Note: kinda late to post it...but I told you i'd get it up...and well I'm kind of on a happy high and felt like adding the finishing touches and getting this up. Now, this frees me to work completely on chapter fourteen tomorrow (monday) afternoon! thanks again for the reviews...
peace!

Chapter Two – Brass Ensemble

The early morning air was crisp. The dampness from the earlier rains weighed heavily in the atmosphere. The clouds that had only hours ago cleared the sky were again rolling in, heavy and low, bringing a renewed dark veil over the once starry sky.

It wasn't the coolness in the air, though, that gave Gil Grissom an all too familiar eerie feeling. It was a feeling he'd felt too many times before, a feeling that took him back to a place he didn't care to visit again. It was a feeling of dread, a coldness that reached deep within him and rooted itself, unwilling to ease, unwilling to let up. It was unrelenting. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the two story brick home, his black loafer clad feet cemented in place, his eyes narrowed to slits and transfixed on the brick form. The red and blue lights of law enforcement vehicles flashed intermittently giving the house an ominous glow, that same glow cast over him.

He shivered in his navy blue Forensics parka, the heavy cold air seeping to the core of him. He really wasn't sure what gave him that feeling, he just hoped the uneasiness he felt plaguing him wasn't showing through.

He'd been aware of Nick standing beside him, but had yet to really acknowledge his presence. The younger man looked tired and worn, yet somehow managed to exude an air of readiness. He was ready to tackle the job in front of them. He was continually amazed at the rock the younger man seemed to be. Nick had let his brown hair, once normally kept cropped short, grow long. It now brushed the top of his brow line, flirting with his cavernous eyes. The dark brown shirt he wore under his black nylonfield vest seemed to only accentuate the shadow cast over his figure.

That had been a new addition to the man's appearance as of late.

There seemed to be a perpetual shadow cast over his demeanor, his countenance. It hadn't always been there. There had been a time, months ago, when the shadow only whispered, only came around once in a while. But, now the usually contagious smile of the criminalist seemed harder to bring to the surface. The man's laughter was less frequent and harder to materialize. Rides to crime scenes had become quiet, full of tension and uneasiness.

The drive tonight had been no different. With Nick driving, the shift supervisor riding shotgun, they'd made the trip in complete silence. It was rarely any different when it was just the two of them, especially within recent months. But, tonight the silence had been exceedingly heavy. It was that same heaviness that seemed to weigh Nick's shoulders down now, that seemed to weigh his own shoulders down.

And now they stood in that silent tension, that all consuming silence waiting for the paramedics to clear the scene.

The ambulance was obtrusive in the long driveway; its red and white lights flashing silently, adding to the chorus of lights, reflected in the windows of neighboring houses. The back doors of the vehicle were left open, the vehicle abandoned in a hurry as the paramedics rushed to grab their necessary equipment in order to get to the victims. Nick hated the sight. Usually a sign of hope, of urgency, it was a cold vehicle, a scary vehicle. And from what he could gather, the hope of any survivors tonight was slim.

There seemed little need for urgency. The ambulance didn't bring much hope tonight.

He could see movement, now, in the house through the open front door. The paramedics were coming out, the stretcher between them. He'd expected it to be empty, but was surprised to find a little girl lying under a blanket, the head of the stretcher propped up at a forty five degree angle.

"What the hell?" he questioned under his breath as he watched the medical workers walk carefully to the awaiting vehicle, his brow puckered in concern and slight confusion. He looked at Grissom, the man's eyes reflecting the same question, the same concern. Nick offered a slight nod to his boss and walked up the driveway and around the rig to talk to the medics.

Grissom stood stationary; his hands in the pockets of his parka, as he watched his CSI get information. He couldn't make out the conversation, just the occasional nod of Nick's head and his constant gaze into the back of the vehicle. His face reflected a unique sensitivity, an air of concern and understanding. It was that look that sent another cold chill up and down Grissom's spine. He watched as Nick pulled out his cell phone and began the trek back down the long drive. He was wrapping up his phone call as he returned to his spot next to him.

"I called the rest of the team, they're on the way," he flipped his phone closed. "Paramedics said a 911 call came in, the little girl made the call. Emily Harris, she's the only survivor. Paramedics found her in her room, hiding in her closet. The mother and father, and two teenagers are inside," he said, his eyes back on the house.

"How bad is she?" Grissom asked, his voice sounding a little raspy.

"She's not injured," Nick shook his head as he watched the ambulance drive away. Turning to face the man beside him he was faced with a man he hadn't seen in ages. Concern layered with questions masked the graveyard supervisor's face. He looked shorter to him, hunched over, almost feeble as if there was something weighing him down. "The medics aren't sure what's wrong with her, but they say it looked like she was a home medical patient."

"Hospice?"

"Maybe," he shrugged with a nod. "She's pretty sick. Catherine is heading straight to the hospital to get the full story."

"Good," Grissom nodded, clenching his hands into fists as they remained hidden in the pockets of his parka.

"Okay," Detective Jim Brass said with an exaggerated sigh as he approached the two criminalists. The man's usually straight laced appearance was slightly disheveled and almost humorous to the entomologist. The man's tie hung slightly to the right. The top button of his white shirt was uncharacteristically unbuttoned and his brown tweed sport's coat hung rumpled around his frame. "From what I've gathered, we've got four dead inside. All four are in the parent's bedroom. The little girl has leukemia?" he raised an eyebrow to the CSIs.

"Is that a question?" Grissom asked. "I don't know," he shook his head.

"So far the only ones in and out have been the first officer on the scene. Said he hugged the walls all the way upstairs. He called the medics and when I got here…well I called you."

"You haven't been in?" Grissom asked his lips pursed, his brow raised in surprise.

"Heard how gruesome it was in there, and that there had already been three people trampling all over the place. I know how you guys work. Figured if there's any evidence lost, I'm not the one you're gonna come after," he offered a slight smile not knowing whether the news would irritate or impress the man.

"Damn," he heard Nick sigh as his gaze was momentarily directed down the street. "Here comes the cavalry," he shook his head, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. His silver field kit sat on the ground next to his feet.

"Damn it to Hell. I hate reporters," Brass cringed as the Channel 8 news van pulled up along the curb. It was the first in a parade of media to arrive on the scene.

"Well, we say nothing," Grissom shrugged, "That's the Undersheriff's purview."

"Speaking of the Devil himself," Brass raised a brow. As if on cue, Brass witnessed the sheriff's vehicle pull up. The three watched as Sheriff McKeen stepped out of the car and made his way toward them scene. It would be up to the detective to catch the sheriff up on the details, but it would have to wait. He watched then as the gray crime lab Denali weaved through the parked media vans and pulled up along the curb behind the first mobile crime unit. "Hey the gang's all here," he turned his attention to the second Denali as Warrick, Sara, and Greg climbed out.

Silently the three CSIs gathered their gear and joined the others on the sidewalk. They all stood facing the house now, taking in the scene. It was familiar. Something about it struck each of them as new yet so recognizable. It was a haunting feeling and the second worse feeling to have as a CSI.

The worst feeling?

Realizing the victim is known in a personal way. They'd all been through that once before, some of them more than once. It was a feeling that struck deep and struck hard. It grabbed a person at their core and clenched and squeezed and never let go.

"What have we got?" Warrick asked from his place beside Nick. Stealthy he cast a wary glance toward the slightly intimidating presence that was the Undersheriff. The tall African American allowed his eyes to return and slowly take in the exterior of the house.

"Nice house," Greg gave a low whistle. Sara threw him a glare, her slender frame clad in a form fitting black tee shirt and black jeans. She offered a playful, though serious, smack to the back of Greg's head forcing the young CSI to get his head back in the game. The sheepish yet slightly hurt look he threw her way made it clear her message was received and taken to heart.

"Okay," Grissom turned to face his team his eyes casting a questionable glance at the female CSI. "The Harris family, a family of five. The parents and two teenagers are dead. The younger daughter is on her way to the hospital now, she's uninjured, but that's all we know. So far we don't know much of anything. The medics just pronounced and left," he shrugged as the team's attention was diverted to the vehicle pulling into the driveway.

The navy blue van with CORONER printed in broad white letters on either side pulled onto the scene. David Phillips climbed down from the driver's seat. Noticing the CSIs on the sidewalk he walked to the back of the van and busied himself waiting for the all clear to make his way into the house. He'd have to wait for a path to be cleared before he could begin working with the bodies. "Sara and Greg you two take the perimeter," Grissom said bringing his attention back to his team. "I want to know everything. I want to know how the killer got in, how he got out, how he got here, and how he left."

"You got it," Sara nodded her brown hair swishing with the movement of her head, her brown eyes bright with the determination her job brought on, as she pushed Greg ahead of her. "Let's go," she offered a half-cocked smile as the young CSI stumbled to pick up his feet.

"Warrick you take the downstairs: kitchen, living room, family room, and garage. Sara and Greg will be in to back you up when they finish. Nick and I will take the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom," he said picking up his field kit and leading the way into the house. "Hey guys, nobody talks to the press," he raised a finger. Each team member nodded in consensus to the warning each of them throwing an added glance at the sheriff, whom had yet to be addressed by the lead CSI.

"Sheriff," Grissom turned to face the man, a slight buildup of tension showing in his posture. He and the sheriff had had a decent relationship. Though new to the role of political aficionado, Grissom had found the man actually quite easy to appease and even get along with. He even felt a little guilty that he'd have to brush the man off now, but as usual the crime scene took precedence. "They're all yours," he motioned toward the awaiting news cameras.

"I'll…uh…stay out here and…uh…talk to the witnesses," Brass offered a slight stammer in his voice as he cleared his throat and nodded toward the gathering crowd of onlookers.

Even to the detective the air felt heavy and cold. The squawking of police radios filled the air, the static of the transmitted messages from PD to the field passing from one receiver to the next. It had been a busy night in Las Vegas, but it seemed this case had taken precedence with many beat cops on the force. He'd hate to think there was a lack of officers back at the station, but he was grateful for their presence here. The officers worked well to keep the mass of reporters at bay. It seemed the media became more and more oblivious to the yellow crime scene tape as they worked to inch closer, working to get a unique angle on the story sure to make the top of their news broadcasts. He could hear the heightened volume of the press as they gathered in a swarm already actively reporting the scarce information they could gather from police scanners and the few onlookers willing to be interviewed.

"Detective, what can you tell us?"

"Is it true an entire family was killed here tonight?"

Questions were brutally thrown his way as he made his way past the mob. He only managed to raise a dismissive hand as he cast his eyes downward and forced his feet to move toward the gathering crowd of neighbors, his only hope for a true witness.

Neighbors had gathered en masse across the street, a good twenty feet away from the crime scene tape now serving as a barrier across the width of the driveway. The sooner he got to questioning them, the better chances of getting any good workable information.

Already, everything about this case, this scene, was horrifying. The looks on the faces of the possible witnesses were even more disconcerting. Fear mixed with sadness, grief, and anger. These families' lives had been disturbed, had been invaded and some even ripped at the seams by a heinous act, by an unknown, seemingly invisible threat. The sanctity of the neighborhood had been forever tainted; the feeling of safety was gone. Children would have to learn what it was to look over their shoulders as they played in their own yards, as they walked to and from the school bus. There would be no more playing outside once the sun went down. Mothers would be unwilling to let their children out of their grasps, let alone their eyesight.

The closer he got to the crowd the louder their mumblings became. Scared dogs, that's what they were. Scared dogs caged with no place to go but the euthanasia table in the room at the end of a long hallway. Exhaustion mixed in with the emotions of fear and anger and blanketed each of their faces. Mothers held tightly to their children, the kids' little eyes wide and full of wonder at the flashing lights and men and women in uniforms. He knew it to be a futile attempt at getting information, a shot in the dark at best, but answers were needed and the only way for him to get what he needed was to raise the dreaded questions.

Did you see anything suspicious?

Was there anyone suspicious in the neighborhood?

Did the Harris's have any company tonight?

Do you know of anyone who had a grudge on the family?

The questions were routine and predictable, dreaded by everyone involved in the whole damn questioning process. The answers were even more so. Dreaded, mundane, predictable, and expected. The routine was grueling.

The sheriff had slowly made his way toward the crowd or reporters, ready to dispel any rumors already weaving through the airwaves. The detective could see the man now, squinting at the invasive camera lights, the probing microphones.

He looked back at the house as he stepped off the curb. Greg was beginning his process of the front door. He could make out the young man starting his process of fingerprinting the doorbell.

It wasn't that long ago the young CSI was still wet behind the ears, green as they come, and hot on the tail of Grissom at every crime scene, his eyes wide taking it all in. But he'd quickly become seasoned in the field, and clearly capable of doing the job, and doing it well. Sure there were the occasional bursts of energy and naiveté, but that was just Greg being Greg. He never thought he'd miss the days of the spiky haired lab rat antics, but part of him yearned for those days. The kid had been a breath of fresh air in an atmosphere reeking of death and despair. But, gone were the band tee shirts, the semi-pornographic magazines, and the loud music. Now the kid wore blazers and was found reading the occasional forensics journal. The loud music replaced with…well, an iPod.

The streets had quickly dried from the earlier rain spurts, but were now wet as a result of the moisture seeping up from the ground. The air had grown humid, the shallow soil unable to soak in the abundant moisture. The detective cast a wary glance toward the sky, daring the clouds to unleash their new round of threatening rains.

Crossing the blocked off street, he found himself reaching for his pen and pocket pad of paper, hoping to gather even the smallest lead in a case that was sure to be one of the biggest of the year.

He could already feel the twinge of pain behind his eyes, a threatening headache teasing his already weakened façade. The very thought of this case was enough to delve him deep into the realms of exhaustion far beyond his current state of reality and that in itself was enough to nearly drive him over the edge. Yet, he managed to stay on his feet and maintain the composure he'd prided himself in having as a detective. He'd always taken pride in his job, in his ability to do the job, and being damn good at it, too.

That composure, that nearly unbreakable composure, had only found its breaking point a few times in his long career.

He'd managed to stay strong when charges had been filed against his only daughter, Ellie. But he'd nearly cracked into a million pieces when he had to say goodbye to her later that week when all the charges had been cleared. He'd even managed to stay strong last summer, his anger toward Walter Gordon being his driving force when the team rushed to find Nick. But, he'd nearly cracked though, when he heard the broken voice, a sound he'll not soon forget, of a man, a scared kid hanging at the end of his emotional rope. He'd nearly cracked when they pulled Nick from his grave, when he realized Nick was okay. He'd even managed to stay strong when he'd learned he was the one responsible for shooting Officer Bell, when he learned he'd have to face the hearing board in charges of friendly fire. He'd nearly cracked though when he came face to face with Bell's wife and little girl, when he'd been faced with the brokenness he'd brought to that family, yet the understanding and strength a wife could exhume when he walked in for the service.

He was a strong man, always had been. This case would not bring him to his knees, emotionally or physically. He would fight through it like every other time. He would do is job, and he would do it one hundred percent. He had questions that needed to be asked and he would find the answers.

There was no question about it.