Chapter 3

My hands don't tremble,

when I stumble upon small mementos

or a stack of letters wrapped in twine

—not even a ribbon.

Grissom only got to see Sara once in the following two days. She was slipping into her jacket in front of her locker. He stayed in the background, out of her line of sight, and just watched her. Her hair was limp and probably hadn't been washed recently, seeing as Sara had been logging insane hours working Catherine's case. Though he pitied her, Grissom was glad he wasn't working the case with her. He had managed to get most of his paperwork done as he waited on the dayshift coroner's report. Landry, the musclehead neighbor, had been released on $100,000 bond and was likely headed for trial once the coroner's findings were out.

As he surveyed an expense report, Grissom's mind began to wander. He had been invited to lecture in Montreal later in the year -- something Ecklie would approve of as it would heighten the profile of the lab -- but never really considered going; work was always hectic and he didn't like to leave the lab for anything longer than a good night's rest.

But he could take Sara with him.

Sure, she was overqualified to help prepare his slides for the projector and do roll call, but she'd be with him.

Grissom decided he'd work up the nerve and ask her to go by their next breakfast. He was pretty sure she still was interested in him, something he never fully understood but was learning to accept. For whatever reason, she liked him. He was older, set in his ways, married to his job, but she was willing to overlook all of that, it seemed.

Just as he was about to break out in a big grin at his good luck, Greg breezed into his office with the coroner's report. "So here it is and I was wondering if maybe you'd let me work Catherine's case?" the rookie blurted out. "Biggest case of the year. I want a piece."

Grissom rolled his eyes. "Once we wrap this one up -- and if it's okay with Catherine -- you can go."

Greg smiled and handed the older man the report. "Thanks, Grissom."

He wasn't used to the dayshift coroner's neat, slanted cursive. Doctor Robbins had the handwriting of a serial killer and though many found it undecipherable, after over a decade Grissom had grown used to it. It took a moment to adjust to the penmanship before he could read on. "It says here COD was the rupture of bridging veins and a sub-dural hematoma due to the blow to the head," he muttered out loud. "There was significant evidence of Reiter's Syndrome including edema and lesions present on the body."

"So it was the punch that killed him?" Greg asked.

"It seems so.."

"What does this Reiter's Syndrome have to do with it?"

Grissom shrugged. "I want another look at the body. It's possible that the victim's constitution was weakened. Lesions are often present on people with cancers specific to AIDS and the victim spent a lot of his time in Africa…"

"Are you saying that Robert Howell had AIDS?"

"He probably didn't."

"Do coroner's even run those tests standard with every autopsy?"

"I'm just postulating, Greg. The victim spent months in Africa and lived the rest of the time here in Las Vegas and he's pale as a ghost. When I get a coroner's report with a possible underlying disease in addition to the COD, I like to double-check everything," Grissom explained. "Let's go to the morgue. I want to take another look."

But as the philosopher Jagger once said, You can't always get what you want.

Both men were shocked to learn Robert Howell's body had been released to the mortuary.

Grissom was incensed. He sent Greg to fetch the corpse while he confiscated any and all pictures dayshift coroner Sal Jenner had managed to snap before hurdling the body out of the morgue like a hot potato. "From now on, any nightshift cases you work on do not get released without the say so of the lead criminalist in the investigation," he said ominously.

"That's not Ecklie's policy."

"It's my policy."

Grissom waited for Greg in his office. He reviewed the pictures carefully, jotting any notes he had down on legal paper and looking up his medical queries online to see if they matched the victim's symptomatologies. A shadow lurked at his doorway and Grissom looked up, ready to smile, when he saw a sullen Greg trudge balefully into his office.

"They cremated him."

His jaw clenched. Grissom reached for the phone.

He had crotch in his face. Naked crotch framed by tattooed roses and a shooting star. Very artful, he thought to himself.

And just as that crotch was about to lower into his lap and grind, Dr. Robbins' pager had his own crotch buzzing. He checked it and sighed. He could ignore Ecklie. He could ignore Dr. Cavallo. He could ignore David and Catherine and Warrick and the sheriff, but, God help him, he couldn't ignore Grissom. The man was a friend and, more importantly, he was who Dr. Robbins thought he'd be if he had let the loss of his legs keep him from living his life.

Dr. Robbins skimmed the stripper's thigh and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He dialed Grissom's number and held the phone to his ear.

"Grissom."

"Gil, it's Albert. You paged me?"

"Your replacement is an idiot. I need your help. I have a possible homicide here -- the report said COD was a blow to the head but I think there's more to it. Dead guy was a human rights activist and a wife beater," the CSI explained. "It just doesn't gel."

"You think something neurological was going on?" Robbins asked as he slipped another twenty to Peaches.

"I don't know, Al," Grissom sighed.

"Well, keep the body cold and I'll get there when I get there." Peaches was very, very flexible, after all..

"The body's been cremated. I need you here now."

Doctor Robbins coughed. "You want me to diagnose a pile of ashes? The guy's been cremated. You might as well ask me to bring him back to life. I'm no miracle worker, Gil." He listened to his co-worker sigh on the other end of the line and was prepared to hammer home the point and then continue to enjoy Peaches and her pole partner Cream when the coroner felt a hard tap on his right shoulder.

He turned his head and saw the business end of a wooden cane resting on his clavicle. Attached to the cane was the video game-playing lecturer.

"How fortunate it is for you that I am a miracle worker."

As the two doctors hobbled out into the parking lot, Robbins gave House the lowdown on the case. "The nightshift supervisor briefed me on the situation: human rights activist suspected of domestically assaulting his wife died a couple of days ago after an altercation with a neighbor. The neighbor said the victim was charging at him."

"Well, he would say that, wouldn't he?" House said, rolling his eyes. His phone began to trill loudly. "Hold on, it's the wife." He hit 'Talk' and held the phone to his ear. "What is it?"

James Wilson's voice was its usual mix of exasperation and concern. "Where are you?"

"I'm off to the cripples convention. What are you, my mother?"

"Yes, Greg," Wilson said over the line, "I'm your mother. I had planned on telling you when you turned forty, but I chickened out. It's not that I didn't love you -- I just wasn't mature enough to raise a child. Can you imagine what it would've been like on your first day of kindergarten? A sperm and egg, yet to be fertilized, walking you to class? I made the right choice, Greg. One day you'll understand."

"You're hilarious," House said dryly. "Well, I just enjoyed some lovely Peaches and Cream and now I'm going to sift through charred human remains in order to figure out how a guy died. I'll see you when I see you."

"Ah, not tonight, though. I'm going to go meet up with…uh…"

"Do me a favor and don't get married again, will you? You have less matrimonial self-control than Jennifer Lopez."

"Very funny," Wilson said before bidding his friend adieu.

House hung up and noticed Dr. Robbins eyeing him. "That was your wife?"

They piled into the coroner's car and House sighed. "How long have you been practicing medicine?"

"Too long."

"And you haven't learned the cardinal rule?"

"First do no harm?"

"People lie," House said emphatically.

Dr. Robbins shrugged and started his car. "I guess I'm lucky, then."

"How's that?"

"Dead people don't do much talking."

Catherine rubbed her eyes and checked the clock. Nick and Warrick were due back any minute. "Once they get here, we can switch off," she told Sara. "I need some sleep. I've been up for so long and haven't showered since…well, let's just say if I were wearing Day Of The Week underpants, I'd be a little belated."

"Thank you, Catherine. I needed to know that."

"I do what I can."

As refreshed as could be on five hours of uninterrupted sleep, Nick and Warrick ambled into the layout room to relieve their co-workers of duty.

Catherine sighed at the sight of them. "Oh, I'm going to go home and take a bath with an egg timer."

Nick looked confused. "And egg timer?"

"Yeah, just in case I fall asleep in the tub."

The men laughed and turned to Sara. "What about you?" Warrick asked. "You going to go all girly and take a bath or are you going to go the man route and take a shower? No candles, no incense."

"I can't do either. I'm meeting a friend soon. Really soon," she said, checking her watch. "I'll be lucky if I can change first. Later guys."

The three CSIs watched her leave and then exchanged looks. Warrick narrowed his eyes. "Since when does Sara have friends?"

Grissom had everything ready for the doctor extraordinaire Albert told him about. While Grissom's research had him leaning towards an immunocompromised diagnosis, Dr. Robbins seemed to think differently after hearing the dayshift coroner's unconfirmed Reiter's diagnosis. He didn't go into it, but seemed certain the visiting doctor would be able to handle it.

As he waited for the doctors, Grissom immersed himself in research about the suspected disease. Reiter's Syndrome is a disorder that causes three seemingly unrelated symptoms: arthritis, redness of the eyes, and urinary tract signs. It is sometimes referred to as a seronegative spondyloarthropathy because it is one of a group of disorders that cause inflammation throughout the body, particularly in parts of the spine and at other joints where tendons attach to bones. Reiter's syndrome is not contagious; that is, a person with the disorder cannot pass it to somebody else. However, the bacteria that can trigger it can be passed from one person to another, although not all people infected with the bacteria will develop Reiter's syndrome. Rather, it is likely that people who develop the disease have inherited a trait that makes them susceptible. Men between the ages of 20 and 40 are most likely to develop Reiter's syndrome. It is the most common type of arthritis affecting young men.

After reading that last line, Grissom was, for once, thankful he was nearing fifty. He stroked his beard and read on. Diagnosing Reiter's Syndrome is often difficult because there is no specific test to confirm that a person has it. When a patient reports symptoms, the doctor must examine him or her carefully and rule out other causes of arthritis.

There was no body to examine. Grissom hoped the pictures would be sufficient. He didn't know exactly what he was trying to prove, but the whole case just didn't jive for him. Something didn't feel right. Brass had interviewed some of the neighbors who testified to the affability of Robert Howell…until recently. Everyone from the mailman to the gardener described a type of Jekyll and Hyde personality springing up as of late, inhabiting the once gentle human rights activist. Howell's boss at the non-profit agency spoke of the merits of his employee, but when Brass inquired about the deceased man's work habits, the boss had to admit that Howell had increasingly called in sick and missed days of work. He claimed Howell's personality change and recent irritability odd because his last trip to Africa led to the biggest grant in the agency's history.

"We were set for a long time," the boss had said. "And it was all Rob's doing. Everyone was so proud of him. He helped so many people."

And yet this man who had helped so many came back from his trip and proceeded to argue with a neighbor and allegedly abuse his spouse.

It just didn't fit.

The two doctors ran into Greg as they stepped off of the elevator. The frazzled former lab tech wiped a sweaty palm on his jeans and held out his hand to House, who sneered at it and turned to Robbins.

"I'd like you to meet Dr. Gregory House from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. He's a world famous diagnostician," Robbins explained.

Greg beamed. "My name's Greg, too."

"Oh, no. That won't do. From here on out, you're Stephen." He looked down the hall and lifted his cane up, pointing forward. "Now, where is the body -- or what's left of it."

"Oh, uh….right down this way," Greg stammered. "I-I'll take you there."

They walked to the large room where Grissom waited. "Here we are," Greg said, having regained a little bit of his confidence on the walk down the hall. "We've got the ashes and pictures taken by the dayshift coroner before he…you know…discharged the body."

House reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills. "Get me a Coke and -- you have vending machines here, right?"

"Um…yeah."

"Get me those little crackers with peanut butter. If they don't have those, get pretzels. If they don't have pretzels, get me chips -- preferably barbeque."

"O…kay." Greg took the money and left.

"Thank you, Stephen."

Robbins introduced House to Grissom. Grissom smiled politely while House eyed the entomologist as they shook hands. His grip on Grissom's smooth hand was firm and he did not return the CSI's smile.

"Can I see the report?"

Grissom handed the file over to House. "Body temp was above normal at the time of death."

"Ninety-eight point six is just an average," House muttered. "Or this guy could've just had a cold."

"Or it could've really been a fever. He called in sick several times, didn't he, Gil?" Robbins asked.

Grissom nodded. "According to his boss."

House examined the photos closely. "And this dayshift guy said Reiter's?"

"Yes," Grissom answered. "But there's no way to actually test for the disease, as you know. It was just an assumption based on the edema and lesions and the victim's sex and age."

"You've done your homework," House said under his breath, still examining the pictures.

Dr. Robbins pressed his lips together and watched House work, peering over his shoulder to glace at the pictures occasionally, but mostly keeping his attention on the famous doctor. "You know what it could be, don't you?"

"Oh, please," House said, rolling his eyes. "It's not ASS."

Grissom blinked. "Ass?"

"African Sleeping Sickness," Robbins clarified. "Dr. House just presented on a case of it at the lecture. Fascinating. And it presents with edema, lesions, and fever. Also with rash and sometimes sudden irritability."

"Sudden irritability?" Grissom asked, eyes wide.

"Has the victim even been to Africa? Was he out there, pitching a tent next to Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt? Or was Alex Haley's Roots the closest Mr. Howell ever got to Africa?"

Grissom, unsure how to deal with such a vibrant personality, pursed his lips. "The victim lobbied for human rights in Africa. He spent a large part of each year traveling the continent."

House's eyes twinkled with mischief. "That's a horse of a different color."

"What is?" Greg asked as he entered the room, snacks in hand.

House regarded the chips. "These aren't barbeque."

He waited for her towards the back of the restaurant. She had paged him, saying she'd be late, and he checked his watch once again. The restaurant was getting crowded, filled with couples in various stages of courtship. He was an expert at guessing how long a pair of people had been together just by their interactions at a far away table. The couple by the piano were smiling too much. Total blind daters. The people directly in front of him had been together no more than three years -- most likely celebrating an anniversary by the looks of their discomfort in their dress clothes. The three year mark usually meant going to a restaurant that didn't also do takeout was a big deal. The man kept fussing with his tie and the women checked her jewelry every other minute. They were people used to staying home at night in front of the TV, relaxing with a bucket of chicken in one hand and the remote in the other.

He envied him. Relationships for him were never that easy.

And it was just his luck that he never fell in love with Sara. Maybe then James Wilson wouldn't have married three women more interested in being the doctor's wife than the doctor himself. At that very moment, he saw her step into the dining room and address the maitre d' who then ushered her to his table.

Wilson stood up to kiss her hello, remarking on her ever-increasing beauty only to have her scoff modestly at the compliment.

"It's true. You just get prettier."

They smiled and talked about work and his parents and her most recent trip to the dentist, skirting around the white elephant until dessert when Wilson decided to go for broke. "Aren't you going to ask? Or do I have to be the one to bring the issue up?"

Sara stared at her plate. "How…how is he?"

"Not too good since you left."

She looked away into the distance, the buzz in her ears drowning out the tinkling of the grand piano. "I found him in bed with another woman. What choice did I have?"

Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Are you seeing anybody now?"

Sara pushed her plate forward sadly. "No."

TBC…

A/N: The medical info was cribbed from the CDC.