Nick stood in the layout room studying the photos tacked on the bulletin board as he tried to piece together the incoming results from trace and DNA. The CSI jotted down notes as he heard the door open and close. He gave Grissom a nod and pointed to the board.
"The wooden table leg tested positive for Dr. Kincaid's blood and matched the splinters of wood you found in his skull." Nick pointed out the photos of the weapon used to bash in the victim's head.
Grissom accepted the information. "Doc Robbins confirmed the skull fracture as a result of blunt force trauma."
Nick looked perplexed. "The prelim finished already?"
Grissom held up a file on cue. "Just finished with him. Dr. Kincaid suffered massive head injuries from at least two distinctive blows. I used an exact replica of the table leg to create the same kind of wound and fracture pattern."
Nick opened the file, scanning the contents. "What about the rest?"
Grissom flipped over some of the sheets. "Facial fractures common from hand to hand."
"Beaten by fists," Nick concluded.
Grissom merely shrugged. "The puncture wound to his thigh was created by something one inch in diameter."
Nick rummaged through one of the cardboard boxes, pulling out a large plastic bag. He unwrapped a metal object. "This was one of the chair legs; as you can see the foot at the end is missing, leaving a nice ragged weapon. He was probably stabbed with it. Blood on it is positive for the victim."
Grissom held out his hand for Nick to give him the metal object. The older man studied the end and without looking up asked, "You know the diameter of this?"
He peered up through his glasses to see a grin: Grissom couldn't help but match the enthusiastic response.
Nick pointed to a tag attached to the leg. "The beginning is half an inch, but as you go up the base where the blood stains end, it becomes almost one inch in diameter. I think some of the break room chairs are the same plastic ones in that room. If I find the same model I can conclusively prove if this could cause the same sort of puncture wound." Nick tilted his head. "COD massive blood loss from hitting an artery, or from the head trauma?"
It was Grissom's turn to give the other CSI an expression of curiosity. "Neither. He died from a broken neck."
Nick looked at his stack of ghastly photos of the body. He stared at all the blood and raw violence unleashed upon the victim. He leaned all his weight on both hands taking in everything as a whole. Then looked at his boss sensing a missing link. "We have a man who was pummeled by pure rage. Fists, blunt objects, and yet one of the suspects controlled his fury long enough to break the guy's neck?"
Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Interesting, isn't it?"
"That takes precision and restraint," Nick injected.
"Not to mention know-how. His fifth vertebrae were twisted and snapped in a single motion. Death was instant." Grissom shuffled through the autopsy findings.
Nick fingered one of slip of paper. "Doc know if it happened before or after his pounding?"
Grissom's eagerness for the peculiar information faded slightly. "No," he conceded.
Nick shuffled the papers and waved a piece from one of his own stacks dramatically. "Well, I've got something just as unusual."
Grissom was all ears. "What?"
"The metal chair leg, the one with Kincaid's blood? Well, it also had the smallest amounts of blood from Leon Stoy-ana-ovf," Nick mangled the name pronouncing it. He cleared his throat annoyed. "Ivan's," he added using the same nickname from the hospital. "His prints are all over both the chair leg and the table one as is..…" He paused for a guess.
Grissom scowled. "Whose?" he asked impatiently.
Nick handed him the sheet. "Joseph Brighten."
Grissom pursed his lips. "The patient with communication issues, cowering in a corner?"
Nick crossed his arms in front of him. "The vic's blood is all over our four suspects. Both weapons have Ivan's fingerprints on them and a second set by Brighten, the guy who was described as nearly catatonic when the orderlies arrived.
"Sheldon Tanner had a faint bruise along his chest, but no blood or split knuckles. Leon had bruises all over him, busted up face, some sort of wrist injury." Grissom commented.
Nick pulled out his notebook from the other night. "Joseph Brighten had no physical wounds from a fight, just blood along his fingernails, not under. Robert Patterson, though, had signs of battered fingers as well as torn nails, blood all over them."
Grissom's mouth twitched. "Right now the psychical evidence points to Ivan, and Robert Patterson as the ones to have assaulted the victim hand to hand, while Ivan had double the fun with two weapons."
"Then Joey attacks Ivan, sort of confusion in the heat of the moment maybe? Hit anything that moves and then all of a sudden become docile when the orderlies arrive," Nick summarized his tone of voice betraying his disbelief.
Grissom sighed. "We've got a pretty big puzzle with several holes. Our interviews might clarify what happened in there."
Nick opened his mouth to agree when Sara strolled in, her own set of files with her. "Hey, guys. Just got back more tests results for you. All your blood screenings came back normal from all four suspects."
Grissom flipped through her results. "This is just a basic tox report. I want to know what kinds of medications these guys were on and how much."
Sara looked at her boss with skepticism. "That'll take some time. But, we can take their prescriptions and match them up to the levels in their blood stream. See if any one of them were given the wrong dose."
"Do that. Something's not adding up here. We have conflicting sets of behavior," Grissom instructed.
Sara cast a look at both men. "It seems fairly obvious, Grissom. All four patients went wild and attacked their doctor. We may never know who actually delivered the fatal blow. Nothing contradictory about rage."
Grissom started for the door. "I think something more sinister was involved then just four patients losing control in an unauthorized group therapy session in the middle of the night. There has to be a trigger, some kind of motive. We need to dig deeper."
"That's what I like to hear!"
The three criminalists turned in unison to the obviously cheery voice of the Sheriff. Two other politicians with a collective smug sense of importance filtered into the now cramped room, all enthusiastically listening to the ringleader of the circus.
The gloating politician turned to his cronies. "Gentlemen, this is Gil Grissom, supervisor of the Graveyard shift and …" The man paused, searching for the names of his supposed employees, but after a beat recovered. "Nick Stokes and Sara Sidle."
The group swarmed around the set of CSIs peering at the bulletin board, shrinking back slightly at the crime scene photos. The duo listened intently as the Sheriff rattled off statistics of the lab, crime solve rates and other tidbits that only served to irritate the scientists as they tried to exit. One of the visitors, a man in a bad navy suit, with thin wavy hair managed to scurry over towards the younger CSIs.
Obviously the pencil pusher had a staring problem as his eyes were focused intently on Nick. The politician's oily smile served to grate on the Texan. In the midst of the Sheriff's endless accolades and ass kissing Nick had enough.
"Something on your mind, sir?" he asked, serving to cut off the Sheriff's little diatribe of bullshit.
Grissom seemed two-thirds relieved at the interruption and one part annoyed at the tone of Nick's question. The Sheriff looked somewhat perturbed, sending a scathing look at the supervisor.
"My name's Peter Harris, Mr. Stokes. I think we've talked on the phone a few times." The man oozed a car salesman- type vibe, which served to fit in with his overly macho handshake.
Nick smiled politely, accepting the gesture. "No, name doesn't ring a bell."
The politician laughed louder and longer than needed, a deep nasally shrill noise. "I've tried to pull you away from your job long enough to sit down with one of my PR people. You know get an exposé written on ya." The man clapped the back of Nick's shoulder like some long lost buddy.
Nick's smile slowly faded, not looking too amused, but played along just a bit more. "Um, I think you must have me mixed up with someone else. I'm just someone doing their job."
Harris just winked. "Riiiiight. No, really. Mr. Stokes, I think it would do the department a lot of good to get a positive spin on everything that happened last summer and all. Sort of turn lemons into lemonade."
"You've got to be kidding me," Sara began to advance on the other man.
Grissom stepped in front of her, his hand on her shoulder as he turned towards the offending bureaucrat. "My CSIs are busy on a case, hard at work for all the nice tax payers out there."
Harris gave the supervisor a placating smile. "But of course, Mr. Grissom. We'll let you get back to your duties."
The three of them proceeded out the door, while Harris snagged Nick by his elbow. "Seriously, Mr. Stokes. I'd advise you to stop by. I mean with all the money and extended budget set up by your supervisor to make sure everyone works in pairs from now on...
Nick yanked his arm away, causing a bewildered expression from the shark-like Harris. Grissom stepped in front, blocking both men from any potential confrontation. "Nick isn't going to do any interviews for anyone. Why don't you go find Conrad Ecklie? I'm sure he's full of ideas for PR."
The trio finally escaped the conference room, gathering in the hallway to go over tasks for the rest of the morning. Grissom looked at his watch rolling his eyes at how much time was wasted. "Sara, please follow up on those tox screens. I want to know all levels of any drugs, and I mean any."
Sara didn't look pleased by the assignment, meaning hours upon hours pouring over machines and results, like looking for a needle in haystack.
Grissom blew out a long breath as his eyes followed her away. He looked up at his co-worker. "Come on, we need to get going."
Nick stood awkwardly in the middle of the corridor looking at his boss, his jaw clenched incredibly tight. "Grissom. I can handle my own battles; you don't get to choose which ones I fight."
Grissom stood silently for a moment. The two men's dispositions oddly similar to a pair of school children uneasy about who should walk away first. His subordinate's expression slowly melted back to his casual calm exterior.
Nick flashed him an uneasy smile. "Meet you over at the hospital?"
Grissom nodded, not sure how to respond back to normal Nick mode. Gil Grissom wasn't sure if he had simply witnessed a crack in Nick's wall of defenses, or a private view of what was truly brewing on the inside.
The Reynolds Institute wasn't as foreboding in the morning. The building didn't loom like some asylum ripped out of the pages of a cheap pulp horror novel. The staff exuded tranquility; the color scheme worked its magic in the daylight, radiating comfort in the lobby. Activity gave the place a pulse, with anxious families awaiting visitors' rights.
Both men waited for another escort. A Latino man strolled over, winking at a female co-worker as she went by. He shook each CSI's hand enthusiastically. The young buck looked like had just walked off a beach in Miami. Several tattoos peeked out from one of his dark-tanned, golden arms. A heavy single gold chain rattled around as he walked, and the goat -T was as neatly trimmed as was his uber suave hair cut, with a overabundances of style gel.
"My name's Franco Altos Martinez, but just call me Franco."
Both men returned strong grips, Nick unable to get the mental image of this wanna-be pimp with fuzzy hat, and oversized purple zoot suit out of his head. Franco obviously hit the gym a lot, sort of like a miniature pit bull as Nick sort of towered over him.
All three men entered the heavily secured fourth floor stopping once again at the final checkpoint.
"I'm sorry Sir. Your weapon will need to stay with me. No firearms allowed past this point."
Nick smiled, knowing that there was a mix up, but aware of the guy's job. "I work for the LVPD. I'm authorized to carry this."
The guard returned the smile, sympathy for the situation etched into his heavy features. "I understand that, Sir. However, this is a privately run faculty and you are scheduled to conduct interviews with the patients. No weapons allowed past this check point."
Grissom stood there, not wanting to intercede. Nick's lower jaw opened as he gnawed at his bottom lip, all the while nodding. "All right." He pulled out his service piece, checked the safety and handed it to the guard carefully.
"I appreciate this, Sir. It'll be here when you come back."
Nick's eyes watched his weapon get locked up into a safe behind one of the X-Ray machines, his gaze resting there for a few moments, then followed his supervisor through the rest of the procedures. Guns were not allowed in interrogation rooms at the Vegas Police station because a prisoner could grab the weapon and use it against them during interviews. The same sort of safety standards had to be followed to the letter at a place like this with the possibility of more volatile situations.
The corridors still housed hidden cells of faceless instigators of the most terrible violence. Nick turned his head suddenly, ears perked, at the strange sounds escaping a few of the rooms. His imagination twisting faint voices into more sinister situations from behind locked doors. .
Franco used his key card to unlock the door of a kind of interview room. Instead of Dr. Rhodes, another physician paced restlessly back and forth behind a long oak table with three hard plastic chairs situated around it.
The man stared at them with an accusing look, checking his watch and rolling his eyes. "Finally. I do appreciate the seriousness of this situation, officers, but really. I'm pressed for time and yet I'm tied to this office until your interviews are done."
The brusque man leaned on the edge of the table, one leg crossed as he tapped a gold pen on his chin in impatience.
Grissom didn't apologize as he set his kit on the table and pulled out a notebook. "I'm Gil Grissom and this is Nick Stokes from the crime lab. I understand you will be here when we conduct our needed investigation."
"Yes, yes. I'm Dr Robert Stanfield," he said clicking the writing utensil along his teeth.
Nick flinched at the grating noise of metal along enamel. He cleared his throat, "Habit?"
The dorky man pulled the offending object out of his mouth. "I guess." He straightened in his chair. "This pen was used to sign my first copyrighted article for the New England Journal of Medicine." He smiled. "Ten years ago."
Nick nodded politely as he took out a tape recorder and set up the equipment. Grissom and the doctor discussed the arrangements for the interviews. Each patient would be brought in restraints, and with a guard for everyone's protection.
Dr. Stanfield was a tall gentleman, a bit heavier set than his boss and looked more a professor lecturing before a large class. He wore a white shirt with a brown sweater vest, a checkered tie stuffed under it. Crazy, brown curly hair stuck up all over the place; obviously no amount of hair gel could calm it. Thick nerdy-looking glasses that seemed too big for his head kept slipping down as he spoke in an animated way.
"All right. Let's get to brass tacks. I've overseen most of these men's care with my other colleague."
Nick and Grissom took seats behind the table; Dr. Stanfield remained standing with folded arms in the corner of the room. He flipped though a spiral chart. "Patient 340057 will be first."
Nick tapped the table with his fingers. "Which one is that?"
The doctor looked bewildered for a second as Nick leaned on his elbows. "Which patient?"
Dr. Stanfield mumbled under his breath. "Son, I deal with too many patients to memorize their names."
The door to the room opened as a guard carefully guided Sheldon Tanner inside. The man stumbled as if off balance and was none too gently seated. His eyes lazily scanned the room and he smiled at both investigators.
"Mr. Tanner, I'm Grissom and this is Nick from the Las Vegas Crime lab. We're here to ask you a few questions about last night."
Sheldon Tanner grinned, leaning forward almost out of his seat. Dazed eyes squinted as he struggled to focus on the supervisor. His blond bangs fell in front of his face; a slight amount of drool ran down the end of one lip.
Grissom observed the man, clearly trying to determine if the patient was fit for questioning. "Mr. Tanner, can you hear me?" he asked in a loud, clear voice.
Sheldon bobbled his head enthusiastically, smiling, then letting out a soft chuckle. "I can hear just fine. But ...but you're quite fuzzy looking." Another snort followed closely by a full on giggle streak.
Grissom smiled. "Why is that?"
Sheldon shook his head, hair and blubbering cheeks reminiscent of a wet dog. "Don't have my glasses. Lost them."
"Did you lose them last night?"
Sheldon swayed in his seat, giving them another dopey grin.
Nick felt his shoulders drop at the idea of an interview with a person who wasn't capable of cognizant thought. He stole a look at the attending physician who leaned into the wall; his bored expression served to irritate him.
"Do you remember what you were doing when you lost your glasses, Sheldon?" Grissom asked, patient and calm in his demeanor.
The patient gazed at the supervisor, his concentration a haze of thick molasses. Grissom repeated the question several times.
Sheldon's weight and lean drifted dangerously to one side of the chair, but then he bolted up. "No! I didn't lie! I don't know where they are!" he screamed. Franco shoved him back into the hard plastic. The guard took only minuscule steps back as he prepared for any further outbursts.
Grissom waved the guard off, despite the patient's now intense rocking back and forth in his chair as he franticly looked around the room.
"I know you didn't lose them on purpose. Did they fall off?" Grissom asked curiously. The criminalist kept the normal cadence to his voice, despite the sudden change from his suspect.
Sheldon squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head back and forth like a kid refusing supper at the table. "They make me look stupid. All the girls at school make fun of me."
Sheldon's body stiffened, his aggravation melted away as a cold small smile barely met the ends of his lips. He lowered his voice and looked straight at the entomologist. "Women don't call me names anymore," he whispered.
Grissom tilted his head, leaning closer to listen at the softer, almost smug tone.
"Did Dr. Kincaid say something about your glasses? Remind you of all those women who tormented you?"
Sheldon shook his head absently. "All I could do was just laugh at them. At their pitiful words and screams. The bitches tried to get back at me, but all I did was make them repent their ugliness."
"When did they try to get back at you, Sheldon?" Grissom tried to steer the conversation towards the murder, to find a connection to the ramble.
"Last night. All of them." The man let his head bob on his neck in a fit of restlessness.
Grissom tried to prod him along, but the patient's agitation stilled to abrupt motionlessness. The supervisor pressed on, changing tones, switching up words. Minutes fell to the wayside. Sheldon Tanner's muscles turned to mush, his posture slumping into the chair.
Nick stared at his boss, sharing disappointment and annoyance at the lack of a response.
Another few minutes passed and Grissom turned in his seat towards the attending physician. "Is this man on any medication?"
Dr Stanfield snorted. "Of course he is. Normal regimen, Dr. Grissom."
"Does he usually go through such shifts in behavior?"
The other man shuffled his legs. "When do any of them not?" Sighing the doctor stood straighter. "Sheldon typically isn't this dodgy. He's normally quite lucid." The man shrugged. "Could be a result from the sedation."
Grissom instructed the guard that this particular interview was complete. The Latino roused Sheldon out of his chair, the former geek's eyes fluttered as he gave both men a lopsided, almost drunken grin. He shuffled away, whistling a tune as he was escorted back to the infirmary.
Dr. Stanfield glanced at his clipboard with resignation. "Next contestant is 436578."
Nick refrained from a biting comment. "These guys were part of one of your research projects. Don't you think it would be beneficial to learn their names?"
The doctor eyed Nick in annoyance. "This patient didn't fit the criteria for my study. So, no, I didn't."
The younger criminalist didn't get a word in, when the door opened to reveal Robert Patterson, flanked by two guards. Franco and the new security person held firm grips around each elbow of the suspect. Robert Patterson's chin jutted up in the air, sneering at the staff and stood defiantly in front of the chair.
"Take a seat, Robert," the Latino instructed.
Patterson kicked at the chair. "You going to tie me to it?"
"Behave, or we'll get Angelo to send you back to dreamland where you belong!" the other, bulkier guard barked.
"Gentlemen." Grissom tried to rein things in before a confrontation broke out.
Patterson twisted and squirmed from the men's grasps and plunked down on the hard plastic. "Sorry if I didn't bow before the court. My zookeepers might mistake my gesture for an invitation," he leered.
Nick looked at the suspect coolly as his boss informed the man for their reason for being here. Patterson looked unimpressed and too engrossed at sneering at Dr. Stanfield to care. The man's head looked like it was shaved, nearly bald, with dark brown eyes. He was built larger than the young CSI, although his stature was hard to gauge under the backwards-like coat refraining movement. He seemed close to Grissom's age; hard to tell as prison, even mental wards, tend to speed up the aging process.
"Mr. Patterson, we're here to ask you some questions about last night." Grissom's voice was much more commanding with this suspect. His face betrayed no reaction to the continued intimidation tactics of the hostile man.
Patterson face twitched at the statement, eyes squinting with the tic, the only sign that the topic unnerved him.
"You want to tell me what happened last night?"
"No."
Grissom held up his hand. "Why not?"
Patterson's face twitched again, his eyes darted at each person in the room. "You're the scientist, you tell me."
"I would rather hear your version."
The man fussed with his straitjacket furiously struggling against the constriction of movement. He growled, frustrated. "Do you really want to talk with one of the freaks and see what venom spills forth from the wicked tongue? I hear crime scene investigators are good at telling stories."
Grissom pointed to his folder. "The evidence speaks for me, Sir. It bears all the needed chapters."
Laughter filled the room. "Masters of twisting words, manipulation and conspiracy."
"What about wounds? Care to explain why your knuckles show signs of injury?"
Patterson snickered. "Don't know. I never know when my animal is released."
"Tell us about your animal," the entomologist encouraged.
The suspect thrashed in his seat, then barked at the guards who approached his jerking form.
Grissom waved them off again, and the man growled and snapped his teeth at their retreat. Patterson turned and stared at the CSI. "You don't want to know 'bout my beast. When it's released, its rage cannot be abated. It hunts with no feeling and no remorse."
"What does it seek?"
"Revenge," he hissed.
Grissom raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
Patterson stood up, alarming the jittery security, but Grissom eyed them, instructing them to remain where they were. The suspect methodically took one step at a time towards the table, both criminalists seated behind the flimsy barrier. The suspect moved until his waist hit the edge of the furniture and bent over, wetting his lips as he loomed closer.
"Revenge for being born, Mr. Grissom."
Nick shifted in his seat, body ready to react, one eye on the criminalist, the other on his boss who sat relaxed, unaffected. Grissom's breathing was steady, body relaxed except for a slight tilt of the head in curiosity.
The supervisor didn't react; he just locked eyes with the suspect who stood to his full height and blew a kiss at the attending physician buffered behind the CSIs.
"Want to tell us why your animal mauled your doctor in the middle of the night?" Nick asked, stretching across the table to meet the man's glare without hesitation.
Patterson cracked a smile. "The pretty one speaks. Did your master give you permission, boy?"
Grissom never took his eyes off the suspect who was now focused on the other criminalist. Nick didn't act rattled, and merely shrugged. "Most animals have leashes. What did you do when it got away from you?"
The older man spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't know."
Nick laughed, throwing his hands up. "What? Dr. Kincaid opened your cage and let it out? You don't seem the type of guy to allow a lab coat to get the best of you."
Patterson's face pinched again. "Its all very...v-v-very fuzzy."
"Yeah?" Nick mocked. "Your animal or the memory of pounding away at the only person who cared about helping you?"
The suspect pushed at the table with his waist, but it didn't budge. "The animal d-d-does what I tell it t-to do! Unless it's fucked with by people like you!"
Nick egged on, knowing it kept the suspect off balance. "So, Dr. Kincaid pissed you off, or you told your murderous beast to tear him apart and your buddies piled in right afterwards?"
Patterson faltered, mashing his teeth together, the guards inching closer.
"Which is it? I mean, you don't deny you did it. It feel good to beat up a defenseless man? Four people on one." Nick poured on the sarcasm, his superior's eyes drifting between them.
Patterson blew out a large breath, sneering. "I become one with the animal; we feed off each other- off our anger. T-This time…" He shook his head. "He went off without me."
"What do you mean?" Grissom asked redirecting the suspect.
"H-h-he didn't let me go with him. I didn't enjoy the kill this time."
Nick risked a glance at Grissom who gave him a subtle nod. The younger criminalist snapped his fingers, earning a furious look from the frustrated man. "You did enjoy your killing. Blood doesn't lie."
"No! N-n-no, I didn't! How can I enjoy something I d-d-don't remember?" The older man kicked at the table leg and lunged at both criminalists before being pulled back by four hands of the guards. Patterson bellowed and screamed. "I didn't get to enjoy it, didn't get to bask in all of its carnage. I-I-I was d-d-denied!"
Franco and the other guard slammed the combative man back into his chair and held him there.
"That's enough. Take Mr. Peterson, back to his cell," Dr. Stanfield instructed.
Both men struggled to maneuver the fully agitated patient.
"Wait!" Grissom spun around at the physician. "We're not done with him."
The attending pushed his glasses over his nose. "Oh, yes you are. This interview is over. This man may be a suspect, but I won't stand here as you try to goad him into another fit."
Grissom glared at the lab coat and moved out from behind the table before the other man could be dragged away.
"What about the other patients? Did they help your animal kill Dr Kincaid?"
Robert Patterson quit his struggles completely and laughed. "The others? They have nothing on my animal. Don't worry about them. Only one to worry about is Ivan."
Grissom followed the guards and the prisoner out the door, Nick closely behind them. Dr. Stanfield followed as he ushered his staff to take his patient away. Grissom was undaunted as he ignored the seething attending for agitating a dangerous patient.
Grissom was in fast pursuit, the guards too busy with holding the man still. "Why should I worry about Ivan?"
The security men held onto the man, letting the CSI know he had two seconds to speak to the deranged suspect, despite the evil glare they earned from Stanfield.
Patterson quit fighting his captors and smiled. "Ivan told me he has plans."
Grissom stood there quietly. "For what?"
The suspect leaned towards and whispered. "He has plans for the Blue Eyed Devil."
A/N:
Thanks to everyone who has stuck through this, I know it is long in the tooth, but there is a method to my madness.