Chapter Four – What's a Crime Scene or Two Between Friends

Lindsay had collected the envelopes Tuff had prepared for her, put them in her kit and hugged him on the way out.

She, Flack and the Chief walked to her car. "Chief I want to go to the store."

"I figured you would. The tape's still up but the scene its processed and wrapped as far as we're concerned."

"Did the state clear it?" She asked the Chief squinting in the sun.

"We didn't call them in Lindsay. Didn't think you'd want us too." She, and even Flack could tell by his tone that he thought it was a suicide and that shame was something he was trying to protect Lindsay from. "As far as we're concerned, unless you tell us otherwise, the scene's processed."

She nodded.

"OK thanks." She shifted her weight on her feet, and Flack thought he had never seen her look as tough. "We're going over there now, do you want us to take one of yours with us?"

"Not unless you need them."

She stood in front of Flack and didn't look back at him. "No, we're fine on our own. Thanks. But I can take whatever I want?"

"Yes. But Lindsay, chain of evidence you know. Whatever you may find will not hold up in court."

"I understand." She took a step forward to shake the Chief's hand. Flack did the same, and they left.

When they parked the car again, Flack said. "So this is Main Street USA?"

She smiled. "It is. We have it all." She pointed at various store fronts. "A pharmacy, a bank, even a pizza shop, and," she turned to the building there were parked in front of, "A hardware store."

The sign read "Monroe's Hardware and Tack Shop." They got out of the car. Again Lindsay took her kit from the trunk.

Flack looked up. "Are tacks a specialty item around here that you have to call them out special from nails or any other hardware?"

She smirked. "No, not that kind of tack. Like horse tack."

"Ah," he said raising his eyebrows. For an instant her smiled deepened as she knew he still didn't know what she meant.

As they approached the building, Lindsay knelt in front of the door. There was one small piece of yellow tape across the door jam reading "Crime scene." She shook her head and reached inside her kit.

"They didn't even print this." She began processing the door knob. Flack wasn't sure how much of what she was doing or was about to do was necessary. But again he put himself in her shoes. If she had the skills to work this scene, she should, even if all it did was help her process that a gun had been fired and her father was dead. He would let her do what she needed to do. When she was satisfied with the door knob. She stood up, took a key from her pocket, used it to cut the tape, and unlocked the door. Flack carried her kit. She walked slowly through the front of the store. Still wearing gloves, she approached the cash register. It was closed and when she opened it, it was still fully stocked with bills and coins. She didn't seem surprised. Flack remained behind her and examined the door and knob also.

As she progressed through the store he knew she was working her way to where her father had died. He moved to be right behind her, still carrying her kit. She opened a door to a back room . There were shelves with inventory. Nothing appeared disturbed. There was an office off to the right, the door was open but the lights were off, Lindsay stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, reached in and turned on the lights and froze for an instant. Then her body wretched, and wretched again. She ran for a back door. Flack dropped her kit by the office and followed her path outside to find her vomiting into a trash can. It was violent, it was painful. She sank to her knees and began sobbing. Flack froze for an instant, her pain was so raw, so desperate.

He went to her. He knelt and grabbed her by the shoulders. At first he just let her cry. She needed to. But crouching that way was tough on his knee, his leg, his hip. So slowly he eased her to standing, but guided her so her head was tucked under his chin and her face rested in his shoulder. He held her as her body heaved against him. He absorbed it. He didn't stroke her or "shhh" her. He just stood there holding her. He would do it as long as she needed. She shifted in his arms. Her face towards his neck. "The blood, the spatter….they're his." His was hand on the back of her head, cradling her.

"I know, " He said to her softly, his eyes closed, inhaling her. Her smell, her tears, her pain.

"My Daddy's." She clutched at him.

"I know," he stood firm. Holding her. Flack expected what was next in the grief he had seen on crime scenes. The "why, why my Daddy?" But that verse never came and she was slowly coming to herself. He was beginning to suspect she knew the "why."

She reached one hand around to wipe the tears from her own face. But then immediately slid it back to where it had been on Flack's shoulder blade. He kissed the top of her head, and squeezed her to him slightly. They remained like that until he could no longer feel her breath catching in sobs. He eased her face away from him, wiped her tear-streaked face and kissed her cheek warmly.

"Monroe, you don't have to do this. They said its been processed. Its done."

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and turned back into his chest. He held her again. Her breathing still heavy from crying, his arms strong and firm encircling her. After a while, she pulled away.

"I'm sorry Flack." She was wiping her face. But his hands still remained on her hips.

"Its OK Monroe. Its why I came." He tucked her hair behind her ear. "But Monroe. I can close it up, you don't have to go in there again." Her eyes closed she held his hands while she took a few deep breaths. She opened her eyes and met his.

"I have to."

He only nodded at her. She stood for a few seconds longer, still holding his hands, as if the longer she touched him the longer she could draw strength from him. Eventually she dropped one of his hands and turned to go back into the building. He dropped her second hand and gently put his instead on the small of her back.

They reentered the building and Lindsay spent a couple of hours collecting samples, examining the scene, accessing her Father's computer files. She was intent so she didn't notice when Flack checked his watch, reached into his pocket and took some pills. He looked around himself, and while no CSI, it appeared to him that this was no suicide. In fact from his experience, in the scenes he had seen, it looked like a professional hit. Neither of them talked about it.

He had asked about places to stay at the police station while Lindsay was receiving condolences from all the Centerville force and staff. But as dusk began to fall they pulled into a dirt road and up to a large but beautifully maintained house on what seemed to Flack to be 1,000 acres of land. It was picture perfect, with dormers, flower boxes, a wrap-around porch and an American flag flying.

She turned off the engine, sat back in the driver seat and looked to him. "Flack," she began softly.

"Yeah," he said, turning to her, eyebrows raised.

"You've been so great. You know when to just not ask. But," she hesitated only slightly. Her eyes were looking ahead, at the house, not meeting his eyes. "I need to process this house, my Dad's house."

He nodded. No one had indicated it was a crime scene or even under investigation. She knew it would appear odd. She had considered dropping him at the hotel in town while she did it, or finding an errand to occupy him. But she couldn't imagine herself doing it without the comfort of knowing he was there too.

He ran his fingers through his hair. Was she in danger, or was she losing her grip, just processing as she went. Or was she just in pain, and processing that as she went. He didn't know, and whichever the answer may be, being there while she fell apart was why he came.

"OK Monroe, let's do it." They left the car and he went around to open the trunk. Before he pulled out her kit he opened it, having watched her enough times, he knew just where her flashlights were, he took the larger for himself, and handed her the smaller. Out of habit, or instinct he drew his gun.

"Open the door and I'll clear it." She didn't know if he was humoring her, but she was in no position to oppose the suggestion.

After she unlocked the door, he swept each room quickly. Each closet, and shower as he would if he were checking that there were no lurking suspects in crime scene at home before clearing it as safe for the CSIs to enter. He noticed that the first floor rooms were all like Lindsay's in New York, devoid of personal artifacts. The second floor bedrooms were different. Each reflected a personality, a history and a human. There were awards and ribbons, posters and pom-poms, but still no photos. He could tell which was Lindsay's, and made guesses as to which had been Kit's and Holly's. There was also one guest room next to Lindsay's and her Dad's room. There was no one in the house.

When Flack came back downstairs Lindsay was just standing up. She had printed the front door. In the back of his mind Flack wondered if she was going to stay up all night printing the whole house.

He didn't say anything to her, but when he holstered his gun she knew it was safe. She had taken all of their bags from the car and they stood behind her on the porch. She hadn't spoken to him about it, but assumed he would stay with her there in the house. She took her bags in and he did the same. She went upstairs. Flack had turned on all of the lights as part of the process. And she shut them off again as they went. She stopped at the guest room.

"Here's your room." She pointed to the one he knew was hers "That's one's mine." She rattled off the others pointing to different rooms. "My Dad's, Kit's, Holly's." He had guessed them all correctly.

"Flack, I don't know if you think I'm crazy. But I just want to print the back door and check a couple of things in my father's office and then I'm done with all that."

He had leaned in and put his bags in the guest room. He gave her a half grin. "Done collecting, then you'll start processing."

In spite of herself she grinned back. He knew her. "No, no. I can't really process too much outside of the lab." She tossed her bags in her room. "Please make yourself at home. The bathroom's there, linen closet there if you want to take a shower. You can rest, or anything you want. There is actually a TV here." She grinned again.

"Shower sounds great. I will be like a new man in 20 minutes, and meet you downstairs."

"OK let me know if you need anything," she said walking away from him. She smiled to herself, at his phrase 'a new man'. She was becoming very fond of the man himself and didn't want him to change one bit.

He showered. Took another set of pills. And hung up his suit for the services. He called Messer as he had said he would. He was glad to have gotten his voicemail so he didn't have to explain how he knew everything he did. He told Messer about Lindsay's dad, and that she was in Montana to return in a few days. He didn't mention he was with her. By the time Flack had made it downstairs she was true to her word, done collecting and was working on cooking a meal. It smelled of steaks and spices. For a moment Flack felt eery, they hadn't been shopping. They would be eating food purchased by a man who was now dead. But he figured if Lindsay's Dad was the man he thought he was, he would have wanted his daughter to be nourished.

His hair was wet, and Lindsay thought he was right, he did look refreshed. He wore a plain white tee shirt and jeans with bare feet.

"Need help?" He asked entering the kitchen.

"No I'm almost done. Sorry I should have stopped to ask you if you were hungry before now."

He smiled. "Don't worry about it." Although he was starving. He took a seat at one of the island stools and watched her cook. "Monroe, I'm not trying to be a Mensh, but did you connect with your sisters since you've been in town?"

"Yeah I called them while you were upstairs. I don't have it in me to see them tonight. They're coming here at 8 tomorrow morning."

She had set out two place setting including an open bottle of wine, her half-full glass she had with her, his glass empty next to his plate.

"I needed a drink. But I didn't know if you were able to have alcohol after the accident so I didn't pour you, and forgive me if you can't and now I drank in front of you." Her brow wrinkled. The courtesy again.

"One's fine." He said pouring himself one. Truth was he wasn't supposed to mix the pills and drinks. But he figured he could nurse one.