Sara Sidle's eyes burned from a permanent etching of documents that rolled out from a scrolling computer screen. Her wrist had a familiar ache of being tight from clicking the mouse and holding it at a constant annoying angle. She blew a breath over her steaming cup of coffee. The shift had ended some time ago, but like so many times previous, she was still at the lab. She had pried herself away from it when Nick had come in to log his stuff.
Sara had been unsure if he had planned on going over his photos and begin his preliminary reconstruction of the crime. All the toxicology, blood, and fibers results would not be ready till morning. Doc Robbins wouldn't even begin his incision on the body for countless hours. Too many things percolating, but no real evidence to study, except for the piles of clothes. Her casual inquiry concerning a possible division of labor was politely brushed off.
No, that wasn't right. Nick Stokes didn't brush people off. He was always willing to offer a chair, or listen to advice concerning evidence. It was never a show to hog, or a way to chase down glory. Nick was one of the few criminalists who used all his resources around him. Catching the bad guys was his reward. Opinions mattered, counted.
This time around Sara felt her presence was akin to the paint on the wall. Merely a background and silent witness to the activity buzzing around her. Nick had scarcely said more than two words. Both of which were kind, of course, but at the same time distracted.
She had found little things to pass the time, to add value to the case. However, as the minutes ticked away and her co-worker studied a mountain of fabric, it was obvious that unless the man had planned to spend the night, he was never going to get through five sets of clothes. She leaned just inside the doorjamb, years of instincts kicking in, observing, listening.
Nick went back and forth from the blood splattered t-shirt stretched out over the table with his light to several sets of photographs set up along the right side of the garment. His lean body bent over the under-lit table, one hand resting on top as his eyes darted between both objects. Sara wanted to walk over and brush away the bangs that barely dangled aloft from his face. His hair had finally grown out long enough where it he didn't look like the spitting image of Buster Brown. It made Nick look...softer, a bit more...
Sara quickly squashed her musings. Shifts were blurring together, the clothes remained a heap, just beckoning.
"You know, I've just begun my second cup of coffee. I need something to go along with all of this caffeine. Sooooo, what stack can I help with?"
Nick grinned without looking at her. He stretched his back, pulling away from the table, as he cracked his neck from side to side, sighing in sort of a defeatist way.
"You could just dump the sludge and go home."
Sara allowed a tiny smile; at least he was still grinning while he spoke. Sara took it for the sign that it was and stood next to him as he stayed in a lazy stretch from the table. "I wouldn't want you to hog all the fun."
Nick moved with the grace of a large cat, bending, than straightening to full height, sighing as he wiggled away stiff muscles. "All right," he drawled.
"I've been going the clothes worn by each patient." Nick stopped, licking his lips, waiting to see if there was any outward sign of a reaction. Sometimes certain words could trigger the littlest things, but Sara Sidle was a rock. He smiled inwardly. "I've already swabbed two suspect sets of clothes, and have the last two. Grissom has the sets belonging to the
orderlies and the nurse."
Sara looked at him with a teasing expression. "Forgot to grab the other set in your rush to get out?" Her smile soon evaporated when Nick's semi-good mood soured at her joke. Sara wasn't sure, but she had obviously hit a sore spot, when his body went rigid. He busied himself inspecting the shirt in front of him, silent Nick mode in full effect.
She stood there at a loss for a few brief moments. She pulled out the third set of clothes, a plain green shirt, and a typical set of drab uniform styled pants. Sara laid them flat, her own penlight in search for stains, or any other trace elements. She brushed her own cotton swab over areas, packing them in little plastic tubes for further analysis.
The room fell silent as Nick tried to set a speed record in processing his last set of clothes. Knowing that trying to bring up anything to do with his mood was useless, Sara brought up aspects of the case. Anything was better than walking on eggshells, especially when you didn't know where they were strewn across.
"The Reynolds Institute has a pretty spotless record."
Nick feigned interest with a, "Yeah."
Sara cleared her throat, not allowing any of the edge she felt tinge her voice. "It's a privately funded hospital. Although its main charter is set up as a prison faculty, the research grants pouring in keep it on the headlines of many psychology journals and provide a lot of data for pharmaceutical companies."
Nick snatched a hair with a tape lift. "Dig anything up on Dr. Kincaid?"
Sara scraped off flecks of dried blood into a sample. "Yes. Graduated from Berkley, spent all of his time in clinical studies. Violent mood swings, debunking split personality cases, spent a great deal of time on delusional disorders. He's brought in tens of thousands to the center."
Nick raised an eyebrow. "That's fairly prestigious. What about his current research? The guy was conducting group therapy in the middle of the night. Maybe he was going against hospital policy? Or he was conducting little side experiments that got out of hand?"
Sara shrugged. "Maybe. Nothing in his articles or write-ups, including rebuttals from within the medical community ever hinted at bad practices. He was paving the ground work for long term clinical treatments for obsessive behavioral disorders."
Nick shrugged. "Locking himself in the same room as four violent felons without the staff or guards knowing anything about it. Seems pretty suspicious."
Sara stilled her actions. "You think he put himself in a situation that got him killed? Victim of his own volatile environment?"
Nick folded the pair of pants, stuffing them into a plastic bag. "No opinion. I'll let the facts dictate to me what happened. Though anyone who just ignores any caution, and allows himself to believe that he's safe in his little sphere on the job is a fool."
Sara frowned. "Nick." When he didn't look up she repeated his name louder. "Nick!"
Brown eyes peered at her, and his expression softened and melted into a sheepish little shrug. "Sorry, Sar. It's getting late and I can get a bit cranky on occasion." The ends of his mouth twisted into a playful smile.
She didn't comment on his frequent crankiness as he called it of late as she pressed on. "His colleague, Dr. Stanfield, is in the middle of a larger research study, testing out some new drug for the Vicom Company. His early test results are creating a lot of waves in the community; if it pans out, it could be a huge breakthrough for people with delusional disorders."
Nick looked at her with a curious expression. "Dr. Kincaid and Stanfield both studied delusional disorders, were they on the same project?"
Sara stared off into space thinking, since her notes were back on her laptop. "Not that I recall. In fact...Nick. The most effective treatment for any delusional disorders is individual one on one sessions, defiantly not group therapy."
"Really?"
Sara nodded. "Yeah. Anti psychotic medication is the primary course as there is no real treatment. Maybe a therapist can try to treat anxiety first and confront a patient about their version of reality. Might be the reason why both of them are getting so many grants if they are looking into new forms to combat it."
Nick seemed to digest the new information, the room growing silent again. Feeling that this was the best time to ask, Sara rested her arms along the edge of the table. "So was it rough in there?"
Her genuine concern and directness seemed to catch him off guard. Nick rarely fumbled with words.
He looked back down at the table, shaking his head. "It, it wasn't too bad."
Sara placed her hand on his forearm. "Not all of us are like Grissom. It's normal to feel uncomfortable in an environment surrounded by the mentally disturbed. It's one thing to be a victim of your mind; it's another to be consumed by it. To lose reality, to allow your own terror to exploit and swallow up humanity. The people there are all convicted felons. They lost the right to be a victim when they created new ones by the loss of control."
Nick shrugged. "I didn't let it get to me."
Sara stared at him with her I don't buy it expression. "Grissom is keeping me off the scene. Lab detail, records checks only."
"Who knows why Grissom does the things he does. I wouldn't worry about it," Nick said offhandedly.
He packed up the clothes and placed them in their respective plastic bags and into neatly labeled cardboard boxes. Sara helped with organizing her own pile.
"You can call me, if you need some back up." Sara shrugged. "Just in case the workload is too heavy."
Nick hefted the boxes turning to store them away for the next day. He paused in the doorway, his mouth opened, then closed. Thinking a beat, but never giving her eye contact, "Consider yourself lucky that he's given it any consideration at all."
Sara stood awkwardly as her co-worker made a beeline for the hallway, leaving his comments behind like unwanted baggage.
Nick finished re-arranging some of the other caseloads that threatened to teeter over their overstuffed shelves. Knowing it was the last thing anyone ever thought of he finished heaping boxes around, wiping at his brow damp with sweat from the effort. He glanced at his watch, knowing the day shift had already filtered in. He dusted off his hands and headed for the locker room to change and go to sleep. He nodded politely at colleagues in the hall and saw the looming figure of Conrad Ecklie as the Assistant Director recognized him in the corridor.
Nick sighed, noting the eye contact and that slight change of posture indicating the man wanted a word with him. Ecklie held up a hand, signaling for him to stop for a moment. Nick raised his head in acknowledgment.
"Ecklie," he merely stated.
His superior eyed him, his normal snide expression deepening to a scowl. "Nick. You know the Sheriff and his staff are visiting the Lab later today. If you happen to see them, I'd like you to give them a few minutes of your time." The bald man waved a hand in the air. "You know. Dazzle them with your charms and details about your duties here."
The attempt to stroke his ego didn't affect the Texan. Nick leaned his hand along the hallway wall. The man in front of him morphed more into a politician every day. "If I have the time. I'm kind of in the middle of a case right now. I don't give dog and pony shows."
Ecklie frowned and stared at younger man. "Its not about what you want, Nick. It's about playing the game. Got it?'
Nick wet his lips. "I don't play games, Ecklie." He brushed past the man on his way home.
"Stokes."
Nick reluctantly turned around to face the man addressing him. Ecklie eyed him like some cartoon bad guy, obnoxious in his over-bloated swagger "We have dress code standards. You're not a tech. When you're on the clock, try to keep your shirt tucked in."
The urge to step forward was burning inside, but another half of his brain really didn't care. Instead, Nick didn't say a word in response and left the Assistant Director somewhat puzzled.
Nick had changed shirts and felt like dragging his ass back to the comfort of his home without changing jeans. He had a more worn out pair, instead of the ones that felt glued to his legs, but he was bone tired and didn't want to waste the time. He draped a jacket over his shoulders and spun around to find his boss standing in the doorway.
Nick grabbed his hat from his locker, brushed over his hair and slapped it on. He walked over towards Grissom and looked up at him. Letting him know with his eyes that he was ready to go to bed, but letting him know in the same subtle motion he'd stay on if there was a break in the case.
Grissom straightened, and sort of just stared at him, his face reminiscent of a statue's. That expression in the past normally meant that he had screwed up, or had done something to warrant a private type talk. He used to respond by getting defensive or backing down, already formulating apologies before the words were ever spoken.
Now… Now he felt drained of energy, the desire to rally his defenses feeling somewhat pointless. A waste of time.
"We need to be back at the hospital around six. Nurse Angelo told me that all four patients will be lucid enough for an interview. They're keeping them all on lower doses of Ativan through the morning until the prison goes back to standard operating procedures."
Nick nodded. It still gave him the needed hours to catch some rest and get back to the Lab for any tests results. Tomorrow would prove to be the mother load of data they were missing.
Grissom paused, broadcasting in waves how uncertain he felt in just engaging in normal conversation. Nick decided to save him the trouble. "Doc should have a preliminary autopsy and hopefully our blood sample comparisons will aid in figuring out what happened in that room. I'll be sure to get here early."
Nick smiled. That always seemed to set people at ease. This time though, Grissom wasn't budging from the door. Defusing conversations with the Graveyard Supervisor took no effort. It only required skills with people who really knew him at all to recognize the attempt.
He rubbed at his eyes. "Man, I better get goin' before I fall asleep at the wheel," he chuckled softly.
"Tonight. It... I mean. These type of cases can be rough." Grissom fumbled, looking totally lost as he looked directly at his co-worker. "If you…"
Nick patted Grissom on the shoulder. "Yeah. I'd be sure to talk to you about it. But, there's no reason to."
Nick sort of nudged his way past the older man, all smiles. "See ya tomorrow," he called over his shoulder.
Nick waved at Sara as she headed for her own locker as he went out into the early sunlight.
Sara sort of half waved back, Nick already out of sight down the hall, Gil Grissom joining her. She looked up at her boss who seemed somewhat aloof.
"Hey."
Grissom took a moment to break away from whatever zone had encompassed his mind. "Hey. " He said in a sort of afterthought. "You should be going home."
Sara smiled despite the hypocritical nature of his statement. "I was just leaving." She waited for further comments, but there was a distant look in his eyes.
Sara sighed deeply. "You know the Kelly Gordon case wrapped up just last week."
Grissom gave her an unreadable expression. How typical when dealing with a personal issue. The man oozed discomfort. Sara didn't bristle; she of all people was used to this. "He might not be open to talking about things, but I bet he'd appreciate at least the effort." It was as big of a hint as she was going to give her co-worker.
The left side of his mouth twitched, the only signal that he processed what she said. Grissom was going to continue to play the inept card, his mannerisms giving him away. Sara could almost predict what his response would be if he even addressed it directly at all.
"Nick knows my door is always open."
That was it. Sara stood there as her boss walked away. Not towards the parking lot, but to the room that was granted more consideration and thought than any of the people that went in and out of it on a normal basis. Sara wasn't surprised, more saddened that insects and books had a better rapport with the scientist then with most of his friends. She found her car in the parking lot, knowing deep down that Grissom was indeed a changed man since last summer, but still trapped behind his own prison walls, seemingly unwilling to try to find a way out.
Nick kicked off his shoes and socks, padding around in bare feet. He swapped his dingy jeans for a pair of comfortable black sweat pants. He sipped on a bottle of water, rifling through bills and junk mail as he hit the button to his answering machine, listening to messages as he weeded out the important stuff.
"Hey, Nick, it's Catherine. Just reminding you that the game's at my house this weekend. Bring your own booze. I think Warrick and Greg are duking it out on the grill."
The machine buzzed, signaling the end. He deleted the message, dumping the piles of papers into the trashcan next to his desk. He sprawled out on his sofa, grabbing the TV remote and surfing around for something to zone out to. This early in the morning the programming selection was less than stellar and he had not Tivo'd anything since football had headed into the post season. He allowed the droning voices of news anchors to bore him as he felt himself drift off. His routine had always been to wait till he was completely relaxed in his living room, then would settle down to bed. This time around his desire for rest was overwhelming so the veg time was cut short.
He groaned to himself as he dragged his body up. He tussled with his hair, his mind drifting towards the thought of a hot shower. He went to bathroom, brushed his teeth, pulled off his T-shirt and readied for bed. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, parting his hair all to the left side, and then flopping the bangs in the other direction. Still unsatisfied, he messed it all up, knowing any fuss with it was pointless.
He was sporting quite the five o'clock shadow, the tiny hairs bristling over the skin of his fingers. He'd need to allow enough time for a shave when he woke up. He wasn't in the mood to hear any more diatribes about a re-occurrence of his facial hair. He had liked it; the mustache made him feel rugged, different. He eyed the electric razor, sometimes tempted to just shave all of his hair off again, but the longer style made him seem
younger. He laughed; it wasn't like he was old.
Nick shook his head, still feeling tense and wound up from the night. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet inside of his home. All the window shades were drawn; no light penetrated the black stillness of his room. He wandered over towards the bed, put his phone on the nightstand and pulled the covers over his tired body. His mind drifted around for a while, aspects of the case, what he wanted to do this weekend.
Staying at home was very appealing. He could enjoy the big game alone as much as some social gathering. For some reason interacting with everyone from work outside the lab was just...stressful.
No. He'd work the case and sleep on his day off. No real need to complicate things.
A/N's notes at my bio. Big thanks again to those that I can't reply to, who are not logged in. I missed you C1!