A/N: Scientifically proven equation. 55-hour work weeks + overcommitment to community activities + worst case of writer's block ever three-month delay. This is Billy4Me's Law and, yes, it has been validated. :-)
Spoilers: "Butterflied," "Primum Non Nocere," "The Strip Strangler"
Disclaimer: We've got to call in CSI. CSI? What is it? Well, it's a big TV show with lots of attractive stars, but that's not important right now. Heh. Yeah, I don't own CSI: OR Airplane!, but I love them both dearly. :-)
I also don't own the chapter title. It's actually the title of one of my favorite U2 songs, so all the credit goes to Bono and the boys. It's just got such great meaning, and I couldn't resist.
Chapter 21: Running to Stand StillWarrick's eyes burned with the prickly heat of too little sleep and too much caffeine. He blinked twice in an effort to get moisture to his eyes, but to no avail. The effects of a full twenty-four hours without rest weighed him down, even as he held them at bay with the double-tall black coffee he clutched as though his life depended on it.
The adrenaline rush of chasing a clue had kept him alert for the better part of the day but, when he had found himself dozing off while staring at the microfiche, he'd known it was time to call it quits. He'd been gathering his things to head home for a few hours of much-needed rest when the insistent melody of his cell phone had reclassified his day from long to interminable.
Catherine had sounded as exhausted as he felt, but her mention of a second note got the adrenaline coursing through his veins again. And, though his eyes still stung, his pulse and the liquid caffeine he'd stopped to pick up at her request had combined to render him fully awake. At least for the moment.
He eased the Denali to a stop in front of a two-story building that had once been a bastion of Vegas in all its gleaming glory, a throwback to a heyday when gangsters had constructed a shimmering artificial fortress reaching skyward from the dusty ground of the desert. The sturdy brick structure had been remodeled several times since and most recently converted into a four-unit apartment building that bore little resemblance to the mob-operated hotel it once was.
The lanky CSI drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can as he stepped from the truck. When he spotted the familiar figure supervising the setup of crime scene tape, he grabbed his kit along with one of the cardboard containers occupying the Denali's twin cupholders and loped unhurriedly in that direction.
Brass jerked his head around when Warrick extended the coffee into his line of vision, and the younger man's wide grin brought a corresponding smile to his own face. "Thanks, Rick," he said as he took the cup and slowly sipped from its contents.
The weary detective closed his eyes, savoring the bitter tang on his tongue and momentarily ignoring his surroundings. All too soon, reality would once again rear its ugly head and drag him into a world of fear and death and deception. Any escape, no matter how fleeting, was a welcome respite.
Warrick's chuckle was what brought him back. "Man, that coffee must be good."
Brass glanced pointedly at the Starbucks label on the side of the container. "Well, at three bucks a pop, it oughta be."
The younger man's nod was emphatic. "True dat."
"Cath's suggestion?"
Warrick smirked. "More like an order, but yeah."
"Ah, so she's got you buying her frou-frou coffee these days, huh? I wondered who was gonna be next on her sucker list." Brass' grin broadened when the CSI's brow crinkled in confusion, and he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Don't feel bad, Rick. There's one born every minute."
Warrick rolled his eyes at the detective's smug smile and shook his head as he gestured toward the building. "So you gonna fill me in, or what?"
The simple question changed the tenor of the conversation in an instant. Brass' face darkened as he spoke, and the look he leveled at his younger colleague was deadly serious. "No more pussyfooting around with this guy, Rick. We catch him, and we catch him now." And, without another word, he stalked toward the building's entrance, pausing only to slam his half-full cup into a wastebasket as he passed and leaving the stunned scientist scrambling to catch up.
XXXXXXXXX
Catherine snapped one final photograph of the victim's restraints and stepped back to watch David finish his ritual. His capable hands moved respectfully over the body, cataloguing the small puncture wound in the crook of the left elbow and the knee brace still in place on the left leg. Other than a few obvious abnormalities and the typewritten note lying undisturbed on the kitchen table, there was very little to indicate Tania Hutchins' last hours on earth were anything less than pleasant.
Needing more context, the blonde stepped back carefully and surveyed the bedroom. The victim had been a quiet 25-year-old known for her bashful demeanor, but her living quarters revealed her personality vividly. Scuba gear was piled neatly in one corner of the room, ready at a moment's notice. An ancient and obviously well-loved teddy bear sat forlornly in the middle of a bed that seemed too large for the room. Snapshots adorned every available surface, the happiness on the faces of their subjects bright and genuine.
The veteran CSI's gaze was drawn to the photo of a middle-aged man with his arms wrapped around Tania. The resemblance was strong enough that she would have known he was the young woman's father even without the matching uniforms and smiles they wore. A livid Brass had already informed her that the victim had been a highly regarded police diver, the pride and joy and the living legacy of a decorated cop recently killed in the line of duty. But seeing this visual depiction of vibrant and youthful life juxtaposed against the backdrop of premature and unseemly death drove the point home in a way her friend's clipped words had not.
If this killer could so easily murder a police officer, what would keep him from getting to Sara?
"She's all yours." David called the words over his shoulder as he packed the last of his tools, and Catherine was glad he didn't see her jump at the sound. She had been so preoccupied that she had forgotten he was even in the room.
"Thanks, David," she replied with forced cheerfulness, but she knew the effort had fallen flat when she saw his expression. But the young man didn't question, merely gave her a sad smile as he passed, and she couldn't help but wonder if his thoughts were also with Sara.
With a sigh, she set the photo back on the dresser and returned her attention to the body, bagging evidence with a meticulous precision borne of long practice. But the ominous weight of threat hung heavy in the room, making concentration difficult, and she more than once had to redirect her wandering thoughts onto the task at hand.
"Where do you want me?" Warrick's honey-rich baritone was a welcome reprieve, and she glanced up from her position beside the victim to flash him a tired smile.
The young man's eyes were on the strip of black neoprene she was unwinding from the victim's wrists, and he cocked his head to the side as he crouched across from her to study it more closely. "Vic was, what? A diver?"
"What gave it away? The scuba gear in the corner?" She grinned and punctuated the comment with a pointed nod.
Warrick looked surprised as he glanced in that direction, and he shot her a sheepish grin. "Well, I guess it would have if I'd been observant enough to notice that. Some investigator I am."
Catherine regarded him curiously as she bagged the restraints. "So what did tip you off?"
He shrugged. "The restraints are a commentary on the victim. Made sense that the perp would use neoprene for a diver."
It was her turn to look surprised. "The restraints are a commentary on the victim?" she repeated. "How'd you figure that out?"
"Me and Sara went through the old cases and made the connection. COD plays into it, too." He counted each victim off on his fingers as he continued. "Allison Shea, marine biologist who wanted to save dolphins. Cause of death was salt water poisoning, and she was restrained with fishing net. Marilyn Ellis was a housewife, so she got bleach and panty hose. And Javier Ruiz used to be an execu-"
She shook her head as she held up a hand to interrupt him. "Wait a minute. Who?"
Understanding dawned, and he nodded. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Sara found him. Another vic. Killed last November."
"So this girl makes four." The statement was rhetorical, but Warrick nodded anyway.
She suddenly felt very tired and, with an effort, she pushed herself to a standing position. "I've got the body, and Grissom should be here soon. You take the rest of this place and leave the note for him." She was already moving towards the door when she said, "I need some air."
"Hey, Cath." His tone was hushed, and she slowed her progress momentarily to look back at him. When she met his eyes, he gave her a smile. "Your coffee's in the truck."
She nodded and resumed her trek, hoping the hot beverage would somehow counteract the icy grip of violent death.
XXXXXXXXX
Sara awoke with a start, blinking rapidly against the harshness of the early evening sun. Unsure what had roused her, she lay still for long moments, listening to the silence that cloaked the townhouse in an unnatural placidity. And, when the uneasiness became intolerable, she pushed herself to her feet and padded into the hall.
She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but Nick seated at the breakfast bar with his head buried in a case file was certainly not it. Surprised, she halted in the doorway, and the young man looked up at the movement. With a huge grin, he drawled, "Mornin', Sunshine!"
She glared in response, but it inflicted no damage. With the smile still firmly in place, he asked, "Want some dinner? I'm pretty good in the kitchen."
Sara shook her head and narrowed her eyes at him in puzzlement. "Nick, no offense, but why are you here? Where's Grissom?"
"Yeah, I see where I rate," he chuckled. But, when she put her hands on her hips and glared at him, he quickly raised his hands in surrender. "Geez, Sar, lighten up, 'kay? Grissom got called away on a case, and Brass asked me to come over here to stay with you while he's gone."
"What case?" Her question was more a demand than a request.
Nick looked stricken. "Um… look… let's just… uh…"
"Nick!" When he met her eyes, she held his gaze and said, "Tell me."
He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Fine. The killer left another note."
Something inside her had known that he had killed again, but the words still struck with a force that nearly took her breath away. She closed her eyes, and Nick watched her, his anger and guilt building in a pressure cooker of emotion until he could no longer contain it. "Are you happy now? Grissom told me not to tell you but, no, you couldn't leave well enough alone!"
When she opened her eyes to look at him, he saw the moisture lingering there, and the anger drained away, leaving only remorse in its place. "Dang, Sara, I'm sorry."
He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I'm fine. I just, uh… I need some space. I'm… going to take a bath."
He nodded, helplessly watching her back away before the tears fell. When he heard the door click shut down the hall, he swore loudly as he slammed his fist down on the breakfast bar.
XXXXXXXXX
Catherine took a long drink of her lukewarm cappuccino and leaned tiredly against the Denali, eyes closed against the waning twilight and the growing crowd. Attuned to her own erratic thoughts, she barely noticed Brass' appearance until he nudged her arm. "Sleeping on the job?"
She raised a brow in acknowledgement but kept her eyes shut. "Jim. Good to know we can always count on your wry sense of humor."
He chuckled, but there was no joy in the sound. "Sorry I can't do better, but cop killers don't really bring out the comedian in me." When she lifted her head and opened her eyes to look at him, he added, "We have to catch this guy, Cath."
"Yes, we do." Grissom's terse words came from behind the Denali, and they turned to look at him as he continued. "But I fail to see how standing around out here on a coffee break is going to accomplish that."
Brass opened his mouth to retort, but Catherine silenced him with one hand on his arm. With a sigh, she handed him the remains of her cappuccino and extended a hand toward her disgruntled supervisor. "Come on, Gil. I'll fill you in."
Grissom forced himself to calm down as they walked, focusing on his surroundings as he listened to his colleague. He'd been unfair, and he knew it. But he'd been unable to stop himself, and his lack of self-control bothered him. We have to catch this guy. He repeated Jim's words in his head and took comfort in the new mantra.
When they reached the door, he nodded to the young officer guarding the scene and bent to duck under the crime scene tape, but Catherine stopped him. "Gil."
From his awkward position, he glanced up at her, slightly annoyed at the delay. "What?"
Uncertainty crossed her face for just a moment before the familiar confidence took its place. "Are you sure you can handle this?"
His annoyance blossomed into full-blown anger as he drew himself to his full height. "Excuse me?"
"Gil," she said firmly, hoping her repeated use of his name would somehow appeal to his logic. "I've read this note, and we both know it mentions Sara. You need to be sure you can be impartial. Can you?"
Acutely aware of the officer's attention to their conversation, Grissom ducked quickly under the crime scene tape and held it for Catherine to follow. When she did, he took a few steps into the room and hissed quietly in reply, "When have I ever been unable to be impartial?"
"When it involves Sara," she snapped back in a whisper. "Hence the question." When his face darkened further, she held up one hand and continued softly, her voice brimming with compassion. "Look, it wasn't so long ago that you forgot to eat when a woman who looked like Sara was murdered. You worked yourself into the ground over that case, so don't try to tell me you're always impartial. I just need to know if you can handle this. And so do you."
He sighed, his anger assuaged by her quiet words. She was right. Sara's life depended on his rationality, and he could not allow emotion to cloud his judgment, even for a moment. The stakes were too high.
He looked away from his colleague, eyes scanning the room and finally falling on the note lying on the table. And he wanted nothing more than to find its author. Turning to meet Catherine's worried gaze, he calmly replied, "I can handle it."
XXXXXXXXX
Sara ignored the shaking in her hands as she hastily pulled clothes from the bureau. "Jeans… T-shirt…" She muttered under her breath as she grabbed each item, a desperate attempt at a running commentary to distract herself from the dangerous thoughts lurking at the rear of her mind.
The emotions were just below the surface, bubbling and hot and threatening to overflow. But she wouldn't, couldn't, allow that. Not here, not now, with Nick in the next room and Grissom on a case and a killer on the loose…
Stop it! She practically ripped a pair of socks out of the top drawer before roughly slamming it shut and heading for the bathroom. Anger welled up within her, and she allowed it to roil and hiss because it was easier to deal with than the fear.
And she had no shortage of targets. Brass and his misguided paternalism. Nick in all his oblivious glory. And Grissom. Oh, Grissom. He of the emotional repression and the terrified inaction and the over-protective secrecy.
So many reasons to despise the day she'd ever met the man. Her thoughts were dark as she dropped her wadded clothes onto the toilet and adjusted the temperature of the water. Its silken heat caressed her palm, and she stretched out her fingers to watch it cascade over her hand in ever-changing patterns. So many reasons…
She turned to reach for the bubble bath, and a stab of yellow caught her eye. The obnoxious cheerfulness of the color against the bland backdrop of the mirror was startling, and she stood to retrieve the crinkled paper, handling it carefully, as though it were evidence. And, in a way, it was.
The handwriting was messier than even his normal hurried style, as if he hadn't wanted to waste time on forming the letters legibly. But the words… ah, the words. They were a different matter altogether.
"Sara," it began, and she could hear his gentle voice soothing her tattered emotions as she read. "By now, I'm sure you've discovered that I got called away on a case, and I'm equally certain you've dragged it out of Nick that this one is similar to the others. Though I know you're probably angry, I won't apologize for not taking you with me. I am obligated to protect you, and I'm not sorry for fulfilling that responsibility."
She rolled her eyes involuntarily, and her rebellious nature flared, but she forced herself to keep reading. "My only regret is that I didn't tell you face-to-face. You deserved that, and I know this is the coward's way out. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, Sara. When I saw you sleeping, you looked so peaceful that I couldn't bring myself to disturb you. It just seemed cruel."
A loose "G" was scrawled across the bottom almost as an afterthought, but what caught her eye was the one mistake he had made. Where Grissom had printed the word "peaceful," his original writing had been scratched through. But not well enough. She could still read "beautiful" underneath.
The memory of an ice rink and the last time he'd made a comment about beauty flickered across her mind, and she smiled at the remembrance. His words had rendered her speechless then, and she shook her head as she realized they still had the same effect.
So many reasons he made her angry, made her want to cut her losses and run, and only one reason she was still here. But love was the biggest reason of all.
XXXXXXXXX
He couldn't put it off any longer. He had dusted the table for prints, taken multiple photographs, searched for shoeprints on the dingy beige carpet. He'd done everything he could do short of actually reading the note itself.
Intentionally.
Despite his quick reply to Catherine that he could handle processing the killer's message, Grissom knew this case was getting to him. It was crucial that he remain focused, follow protocol, go where the evidence took him. Normally, that wasn't a problem. Then again, the criminals they chased didn't normally mention Sara by name. And the fact that this one did bothered him far more than he was willing to admit.
No emotions in here. His own words to Sara at another serial killer's crime scene floated across his mind, and the irony that it was now he who couldn't seem to control his personal feelings on the job was not lost on him. It was that very awareness that made him drag in a deep breath as he bent to return his fingerprint powder to its spot in his kit. It was time.
Risking damage to the manuscript with photocopying was not an option, so Grissom reached for the legal pad he always kept in his kit and stood wearily, forcing himself to fix his gaze on the lone page lying on the dining room table. Focus, Gil. He sighed heavily as he uncapped his pen to copy the words of a killer.
Agent Sidle (or may I call you Sara?):
Don't think me a
poet,
But I like a good
riddle.
It's more about the
ends,
Than what's in the
middle.
Those who look but
don't see,
Or see only a ghost,
Will too late
acknowledge
An electric mind
superior to most.
I hope you recall
That old theory of
yours,
For, without it, you'll
find
You can't open these
doors.
Don't think me a fool,
Or try and pretend.
I know right where you are,
And I'll have my girls in the end.
Love,
Kim
It was almost eloquent in its simplicity. Four stanzas of verse that simultaneously chilled him to the bone and inflamed him with white-hot rage. He shivered even as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
His heart raced, and he could hear his own pulse thundering wildly in his ears. Focus, Gil, focus. But focus was hard to come by with the poetic outpourings of a deviant mind still echoing in his head, and he tightened his grip on the pen as he fought the insane urge to fling it across the room. He closed his eyes and moved his fingers to his wrist, willing himself to breathe deeply in an effort to calm both his pounding heart and his frantic mind.
But the effort was for naught as his thoughts were interrupted by a voice just behind him calling his name.
He jumped and sucked in a breath, prompting a chuckle from Brass. The detective held up his hands in contrition, but his wide grin belied the sincerity of his mumbled apology.
Grissom pressed his lips together to stop the string of profanity he so desperately wanted to unleash. Jim hadn't deserved his anger outside, and he didn't deserve it now.
Brass seemed to sense his mood and gently questioned, "You read it, didn't you?"
His response was sharper than he intended, but he was tired, so tired of holding it all in. "What exactly did you think I've been doing all this time, Jim? Working crossword puzzles?"
The cop cocked his head as he regarded his old friend, and noticed, perhaps for the first time, the worry that had chiseled deep lines around his eyes and pressed down on his shoulders with its heavy weight. And certainly for the first time, he questioned his own judgment in calling Gil Grissom to a crime scene. Because the face that stared back at him was not that of a world-renowned scientist solving a mystery but rather of a desperate man protecting the woman he loved.
Though he had little doubt as to the response he would receive, he had to ask the question. "Gil, are you sure you should be here?"
Grissom exploded. "What? Where the hell else would you have me be? Rather than standing around criticizing the job I'm doing, why don't you do yours and make sure Sara's protected? Because, if anything happens to her – and I mean, anything – I'm holding you responsible!"
Unfazed, Brass stared back at the CSI's menacing glare and calmly waved off the young officer who had appeared in the doorway. "Everything's fine, Kirkland," he called, never taking his eyes away from Grissom's.
Seconds passed as the two remained locked in their battle of wills until, finally, the detective sighed and reached into his pocket. Fishing out a wad of keys, he hefted them in his hand momentarily before holding them out to his friend. "Take 'em. They're Sara's."
The scientist did as requested and, by the time he looked up to respond, Brass was halfway across the room. He watched him go, regret and fear and anger commingling until he wasn't sure where they diverged, or even if they did at all.
But Jim, ever the observer, seemed to understand his dilemma completely for, when he reached the door, he turned and gently said, "Hey, Gil? I already had a black-and-white sent over to your place on protective detail. Because I'd hold me responsible, too."
And, with that, he was gone, never hearing the quiet apology of his best friend but knowing it was there, nevertheless.
XXXXXXXXX
The seconds had stretched into minutes and, still, the silence remained. Whether that was good or bad, Warrick wouldn't know until he ventured out into it.
He'd finished processing the bathroom a while back but had no great desire to interrupt the vehement disagreement in the next room. His grandmother had long ago taught him to stay out of other people's business, and he would live by that advice until he heard blows exchanged. When no sounds of a scuffle were forthcoming, he had stood beside the door for a time, waiting, listening. And, when he could at last bear the stillness no longer, he took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.
The lone figure standing beside the dining room table looked older than he'd ever seen him, and Warrick fleetingly wondered if this would be the case that would finally take his mentor from him for good. But he forced away the thought, feeling slightly guilty for even having it.
He kept his voice soft, his tone even and calm. "You alright, Grissom?"
"I wish everyone would stop asking me that. Are you questioning my competence, too?"
The younger man scoffed. "Right. Just like I question Einstein's competence in physics."
Grissom smiled slightly and turned partway to face him. "That's high praise."
Warrick shrugged and covered the distance to stand beside his boss in two easy steps. At close range, he could feel the older man's emotions rolling off of him in waves. Their normally stoic supervisor was barely holding himself together, and it was unnerving. But, on some level, it was a relief. Gil Grissom, you're human after all.
The young man looked down at the note, and the "Agent Sidle" reference struck a chord. "Hey, did you know Sara thought about going to work for the FBI?"
His boss turned to him sharply. "What?"
"Yeah, and she was a decoy for them during the Strip Strangler case. You remember that?"
Grissom nodded slowly, clearly confused about the direction of the conversation.
Warrick continued, "Well, it got me thinking. You know, maybe our perp knew that, too. I called in a few favors and got some old videotape of the news coverage during that case. I was thinking, maybe she was on TV at some point, and our guy saw her."
When he saw his supervisor's curious look, he shook his head sadly. "Nothing. If she was on TV during that time, I couldn't find it. But I did find this." He fished the page from the back pocket of his jeans and extended it toward his boss.
Grissom perused the document carefully and glanced up in surprise. The young man's voice was heavy with disappointment as he told him, "It's all I could find. I know she's not quoted, but it does make a reference to her being an FBI decoy."
"This is good work."
Grissom's voice was sincere, and his praise was hard-won, but it didn't help find the killer. Warrick merely shrugged and refocused his attention on the note, catching one important detail immediately. "Hey, he wrote his name by hand this time."
"Yeah. I'm hoping Ronnie will be able to tell us something about that."
Warrick nodded and glanced up at his boss. "So, you need some help here, or what?"
Grissom shook his head as he reached for the note. "Just need to bag…" The words remained unspoken when he picked up the paper and, for the first time, saw the handwritten address on the back. And it took his brain far longer than it should have to process that it was his own.
TBC…