Chapter 9

"I want to know why you're so angry."

'Angry' didn't begin to describe the look Sara directed at her boss – well, technically, her ex-boss she supposed after that stunt in the lab. Yelling at Catherine merited her a suspension, sure, but blowing up at Ecklie was definitely a career-ending move.

Grissom didn't flinch under her glare, just as he had ignored her demands to drop the subject. She realized he wasn't going to leave without some sort of answer. Sara bit back the responses she wanted to give him – that she was pissed about having to deal with another abusive husband, about being a pawn in Catherine's power play, that she let herself lose control in front of Ecklie, and then there was Grissom's flippant comment about rationalizations just a moment before.

Or the real doozy – that she was truly pissed that after all the years they'd known each other, this was the reason he finally showed an interest in her personal life.

What the hell, she told herself. She was fired anyway. If he wanted to know, she'd tell him. She had to start packing soon anyway; the quicker he left, the quicker she could start picking up the pieces of her career.

"Sure you don't want something to drink?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain level.

When he shook his head, she used her bottle to wave him to the couch and then drained the last of the beer before moving to the chair. It took her a moment to get started; she supposed she was a hypocrite of sorts, considering how many times she got upset with Grissom for never sharing. But she seriously doubted he had secrets like hers.

That thought helped fuel her continued anger. She nearly lashed out after his "the mind has it's filters" comment. She had just told him about the bloody scene and going to foster care – just where the hell did he think she was heading with this?

Watching him, though, she noticed his facial tics and her anger dissipated. She knew he cared, but Grissom was never good dealing with personal matters. He had some inkling of where she was headed, and he had no idea how to handle it. She paused, hoping he'd take the unspoken hint to leave, to stop prying at her emotional scabs, but he stayed focused on her.

She felt her cool fading as she made her way through the story, but the tears held off until she revealed her father's murderer. Refusing to look at him, she tried to get herself under control. Even if this was the last time she would ever see him, she hated crying in front of others on principle.

Then he held her hand.

For most people, it was a minor gesture. But for Grissom? The man actively avoided contact with people. This was a big concession from him – it probably was the most touching thing he'd ever done for her, literally as well as figuratively. He didn't withdraw when she returned his grasp firmly, using his presence as an anchor as she let the bottled up emotions wash over her.

Some time later – probably a few minutes at most, but it felt like a lifetime – she pulled her hand free as she stood up, excusing herself.

"Sara," Grissom called, but she closed the door the bathroom before he had a chance to stop her.

Gripping the sink, she waited for her breathing to come under control. She'd say goodbye, thank him for the job, and promise to clear out her locker before night shift started. She wouldn't make any quips about not asking him for a reference or anything like that. The worst was over; she could make it through the rest of his visit without losing it again.

Washing her face, she steeled herself and went out.

"Want that drink now?" she asked, knowing her attempt to sound casual failed. She didn't wait for an answer, but went to the fridge and grabbed some juice. When she turned around, he was standing nearby, the facial tic working overtime.

"I'll clear out my locker when no one's around." She moved to the cabinet to grab two glasses, knowing she was avoiding having to face him.

"No."

"I really don't want to do a big goodbye scene," she said softly, nearly spilling the juice when he rested a hand on her elbow. She turned around, mechanically handing him a glass.

"I'm not firing you," he said, taking the juice with equal distraction.

"I deserve to be fired," she said blankly, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"That's my call. And I'm not going to fire you. Not for this," he said more firmly. "Catherine will insist on a suspension."

"Who do you think insisted I get fired?" Again the facial tic appeared, and she let out a huff. If he wanted to deal with that hellfire, she wasn't going to argue. "Thanks. A suspension is better than I expected."

"You'll have to see a PEAP counselor."

"Again? That worked so well the first time," she said, regretting her sarcasm as soon as he flinched.

It was a moment before he answered. "I wouldn't enjoy the experience, so I don't expect you will. But I hope you'll let them help you. They're trained in how to deal with things like …"

She saw him struggle with the words, and his hurt. Not at her, or what she said, but he was hurting because he wanted to help and didn't know how. It made her heart ache, knowing that he'd never act on his feelings.

"Fine. That's … fine," she said, trying to be soothing.

He drank his juice, whether out of politeness or because he didn't know what else to say, and then turned to leave. Before closing the door, though, he turned back to her. He raised his hand, paused, lowered it again, his lips pursed as he tried to think of something to say.

"Thank you, Grissom. I'm sorry I put you through this," she eventually said. It's my career on the line, my disaster of a childhood, and he's the one who needs comforting. Well, he insisted on knowing.

Again, she nearly jumped when he touched her elbow. When he spoke, it was with a tenderness she rarely heard from him. "You don't owe me an apology."

This time it was her turn to be speechless as he finally left.

In the days of her suspension, he didn't contact her again except to verify she'd made an appointment with the PEAP counselor. She wasn't surprised. He was never the most outgoing person, and people always treated you differently after they knew the truth. It was a reaction Sara had seen since her mother killed her father, and it was the main reason she never told anyone her background.

In Grissom's case, though, different turned out to be good. He'd started making an effort to be kinder. At first she thought he was keeping a professional eye on her as he worked more cases with her. But he started making jokes again, bringing her tea, going out to eat on the way back from scenes.

To her real surprise, he started opening up. When they processed an antique store, he pointed out the Western movie paraphernalia and shared his love of the genre. When he got a new catalog from an insect supply company, he asked her opinion on what to add to his collection.

It had been the key to their eventually getting together.

Not that she expected a response like that from Brass. After years of keeping her secrets, she'd blabbed it out twice in one night. Greg had been shocked, but their friendship was solid. She didn't think he'd treat her differently. Brass, though – why the hell had she told him? And just as they were getting ready to question a doctor.

Seeing that Dr. Meier was on the phone, she paused and waited for Brass to join her.

"I wasn't expecting it to be a woman. Female serials are so rare," she said.

His brief smile let her know he was willing to ignore her personal life – for the moment. "But aren't mercy killers usually women? If she thinks she's putting them out of their misery …"

"Yeah, slashing isn't what I'd call merciful," Sara said.

He shrugged in agreement. "And 'more of a tan color' isn't the best description to work with."

"She could be Hispanic, Mediterranean, mixed race," she agreed.

"Or just someone with a tan," Brass joked. "Of course, we're assuming ol' Stan knows what he's talking about. Drunks aren't the best witnesses."

Sara nodded. Chronic alcoholics ran the risk of alcohol-induced psychosis, a condition that included hallucinations. "At least he didn't claim it was a pink elephant."

"You know, in all the years I've been a cop, I've had drunks describe all kinds of things, but never a pink elephant."

Sara fixed him with a firm look. "That's good. In Vegas, they probably exist."

He chuckled lightly and pointed to the desk. Meier had finished his phone call and was walking around to greet them.

"Hey, doc. Got a minute?" Brass asked.

"Call me Seth. I hear you're asking about Henry. Did you catch the guy who killed him?"

"We're pursing some leads," he said neutrally.

"Do you mind if we go to the break room? I need some coffee. Been a long time since I pulled a night shift," he said with a friendly smile. "I'll get you a cup if you promise not to arrest me for attempted poisoning. It sucks."

"We're fine. I didn't see your name on the original report," Brass said as soon as they entered the empty break room.

"I was in Denver when Henry was killed. My sister had been in a bad accident. It was touch and go for a bit."

"Why did the nurses think of you when we asked to talk to someone?" Brass continued.

Meier went to the fridge and rooted around. "I probably was the closest he had to a friend here. We went to med school together, both ended up doing our residency in Vegas – I did mine at Desert Palm, his was at University. He was in sports medicine, I'm an orthopedic surgeon, so we ended up referring patients to each other on occasion."

"Closest to a friend? Wasn't he popular?" Sara asked.

Meier emerged from the fridge with an apple and joined them at the table. "Not really. Henry … Henry was complicated. I can get you the travel info and stuff to verify I was out of town when he was killed."

"Do you need an alibi?" she asked lightly.

"To tell you the truth, I was surprised when they said he'd been killed by an addict. I always figured it would be someone who knew him. And I probably knew him better than most people."

"And you're his friend?" Brass asked.

"The closest he had to one, probably." After chewing his bite of apple, he let out a sad laugh. "When we were in med school, classmates always tried to diagnose him after they did their psych rotations. But he wasn't someone you could pigeonhole."

"And what diagnosis did you make?" Brass asked.

"I didn't. Henry wasn't ill; he just rubbed people the wrong way." Meier saw the looks they exchanged and leaned forward. "Look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Henry's … a complicated person to describe. He wasn't a bad guy, not really, but he just never quite managed to be a good guy."

"He volunteered at the clinic," Sara pointed out.

"But not because he cared about those addicts."

Brass raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sure he didn't do it for the stimulating conversations."

"Henry went about empathy the wrong way. Helping the unfortunate is something a good person would do, so if he volunteered, then that made him good," the doctor explained.

"And you don't think it did?" Sara asked.

"He went through he motions. Look, Henry was loaded, I'm sure you know that. He could have funded that clinic for a year with his spare change, and it was always looking for funding. Instead, he constantly bitched about having to supply his own gloves because he didn't like the ones they had."

"He was a cheapskate? That's usually not a reason to kill someone," Brass said.

"No, that's the thing. If someone was selling tickets to a raffle, he'd buy a ton of them. He gave great gifts at Christmas and on birthdays. He donated a ton of food to shelters at Thanksgiving."

"He knew social conventions, but he didn't go beyond that," Sara suggested.

"Exactly!" Meier beamed at her. "Henry wanted to do the right thing, but he usually didn't know what it was."

"So, why do you think someone who knew him would have killed him?" Brass asked.

"Like I said, he rubbed people the wrong way. He wasn't trying to be an ass, but that's usually how he appeared. Here's an example - Henry reached decisions by carefully considering all the facts. He couldn't believe that someone else could reach a different conclusion, so he was always right."

"Even when he was wrong," the detective added. "So, did he do anything that would make someone mad enough to want to kill him?"

Meier was thoughtful for a moment. "He had a habit of making silly bets, then refusing to pay when he lost. It was something his family did as a joke with each other. 'I'll bet you five hundred bucks the next car we see will be red.' But he didn't get that people expected him to pay when he did it to them – but he'd take their money when he won."

"That probably did not go over well," Sara said. "Was there anyone in particular?"

"Honestly, dozens of people probably thought he owed them money. I don't think he was dumb enough to pull a stunt like that with a bookie, but who knows." Meier drained his coffee and fidgeted with the cup for a long moment.

"Is there something else or do you just need to go to the bathroom?" Brass asked.

"Have you talked to his ex-fiancee yet?" he asked.

Sara frowned. "There wasn't anything in the report about him being engaged."

"I don't know how many people knew. Like I said, not a popular guy," Meier said. "His fiancee called if off shortly after the engagement when she found out Henry was cheating on her. And believe me, Sharon Mankiller is one woman I wouldn't want on the warpath after me."

Sara shot Brass a knowing look. "When you say warpath, do you mean she's Native American?" she clarified.

"Yeah. From Oklahoma originally, I think the Cherokee Nation. It's one of the big, successful tribes," the doctor said.

"Can you give us a description?" she continued.

"About your height, black hair, brown eyes, medium complexion," Meier said, frowning when he caught their expressions. "I'm not sure of her office hours, but she works here."

"Is she a surgeon by any chance?" Brass asked.

"Yeah, she's a vascular surgeon."

TBC