A/N: Man, this chapter was hard to write! It's taken me a while to get my thoughts sorted out with where I wanted things to go next. I've had the ending to this story written from the start. The difficult part is figuring out how to get the characters there. I hope that's sufficient explanation for the length of time between updates. Hopefully, this chapter was worth the wait. :-)
Spoilers: "Homebodies," "Butterflied"
Disclaimer: Surely you jest. Me, own CSI:? Yeah, right. Believe me, if I did, there'd be a whole lot less Grissom on the show because he would be at home with me. Wearing his tuxedo. :-)
Chapter 15: Trappings of the PastGrissom strode quickly toward the Denali, his left hand firmly on Sara's elbow. His eyes scanned the parking lot for danger before they stepped onto its asphalt surface and traversed the short distance to the truck. After ensuring she was safely situated inside, he placed their field kits on the rear floorboard before allowing himself a short sigh of relief as he walked around to the driver's side.
Climbing into the cab of the SUV, he shot Sara a tiny smile before turning the key in the ignition. "So, tomorrow then?"
She looked at him, her own smile broad in response. "I still say you're a sore loser."
He backed out of the parking space before turning to face her with a mock-hurt expression. "Me? Definitely not. I'm just trying to practice good science here. The results of your initial experiment were inconclusive, and I'm not convinced."
She scoffed, "Good science? I think you're trying to sabotage my results, Dr. Grissom."
"Scientific misconduct is a serious charge, Miss Sidle. I hope you have evidence to back up that accusation."
"Not yet, but I do have a hunch you're just trying to get more ice cream out of me without having to admit that you really like it. Just give me the time to prove it." Her smile had become a full-fledged grin, and it evoked a matching expression from Grissom. Finally, she conceded, "OK, fine, we'll repeat the experiment, but I reserve the right to say, 'I told you so,' when you like it. Again."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
Sara shook her head as she looked at him, the grin fading slightly as she regarded her enigmatic supervisor. "I still can't believe I'm having to perform this experiment at all. How can you not like ice cream?"
He sighed as he maneuvered the truck onto the entrance ramp to the interstate, gently pressing the accelerator to urge the behemoth vehicle up to merging speed. He thought about what to say in reply for exactly three seconds. That was the length of time it took to come to the conclusion that things worked much better with Sara when he didn't think about what he should say. And so he opened his mouth and allowed the words to flow.
"My mother owned an art gallery when I was a kid. Well, she still does, but I guess that's beside the point." Glancing nervously in her direction, he caught her surprised expression momentarily before fixing his eyes back onto the interstate, focusing on the small patch of road directly ahead that was illuminated by the Denali's powerful headlights. He saw the dashed white lines pass at regular intervals on the left, ensuring that they remained in their lane, and there was something comforting in their constancy. He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue.
"Anyway, when I was about eight, my mom would make me come to the gallery every day after school. We only lived a couple of blocks away, but I was too young to stay home by myself, so I'd have to go sit in her office and do my homework or read until it was closing time. Then we'd walk home and have dinner and…" He let out a frustrated sigh, his hands reflexively gripping the steering wheel more tightly. I'm babbling. Why can't I just talk to her?
A quick sidelong glance in her direction informed him that she was watching him intently, engrossed in his words. Her interest boosted his confidence, and his grip loosened ever so slightly when he spoke again. "OK, I do have a point here. Just up the street from the gallery was Harrison's Malt Shop. I walked by it every day on my way from school, and there was always somebody in there having a root beer float. Not too surprising since that's what they were known for," he shrugged, maneuvering the big vehicle into the left lane to pass a minivan occupied by a harried woman, a bored teenager, and a screaming child in a car seat.
She smiled slightly at his faraway look, picturing a shy, inquisitive boy with piercing blue eyes and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. "Root beer floats, huh? I love those," she encouraged.
He looked at her wistfully for a second before moving back into the right lane. "I'd always wanted to try one, and I'd ask my mom about it every day. And I do mean, every day. She always told me we had ice cream at home, but it just wasn't the same."
Sara nodded. A homemade bowl of ice cream just couldn't compare to a root beer float at the local malt shop in the same way that microwave popcorn couldn't measure up to the $5 bag at the movie theater.
His expression grew more melancholy as he shook his head. "So, finally, after probably three months of daily requests, my poor mother is at the end of her rope. It's been a horrible day at the gallery, and she is completely exasperated, and me asking for a root beer float is the last thing she needs. She just breaks down."
He huffed an angry snort through his nose as he shook his head, still upset with himself even after all these years. "I'd never even seen my mother cry before, but now she's got these tears running down her cheeks. And I can still remember her words forty years later. 'Gil, it's just you and me. We can't afford root beer floats. Be content with what you have. We have ice cream at home.'"
Sara's heart nearly broke at the anguish she heard in his voice and the onslaught of emotion it evoked in her. She felt terribly saddened by the narrative itself, incredibly privileged that he had shared it with her, and exceedingly guilty that she had started this conversation, albeit unwittingly, with her question. She sensed the depth of his self-loathing and identified with it fully as she was reminded of her own guilt over a family portrait and her father's death. Frantically searching for words of comfort to offer, she was disappointed to find her mental reserve sorely lacking in that department, and she settled instead for a question she hoped would divert his unpleasant thoughts. "Where was your fath-"
"Not there." He cut off her query immediately, eyes blazing and tone curt, and she mentally berated herself for her lack of perception. In all the years you've known him, you've never once heard Grissom mention his father, and that's the topic you choose as a diversion? Idiot. That was stupid. Stupid! Her inner monologue deteriorated into far more crass language as she watched his knuckles whiten with his tightening grip on the steering wheel.
His next words were spoken so softly that she had to strain to hear them over the high-pitched hum of rubber on asphalt. "I swore to myself that I would never make my mother cry again. And I ate ice cream at our house every day until the day I left home." He heaved a tiny laugh, a joyless sound as he turned his face slightly in Sara's direction. "You know, I've still never had a root beer float."
I have to get him out of this funk, or he'll never tell me anything about himself again, she thought, desperate for a way to steer the conversation into happier waters. Injecting a touch of humor into her voice as she spoke, she silently prayed that it would lighten his dark mood. "Well, they're overrated."
She breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of genuine amusement when he chuckled. The spark was back in his eyes when he glanced in her direction. "That's not what you said a few minutes ago."
"No, I said I love them. Not that they're accurately rated." Sara grinned broadly at him, barely able to contain her elation at her success in prodding him from his dark and depressing memories. He smirked slightly, and she turned her gaze to the passing scenery.
The lights of extravagant hotels moved slowly past in the distance, and she noticed that they were not far from their exit. That reminded her of their destination, and she turned back to Grissom. "Hey, I saw your comparison of the cases. Nothing really jumped out at me about how he chooses his victims, though. You?"
His eyes widened as he remembered his earlier thoughts on the Shea case, and he looked at her. Shaking his head, he responded, "No, not about how he chooses them. But I did think of something that concerns you."
She raised her eyebrows expectantly, encouraging him to fill her in. "You know, that note said that he had 'worked' with you before the Ellis murder." At her nod, he continued, "But, Sara, Allison Shea wasn't your case. You said yourself that it was only by chance that you even knew about it."
She snapped her head back to face the road ahead, staring out with wide eyes at a view she didn't really see, not comprehending how such an important detail had eluded her. When she looked back at Grissom, eyes wild and lips slightly parted, his initial thought was that she reminded him of an unbroken thoroughbred. "There has to be another case," she said, and there was no question in her tone.
"Yes," he replied simply.
She returned her gaze toward the side window, deep in thought as she chewed her thumbnail absently. Grissom cast cautious looks in her direction as the silence settled over the cab like an ominous cloud. His anxiety mounted with each passing second, and he opened his mouth to speak when the stillness became unbearably oppressive.
But Sara beat him to it. "Griss, I can count on one hand the number of unsolved murder cases I've been involved with since I've been here, and none of them match this MO." He glanced at her skeptically, but she cut him off as she enumerated each case on her fingers to illustrate her point. "Sandy Fletcher, college student, shot in the head and left behind a convenience store. Danielle Cummings, prostitute, stabbed in a seedy motel room after spending an hour with a john. Suzanna Kirkwood, killed outside her family's house as she was bringing home groceries." Her voice wavered a little as she spoke about the terrified teenager, but she took a deep breath and pressed on. "And Debbie Marlin, nurse, throat slashed in her bathroom."
Grissom sucked in a sharp breath at her matter-of-fact account of the one victim who had affected him more than any other, but she didn't appear to notice as she pressed on with her introspective review of the cases that haunted her. "But that's it. And, even in those cases, we always at least had a suspect, even if there wasn't enough evidence…"
Her voice trailed off, and he regarded her warily, his level of concern steadily growing. "Sara…" He began, but she held up a hand without looking at him.
"Don't start. I don't need a diversion, Grissom. I just… I care, OK? So I go back to the files every now and then when we have a slow night. I haven't finished my job for them. Everybody deserves justice, and they haven't gotten it yet," she finished softly, and he thought her defeated sigh was probably the most heartbreaking sound he'd ever heard.
"I know," he replied, trying to incorporate everything he felt into that simple statement as he slowed the SUV and pulled into the exit lane. When they came to a stop at the traffic light at the bottom of the exit ramp, he watched her as she gazed unseeingly out the passenger side window. He could feel her slipping away from him into emotional turmoil, and he knew he had to do something to reach her. Something drastic, he thought. Finally, he let out a quiet breath and touched her arm to get her attention. "Sara."
"Hmm?" she asked absently, her concentration still focused elsewhere.
"Let's talk."
And that simple sentence captivated her. She swiveled her head around rapidly to face him, eyebrows arching in question. "What?"
"Talk. You know, the lips and tongue coordinate to form sounds in conjunction with air vibrating over the larynx. It's the way humans communicate with each other. Surely you've heard of it?"
He ventured a smile, eyes crinkled with mischief, and she couldn't help but laugh. "Talk about what?"
"I don't know," he shrugged. "Anything not related to work."
"Not related to work?" Her initial reaction was astonishment. That is, until the full implications of what he had said occurred to her. "Wait, anything?" she pressed, unable to keep the teasing tone out of her voice as she grinned.
A slightly panicked expression crossed his face as he glanced at her. "Well, anything within reason."
She smirked and tapped a slender finger against her lips as she debated which, of the plethora of questions she had always wanted to ask Grissom, would she actually pose to him at this particular juncture. He felt a flush creep up his cheeks as she continued to watch him, and he steadfastly kept his eyes fastened on the road as he steeled himself for the inevitable humiliating questions. But what actually came out of her mouth surprised him. "What were you like as a kid?"
He blinked, and his eyes narrowed before he looked over at her in bewilderment. "Me? As a kid?" She grinned and nodded her assent. He tilted his head slightly to the side as he returned his gaze to the road. "Sara, of all the things we could talk about, this is what you pick?"
She shrugged, but her grin did not fade as she responded. She'd been expecting this. "You said anything within reason. Our pasts determine our futures, and I want to know how you became who you are. Isn't that reasonable?"
He frowned but could not argue with her logic. Yes, Sara, it's reasonable. Just not that exciting. For a moment, he contemplated why it would bother him if she weren't intrigued by his childhood, but he forced the thought away before he could examine it too closely. He pursed his lips as he debated how to answer her question, slowing to a stop behind a late-model sedan at a busy intersection. Exhaling heavily through his nose, he said, "What I was like… OK…"
He shook his head, unsure of the best way to describe himself in his younger years. At last, he decided to relate some of his childhood activities. "Look, Sara, I wasn't a normal kid. I used to take care of my ant farm. I conducted science experiments. And, when I was a little older, I would go to the beach – not to swim, but to look for dead animals to dissect." He sighed, painfully aware of just how different he had always been. "What was I like as a kid? I was weird."
She frowned at his chosen terminology and shifted in her seat to face him directly, the seat belt digging into her hip unmercifully. "You weren't weird, Grissom. You were unusual."
He smirked, depressing the accelerator as the traffic light changed to green. "Well, six of one, half-dozen-"
She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "No, they're not the same thing. 'Weird' is a destructive word, and it always has a negative connotation. But 'unusual' can be positive, negative, or neutral, depending on the context."
He arched a brow, mulling over her comment and deciding that she was right. Glancing at her as they turned onto a side street, he nodded in silent acknowledgment of her statement, only to be rewarded with her next remark. "In this case, I'd say 'unusual' was a positive thing."
She smiled sweetly at him, and he felt the heat rising on his cheeks as his own lips curved upward seemingly of their own accord.
XXXXXXXXX
It was an unexpected delight to find a parking space so close to the courthouse, even at 8:00 at night, and Grissom seized it eagerly, expertly parallel-parking the oversized vehicle while Sara gathered her legal pad and pen. By the time he had removed the key from the ignition, she was reaching for the door handle and, for the second time in less than an hour, he grabbed her arm.
"Sara." It came out sharper than he'd intended, and he softened his tone of voice with a slight smile when she looked at him, shaking his head at her actions. "You need to wait for me," he said, looking pointedly at her hand still resting on the door handle.
She rolled her eyes dramatically but shrugged and took her arm away from the door. He nodded and, after checking the side mirror to ensure he wouldn't be struck by a passing car, got out of the Denali. He walked briskly around the front of the truck, and Sara watched him, muttering snidely, "My hero."
And, immediately, remorse washed over her. Nice, Sara. Way to be grateful, she chided herself. He's gone out of his way to protect you and make you feel at home, and you respond with nothing but sarcasm. Yeah, good choice. Maybe you can ask him if he's got a puppy you can kick while you're at it.
She was so deeply engrossed in her inner diatribe of self-reproach that she did not notice Brass' arrival until he pulled open the passenger door. "Hey, Sara, wanna join us sometime tonight?" His knowing smirk was grating, and she rolled her eyes in reply as she climbed out of the SUV.
The two men flanked her as they walked toward the enormous granite structure, and she was taken aback by just how much it unnerved her to see each of them glancing about suspiciously as they walked. "Stop that," she hissed without breaking stride.
Grissom looked at her in surprise, bringing his hand up to rest lightly against her lower back in a gesture of concern. "Stop what?"
"The paranoia," she snapped. Softening her tone a bit upon seeing his slight flinch, she glanced over at Brass before looking back at her supervisor and said, "It's not that I don't appreciate the manly man routine from you both. I do. But you're making me nervous," she finished, offering a weak smile.
Grissom didn't know how to respond to that, but their arrival at the entrance precluded it anyway. His hand still grazing Sara's back, he reached for one of the glass doors, gallantly holding it open for her. As he trailed her inside, he looked at Brass, who merely shrugged as he followed.
The stocky guard at the metal detector recognized them and, after a cursory glance at their badges and a quick documentation on his clipboard regarding their firearm possession status, allowed them to bypass the machine.
From the information board by the elevator bank, Brass quickly ascertained that Jeremy Rankin's office was on the fourth floor and, within minutes, he was knocking heavily on the door. After a brief wait, the frazzled attorney appeared, and the cop quickly made the introductions, prompting polite handshakes all around. Rankin ushered them into a plush conference room, and Sara's eyes swept the enclosure, taking in the columns of law books heaped at least three deep on the far end of the table, the piles of paper scattered at seemingly random intervals, the general state of disarray in that isolated section of an otherwise pristine room.
Seeing her knowing look, Rankin reddened and neatly gathered a stack of papers, muttering a brief apology before motioning for them to sit and offering his full attention. Sara looked briefly at her boss, who gave her a barely perceptible nod to indicate she should take the lead. She smiled slightly before turning her gaze back to the lawyer.
She focused on him for a moment, noticing the stress and fatigue that had etched themselves into the lines of his face. He was in his early thirties, but his eyes looked older, as if they had seen too much too soon. The sight saddened her, and she drew in a deep breath before she spoke. "Mr. Rank-"
"It's Jeremy," he broke in tiredly.
She smiled. "Jeremy. How long did you know Allison Shea?"
The hurt flickered across his face momentarily, but then he was all business, draping a professional demeanor over himself like a wizard's mantle. "A little over two years."
"She was your girlfriend?" Sara asked softly, though she already knew the answer. Sometimes the reaction itself was more important than the words used.
"My fiancée, actually," he corrected with a sigh. When Sara arched an eyebrow in surprise, he smiled grimly. "We were going to get married during her Christmas break from school. I only asked her the week before she..." His voice trailed off, the mantle slipping slightly as the pain of loss made its presence felt.
But he readjusted the cloak and met the young CSI's gaze resolutely. "I met Ally when I was hiking in the Sierra Nevadas with a friend. She was very natural and very independent, and I loved that about her, you know? We spent the whole weekend with her and her roommate, and I learned all these little things about her. Like how she always smiled when she drank water straight from the river. How she thought it was ironic that she was studying in LA to prepare for a life of protecting nature. How she hated bugs but would never kill one because it was part of nature."
Sara glanced casually across the table at Grissom with a tiny smirk, and he glared at her mildly before directing his own question to the attorney. "You say she was studying in LA?"
"UCLA," Rankin nodded. "Finishing up her master's in marine biology. She planned to stay on and get her Ph.D. there before she went to work for Greenpeace saving dolphins from tuna fishermen. That was her passion in life. She loved dolphins and hated what people were doing to them."
"So she came here to finish her Ph.D. instead?" Sara queried.
The lawyer scoffed as he ran a hand roughly across his lower jaw. "Doesn't sound like the independent woman I just described, does it?" he asked bitterly. "Hell, UNLV doesn't even have a marine biology program. I mean, why would they? It's in the middle of the desert, for crying out loud!"
He dropped his eyes to the table, and Sara watched as he clenched his fists tightly in an attempt to calm himself down. When he finally looked back up at them, the hurt was unmistakable, the mantle lying in tatters before him. "I was tired of driving back and forth to LA, and I was trying to build a name for myself. I wanted her to come here, finish up her Ph.D., let me finish building my career, then we'd move to San Francisco. She could do her save-the-dolphin thing, I'd start my own practice, and we'd both live happily ever after. We had a huge argument about it, but she finally gave in."
Grissom silently absorbed the lawyer's words, unable to resist drawing the parallel between Sara and himself. She had given up her life and career in San Francisco to come to Las Vegas on a moment's notice – all because he had asked. His brow furrowed as his mind wandered further down its introspective path.
Rankin shook his head in frustration as he continued his narrative. "She tried to put a good face on it, and she told me she could just get her Ph.D. in environmental engineering. Said it would make her even more valuable to Greenpeace. And her undergrad degree had been in environmental engineering, so it wasn't like she was starting over. But she hated it. And I knew she did, but I didn't say anything. I just bought her gifts when I had the chance, and I asked her to marry me, knowing she'd do it."
The older CSI listened intently to the young man's words. Two years after her arrival, Sara had agreed to stay in Vegas despite her obvious unhappiness. And it wasn't because he had addressed what was making her unhappy but because he had offered her the slightest hint of something more.
The attorney sighed deeply. "The only thing she loved more than marine biology was me. And she'd still be alive if she hadn't come here." And the unspoken leap in logic hit Grissom squarely in the gut, stealing his breath for a moment.
Sara heard the implied conclusion, too, and she leaned forward to speak to Rankin more intimately. "Hey, you didn't kill her. Coming to Las Vegas was her independent choice. She came because she wanted to, because she wanted to be with you. Don't cheapen that by feeling guilty about it."
As she sat back in her seat, she noticed Grissom's intense stare and met his eyes momentarily, her own narrowing slightly in confusion. The force of his scrutiny made her uncomfortable, and she looked away quickly, trying to make some sense of the scribbles on her legal pad even as she felt the continuing heavy weight of his gaze on her.
Brass noticed the charged moment and recognized it for what it was – Gil figuring things out. Finally. He stepped in for the flustered pair and mentioned something he'd noticed a little earlier. "I see you're wearing a ring, Mr. Rankin."
"Yeah," the young man replied, looking down at his left hand as if seeing the ring for the first time. "I just got married a few months ago."
Both criminalists followed his gaze to the wedding ring, and Brass pushed for more details. "Somebody you met recently?"
Grissom glanced at the detective, curious as to his line of thought, but Brass kept his eyes focused on Rankin. "Um, a year or so ago," Jeremy responded absently. "She used to be a court stenographer, but she quit when we got married."
And then, as if suddenly putting it all together, the young man snapped his head up to meet Brass' gaze. "What, I'm not allowed to get married now? I'm supposed to grieve forever?"
The cop held his hands up defensively. "Hey, I was just making conversation."
"Right," the young man intoned bitterly. He looked over at Sara, directing his words to her alone, as though she were the only one in the room who would understand. "I loved Ally with all my heart. Still do. But she's been dead for two years, and I had to get on with my life. It's as simple as that."
She nodded, unsure what he wanted from her, but it seemed to appease him, and he sat back in his seat. Silence fell over the room and, at last, Rankin looked up at them with tired eyes. "Look, I want to be helpful, but I've still got a lot of work to do. So, if you don't mind…"
He escorted them out, and Grissom handed him a business card. "If you think of anything else, give us a call." The young man nodded as he shut the door behind them.
XXXXXXXXX
His hand was on her back again, and it was making her insane. Sara was always aware of Grissom's presence, whether he was across the room or standing beside her, whether he was looking at her or looking elsewhere. But his actual intentional physical touch was something else altogether, and she had to fight not to shrug away from it. Much as she enjoyed the feel of his fingers lightly grazing her lower back, it was almost more sensation than she could bear. And that's why she was so happy to see the familiar face in the break room as they walked by.
"Nick!" Her voice was probably a little too enthusiastic but, at the moment, she didn't care. And the Texan didn't seem to notice.
"What up, Sar?" he drawled, patting the seat of the couch next to him.
With a glance back at Grissom, she moved away from his hand gratefully. "I'll be all right," she assured him quickly in response to his worried expression. He looked around her at Nick for a second, fixing the young man with a withering stare that was meant to encourage him to take his role in Sara's protection seriously.
When Nick only seemed confused, Grissom rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at Sara before turning and abruptly leaving the room. The young criminalist looked up at her in surprise as he asked, "What was that all about?"
She laughed as she plopped down onto the couch beside him. "He was telling you it's your turn to babysit, and you'd better get me back in one piece." Irritated as she could get with Grissom's protective behavior, it was endearing, and it was starting to grow on her. Somehow it made her feel like he cared… She stopped her treacherous thoughts before they could wander any further toward a dead end.
Nick grinned and raised his eyebrows in question. "Speaking of babysitting, how are things going staying with the boss?"
"Fine," she answered evasively. She wanted to keep her private time with Grissom just that – private. Somehow, discussing it with Nick would spoil it and make it seem less real.
He nodded, understanding that she didn't want to share and hoping that their supervisor was being tolerable. Things had been uncomfortable between those two for a while now, but he knew the older man had feelings for her. They all knew. And they all recognized his paralyzing fear of getting involved with Sara and how it made him keep her at arm's length. For all their boss thought he was keeping his emotions under wraps, the truth was glaringly obvious to those who knew him best. And Nick was suddenly upset by the idea that Grissom couldn't manage to put his fears aside and be a compassionate human being for once. "You let me know if he doesn't play nice," the young man said, trying to maintain a joking manner.
But she heard his anger, and his level of concern went straight to her heart. Yet, she felt protective of Grissom, and she needed Nick to understand the truth. "He's being very nice," she said sincerely. She looked at her colleague, willing him with her eyes to believe her and, when he seemed to comprehend, she smiled. "Thanks, Nicky," she said and, overwhelmed by his reaction, she impulsively leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.
"Hey!" he protested mildly as he reached up to wipe the spot she had kissed. "None of that mushy stuff unless you're willing to go further." He wiggled his eyebrows at her with a grin. She laughed and dug her elbow playfully into his side, prompting a weak "Ouch" from her friend.
"Hey, how's Jenny?" she asked, suddenly remembering that Nick's younger sister was due to have her first child any day now. "Has she had the baby yet?"
He shook his head with a grin. "Jeff calls me every day complaining about how she gets more and more intolerable. I keep telling him I don't have any sympathy for him. I grew up in a house with six sisters. 'Intolerable' was a way of life."
She smiled. "Have they decided on the name yet? It's getting down to the wire."
"Well, they're still arguing over middle names, but at least they've agreed on Jessica for a girl or Carter for a boy."
The mention of the boy's name made her smile more broadly, and she thought back to her earlier conversation with herself regarding surnames as first names. And her subsequent thought of "Gil" as a nice first name. Her eyes widened as she realized she had called him by that name for the first time only the day before. I didn't even know I'd done that. It just seemed so natural at the time.
Still in a daze, she didn't notice Nick trying to get her attention until he tapped her on the shoulder. "Earth to Sara. Come in, Sara," he grinned.
"Huh? Oh, uh, sorry," she muttered, desperately trying to refocus on the conversation.
He smiled as he told her, "It's OK. Don't worry, I'm not offended by your zoning out on me." He focused his attention on the journal in his lap.
She shook her head and smiled broadly at him, her mind still filled with thoughts of Grissom. And she suddenly remembered something. "Hey, Nick."
"Yeah?"
Reaching into her back pocket, she dug out a five-dollar bill and held it out to him. "Will you go out and get me a couple of bottles of root beer later? Twenty-ounce A&W, if you can find it. I'll owe ya." He looked confused but, to his credit, he didn't question her, just shrugged and agreed, pocketing the money without further comment.
One by one, the rest of the team filed into the room, and Nick and Sara took their places at the table. Grissom entered last, preoccupied with perusing the assignment slip in his hand. He dropped it onto the table as he sat, looking up and feeling a twinge of pride at the sight of his team assembled and ready to go. "OK, fill me in."
Catherine spoke up first. "Well, the hair I found in the Ellis bedroom is not a match to any of the family members. I just need a suspect to compare it against. And I just got the phone records for both victims' places of residence, along with cell phone records for both. Haven't had a chance to look through them yet, but it's first on my agenda."
Grissom nodded and glanced at Warrick. "What about the printer?"
The dark-skinned young man nodded. "Yeah, I finally got through to LaserJet Logistics, but I don't know how helpful their info is going to be. Their last three clients in this area are the Tangiers, Nevada State Bank, and Desert Palm Hospital. Each one bought at least 300 new printers."
Nick let out a low whistle, and Warrick nodded. "I know. Unless we can narrow that down, it doesn't help much." He turned back to Grissom and told him, "Oh, and there were no prints on the note. Not surprising, I guess, but kinda disappointing anyway." He looked at Sara apologetically, and she gave him a heartfelt smile despite the heaviness in her stomach.
"OK," their boss responded, and Sara heard her own feelings reflected in his voice. "What about you, Nick?"
"Well, we do have one unknown print from the kitchen table at the Ellises. All the other prints matched up with some family member except that one, and there are no matches in AFIS. Plus, it came from the table near where the note was found."
"That doesn't make sense, though," Sara chimed in. "There weren't any prints on the note itself but he left one on the table?"
Nick agreed. "I know. I thought the same thing. Only thing I can figure is that he only had on one glove? Farfetched, I know."
It was Greg's turn to comment. "Well, the DNA from the plate found in the kitchen was XX. No matches in CODIS. What if the killer is female?"
All eyes turned to face him, and he could almost see the wheels turning. It was Sara who spoke first. "Well, most serial killers are male, but there are the rare exceptions."
Catherine shook her head in frustration. "I still don't get it. The restraints were tied so loosely they were almost for show and couldn't have had any usefulness in restraining the victims anyway. Now we're thinking a woman could have done this? I don't buy it."
Grissom shook his head, exasperated with himself for not considering all the possibilities. "We can't let ourselves be tied to conventional wisdom here. We don't really have all of the information. Maybe the restraints were physical, maybe psychological. Either way, until we know more about whatever was used on the victims, we can't rule anything out. A female suspect is just as viable as a male."
"Wait, victims?" Nick broke in. "As in, more than one? I thought we just had Marilyn Ellis."
"Yeah, sorry about that," Sara responded with a sheepish grin. "Guess we should fill you in. We found a second victim." She reached into her field kit and laid the Shea file down on the table in front of Nick. "Allison Shea, 28. She was a Ph.D. student at UNLV and was found dead in the apartment she shared with her boyfriend in August of 2002. Cause of death was a lethal injection of sodium chloride into the carotid artery."
Nick nodded, the light of familiarity shining in his eyes, and Warrick commented, "Hey, I remember that case. Nick and I thought at first that it was the boyfriend, but he had a rock-solid alibi. Lawyer, right? Working on a big case with a bunch of other lawyers?"
She nodded. "Grissom and I just got through talking to him. He's an assistant DA these days. He didn't really have a lot of pertinent information, but we did find out a little bit about her background. Maybe it will help us figure out how the killer chooses the victims."
Opening the file to the photos of the crime scene, she pointed to the fishing net wrapped loosely in a figure-eight pattern around Shea's wrists. "This is really similar to the way Marilyn Ellis was bound, except she was restrained with pantyhose."
Grissom picked up the assignment slip and extended it toward Nick as he spoke. "But, important as the Ellis and Shea cases are, I can't have all of us working on them. I need you and Greg to handle this one. 419 found in the desert. Vartan will meet you there."
The younger CSI started to protest but thought better of it when his supervisor glared at him, and he reached instead for the slip. "Sure, Griss." Rising from the table, he squeezed Sara's shoulder lightly and grinned at Greg. "Come on, young one, we'll have you using your Jedi powers in no time. Learn from the master."
"Yeah, right. I'll try to do that," the spike-haired scientist snorted as he got up and grabbed his own field kit from the floor.
"Do or do not. There is no try," Nick responded, earning guffaws from the two remaining younger CSIs and bewildered stares from their older counterparts. "Sorry," he shrugged, fairly shoving his charge through the door ahead of him.
Sara watched them shuffle out before returning her attention to her boss. He met her eyes briefly before turning slightly to incorporate Warrick into his gaze. "I want you two to go over the Shea case. Rick, fill her in on what you learned when you had the case originally, and Sara can tell you more about our talk with the boyfriend. Maybe you'll find something that's been overlooked."
Turning to Catherine, he jerked his head towards the door and said, "Let's get to those phone records."
As he followed the blonde out of the room, he turned and called Sara by name. When she looked up at him, he smiled and said, "Keep me informed." Her lips slowly curved upward as she watched him walk away.
TBC…