Sins of the Past: Part Two

Once they were back at the lab, Catherine turned to Grissom. "Gil, we need to talk. I'm going to have to take your statement."

He nodded briefly. "Yes. I know. Can we do this in my office?"

"Yes, of course," she said. She followed him into the office and closed the door behind her. Once he was seated at his desk, he looked like he was more in control. She wasn't sure which was worse, the panic and fear she had seen in his eyes earlier, or the calm mask he now wore. Dropping down into the chair opposite him, she sighed. "Gil, I'll do my best to keep your name out of this for as long as I can. I know you were trying to keep your relationship with Nick a secret -- and doing a damned good job of it, I might add -- but...it's going to come out eventually."

"I realise that," he said tonelessly. "It doesn't matter. The important thing is to solve this case."

She stared at him incredulously. "Case? This is more than a case! This is Nick we're talking about."

"I realise that as well. But it's still a case, with evidence and a solution. Getting emotional won't bring Nick--" his voice cracked slightly and he closed his eyes before continuing. "It won't help us find him any faster. Now, you had some questions for me. Can we please get this over with?"

She mentally berated herself. He was obviously holding on to his composure only by great effort, and pushing him over the edge would only make things worse. "I'm sorry, it's just... You're right. I'm sorry." She struggled with her own emotions for a moment before getting them under control and then reached for her note pad. "You and Nick were together for three months?"

He gave her a hard look. "We've been together for three months, yes."

Shit. Watch it Catherine, she told herself. Past tense is not going to help anything here. "Sorry," she said again. "Were the two of you having problems?"

"No, I didn't think so. Everything seemed to be going fine. Two weeks ago...two and a half weeks," he clarified. "Wednesday. He came home from work agitated. We were planning to go out; we had tickets for the theatre. I cooked dinner, beef stroganoff; Nick likes it though I can't really see the appeal..." He closed his eyes again. "Sorry, that's not important. He was upset, said it had to do with a case he was working, and that he didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to pry."

"Did he ever tell you what it was about the case that upset him?"

"No, I looked it up the next day. It was a routine hit and run. I don't know why it would have bothered him so much."

"I thought you didn't want to pry?"

His lips twitched slightly. "Well, at least not to his face. But I was worried." Frowning, he shook his head. "I really don't think it had anything to do with that case, at least not directly. His agitation only grew worse as the days went by, and a week later he told me he needed some space to work things out, whatever that means. We've barely spoken since then."

"Did he want out of the relationship?"

"I don't think so. He initiated our relationship, and he seemed very confident that it was what he wanted. If he thought it wasn't working he would have told me."

"Do you know why he had his home phone disconnected?"

"He said that he was getting too many wrong numbers, and that the phone was waking him up at night. I didn't question it at the time, but..." his brow furrowed. "Now I'm not so sure."

Catherine nodded. "I'll run a trace on his phone, see if I can find out who all those 'wrong numbers' were from. Ok, when was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Friday morning: before I left for the conference in Reno. I stopped by his condo. I wanted to talk to him before I left and he wasn't answering his cell phone. He was cleaning; he does that when he's upset. He says it's better than drinking. Cheaper, easier on the liver, and you can drive after cleaning..."

He pounded on the door again. Even from outside, he could tell that the stereo was on full blast and he doubted that his knocking could be heard over the loud rock music. Giving up, he used his key to let himself in. "Nick?"

Nick obviously hadn't heard him, he was in the kitchen, pulling all the dishes out of the cabinets. Slamming the cabinet door shut he grabbed a plate and began washing it. The scene would have been almost amusing if it weren't for the frantic look in his eyes and the gun lying on the counter a few feet from the sink.

A few quick strides and he was to the stereo. Pressing the power button, he yelled, "Nick!" his voice too loud in the sudden silence.

Nick dropped the plate he was washing and spun to face him, his eyes wide and his hand darting automatically for his gun. "Jesus, Gil!" he said, nearly collapsing with relief. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I knocked. What on earth are you doing?"

Nick raked a soapy hand through his hair and shrugged nonchalantly. "Washing dishes, what does it look like?" Turning back to the sink he fished out the plate he had dropped and began scrubbing it with renewed vigour.

He watched with a kind of sick fascination as Nick scrubbed the already clean plate for another minute before rinsing it and reaching for a hand towel. When Nick reached for the next plate he grabbed his hand, stopping the motion. "Nick, stop this," he said carefully. "The dishes are clean. Will you please just stop this and sit down and talk to me?"

Nick jerked his hand away and picked up the plate. "They're not clean," he said reasonably, "they're dusty. Dust, it gets into everything." He dunked the plate into the soapy water and began scrubbing it so vigorously that Gil was mildly surprised the pattern wasn't rubbed off. "I'll just finish with the dishes, and then we can talk, ok?"

He watched silently, trying to decide what to do, as Nick frantically washed three more plates. Nick looked like shit. His clothes were rumpled and stained, his hair was sticking out in all directions, and his eyes were bloodshot and deeply shadowed. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He looked thinner too, as though he had skipped more than a few meals in the last week.

When Nick reached for yet another plate, he finally lost his patience and tried to wrest the dish away from him. Nick glared and tried to pull the plate back, but it slipped from his hands and fell, shattering on the tile floor. "Shit," Nick muttered without feeling, staring down at the broken dish. Kneeling down, he picked up the scattered pieces and then placed them on the counter, arranging them as though he could fit the pieces back together.

"Nick," Gil tried again. "Come sit down, we really need to talk." Surprisingly, Nick didn't resist as he pulled him over to the couch. If he had known this was what it would take to get his attention, Gil thought that he would have started breaking dishes as soon as he had arrived.

Nick was silent, staring at his hands, his brow furrowed as though in confusion. When he didn't say anything, Gil decided to take the initiative. "Nick, what's going on? Is it drugs? If it is...well, ok. I know some great doctors. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Nick made a disgusted face. "No, no. Of course not. I don't do drugs, Gil, you know that."

"I know," he agreed, "but I had to ask. You really don't seem like yourself at the moment. You're really kind of scaring me right now, Nicky. I just need to know that you're ok. You're sure you haven't taken anything?"

"Valium," Nick said finally. "I took a Valium. Prescription. Two, three hours ago."

Shit, Gil thought. If this is Nick after a Valium he really didn't want to think how bad it must have been before. Glancing around, he realised that the condo was indeed cleaner than he'd ever seen it. Nick must have been cleaning for hours. "Ok," he said. "The Valium was probably a good idea. Now are you ready to tell me what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong! I'm fine. I've just got a lot of things on my mind right now and your nagging isn't helping!" he said angrily. He stood up and stalked back into the kitchen and grabbed another plate from the dwindling stack.

Gil growled in frustration and followed him into the kitchen. "Damn it, Nick," he said, losing his grip on his temper, "what the hell is going on with you?"

"I told you, it's nothing!" Nick yelled. "I'm fine!"

"You're not fine! Just tell me what's wrong and maybe I can help."

Nick sighed and dropped the plate into the sink; water sloshed over the edge and onto the floor. "No," he said in a dreadfully quiet voice. "No, there's nothing you can do. I don't want you getting involved in this."

"I'm already involved!"

"Ok," he said placatingly. "Ok! We'll talk on Monday. Just go to your conference, and when you get back we'll talk. But right now, please, just go. I need some time to think."

He didn't want to leave, but he really didn't think he would get anywhere talking to Nick when he was in this kind of mood. "Monday," he agreed, "I'm holding you to that."

"Did you believe him?" Catherine asked.

Gil looked up, startled, as though he had forgotten she was there. "What?"

"About the drugs. Did you believe him? It would explain a lot, mood swings, erratic behaviour..."

He considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yes, I believed him. He was obviously upset about something, but even though he was acting irrationally, I don't think he was taking drugs. He was too lucid, it was more like he was...frightened. Terrified of something."

The words sent a cold chill down Catherine's spine and she shivered slightly. "Any idea what might have scared him so much?"

"No. But whatever he was afraid of...I think it happened." His hand shook slightly and he gripped the pen he was holding so tightly that the plastic creaked audibly under the pressure. "I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed there, found some way to make him tell me what was going on. But I was just so frustrated..."

"It's not your fault, Gil."

"I know. Of course I know that. But--" he took a steadying breath and stared at her blankly. "Yes. Well, if you don't have any more questions, I really need to get to work. I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on."

"You should really go home and get some rest," she said. "We can find someone to cover your shift for you." Any response he might have made was interrupted when Catherine's cell phone rang. She stared at the display for a long moment before looking up to meet his eyes. "It's Sara. They've found something."


"Ok," Sara said finally. "I guess this is it. You ready?"

"No," Warrick said grimly. There wasn't much that could make him feel ready to investigate a crime in his friend's house. "But let's do it." Ducking under the crime scene tape he entered Nick's condo, Sara close behind him. "It's dark in here, even with the lights on."

"The drapes are closed," Sara noted, stepping over the window and pulling one to the side a bit. "Blinds too."

"Nick likes to sleep late, makes sense. Keep the light out."

"Yeah," she said, "in the bedroom maybe, but out here? I don't get it. You'd think he'd want some natural light, with all these windows." She frowned slightly. "Do you smell that?"

He sniffed the air cautiously and nodded. "Yeah. Cleaning fluid. Ammonia?"

"Yeah, I think so. Do you think someone cleaned up in here?"

He considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe. It was probably Nick though. He's got this cleaning thing."

"Cleaning thing?"

"Yeah, I don't really understand it. He stresses, and he cleans. Last year he dropped by my place after a bad date, started doing my dishes. Mopped the kitchen floor and probably would've started in on the bathroom if I hadn't distracted him."

"Wow," Sara said with a slight laugh. "Well when we find him, let him know that he can come stress at my house whenever he wants."

"Yeah, for real." He moved into the kitchen and stopped, frowning at a broken plate on the countertop. "Hey, Sara, what do you make of this?"

She joined him in the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. "I'm fairly certain that's a broken plate."

"Yeah, I know that. But why put it here, like that? Why not just throw it away?"

"Maybe he was going to fix it. Glue it back together."

"Nah," he disagreed. "It's in too many pieces. And what's the point? Not exactly an expensive dish."

Sara frowned. "Well, we'll ask him when we find him."

"You really think we're going to find him?"

"Yeah. We'll find him," she said unconvincingly. "He's probably just passed out in some cheap motel. He'll show up in a day or so, get reamed out by Catherine, and fall all over himself apologizing for getting us all worked up."

"Yeah, you're right," he said, knowing full well that neither of them believed it. "Come on, let's finish the walkthrough. We've still got to check the bedroom."

The bedroom was as scrupulously neat as the other rooms. A quick check of a dresser drawer revealed neatly folded socks and boxer shorts, and the bed was made with tightly tucked corners. Flipping back a corner of the bedspread he leaned in for a closer look. "Bed's been freshly made, no one's slept in this." Looking again, he groaned. "He ironed the sheets. Come on man, no one irons sheets."

"Hey," Sara said defensively. "I iron my sheets."

He gave her a disgusted look. "Then you're both crazy." He turned towards the door to the bath, still muttering under his breath about the stupidity of ironing something that's going to get wrinkled the second you sleep on it. After a moment of fumbling, he found the light switch in the bathroom and switched it on. He took a brief glance and called back over his shoulder, "Looks like you and Catherine were right. Two toothbrushes. Nobody keeps two toothbrushes unless there's someone using the other one. I don't get that. Serious enough for matching toothbrushes, but not serious enough for any of us to know about it?"

"We really need to find out who this mystery woman is."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Maybe there'll be something on his computer. Emails, address book..." He shrugged and grabbed his camera, taking a few quick shots of the toothbrushes before grabbing one and dropping it into an evidence bag. "We'd better start collecting evidence before Catherine has our necks. At least Nick's cleaning fetish will make trace easy to find. I'll take the bedroom and bath, you start on the kitchen and living room."

Alone in the bathroom, he glanced around, deciding the best place to start. Pulling the lid off the small trash can, he was somewhat surprised to find that it hadn't been emptied. Poking through the contents he found a few crumpled tissues, some small paper cups matching the ones in the dispenser by the sink, an ear swab and a used condom.

He groaned. "C'mon, Nick," he muttered. "Why couldn't you just flush it like everyone else? I have a feeling that I'm going to be finding out way more about your sex life than I ever wanted to know." He had just finished photographing, bagging, and labelling the offending prophylactic when Sara called him from the other room.

"Warrick, I think you should come take a look at this."

He grabbed his kit and joined her by Nick's desk. One of the side drawers was open and she was staring into it with a puzzled expression. After taking a glance he said, "That's Nick's answering machine."

"Yeah, but what's it doing in a desk drawer? This is fairly recent; I called him a couple weeks ago and got the machine. Think it's broken?"

"He had his phone turned off last week, maybe he just decided he didn't need it anymore. Taking up space."

She picked up the phone cord that was still hanging from the back of the machine and examined the frayed end. "If that's the case, why would he rip it out of the wall?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't like the looks of this." Spotting the phone jack, he leaned down to take a closer look, but froze as he saw something else on the wall, blending in with the textured paint. "We've got bigger problems than the answering machine. There's blood spatter." He gave Sara a long look. "So much for the cheap motel room."

"Yeah," she said softly. "So much for that idea. I'd better call Catherine."

TBC