A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed, we really appreciate it! This is chapter two; Zan wrote Grissom in bold and Brass in italic, and QTR wrote Sara in the normal font.

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It still boggles my mind that we are investigating a crime at a mental institution. I'm not… thrilled with the prospect of interviewing criminals, but… what else can I do? Standing beside Brass, I quietly watch the patients interact with one another. Three people—Jake, an inmate, and Charles Pellew—are all playing cards with one another, while Ronald Salter stares at nothing, and Adam Trent reads a book.

A part of me is curious to know what Adam is actually reading, although…before I can get a close enough look at the book, Brass interrupts my train of thought. "Who's this guy knitting an imaginary sweater?" he asks me. "How's he know when it's finished?"

I look over at the inmate in question, and sigh. Earl Simmonds. "His brain tells him that what he's doing is real. He has no reason to doubt it," I matter-of-factly inform Brass. No reason to doubt it, what-so-ever. I frown, as I continue to watch Simmonds knitting his sweater. I can cite example after example of brilliant individuals who have paranoid delusions, or who see things that aren't really there, but I settle on John Nash, the famous mathematician. I glance at Brass, and explain to him why Nash used to believe that he received messages from extraterrestrials… logically, I have to admit it, it makes sense. If you are good at something, say, mathematics, for example, and you know that you are good at it, you almost have to believe messages that are sent to you in the same way that your gift is. The mind can be a tricky thing, and I understand.

Brass accepts my explanation, nods at me, and returns his attention to the inmates in the lounge. I, on the other hand, begin to contemplate the case. Within the next hour or so, Jim and I will start to interview the patients... this is not something that I am looking forward to doing, and something that I actually considered asking Sara to do. At the last moment, however, I changed my mind, and decided to have her focus her attention on evidence collection. Although she is a skilled interrogator, the thought of her in a room—alone—with these people, made my heart skip a beat, and… I refuse to unnecessarily risk her safety. So… guilty conscience aside, she will have nothing to do with the interviews. I… don't want her to get hurt, and… I don't want to have to… worry about her; not that collecting evidence in a mental hospital—a mental hospital where the patients have free rein—is completely risk free anyhow.

With a sigh, I glance up as Velerie Dino, the on-call doctor, walks toward us. "Did you pronounce…?" I simply ask her.

"Yeah," she replies. "The administration asked me to set up some rooms for your interviews, but, uh, personally, I don't see what you hope to accomplish. These patients are criminals with severe mental disorders. They're not going to give you a straight answer."

Brass smiles at her. "No one ever does."

I shrug, as she leads us back down the deserted hallway to the interview rooms.

I can't help but feel oddly relieved that Grissom gave me the job of evidence collection. I certainly would not be looking forward to spending even just a few minutes alone in a room with any of the patients here. The atmosphere of this place has already sort of unnerved me...and I didn't think that being alone in the same room with rapists and murderers would help to ease my nerves.

After opening my kit, slipping on a pair of gloves and getting out my camera, I watch the coroners wheel away the lifeless and...very bloody body of one Robbie Garson. As soon as they disappear around the corner, I turn and face the task at hand, reminding myself to take pictures of every single detail, large or small.

I see a black sign with white writing near the door and position the eyepiece of my camera before snapping a few shots.

NAME: ROBBIE GARSON
PSYCHIATRIST: DR. VALERIE DINO (MD)
NURSE: JOANNE MCKAY (RN)
NOC. NURSE: NANETTE FABER (RN)
PSYCH. TECH: LEON MADERA
MEDICATIONS: GEODON, OLANZAPINE, DEPOKOTE, LITIUM, LORAZEPAM

Pretty good haul of medication, I think to myself, snapping a few shots of the sign. Walking through the doorway of Robbie's room, I look around to ensure that I don't disturb any evidence, i.e mostly blood on the floor.

I crouch down and click the button on the camera three times, each shots of the pool of blood, leaving my back to the door. Getting to my feet, I open one of the drawers and see several pairs of clean clothes- each the standard uniform for patients- folded neat and tidy. I take more photos, interrupted by the sudden sound of a crack of thunder erupting near the window.

I quickly compose myself and turn around to look at the other half of the room. I spot some blue substance on the wall just above Robbie's bed- it looks to be a sticky blue...something. Paper, maybe...?

I reach into my kit for something to scrape it off the wall and begin to try and collect it. It was then that I realized it was a torn piece of blue tape and I peel it off with my finger, placing it in a bindle.

So far, so good.

So I sit down at the table, and prepare for my first interview. First up is Ronald Salter, in for murder and multiple rape; not the kind of man that I would want Sara to be around... or any of my CSIs, for that matter. Hiding my frown, I glance across the table at the man.

I honestly believe that my interview with Ronald is going well, despite the fact that he won't make eye contact with me, his words are a jumbled mess, and he can't seem to sit still. It's going well, that is, until… a short while later, when he starts talking about an imaginary cricket. I inwardly sigh, but I play along with him, thinking that perhaps he is still talking about himself. It's possible, right...? I think that it is, so… I continue to question him. It doesn't take long for me to realize, however, that he is delusional. He truly believes that there is a cricket trying to burrow its way into his head. With a nod, I tell the guard that he can take Ronald away.

Biting my lip, I look over my first interviewee's file: Earl Simmonds, a depressed rapist. Sighing, I look toward the barred window, and the rain beyond it. I don't understand how a person can hurt another person. I don't understand how someone can look into someone else's eyes, and still… do something to hurt him or her. Why? Where's the sense in that? It just doesn't make any sense… but then again, the world doesn't always make sense, either.

As Simmonds shuffles in, I grab my pen and paper, and steel myself for a… unique interview. Frowning at the other man, I sigh.

"I don't sleep," he tells me.

Interesting. I didn't even ask him a question yet! But glancing over at him, I raise an eyebrow. "Never?"

Simmonds shakes his head no.

" So… what do you do at night?" I then ask, thinking that this line of questioning is ridiculous.

"Day, night, it don't make no difference. I think…" he immediately replies.

"About what?"

"Bitches."

Well isn't that special? I want to tell him. But like the good boy that I am, I refrain from doing so. Thank God that Sara isn't in this room, though….

After taking all of the necessary photos of what I have already discovered, I decide it's time to turn on the AV. I turn the machine on and start shining the blue light over the sheets on Robbie's bed, fashioning orange goggles.

My search came up empty until I stumbled upon a discoloration on the sheets. Semen, I deduct. Taking the sheet off so it can later be bagged as evidence, I run the light over the rest of the bed, shining it on the pillow. After finding nothing else of interest, I quickly decide what to do next.

I used to hide journals and diaries under my mattress when I was younger, though my parents were always too drunk to know that their daughter kept a diary anyway. Despite any of that, I kept the small book containing my thoughts and feelings under the mattress at all times when I was not writing in it. It gave me a small reassurance that it was safe and secret, hidden from the rest of the world.

I lift the small rather thin mattress up off of the metal springs and I am rewarded with a piece of paper- looking to be from a magazine- hidden under the mattress. Kneeling down and leaning the mattress against the wall, I take my goggles off and position them above my head as I pick the paper up for better analysis.

Now that I have a better view of the paper, I confirm that it is indeed a page from a magazine. It looked to be from a clothing catalogue, and on the page were several young boys looking to be around the age of 10 fashioning the clothes they were trying to sell.

I crinkled my face as I raised an eyebrow in thought. Why would Robbie Garson have a torn page from a magazine...? Or, more importantly, why was he keeping it secret?

Adam Trent. There is just something about this guy that makes me a little bit uncomfortable. Perhaps it is the way that he smirked at me at the beginning of the interview, his gaze unwavering. Or perhaps it is the fact that he is so poised, and so confident, and almost cocky, to the point of coming across as… well… as I don't know what. Whatever it is, I don't really trust him… and once again, I am thankful for the fact that Sara does not need to speak with him. Ever. This man is dangerous… perhaps more so than the rest, just because of his attitude and his demeanor.

Silently staring across the window at Adam for a moment, I frown, as he starts to speak to me. "What are you going to do? Are you going to convict me of murder and put me in a bad place?" he asks me, once again smirking, and once again biting his nails.

I bite the inside of my mouth, ensuring that I keep the sarcasm out of my voice when I am ready to reply to him. I absolutely can't stand this man, but… he is still a suspect, and… he still might have some valuable information for us. "Is it you…?" I simply ask him, once again calmly staring across the table at him.

"Check the files, sir. I'm a rapist, not a murderer."

That's a good point, I sigh to myself, as I nod for the guard to lead Adam Trent out of the interview room.

I once again fight the urge to say something sarcastic, as I sit across the table from an elderly man. An unresponsive, elderly man, who does nothing more than stare at me. I try to get him to talk to me, but nothing. Nada. Zilch. Why am I not surprised…? I frown to myself, sighing. What would have ever possessed me to think that this would be an easy case?

Charles Pellew is a patient with OCD and a panic disorder. I can handle him, I think to myself. I can relate to someone with obsessive-compulsive disorder… I think, that is.

That being said, I should have realized that his current address—that of the Desert State Mental Hospital—indicated that Pellew is not entirely…with it. Because the moment that I start to question him about Robert Garson, I get answers that I don't exactly understand. He nods at me, as if he believes that he is giving me important information, but… I have no idea what he is actually trying to tell me.

"Female pig relation, hanged, it sped even, well, too," he informs me.

"What…?" I ask, once again trying to keep my voice calm, steady, and soothing.

"No. I ground it ... blindly. Wet and dirty. Cut the blood oven. It spoke justly, repeatedly, calmly. Some thin rod dared your wash. They foretold this into some ready child, which fell crossly. They hag-rode me... again," he adds.

Once again, I have absolutely no idea what Pellew is talking about. And this time, I have a feeling that this is really a good thing.

One more interview to go, I happily tell myself. Just one more interview to go, and then I can leave this place… or at least this room, I amend. So who's up? My good friend Jake. Jake the snake. The man who earlier this evening, stuck his tongue out at Sara. I am not looking forward to this interview, and… I actually just want to get it over with.

Staring across the table at Jake, who is tied to his chair, I frown. He is so willing to talk, and I have to admit, I am fine just listening to what he has to say.

"Why are you looking at me? You got Leon, he's a spic. Earl, the brother. And the crazy frickin' Jew boy with the bug in his head."

Fantastic, I want to tell him. And please, tell me what you REALLY think about everyone else around here? I guess it's obvious why you have anti-social behavior, I think to myself. Staring across the table at him, I merely raise an eyebrow.

" You know, most of the doctors here are Jewish. They're the ones with the access."

And there you have it, folks, I inwardly think to myself. The world according to Jake.

I decided to head down the hallway and ask one of the on-call doctors that night a question to narrow down the possible donors of the semen in Robbie's bed. I approach one of the doors along a wide and seemingly never-ending corridor and look at the sign plastered by the doorway to make sure I was at the right place. The sign read 'DR. VALERIE DINO (MD)' in white writing, so I knocked quietly.

"Yeah?" came a voice from inside.

I opened the door wide and held my kit in front of me, leaning it against one of the chairs in the room. "Dr. Dino," I said with a polite smile, as if asking for reassurance that this woman in front of me was in fact Dr. Valerie Dino.

"Hi," she said, looking up from a stack of papers on her over-filled desk. I had obviously interrupted her, so I didn't want to keep her long. But I still found myself commenting about the papers.

"Paperwork," I said, tilting my head a bit to motion toward the papers.

"This is a state-run facility," she reminds me, shooting me a small smile. "What can I help you with?" she then asks.

Lifting my kit up off the chair, I moved a little closer to her to make sure she heard me. "Question about the victim," I start. "I have that in some cases of deviant sexual predisposition, you slow the sex drive..."

Dr. Dino just nodded, cutting me off in mid-sentence. "If you're talking about chemical castration, the answer is, yes, Robbie was."

I started putting the pieces together. "So he didn't masturbate..."

"Masturbate, yes. Ejaculate, no," Dr. Dino clarifies.

"So...the semen I found in his bed...is someone else's?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

She nods again, fixing her glasses that were positioned on the bridge of her nose. "Likely."

I shoot her small apologetic and appreciative smile and nod before leaving the room. "Thanks."

"Sure," she says, and like the worker bee, immediately returned to her work.

After my stop at Dr. Dino's office, I headed down the corridor to meet up with Brass and Grissom and share what I have learned. I tried to ignore the strong urge to look over my shoulder as I saw them exit one of the rooms near the nurse's station. "Hey, guys, I found semen in the victim's room and it's probably not his- he was chemically castrated," I explain, slowing to a stop.

"So you're thinking the donor could be the killer?" Brass asks Sara and I.

I nod, flashing him a small smile. "Sex is the foreplay. Violence is the climax."

"Well..." Brass trails of. "Happy swabbing."

Gee, thanks, Jim, I want to tell him. Because I definitely can't think of anything else that I'd rather be doing, than sticking my hand near the mouths of extremely violent criminals.

Walking into the room, I immediately slip on a pair of gloves, studying my surroundings. This room actually appears to be more brightly lit to me than the rest of the hospital, although… the decorations still leave something to be desired. Glancing at the inmates, I sigh, as I watch them receive their medication. Well… at least they'll be more sedated, I think to myself.

Turning to look at Sara, I take one more deep breath. "Well, you take that side," I nod to one side of the room. "I'll take Jimminy Cricket…" I add, proud of myself for resisting the urge to tell her to be careful. But yet again, I find myself worrying about Sara and her safety. This place… this particular task… poses danger for both of us… but more so for her, for the simple fact that she is female.

Making sure that my gloves are securely on my hands, I move toward Ronald Salter. Kneeling down beside him, I sigh. "Say ah…" I tell him.

"Ah…" he replies, as I stick the swab into his mouth, and get the sample.

I stop for a moment, in order to glance over at Sara. If anyone touches her… I think to myself. I'm going to… what? What am I going to do…? With a frown, I walk over to Charles Pellew, the next person on my mouth-swabbing list. "Say ah!" I tell him, before quickly taking the sample.

"Aah-ah-ah!" he replies.

What is that all about…? I frown, staring down at him. With a shrug, I store the swab, before noticing Leon walking toward me with the medicine tray. "You, too, Leon…" I tell him. Leon does not look very happy, and a part of me wonders why. Getting a DNA sample is a very easy thing to do, and… it surprises me that he seems so reluctant to give me one.

"I work here," he protests.

"Exactly…" I say, as I reach into his mouth, and grab the sample. Fascinating…

"Excellent," I tell Grissom with a sigh after I'm informed that I'll be taking the left side of the room. I put on some gloves and grab the right amount of boxes and swabs and get to work. I walk around the couches and chairs in the rather bland room- the amount of white almost blinding me- and I kneel down in front of the patients to get a sample.

"Open for me, please," I tell the first patient, an african-american man that looked sleep-deprived. He stared up at me and slowly- almost reluctantly- opened his mouth. I spotted what looked to be a scar near his left eye, but didn't look him directly in the eye and quickly took the swab. "Thank you..." I told him, writing his name on one of the boxes as I store the first sample.

I moved on to the next patient- a fairly decent-looking man with curly brown hair. You'd think he were normal until you saw the crazed look in his eyes. I didn't even have to say anything, and he opened up his mouth in order for me to get a sample. I wasn't sure, but...I think I saw a grin on his face. A grin that made a feel...uncomfortable. I quickly took the sample and stored it.

I looked up to see Grissom taking Leon's sample and I can't help but grin. Grissom- he's never changed.

Finally I crouch over beside the last patient on my side of the room. He was an elderly man with white-grayish hair, and he almost looked like he was asleep as he sat slumped-over in the leather chair of the room. I'm not sure if he even knew I was there, swab in-hand.

"Open your mouth, please," I tell him. I get no response; it's almost as if this man's lost in his own little world. Thinking he may not have heard me before, I say a bit louder, "Would you open your mouth, Sir?"

And suddenly the man moves. He lunges at me, his mouth open wide. I propel myself backwards as he's restrained by an officer in the room. "Settle down," I hear the officer tell him.

The older man sitting in the chair starts muttering to himself in some foreign language and for a moment I just stare at him, my mind still not fully registering what just happened. "Grissom..." I start, looking over across the room at Grissom. This got his attention and he looked up from the patient he was currently taking a swab from.

I looked down at the man and motioned with the swab. "You take this one," I told him, quickly turning around and taking a deep breath. My hands are shaking; they won't stop shaking. Well, if I wasn't awake a second ago...I sure as hell am now.

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TO BE CONTINUED 