A/N: Thanks to all who's been reading and reviewing thus far! Here's the next chapter; same thing as the others! Zan wrote Grissom in bold, QTR wrote Sara in the normal font!
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This case is getting stranger and stranger, I'm afraid. I don't like it, as a matter-of-fact, and yet again, I am concerned with the fact that Sara is still involved with it. Take the whole DNA-collecting fiasco, for example. While we were getting the DNA samples from the inmates, I couldn't help but continuously look over at Sara. I know that there were guards in the room, but… for whatever reason, I felt compelled to keep an eye on her. And then my worst fear came to light, when one of the individuals tried to bite her. I was… upset, to say the very least.
And then we left. Thank goodness we left that God-forsaken place, dashing out into the dark and stormy night. The thunder and lightning crashed around us, but we made it back to the lab. Back to safety. Back to security.
So here I stand with Al, discussing Robbie's stomach contents. Al cracks a joke, as usual, and I am quick with the comeback. I'm actually proud of myself for remembering the movie Jaws, because, well… I don't get out all that much. But Robbie's stomach contents are… fascinating, and I can't help but wonder what this man must have gone through. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder can be a tricky thing to live with, which… makes me think about Sara. Sara has OCD, I'm fairly certain. She just seems to focus on… random things. Frowning, I secretly wonder what the inside of her mind really looks like. How bad are her obsessions and compulsions? Do they help her do her job better? Or make her job harder?
Sighing, I glance back down at the autopsy table. Listening to Al, I nod, as I absorb the information that he is telling me. "So… C.O.D. was blunt force trauma?" I ask, thinking things through.
"No. Asphyxiation," he replies.
But that doesn't make any sense to me. He died from not being able to breathe…? "During the struggle?" I want to know.
"No," Al tells me, going on to explain that Robbie's head trauma was actually caused post-mortem.
Okay… now I'm even more confused. "So evidently, dead wasn't dead enough…" I muse, staring down at the table. And not only am I more confused, I am more reluctant to allow Sara to return to the state hospital. Robbie was not only murdered, but he was beaten afterward, as well. For whatever reason, this fact makes me feel even more uncomfortable… in my mind, the fact that someone wanted to hurt him that badly is worse to me, than had he or she just killed Robbie flat out, and left. I am so reluctant to allow Sara to return to the hospital, because… well… this very angry killer is still living there. Free… roaming the halls.
Al then begins to speak again, pulling me out of my reverie. "I also found ligature marks on the wrists and ankles…" he informs me, pointing. "They showed up during the Y-peri-mortem. So, what, tortured? Tied up?"
"Restrained…" I simply tell him. "Nobody mentioned restraints…" So not only are the criminals dangerous, but the staff members are, too. If Sara goes back there, and someone hurts her in someway, so help me God…
So now we're back at the lab- away from that...80-year-old Mike Tyson. I must say that my mood has lightened considerably since we have returned to the lab. I'm familiar with the lab...actually it's like more of a second home to me.
I must say that I am not looking forward to returning to that...place. It just...brings back...memories. Memories I don't necessarily want to remember. Being there just makes me feel...vulnerable, and I don't like feeling vulnerable. It means that I feel weak. And someone in my line of work can never feel weak, emotionally or physically.
"Would you ever bleach your hair?"
Ah...god. Okay, where was I? Trace lab...Hodges. That's right. Sample under the scope, looks like...hair. Yeah, it's hair, I can see the skin tag.
His words finally registering in my brain, I blink.
"I wouldn't; so Greg Sanders," Hodges tells me.
I blink again and look over at him. He just returns my gaze; he obviously didn't see how...awkward that sounded coming from him. I just shake my head and return to the scope.
"Most of the hair was the vic's, but I did find that bleached sample as well," he says. I hear him shuffle files around. "In my continuing quest to further my standing I took it upon myself to get you the tox report," he says, handing me the file.
Wow. That was...not like Hodges. "Thanks," I tell him, taking the file.
"You're welcome," he shrugs, watching as I scan the file with my eyes. "Blood came back with pretty hefty levels of olanzapine."
"That's a potent anti-psychotic," I nod.
"Good for drooling."
I shoot him a look before going back to the file.
"And then there's the, uh, not so-potent smattering of ibuprofen."
I blink. That's a short list of medications for someone in a mental institution. "That's it?" I ask.
"That's it," he confirms.
That does not sound right, and I know it. There's got to be a catch...there's always a catch, and when something doesn't sound right to a CSI...it's because it's usually not.
Yet, I look over the file and true to Hodges' words, only the two medications were in Robbie's system.
SAMPLE TEST RESULTS
------ ---- -------
BLOOD NARCOTICS OLANZAPINE
BLOOD NARCOTICS IBUPROFEN
BLOOD ALCOHOL NONE
BLOOD CHEMICAL NONE
"If I were institutionalized," I hear Hodges start. "I think I would hope for something better. "Clonazpam, maybe."
I lift my head up and stare at him for a minute.
I can see a small grin creeping around the corners of his mouth. "What, you, uh, think I'm crazy?" he asks.
I just shake my head with a smirk. "Crazy is as crazy does." After a brief moment of silence it's back to business. "His chart indicated at least four other anti-psychotics, why wasn't he getting those meds?" I ask, even though I know he does not have the answer.
He shrugs. "Do I look clairvoyant?"
I just grin as he walks around me. That was a nice way to lighten up the mood, even though...our remarks just made me think of the place where we're inevitably going to end up in again.
With my hands in my pockets, I shuffle down the hallway with Brass at my side, discussing the case. What do we have…? I want to ask him. But I let him speak first.
"News flash from the loony bin," he told me. "Two reported deaths in the last three years from 'complications due to restraint procedures.'"
Well… that's pretty…interesting, I muse to myself. 'Complications due to restraint procedures?' What kind of a state-run facility is this place? I frown to myself. Shouldn't the staff be trained in such techniques…? And if two incidents have actually been reported, well… "And how many have gone unreported?" I finally ask him.
"The hospital just got off probation. One more death by restraint brings
the feds in."
I stare straight ahead of me, as I try to collect my thoughts. First of all, I am totally appalled by the fact that the feds will not check out a facility until three people have already died by a procedure that should be controllable. I understand that the doctors and nurses deal with patients and inmates—on a daily basis—who have severe problems, but… I don't understand why two deaths, let alone three deaths, are allowed to occur before something is done about it. And second of all, well… I am no longer sure how I feel about this hospital. Yet again, I am left wondering whether or not Sara should be allowed to return. Something is obviously going on at the place, and… well… the longer that we stay there, the worse her expressions become. I don't like it, and… I want to keep her safe.
And I have to stop and wonder for a moment. Okay, I have to keep moving and wonder. But… why do I suddenly have all of these feelings for Sara…? And actually… what kind of feelings are they…? Are they your typical 'I'm the supervisor, so I have to look out for you' feelings…? Or are they… 'I… like you…' feelings? Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my head of all thoughts of Sara.
Probation. Jim said something about probation. "Good incentive to keep it quiet," I simply tell Brass.
"Or make it look like someone else did it…" he replies.
I bite my lip, glancing at him for a moment. "Yeah. Somebody who's crazy." But an inmate? Or a staff member? That's the real question. Regardless of who did it, the evidence never lies… and between Sara and I, we will catch the killer or killers. Of that, everyone can be sure.
It's still raining. So help me god, it's still raining. The rain actually hasn't slowed since it started...which...is strange, regardless to say. I look back over at the hospital administrator in the surveillance room of the hospital as I watch Robbie struggle against the nurses and techs in seclusion.
And of course...we're back at this place. Again.
"This is Robbie in the seclusion room the day he died," the administrator explains.
Brass and I continue to view this footage for the first time. I think even Jim's feeling a bit uncomfortable watching this. Watching...Robbie... Her... ...struggle, is just... I don't know how to describe it. It's like...part of you wants to help him, but the other part is hoping to God he's not let free.
I watch as the administrator leans forward and fast-forwards the tape a little. On the screen, I can now plainly see that Robbie has calmed down considerably and is no longer thrashing against the nurses and doctors as they come to check in on him.
"And as you can see, the on-call doctor and Nurse McKay checked in on him..." the administrator says, motioning to the screen as if we can't see. He leans forward and fast-forwards it ahead more. "Two hours later, he was escorted out, so I resent the accusation."
How could we not have made accusations? Three people died from these procedures, and from what I've seen, they're not exactly gentle.
"We've made a lot of changes," the man continues. "We've made a lot of changes. Police, staff, surveillance have all been overhauled. Look, Robbie left the seclusion room alive."
Alright, so we were wrong about that one. Before he has a chance to say something else to prove us wrong even further, I beat him to it. "Okay, fine," I shrug. "Who administers medication?"
He shrugs. "Uh, the nurses, psych-techs. Why is this important?"
"Well, according to his tox results," I say, "Robbie's system was short four anti-psychotics."
The hospital administrator quickly has a response. "Maybe he was cheeking them."
Brass and I both ponder this for a minute, and Brass then speaks. "Why would he do that?"
The man shrugs. "They think they don't need 'em, they...sell 'em, trade 'em...store 'em up, get high later."
"We're going to need to talk to his pharmacist," Brass says without hesitation.
I love Brass.
We then descended down the hallway to find Leon. Judging by the long line of inmates in the hallway, I suspected that was where we would find him. And sure enough, there was Leon, right at the top of the line giving each patient medication as if it were candy.
After Earl Simmonds walks off, Leon looks up to see the next patient. "Oh, come on Chuck, I got something for you," he tells him.
Before Pellew can get his medication, an officer pushes him back allowing Brass and I the place in line. Leaning over the cups, I squint to better see what's in the containers.
Leon turns around and looks quite surprised to see us standing there and not one of the patients. "Love your hair, Leon," I tell him, noticing that his hair is bleached. That would match the sample Hodges had.
"Thanks," he says, obviously still trying to figure out why we're there bugging him.
"What'd you got here?" I then say, looking down at the pills. "Ibuprofen...laxative, aspirin," I observe. "What are you...treating exactly? Schizophrenia or constipation?"
He looks baffled.
"Where are the real drugs, Leon?" Brass asks.
We're back at PD and that's weight off my shoulders, even though interrogating suspects is not necessarily my cup of tea. Leon is...a very interesting fellow. He doesn't look a day over 25, he may even be younger. So...why would a kid like him be in this line of work?
Sitting at the table across from Leon, I listen to Brass name-off the list of medications Leon took.
"Man...xanax, lanzopine, zoloft, suprazadone, clozapine, lorazapan, lithium, valium, wellbutrin, haldol, respiredone."
I can't hide the small smile on my face as I slide a photograph in front of him. "You took everything with street value." Now things are starting to make sense as to why Leon chose to work in that place.
Leon laughs a little; he actually looked a bit amused. "Look, dude," he says to Brass. "I get 22-K a year. That's nothin'. Diddly-squat. I should get hazard pay," he says very matter-of-fact. "These people, I get...spit on, puked on, peed on, bitten. I get my hair yanked out, I get my ass pinched, I get death threats." That's quite a list. "All for 22-K," he finishes. "So I supplement my income, it don't hurt nobody," he says, shaking his head.
"Are...you a doctor?" I ask him. He may not make enough money, but...it still doesn't make what's he's doing right.
He just rolls his eyes and leans forward, licking his lips as he gets ready for his explanation. "Look, these people over-medicate patients all the time," he tells me. "It controls the population!" he adds, looking from Brass to myself. "And I don't endanger the patients, okay? I'm all about the patients."
Are you? I want to ask.
"Maybe Robbie caught you skimping on his meds, threatened to blow the whistle. There goes that supplemental income," Brass suggests.
That would make sense, I think to myself. Though...why would Leon put himself in an even worse position than he was already in? He was already stealing from the hospital, did he want to add murder, too?
"No way, man, that's a story," Leon says. "That's not why he went to seclusion."
Now I'm curious. "Why did he go to seclusion?" I ask.
"He freaked out in group!" he said with a shrug, eyes widening. "I wasn't even there! Ask somebody who was."
Believe me, we will.
"Am I gonna lose my job?" Leon then asks, looking from me to Brass. "'Cause these people...need me."
That was quite an interesting interrogation. What a way to take my mind off...things.
From PD I headed back to the lab and sat down across from Grissom in his office. I must say that...this is probably the most comfortable I've felt since we first started this case. I don't know what it is...perhaps it's the fact that...I'm with...Grissom. Grissom is the most familiar person here to me in Vegas. I've known Grissom longer than anyone else, and...well...I trust him.
"According to the video logs," I tell Grissom, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of me. "Robbie was brought into seclusion at 5:03 pm, and then taken out of the room at 7:06 pm. Nurse McKay noted that he was awake and in bed at the 9:30 bed checks."
I try not to smile at Sara sitting across from me, but… I have to admit, I am glad that she is here, in my office. I feel better knowing that she is… safe, and… I feel comfortable knowing that it is me looking out for her. I almost can't help but smile… almost. But I have to remain professional. I am the consummate professional. And so is Sara.
So glancing down at the file in front of me, I finally answer her. "Body was found at 12:10. So sometime between 9:30 and midnight, he…was suffocated," I point out. Why… Why is she leaning back in her chair like that…? I want to ask. But again, I'm a professional.
"Probably closer to 9:30. The blood would've needed time to coagulate before his head was smashed in…" she informs me.
"And not necessarily by the same person…" I add. It's interesting, you know that? I ask myself. Sara and I… if you watch us long enough…we tend to complete one another's thoughts. That means that we… know each other well enough to compliment one another. That's a good thing, right…? I again question myself, frowning.
Looking up, I suddenly bite my lip, as Greg walks in, carrying a pillow.
"Hey, how about some pillow talk?" he grins at us.
I try not to choke, as I think about pillows… and beds… and… ever the consummate professional, I frown to myself, trying to refocus. Glancing up at Greg, I nod at him to continue.
"Robbie's pillow had saliva on it. Lots of it; all his…"
I shrug, as I point out the obvious. "Could be from drooling. Or it could be from dying…" And that's the truth. The evidence is important, but… it doesn't tell us everything that it needs to tell us. Yet, that is.
"Well, look at this -- I found slits at both ends…" Greg continues, as he grips the pillow, and shows us the finger marks. "Left hand... and right hand…" Greg then moves toward Sara, as if pretending to smother her.
I can't believe that he just did that, and I have to admit, I am extremely angry about it. I frown, and my jaw slightly twitches. How dare he do that to her! I frown again, and I consider saying something to him right then and there, but what am I going to say? He didn't actually do anything to her… he just pretended. And yet… this better not be a sign of things to come. Sara can't get hurt. I won't let her.
I slowly tilt my head back away from Greg as he 'smothers' me with the pillow. So much for feeling safe in the lab, even though I know Greg poses no threat to me. I'm just...paranoid, scared...
I manage a smile at Greg and turn to look at Grissom. "Looks like we have a murder weapon."
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TO BE CONTINUED