A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story. It's very motivating! :) And I haven't forgotten the "Agent Sidle" storyline. There is a purpose for that, and it will all be revealed in due time as our favorite characters figure it out. Good things come to those who wait, guys! I promise I'll do my best to make it worth your while if you'll keep reading. Just don't give up on me now! :)
Spoilers: "Scuba Doobie Doo"
Disclaimer: Maybe if I'm really good, Santa will give me CSI: for Christmas. Nah, I could never be that good. And, until then, they're not mine. :) Hey, Santa, could I just have Gil Grissom? Pretty please with sugar on top? :)
Chapter 9: Delayed ReactionNick absently tapped the piece of paper against the table as he glanced down at his watch. 9:37. Officially, it was 23 minutes before shift was supposed to start but he, like the rest of the team, had already been here for nearly an hour. It was still early for them, but 9:37 p.m. was bordering on too late to call a normal person. Especially a normal person with three children. He smiled as he realized, for probably the millionth time, exactly how abnormal his life was. But he knew he wouldn't have it any other way. Making his decision, he glanced down at the paper before he flipped open his cell phone and began dialing. This was too important to wait.
The voice that answered on the second ring sounded tired but not really sleepy. "Hello?"
Nick took a deep breath and asked politely, "Could I speak with Mr. John Ellis?"
"Speaking," the voice replied, a hint of trepidation shimmering just beneath its glassy surface.
"Sir, my name is Nick Stokes. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime L-," he started.
"Do you have information about my wife's case?" Ellis interrupted, the fatigue in his voice now far less prominent.
"Not anything definitive, sir," the CSI replied sadly, "but we're working as hard as we can, and we're hoping to uncover some leads very soon. I'm sorry to call so late, but we were hoping you would be willing to cooperate with us by providing DNA samples and fingerprints for comparison with the evidence we collected from your home."
"Of course," the older man responded quickly. "Anything to help find Marilyn's... killer." The last word was spoken quietly but with venom, as if the flood of frustration and helplessness he felt could be released simply by directing it into that bitter, bisyllabic stream.
Nick had heard that same tone countless times before, and it still had the same effect on him. It made him want to take away the pain. Blinking back his own emotion, he began again gently, knowing this request would be more difficult. "We'd like to get samples from each of your children as well. We just need to know what should be there and what shouldn't."
Ellis was silent for a long moment, something the younger man had fully expected. He'd been down this road before. As a general rule, parents didn't like the idea of giving their children's DNA and fingerprints to law enforcement. Something about Big Brother, he guessed, knowing deep down that he would probably feel the same way if it were his own child.
He waited patiently and eventually heard a deep sigh from the other end of the phone. "Is that absolutely necessary?"
"It's not mandatory, sir, by any means. But I do believe it would help us rule out what is supposed to be in your house. Then, by process of elimination, we can find out what's not supposed to be there."
There was another brief pause and, this time, Nick's patience was rewarded with Ellis' resigned agreement. "All right. But I can't bring my kids to the police station. It would just be too traumatic. Can you come here?"
"Absolutely."
"When should I expect you? First thing tomorrow?"
"Well, actually,..." Nick began, taking a deep breath before continuing. This was a lot to ask. "I was kind of hoping we could come out tonight." He bit his lip, trying to somehow judge Ellis' reaction without being able to see him. "I know it's a lot to ask, but..." He'd been about to launch into an impassioned plea about how evidence was time-sensitive, was ready to explain that their chances of solving the crime were significantly better in the first few hours after it was committed, but the older man cut him off.
"You're in luck, Mr. Stokes. I went to pick up my son from football camp earlier today, and my mother-in-law just got here with the girls a little while ago, so we're all still awake. If you come right now, we'll give you what you need. Otherwise, it'll have to wait until a more convenient time."
"Yes, sir. I'll be right there. And thank you."
"You can thank me by finding the animal who's responsible for this." And, with that, the phone clicked, and John Ellis was gone. Nick closed his cell phone, shaking his head at the emotions he'd heard in the other man's voice, the emotions he'd felt for himself. He had heard the grief, the anger, the exhaustion, the worry. He had felt all of those in his own mind, coupled with his own fear for Sara, the feelings intermingling to produce an overpowering desire for justice and, though he wouldn't consciously admit it, revenge. This family had not deserved to have its wife and mother ruthlessly removed from its midst – just like his friend, and the rest of their team, had done nothing to warrant living with the fear that it would happen to her next – and he only hoped he could do something about that.
The sudden rush of anger he felt took him by surprise, but he quickly refocused it into professionalism. Flipping open the cell phone's cover again, he gathered his kit from the floor before hitting a button on the speed dial. He was already walking down the corridor toward the parking lot when a gravelly voice picked up on the other end. "Hey, Brass. I need you to come with me..." It was 9:46.
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"Hey, Al." Catherine walked confidently into the morgue with a smile on her face. "I hope you're able to be a little more helpful this time."
He grinned as he looked over his glasses at her from his seat next to the lab bench. "Well, I live to serve, Catherine," he replied, holding up the paper he had been reviewing. "Your tox results."
Her face sparked with interest as she reached for the sheet. "What's the verdict?"
She raised her eyebrows when he pulled the results just out of her reach. "Patience is a virtue," he smirked.
She scoffed at that. "Oh, well, that must be why I've never been accused of being virtuous."
Doc's face crinkled with laughter, his oversized belly jiggling like St. Nick's proverbial bowlful of jelly. "Hey, far be it from me to suggest that you were anything less than virtuous." His laughter diminished into a chuckle before dying away completely as his professional demeanor was restored. He waited for Catherine's composure to return before speaking again. "The official cause of death is cardiac arrest."
"Cardiac arrest?" She was incredulous. "Tell me she didn't have a heart attack." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt conflicted. Maybe it would be better for the family if it had been a heart attack. They would still grieve, but there would be closure without the resultant distrust of humanity. On the other hand, natural causes weren't really adding up with the other evidence at the scene.
"Jumping to conclusions again, Catherine?" Robbins smiled. "No, not a heart attack. 'Cardiac arrest' is just a catch-all term meaning the heart stops beating, but there are any number of things that can precipitate that. In your vic's case, it was poisoning."
"Really," she stated, her curiosity now piqued. "What kind of poison?"
"An interesting one," he replied. Turning slightly on his stool, he rummaged among the papers on the bench for a moment. Finding what he was looking for, he extended it toward the CSI. "Her blood chemistries."
She quickly scanned the sheet, noting the bolded numbers as the physician explained them. "Slightly high sodium value with a markedly elevated chloride. She also had an alarmingly low hemoglobin, along with some other abnormalities which lead me to believe the poison probably destroyed her red blood cells."
Lifting her head to look at him, she asked, "So what does that tell us? She was injected with salt water, and it killed her red blood cells and made her heart stop?" It didn't sound right to her, but she'd certainly heard of stranger things. Who knew how much of anything could kill a person?
"Not exactly," Doc replied, "but you're not far off. She was injected with a sodium salt, but it wasn't sodium chloride. We found hypochlorous and hydrochloric acids, the byproducts of sodium hypochlorite breakdown, in her blood."
"Sodium hypochlorite? Death by Clorox?" she questioned, taking the faxed form he held out to her. She'd seen enough suicides by household cleaning agents to last a lifetime, but they always taught her something – like the chemical name for the active ingredient in ordinary bleach.
"Precisely," he intoned. "What's unusual about it is that a fatal dose of bleach is normally taken orally, not injected – and, of course, it's normally suicide and not murder, but that's a separate issue altogether. The point is, there are only a few case reports of bleach injection into a vein, and none of those were lethal."
"People never cease to amaze me. There are actually other people out there who have tried to poison with injected bleach?" Despite her years of experience, there were still times when man's inhumanity to man was a little much to stomach.
"No, the case reports were in drug abusers who used bleach to sterilize their needles, so they only received a negligible dose. And the only case report of a fatality caused by bleach in the bloodstream was when a patient accidentally received it in her dialysis fluid. As far as I can tell, this is the first time there's been an intentional death with IV bleach."
Catherine wasn't quite sure how she should feel about that. It somehow made her feel slightly better that this hadn't been attempted before, that mankind had only just now sunk to this new depth. On the other hand, though, first cases were tough. There were no experts on whom to lean, no experience with the crime, no tried and true path to solving the case. A first case made you a pioneer and, while that had the potential to be exhilarating, it was nonetheless daunting.
Then again, she had never been one to be afraid of risk. It was what made life worthwhile. Sometimes you fell flat on your face, sometimes you made out like a bandit, sometimes you just got by. But it was all a challenge. And Catherine was nothing if not up to a challenge. She grinned at the doctor. "Well, there's a first time for everything, Albert. Guess that makes me Christopher Columbus."
"Just don't fall off the edge of the world," he deadpanned to her retreating figure before turning back to the remaining papers on the bench.
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"I hate these stupid phone trees," Warrick grumbled, pressing the star key to begin the recording yet again. It was the third time he'd heard the main menu for LaserJet Logistics, Inc. He'd gotten distracted by looking at Kim's note the last two times and had missed the desired option, compelling him to start over.
Pushing the plastic-encased note away from him to avoid temptation, he groaned as the sickeningly sweet female voice began its recorded drone again, wiping a hand across his forehead as he forced himself to pay attention to the choices. "Thank you for calling LaserJet Logistics. Your call is very important to us..."
"Bite me," he replied aloud, wishing the recording could hear him. Lowering his head onto his folded arms, he listened intently as the recorded voice implored him to listen for the option that would meet his needs. Good Lord, I feel like I'm looking for the right woman...
By the time number seven gave him the opportunity to speak with a real person, he was very nearly at the end of his rope. Pressing the corresponding button on the speakerphone quickly, he reached across the table for his pen as he waited impatiently for the spontaneous sounds of humanity on the other end of the line.
When he only heard the same syrupy female croon, "We're sorry. Our office is closed. Our hours are Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. eastern time. Please try your call again later," it took every ounce of his self-control to curb the desire to throw the telephone across the room.
Looking up at the clock, he noted that he had several hours to wait before he could attempt the call again. Punching the end button on the phone, he snappishly told the recording, "You're not the least bit sorry."
Picking up the note, he stalked out of the breakroom in search of Greg. The lab tech was getting better at evidence processing all the time, and Warrick did his best to provide him with ample opportunity to hone his skills. Now seemed like as good a time as any to let him practice.
He heard the din long before he saw its origin. Greg had the stereo system's volume set just this side of waking the dead, his head bobbing rhythmically to the heavy guitar riff emanating from the speakers. With a wince and a concerted effort not to cover his ears, the CSI walked over to the radio and switched it off. The DNA technician glanced up sharply to discover who had dared to do such a thing and grinned when he saw the culprit. "Hey, man, cutting off Hoobastank borders on blasphemy."
"Hoobastank?" Warrick repeated. "I think that name borders on blasphemy."
"They're a good band," the young scientist whined. "Don't knock 'em till you try 'em."
"Whatever," the taller man shrugged. "Thought you might want to get out of the lab for a while. Do some real CSI work. Of course, if you'd rather listen to Hoobastank..."
"No, that's OK," the technician broke in quickly. "I'll listen to them later. What's up?"
Warrick smiled. "We need a ten-card and a DNA sample from the vic. Thought you might like to go down to the morgue and get them. You can compare the DNA to the samples from the scene, and then you can help me run through a few things on the case if you're not too busy in here." He handed the younger man the necessary supplies.
Greg gave him a toothy grin. "Sure thing."
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Sara clicked the mouse to move to the next picture. "How many of these did Catherine take?" she complained. This one looked exactly the same as the last four. Another close-up of her face. Great. "What exactly am I supposed to be looking for here?"
Grissom sighed. "I don't know, Sara. Anything that looks familiar."
She heaved an irritated sigh and had to bite back the acerbic response on the tip of her tongue. And how exactly is a woman I've never seen before going to look familiar? She knew it wasn't his fault, that the stress of this case was making her peevish, but it didn't prevent her annoyance.
Tapping the button on the mouse again, she exhaled gratefully when she saw a different angle, one that showed the whole body. "Hmm..." she said, turning her head slightly to the side as she stared at the enlarged image on the A/V lab's screen.
"What?" her companion asked, straightening stiffly his chair. "Do you see something?"
"Maybe..." she responded absently, still staring at the picture. There was something vaguely familiar about it, but she couldn't quite place it.
Grissom narrowed his eyes at the screen in response, trying to figure out what had caught her attention. Marilyn Ellis lay propped against the leg of a large canopy bed, her eyes open and fixed, wrists bound loosely with hosiery. She looked pale and somber but, apart from the staring eyes and restrained wrists, she didn't look like the victim of a violent death. She almost looked... peaceful.
He turned his gaze to Sara, trying to read her reaction to the photograph. Her eyes were fastened to the screen, and she barely moved as she remained deep in thought. For a fleeting moment, the absurd notion crossed his mind that she had been turned into stone by the image. And, indeed, the only indications that she was not a statue were the occasional blinking of her eyes and the sporadic clenching of her jaw.
Then, suddenly, the spell was broken by her exultant voice. "That's it!" she cried. And, before he knew what had happened, she pushed her chair forcefully back from the table and was gone, her long-legged stride carrying her swiftly away.
It took his brain a few seconds to process what had happened but, when it did, the fear that poured into his system propelled him out of his seat and down the hall in pursuit. Where the hell is she going? She's supposed to stay with me! "Sara!" He fairly yelled her name.
The fear made him fast, and he soon caught sight of her as she pushed open the door to his office. The surging adrenaline heightened his awareness, and his eyes took in their surroundings at a glance, searching intently for suspicious characters and threats to her safety. Two final steps carried him into the office behind her, his elbow slamming the door ferociously against the wall before its continued momentum then shut it behind them.
"Sara!" His voice was strangled and angry, and he grabbed her from behind, turning her to face him almost violently. His hands gripped her upper arms tightly, and her eyes widened with shock as she saw his expression. Nostrils flaring, he spoke just inches from her face. "You are not to do that ever again! Do you understand me?"
At any other time, those words would have enraged her and spurred her to fight. But here, now, seeing his reddened face, hearing his heaving breaths, looking into his panicked eyes, her only desire was to take away the fear, to soothe the worry. The terror had dilated his pupils, and she felt as if she were looking into his very soul, seeing deeper into the heart of this man than she ever had. And she couldn't look away.
Slowly, gently, she reached her hand up to his cheek, echoing her actions from two years earlier, caressing his now bearded skin soothingly, almost lovingly. His eyes momentarily fluttered closed at her touch, his cheek almost imperceptibly leaning toward her hand. When his eyes opened to meet her own once more, the panic had diminished somewhat, but it was still there, and she ached with the knowledge that she had caused it. "I'm sorry, Gil. I'm sorry I scared you so much."
He nodded as he let go of her arms, her hand correspondingly falling from his cheek. The subsiding adrenaline sapping his energy rapidly, he dropped heavily onto the couch behind him. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the leather as he wiped a hand across his face, sighing deeply as he willed his pounding heart to return to its normal rhythm. If only you knew just how much, he thought.
It wasn't until many hours later that he realized it was the first time he'd ever heard her use his Christian name.
TBC...