Title: Race Among the Ruins
Author: Cropper
Pairing: GSR
Rating: Mature for Profanity
Disclaimers: Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.
A/N: Another huge shout out to my wonderful betas, csipal and ligaras, and the unnamed one.
Summary: Too little sleep and too much sleet
Chapter One
Two Days Prior...Friday
The call had come in around midnight just as the Graveyard Shift was assembling for the evening. A gangland meeting had gone terribly awry and all hands were needed. As the convoy of CSI SUVs raced through the neon night with bubbletop lights pulsing in tempo with the city's garish beat, Grissom's pager literally leapt from his belt with AK rapidity as more and more alarming information became available.
BLOOD BATH
SCENE NOT SECURE
12 DOA
17 WOUNDED
SHOTS FIRED
OFFICER DOWN
SUSPECT FLEEING ON FOOT
OFFICERS IN PURSUIT
SUSPECT APPREHENDED
SCENE SECURE
"Blood Bath" did not come close to adequately describing the horror that greeted the criminalists as they surveyed the tattered interior of the rotting mansion. The scene was chaotic. It was contaminated, it was compromised carnage. It was the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre times ten.
Grissom stood in the doorway absorbing the gruesome tableau. He and his team had been called to some grisly scenes before but what shimmered before him defied description. The ancient ballroom was oozing with blood sprayed malevolently across the faded and peeling wallpaper with a darkly malicious airbrush. Bodies lay strewn about, like haphazard rag dolls some child had unthinkingly neglected to stow safely away, among well-loved stuffed animals and cherished dreams of Never Neverland. Most of the copper-spattered faces were young, registering still surprise that they lived no more. Boot and shoe prints littered the scarred parquet floor in a danse macabre traversing congealing puddles of wasted life. The seemingly aimless waltz of the dead resembled crayon markings, scribbled hopefully on a youthful treasure map. There were no riches to be found here...no gold, no silver, no doubloons, not even a glass slipper. All that remained beneath the shattered chandelier was the sickening and overpowering stench or mortality and futility.
Grissom closed his eyes. Sometimes he really hated this job. "Fuck. Just...Fuck," he muttered almost inaudibly.
Sara's eyebrows shot up. A smirk slid wonderingly across her lips as she acknowledged the validity of Grissom's crudely blunt statement. She accepted that her response was inappropriate and possibly disrespectful in view of where they were standing and what they were about to do. He so very rarely cursed, especially in front of women, that Sara simply could not contain her wry mirth. At times she found his' old fashioned and almost absent minded notions of propriety and courtesy out of step with the rest of society, but his well-intentioned manners were also endearing and uniquely Grissom. Granted, his profane utterance succinctly summed up the terrible sight before them; to hear him state the obvious in such derogatory terms was rather amusing. She nudged him gently with her elbow as they carefully made their way further into the death house.
"What?" Grissom's eyebrows raised inquisitively as he drank in Sara's look of morbid delight.
She held the half grin, knowing he would understand that she was impishly chiding him for his coarse language and not making light of the wanton destruction a few feet away.
"Sometimes...well, I thought...it seemed...fitting," he mumbled while offering a somewhat helpless shrug. "Sometimes, Sara, 'fuck' is the only word I have." Grissom sighed. "Ready?"
Sara looked around, squared her shoulders and gave a firm resolute nod. They both accepted it for the lie that it was. No one, not even the most hardened and seasoned of souls, was ever ready for an urban blitzkrieg of such monstrous proportions.
The ballroom, despite the intrusive activities of the CSIs, was eerily quiet, as if those assembled feared to break the awesome stillness. Paramedics had already removed the dead and dying, their cries of despair little more now than muffled echoes of agony spiriting among the mangled corpses of fallen comrades. Doc, David and a host of volunteers from Desert Palms, interns and others on call for disaster situations, loitered beyond the fluttering crime tape while waiting for Grissom and Sara to finish the preliminary photo documentation. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. So many frames to be shot, so many bodies to be catalogued, so many losses to be measured. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. The whirring of the motor drives were the only notes shattering the surreal symphony of silence.
Doc directed the grim task of wrapping and preparing the young men for their final ride, a one way journey to a cold steel gurney and frigid solitary drawer. As the black-bagged corpses were wheeled out and the solemn procession began its winding journey through Lady Luck's heartless domain, Warrick and Greg stoically went about the business of collecting footwear from anyone and everyone who had walked into or even around the manse. They had to deal with the emergency personnel, police officers, several pushy photographers and reporters who had tried to force their way past the Thin Blue Line. Their last task before returning the evidence to the lab would be to travel to the hospital to collect the clothing and other possibly probative effects of the seventeen injured bangers and lone wounded officer. Nick and Catherine handled cartridge/casing collection and used a laptop and other sophisticated scientific gadgets to painstakingly reconstruct the virtual crime scene. Grissom and Sara continued shooting and swabbing. Photos and blood were their responsibility.
The work was tedious, monotonous and utterly time consuming. The cloying stench of ripening blood permeated their pores, hovered at the brink of their collective consciousness, invaded their thoughts and clung to their clothing. Acrid residue of spent gunpowder tickled their tastebuds, tainted their water and spiked their coffee. There would be no refreshment, no replenishment, no respite. The wicked, all-encompassing double edged assault on their senses could neither be ignored nor forgotten.
All of Graveyard Shift had worked well into a double when Grissom shocked his criminalists by imposing a rotating schedule of eight hours on, eight hours off. Not only did Grissom's revolving door provide for round the clock coverage with regard to the ongoing investigation but also reflected the kinder, gentler approach he had adopted with his reunited team. Catherine and Greg were the first to be sent home at noon Saturday and the expressions on their faces as they were shooed away from the scene were almost laughable. Yes, his people were shocked and he was behaving a bit out of character. Grissom was not about to explain his actions or let the team know how deeply he cared about them as individuals and not just as CSIs. If asked, he could calmly and logically argue that he was just ensuring that fresh eyes would always be available to assess the evidence and that he was doing what was best for the good of the lab, to bring about a speedy resolution to a high profile case and public relations nightmare.
Only Sara resisted. The rest of the crew had taken their time off eagerly, not wanting to ask too many questions should Grissom change his mind. Sara stuck her chin out with stubborn obstinacy and refused to leave.
"Sara, go home. Take a break. You've earned it." Grissom kept his tone soft, the intimate voice he seemed to unconsciously adopt whenever the two were engaged in a private conversation. "I will think no less of your talents or work ethic if you take a little nap."
Sara shook her head, a firm voiceless NO. "I'm fine, Grissom."
"No, Sara. Go home and get some rest. I'd rather have your return sharp than stumble around half asleep."
"What about you, Gris?" she impudently asked while fixing her boss with a baleful stare. "You're just as tired as the rest of us and I didn't see your name anywhere on that list you have stuffed in your pocket."
Grissom unflinchingly met her relentless gaze and refused to respond.
Sara tapped her foot impatiently. "Well...?"
"When we wrap the scene, I'll go. Until then..." Grissom's voice trailed off, knowing Sara would understand what remained unspoken. "Sara, go. Please?"
"I'll go, but with one condition."
He quirked an eyebrow, highly amused that she was haggling over sleep.
"If I have to take a break, so do you."
"Sara," he began, lightly rebuking. "Nagging does not become you."
Sara looked at him blankly for a moment, slightly stunned by his seemingly off-hand remark. She shook her head before resuming her entreaty. "Grissom, I'm serious about this! Look, I know you won't leave but I'll go off to my apartment and twiddle my thumbs for the next eight hours if you'll go sit in the truck and close your eyes for a measly thirty minutes. I'm not leaving until you do. And...I'm not a nag!" The last statement was uttered in a pique of outrage with hands fisted on hips and almost imperceptible glint of irrepressible humor shining around the edges of her otherwise withering glare. Grissom immediately recognized her body language and knew that Sara was not going to budge. This was one battle he had absolutely no chance of winning. When Sara burrowed down into a foxhole for the long haul his preserved fetal pigs had a better chance of performing impossible aeronautical maneuvers than Grissom did of changing Sara's mind.
"Yes, dear," he huffed grudgingly, a minute trace of laughter twinkling in his eyes at Sara's perplexed reaction. Sara was a nag, an utterly adorable nag. Strangely enough, the old married couple comfort derived from such small yet memorable moments did not frighten or confuse Grissom any longer. He openly embraced Sara's attempts to coddle and care for him, reveling in the primal glory of someone taking the time to focus on his needs as a man, not as a scientist or a supervisor. Many barren years, arid as the surrounding desert had passed since anyone had cared for him as an individual, or perhaps, more truthfully, he had allowed anyone to care. He dutifully ambled off to stretch out in the back seat of the Denali for his mandatory thirty-minute time out, noticing with warmth and affection that Sara had leaned back against the hood of his truck. She was standing guard, his self-appointed sentry. Grissom was not certain whether she was making sure he actually rested or taking measures to see that he was not disturbed. Her motivation was largely unimportant. What mattered was that Sara still cared.
Sara's mind wandered as she folded her lean arms across her chest and reclined against the SUV, a watchful bulldog ready to repel any and all vultures foolish enough to try to disturb Grissom. He was going to rest even if a brief power nap was all he would permit himself to enjoy. Although she would never admit it, Sara was bone tired and knew that Grissom had to be exhausted as well. She could tell by his posture and stretching that his knees were achy and the muscles in his strong thighs were beginning to tremble slightly with exertion from the excessive strain of constant stooping, kneeling and crawling. Her own legs were as heavy and clumsy as lead pillars and Gris' legs had fifteen years and hundreds more punishing miles on the odometer. He deserved to rest as much as his team but Sara understood that he would not even begin to think of his own needs until the scene was released.
The hours passed, the sun settled down, the other criminalists came and went and Grissom remained. And remained. And remained. Twenty-four hours after the initial processing commenced he was finally convinced that every droplet, fiber, casing, etc. had been retrieved and relinquished his hold on the slaughterhouse. Lord, he was tired, but still had several more hours of work to accomplish before he could even begin to contemplate taking a break. Evidence still had to be logged in and turned over to the proper technicians for more detailed analysis. He had to bring his team together for a conference in order to find out the status of the on-going investigation and see what new information, if any, his people had managed to uncover. Grissom realized that he could, and probably should delegate some of the tasks on his mental To Do list but it was his job to tend to the details. Evidence on his watch was not going to get tossed because rules and procedures were not followed. He was the boss...it was his job, it was his life.