Note: okay...a wee bit shorter than the last...I'll allow a few words to a quick note. Sorry I didn't get replies out for the last chapter! I appreciated them all...really! I'll do better this next time around...try to stay on top of things! So...hope you enjoy the next chapter...pacing is going well I hope...and...well...for now there's more questions than answers...so goes the CSI storyline...stick with me...answers are coming!

Chapter Seven – Cold Case
Quiet.

It was calming, peaceful and relaxing. It was everything that Gil Grissom wasn't. Tonight the silence was unnerving, anything but relaxing. And tonight the silence was all around him, everywhere, threatening to smother him. And as Grissom found himself headed toward perhaps the quietest room in the entire lab complex, he found himself dreading it more than a meeting with Ecklie or the sheriff.

The morgue was a cold room. Though quiet and at times peaceful in its own regard, there was always an uneasiness that settled around the shift supervisor as he entered the room. It was that unsettled feeling that haunted him now, that swam in the pit of his stomach, as he walked through the connecting corridors headed for his meeting with Dr. Albert Robbins.

Before getting a page that the medical examiner had finished his preliminary reports on the Harris family, Grissom had busied himself with a matter that seemed to be weighing heavily on the shoulders of the entire graveyard team. The familiarity of the current case was haunting, and hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone. In fact, short of dropping off the home videos to Archie, evidence lock-up had been Grissom's first stop upon returning from the field. Pulling out evidence as well as crime scene photos and trial records from the now closed case, Grissom locked himself in his office to bury himself in the well known case from over five years ago.

The Collins case had been high profile, arguably the biggest case of his career up to that point; a family brutally murdered in their own home usually was. The two daughters, Brenda and Tina Collins, had been the only ones to survive the massacre. Their parents and two brothers hadn't been as lucky. It had been through further investigation that Grissom had learned the dark truth, the deep seeded history of child abuse starting with Tina, the eldest, and continuing on to her younger sister, whom, he'd learned, to really be her daughter. And then there was the eldest daughter's plot to kill her family, a last ditch effort, a desperate attempt to end the abuse, the suffering.

Grissom had just settled into his office, had just gotten into the crime scene photos when his pager interrupted him. Doc Robbins had finished sooner than he'd expected.

Pulling on a powder blue lab coat and a pair of latex gloves, Grissom entered the morgue, a sense of urgency in his demeanor. He shuffled across the room as he pulled on a protective breathing barrier, joining the coroner at the first of three metal examining tables.

"It's haunting, isn't it?" the ME asked, his eyes drilling into the CSI's. The doctor standing only a few inches shorter than Grissom stood on the opposite side of the metal autopsy table. The handsome older gent wore a light blue smock over his slightly uncharacteristic suit of blue scrubs. His salt and pepper flecked beard was well trimmed, as was his gray hair. The man's metal crutch, a necessary accessory following a tragic car accident, sat propped against the autopsy table. Frank Harris' body lay on the metal slab.

"What is?" Grissom asked, a slight confusion showing through in his eyes, the only feature visible on the man's face.

"A family of four murdered in their own home."

"Seems to be a consensual feeling. Cause of death?" Grissom asked the irritation and urgency punching through in his voice.

"Exsanguination. The killer knew what he was doing," the coroner stated, getting down to business. "He bled out."

"All four of them?"

"All four of them," the coroner nodded. "The cuts were deep and clean. Carotid arteries were severed in each victim," he pointed to the father's throat. "From the looks of things, the killer cut from the front, from left to right, at an upward angle. He watched them, looked them in the eyes as he did it."

"What about these bruises?" Grissom's eyes fell to the father's face. The body had taken on a ghastly white tent, the massive loss of blood evident. Dark bruises covered the man's face, specifically heavy around the man's eyes and jaw.

"I can't say for sure. I can tell you they occurred peri-mortem. He was hit several times, with what…I don't know. I'll know more once I post."

"Any defensive wounds?"

"I found several abrasions on his hands and forearms. He didn't go without a fight. I took fingernail scrapings on all of them, sent them to DNA."

"What about the others?" Grissom asked his eyes traveling to the metal table behind the coroner. There he found the body of Diane Harris.

"COD is the same on all victims. There was evidence of sexual trauma in both the mother and daughter. I'll run rape kits on both and send them to DNA."

Grissom nodded, his eyes glued to the victim.

"I did find something unusual on the boy," the coroner motioned for Grissom to follow across the room. Pulling open the second cupboard from the right, he carefully slid out the metal table. The body of Nathan Harris lay under a single white sheet. Grasping a metal pan, he handed it to Grissom. "I found traces of this material in his mouth. I wasn't sure what to make of it."

Carefully, Grissom picked up a pair of tweezers from a nearby tray and used them to pick up the trace evidence.

"Looks like some kind of polymer," he squinted his eyes in concentration as they took in the minute piece of black material. "Could be leather. We assumed the killer wore gloves. I'll get it to Hodges."

"I also noticed several of the boy's teeth had been chipped."

"Perhaps he was hit in the mouth," Grissom asked his eyes scanning the bruised face of the teenager. The markings were nearly identical to those on the father's face. They had endured an obvious painful ordeal, tortured before they were killed. It was a new twist on an old case. It made things personal.

"Well, he was hit hard enough to bite a large chunk out of his tongue," the ME informed pulling out the victim's tongue to show the extent of the injury.

"I'll need DNA samples from each victim for comparisons," Grissom nodded.

"Already sent them to the lab," the coroner nodded. He watched as Grissom turned to leave the room, the trace evidence in hand. "Gil, the victims' clothing," he pointed to the counter near the door. Lying atop the counter were plastic bags labeled for each victim. Inside were the clothes in which they had been killed. They were evidence now. "I heard the little girl wasn't hurt," the medical examiner added just as Grissom reached the double swinging doors.

Grissom nodded solemnly. "She was taken to the hospital. She's a cancer patient."

"What do you think the killer was after?"

Grissom shook his head, his face unusually downcast, "Her."

"Do me a favor, Gil. Catch the bastard."

Offering a weak smile and a nod Grissom put his hand on the door, "Page me when you're ready to post," he said as he left the room.

The halls were quiet as he made his way back to CSI. Once peaceful and enjoyable, the quiet seemed to plague him. Walking to trace, the victims' clothing in one hand, the trace material from Nathan Harris' teeth in the other, an involuntary shudder wracked his body. A chill traveled the length of his spine, the cold sweeping over his body. The case was laughing at him, mocking him and his feelings of helplessness and sense of loss.

"Hey boss," David Hodges smiled, his brown eyes unusually bright, as the supervisor entered the lab. The man looked rather trim in his navy blue lab coat, a white shirt with navy blue pinstripes accenting the man's appearance. "I heard about the case. Rough one. You know it's like that case from a few years back, too. Creepy huh? I mean, I know I wasn't here, but…"

"Hodges! I have some unknown trace elements found in the victim's mouth. I think it may be part of a glove the killer may have worn," the entomologist nearly grimaced at the overt eagerness of the lab tech. Something about the man really made his skin crawl. "Swab it for DNA and identify the polymer."

"You got it," the tech nodded. "It's on the top of my list."

"Oh and Hodges," Grissom stopped just short of the door. "It's going to be a full night. My guys will be rolling in any minute with a weeks worth of trace. Everything for this case gets first priority, no exceptions."

"You got it, boss," the tech nodded, strictly business.

The solitude of his office beckoned him, the case file that lay open on his desk called his name, begging him to review it. Stopping briefly in the break room, he filled his coffee mug and made a beeline for the dark inviting space.

He was stopped just short as Sara, Greg, and Catherine came trudging down the hall, their arms loaded with evidence.

"Where are Nick and Warrick?" he asked standing in the middle of the hall.

"They stayed back at the house. Warrick still had a couple rooms to process. Nick stuck around to help him," Sara informed as she joined the huddle around the boss.

"What'd you guys find?"

"Not a lot," Catherine sighed.

"I got a couple workable prints from the yard, some fingerprints from the side window, and some trace elements for DNA from the upstairs bathroom," Greg listed off.

"I've got a cigarette butt from the backyard," Sara added. "I'm on my way to DNA now."

"Okay, I've got the victim's clothes. Get started on them once you finish with DNA," he handed off the bags. "And let me know when Nick and Warrick get back. We need to bump heads, see where we are," the boss nodded watching his CSIs head off on their own missions, Sara to DNA, Catherine to her office, and Greg to the morgue for fingerprints.

His mission?

The old Collins case.

His office, dim lighting, jarred insects and experiments, and entomology library, was energizing and comfortable. He was at home within his semi-private space. It was in this space he was most able to reflect on the shift, the case at hand. It was what he enjoyed the most about his job, the time to solve the puzzle, to analyze it, put it all together.

The Harris's, murdered in their home, possibly by someone they knew, struck too many chords within harmony of the Collins case. He'd noticed it right off the bat, when he and Nick had arrived on the scene. He knew the media would pick up on it and he'd be damned if he would let the wildfire of gossip spread on something like this. The family deserved better than that. Emily Harris deserved better than that.

The photos from the Collins' home: the father laying in the hallway, the mother in bed, the teenage boys in their room. They'd all been killed in the dead of night. The similarities between the two cases were as clear as day. The MOs were different, but Grissom knew it to be customary for a killer to change, to become creative, when desperate. And to do something this atrocious, one had to be desperate.

Still, there was something off about the Harris case.

"This isn't butter. This is imitation." The words rang in his ears. The Manson murders. He remembered thinking the Collins case was related, was maybe even cult related. It hadn't been either. It had been Tina Collins and her boyfriend, working to throw the police off their trail.

Was the Harris case any different?

Or was it the same?

Was someone working to throw them off the case?

Could it be the same person?

"Gil," a voice came from his once closed office door. Sheriff McKeene stood pristine in a crisp black suit, white shirt, and solid gray tie. His silver hair was cut short, and combed neatly. There was no evidence the man had just spent several hours outside the scene of a quadruple homicide.

"Sheriff," Grissom snapped abruptly from his thoughts. "Sorry. Did you knock?"

"Twice," the older man nodded entering the office and taking a seat opposite the CSI. He'd only been Sheriff of Clark County for eight months, but already he was comfortable and getting quite good at the political games. "I looked for you at the crime scene."

"Sorry, there was a lot to be done, and I needed to get back for the autopsies."

"Tell me you've got some leads," the man sat back in his chair crossing his right leg over the left.

"I wish I could," Grissom sighed removing his reading glasses, letting them hang loosely in the grip of his forefinger and thumb as he leaned back in his own chair. "The evidence is still coming in. We're just starting to process now."

"Come on, Gil. You saw the scene. What are your thoughts?"

"What, so you can inform the media? It's too early for me to say. Without the evidence…" he trailed off.

"Gil, you should know me better than that by now, and you know as well as I that the media will be all over this case. Hell, they already are. You remember the Collins case. I may not have been sheriff at the time, but the case still resonates. What are your thoughts?"

Grissom leaned forward in his chair, his arms resting, now, on the top of his desk. "Right now? I don't have any thoughts. I'm looking over the Collins case as we speak," he motioned to the open file. "Like I said, once I get all the evidence in we can start piecing things together, but not until then. You've known me long enough now Sheriff to know that."

"So you're giving me nothing?" the sheriff asked.

"I'm giving you everything we've got," Grissom offered a resigned shrug. "As soon as I know something, you'll know something."

"Do me a favor, Gil," McKeene sighed as he stood from his seat. "Protect that little girl. And catch the son of a bitch that did this to her family."

"My team's on it," Grissom nodded as he watched the man exit his office.

With nothing of which to work with, only an old case, Grissom felt the hole he was in widening, threatening to engulf him and swallow him whole. Though it was still early in the investigation, he felt his frustration mounting. The number of questions facing him was unreal and the answers were so far elusive and damn near non-existent.

Reaching for the phone on his desk he quickly punched in Brass's number.

He answered on the third ring. "Captain Brass."

"Jim, its Gil. Any witnesses?

"One neighbor said they talked to Mrs. Harris last night. She'd just gotten home from the grocery store. Mrs. Harris was in a hurry to have dinner ready by seven. They were expecting company, but she didn't say who."

"Okay, we're meeting in an hour for lunch. I'll want a progress report."

"I'll be there with bells on," the detective responded.

"See you then," he clicked off.

Grissom turned a scowl toward the forgotten cup of coffee he'd poured nearly an hour ago. The black brew had long since turned cold and grimy. Looking back at the old crime scene photos, he sighed. He had one more phone call to make.

"Stokes," Nick answered on the second ring.

"Nick, Grissom. Any progress?"

"Oh sure, but not the kind you're looking for." He sounded frustrated. "We've scoured the garage, and let me tell you, I've never seen a garage so…clean before. The damn thing is practically spotless, not even an oil stain on the floor."

"Any reagents used?"

"We phenoled the hell out of it. If there was blood before, there's not now. We've arranged to have the cars towed back to the lab, but chances of finding anything…" he trailed off.

"Okay. You think you guys can be back in an hour?"

"Yeah. We've got the father's office to finish up, and we'll be in."

"Good, see you then."

"Hey, Griss. You getting the same kind of feeling we're getting here?" he asked before the man had a chance to end the call.

"What kind of feeling is that, Nick?"

"Ice cold."

It had been a haunting morning. The cold feeling of dread, the cold feeling of dead ends, and the cold feeling of mounting questions all weighed on the CSI's shoulders. It was a feeling he hated, a feeling he wasn't used to having.

He was helpless to do anything about it.

"I'll see you in an hour," he closed the call.

Helplessness didn't come easy to him. He fought it off, ran scared when the feeling so much as looked his way. But now, this case was smacking him across the face. The feeling was bearing down on him, mocking his skills as a criminalist. Now, he was helpless, truly helpless, and that scared the hell out of him.