Chapter 4
Sunday 7:00am
Grissom awoke with a pain in his abdomen. The pain was unfamiliar. He was tired, sore, and emotionally fragile. He curled up in a ball, but the pain was still there. He got out of bed and picked up the phone. Dialing Sara's number, he started to hum.
Sara's phone rang and she looked at the screen, Grissom, home . She didn't answer it and returned to her microscope.
Sara's phone went to voice mail.
"Sara, it's me. I'm sorry. I need you. It hurts. I didn't mean to drive you away. Please come back. Please, help me." Grissom pled into the phone before hanging up.
He went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There was a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Grissom opened it and took a chug. Almost immediately, he felt better. Looking at his watch, he realized he needed to get dressed, soon. He walked into his closet and slipped on a pair of khakis. He pulled off the t-shirt Brass had given him, and put on a polo shirt, and a pair of loafers and headed downstairs.
Brass was still asleep on the sofa and Roger was nowhere in sight. Grissom continued to the kitchen and started to make a pot of coffee. While the coffee maker went through its routine, he went into the lab room and turned on his computer. He looked at his drawing board but he didn't feel like sketching. A familiar beep drew his attention and he sat at the computer screen. His mother was online and had read his email. She began a conversation.
Good morning, sweetheart,
Morning, Mom,
I'm sorry,
Why? It's finally over now. Or at least most of it is.
No, I'm sorry that I never told you. I knew he was alive. He would send me
postcards occasionally, from around the world. He wasn't bothering us; he
didn't want anything, so I let it go.
Why didn't you tell me?
Because I knew it would upset you.
Grissom hesitated, rereading the screen.
Mom, I have to go. I have a meeting at nine. I'll try to talk to you tonight if
you're online.
Alright, take care, please. I love you. I'm sorry, Gil.
I love you too. Bye.
Good bye.
Grissom turned off his computer and wiped his eyes. He picked up his note to Sara and walked out into the living room and saw Brass at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee.
"Hi," he said, quietly, setting the envelope down near his keys.
"Hi, how are you feeling today?" Brass asked, keeping his voice low as well.
"Tired, emotionally and physically," Grissom admitted while pouring himself his own cup of coffee.
He opened the fridge and dropped in two ice cubes as well as a small amount of milk.
"How's your stomach?" Brass asked.
"Fine," Grissom lied, leaning against the counter, sipping the coffee.
"Morning," Roger said as he entered the living room, heading straight for the coffee.
"Morning, Roger," Brass greeted.
"Morning, Nuncle,"
"Morning, Moss," Roger replied, pouring a cup of coffee.
"Would anyone like some breakfast?" Grissom asked.
"None for me, thanks," Jim answered.
"Me neither, too many butterflies," Roger replied, smiling.
Grissom nodded, continuing to sip his coffee. He felt his temperature rise; his anxiousness toward the meeting coupled with the slight pain in his abdomen was really testing him today. He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Filling the sink with cold water, he dunked his head in, holding his breath for as long as he could. He raised his head up and blindly reached for a towel. Drying his head and face, he walked back into the living room.
"Ready to go?" Brass asked, seeing his pale complexion, wanting to ask him more.
"Almost," Grissom said, reaching into the fridge for his migraine medication. "We need to swing by Sara's house on the way."
"Okay," Brass replied.
He slipped the small bottle into his trouser pocket and headed to the door to pick up his phone, sunglasses, envelope, and keys. Roger had his briefcase firmly in hand, dressed in a sport coat and tie. Brass wore his clothes from yesterday, carrying Grissom's answering machine and the envelope for Tim. The three men headed to Brass's Taurus, which was parked in the guest parking area of Grissom's condominium townhouse designed complex. Brass noticed the black car at the end of the block and mentally set himself for whatever was going to happen. Roger sat in the backseat, while Grissom rode shotgun. The difficulty with which he got comfortable in the car and slipped on his shoulder harness did not go unnoticed.
Brass pulled up at Sara's apartment building, still watching the black car in the rearview mirror and Grissom got out slowly. He looked at his watch, and figured that Sara would still be at work. He opened the front door and walked in, letting the door close behind him. He went directly to her bedroom and placed the envelope on top of her pillow. He straightened up and was hit again by a sharp pain in his stomach. Groaning softly, he walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He removed the bottle of Pepto-Bismol and took a mouthful. Relief was almost instantaneous. He put the bottle back in the cabinet and closed the door. Walking quickly, he left her apartment and headed for the car.
They arrived at police headquarters with ten minutes to spare. The receptionist informed them the meeting was to take place in Interrogation Room 4. Grissom's apprehension grew. They walked into the room, which was empty except for the table and 6 chairs. Someone had put a pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups in the center of the table. Roger walked to the other side and opened his briefcase, pulling out a legal pad. He sat down, facing the door. Brass watched Grissom, who had started to pace.
"Easy, Gil, this is very much a poker game. Don't let them see your hand." Brass warned.
Grissom stopped and poured himself a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly. He sat next to Roger, who put a comforting hand on his knee and squeezed. Grissom smiled grimly and closed his eyes, practicing a relaxation technique.
The door opened quickly and three men walked in. Grissom's eyes shot open and he was very still. Slowly, Roger and Grissom stood.
"Agent Marcus Sheehan, Agent Paul Sortos, Agent Scott Taylor," the taller man said.
"Roger McAllister, Dr. Grissom's counsel. This is Dr. Grissom," Roger intoned.
"I'm Captain Jim Brass," he said, placing his badge on his coat pocket.
"I was unaware of your invitation." Agent Sheehan said coldly.
"I'm investigating Mr. Grissom's death," Brass replied, walking to stand in a corner where he could watch the scene play out.
"Fine, you may observe but not participate. This is an FBI investigation." Agent Sheehan said, sitting opposite Grissom.
Grissom and Roger sat down, as did the other two FBI agents. Roger reached into his briefcase and pulled out a 5" x 7" unruled white pad and a pencil, sliding it in front of Grissom. Immediately, Grissom picked up the pencil, placing his hands in his lap, out of sight, where he could fidget.
"Mr. Grissom," Agent Sheehan started.
"Dr. Grissom. His father was Mr. Grissom," Roger corrected.
"Excuse me, Dr. Grissom, when was the last time you saw your father?"
"July 22, 1964," Grissom replied, his voice even.
"How can you be so sure?"
"He beat me with a baseball bat. Check the hospital records. I was there for two weeks."
"You mean to tell me that you haven't seen him since?"
"Asked and answered. Move on," Roger interrupted.
Agent Sheehan shot a glance at Roger and then back to Grissom whose face was beginning to pale. The perspiration started to appear at his hairline, and on his upper lip through his moustache. He shifted in his chair, setting his elbows on the table, leaning over slightly. With a small smile, Agent Sheehan started again.
"Did you receive any type of communication from your father?"
"He called me this past Thursday." Grissom answered, reaching his left hand down to his side, clenching and unclenching his fist.
"What did he say?"
"He said he needed my help. He said that I was the only one who could help him."
"We have evidence that he's been speaking to you weekly for the last four years."
Grissom looked up from the table quickly.
"You're evidence is wrong," he said, his voice barely audible.
"Here are the lab phone records," Agent Sheehan said, handing over a thick package of paper.
Roger looked at it closely.
"There's no evidence to prove that my client answered these calls. He works outside of the lab most of the time. There's no log as to when Dr. Grissom is in the field or when he is in the lab." Roger replied, sitting back in his chair.
"Not, yet, but my investigation is just starting. I'll know everything very soon," Agent Sheehan said.
As Roger started a rant on the merits of threatening his client, Brass watched Grissom's body language and realized that something was wrong.
"Gil? You okay?" Jim asked, walking towards him.
Grissom stood quickly, his right hand holding his stomach.
"I have to get out of here." Grissom murmured.
"Dr. Grissom, we are not done here," Agent Sheehan said, standing as well.
"I have to get out of here," Grissom repeated, walking to the door.
Agent Taylor stood and put a hand on Grissom's shoulder to stop him. Grissom wheeled and punched him with his left hand before turning back to the door. He reached for the handle and then collapsed onto the floor. Andy, who had been observing in the adjoining room behind the two way glass, ran into the room. Brass had pulled Grissom from blocking the door, gently turning him on his back. Roger was at his side on his knees, just running his fingers over Grissom's forehead.
"He's really burning up," Roger said.
Andy quickly pulled up Grissom's shirt and started to thump his fingers onto his hand, which he placed on Grissom's abdomen.
"Call 911," Andy said, continuing to check Grissom out.
Jim called 911 as Paul Taylor began to return to consciousness. His nose was broken, and blood poured down onto his white shirt.
9:30am
Sara walked into her apartment, tired and lonely. She started to put her phone on the table by the door when she remembered Grissom's phone call earlier that morning. She saw that he did leave a voicemail and listened to it. Her eyes filled with tears as she hit '9' to save the message. Punching speed dial '1', she dialed Grissom. His phone went straight to voice mail.
"Hey, it's me. It's nine thirty. I'm going to sleep. Please call me." Sara said, succeeding in not crying on the phone.
She set her phone in its charger and headed into the bedroom. Stripping off her clothes, she got into the shower and turned on the hot water. Twenty minutes later, Sara slipped on a tank-top and underwear, walking to her bed to pull back the covers. In the darkness of her bedroom, she felt an envelope. Tracing her fingers over one side she felt the embossed butterfly. Reaching for the bedside lamp, she turned it on, opening the envelope and began to read.
Dear Sara,
I am so sorry that I yelled at you. I don't know what to do. I loved my
father, but he hadn't been in my life for forty years. You are my life, now.
I can't lose you. Please forgive me.
I love you. I always need you.
Gil
Tears were streaming down Sara's face in earnest, now. With a shaking hand, she reached for the phone. Dialing Grissom's cell phone, again it went to voicemail. Sara hung up before leaving a message and dialed again.
"Hi, this is Jim Brass, L.V.P.D. Leave your name, number, and time you called. I will call you back." Brass's voice intoned.
"Jim, it's Sara. Where's Grissom? I'm at home. Call me on my landline," Sara said, hanging up.
She picked up the letter again, before slipping her long legs under the sheets. Turning off the light, she rolled onto her side and fell asleep.
10:30am
"Are you with Dr. Grissom?" A doctor, whose nametag read, Paul Evans M.D., asked.
"Yes, doctor. How is he?" Jim asked, standing quickly with Roger and Andy at his side.
"He'll be fine. He's got a pretty good ulcer; he's dehydrated and run down. I've got him on a couple of IVs to stabilize him. I want him to spend the night here to monitor his reaction to the ulcer medicine." Dr. Evans said.
"Can we see him?" Roger asked.
"Yes, but I want him quiet. Understand? His ulcer is caused by bacteria, but if you upset him, it will aggravate it. You are not to excite him. He just needs peace and quiet." Dr. Evans said sternly.
"Roger, why don't you go see him. I need to speak to the doctor about our Washington friends." Jim suggested.
Roger nodded and headed off towards Grissom's room.
"Dr. Evans, I'm Andy Hays, department psychologist." Andy said, handing him his card.
"Paul Evans, good to meet you. What does Dr. Grissom do that involves the police?"
"He's a forensics analyst, and a world-renowned entomologist." Jim explained.
"Ah,"
"He's under a great deal of stress at the lab. They're shorthanded, and unfortunately, Las Vegas keeps the lab very busy. What really got to him was the fact that his father was found murdered two days ago." Andy elaborated.
"Lord, well, that would account for some of his condition. But that ulcer is well-developed. He's been in pain for some time now."
"To top it off, the F.B.I. is investigating his father. That's where we were when he collapsed; with the F.B.I. at police headquarters.
"Wait, it was Dr. Grissom that hit the agent in the E.R.? I didn't put it together. I noticed the bruising on Dr. Grissom's left hand. He did quite a number on that guy's nose. Came close to killing him, actually. Chipped a piece of bone, but they were able to reduce the subdural hematoma. He's up in ICU." Dr. Evans remarked.
"Oh, boy," Jim said, shaking his head.
"You're gonna have some fancy explaining to do," Andy said.
"Yeah, thanks, Doc," Jim said, reaching to shake his hand.
"You're welcome," Dr. Evans replied.
"Doctor,"
"Doctor,"
Dr. Evans walked down the hall towards the elevators.
"Let's get coffee from the nurse's station and then go see him," Jim suggested.
"Good idea,"
Roger walked in and saw Grissom hooked up to two different bags of clear liquid. His ID bracelet had several rings of different colours and a red box warning about his migraines. Pulling up a chair, Roger sat down, leaning in to touch Grissom's shoulder. Grissom opened his eyes and looked around.
"Morning, don't move around too much. You're hooked up a couple of different ways." Roger advised.
"What happened? The last thing I remember, you were shouting," Grissom asked.
"I got into an argument with that jerk, Sheehan. You stood up and announced that you had to go. Agent Taylor tried to stop you. You decked him."
Suddenly Grissom winced.
"Moss?" Roger asked, worried.
"Do you see a morphine drip pump? My stomach really hurts."
Roger looked down to Grissom's right hand and put the plastic device in it. Grissom pumped it once and then again; seeking some relief.
"You have an ulcer and you're exhausted. They're keeping you until tomorrow." Roger said softly.
The door opened and Brass walked in with Andy on his heels.
"Hey, Gil, feeling better?"
"A little, thanks. I'm just tired and my stomach hurts." Grissom said, fighting to keep his eyes open.
"Just rest, buddy. Dr. Evans has prescribed peace and quiet; limited visitors. We'll come to get you tomorrow. "Jim said, watching as Grissom fell asleep.
"He just pumped himself full of morphine, so he's really out," Roger said, standing slowly.
"I need to get back to the office." Andy said.
"Me, too. Roger, where are you off to?" Brass asked.
"Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to see your file on Grissom Senior's murder. Maybe something will click." Roger replied, looking once more at Grissom.
"Fine, let's go," Jim said, leaving the room.
When the three men walked out into the heat of the day, they turned their electronics back on. Jim's was the first to cycle through; four missed calls. Andy groaned as he read his screen and pressed buttons to listen to his voice mail. Roger got into the back seat as Jim and Andy sat in the front with their phones, the air conditioning blasting, before leaving the parking lot.
"Shit," Jim swore, as he speed dialed a number.
"Hullo?" a sleepy voice answered.
"Sara, it's Jim,"
"Where is he?"
"He collapsed at the meeting. He's at Desert Palm for observation and a little free R & R. He's exhausted and he has an ulcer." Jim said, quickly.
"Oh my God. Okay, okay, I'm on my way," Sara said, fully awake.
"Take your time, Kiddo. He was sleeping pretty soundly when we left. He has a strict visitor list; you, me, Roger and Andy. It's important, Sara, not to excite him." Jim advised.
"I'm on my way," Sara repeated.
"See you later,"
"Take care, Jim,"
"Bye,"
"Bye,"
"How is she?" Roger asked.
"He writes a good letter. She's definitely not mad at him any more," Jim said, driving to the station.
