Again, all reviews are much appreciated. I really enjoy that others are reading and able to take some pleasure for this story as well. I guess it's either feast of famine, lol, because here's the next chapter already. I can see this story so clearly in my mind, that any chance I have to write, I take it! Thanks again all for visiting my take on our CSI world with me. Cathy.

Chapter 37

Ronnie studied the sheet of parchment, resting now beneath a clear overlay on which he circled points of interest. The keen eyes behind the dark-framed glasses went back and forth between the copies of the originals, and this new letter that they had brought to him. It unnerved him, though he didn't let on, to see Captain Brass' name in the salutation. He hadn't realized just how close to home this one was.

Finally, Ronnie had turned away from his work, and looked at the three who awaited his pronouncement. Brass, Catherine, and the writer who had been working with the CSI lately, Cecilia Laval. Of the three, interestingly enough, it was Brass who seemed the calmest, the most self-possessed. The women wore their heightened concern in the tight set of their faces, and the soft wrinkling of their brows above eyes wide with apprehension. He imagined what a writing sample taken from them now might show, the emotion it would evidence.

"Yes, it's written by the same person," Ronnie confirmed.

Cecilia's knees felt weak. Of course, they had expected that. Who else could the letter be from?

When Jim had strolled into the lab that morning, freshly attired, newly shaven, a crooked smile intersecting his features as he had handed Catherine an evidence bag that contained a cream-coloured, business-sized envelope, Cecilia had felt time slow in a surreal parody. Her senses had seemed heightened, and she had noticed everything. The clean, fresh scent of the shampoo and soap Jim had recently used. The slight ruddiness in his cheeks and at his jawline, where the whirling blades of the electric razor had clipped facial hair that she knew was starting to grey. She noted that he wore the gold tie clip with the amber-coloured stone, the one that she had come to learn had been a gift from his mother, and was encrusted with a topaz chip, representing his November birthday. His dark brown, leather shoes were polished and buffed.

The hand that held the bag showed nails that were clean, clipped short. No ragged cuticles or hangnails. She had learned that while Jim wasn't one to fuss with his appearance, that it was important to him to care for his hands. She remembered him telling her, one morning as they had rested lazily in his bed, in a tangle of limbs and sheets, when she had held up one of his hands between hers and remarked on them, that he had confided that when he was a young teen, he'd had a nail-biting habit. His father had told him, without cruelty or reproach, that the habit told the world Jim had a weakness, aside from it being unsightly. That it was the little details people often noticed that helped them form an opinion of you. When you extended your hand to a man to shake, or to a woman to hold, what did you want them to see of you? The young Jim had taken that to heart, had beaten the habit, and had taken care with his hands ever since.

It was funny, Cecilia thought, the little things that the mind could dwell on, when the world was falling apart around you.

Voices had sounded far away, muffled through the rush of blood that swirled and pounded through the arteries in her head. She had watched Catherine take the bag, frowning as she had observed that he had already opened the letter, remarking that she wished he hadn't done that. Jim had shrugged, saying lightly that he'd known she'd probably want to rap his knuckles for it. But admitting that curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Cecilia's abdomen had churned, seemingly with ice water. She had had to stave off the nauseau that threatened her. If it hadn't been real before, it was now. There was no denying it...Jim was a target. Whatever the letter said, however the message was versed, it meant only one thing. Someone who had been involved in the killings of three women a decade ago, someone who had recently systematically and deviously engineered the deaths of three of the detectives who had worked the case, had turned his attention to Jim Brass now. Somehow...some way...perhaps very soon...that someone would make an attempt on Jim's life.

When he had finally glanced at her, acknowledging her prescence, Cecilia had seen that understanding in the depths of his dark eyes. She was surprised that there was no fear reflected there, only a calm acceptance of the reality of the situation.

She had been unable to say anything to him. Not even a simple good morning, or to ask how he was doing. Let alone to give voice to the concerns and fears that scrambled through her, that made her want to wrap her arms around Jim and pull him close and to feel the reassurance of the steadily beating heart beneath his solid chest. In the midst of her worry, Cecilia felt the first flarings of anger, and the cold realization that if she knew who was doing this, if she could put a face to this threat...she could kill for Jim.

"Thanks, Ronnie," Brass was saying now. "Well, I guess we'd better get this to Trace then." His tone was matter-of-fact. Professional. It might have been the case of a stranger that he was investigating.

Once the letter had been left there, both it and the envelope to be dusted for prints, and vacuumed for anything that might give them a clue to its writer's identity...cigarette smoke, a particular brand of cologne, anything unique...the trio returned to Grissom's office.

Once there, Gil filled Brass in on what they had discovered last night, and the faint lead that they were now pursuing. The human skin and tissue that had been taken from Beth Marchison's nails that had not come from Todd Juneau. It had been typed and was currently waiting on DNA testing. For the first time that morning, Brass had shown an emotional reaction. But rather than the elation that Cecilia might have expected, since they at last had an angle to pursue, Jim instead seemed angry.

"How could this have been missed at the time of the original investigation? How could something like that get overlooked?"

Grissom had regarded the other man thoughtfully. "I don't know. It indicates reason to question whether Juneau was the killer, or if he was, whether he was working alone. It's clear forensic evidence that might exonerate Juneau, and implicate someone else." He paused. "It's the only true bit of forensic evidence in the case," Gil stated quietly. "Other than the fingerprint on Hegel's car."

"And that just ties Juneau to the vehicle," Brass observed morosely. "Not to the victim herself, not to Marilyn Hegel's body."

Grissom nodded his agreement.

"So, we already know that there was someone else involved," Catherine spoke. "The person who wrote the letters. And whoever wrote those letters, had information that only the killer, or someone close to him, would know. Information about the victim's undergarments, for example." She furrowed her brow. "And Beth Marchison might have gotten a piece of the man who attacked her. Someone working with Juneau."

"The killer wasn't the only one who had that information," Brass reminded her. "Anyone working the case, or with access to the files, would know those details. We can't rule out someone on the inside." He steepled his hands, deep in thought. "If there wasn't this evidence of another person at the scene, I could almost entertain that the letters were separate from the crimes themselves. That Juneau might be the killer, and still have nothing to do with the letters. That if for some reason, someone on our side was responsible for them, Juneau might not even know they existed. And that person, for whatever reason, decided to start killing the cops who worked the case."

"What motive?" Grissom asked. "Professional jealousy?"

Brass shrugged. "We were so sure Juneau was the killer. Because of his connection to Marilyn Hegel. Because of what we found at his house. He had been stalking her. They had had an argument the day she went missing. But what if he wasn't the killer after all?" The enormity of that implication, the theory that he has been considering since he had spoken with Sharon Gracin, overwhelmed him.

"So why would Juneau run?" Catherine asked. "Why would he try to evade arrest?"

"I think I know why he might," Brass suggested. He shared with them his conversation with Juneau's sister, what he had learned about the man's past, and the things Jim had conjectured after speaking with her.

"Even if he didn't kill Marchison, or write the letters," Catherine continued, "that doesn't mean he didn't know about the letters, or kill the other women, or that he wasn't involved in some way."

"Serial killers rarely partner up," Grissom commented.

"I don't think Todd Juneau knew about the letters," Cecilia spoke then hesitantly. "If whoever wrote the letters killed Marilyn Hegel...I don't think it was someone who knew her. And if Todd Juneau worked with her, and had been stalking her, he knew her very well. And if he knew her, and had a partner, the partner would have learned those things as well, it seems." Cecilia blushed as three pairs of eyes stared at her intently. Listening to the investigators talk things over, had made her recall something. She felt uncomfortable, wondering if she was overstepping.

"What do you mean, Cecilia?" Catherine encouraged gently.

"Well...where's the copy of the letter that police received after Marilyn Hegel was murdered?" she asked.

"It's in the other room," Catherine said. "I'll be back in a sec."

Cecilia glanced at Jim who was looking at her curiously. He gave her a small smile of encouragement and she relaxed. There was no harm, she decided, in sharing her own thoughts with the others. They were just trying to talk things through, to brainstorm, and nothing was too insignificant to overlook.

Catherine returned with the copy of the letter, and she handed it to Cecilia. Cecilia cleared her throat and read it aloud.

"Dear Officers of the LVPD,

Oh my. How embarassing for you. You've failed again. I waited for you to come knocking, to put an end to this, but you didn't. You let another one die. Again, I ask, who then is to blame?

She was another nobody. You know, she wasn't even a natural blonde. And there was a scar, low across her belly. I think the bitch had whelped at one point in the past. She was wearing white, cotton panties. How very pedestrian.

How did she look when you found her? I'm afraid I lost my temper a bit. A temper is the bane of the wicked.

I await you."

More confident now, Cecilia explained. "It doesn't sound like whoever wrote this letter was acquainted with Marilyn Hegel at all. He calls her a nobody. I don't know anything about stalkers, or that kind of obsession," she admitted, "but if Todd Juneau was pursuing her...as a romantic interest...I don't know why he would refer to her as a nobody. And not just a nobody but another nobody. No different from the first victim, Jada Miller. But Marilyn Hegel was different to Todd Juneau.

"And if he knew her, he knew she had children. Todd Juneau had taken pictures of her at the park with them. Yet in the letter it refers to a Caesarian scar, and thinking she had whelped." Cecilia hesitated to say the term out loud. It was so derrogatory and so dismissive of motherhood. And whelping implied dogs, and bitches, another unflattering term often applied to women. "Anyhow," she concluded, self-conscious again, "I was just thinking about it now, remembering the letter. You already know that Juneau didn't write the letters himself, of course, but when you were talking about whether or not he might be aware of them it just struck me. And of course, someone might just have been trying to throw you off track, to make it seem like someone who was a stranger to Marilyn Hegel killed her..." Cecilia's voice trailed off.

Grissom was the first to speak. "Well done, Cecilia," he said. There was nothing condescending in his praise, and his wry smile reassured her.

"We should have caught that," Brass said hollowly. "We thought that Juneau wrote the letters, that he was the killer. We weren't even thinking about a partner. But you're right. We should have questioned if Juneau, who knew Hegel, would write something like that about her." He sighed his frustration. How badly had he botched the case, years ago? Physical evidence that did not match the suspect, O positive epithelials, overlooked. A letter that raised questions about whether or not its writer had a prior relationship with the victim, which their suspect indeed had. Yes, there had been good reason to suspect Juneau as the killer. But had there been enough reason? Or had they been too eager to solve the case? Too quick to be judge and jury?

You demonize the innocent, and allow the wicked to go free. While others pay the price for your failure. Those were the words in the letter Jim had received, he recalled, while the tiny hairs at the back of his neck, stood on end. Had Juneau been entirely innocent? Had they failed to read the signs? Were Martens, Keeth and Takei all dead now because none of them had done their jobs properly? Because he hadn't done his job properly?

In the midst of his regrets, Jim felt proud of Cecilia. She was a civilian, not a trained investigator. She had only been privy to the case for a short while. And she had seen something that seasoned professionals had missed. Something that Catherine...hell something that Grissom had missed. The fact that neither of them had considered the letter about Hegel's murder possibly indicative of Juneau's innocence did nothing to assuage Brass' own feelings of guilt. He had worked the case for weeks, it had been his only priority at the time. The four of them...Martens, Keeth, Takei and himself...had lived it. He was a good cop, a good detective, Jim prided himself on that. But there were so many things about the Juneau case, that it appeared he had screwed up. With consequences that he might never have imagined, he realized, as he looked at Cecilia seated there. Inches away, but farther from him than might ever be reconciled, before he was able to finally right decade old wrongs. If the killer didn't try to right them in his own way first.

"Very good. Thanks," Brass said to her now. "We'll have to talk to the Sheriff about putting you on the payroll." He grinned. Hiding his pride in her, and his longing for her, in the easy banter that was his trademark.

Jim's smile warmed Cecilia. What she had pointed out might mean absolutely nothing. But it could mean something. And if she could do anything to help at all, she wanted to. And she didn't want there to be an uncomfortableness between she and Jim. She didn't want him to feel that he had to avoid her, because he was worried she might behave like a petulant woman scorned. Maybe they couldn't be lovers, maybe Jim didn't feel about her the way she felt about him, but Cecilia hoped that they could at least still be friends.

"Well, I need a change of scenery," Catherine put in then. "And something to eat. Anybody up for breakfast?"

"I think that sounds like a great idea," Grissom agreed. "Fuel the body, fuel the mind."

"I'm in," Cecilia said.

"I'm going to head over to the office," Jim declined. He was already wary enough, just being here together with the others at the lab. While he didn't think there was really any danger for them, that the killer would try to make a move here, he was acutely aware that he had no real idea what the killer had in store for him, or how soon he would make an attempt on Jim's life. And he believed that the danger increased out in public. Even something as simple as going out for ham and eggs at the corner diner, might put any one of them in the way of a death intended for him. The thought made Brass feel sick inside.

"I bet you didn't even have breakfast this morning, did you?" Catherine asked him. "And I'd understand if you don't feel much like eating, but even if you just have some coffee and toast..."

"No!" Jim stated, more vehemently than he had intended. "Thanks. I'll get something later. There are a couple of things I want to look into, while you're waiting to hear back from Trace and DNA."

Cecilia's cheeks grew hot. She could imagine why Jim had refused the invitation for breakfast. It was because he didn't want to be too familiar, or to give her any reason to hold out some hope that they might still pick up where they had left off. He wanted to keep his distance. No distractions. He wanted to make sure she understood that it was over.

"Okay," Catherine replied, bemused at his adamant rejection of her suggestion. "When we hear something, we'll call you."

Brass stood up, preparing to leave them. "Thanks. And good work, with the thing about the blood types. Maybe this time it won't be another dead end." His voice was light, but they all heard the undercurrent of frustration.

When he was almost to the door, Gil called, "Jim! Just a minute." Grissom followed him and they stepped out into the hall.

"What's up?" Brass asked.

"Now that you've gotten that letter," Grissom said pointedly, "it changes things." His blue eyes scrutinized the other man's face. "You're too close to the case now. You should recluse yourself, hand it over to someone else."

Brass stared back at Gil intently. "There's no way in hell I'm going to walk from this." Grissom held his glare. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Gil heard the challenge. "I'm not your boss," he said levelly. "It's not my call to make." He hesitated. "But you know what can happen, when someone is too personally involved."

"Three cops that I knew and worked with, one of them who was my partner for a while, are dead," Brass reminded him. "It's been personal from the beginning. This letter doesn't change anything, as far as I'm concerned. This was my case, years ago, and it's my case now. I'm working it til it's over. One way or another."

In the words, Grissom heard Brass' acceptance of the danger. It was the closest any of them had come to saying aloud what all of them were thinking. This would end one of two ways. They would catch the killer before he could move again, and put an end to the killing at last. Or the killer would strike before they could get to him, and claim his final target.

Grissom wasn't sure if Brass could compartmentalize enough to work the case, do it well enough not to compromise it, and still be on guard enough to prevent an unknown foe from taking his life. A policeman's life, his future, was uncertain from the moment he took the oath and put on the uniform and badge. There was always risk. Always danger. Some of it that could be anticipated and guarded against, and some of it that could not. Gil knew that a cop learned to deal with that.

But this was different. This wasn't just a hazard of the job, that any cop might expect to face. This was personal. Calculated. In addition to all of the regular dangers of the profession, there was now a clear and serious threat on Brass' life. Gil had a great deal of respect for Jim Brass, for the kind of cop he was, and he knew firsthand that he was steady. Tough. It wouldn't be easy for the killer to get into Jim's head and defeat him that way, Grissom knew. But everyone had his limit. Would Gil know when Brass had reached his? Should he even let it go that far?

"I just had to say it," Gil relented at last. "Like I said, it's not my call to make."

"That's right," Brass agreed icily. "It's not. You said your piece, I said mine. That's the end of it." He waited a moment, and when the scientist neither agreed nor disagreed, he added stoically, "Enjoy your breakfast, Gil." As Brass continued down the corridor, he wondered to himself how many of the people who were important to him, he would alienate before this was over. When it came right down to it, Brass was going to have to face this particular demon alone. The killer was slowly separating him from the others around him, and the damnedest thing about it, was that Brass was having to help him. And even if Brass was victorious in the end...what would it have cost him along the way?

Catherine was surprised by the distance between Jim and Cecilia. Something was wrong between them. She hesitated to say anything to the writer just now, Grissom would be back in a moment, and there was no time for observations and explanations. But later, when the women were alone, Catherine was determined to speak up.

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As Brass drove to the office, he kept his eyes on a black, newer model Ford Taurus, two cars back, that had slipped into traffic behind him, soon after Jim had left the parking lot of the lab. He could see in the riewview mirror that the driver was a man. Caucasian. Dark sunglasses. It maintained that same distance for a couple of blocks, turning when Brass did at an intersection. Was it just a coincidence, or was he being followed? Jim turned at the next right, down a one way lane, slowing as he did so. The Taurus continued on at the same speed, the angle not conducive to Brass' obtaining a plate number. The driver made no attempt to follow, he didn't slow or switch lanes, not even turning his head in Jim's direction as he went by. False alarm.

How many more vehicles would he think might be trailing him, their driver potentially a cold-blooded killer playing a deadly game? How many strangers would Jim eye with suspicion in the next days, or weeks? How long could he maintain this heightened sense of being on guard? On checking and double checking every detail? He would wear himself out in no time. Especially if he continued to get just a couple of hours of fitful sleep each night. Last night, Jim hadn't even made it to his bed. Exhausted, sitting in his home office, his eyes had finally closed, his head had lolled and his body had finally shut down, eventually succumbing to its need for rest. The respite had been brief though.

But if Jim let his guard down, if he stopped searching shadows, and stopped being suspicious of strangers, that would be the time that the killer would make his move. Had that happened to Denny, Jim wondered now? Had Denny Martens kept the letter, been discomfitted by it, perhaps been extra vigilent for a while? Until at last, convinced that it didn't really mean anything, he'd relaxed, lulled into a false sense of safety and security? And then finally, the killer had struck. Mowing him down in the middle of the street under a hot Vegas sun, while distracted with a cup of coffee, a brown bag with a donut, and thoughts of his upcoming golf game, Denny had left himself exposed.

But Denny had never really understood the significance of the letter or the severity of the threat. Jim did. He had that edge. And he didn't have to just sit around and wait for the killer to come to him. They had a possible lead now, however small. And Jim had finally admitted to himself that proof of Todd Juneau's culpability in the murders was sketchy and circumstantial at best. He would go back to the beginning. And somewhere, he would find what they had missed the first time around.

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The burden for conversation at breakfast rested heavily on Catherine's slim shoulders that morning. She had envisioned a light-hearted meal, the four of them doing their best to clear away thoughts of the case, so that they could recharge and go back at it with renewed vigor and a fresh perspective. But then Jim had declined, almost moodily so. And now Grissom, never exactly a chatterbox, was even more withdrawn and introverted than normal. She knew that he had to be upset, knowing that Brass was a target. Gil had known Jim for years, and the detective was as close a thing to a friend as Grissom had. But if he was carrying any personal fears or worries, Gil wasn't sharing them. Which, as frustrating as that was, didn't really surprise Catherine.

Gil hadn't opened up to her about Sara's leaving either. He had announced in the break room at start of shift last week that he had hired Paul Tennyson to replace the departing CSI. Tennyson would report to the lab next week. Sara had taken a few days of time owed and was at Quantico right now, interviewing for a position with the FBI. It wasn't hard for Catherine to imagine Sara Sidle as a Fed, actually. Sara had the kind of tenacity that Catherine felt would take her far in that organization, if that was indeed where she ended up. It was still hard to think of Sara not being there at the lab any more though.

As was the case with her relationship with Gil, while there were things that exasperated Catherine about Sara, things she didn't understand and simply couldn't relate to, there was a woman beneath the troubled exterior, that Catherine respected and cared for. And she would miss that Sara. As she knew Gil would, even if he never admitted that to her. Or even to himself.

Catherine watched Cecilia push her hashbrowns and eggs around her plate, in a pretense of eating them. Mostly, the brunette just held the steaming mug of coffee between both hands, as though she needed something to warm her, despite the already oppressive late summer heat. Her expressive, dark eyes would stare into the mocha liquid, and Catherine could read the sorrow there.

So, Catherine donned the mantle of normalacy for all of them. That was her strength. Her gift. And she tried to give Cecilia and Gil something else to think about, if only for a moment or two, while she told them all about the summer camp that Lindsey was attending in the mountains outside of Vegas. With log cabins, a crystal clear lake and canoes, and horses for trail riding through the scenic locale. She left out the fact that the camp was exclusive and expensive, normally something beyond her salary as a CSI, but that she had paid for it with some of the money that Sam Braun had given her one time. A cheque from a father to a daughter. Catherine paused in her description of the camp, wondering for a moment how or when, or even if, she would ever tell Lindsey that the casino mogul was her biological grandfather.

Then Catherine pushed her own ruminations aside, and launched into a one-sided discussion about a newly released film she was eager to see. Trying to pull Cecilia and Gil outside of themselves long enough to give them a break from their own troubled thoughts.

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Greg listened to the whirl and spin of the vials, watching them circle at high speed, unable to distinguish one from another in the blur. Or maybe it was just his eyes that were blurred. Despite loading up on Blue Hawaiian, Greg was beat. Day shift had come on, and Keri had taken over the work for tomorrow's prelim, leaving Greg free to pursue this sample from Catherine.

He waited expectantly, as the machine slowed, crossing over to the printer. If everything had gone right, if he had had a viable enough sample, in another minute or two he would have the DNA profile of whoever had provided the epithelials found on the murdered woman. And Catherine might have the break she needed.