Sara flipped through a mound of files, eyes scanning Dr. Kincaid's almost unintelligible notes and compared them to the first draft of the joint proposal by the deceased and Dr. Stanfield. This particular cardboard box had just been delivered to the Lab, accidentally separated en route from an earlier delivery. Nick had not combed through it and while she waited impatiently for more tox results it was proving fascinating reading. She was
so engrossed with the contents that she never heard the noise from someone clearing their throat.
Sara looked up to see Catherine eying her with a Cheshire Cat- like grin as she leaned on the doorjamb. "This case got all three of you guys in the wackiest of hours. In early again?" she asked as she made her way in, the glint in her eye more than curious.
Sara smiled despite herself. "Something like that." She rubbed at her eyes. "Split shifts because of the hours we're allowed to interview suspects, not that I've been able to do the latter." She uttered the last part under he breath.
Catherine's Alice in Wonderland smile slipped and her quirk of the head replaced it. "Been banned from the scene?"
Sara narrowed her eyes; Catherine wasn't that dense. "I never asked for special treatment."
Catherine gave her a cocky grin. "No one ever accused you of that." She got a faraway look in her eyes.
Sara waited for something more, then pushed when all there was silence. "What?"
Catherine sighed. "I don't know, maybe...maybe Grissom is trying to make up for other things." With the wrong person she thought, but didn't say so out loud, since it wasn't Sara's fault.
Sara sort of knew what she was talking about and dropped her head, embarrassed to be on the receiving end of such preferential treatment. "He has a bad habit of deference."
The older woman snorted. "You've been reading too much psychology. I think we'd all be in big trouble if someone came in to analyze all of us." She held up her hands. "What is normal?"
Sara shifted in her seat. "Don't ask. I'll tell you one thing, it wasn't this research study."
"I've been following the case somewhat," Catherine said reverting back to business.
"Yeah? What about your Ping Pong murder? Did you threaten to paddle the suspect?"
Catherine rolled her eyes. "Nah, he didn't have enough balls."
They both laughed and the other woman looked down at Sara's notes. "Your study have something probative?'
"Yeah, it sure does." Sara didn't know how much her boss knew, but she still felt like sharing. "Our victim was part of a research study that was a sham."
"Sounds like motive. Not that I'm privy to all the details, but you can decipher one of those reports? If I recall it's like reading stereo instructions," Catherine remarked dryly.
Sara pointed to a stool, which the other woman accepted. "When I have one of the physician's notes in his own journal and a draft of the study, it's easier to figure out all the relevant stuff. Suffice it to say, Dr. Stanfield was faking his study." She paused to see if the other CSI caught on. "He listed patients that were part of a clinical trial for an
anti-psychotic drug that should have never been part of any study."
"How do you know that?"
Sara hesitated just a little, knowing she had only partial information. "I can't cross reference all the patients used, but I did notice one thing. The trial and subsequent results from the study include all four of our murder suspects. Two of which should have never even met the criteria."
Catherine seemed intrigued enough for her to continue, since her other two partners had not answered their cell phones in the last hour. "Not all anti-psychotic medication is used on the same dysfunctions or mental illnesses. There are different classes: Pharmacodynamics, Pharmacokinetics, and Phenothiazines. All used for different sets of mood disorders, all with their own corresponding side effects"
"O-kay," Catherine said, not quite following.
Sara knew she was losing the other criminalist, since Catherine had no basis to follow. "Basically, it comes down to the fact that a sex offender and a patient suffering from PTSD would not benefit from the same kind of drug used to treat sociopathic behavior or delusional tendencies. Comes down to different chemicals."
"And you're saying this study claims to have used these patients as test subjects with positive results?"
Sara smiled. "Exactly. The study was based off of bogus information. It was like this guy used random names to fill in the needed data when his results were not totally verified. Dr. Kincaid was following up on his co-researcher's studies and I think might be the reason why he tried to pull some of Stanfield's patients from his care."
Catherine shifted through papers. "I think major medical journals would have their ways to verify these types of studies with their reputations on the line, not to mention multi- million dollar pharmaceutical contracts," she remarked skeptically.
Sara nodded. "I agree. Still trying to wade through it. I'm not a research expert."
"And we're all glad to hear that."
Both criminalists turned to see David Hodges saunter into the room, a file gripped tightly between his fingers, his usual aura of smugness ever so exaggerated.
"If you're here, that means you must have hit pay dirt," Sara said, challenging his presence.
The tech cocked his head and rested his hand on the desk in triumph. "You and Nick tried to bury the entire lab with a tidal wave of endless tests. Glad you finally decided to narrow your focus just a wee bit. I know you think we have nothing to do but, --"
"The results, Hodges," Sara demanded somewhat testily.
David mocked being wounded, but handed her the folder. "Bingo on Levodopa."
Sara studied the readout, the name not ringing a bell. The haughty tech sensed this and was happy to oblige her with the needed answers.
"It's a drug used to treat Parkinson's disease. Typical dosage ranges from 100 Mg to 500 Mg." David waited till he had the desired attention of his audience, and gave them a crooked smile before an exaggerated intake of breath. "Fast acting. Onset of effects within 10 to 15 minutes. "
Sara glared at him. "Do you know what this would do to someone who wasn't under a prescription?"
David laughed. "I wouldn't be here unprepared."
"Then spill it," Sara demanded, annoyed.
"Is it chilly in here?" he asked, but trained his eyes elsewhere, his usual bored expression firmly in place. "Hard stuff to test for unless you specifically look for it. From the urine results, again not something we typical break down so much, there was a large level. About 1000 Mg to be precise."
Sara stared at her copy. "And that means..."
"It means, class, that in some people it can cause euphoria, hallucinations, nervousness, anxiety. Not to mention severe depression, dementia, aggressiveness, and paranoia." David cleared his throat. "That was behavioral. It can also manifest itself after three to five hours with muscle twitching, involuntary movements, and psychiatric disturbances."
Sara and Catherine shared a look. The younger criminalist fiddled with the report. "Hell of a thing to give to patients who are already suffering from severe forms of paranoia and violent behavioral disorders."
Catherine laughed. "Yeah. Talk about mixing up explosives. A recipe for bad mojo." She shook her head, "Not exactly a reliable murder weapon."
Sara shook her head. "Maybe it was used to get the deed done or cover up the tracks of something else. This means that only certain people could have access to such a drug and be able to administer that kind of dose without anyone knowing it," she said, suddenly a bit alarmed.
"The inmates had 'encouragement' the other night," Catherine muttered, the sinking feeling taking hold of her stomach.
Hodges snorted. "Um, if you're talking about mixing up Levodopa and the mentally disturbed, think more along the lines of unbalanced dynamite. Anything from space cadets to raving lunatics."
The women glared at him, not wanting to add those nightmarish images to their heads.
Before one of them dismissed the man, Jim Brass huffed inside the room, out of breath and very irritated.
"What is it?" Sara and Catherine asked in unison.
Brass wiped at his forehead, getting rid of the perspiration there. He sighed heavily. "There's some bad shit going down at that Nuthouse Institute."
It was raining; the water droplets pelted his face, and it felt refreshing. Nick didn't understand why he was outside, as the water got harder, rivulets streaming down the side of his cheeks. He reached up to pull down the brim of his baseball hat, when the movement sort of zapped him back into reality.
Nick's eyes popped open as he gasped sharply for breath. His back blossomed with acute pain; his right flank a tenderized mess. He curled up onto his side; his left hand weakly sought out the power tool that still drilled into his flesh. Half-consciously he swatted at the droplets of water on his face, confused about the source of the water. It was totally
overwhelming, but as his mind adjusted to the fury of stimuli, Nick took in his surroundings as the last few minutes rewound in his head.
He was on the floor nearly in a fetal position as water dripped into his hair. Nick batted at the air and came into contact with a plastic bottle.
Huh? "What the Hell?" he croaked.
His pupils adjusted to the low level of light, but he could barely concentrate on anything other than the laborious effort of breathing. Nick saw Nigel Crane standing over him, moments after spilling the last remains of water from the now empty container. The janitor squatted next to him after chucking the useless plastic away and fiddled with the flashlight in his hands.
"About time you woke up. You know there was only one thing of water in the mini-fridge and I got tired of calling your name," Nigel said matter-of-factly.
Nick didn't hear the ramble as he gasped for air and held his breath afterwards to help ease the pain the movement of his diaphragm caused. Then he blew it out and sucked in another lungful of air just as quickly, trying to control the need to breathe at all. Simply an inconceivable thing to do. Nick balled his right hand into a fist and pounded it on the ground as hard as he could, until his fingers throbbed as unmercifully as his back. He tried to drag his body away from the origin of the anguish with little result.
It didn't help. Movement made him see stars, the strange sounds from deep within his throat pitiful and pathetic to his ears. He buried his head between his arms and gnawed on his fist to combat how he felt.
"Nick, we can't stay here. It's not safe."
Nigel's monotone voice drifted around his ears; it was soft, and so very distant. Maybe if he kept very still, motionless like a rock, it would help.
"Nick, come on people will find us here."
Nigel's voice had more of an edge to it and Nick tried to forget the man was even there.
"Get up, Nick."
Nick hated it, but sought out the blackness of unconsciousness from a few minutes ago. Yet a nag at the edge of his brain told him something else was wrong. He felt so confused and the janitor's voice just grated on his nerves.
He heard Nigel's deep sigh and as he muttered unhappily. Nick peeled open his eyes as the geeky man shined the light over his form, his annoyance quite obvious.
"You should really stop complaining so much. Did he rough you up a bit to get your precious boss' attention?'
Nick noticed the proximity of Crane as the man loomed closer; the man's fingers touched the side of his shirt as he attempted to inspect for injury. "Don't fucking touch me!"
Nick batted Nigel's hand away from his body and fixed the man with a piercing gaze. "Back away," he gasped out.
The janitor adjusted his glasses, his hands away from the CSI, but didn't seem very effected by the burst of anger. Nigel mumbled under his breath and used the beam of light and shined it over Nick's body as it trembled with every irregular breath.
"Isn't it ironic that you got shanked in the back, Nick? Kind of like karma knocking you down a peg or two." Nigel looked around and sifted through the junk all over the floor and latched onto the object he sought. He grasped the gold pen, mostly stained a dark red, and inspected it with curiosity.
"It's just a pen, Nick. You've handled worse. So why don't you stop complaining so much and get moving?"
Nick felt the familiar heat creep along his cheeks, whether from the man's callous remarks or the effects of being stabbed, he wasn't sure. The anger though was a good focus point, a target to draw his attention from what felt like a gaping hole that grew larger with every motion. Then it sort of all hit him at once. Ivan's steel eyes, the fear of being tortured, and then Grissom's arrival. The man had handed himself over to that monster.
Nick was surprised by what he felt. It wasn't the pain of sadness, nor regret, though the familiar buddy of guilt nagged him. No, it was anger. For getting caught, for being too blinded by his foolhardy emotions, but most of all, for having to rely on his supervisor for help once again.
It made him feel so out of control, so unable to step out of the looming shadow of Grissom's influence. That his choices were never trusted, that he was never seen as capable. The fallout of his decisions would have consequences and repercussions that someone would have to come around and clean up.
After all these years, every single nightmare case, every instance of survival that would have ended the career of most others. He felt crushed by so much uncertainty from others.
Trust. It was a word seldom used in the same sentence with his supervisor these days. Nick felt the dam finally break free, the splinters finally full-fledged cracks, bursting forth in time to the rip in his back. Nick grabbed a hold of the desk and hoisted his damaged body to his feet. Nigel was right; it was simple small hole, but damn was the pain exponentially higher than he ever thought possible.
He didn't suppress the howl of pain, mixed with an even more sudden gasping for air. He leaned over the spread of wood, legs ready to collapse again. The room sort of spun, the ten rounds that he went with Mike Tyson sort of a blurry memory. Nick didn't stand, but sort of hunched over, as he arched his back somewhat. It took every scrap of will power, but Nick lurched forward, unable to suppress the guttural noise of pain that every jarring movement did to him.
It felt like his legs were made of rubber, ready to just crumple beneath each step. Instinctively he wanted to place his hand over the wound, but didn't want to experience another jolt of pain. Sweat rolled down his clammy face.
"We need to find Grissom."
There was a flash of something across Nigel's unreadable face. The inmate didn't see that coming. He smiled thinly. "Can you even walk, Nick?"
Nick staggered to the door, every vibration of foot to floor, a white-hot stake in his spine. He wrapped his left hand around his stomach; his guts felt like they had been eviscerated. He clumsily fumbled with the doorknob and nearly fell out the exit, when the door swung open and he was unable to keep from using the door as a crutch.
He allowed a slight sob; his feet began to slide out from under him. Nick felt his right arm move without commanding it to as it was slumped over the shoulders of the smaller man. Nick fought as he tried to push Nigel out of his personal space. The janitor yanked Nick's arm harder around him, tearing at more stitches.
Nick yelped as he was pulled away from the door, his weight forced to accept the help of the other man. He felt the warm trickle of blood over his right arm; funny his back didn't feel coated as much as it should. Nick tried to concentrate on his breathing; the panting could not be helped. It just hurt less when he held his breath, so that's what he did as much as possible.
Crane adjusted for his weight and awkward position, the tendency to hunch over to alleviate some of the pain made the trek through the darkness clumsy. Nick didn't allow Crane to wrap an arm around his waist to help anchor them both. He felt vile enough as it was, but mostly any pressure near the hole in his back was too excruciatingly bad to allow.
Nick was unable to keep down the amount of pain he was in; each step just another jab along his spine and twist along the muscles of his abdomen.
"Try to be quiet," Nigel hissed.
Despite the anger-laced tone, Nigel Crane looked pleased. His face almost beamed at the very notion of helping Nick move around, and despite the effort of hauling them both, it seemed to challenge him more. The criminalist noticed the tiny glances sent his way, even smaller grins of happiness. Deep down, in the sickness of Nigel's mind this was an overt joy of being useful.
"We... need...to find Grissom," Nick insisted.
Nigel rolled his eyes as he steered them, the two men moving like wayward drunkards. Nick knew he was being ignored and slowed his movements. The inmate pretended or ignored Nick's efforts. "Nigel."
Crane grunted as he struggled with the ornery Texan. Nick weighed more than the smaller man and was making things rather difficult.
"Why?"
Nick nearly toppled over when Crane froze in mid-step. The criminalist shook his head. "Because Ivan has him."
The inmate snorted. "So?"
Nick didn't feel like arguing with the two year old, but he needed Crane and that scared the shit out of him. "Because he doesn't deserve to be hurt."
Nigel squirmed under his burden. "Many people don't deserve what happens to them. Of all people you should know that."
The abrupt movement brought the hounds of Hell over him and Nick used the pain to grab a hunk of pale green jumpsuit and lock eyes with the man. "He's my supervisor and he offered himself up to that animal for me," he seethed.
"He's a co-worker, a boss. He did his job. I'm your friend. I saved you in that hallway and I'm going to take you back to our safe spot. I'm helping you, Nick. Why don't you understand that."? Nigel stared at the CSI questioningly.
"He's my friend, Nigel. It...it's what friends do for each other," Nick tried to convey, even though he knew he was treading a thin line, waiting for his choice of words to backfire on him.
Clearly it had some effect. Nigel shook his head, rambling under his breath. Nick tried to keep him focused. "Just help me find where Ivan took him. Once we get him, then all of us can go to the safe spot." Nick tried to reason as best he could. He grunted as the smaller man adjusted his weight again.
Nigel looked at the hand still intertwined with the fabric of his jumpsuit. Nick let go of his grip; his brown eyes still stared intently. Crane looked around into the darkness, adjusting the flashlight in his other hand.
The red light reflected off his glasses every five seconds.
"What is a friend, Nick? An ally in war? What, you catch bad guys together? Do you turn to him when you need a shoulder to cry on?" Nigel laughed. "Didn't think so.
Is he an acquaintance? You know, someone who you talk with about mutual likes and regard with affection?" Nigel chuckled. "I doubt you guys watch football and drink beer."
Nigel faced him in a very similar stand off from several years ago. Both men tense except for the absence of a gun between them. "Friends share trust, honesty, and respect." The inmate cocked his head to one side. "Didn't get that impression about his feelings for you. When you think of Mr. Grissom, what kind of friend do you imagine, if any at all?"
Nick swallowed and directed all his anger into a cold steely voice. "I'm telling you right now, Nigel. You're going to help him."
The man peered through his windows of warped reality; his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. "Why, Nick?"
The criminalist felt his body slip from the fragile hold, his mind drifting back to the few seconds in which he tore the muzzle away from Nigel's skull and sent the man to prison instead of the grave. He recalled the tiny triumphant smile as Crane had been handcuffed even in the chaos. Nigel had stuck to the one thing he was good at, the one thing he sought more than anything. Nick blew out another painful breath.
"Because you're in control here, Nigel. It's your game. Your rules." Nick didn't know how much longer he could remain upright. His right leg trembled constantly. The hole the size of a dime felt more like the largest gaping wound filled with liquid fire.
He was falling, unable to remain upright, failing again at something so fundamental.
Like acid and salt he screamed the driest cry as an arm grabbed him by his waist and halted his fall to the floor. Sandpaper along an open sore, the arm kept him snug, on his feet, and then pulled him along the empty hallway. Nick didn't know how his feet could keep up; a stumble there, a falter elsewhere. The fucking red lights seemed to stab his eyes with the same amount of ferocity as the pen that still felt embedded in his right flank.
Nick panted now, unable to put up a fight, too suddenly exhausted to struggle. Nigel grunted more, grumbled even louder. The small man tripped over his feet, sometimes falling and sending them both to the tiles. Yet, by some miracle, the janitor found his bearings and hauled around the dead weight around his shoulders. Their journey slowed to a crawl.
After what seemed like hours Nigel stopped in front of a door. He leaned Nick against the wall somewhat as he wrangled with a set of keys. The CSI had enough sense still left to know they were not back at the showers and there was no hint of Grissom or Ivan. He balanced by holding onto Nigel's back, knowing the inmate was relishing every freaking second of dependence.
Nigel nearly dragged him into what had to be the most crammed storage closet he'd seen in his life. The tiny space was packed full of supplies, boxes and two metal shelves lined the walls. The two men could barely turn full circle in the suffocating space. Nigel busied himself shoving mop buckets and random supplies around.
Nick blinked several times; the place was pitch black. Before he could get enough moisture in his mouth to form words, the inmate turned on his flashlight.
Bad idea. It only served to shrink the size of the shoebox. Nick didn't think his heart could pound any harder. Nigel slowly lowered Nick to the slippery ground; the smell of bleach and mold was overwhelming. Nick leaned on his left side, still trying to understand what was going on.
He managed a struggled, "What?"
Nigel breathed heavily and seemed a bit out of sorts. He wiped at the sweat on his brow and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You're too heavy."
Nick was caught holding another breath, but sucked in more oxygen despite the effects. "I don't..."
"I can't carry you around the whole wing," Nigel huffed. Then smirked. "I used to be a technician, great with electronics, satellites, cables, computers. Now. Well, now welcome to my world of slopping up messes, waxing floors, scrubbing toilets. My...my reward'." Nigel shined the beam of light at all the bottles of cleaners, dirty rags, towels and paper supplies.
"I'm going to go get your stupid boss. To prove to you once and for all what real friendship is all about. You'll see the stark contrast right in front of your face." Nigel's voice was pompous and self-righteous.
It wasn't exactly part of his plan, even though he didn't have one totally formulated. It didn't even occur to him that Crane would try to find Grissom. Nick struggled to stand on his own and resulted in collapsing on the mucky floor, his back a raging mess and his feet unable to stand up again.
Nigel patted him on his shoulder. "You'll be safe here. Kind of cozy don't you think?"
Nick swore he saw a flash of glee behind the plastic lenses and it was then that he realized Crane planned on locking him inside. He succeeded in crawling along the floor, but Nigel was already on his feet, leaving him behind.
"Sorry, I need to keep the flashlight."
"No!" Nick yelled, as he pushed up on all fours in an effort to stand.
"You want me to help your supervisor, right? I'm just trying to be a good friend. Don't scream too loud or someone who doesn't care about you might find you."
Nick was rewarded with a door slammed closed in front of his face, the room a sudden vacuum of light. He was consumed by total darkness; his hands clawed at the wood that prevented his escape.
"No!" he bellowed, his voice cracking and lost in the harshness of his throat.
Nick grabbed the doorknob, arms straining with the effort to hold his upper torso up, barely up off his knees. He jerked at the metal; the door didn't budge and so gravity pulled him back to the cold, harsh floor. Nick lay on his belly, not enough energy to move again. His body trembled; harsh ragged breaths tore at injury.
Nick closed his eyes, blocking out yet another encompassing tomb. He tried to ignore the feeling that the walls were going to crush him, and that his air was too thin.
Breathe in and out just like before. Except this time, every intake of air was just another torture. The only person who knew where he was was another mad man. Nick curled up onto his side, and tried not to think about who roamed the halls around him and that the only hope for him and his supervisor rested on the shoulders of one Nigel Crane.
A/N at my bio.