Title: The Unburdening
Author: subobscura
See first chapter for full headers.
A/N: Some short notes. The chapter title is from a song by the name "Three" from Massive Attack, which is a groovy electronica-type group (but good). I'll be honest and say that I've put off writing this chapter as long as the story would allow. It's very dark, and I had deep, deep reservations about the subject matter right up until I started typing. Please be aware that my intention is not to offend. This is extremely personal to me, because something similar happened to my best friend from high school. I've tried to be as factual as possible concerning the physical and emotional fallout, as well as the forensics involved. Just so you know this isn't some random plot device to inflict angst…I am indebted to all of you, and I do hope you continue to read. A WARNING: The rest of this story will explore the ramifications of violence, rape, terror, and murder in graphic detail. Please don't read this if it will hurt you or if you offend easily. I can promise right now that there will be no canon character death. Reviews are always welcome.
Chapter 8: I'm Missing All the Things I knew
"Sometimes, I just don't know what to say," Sara started as she surveyed the hotel room. There were few surfaces that were not in some way spattered with blood. Mark Engels lay in situ on the bed, dead in a thick, congealing pool of his own blood. His eyes were squeezed shut, even in death, and his hands were claws in the bedspread. He had fought death to the end.
"How about excessive?" responded Catherine from the corner where she was examining blood drops with a micrometer.
"Or angry," said Grissom from his position in the doorway where he had come up behind Sara. She chuffed low in her throat, but made no argument. Whatever else one could say about Sara, you could never accuse her of being unprofessional. She moved further into the room.
"What the hell happened here?"
"That's why they put the 'I' in CSI," called Nick from the bathroom.
She rolled her eyes, and turned towards Catherine, who was the primary on the scene. "So what can I do?"
Catherine sighed. "Start numbering and photographing the blood evidence. This is going to take forever."
Sara put on some booties from her kit and hefted her gear to the growing pile in one of the few seemingly undamaged corners of the room.
"What's been done already?"
"Take your pick, we just finished our preliminary run-though."
Sara chose to start by the door, where the volume of blood was the greatest.
"We've got medium velocity arterial gushing here by the door, followed by arterial spurts. The blood is dried and clotted already. Do we have an estimated TOD?"
"Vic ordered room service at 8:30AM and was discovered by housekeeping at noon. The smell was getting complaints from neighbors."
"No doubt," said Warrick who was lifting prints by the window. The victim had evacuated his bowels and bladder upon dying and the smell of shit and the taste of iron were heavy and thick and nauseating.
Catherine continued, "So we have a three and a half hour window there. We'll know more when David decides to grace us with his presence. "
Grissom meanwhile was in the middle of the room staring intently, trying to get a handle on the scene. "Catherine, have you sent anybody to review the video surveillance yet?"
"Not yet. May be useful though. We're not in murder central, so the tapes should provide something probative."
"I think I'll go do that," Gil said. Catherine raised her eyebrows. It was not like the nightshift supervisor to leave the primary scene, even when he wasn't running it.
"What bug crawled up his ass?" she asked the room.
"Oh, the usual," Sara said in an offhand manner, which was explanatory of nothing. "So from the arterial spray, I'd say the victim," she paused, not comfortable calling a child rapist and murderer a victim. "The victim," she continued, "was surprised at the door, stabbed or shot in the throat, and staggered to the bed where he bled out." She stared 'round again. "Stabbed definitely. You can see the cast off from the fatal wound. Plus there are other cast offs there, there, there, and," she looked up to the ceiling. "There."
"Whoever killed this guy had a lot of rage. A lot of rage," said Warrick, turning around to take in the gruesome scene.
"Not surprising considering the way he lived his life," said Nick with a hard glint in his eye. He walked out of the bathroom holding an evidence bag. "Found the murder weapon dropped in the trash can." He held up a large hunting knife. "Hopefully his hand slipped on the guard, and we can get some DNA of our killer off this puppy." Warrick whistled. The knife was huge, almost a foot and a half total with a foot long blade designed to slice flesh with ease.
"There's no way our killer walked out of here without blood all over him," Sara said.
"'Fraid so," said Nick. "Found blood in the drain. I think our guy washed up before he left. He also left his clothes, covered in the vic's blood. Apparently he hasn't heard of DNA."
"Or he doesn't care," said Warrick. "I got a couple of fat prints off the window sill, plus some blond hairs with skin tags stuck in some blood."
"Meaning they were lost after the blood was deposited," said Sara. "And Mark Engels isn't blond. Between that and the epithelials, our killer is all over this room."
"Unless housekeeping doesn't do their job," Warrick said with an ominous tone. "This is a hotel room after all. There's probably going to be all kinds of misleading evidence." Sara frowned. He had a point.
"Neighbors didn't hear a thing," said Brass, walking into the room unannounced. He smirked. "Said they were sleeping, of course." He made a glug, glug motion with his hand. "They fairly reeked of booze. I'm going to go talk to management and housekeeping, see if I can find out how someone goes on a murderous rampage without anyone noticing."
"Uh, guys," said Catherine. "We have a problem." She was staring at the dresser. They crowded around to look over her shoulder. There were words crudely etched into the wood. They said:
OH DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING? OH GRAVE, WHERE IS THY VICTORY?
The irony was choking them all. Mark Engels had battled death and lost.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
Greg was puttering around his old lab cleaning up. The place had gone to hell since he had relinquished control once and for all. It wasn't so much that Wendy was bad at her job, because he wouldn't have approved her hire if she was. It was just that she was new and hadn't quite figured out how to run things the way he thought they should be.
Everyone had marveled at his efficiency when he was king. It's not that he was fast, it was that he put in a lot more time than people realized. He skipped breaks, meals, came in early and stayed late. He also kept everything meticulously organized, had things that could be set up beforehand always ready and on hand, and made sure to have a month's worth of critical supplies stocked up. He felt a responsibility to the victims to perform his job to his highest standards, and ran his lab accordingly. Wendy's best wasn't good enough, in his opinion, but he wasn't about to complain. Yet.
That was why he was annoyed when he had to pour gels, because there were only two left when he looked in the 'fridge. This was a problem easily solved and generally delegated to a new tech. He wasn't conceited, but normally someone of his experience wouldn't have to worry about these things. And anyway, who the hell kept agar under the sink? Didn't they know that the sink leaked, and would cause a bloody mess if someone accidentally left the lid off, not to mention the wasted supplies? Irked, he tried to shrug his irritation off.
He got busy helping Wendy catch up on the two day lag she was working under, all the while introducing her to Manic Attack, Phish, and some of his other favorite down-slow bands. He was trying to mellow out without falling asleep. Soon he was back in the groove, tunelessly humming away to 'Safe from Harm.'
His cell phone rang, shattering his Zen.
"Sanders," he growled into the microphone, voice muffled by his mask. He glanced at the clock, realizing he had worked right through shift. It was now 10 in the morning.
"Stop sulking." Her silky voice came through the phone, and his shoulders relaxed instantly.
"Hey," he said, smiling slightly. He started readying primers to put in the DNA samples he had extracted from the blood evidence on the perp's clothing and the knife. The hands free ear-piece and microphone had been genius. "I'm not sulking. I was just surprised. You broke my concentration." He sighed dramatically. "I guess I can forgive you. You just getting off the scene?"
"Yeah, we processed for 16 straight hours. My back is killing me and I'm in dire need of a shower. I was going to head out to the John Doe scenes before I head home. I was calling to ask if you want to join me."
"No can do. I'm just about ready to put the first batch from the Engels murder through the PCR. Then I have to run the gels, blot them, and scan the results into CODIS. I'm thinking four more hours." He felt more tired at the thought. That was five hours into a quadruple.
"Alright." He could hear her pout. "I'll miss my partner though."
"Don't get mushy, Sidle. I happen to like my kick ass girlfriend."
"Not so loud, Greg."
"Please. I'm in here all by my lonesome. Days took an early lunch and Wendy went home hours ago. I have some tact, miniscule though it may be."
"Well, apparently I don't. Grissom and I had a huge fight on our way to the casino."
"About moi?"
"Yeah." She sounded dejected. "I kind of accidentally let it slip that we're together."
"Do I have anything to worry about?"
"Not on my end, Greggo. I have no idea about Grissom. I'm guessing he'll just act cold and distant."
"So no different than usual."
"Right."
"Alright, hon, duty calls." His voice was soft. "What time are you going to be home?"
"Probably around 4. I want to go to my apartment, water my plants, get some clothes, some stuff for Sadie. Maybe run some errands, grab a nap."
"Sara, you can bring your plants over. You and your cat have already made yourselves at home."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. The more the merrier." He was chuckling at her.
"Hang on," she said. On the other end, she lifted her phone away from her ear and did a little happy dance. "Okay, I'm back," she said, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one had seen. The young officer on scene coughed and tried to look bored.
"Oooh, you shake your groove thing," said Greg.
"What, how did you know?" asked Sara.
"You just told me," he smirked.
"Damn you," she said. "Get out of my head."
"Sara," he said, growing serious. "Make sure you take an officer with you. I don't like the idea of you going to that section of town at all, let alone by yourself."
"Don't go all caveman on me, Greg. I'll be fine."
"Sara, I'm serious."
"I know, I know. I'll be safe I promise. Officer Case and I will have a great time looking for two month old trace."
"Thanks. Alright, I'll see you later."
"Bye."
Greg clicked off his phone, and picked up his pipette, dialing the instrument to 10 microliters.
Just then, Judy walked in carrying a rather heavy looking Fed Ex box. "Hey, Greg," she said. "This just came for you overnight from California. I brought it right away in case anything needs to be refrigerated."
Greg stiffened. In all the excitement, he had almost forgotten about his mother's promised package. "Thanks, Judy. Just leave it over by the desk if you please," he said, turning around to give her one of his trademark grins. She blushed and mumbled something before scurrying out. He loved teasing her gently, even though he knew she had a bit of a crush on him. He tried not to lead her on though. Losing the grin as soon as she disappeared from sight, he turned to stare at the package as though it contained a bomb, and not a bunch of papers like his Mom had implied.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
"Greg?" Sara called as she pushed open the door with her hip. She was loaded down with a bag over her shoulder, a fern in one hand and an aloe vera in the other. "Are you home?" She lowered her voice when she realized he was probably asleep after pulling 22 hours at the lab. The T-Bird was out front, meaning he had at least been here recently. She couldn't imagine he had enough energy to practice muai thai or go running. Sadie ran out from behind the couch and started curling herself through Sara's legs. She shrugged and went to put the plants down on the coffee table.
She walked to the bedroom expecting to see Greg sprawled across half the bed, naked as the day he was born. Instead, the room was dark and silent, the only light coming from his computer monitor. The bedcovers were undisturbed. She was a little unnerved now. If Greg was home, the apartment was never this quiet. He was antsy and energetic, with thoughts that ran a million miles an hour. He needed music or television or video games to calm him down after a long shift. She deposited her bag on the bed, and went to the kitchen to feed Sadie who was whining pitifully.
She happened to glance outside then, and noticed Greg was sitting on the balcony facing over the courtyard. She sighed, relieved. She opened a can of Mighty Cat for Sadie and grabbed a Molsen from the 'fridge.
Opening the sliding glass, she was careful not to let the cat out. She left the door open but closed the screen to air out the apartment. She dropped a kiss on the nape of his neck, but he didn't respond. Okay, he was acting really weird now.
She sat next to him in one of the plastic chairs that matched the fiberglass patio table. She noticed he was smoking and watching the kids below screaming and duking it out to see who the cannonball champion was, taking turns jumping into the complex's pool.
He lifted a shaking hand towards his mouth and took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in fits and starts. He flicked ashes into a used soda can, cupping his hand so none would fly away in the desert wind and start a wildfire. He traced the condensation on the lip of his beer with his thumb. It was only a quarter empty. He looked hollow, used up.
Suddenly, he gestured with his trembling cigarette towards the kids. "I used to think I had that, you know?"
"Babe, what's wrong?" Sara asked, growing afraid. Greg was acting completely out of character. She moved to put her hand on his arm.
"Don't!" He yelled. He lowered his voice. "Just, just don't touch me right now."
"Okay," she said, keeping her voice steady and calm. "Just tell me what's going on." She was utterly confused. Not six hours ago they had a perfectly normal conversation. What on earth was going on in the kid's brain?
"It's just, I thought," he struggled for words. "I thought, everything was great. I had fun all the time, I had all these friends. Life was good, even if I didn't know much about how the world really worked. I was cool with that, with being the smart one. Turns out I wasn't so smart."
Suddenly he stood up, the legs of the chair scraping against the concrete. He stabbed out his cigarette with a vicious twist of his wrist.
"You know what? I can't, I can't be here right now. I need to go." He pulled open the screen door and grabbed his wallet off the bar.
"Greg wait!" she yelled, running after him. "Where are you going? Let me come with you. Please tell me what's wrong." She was pleading now, close to tears. She had never once seen Greg come close to being this upset.
"Please," he said, holding up a hand. "Not now. It's not you, Sara. Believe me, this is all my problem. I just have to be alone right now." He turned and opened the door, walking through without once meeting her eyes. It slammed in his wake, the click of the deadbolt highlighting his absence.
Sara, being a CSI, decided it was time to investigate her boyfriend's dramatic flight. She found the box sitting on the futon in the guest room.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
She had changed now and was sitting at the bar table, bracing her feet on the rungs of one of the pub stools. In front of her sat the file and a glass of merlot. Sadie was curled up on the other stool, unaware of the drama unfolding before her.
Late afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen windows, falling in slanting shadows on the balcony where only an hour ago, Greg had started falling apart.
Looking at the pile in front of her, Sara ran a finger across the label, typed on a typewriter and affixed with adhesive. SANDERS, GREGERS H. 011283-154SV. A police file then. A post-it was stuck on top;
Gregers,
Here's the information I promised you. Remember we love you.
Moren
Technically, Greg's parents weren't supposed to have this, but in old cases, detectives retired. People could be paid off for information. She opened it just barely touching the edges, like it was a piece of evidence.
The top page was an initial scene report in chicken scratch.
Victim found naked in alleyway by sales clerk. Clear evidence of sexual trauma. Transported immediately by ambulance to Our Lady of Mercy, critical condition, nonresponsive. Clothing and backpack found nearby identifies vic as male, Greg Sanders, 8 years old. CSI's on scene to collect evidence, transported to lab for analysis. Witnesses questioned. No one saw or heard anything.
She put her hand over her mouth. The next page was the report from the SART exam.
Severe hematomas indicate forced penetration while victim was held down. Level 3 complete peri-anal lacerations required immediate surgical intervention with stitches totalling sixty and a reversible colostomy. Blood loss was severe, two units typed and crossed given during surgery. Bruising and severe swelling of the scrotum and penis. Admixture of blood and semen collected for analysis, but level of damage indicates more than one attacker. Hair and trace collected for analysis. Victim tested for sexually transmitted diseases, and given broad spectrum antibiotic. Results pending. Toxicology pending.
Further down the page, an addendum dated three months later.
Colostomy reversed. No permanent damage.
She continued through the file, catching snatches of words through her growing horror.
Gamma Hydroxy Butyric acid, 12.5mg/kg, 4 distinct unknown hair samples, parents ruled out, stomach contents soda and hotdog, patient unresponsive, no fingerprints, at least 2 blood types, no witnesses have stepped forward, patient released into parental care, case closed until better technology can aid the investigation, patient responsive, no memory of the attack, drugs impeded memory, confused about medical intervention, sullen, apathetic.
Beneath the reams of documents were photos and newspaper articles. The photos weren't crime scene photos, weren't even all that graphic. One was of a small, spiky haired boy lying in a hospital bed on his side, a cruel black bruise covering the dark moles on his face. The next was taken eye level with Greg in the same position, his solemn brown eyes pleading for understanding. Next to him was a tape player. Another picture was of a silver surfer backpack lying in an alleyway with notebooks and a Scooby-doo wallet spilling out. Sara could see the beginnings of Greg's distinctive 'G' from his signature in the childish cursive that he had written at the top of one page.
The newspaper articles were clipped neatly along the edges. One, from the A1 page screamed BOY, 8, RAPED AND LEFT FOR DEAD. Another from A6 read PARENTS DEMAND JUSTICE, PERPETRATORS GO UNPUNISHED. Finally, one from A28 read BOY'S RAPE INVESTIGATION CLOSED PENDING NEW EVIDENCE. All the news fit to print.
The last page in the file was the bill of sale for Moira and Jan Sander's Queens apartment.
Sara laid her head in her arms and wept at the injustice of it all.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
The key turned in the lock. Sara sat up straight and wiped at her eyes, her nose. She couldn't let Greg see her like this. She had to be strong for him. He opened the door, and stood outlined in a halo from the streetlights outside. His eyes were black. He looked towards the table, then at her with her red puffy eyes. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove. Her glass of merlot sat untouched. The file was spread out on the table, the bar, the floor, incriminating her and laying Greg out bare and cold once again.
"So you know," he said with a loose gesture in her direction. She nodded. He came in and shut the door. His shoulders were slumped, his steps heavy. He shrugged once, and said. "I didn't know, Sara. I swear to God, I didn't know. I would have told you. You believe me, right?"
She nodded again, lacking words. She stood up and met him in the middle of the dark room, standing just out of reach. He reached for her, brought her to him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, bringing her hands up to rest on his back. He put his head on her shoulder. They held each other for a long moment, listening to the other breathe. She felt his solidity, his life like never before, recognizing now that he was a gift that she had almost lost without even knowing. He leaned into her.
His weight, leant against her, became too heavy for her to bear. Gently, she lowered them both to their knees, and they clung together in the maddening storm that raged around them, tried to fight the waves together in a drowning sea.
His shoulders began shaking, and he wept openly into her breast, his breath hot on her skin. His tears wet her robe and took on the appearance of dark spilled blood. She held and comforted him with shushing noises telling him to let it out let it out let it out. She felt his grief keenly as her own, for it was an emotion, an experience with which she was intimately familiar; the realization the world was no longer what you believed it to be, that some part of you was irreparably broken. She wept with him for their loss of innocence. Not one part of their lives went untouched by unspeakable evil.
"Oh God, Sara," he let out on a broken sob. "What am I going to do? Oh God. Oh God. I was, I was." He couldn't even say it. "I was just a kid, a little kid. Those guys. They attacked me. Oh god. They raped me. I was raped four times and left to die." She ran her hands through his hair while he wept inconsolably. "How could I not know?"
He curled in on himself, clinging to her, his gentle hands and arms like a vice. The waves crashed on their battered shores.
A/N: Well, this was a terrible chapter to research and write. I mean, dreadful. I had no idea the story was taking me here when we started so blame the muse. I tried to do the subject justice, really I did. There is nothing light, or amusing, or remotely arousing about rape. Linds and captnobvious, even though you don't know it, this story is for you. Next chapter, Greg and Sara have to figure out how to move forward. Plus, the world of crime in Sin City refuses to take a vacation.