "It says here, sir, that you have a 1994 Chevy Impala registered in your name." He rummaged through the file and held out another of his documents for Bates to examine, "is that your signature, Mister Bates?"

Bates, looked briefly at the officer for permission before taking the paper, a DMV registration form and examined it with something akin to active suspicion. "That does indeed appear to be my signature, officer, however, there must be some mistake. Do you mind if I examine some of my own papers?"

"Not at all," he smiled toothily, "I'm all in favour of resolving things; especially…" he muttered "if it will get me home."

Bates appeared to smile in sympathetic acknowledgement, "I understand completely, officer. Do you mind waiting? Please…come in"

'Thank you…"

O'Shamrock never saw the man spin lightly on his feet, a remarkably agile feat for someone of that size. Neither did he see the large boning knife as it slashed across his throat spilling his lifeblood onto the floor in a crimson torrent. Finally, he did not hear the whispered apology from his assailant as he slumped lifelessly into the pool of his lifeblood the sibilant whistle of his death rattle the last sound he made in this world.

It was several hours later when the alarm was raised at O'Shamrock's precinct. Well, that's not strictly accurate; it was several hours later that someone noticed that the constable wasn't back from his walking punishment, muttered something about the idiot getting lost for the third time that month, and promptly forgot about him. Another hour passed before someone really noticed he was missing and decided to inform the captain who had to think for a moment before making appropriate noises of concern instead of starting an impromptu conga line through the office.

"Where did we send him today?"

"Down to the Madman's Circle, Captain." The area was so named not because of its inhabitants but due to the somewhat individual nature of its layout, so designed by a city planner who proved to be just a little too fond of certain psychotropic substances. By the time the rest of the planning division, moving at the speed of dark so common to bureaucracies everywhere, had discovered that their colleague was a lunatic the contractors had already finished half the area, which, while formally called Warrington Downs was regularly referred to as the Madman's Circle.

"He's probably lost again."

"Sir, with all due respect, Robert Falcon Scott would get lost down there, I think it's something else."

The captain sighed in that time-honoured fashion reserved for senior officers who wished their duties involved deserted tropical islands and assistant bikini model castaways. "Very well. I assume someone was wise enough to keep track of where O'Shamrock was supposed to be going?"

"Yes sir, right here," his assistant held up an officious looking sheaf of official documentation.

"…and has anybody checked as to where he has actually…" The captain's assistant was already holding a list of locations where the officer was confirmed as being seen.

"Errr, yes…thank you Corporal O'Reilly. So…" said the Captain, absentmindedly, where do we start looking?"

"Well Sir, if we follow the logical train of O'Shamrock's movements…" The captain looked somewhat askance at the notion of O'Shamrock following a logical anything but indicated for the corporal to continue, "…he should have last been seen at the corner of Scylla and Charybdis; paying a visit to a Mister…err…Bates."

"…and has anyone contacted Mister Bates?"

"No response, Sir."

"Very well, O'Reilly," said the captain, surrendering to the inevitable, send a car down to Mister Bates' address and see if he knows anything."

"Assuming he's there, Sir."

"Yes yes," replied the captain, waving off the addendum, "If he's there.

Fifteen minutes later, Officers Colostomi and Haberdasheri pulled up outside the building dispatch had directed them to. They sat for a moment contemplating the horror that awaited them before Haberdasheri shrugged and motioned for his partner to follow.

"C'mon Mike, we're not here to arrest the architect."

For his part Mike Colostomi shrugged, he'd had plans to become an architect when he entered college but after a year of studying what passed for modern architecture he decided that the only options open to him were either to become an architectural vigilante – that is, a person who hunted and killed architects before they could inflict another steel and glass monstrosity on an unsuspecting public – or he could become a monk; he split the difference and chose the police force where he felt he could defend the blameless citizens from the actions of other, more malevolent creatures…like architects.

Once Colostomi exited the car, the pair slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment's doors.

"What do you think he's done this time?"

"I shudder to think. Here's hoping the lunatic's only managed to get himself lost again." Haberdasheri winced in remembrance; the precinct had barely recovered from the last time O'Shamrock had wandered off, no one knew why he had been trying to drown the mime in the civic centre fountain and he hadn't been able to explain himself, but the captain got to hear, from the mayor, up close and personal, all about why it was considered bad form for the police to attack members of the public – even if they were mimes – and that if it happened again the whole precinct would be scrubbing City Hall with a toothbrush; well, several toothbrushes, probably their own as the capital budget for the year didn't extend to the supply of punishment toothbrushes. Ironically, or perhaps depending on your point of view, inevitably, O'Shamrock escaped with barely a harsh word spoken but then that is often the way when your father's sister is married to the state governor.

Colostomi grinned at his partner's fatalism, "You never know, the young idiot might have done something interesting this time."

"The only interesting thing O'Shamrock could do would be to throw himself under a bus," was the growled response.

"What number does this Bates live at again?"

Haberdasheri consulted his notebook, "2J, but in consideration of our colleague's knowledge of the alphabet, he might have missed it." He snorted "he's probably in Saudi Arabia by now."

"Well, the only way we'll find out is if we go up there and ask this Mister Perkins if he's seen our boy."

"OK Mike, last chance though, are you sure you want to find him?"

"And what do you think the Captain'll do to us Len, if we don't?"

"What? Find him?"

"Yep."

"Probably give us a medal."

Colostomi simply grinned at his partner and started climbing the stairs. It didn't take long for the pair to reach the second floor and less than a minute more for them to correctly orient themselves and head down towards apartment 2J. Colostomi cocked

his head at this partner and indicated that he should knock.

Haberdasheri's raised eyebrow in return, eloquently asked why it should be him but he acceded nonetheless and beat upon the door with the heavy staccato rhythm intrinsic to policemen, landlords and pizza delivery boys.

The polite inquiry was met by an echoing silence. "Once more?"

"Why not?" Came the inscrutable reply.

"I can give you a whole raft of reasons." But again, he acceded to his partner's silent prodding and knocked.

Again. Nothing. Not even an agitated neighbour, more nosey than circumspect, investigating the noise.

"Well I guess that's it then, Mike, no one home. Mike?" Haberdasheri's partner wasn't listening; instead he was looking at the floor by the door, like he was trying to make something out. "What is it, Mike?"

"Don't know, hang on a sec'." Colostomi unclipped his flashlight from his belt, flicked it on and swung the beam over his foot, which was resting nicely in a slowly coagulating pool of blood that had obviously pooled and settled after flowing out from under the door.

Unlikely though it seemed, Haberdasheri's eyebrow rose even higher "How did you notice it?" he asked.

"I must have put my foot right in it when we arrived, I only noticed when I was turning to leave after no one answered the door; my shoe was starting to stick to the floor; I thought it must have been a spilled drink or something," he paused, "obviously not."

"You don't think O'Shamrock shot the poor bastard for not paying his parking tickets do you?" Haberdasheri stopped and thought not only about what he had just said, but also with regard to whom it referred, he shrugged philosophically, "then again, it's entirely possible so we'd better go in. Ready?"

"I'll just call it in.

"Right."

A few seconds later Colostomi indicated he was ready to go and thus once more, Officer Haberdasheri knocked on the door, this time accompanied by the requisite declaration that this was indeed the police and that if someone didn't open the door real soon they, the police, would open it all by themselves.

"What did HQ say?"

"You're asking me now?"

"I just want to make sure before I kick the door in."

"They said to keep them posted. Somehow, I think that because it's O'Shamrock they're expecting him to have shot himself in the foot and we'll find him passed out on the couch."

"Right." Sometimes Len Haberdasheri wondered who was more stupid, O'Shamrock, by right of birth, HQ, by dint of bureaucracy or himself for looking for one and taking orders from the other. "Ready Mike? Let's go! This is the police, we are coming in!"

With the application of the designated official police foot to the area just below the lock the door burst inwards and the two officers duly burst into the room to be greeted with a sight they neither expected nor wanted. They had indeed found the recalcitrant officer O'Shamrock, for he was directly in front of them, admittedly he was nailed to the wall with his throat slashed, but found was found.

"You don't reckon he did that to himself do you?"

"Well, it beats the alternative," Haberdasheri looked around the apartment with a look of mild interest on his face "and that being said, I think we should probably check out the rest of the apartment to make sure the alternative isn't hiding in the shower with a knife or two."

"Not much gets to you does it, Len?"

"I'm screaming on the inside."

Colostomi shrugged, "If it makes you happy. I should probably call HQ and give them an update."

"I'm sure they'll be simply overjoyed at this development" was the deadpan response, "tell them to bring coffee."

Mike shook his head. "Dispatch, this 341 we have a body, officer down…"

"…No he's not, he's pinned to the wall…

"…Requesting backup, the coroner and CSI…"

"…And coffee, don't forget the coffee…we'll also want the media, a priest and an ignorant City Hall bureaucrat to inflame public fears…"

"…Hang on dispatch. Len? Shut up would you?"…Sorry dispatch, what was that? O'Shamrock? Yes, we found him…"

"…And it's the best he's looked all year…"

"…I'll get back to you dispatch, I'm just going to shoot Officer Haberdasheri, 351 out."

Haberdasheri didn't appear too concerned. "You ready to check this place out?"

"I doubt he's here."

"True, but what makes you say that?"

"Because he would have killed you by now; I'm on your side and I want to kill you. Actually, if our killer shows up and tries to kill you I'll probably offer to help."

His partner shrugged. "Okay."

Colostomi sighed, "Len, you really have to get another job."

"Probably. But where would you be without me."

"In a far happier mental place I imagine." Mike gestured sadly to the wall and O'Shamrock "shall we take him down?"

"No, leave him there, the place is a bit bare, needs a discussion piece." Haberdasheri saw his partner's lack of amusement was serious this time and raised his hand in mute apology. "Sorry, Mike. Leave him there the science geeks will probably want to prod him with something before taking him down." He looked again at the body hanging limply on the wall, "poor kid…poor, stupid kid."

It what had to be some sort of citywide record for police response, the building, where Officer O'Shamrock had been slain, was swarming with police in under ten minutes - already the eulogies had begun; it was into this seething morass of confusion that Grissom and Nick arrived; the medical examiner, who had arrived moments before the pair, greeted them from a position beside the still suspended body.

"Evening gents."

"Evening Peter," was Grissom's somewhat stoic reply.

"What've we got?" asked Nick, "other than the obvious," he amended hurriedly.

"It's alright Stokes, I knew what you meant." The ME paused to gather his thoughts, "there's not a lot I can tell you, I just got here myself, but I can say without fear of hesitation that he was hung up post-mortem."

"No blood splatter?"

"No. All the victim's blood would be over there," he gestured towards the door. "Let me know when you're done Gil, so I can take the poor bastard down."

"Fine. Peter, can I assume there was no one else in the apartment at the time the body was discovered?"

"Not as far as I know, but then, that's not much, I'm just the ME; the two officers that found the late Officer O'Shamrock should still be around though."

"Thanks." Grissom turned back to Nick, "Okay, do you want the body, or do you want to check the place out for trace on our killer?"

"I'll take the body Grissom, you're better with the trace stuff than I am." It was a rare moment of humility for the Texan, but it was enough to make Grissom smile to himself, finally, he thought, it looked like Nick was growing up. The boy had remarkable potential, but he was also selfish and predominantly thought in terms of what an assignment could do for him, a recognition of his limitations hopefully presaged a change in attitude and it was from that point that his real education would begin; for, to Grissom's mind – as well as the minds of a whole lot of ancient philosophers, knowledge did not begin until you admitted that you knew nothing.

Grissom looked around the room searching for the two officers to whom the Medical Examiner had referred; it made sense to excluding the obvious – and original - scene contaminants from the mix before he began a more thorough search of the premises. While the room with the body in it wasn't large it swarmed with people whose every action centred about the corpse; Grissom imagined this was how a bee must live with the dead officer standing in for the queen. He extended his analogy further to encompass the fact that, like workers and drones, the majority of the swarming mass of officers, attendants and various hangers on looked the same, except in this instance the drones wore blue instead of natty black and yellow suits. Finally, a brief parting in the crowd showed two officers seated on a divan, both were equipped with large mugs of a steaming beverage that Grissom had no doubt would be coffee, probably with an ethanol based derivative added for good measure.

"Officers?" he asked, having slowly and carefully worked his way across the room, "I'm Gil Grissom from the Crime Lab, may I ask if you were the first officers to arrive at the scene?"

A silent nod in the affirmative was his only answer.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I want to establish the integrity of the scene before I examine it further."

Both officers shrugged, it wasn't as if they had anything better to do. Taking their response as an invitation to proceed, Grissom continued.

"In what state was the apartment when you arrived?"

"I couldn't tell you, the door was closed, but once we kicked that down it was pretty much as you see it now; minus all – sorry, most – of the blue shirts."

"Most?"

"Well, O'Shamrock was pinned to the wall when we arrived, and he's still there now. Can I ask if you're going to take the poor mongrel down at some point? The kid might have been an idiot, but he was our idiot and it's not exactly fantastic for morale to see him doing an impression of a butterfly."

"Yes…err…quite." Grissom appeared somewhat taken aback by the cynical nature of the officer. Seeing his look, and interpreting it correctly, the other officer spoke up.

"Don't mind Len, his view of the universe tends towards the somewhat bleak; sometimes I think he's of the opinion that at some point in the near future the human race is going to dissolve as a result of its own stupidity."

Gil shrugged, "He may be right. Did you touch anything?"

"Yes, we're idiots."

"Len, shut up. We tried to touch as little as possible. Of course we had to make sure the apartment was secure and we checked to see if there was any chance the kid was alive, although we could both see that was going to be an exercise in futility from the moment we walked, sorry, crashed in."

"Okay, thanks. I assume you'll be available if I have any further questions?"

The officer whom had been answering his questions grimaced "I imagine we'll be buried in paperwork for the foreseeable future, so we won't be going too far."

Grissom, having more than a passing acquaintance with paperwork himself could only nod sympathetically. Nodding once more in acknowledgement of their help, the lead CSI turned to survey the apartment. From his current point of view it appeared that there was only one door, other than the exit to the hallway, leading off from the scene of the crime. Exiting the room, he entered what appeared to be a small junction, from which all the other rooms in the apartment appeared to branch off from. To his left was a small, self-contained bathroom, straight ahead the kitchen and to his right, what appeared to be a bedroom; well it had a bed it in for whatever that was worth. Deciding that the bedroom, being the most likely personal space in the apartment and therefore, from the perspective of probability, more likely to speak of the person who lived there, was the best place to start, Grissom turned right.

To say that the room was Spartan was to understate things, and if Grissom had hoped that the room would in some way speak to the personality of it's owner then he was greatly disappointed unless, of course, the owner was a blank slate. The only thing that leant even the slightest air of humanity to the environment was the existence of a small, threadbare teddy bear that sat, with a look of grave introspection, on the pillowed end of the bed. Taking care not to touch it, Grissom moved forward to examine it more closely. Not being an expert on soft toys Grissom could make no definitive guesses as to the provenance of the toy but he could see that it was a well-loved object and it was this, and he cursed his sentimentality, which gave him some measure of hope for a successful and humane resolution to the nightmare that this case had become. He took a large plastic evidence bag from his box of tricks and carefully inserted the bear, treating it with all the respect one would an important piece of evidence no matter how incongruous.

Moving from the bedroom, Grissom next entered the bathroom, small and nondescript it was little better than an ablutory bolt-hole where one, in comparison would could be made to feel less confined in an aeroplane's toilet. Like the bedroom, the bathroom was singularly lacking in anything that cold be taken to signify a person lived here. The array of modern beauty condiments routinely used by the great (un)washed to signify their spark of individuality to the monochrome face of the capitalist engine were missing, and even the solitary bar of soap looked like a refugee from a self-service toilet at the local petrol station. The only item of interest was an empty medicine bottle that sat in forlorn isolation on the sink counter. Examining the label, Grissom experienced a welter of emotions: relief, frustration and no little anger as it appeared that the silent reach of Pax Romana was indeed a nightmare made manifest; this too he safely ensconced in a plastic evidence bag. He took on final look and seeing nothing of further interest exited and returned to the main living area.

Nick, on seeing his supervisor's return, picked his way through the crowd, the expression of distaste on face clearly visible.

"You would think," he stated somewhat tartly, "that a room full of police officers would know better than to go tramping all over a crime scene."

Grissom shrugged, "They're trying to make themselves feel useful. Remember, Nick, this is one of their own and they failed to protect him, there's a whole lot of guilt floating around at the moment."

"They didn't even like the guy though."

"You don't like your sister, but I don't imagine you'd be very happy if someone killed her; especially in such a fashion as this."

"Well true," Nick conceded, before getting a wicked gleam in his eye, "I'd hope they'd be a little more original. It's a shame," he added thoughtfully, "that arrogant pretension isn't a fatal disease."

"True. But think that if it were a disease then you probably wouldn't be here as your parents would have died looking down their noses at each other before you were conceived."

Unlike most people, who have heard their parents horrifically insulted, Nick grinned; he'd forgotten that Grissom had met his sire and dam. Even Ecklie had loathed them, which in consideration of Ecklie's rehabilitation in the eyes of all and sundry due to the, now widespread, knowledge that the man was indeed human and not, as previously suspected, a vampire, was not unsurprising.

"Anyway, Nick, were you able to get anything new off the body?"

"Sorry Grissom, there's a few fingerprints, I guess they belong to this Bates person, which is unsurprising considering it is his apartment and I guess that would make him our killer.

"We don't now that Nick, it's only an assumption. The killer could have broken in and was pretending to be Mister Bates or it is possible that he previously killed Mister bates and hid the body…"

"Grissom? Do you know what a pedant is?"

"Why, yes I do Nick, I believe the definition says something akin to a pedant being a person who's not afraid to do the job properly when everyone else would rather be at home."

"Touché"

"Do we know anything about this Bates person?"

"Not yet although I heard one of the officers saying something about the information being made available to all parties concerned as soon as possible."

"Okay. Can I leave you to finish up here and to make sure that the information about Bates is sent either faxed or emailed back to the lab, I'm heading there now."

"Right, Grissom. Grissom? You alright with them taking the body down?"

"Yes, Nick. Go ahead. I'll see you later."

"Later, Grissom."

It was half an hour later when Grissom arrived back at the lab. The traffic on the return journey had been nightmarish as the city slowly disgorged itself of the human detritus that littered its buildings and byways. It was at times like these, Grissom thought, as he was trapped at the third set of traffic lights he'd encountered in a hundred metres, that the city showed itself as an integral part of the living human entity, much like an ants nest. He had smiled quietly to himself at that, he definitely needed a holiday. What with first comparing the crime scene to a bee hive and then the city to an ants' nest, he obviously needed to getaway and think about something other than bugs for a while; he'd have to see if Agatha was free if for no other reason that that the arguments would be particularly stimulating.

The first thing Grissom encountered when he arrived was the receptionist waving him down. Despite the urgency of the situation he paused; sometimes receptionists had important things to pass on. In this instance it was, while not important, somewhat ironic; Nick had called to say that he would get a ride back with the Medical Examiner. In Grissom's desire to depart the scene with all due haste, and his delegation of responsibilities to Nick, both men had forgotten that the young Texan had arrived with Grissom by way of Grissom's vehicle. While it was fortunate that Nick could hop a ride back with the ME, and also fortunate that the medical examiner hadn't killed anyone with his driving of late - at least not in a physical sense - departmental scuttlebutt had it that Peter was a frustrated Formula One and that he made the departmental Volvo do things it's designers had never imagined possible for a vehicle of that type. Grissom shuddered inwardly at the stories he had heard and gave thanks that the Volvo wasn't equipped with a gun turret; he hated to think of the trouble the medical examiner – the highly regarded and much respected medical examiner - would inevitably get into if his car had a gun turret. Fortunately, it wasn't his problem. He then took a second to apologise to Nick and to pray for his, hopefully, continued existence.

The, penance completed, he hurried on.

He paused briefly at the DNA lab thrusting the bagged teddy bear and medicine bottle into the hands of a startled Greg, muttered something about testing it to see if it matched and headed out the door. Greg was fazed only briefly, before making a connection between where Grissom had come from and the other DNA tests he had performed of late. Admittedly, the bear came as something of a shock, but professionalism to the fore, he started the job of closely examining the bear for any hint of potential forensic evidence, whilst doing his best not to damage the bear in the process as it looked slightly mournful and, as such, the young tech had to resist the urge to reassure it that everything would be alright.

Grissom reached his office and such was his haste that he almost collided with Brass whom had come, at equal speed, from the opposite direction.

"I've got something for you Gil" Brass indicated a tidy pile of folders held loosely in one hand

"With any luck that should be some information about an Anthony Bates."

"Looks like you're in luck then."

"Give it here," and with unseemly haste, in fact, before Brass could even react, Grissom had snatched the files away.

If Brass was surprised, he didn't show it; although, to the observant, it would have appeared that the detective had developed a particularly significant twitch. Schooling his already stoic expression he gave his colleague a second before he spoke.

"Interesting files?"

"mmmm"

"You have two seconds before I stomp on your foot."

"Really?"

Brass shrugged; he had warned Grissom, and it wasn't like he didn't need the exercise, bearing in mind his age and general lack of fitness. Despite the fact that Brass was wearing soft suede loafers, Grissom's foot gave a satisfactory crunch as the older man bore down with the heel of his shoe; Grissom yelped satisfactorily

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"I trust that I now have your attention?" Brass's expression was one of beatific innocence; "I did warn you."

"Stamping on my foot is hardly professional, Brass."

"Fun though."

Grissom looked bemused as if he couldn't quite reconcile the image with the reality, he knew Brass was a pragmatist; he had just forgotten just how far that pragmatism extended.

"So, what does the file say?"

"You didn't look?"

"I had no reason to, I was simply passing by the fax machine when it came in and a very harried office assistant handed me the papers and pushed me in the direction of your office."

"Still being ordered about by the office staff?"

"They organise the stationary and the pay slips and as such I'd be a fool not to."

"There is that I suppose. Anyway, to answer the question you didn't ask, this guy, Anthony Bates, may just be our Shakespeare Killer."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've just come from his apartment, which had just been freshly decorated with a police officer; stapled to the wall no less." Grissom paused, his expression thoughtful, "I think you might want to suggest that consideration be given to changing the colour of the police uniform, it clashed horribly with the décor."

"I'll be sure to pass that on," was the purposely bland response. "What makes you think this is the Shakespeare Killer, other than the method of death of course; could easily be a copycat."

"True enough. I've got Greg doing a DNA match as we speak. I've got two previous samples that match, one from the last murder - the family, and another taken from outside Agatha Babylon's apartment, if this third sample, from the apartment, matches, then I would say that we're looking at something far more than simple coincidence."

Brass nodded, "You're probably right. So, what does the file say?"

"Bugger all, actually. The man's a cipher. Well, he added after a moment's thoughtful consideration, that's not precisely true, there's no criminal or medical records attached; although, with that bottle of Pax Romana floating around at his house there has to be a medical report floating around somewhere. What information we do have is primarily from his academic transcript. He's thirty-four, born in Mesopotamia Ohio, entered college on a double scholarship both sport, football, and academic. Apparently he gave up the football after four years but transferred to Harvard to do a PhD in English Literature, with his thesis examining the allegorical and thematic use of death in the plays of Shakespeare."

"Surprise, surprise."

"Yes, thank you, Gomer…Anyway, after he completed his degree he pretty much dropped out of sight; I suppose we can chase down the various Alumni associations and see what they know."

"That's all moot at this point in time Gil, until we know that this guy is indeed our killer then what you have here is several pages of unfounded supposition."

According to Murphy, the correct time for a lab assistant to appear bearing DNA results would be straight after a statement like the one made by Brass, and lo, on the horizon, appeared a Sanders in full gallop.

"Grissom…" Greg was puffing like an overexcited bellows, "I have your results."

"They match don't they?"

" No."

"No! You're kidding?"

Greg grinned, "Yes I am actually, they match."

Sometimes, Murphy isn't such a bastard after all.