Chapter XLIV

Bedside Chat

Detective Sofia Curtis had to take a breather. She, like most everyone else, had been on-scene for hours. They had been there so long that the sun would soon rise. She pushed a hand through her limp hair and looked around at the crime scene tape, evidence markers and uniforms scattered around the house. The Roggen family's home was being invaded and inspected and violated. She hated this part of the job. Everything they were doing was professional, necessary and for the family's good. That didn't make the investigation any less invasive. Privacy dissolved in the face of a murder investigation. The Roggens, Tora and Marty, were at Desert Palm with Jim. Their other son was still out on the town somewhere, completely and happily oblivious. Adam was already on Doctor Robbin's autopsy slab. She tried not to imagine him there, but had been to too many autopsies not to.

She wandered, careful not to disturb anyone or anything, around to the back of the house. The pool was serene, cerulean, and it was quiet. She breathed in, letting the tang of the chlorine and desert kissed air fill her lungs. If she didn't know any better, she would say that this was a world away from the primary scene. She did know better, though, and pretending was useless, she could still smell fresh death. There had been so much blood that it permeated her senses to the point that she could taste the copper and iron on her tongue. The clean-up crew was going to have a hell of a time getting that bedroom clean. Sofia doubted any of the Roggens would be able to look at the garage the same way again.

She had a thousand things to do, a million calls to make and a mountain of paperwork to start on back at the station. Sofia stood still and watched the auto-cleaner circle the in ground pool.

"It's really quiet out here."

Sofia turned to see Wendy Simms standing at the corner of the house. The DNA tech was still pale, but she looked otherwise recovered from her first experience with a messy scene. Grissom and Catherine should have known better then to bring someone so green along with them. They had been two CSIs short, but it still seemed a little cruel. The brunette came closer. "Grissom and Nick are finishing up in there." Wendy waved her hand in the general direction of the garage before unceremoniously plopping down on one of the lounge chairs. For a minute or so the only sound was the hum and bubble of the pool cleaning bot.

"I don't think I make a very good Sara-Stand-In."

Wendy ran her hand over her unpainted lips, probably trying to wipe away the invisible remains of hours old vomit.

Sofia shook her head. "Everyone gets sick at their first bad scene."

Wendy looked up, miserably. "Did you?"

"All over a Sergeant Detective's shoes."

Since that made Wendy smile, Sofia decided not to mention that the sergeant had been her own mother and she'd been ten at the time. It was a long story and it would only bring Wendy down. "And it wasn't half as bad as this place. If you can get through this, you can get through anything the job will throw at you." That, at least, was the absolute truth.

Wendy sighed. "I saw the pics and I deal with blood every day, I mean I practically pay my rent in blood. So I thought that I…" She shook her head. "I thought I was," Wendy frowned as though searching for the proper word, "prepared."

Sofia pushed her hands into her pockets, searching vainly for a toothpick. "I don't care how badass Catherine Willows thinks she is or how cool, removed and stoic Grissom acts, no one is prepared for this."

"Tell me about it."

Both women turned, Wendy only a few seconds behind Sofia, to see an exhausted Greg Sanders coming their way. He fell onto the chair opposite of Wendy and leaned back. "This is the worst scene in a long time." He shook his shaggy head, "Warrick and Sara get shit work for the rest of the year for getting out of it."

Sofia smirked, because the remark was about half sarcastic, half serious. The two CSIs would be handling any and all menial, dirty and/or fecal-matter-related tasks for a while.

"So what do you think?"

While the show was undeniably being run by Grissom and Catherine, Greg was a good CSI and had a sharp mind. She respected both of those traits and his opinions.

Greg blew out a breath. "Sara was right. I ran a print we pulled off of the murder weapon–"

"The bat?" There had been several bloody blunt objects found in the room and Sofia wanted to be exact.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I scanned the print through the mobile lab and it came back as a match to Marsh and Abernathy's murderer. It's the same woman, only this time she was on the warpath. Catherine said she couldn't even count the number of hits because of overlapping spatter and cast off. She's going to have to wait for Doc's report and then go back and attempt to string it after she gets in from the hospital."

Wendy shuddered. "We bagged the bat, the lamp and Nick took the bathroom door completely off the hinges."

Sofia had seen the room, had helped Nick fume the body for oil on oil prints. "The dress and shoes?"

Wendy shrugged again. "The dress was thrown around and had some blood on it, but I've worked with worse. Nick hit the jackpot, though, he found a pair of women's earrings along with some hairs that may or may not be hers."

Sofia nodded; there was so much going on that it was hard to keep up with everything. "What's Catherine doing at the hospital, anyway? Jim knows what he's doing."

Greg only shrugged again. "You know Catherine."

Desert Palms Hospital

Emergency Receiving Center

It was never glamorous, dramatic or even that exciting. It wasn't Grey's Anatomy or ER or even Scrubs; hospital emergency rooms were cold, uncomfortable and they reeked of desperation. The ER smelled exactly like the morgue. That made sense, of course; both places had to be sterile. The obvious logic didn't make the knot in her stomach dissipate or the goose bumps on her arms relax.

While the morgue played host to Vegas's violently or mysteriously departed, the ER was a major crossroads of injury, disease and death, exotic and mundane, violent and quietly accepted. Good things rarely happened in the ER. There were only various degrees of pain and different shades of bad news. It was a thoroughly depressing place to be.

Catherine paused outside of the small examination room the harried nurse had pointed her towards and took a moment to compose herself. She was glad that the Roggens had been given a room to themselves instead of a few curtained off feet in the main ward. The trauma they had suffered and the great sorrow that had barely set in was too much to be shoved between a gang banger with a bullet wound and a five-year-old with a bad cough. She looked around quickly, to make sure no one was paying attention, and lifted the chart from its pocket on the wall. If she ignored certain parts, like pulse and blood pressure readings, it was just like an autopsy report, more or less.

Martin Roggen was the luckiest unlucky man in Vegas. She had seen falls like that paralyze and even kill men. Not that he had gotten off too lightly: a broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, sprained neck and cracked coccyx. It all seemed relatively minor when you considered that his sixteen year old son had been butchered.

Sixteen. The newest injustice burned in her chest like a hot poker. He hadn't been a man, bar mitzvah or no; he had been a boy. A boy who played baseball and video games. He was Lindsey's age for God's sake. If he hadn't lived in Boulder City, they would have been classmates. Lindsey would have probably thought he was cute. She'd told Gil that she was the most qualified to speak the parents and walk them through the process of getting their fingerprints and DNA samples to eliminate their prints from the one's they'd pulled. She was the mother of a teenager, after all. She knew that Brass had already come and gone, but they would still have questions for her. The victim's family always had questions and since it was their young son on a slab, they deserved answers. She would want, demand, answers if she was in their shoes. Thank God it wasn't her.

She replaced his chart, smoothed her hair and took a cleansing breath. Catherine let her game face slide on, and she knocked on the door before stepping in.

The room was a crisp white and functional, and those were its good points. The bed, rumpled from several hours of use, was in the center of the small room. There was a small sink and cabinet and a monitor mounted on the wall.

Both Roggens looked up as she came in and she immediately felt out of place. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Catherine Willows from the crime lab." She paused. "I can't even begin to understand what you're going through. My team and I are working as hard and fast as we can. I know this is difficult, but I need your help so we can find who did this to Adam."

The room was quiet, but for the sounds of footsteps in the corridor, for a moment. Then Mrs. Roggen, Tora, if Catherine remembered correctly, looked up.

"Is that your usual speech, Ms. Willows, or did you have to practice that in the car on the drive over from my baby's murder scene?"

Everyone handled grief differently and this wasn't the first time she'd dealt with an angry mother.

"Mrs. Roggen, I know this is a very difficult time for you, but–"

The woman glared at her. "Save your heartfelt apologies for someone who is dumb enough to believe you care. All I want to hear from you is who killed my son and why. All you're doing here is wasting my time. I am waiting to find out if my husband has a broken back and I still have to make arrangements for my baby boy. So if you don't mind I would love some privacy." She shook her head. "I haven't called my mother, our Rabbi or—you know what, just get out!"

"Tora, don't."

Tora looked down at her husband for a moment and smiled a little before snapping her head around to glare at Catherine again. She had short dark hair that had been neatly styled hours ago and eyes that were engulfed by dark circles. She was a pretty woman with an ugly scowl and it was aimed at Catherine.

"Mrs. Roggen, I am trying to help you. I just need to ask a few questions that will allow us to continue with the investigation."

"Can I answer them?"

Marty Roggen was still in a c-collar, flat on his back on the hospital bed. He was in no shape to answer questions.

Catherine shook her head. "Mr. Roggen you need to re–"

"I have been laying flat on my back for hours, thinking. Answering questions can't be any worse." He couldn't sit up or turn his head; he was talking to the ceiling.

"Honey, why don't you take a walk, go try to get Josh or Rabbi Eli on the phone and get some coffee." Tora opened her mouth again, but was cut off before she started. "I'll be fine. I need to help." Both Roggens fell silent for a moment. It was the sort of wordless conversation that couples often had. Catherine couldn't remember if she and Eddie had ever had those.

"All right." Mrs. Roggen took a step away. "If she pushes you too hard or you get tired, call a nurse."

"Okay."

Tora reached the door and looked back over her shoulder. "Remember what the doctor said. You can't move."

"I know."

Tora glared at Catherine. "I'll be right outside."

Marty blew out a sigh as his wife's footsteps receded. "I'm sorry. It's just that we—that I—Adam."

Catherine stepped closer so she could look down at him and he up at her. "It's okay. She has every right to be upset. You both do.

Marty only sighed again. "I wish I could sit up or move my neck. The doctors are still checking for hairline fractures. Tora's been worrying herself sick. She's not usually so," he paused to think of the right word, "confrontational."

Catherine shook her head. "It's all right. Her maiden name wasn't Sidle by any chance, was it? You know what, never mind. I just need to ask you a few questions."

Marty let out another sigh. "Ask away."

Marty Roggen answered her questions to the best of his ability and she had gotten most of the information she needed before the nurse shooed her out. Early morning sunshine poured through a window somewhere and random beams of yellow light filtered down the hallway.

Catherine pushed her fingers through her limp bangs for what seemed like the millionth time. This night-day-whatever was dragging her down. She almost wished the FBI would swoop in and take it off their hands. She didn't have much left to do; since both of the Roggens worked up at the dam, their prints were already in the system.

"Thank you, Homeland Security."

All she had to do was drop her notes off at the evidence vault and she could go home. She would go home, see her daughter and listen to her mother prattle on. It would be wonderfully mundane and normal.

She was just about to turn the corner to leave the altogether too familiar Desert Palms ER when Tora Roggen walked by. Walked? No, she staggered as if she had spent the last thirty minutes drinking hard liquor. Only Catherine was one-hundred percent certain that there was no bar in the hospital.

"Mrs. Roggen." She reached out to touch the other woman's arm. "Are you okay?"

The angry woman of before dissolved right before her eyes.

"Josh. My Joshie."

Catherine wanted to shake her head; it was Adam that was dead.

Tora Roggen looked at her with wide hazel eyes. "Why would God take both of my sons in one single night?"

Catherine took the trembling woman in her arms and she couldn't even imagine the pain she was suffering.

"I'm sorry. I'm just—sorry."

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, there just aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done. So if you've found that magical 25th hour, please let me know.