Note: hey gals...thanks again for the reviews. if the pace seems slow...well it's deliberate. there's a lot of buildup...a lot of CSI searching and collecting...so stick with me on this!
Chapter Four – Four Walls
Nick steeled himself, preparing himself to open what he knew would be a heavy door. Setting his field kit on the carpeted floor he pulled on a new pair of latex gloves. Slowly, carefully, he reached out, his gloved fingers touching lightly on the ceramic name plate. He gently brushed across the cool hardened plaster, each letter unique. He could almost gather a sense of Emily Harris from the mold, almost as if the plague radiated the little girl's essence. He could tell Emily Harris was creative, artistic, and unique. Each letter had been painted a different color, molded into a special shape. It was clear to the CSI the plague had been hand made, hand painted, and hung with intricate care.
Swinging the door to a more open position, he found the light switch just to the right of the doorframe. Hesitant to step inside the room, tainting what was left of life before, he flipped the switch with his gloved hand casting the room in a warm yellow haze of light. He remained standing in the doorway, met with a familiar site. It was the bedroom of a girl in love with life, in love with her family; yet something was off. The feeling, the atmosphere, was different. There was a sinking feeling, a dying feeling.
Images of Cassie McBride quickly flashed across his mind's eye. He hadn't thought of her in at least three months, since the last time he'd paid her a visit at Sage's home.
Sage. Her name seemed to adequately match her personality.
The day they'd met had been...
"I'm sorry, but you're radiating this crazy feminine energy," she'd said as she brushed her fingers across his forehead.
"I am?" he chuckled. He couldn't help but laugh a little.
"Do you believe in past lives?"
"No ma'am."
"How come?"
"Cause, I'm just trying to make it through this one."
"Well, I think you're doing pretty well."
He'd received a letter from her a few months ago catching him up on how Cassie was doing. She'd not hesitated to become the girl's legal guardian; she'd been the closest thing Cassie had to any other family.
The similarities between Cassie's room and the room he was in now were shocking. But, even more shocking were the obvious differences. It put the girls a world apart.
Inside the room, each wall was a different deep, rich hue; pink, blue, purple and lime green each meeting the same beige white carpet. An area rug of the same rich colors sat in the center of the floor. As Nick stood in the doorway, he was alarmed by what he saw. The room of any seven year old girl should have been cluttered, full of life and vitality. Every little girl's room he'd seen had only been that. This room was just the opposite, though.
Home medical supplies took up much of the room's ample space. Positioned against the far right Caribbean blue wall was a home issued hospital bed, the head of which was raised to a near forty-five degree angle. The sheets matching the colors of the walls were the only brightness, the only emotional relief offered by the eye-sore that was the bed. Just to the right of the bed, positioned near the head, stood a metal IV stand. Hanging from the hooks were three empty medication pouches. From his position he could just make out their labels in the faint light; two labeled morphine the other, the largest of the three bags, a standard saline drip. A pink chest of drawers, positioned just inside and to the right of the door, sat alone against a lime green ocean. It was one of two pieces of furniture separating this room from those at Desert Palm. The top of the chest, however, was home to numerous prescription bottles. Nick counted six amber colored bottles, three different over-the-counter pain medications, and five bottles of various herbs, minerals, and vitamins. It seemed the family was trying anything and everything to bring comfort to their little girl.
The only window in the room was directly across from the door, a large picture window framed in a pink vastness, its view looking over the backyard. The lime green curtains had been strung open, allowing ample light to enter the room when the sun sat high in the sky. The bed had been meticulously placed so that Emily could easily be warmed by the rays as they filtered through the opened shades. Directly under the window sat a large purple foot locker, the same color as the wall to the left of the CSI. What was in that foot locker, he could only guess. He'd slowly make his way to it as he worked around the room in his search for evidence.
Questions ran through his head as he stood stock still in the doorway. His feet seemed unwilling to move, his brain, unable to quit running, seemed incapable of making them move. Mostly, though he felt scared, scared of disturbing what little sanctity there seemed to be left in the desecrated house, scared of finding the answers to the questions plaguing him, scared of discovering the fear Emily Harris must have experienced, but mostly scared that there was nothing he could do to help ease her suffering, to bring her peace.
Little by little, though, he mustered up the courage, the will power to get the job done.
First he'd print the door knob.
Maybe the killer had left his mark behind.
Nick bent down, picked up the field kit sitting by his feet, and slowly, carefully, took his first steps into the room. He popped open his kit and reached for his print powder and brush. Crouching to get a better angle at the doorknob he slowly applied the powder to the brass apparatus.
Shining his Maglite around the area he frowned.
A couple workable prints, a partial palm. It wasn't much and most likely belonged to the paramedics.
Killer probably wore gloves.
After carefully tape lifting the prints, he stood.
He turned, now facing the prescription covered dresser top. Bending slightly, so the bottles were at eye level, he slowly scanned each bottle, reading each label, taking in the name of each drug; Arsenic Trioxide, All-trans retinoic acid (ATRA), Vicodin, Oxycontin.
"Bless her heart," he sighed, closing his eyes in disbelief.
The poor child must have been in excruciating pain. It was no way for a little girl to live.
Among the other bottles; iron supplements, calcium supplements, multivitamins. None of the bottles seemed to have been disturbed; nothing seemed inherently out of place. He snapped several photos of the drugs in their original positions, the flash of the camera filling the room with intermittent light, before bagging them for evidence.
Pulling out his Maglite again, Nick began training the light along the floor, his attention especially targeted to where the wall met the carpet, as he rounded the room making his way to the bed. The corners were dark, the small bedside lamp not providing much light with which to work.
He found himself by the bed before anything substantial or potentially probative caught his eye. The blue wall cast shadows in the dim light, but the spot was as clear as day on the white carpeting.
"What the…" he spoke to the empty room, his brow puckered as he crouched to the floor.
Blood?
Pulling out a cotton swab, he swabbed the near miniscule area. A drop of phenolphthalein to the cotton tip told the story.
"What the hell happened in here?" he voiced his question his eyes scanning the room once more. Carefully, he took photos of the bloodstain showcasing its relationship and orientation in the room. Pulling out his pocket knife, he carefully cut out the swatch of carpet, expertly containing the bloodstain for DNA comparison back at the lab.
Returning to his original standing position, he snapped more photos; first the empty IVs, then the position of the IV stand near the bed, as well as the rumpled condition of the bed, the sheets and blankets.
The blankets.
There were so many.
The sheets had been wadded up near the foot of the bed, the pillows discarded, thrown haphazardly to the floor. It was careless, a frantic, panicked action.
It was never an easy job, searching a child's room. It was disheartening; searching for evidence of foul play in a world as pure as that of a young child. It was cases like this that made him hate his job, but mostly hate the condition of humanity. Nothing made Nick angrier than finding the one thing he wished he'd never had to be faced with; evidence that a child had been harmed, evidence that a child was scared, was made to feel ashamed. Nothing weighed on him more than a victimized child.
It happened more times than he cared to think about. And more often than not it served as the one reason for questioning his line of work and his ability to do the job. And it seemed to be happening more frequently, too.
Reluctantly, he pulled his handheld ALS from his kit. Crossing the room, he flipped the light switch to its off position, pulled on his orange safety goggles, and crossed back over to the bed in a halo of blue light. Deliberately, carefully, he scanned every inch of the bed sheets, and though it felt like time was standing still, he'd easily finished his search within a couple minutes. Gratefully, he'd come up empty handed; there were no visible fluid stains on the sheets.
He kept the lights off, part laziness and not wanting to cross the room again, and partly because the light was of little to no use. Using his Maglite, a much more useful light source, he crouched next to the pillows and commenced his search under the bed. The white light filled the narrow space, the darkness becoming void.
Jackpot.
There as plain as day, caught in the beam of his light: a brown hair. Pulling out his tweezers, he carefully grasped the evidence, skillfully clenching the hair in the grips of the tool.
Had the killer come in here looking for the girl?
Had the paramedics gotten careless in their jobs, tainting anything probative?
There were so many damn questions. He couldn't make sense of the nonsense running chaotically in his brain. Nothing seemed to be coming from the pieces he was gathering. It was like working a puzzle without the picture on the box.
Taking a closer look at the hair in the teeth of his tweezers he couldn't help but offer a small smile. The follicular tag was still attached.
Opening an empty bindle, Nick secured the hair and labeled it for DNA.
He hoped it was enough to get a profile.
Double and even triple checking the space under the bed, he was satisfied that he'd gotten all there was to get.
Next on his list: the foot locker.
The deep purple matched the color of the opposite wall perfectly. Opening the trunk, he smiled. Inside he found dresses, scarves, hand made masks, puppets, and other theatrical necessities. Underneath it all he found pages and pages of hand written scripts.
The Day Frog Prince Went to Town, he read, by Emily Harris.
Many of the pages had been bound together, a real script. He smiled imagining the little girl putting on her own productions.
The sun streamed in through the window at just the right angle. The stage had been set, the backdrop prepared and the characters set to go on. Emily sat, concealed by the puppet stage, hidden from the audience's view. Expertly she maneuvered the puppets onto the stage.
She'd memorized every line, practiced them day in and day out preparing for opening night. She smiled as she heard her mother take in a breath and then laugh as the antics unfolded. She'd mastered each voice for each unique character. It had all been perfect.
She'd worked hard at getting everything right. She knew her family would enjoy the show.
When the curtain had drawn, the show over, she'd come around to greet her family, to thank them for attending. They applauded her, cheered her and promised a return for the next night's feature.
He slowly stood from the trunk, stretching his tired, overworked back muscles. He scanned the window frame with his light, not sure what he was looking for, and satisfied with the nothing that he found.
There was only one more place left to look. The closet.
Taking a deep breath, holding it and releasing it, he turned, walked the four and a half steps necessary and slowly opened the hinged closet doors. Walking into the deep closet, he was met with a massive puppet stage just to his left. Clothes hung on hangers just to his right, shoes were piled underneath the clothes on the hardwood floor. The shelves above were piled high with games, dolls, videos, and toys.
Now, this was a seven-year-old's world.
Slowly, Nick's eyes trained over each object. He really wasn't expecting to find anything, but he wouldn't be satisfied without a thorough search. Carefully he shuffled through the hangers, his light trailing over each garment. He then stooped down, focusing his light on the pile of haphazardly thrown shoes he sorted through the footwear.
Standing, he began sifting through the games stacked high on the above shelves. Videos including Disney animated films and Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals lined the walls. Games including Hi-Ho Cherry-oh, Chutes and Ladders, Mancala, and Chinese checkers piled high to the ceiling.
There's nothing here, he sighed turning to leave the confined space. Once more, he took in the puppet stage.
Backdrops had been intricately painted and hung. Castles, streams, and green hills danced across the canvas.
"What?" Nick asked, tilting his head to the left.
Something was off.
Something wasn't right.
Something…something didn't smell right.
Carefully he pulled the puppet stage out into the room and returned to the closet. Shining his light over the spot where the stage had just rested he crouched down working to get a closer look at the paneled wall. Reaching out, he felt the wall, the grooves from the panels. Something kept grabbing at the light. There was a void between the panels. He gently tapped the wall with his gloved knuckle.
Nothing unusual.
Choosing a second spot on the wall, he knocked again.
"That's odd," he said, his brow puckered at the unusual hollow sound that greeted his ears.
With a slight hesitation, he reached out with both arms feeling the panels. He pushed slightly, and was surprised to find, that with little effort on his part, the panels gave way.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Opening the crude door further, he recoiled at the odor; his eyes watering a he brought his right arm up to cover his nose. The stench filled his nostrils as the door freely swung open revealing a small crawl space.
Shining his light in, he was met with hollowness, emptiness, and darkness.
It was dark; the only light came from the night light near her door. The sounds outside her door weren't normal, in fact they were scary. She could hear her mother crying, pleading. Her mom and dad never fought.
Her mom never cried.
Slowly, she climbed out of bed.
Tiptoeing across the soft carpet, she reached for the doorknob. What she saw between the crack made by the door and the wall terrified her.
She knew what to do. She knew where to go.
"If anything ever happens," her mother had said, "you hide. Be as quiet as you can and hide."
She didn't know what her mom meant when she'd said it, but she'd nodded her head, taking the words and converting them to memory.
And, so that's what she did. She had the perfect spot. Not even Hannah knew of her secret hideout. The space in her closet was just big enough for her. It was made especially for her.
Quickly, quietly, she closed the closet doors behind her, crawled under her puppet stage and hid.
She heard her door swing open, slamming against the wall. A squeak escaped her throat, as she used her hands to cover her mouth.
"Emily!" cooed a voice.
It wasn't her dad's voice.
It wasn't her brother's voice.
It wasn't a nice voice.
"Come out, come out wherever you are."
She was cold, shivering uncontrollably now. She could see the light from her room streaming in through the cracks in the wall.
"Emily, I know your in here," the voice cooed in mock kindness.
She heard her closet doors open, her eyes wide in fear taking in the faint light that filled the confined space. She held her breath.
He didn't know she was there.
He left, defeated.
She sat alone, then, consumed by the darkness rocking back and forth as she hugged her knees to her chest. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
Slowly, Nick pulled out his ALS and shone it around the small space. The wood floor lit up under the blue light. Bright yellow.
Urine.
"Bless her heart," he sighed shaking his head as he sat back on his haunches. Cautiously he swabbed the stain. He'd need a DNA match to confirm his theory.
Steadily, he rose. Collecting his electrostatic dust print lifter he set it up on the closet floor. He managed to collect two sets of prints. A bare print, a child's size three. Confirming his theory, he glanced at the pile of shoes.
"Emily was a size three," he nodded.
The second print looked to match the print he'd lifted from the master bedroom. He'd have to take a closer look to be sure.
Gathering his equipment, he slowly left the little girl's room, the colors haunting him, the remnants of a life yet to be lived.
"Hey," he said now standing in the doorway of the master suite.
"Find anything?" Grissom asked. He was still standing over the blood pools where the family had unceremoniously been laid to rest. The bodies had long since removed and taken to the morgue. A clipboard occupied the man's left hand, a pen grasped tightly in his right.
"I think I know why Emily Harris was spared," Nick nodded leaning against the door jam. "Found a crawl space in her closet. Also found a urine stain. I think she hid," he offered a one shoulder shrug. "I found a blood stain, and a hair. Also found some latent footprints in her closet, one set was the girl's, the other a male size 12. At first glance it matches the print I lifted from in here, but I won't know for sure till I put it under the scope."
"Good," the supervisor nodded.
"You find anything new?"
"Sometimes it's about what you don't find. There's no sign of a struggle," he shook his head his eyes focused back on the blood stains, "not one."
"How does an entire family succumb to murder in their own house without so much as putting up a fight?" Nick asked.
"Maybe they knew the guy," Grissom shrugged as his cell phone chirped. "Grissom," he answered upon flipping the device open and bringing it to his ear.
"Gil, its Catherine."
"What'd you find out?" he asked casting a quick glance at the man in the door.
"Acute Myelogenous Leukemia."
"That's it?"
"For now. I've got visitation restricted to law enforcement only. She's sleeping, so I'm headed your way now."
"Good. We could use your hands. See you in a few," he flipped his phone closed.
"I'll get going on the other two rooms," Nick thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "Maybe we'll get lucky."
"Yeah," his boss nodded, his concentration back on the clipboard in his hands.
"Hey, Griss…" the younger criminalist hesitated pulling the man's attention fully on him. "The Collin's case…a few years ago…" he trailed off.
"I know," the man nodded in response. The similarities between the two cases were obvious and striking, but he prided himself in restricting any conclusions until all the evidence was gathered and processed.
This case would be no different…he hoped.
Silently, Nick turned his back on the room.
This case wasn't different. A family was dead, and a little girl left to deal with it.
The hallway was dark, the doors to each room closed. The window, almost as small as a porthole on a ship, at the top of the stairs allowed a sliver of early morning light to careen through lighting up a small patch of carpet.
It was an odd scene, a haunting scene, even for him. The quicker he could get out of this house the better.
"How does an entire family succumb to murder in their own house without so much as putting up a fight?"
"Maybe they knew the guy…"
It was a simple answer, a simple assumption. And it was one of the most bone chilling responses he could have been given.
It scared him.
It made him scared for Emily.