Nick sat on the edge of his sofa, swallowed whole by the dark. A tiny light from his kitchen bathed the CSI in almost ghostly illumination. He hunched over, trying to find the rhythm to breathe deeply. He had exited the Institute in a trance-like state, the memories such a blur that it dawned on him to pat down his side to make sure he still had his service weapon. Skin met coolness of metal; a weird comfort, and he let his hand drop to his side.
It didn't occur to him to put his gun away, change clothes, or get up and flip a few switches. Logic was a stranger. He finally stumbled off the couch to search for some antacids from his medicine cabinet, still letting the blackness surround him, the layout of his place ingrained in his head. Nick chewed up three tablets, his stomach still churning up vicious fluids; never had he ever endured such wrath before. Normally headaches were his companion and playing partner with stress.
With a gait that of an old man, he crept back towards his door. He verified that the locks were secured, alarm code punched in and he sort of weaved his way into his bedroom. He carefully laid his Glock on the nightstand, checking the safety out of professional habit. He glanced at his clock, setting the alarm; it was barely noon. He didn't remove his clothes before bed, instead just kicked off his shoes and cocooned his body under the warmth of the blankets.
He closed his eyes, but trained ears perked up at every noise: a yelp of a dog outside, the creak of wood, the noise of appliances humming. All the ambient noise was exaggerated; all because he let a nerdy guy behind locked doors rub him the wrong way with little snide comments meant to dig and fester.
Nick waited for slumber, but found himself restless; sleeping with one eye open. Every light sound magnified by taut nerves served to irritate the already exhausted criminalist. He slept fitfully with a mind engaged with putting together scattered pieces of a case, and a psyche at war with itself.
Four hours later Nick threw his covers off and sat at the end of his mattress, rubbing at his burning eyes. Still afternoon and his mind had kept him from catching any real rest. He knew the only thing to do would be to go to work early. Finding answers and making headway on the case that now stalked him in his sleep would be the only solution to another bout of insomnia.
He stood up, hand on his stomach in an unconscious gesture after hours of belly pain. He turned on a lamp, blinking a few times and decided returning to work in the same set of clothes wasn't a good idea. He rifled through his closet, hand resting on a hanger with a long sleeved, button down black shirt. Tapping his fingers he swung past some of his newer shirts, ignored the low riding pants and grabbed a pair of chinos and snagged a short sleeved shirt of cotton blended with Lycra.
He showered, shaved and dressed. Nick tucked in his shirt, running a hand through his longer hair. Staring for another minute, slightly hesitant, he grabbed his gun from the nightstand, threw on a lightweight jacket and headed back to work.
Nick scanned through dozens of toxicology results; every test a negative for the requested search. Trying to determine anything abnormal within the screenings was like looking for a needle in a haystack. There was no mass spectrum analysis for drugs since every one had a specific pattern. Unless you knew what to look for; then it boiled down to testing each one separately, which some technicians found to be tedious and an incredible misuse of resources.
Nick felt like he was back at square one until his eyes lit up with extreme curiosity.
"Looks like the cat has your tongue," Sara joked.
Nick's head jerked up. "What are you doing here so early?"
Sara simply gawked at him. "Why are you?" she retorted, eyebrow arched in triumph.
Nick didn't respond but simply gestured for her to come over and soak in what he was reading. "There were high levels of norepinephrine in all four suspects urine results," he said handing it to the other criminalist to study.
Sara raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "These types of ketones usually are indicative of diabetes, which as you know is astronomically impossible for all four suspects to be developing at once."
Nick sat, lips pursed in confusion. "Yeah, but what does it mean?"
Sara sighed. "Another wacky clue. Pointing us into another direction, but which way?"
He sifted through his tests one more time, trying to gauge a pattern, glancing at his watch. "Something is ringing a bell. I just don't know what."
He looked up, this time staring at the clock on the wall. Sara noticed his obsessive behavior, smiling. "Got a date you're late for?"
He gave her a fake glare. "Nah. Just wondering when Grissom is coming in. I want him to go over what he found in the cells he processed yesterday afternoon."
"Um, he already briefed me on those." Sara looked at him with something akin to pity.
Nick leaned his arm until it rested on the table. "Oh, he did."
Sara tried to smile; she was a bit more used to the erratic behavior of their supervisor. "Nothing probative. Usual belongings, no notes, letters, any signs that anything amiss was going on." She shrugged. "Still seems like something just snapped in there and they all went…" She struggled for a politically correct term.
"Nuts, " Nick finished for her. "We're still trying to determine if it was as simple as that. All right, then you find anything else out on our good doctors?"
Sara knew better than to argue with Nick when he was sporting his determined look; she resigned herself to what bits of information she gathered. "Nothing much without Dr. Rhodes' records. He's known as quite the politician; judges and casino owners within his circle of friends, which is odd for a glorified prison warden."
She snagged Nick's laptop to display some of the other information. "He's had a lot of physicians transferred in and out during the last two years. Mainly stacking the hospital with brasher, younger doctors, all trying to lay down new groundwork in research, keeping his Institute ahead of all other grants. It's ranked in the top five for the largest amount of government funds received."
Nick stood behind her, reading as she scrolled down.
"Other than that, no complaints, except for the mention in Kincaid's notes and again nothing formally was filed. Dr. Stanfield's background is tougher to flesh out; those documents were sort of flimsy. I do know he has a background in computer networks and programming. His original education records indicate he sought out a study in artificial intelligence and biochemistry for a while, before settling on psychology." She snorted. "He wasted a good year and half in the Ivy League just switching majors."
Nick shook his head. "Nerds and their trades." He glanced at his watch again, definitely irritated. "So, you never told me where Grissom went after debriefing you on his findings."
Sara matched his annoyed posture. "You never asked, and I am a part of this investigation too."
Nick gave her a pointed look to which she relented, looking slight guilty. "It seems he slept as much as we did. He went back to the Institute to get that dental impression from Stoyanov before lights out for the night. He wants to start building his case around him as the leader of the attack."
The Texan stiffened. "He went without me."
Sara looked away, obviously conflicted. "He told me that you found out that Nigel Crane was recently transferred there."
"Sara." The warning in that lowered, don't lecture me tone was clear as day.
She never backed down from a challenge and was never fond of kid-gloved treatment if it meant that it would do more harm than good. "I can't believe you wanted to interview him, Nick. I mean it was a long shot at best."
Nick didn't stand around long enough to be lectured; his face betraying the hurt, the quicker to anger defensiveness that was frequent companion the last few weeks. Sara wasn't in the mood to be dismissed again. "Nick?"
He didn't answer her; an undeniable force was unleashed. One that renewed his once torn up stomach from last night to flip and smolder with new burning sensations that spread into his chest. A fire burned there, sending signals all over his body. Nick left the room wordlessly, sick to death of his well being questioned behind closed doors.
Sara was hot on his heels, unsuccessful at getting his attention until he nearly knocked her down as she stood right in his path. She grabbed his forearm. "What's wrong with you these days?"
He glared at her incredulously. She stood her ground. "Storming out of rooms is not your style and don't deny that you're behaving differently. You've called me out on the carpet before, so don't get so ticked off when I do the same to you."
Nick rested his hands on his hips, tongue wetting his bottom lip. "I'm sorry." He looked her straight in the eye to make sure she saw the sincerity. "I'll apologize for being unprofessional and if I said anything out of line." He paused. "I'm not sorry for the way I feel or what I think is right about a case."
Sara let her hand slip away. "Grissom left maybe a half hour ago."
Nick didn't smile, but showed his appreciation with his eyes. He stood there a moment, then he was struck with a thought. A nag from his first set of interviews. "Have the lab look into all Parkinson's medications. Have them drop everything else."
Sara didn't seem ready to hop to. Nick shook his head. "Look, I think I know something. I had an uncle who suffered from that disease and some of the things I've seen lately are just too coincidental."
Sara looked hesitant, but he knew he was on to something. "Please, trust my instincts."
She allowed a small smile. "I'll go over there and tell them and call you if there are any hits."
Nick nodded, and left to go catch up with his problems.
It must have been dinner break, because the guard who asked for his weapon to be left with him was even grumpier and enjoying his little power trip a bit too much for a rent-a cop. Nick just kept any comments silent as he found Dr. Rhodes to escort him to the fourth level. The CSI kept to the typical chitchat, his suspicions hidden like any good poker player. It was annoying that the security detail wouldn't let him even go to the room where his superior was working to match the tooth patterns without the head of the
hospital or the primary physician of the four suspects' care. Stanfield was out of the question, since he was already with Grissom.
"You're still keeping all of them on the fourth floor and not back in general population?" he asked, just trying to break the silence.
The director looked at him as if he had grown two heads. "Ivan was already a guest here as well as Patterson for their violent natures. While Tanner did not murder his victims even though the sexual assaults were brutal, and Joey never exhibited violent behavior 'til now, seems to me they all belong here."
Nick followed him down the hall, getting sort of lost in the turns and number of twists they took. "We're still trying to determine which of them were involved in Kincaid's death. It's possible that one or two of them didn't harm anyone."
Dr Rhodes didn't hide his condescending manner. "Nice to see some law enforcement uphold the whole innocent until proven guilty, even with so much evidence to the contrary. However, until all of them are proven not to have assaulted Dr. Kincaid, they all stay on level four. With extra precautions such as electronic locks and every inmate heavily medicated."
"Is that why you have fewer guards up here, even if the inmates are more violent?" Nick inquired as they walked deeper into the depths of the east wing.
The director smiled. "It's easy to control patients who are made docile under the power of sedatives."
Nick stood by as the physician took out his key card, slid it through the sensor and opened the door. Grissom looked up from arranging his kit, and Dr. Stanfield bristled upon the head of the facility entering the small room. The geeky doctor with hair with a mind of its own and even more annoying sweater vest scrambled past Nick to confer with his superior.
Nick ignored the Stanfield as he complained about another waste of time. Grissom stood where he was, setting aside the dental impression kit. He didn't give the younger man eye contact; the first clue that he wasn't happy about Nick being there. "Last I checked you were supposed to be going over tox results. You know how many need to be run. I need you at the Lab."
"I've narrowed down our scope on those. Last I checked one of these inmates has a peculiar fixation with you." Nick didn't keep the irony about that little detail out of his tone.
The younger criminalist wanted to suggest they request the details for the research grant that Dr. Rhodes commissioned, to see if they would hand them over without a warrant. A telling sign if he was onto something. Nick kept his cards close to his vest until the supervisor had time to think about the best way to approach it.
Grissom finally looked his way. "What parameters did you use to narrow down the analysis?"
Nick took a hasty step closer, trying to keep his voice low in the midst of the other occupants. "We know there were high levels of dopamine and now norepinephrine popped in the urine results. I went with my gut and had them began searching for drugs used for Parkinson's."
"Parkinson's disease?" Grissom asked, still not fond of his other criminalist's presence.
Nick cringed when Grissom didn't lower his voice, looking at the other two physicians who both looked up, but continued their discussions. "Yeah, it's something I pieced together."
Before Grissom responded, Dr. Rhodes interrupted them. "Well gentlemen, I need to get some final paperwork done before I finally get to go home. Dr. Stanfield will make sure each patient is able to come here for your tests. Dinner trays and nightly meds are making the rounds, so if any of them are too out of it to walk here, we might have to take you to their cells."
"I'd like to start with Mr. Stoyanov, please." Grissom requested, still staring at Nick.
Dr. Stanfield grumbled. "Very well. It might take a little while to get him; until then, please remain where you are."
Nick waited for both doctors to leave before facing his supervisor, his brain on overdrive rattling out his brewing thoughts. "These guys were on something that was not part of their daily regimens. Something that made all four of them violent despite two people who don't typically show any aggressive behavior."
Grissom yielded to the other man. "Go on."
Nick took a calming breath, to put facts in a sensible order and chill his still turbulent insides. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. "According to Sara, Kincaid knew better than to put two inmates with paranoid and delusional behavior in the same room with two others without a good reason. Group sessions are risky since there's already an air of mistrust with the patients."
"It would only serve to aggravate the psychosis of the other more violent patients," Grissom mused out loud.
Nick nodded. "Then why? Where's the camera from that shard of lens we found? He was videotaping the sessions and conducting them at night with no one around. I think he found out something unethical concerning Dr. Rhodes. Something about the new research study he commissioned Stanfield to oversee with Kincaid."
Grissom crossed his arms in front of him. "Pretty big leap. I'll agree that the tox screen results are the key; that something in all four of their systems lead to the murder. A key trail that needs constant supervision. Jumping to motive is useless if we don't have anything to back it up. Right now, I'm linking hard physical evidence that will concretely connect one of them conclusively to the victim."
"Based on what, Gris? Your gut telling you Ivan is probably the man that started the free for all? They all had Kincaid's blood on them." Nick quickly felt his face flush.
"Yes. We also have Ivan's fingerprints on the weapon as well as Joseph Brighten's." Grissom leaned his weight behind him, waiting expectantly.
Despite feeling the familiar heat course though his body, Nick didn't lash out in defensiveness. "Ivan is the mostly likely suspect, and I know you can't help but to rise to his challenge. But, motivation can still tie in directly to finding a suspect. It gives us a direction to go after."
"What direction is that, Nick? You're already looking for defenses for certain suspects because you feel sympathy for a man who couldn't handle his personal tragedy."
It was a barb, unintentional or not, and it stung. Nick stalked away, leeching out frustration. He spun around unable to keep justifications at bay. "I went ahead and interviewed Nigel about Joey."
Nick wasn't quite prepared for the fist that slammed onto the table, Grissom's sudden burgundy face a flashback to very rare bursts of anger from many years ago. "I told you not to interview him, Nick!"
Grissom angrily brushed by his criminalist then swung around, arms posed in midair. "What didn't you understand about that?"
Nick didn't back down like in years past. No backpedaling this time. "You said we were not going to interview him. I went back off the clock."
"Twisting my words until they fit what you needed, doesn't change things and only proves you've totally lost perspective on this case," Grissom said testily.
"You don't seem to have any issues about manipulating things to suit your own purposes," Nick snapped back. "Responding to correspondence that didn't have anything to do with you," he added in a hushed, gravely tone.
"As your supervisor it's my duty to make decisions that effect the Team. Putting the Nigel Crane case behind you was the best thing," Grissom explained without remorse.
Nick came within inches of his supervisor's face. "Who said you had the right to make that choice for me?" Nick's voice cracked with something that didn't resemble anger at all.
Grissom was silent, unable to refute anything that wasn't anger laced.
Before Nick could press on, the door opened and the stuffy physician froze, obviously aware of the tense situation. "Am I interrupting something?"
Nick stared at his boss, who broke away to face the other man. "No. We were just talking about another matter. Are we ready?"
Grissom never turned around re-focusing at the current matter. Nick shoved a chair out of his way with his foot and rested along the wall with his arms crossed.
The man pushed the thick glasses back up the bridge of his nose, looking back and forth between both men, eyes narrowed. "Yes. Franco is bringing in Ivan."
Franco, the Latino guard from the other day, escorted the mountain of a man into the barren room. The Russian's feet dragged like heavy trunks of an elephant, his unruly mane of black hair frizzy and unkempt. A scraggly light beard had not been shaved for a couple days. The guard pushed the man from behind, guiding massive shoulders down into the chair.
Ivan stared at the floor, rocking slightly in his seat. Nick stayed on his feet, eyes trained on the suspect, whose lazy gaze remained glued to the tiles on the floor, absent of his spiels of evil and devils. The criminalist followed his supervisor's movements as he got ready the dental kit, eying the lanky guard and the man's physician who hunkered in the far corner.
Grissom strode towards the subdued inmate, laced straitjacket securing limbs and hands from possible menace. The supervisor held out the tray, looking downward somewhat, intrigued by the more rarefied conduct.
"I need you to lift your head and open your mouth wide so I can insert this tray into your mouth. It won't hurt, but I need to get an impression of your teeth," the supervisor instructed, waiting for compliance.
Ivan silently sulked within the chair, swaying slightly, zoned to his own soundless accompaniment within his head. Grissom held the tool out, allowing a little more time for the inmate to adjust or acknowledge his order. Casting a sideways glance at the other criminalist he repeated his instructions one more time, a bit slower.
Dr. Stanfield stuffed his hands inside lab coat pockets, peering curiously through his wired rims. "He just got his meds, makes him sluggish."
Grissom stooped down, both men at eye level. "Do you understand my instructions, Mr. Stoyanov?"
A head lolled to the side, a tiny twitch, dark irises moved upwards inside eye sockets. "Da."
The entomologist readied the insertion as the Russian raised his head, strong set of jaws opening wide. Nick took a tentative step closer as his boss slid the tray across slack lips. As soon as the flexible plastic brushed over the lower row of teeth, the giant launched out of his chair, knocking it over, and rammed full throttle into the unsuspecting older criminalist.
A flurry of bodies rushed past Nick as the brute jabbed his hulking mass into Grissom, slamming the man into the wall. The Texan and the guard latched onto the freight train, grappling with any finger hold to pull the man off. The supervisor's shocked and pained face demonstrated the strength with which he was knocked off his feet and crushed against the wall.
Grissom didn't even have time to hold his arms up to defend himself; the mold kit clattered to the floor. He gasped for breath lost in grunts, face reddened, indicative of lack of oxygen.
Dr. Stanfield scurried over to the intercom to hit the button for help as the Latino orderly struggled for purchase, unsuccessfully trying to restrain the powerful inmate. Ivan growled a litany in Russian, twisting towards the left and knocking Franco away like an annoying insect. Nick was shoved to the right towards the corner just as the guard charged back towards the prisoner.
Ivan meet his rush with his back, slamming with more speed than thought possible, crushing the smaller man against brick with his weight.
Nick impacted the corner for a second, shoulder taking the brunt of the collision, then flew towards Ivan who was making another whirlwind tackle towards the supervisor who had barely recovered. Nick managed to wrap an arm around the wild animal, succeeding in dipping his arm under the guy's throat. The Texan used his defensive technique to put the inmate into a half nelson, another hand grasping his elbow to try to somehow increase the pressure around the thick neck and larynx.
Ivan bucked, but Nick squeezed harder, grunting in effort, his body slung atop the other man in a duel for control. His chokehold began to have an effect. Ivan began to crack under the throttle, wailing and gasping for breath. Nick squeezed harder, pressing his smaller mass over the heavier one, feeling the man weaken.
He heard the door's lock tumblers click, and saw Stanfield running towards him, the corner of his eye catching sight of a syringe with what he hoped was an abundance of sedative. Just as the Russian seemed to falter he screamed and Nick felt two sets of clamping teeth tear into the under part of his forearm.
Pain like no other ripped through soft flesh, as strong jaws sunk into muscles and tendon. Nick hollered, losing his hold as the beast never let up on the pressure, biting down with unrelenting force. Nick tried to get away, but he was held by a bear trap of iron. Franco was back on his feet again trying to wrestle with the other man.
Nick's screams filled the room along with Ivan's guttural noises. The inmate mashed down slightly to the left and right, cutting deeper into Nick's arm. He felt his eyes water, the room disappear through hazy vision. Two other hefty men alternated between helping Nick move away and taking down the enraged brute. Dr. Stanfield stabbed the patient into his bicep with his needle. The mouth released its grip, but not before Ivan's incisor-tooth tore a path across the under belly of Nick's arm, blood pouring out of the growing
wound.
The Russian went down, a pile of men on top of him. Nick staggered back as he cried out, his hand trying to quell the hot burning of skin and flesh. He fell to the wayside, hunched over, barely on his feet. He heard a plethora of shouting, and calls for help. Through the pumping of his wild heart he heard Grissom's strained voice over him. Nick managed to peel open his eyes and felt his boss' arm around his waist. Through both sets
of raspy breaths, Grissom pulled him towards the safety of the other corner.
"Let me see, Nick."
No mistaking that command. A shaky hand pulled away his own, dark blood flowing freely from a deep laceration along veins, jagged indents of ripped flesh from a set of teeth marks.
"God, Nick," Grissom cursed, older hands pressed along the wound as best they could as more blood dripped down to the floor, Nick's jeans already stained with splotches of red.
Grissom turned when he heard the flurry of men try to carry the unconscious Russian out. He caught Dr. Stanfield's bewildered eyes. "Stop standing around and get me some help, now!"
A/N at my bio.