The Sketch Book
II
The sketchbook was in the floorboard of the Denali. It was such a simple thing, the sort I carried to art class in high school. It was out of place though, with her collection of forensics tools, so I picked it up.
I opened it up to the first page and was immediately assaulted by a pen and ink version of Greg Sanders. It was not perfect, but there was talent in the sketchy lines that made up his face. It was a raw talent, one she'd never bothered to refine. That doesn't surprise me, though; she'd always had that quality. She'd always had that diamond in the rough feeling about her.
The three-quarters view caught the young CSI in his trademark grin, his hair askew and his eyes twinkling. She flipped the pages and saw a thoughtful Warrick, a sad Nick, Gil Grissom's stoic face, Brass's caring grin, Catherine Willows's trademarked glare and scowl, Doc Robbins raised eyebrows, Archie's shrug, Bobby's smile, Wendy's flirty smirk, Ecklie's sour face. Then I saw myself. My own face, at different angles, with different emotions: happy, sad, angry, pensive. It was a study of Sofia Curtis in black ink.
The book was filled with sketches, faces, places, and scenes. It was the Las Vegas Crime lab as captured by a lone artist. Each page was filled with talent, and compassion for the subjects, but it held a sense of loneliness and detachment. The artist had never truly felt connected to the world that they so faithfully drew.
I turned to the last page, it showed the Lab's lounge, in all it's messy glory. There were the boys, huddled around the television, game controllers in hand; there was Catherine, chatting with Grissom and in the middle of the chaos stood a lone figure. Sara Sidle, leaning against the counter sipping at her coffee, separate and alone.
I reverently caress the paper with a gloved finger, rubbing my thumb over the drawings sad face. Two teardrops, uncontrollable and heartbroken, fell and blurred the ink. Sara had been a wonderful artist, her great compassion for those around her came out in her collection of sketches.
A new pang struck me, almost physically doubling me over. The pain squeezed tight around my heart, making it hard to breathe. I watched David zip up the body bag and felt more tears escape my eyes. Sara had been a wonderful artist, but like most artists, she'd never been appreciated until after her death.