It could have been oppressive.
The sorrow might have bound them to their seats. The bitter tears of loss and pain might have freely splashed down the cheeks of those who had come to say farewell, drowing them in misery. The senselessness of it all might easily have overwhelmed, leaving hatred and anger to hang in the diffused sunlit air that streamed through the panes of stained glass.
It could have been oppressive. But it wasn't.
Catherine Willows sat in one of the pews near the rear of the church, her right thigh pressed closely against the left leg of Gil Grissom, her left tight against the abundant hips of the grey-haired matron squeezed on the other side of her. They had been fortunate to even get seating, she knew, and a stealthy glance earlier had confirmed that other mourners were standing two deep at the rear of the building. She looked across the sea of heads to the pulpit, where the widow's brother, Denny Martens' best friend, was giving his eulogy.
Glen Brogowski was the consumate public speaker. The kind of guy who was probably asked regularly to act as the MC at weddings. The one who was always prompted to stand up when a group had gathered at some event or another, and it was time for someone to say a few words. Catherine wondered idly if the man was a salesman. Or even a motivational speaker. He had a pleasant voice, an innate sense of timing and wonderful projection.
It was, she decided, the best eulogy she had ever heard. Not even because of the delivery, but because the speaker captured the essence of Denny Martens, his words embodying the best of the man, without being either maudlin or too saccharine. Denny's brother-in-law spoke of all of Denny's accomplishments, encompassed all of the good that the other man had done, without nominating him for sainthood.
Which would have been an easy line to cross. Catherine listened to some of the detective's interests, and how he spent his off-duty hours. Martens had been a devout Christian. He was active in his church, spear-heading the latest fundraising drive that had concentrated on repairing and preserving the the antique bronze bell in the steeple. He had spent two weeks out of most summers, as a youth leader at a camp for inner-city children, outside Las Vegas. It had been Denny's suggestion that the family foster young puppies, providing their early socialization and obedience training, before they went on to be groomed as guide and service dogs.
The speaker touched lightly on those aspects of Denny Martens, including them because that was part of the man that he had been, while still presenting him as a man with a sense of humour, and one who was not perfect. There were references to Denny's love of golf, despite his ineptitude at the game. Mentions of the practical gags he liked to play on those close to him. An affectionate admittance of how Denny had always messed up the punch lines of jokes.
The eulogy was humourous, and honest and while it acknowledged the deep loss that had been suffered, it truly was a celebration of Denny Martens' life. Catherine would bet that every single person inside that church had probably wondered, at one point during the commemoration, just as she had, what those close to them would say about them, when their turn came.
Denny Martens' widow, Amy, sat in the front pew, next to a tall, gangly teen that Catherine knew must be the couple's son, Christian. The auburn-haired woman had a serenity about her that Catherine admired and envied. She sat straight and proud, nodding her head in agreement with some of her brother's comments. At one point, she had given a light chuckle, remembering the playful side of her spouse. She had dabbed at her eyes surrepititously with a handkerchief when Glen Brogowski had spoken of Denny's fierce devotion and loyalty to his wife and son.
While her sorrow at her loss was undeniable, Catherine was struck by the fact that Amy Martens radiated an inner peace. Initially, Catherine believed that that was because the woman was devout in her faith, and drawing strength from that. But though she knew that was certainly part of it, it struck her that Amy Martens' calm was one free of regrets.
In an instant, Catherine was transported to that moment in her not too distant past when she had been the one sitting at the front pew, her arm gripped tightly around her young daughter Lindsey, while a paid, non-denominational minister who had never even met Eddie Willows, tried to accentuate the positives of the man's wasted life.
Catherine had still been so terribly angry at Eddie for the danger that he had put their daughter in. She hadn't even been able to absorb that Eddie was gone, because she was so focused on the horror that Lindsey had endured. Catherine had sat stiffly in the pew, tuning out the droning of the half-hearted eulogy, her manicured nails digging into her palms as she relived the desperation of her search for her daughter.
Lindsey's sreams and frantic pleas had still been ringing in Catherine's ears, as they had laid Eddie to rest. While the minister spoke to the sparse gathering, Catherine was once again plunging into the cold run-off, banging her fists against the windows of the vehicle, while Lindsey, trapped within, implored her mommy to help her.
That had been the worst day of Catherine's life. The fear that had spasmed in her lower intestines, and which been an iron band around her chest, was indescribable. She had had to fight to keep her mind focused, as reason tried to retreat in the face of the enormity of her potential loss. Catherine had shouted and raged, and inwardly cursed the man whose irresponsibility and stupidity had endangered her baby this way.
Somehow, Lindsey had gotten out safely. When they had told Catherine later that Eddie Willows' body had been retrieved, her only thought had been, 'At least I won't have to go to prison for killing the bastard myself.' Her maternal protectiveness had burned hotly.
She had cursed Eddie again when she had had to perch on the edge of Lindsey's bed, and gather her sweet girl into her arms, and tell her that her daddy was dead. Eddie had been a terrible spouse, and he hadn't been a very good dad for the most part, but Catherine knew that somewhere deep inside him, he had loved his daughter. And Lindsey, with a child's enormous capacity to forgive, and willingness to overlook even the most egregious shortcomings, had loved him in return.
It had been awkward for people, Catherine knew, at Eddie's funeral. The few who had made the effort to attend, anyway. Her colleagues from the graveyard shift had been there...fellow CSIs and a few of the lab scientists. Dr. Robbins had been there, with his wife. A couple of Eddie's so-called friends from the music industry had been there, shifting uncomfortably on the peripherary of the core group. Catherine had half-expected one or more of them to approach her after the service and try to hit her up for money that Eddie might have owed them.
She had been uncertain of her own role. The couple was divorced, so she wasn't the grieving spouse. Her position was tenuous, and ambiguous. There was none of the definitiveness of a marital relationship. Catherine had not been a widow, the way that Amy Martens was now. And people had been unsure of how to respond, how to comfort, or even if comfort was appropriate or necessary.
Even after Eddie had been buried, the service long past, there had been an awkwardness surrounding the situation. When her fear had finally abated, and her initial anger at Eddie had receded, Catherine had been hit with unexpected grief at his death. Not for the Eddie that he had been in recent years. Not for the Eddie who reported her to Child Protective Services when a particularly gruesome, high profile case had so absorbed her that she'd forgotten to pick Lindsey up after dance class. Not the Eddie who had mortgaged her house without her awareness or consent. Her grief was not for the Eddie who had lied to her and cheated on her, repeatedly, during their marriage, taking all of the love that she had to offer and throwing it back in her face.
Once a few months had passed, however, Catherine had discovered herself missing the Eddie that she had once fallen in love with. The man who had made her feel beautiful and desirable and who had unleashed a depth of passion that she hadn't known she was capable of. A man who taught her that it was all right for a woman to have erotic feelings and to act on them. Who had introduced her to a side of herself that she had kept submerged, out of guilt. Who had helped her to become comfortable with her sexuality rather than ashamed and embarassed by it. And to use it for her own pleasure, and not just the pleasure of others.
She recalled the Eddie who used to surprise her with bouquets of fresh flowers. Though later in their relationship these gifts had been prompted by Eddie's own fleeting remorse about his infidelities, in the beginning Catherine knew they had been spontaneous expressions of love. She would curl up on the sofa after a long shift, and remember how Eddie used to massage her feet when they ached sometimes after hours of dancing in stiletto heels.
She would picture again the wonder and awe in his eyes when he had held Lindsey for the first time, and the catch in his voice when he had told Catherine how he would never be able to thank her enough for this precious gift. She reminisced about the Eddie who would hold her in his strong arms in the dead of night, and whisper to her of his dreams and the grandiose plans for the future. Their future.
And that Eddie, Catherine Willows had discovered, to her complete surprise, she mourned. She had kept those tears hidden, however. She had not shared those feelings with anyone else. There was no one that it seemed would understand, even if she had tried to share. She was not the widow. She had divorced Eddie, cut him out of her life as much as possible while still grudgingly recognizing his paternal rights. And the unspoken sentiment seemed to be that when she had signed the papers, she had flushed all traces of her ex-husband out of her heart at the same time.
And so Catherine had had to work through a history fraught with regrets for a life that had been denied them all because of Eddie's weaknesses. All on her own, as her battered heart sought to lay Eddie to rest.
People had worried about Lindsey. They had expressed their sympathy for the little girl again and again, recognizing her loss. They had inquired about Catherine's daughter, and Catherine had been grateful for, and appreciative of, their honest concern. But no one asked how she was doing. How she was coping. Because she wasn't Eddie Willows' widow. She was just his former, betrayed spouse, and the mother of his only child.
Catherine dragged her thoughts away from her own life, to concentrate on saying good bye to Denny Martens. She banished thoughts of Eddie, and conjured up an image of Denny, a few years younger, when she had worked with him regularly. The thing that stood out to her most, was how genuine and upbeat he was. He had had a way of making people feel valued, and good about themselves.
He was one of the few men who would have a conversation with her without his eyes continuously dipping to her cleavage, whether consciously or unconsciously. When Catherine had had to fight to be taken seriously by some of the cops and CSIs she worked with, especially when people learned that she had been an exotic dancer at one time, Denny Martens had treated her respectfully from the onset of their working relationship.
At a crime scene, years ago, working a kidnap case, a young patrol officer had made a smug comment to Catherine unrelated to the case, about 'shaking her stuff'. Denny Martens had managed to give a cool reprimand, and to elicit an apology towards Catherine, without making a major issue out of the incident. His disdain for the other man had not been the result of political correctness but had been prompted by his own strong sense of morals and values.
"Did you want to go to the gravesite?" Gil was whispering against Catherine's ear, twisting towards her, interrupting her recollections. The eulogy had ended and the pastor was taking the pulpit to offer a closing prayer.
Catherine had already decided that she would forgo the gathering at the cemetery. There was such a large crowd, she thought it was only fair to make room for those who had been closest to Denny in recent years, as they transported his coffin and laid it in his grave. She shook her head slightly to indicate that she would not be going.
Gil Grissom felt himself relax a bit. The service was almost over. It hadn't been as bad as he had anticipated. Surprisingly, there was no grey pall hanging over the mourners. There was sadness, surely, but even in the acceptance of death there was an obvious and moving celebration of life.
Gil wasn't sure what he believed about the human soul and about death. The scientist in him was inclined to think that when it was over...it was over. That only nothingness would follow the cessation of breathing, the final beating of the heart, and the inactivity of the brain. Once the body was no longer needed, and had begun it's inexorable disintegration back to the earthly soup from which all existence had sprung, that individual's journey must surely be over. Death had an undeniable finality that could not be dismissed.
Yet the Catholic upbringing of his youth was not so easy to escape. Could there be an eternal soul? Was there a heaven and a hell? If there was, Gil had no doubts as to where Denny Martens would be. The love and respect for the man he had been was a living thing, gently insinuated between mourners on the pews, curled in the corners of the church, floating with the dust motes that swirled lazily in the multi-coloured streams of light cast by the stained glass.
The last funeral Gil had attended had been for Eddie Willows. The marked difference between the two events was not lost on him, and he was sure that it was not last on Catherine either. He glanced at her surreptitiously from the corner of his blue eyes. She sat there, seemingly focused on the service, but he could read her well enough after all of these years, when he took the time to do so, to know that she kept drifting away. And there seemed only one logical place that she would be going.
There was a tightness to the set of her full, pink mouth, and his eyes lingered on her lips for a moment. Gil was aware, for the second time that day, of how beautiful and sensuous Catherine appeared without even making any effort. When he had knocked on the door of her tidy, little bungalow and she had opened it to allow him in, it was the first thing he had thought. Even with subdued make up, and uniformly dark blue skirt, hose and classicly styled blouse, her overt attractiveness had reached past the boundaries of their friendship and working relationship, to speak to that part of him that was fueled by testosterone.
Gil thought automatically of Lady Heather. It wasn't until much later that he had recognized he had been drawn to the dominatrix for many of those same qualities that Catherine Willows possessed. They were both strong women, emotionally and psychologically. Both intelligent. Though physically different, each was extraordinarily beautiful. And each was comfortable in her own skin. Both unapologetically embracing their sexuality. Each woman not merely accepting her femininity but glorying in it.
Gil shifted uncomfortably in his seat, believing his thoughts inappropriate given the circumstances. Was he really so detached from those around him that while others were grieving, he was allowing free rein to some of his hedonic musings?
Jim Brass spied Catherine and Gil outside the church, exchanging polite greetings with some of their co-workers. Excusing himself for a moment from the other police officers he had sat with during the service, he made his way towards the pair. As he moved through the crowd, his dark eyes did a quick scan of each face he encountered. Wondering if, somewhere among them, Denny Martens killer was expressing false sorrow and shocked disbelief at his demise.
There were officers unobtrusively recording the images of those in attendance today. Just as there had been at the viewings, and would be at the cemetery. Not that Brass really thought that they would capture the face of a killer. But it was impossible to tell just when a break in a case might come.
As he had expected, there had been nothing to learn from the Durango that had been recovered from the desert, other than to verify through it's VIN number that it was the same vehicle stolen from the Rampart's lot, and for CSI to confirm that it did have damage consistent with a hit and run. All traces of the driver had been exorcised by the flames.
Conrad Ecklie had been fuming when he had arrived, lighting into Grissom straight away. Demanding to know what steps had been taken, what progress made, if any, and insisting that Grissom and Stokes turn over to him everything related to the abandoned vehicle. Making it clear that it would be his team that went over the Durango, once it had been towed back.
Brass was sure that Ecklie would have been even more obnoxious than he had been, if his writer pal hadn't been there as well. Her prescence had seemed to temper Ecklie's language and the force of his anger. Cecilia Laval had been obviously discomfitted by having to witness the turf spat between the two CSI supervisors. She had wandered away from Ecklie's Denali, further back down the shoulder of the road, pretending to be engrossed in the skyline. Distancing herself emotionally, even if she couldn't do so physically.
Grissom had relented easily enough, though he had stopped short of apologizing for not notifying Ecklie but for responding to the call himself. If the Durango was tied to the Martens case, Gil recognized Ecklie's jurisdiction, and if it wasn't, he was handing the vehicle over to dayshift anyway.
One face jumped out at Brass from the crowd. Carina Horwath's. She was standing near the street, while a tall, attractive blonde who had to share the same gene pool, hovered protectively nearby. Horwath had been at one of the viewings, expressing her condolences to Amy Martens, and Brass had made a point to be there to observe the interaction.
Mrs. Martens had been familiar with the name, when Carina had introduced herself, though nothing in her outward demeanour had indicated jealousy or resentment. She had gone so far as to comfort the younger woman with a brief hug, knowing that Carina had witnessed Denny's death. Brass had overheard Amy tell Carina that Denny had thought very highly of the young woman, and then wished her continued success in her life's goals. If Amy Martens had ever suspected her husband of cheating on her with the beautiful blonde, then she had given an Oscar-worthy performance. He had ruled out the widow as having been involved in engineering Denny's death.
Brass had been humbled by the grace Amy Martens had displayed in the aftermath of her loss. She had known that he was the lead investigator on the case, and he had kept her apprised of developments. When he had told her that they had found the Durango that had been nothing involved, but that there had been nothing to help indentify whoever had been driving it when it had run down Denny, she had accepted the information pragmatically.
"Jim, we aren't going to find out who did this, are we?" she had asked him, her green-eyed gaze calm. "This will be one of the ones that goes unsolved."
For a brief moment, he had been about to offer the usual platitudes. About how the department was doing everything they could, and how he would do everything in his power to see that justice was served. But Brass had known that he couldn't lie to her. "It's looking that way," he had admitted with regret.
She had nodded tiredly, thanked him for his honesty, then reached to squeeze his hand compassionately, understanding how difficult the truth was for all of them to accept.
"The service was lovely," Catherine was saying.
Jim directed a sad smile towards she and Gil. "Yeah. Big turnout."
"Lots of people truly cared for Denny Martens," Catherine remarked. "He made an impact."
All three stood quietly for a moment, reflecting on their own lives, and how they would be remembered by those whose lives they had touched.
"Are you going to the cemetery?" Brass questioned.
Catherine shook her head. "No. I think there are others who belong there more. I think I'm just going to go home and try to get a couple of hours of sleep. I'm on tonight."
Grissom echoed her plans.
"Do you have anything at all on the case?" Catherine asked Jim, lowering her voice.
He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm still following a few leads, but it looks like we'll be putting this one to bed in a few days."
"Well, I hope whoever was behind the wheel is haunted for the rest of his life by the knowledge of what his negligence caused," Catherine said with unconcealed animosity. She knew that the SUV that had hit Denny Martens had been a stolen vehicle, and assumed that one or more kids, out joyriding, had killed Denny. Then they had panicked and abandoned the Durango, starting the fire that they hoped would shield their indentities. Catherine felt that this tragedy had been a matter of Denny's being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Jim Brass, on the other hand, still remained unconvinced. Even without any evidence to substantiate it, other than the acceleration marks that could be explained as a panicked mistake, the detective couldn't shake the feeling that Denny Martens had been a specific target, his death a deliberate act of homicide.
A pair of pale orbs were riveted to the newspaper's obituary page, rereading details of an internment that was probably taking place at that very moment. Long fingers, with boney knuckles, drummed the folded sheet of paper in a continuous, obsessive pattern. Thin lips in a gaunt countenance curled in a ghastly semblance of pleasure. A husky voice whispered the words with infinite slowness, savouring each syllable.
"And then there were two."