Announcement: icklebitodd, thanks for your comment on chapter five! I hope everyone likes chapter six!
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Disclaimer: I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS. And credit for Sara's fictitious past goes to QuoththeRaven. If you want to know more about her version of Sara's childhood, she is on my favorites list. The story you are looking for is the Life & Times of Sara Sidle.
Title: The Planetarium: Part 2
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Sara arrived at the Planetarium shortly after receiving the phone call from Grissom. Although she was not thrilled at the prospect of working on this particular case, she knew that she had a job to do, and that justice till needed to prevail.
"Hi Jim," she quietly said, walking up to the detective.
"Hello, Sara. Gil is over there," he replied, pointing in the general direction of the main entrance to the planetarium.
Sara nodded, walking into the building. "Grissom," she greeted her supervisor, looking over at him.
Grissom just nodded at her, before sighing. "Sara, I have a scared seven-year old boy who will not say a word to anyone," he immediately told her. "I don't know that he actually saw anything—the bullet appears to have come from the back of the theater—but he still will not utter a word. The paramedics haven't taken him to the hospital just yet, although they will be, fairly soon. I… need you to try to talk to him…" he informed her, trying to analyze her expression. Grissom understood that Sara had a difficult time with cases involving children, but… he also recognized the fact that for whatever reason, children tended to respond to her. And right now, they desperately needed to know exactly what this particular child saw—or did not see.
"Okay," was all that Sara mumbled, shrugging her shoulders, and glancing over at the young child. She noticed the blood on his hands, the blood on his clothes, and the blood in his hair. Then, she studied him more closely. He seemed so sad, and so alone, and so vulnerable. Sara slowly walked over to him, kneeling down in front of him. Clearing her throat, she quietly asked, "Mind if I sit down next to you?" No response. The boy continued to stare straight in front of him, neither flinching nor speaking. "Okay," Sara frowned, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the wall. Biting her lip, she stared at the water fountain on the opposite side of the lobby, as if engrossed by it. "I won't sit in the chair, that's okay. So… what's your name?" she quietly asked, tugging on a stray strand of her hair. When the child did not answer her, she merely said, "My name is Sara, and I'm with the crime lab. We're here to help, and to figure out what happened here…"
Again, the boy said nothing. Although Sara desperately wanted to get him to talk to her, she also knew that he was probably in shock, traumatized by the events of the evening. Sara knew how that felt, and she did not want to push him. Rather than forcing him to talk to her, she decided that her best course of action would be to sit there quietly, waiting for him to initiate contact… which hopefully he would do, given enough time.
And while Sara was busy saying nothing, her mind once again wandered. She hated working on cases that dealt with children. Whether they were the murderers or the innocent bystanders, it all boiled down to one thing: neglect. What caused a child to reach the point of no-return? Neglect, or abuse. Sara did not believe in the nature part of nurture versus nature, although she knew that genetics did play a small role in an individual's disposition. More importantly than genes, however, Sara believed that the way in which a person was brought up made all of the difference in the world. Were the parents in the picture? If they were, did they spend any time with the child? If the parents were not in the picture, was the child in jail? Or foster care? Or on the streets?
And if the child was the victim, rather than the criminal, it still boiled down to neglect. How did adults manage to let children get hurt? Why weren't they always there to protect them? Why did they let bad people in the front door, or allow them to sit at the kitchen table? Why didn't they do anything to stop things from happening a second time? Or a third time? Or a fourth time?
Children were vulnerable, and Sara knew that. She hated working on cases involving youngsters, because they always made her think about...her own past. Grissom always told her that she was too emotional, but how could she not be? I mean… a good scientist lets the material evidence do the talking, but a great scientist is also able to understand human nature, Sara thought to herself, sighing. And that was the funny thing: Sara did not understand human nature very well, but… she could get inside the head of the victim. That, she could do very well.
Sara once again sighed, burying her head in her hands for a moment. Why did she always let herself think too much? That was why she spent so much time at the lab. Working so much left little time for self-reflection, and when you hated yourself, or your past made you sick to your stomach, not having to think about…things…was a blessing in disguise. Until, of course, one of these cases came along. Thanks, Grissom, she thought to herself. Thanks a lot.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, Sara wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her head on her knees. Glancing over at the boy, Sara couldn't help but notice his blond hair and green eyes. She once knew a blond-haired, green-eyed boy. That boy had taken her innocence away, and had made her the victim—on more than one occasion. But this boy was younger, and didn't look strong enough to do…that… to anyone. Sara shuddered, suddenly cold. "Stop," she mumbled to herself. "Stop, stop, stop, before it's too late." Sara felt herself getting closer to the edge of thinking about things that she didn't want to think about. She subconsciously rubbed her wrists, feeling bruises that were no longer there, gone for decades. She subconsciously touched her face, remembering a beating that occurred over twenty years ago. And she closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill over.
Lost in her own little world, still clutching her knees like a scared, twelve-year-old little girl, the scared, seven-year-old little boy reached out to her. "Patrick," was all that he said.
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TO BE CONTINUED