Disclaimer: Not Mine.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to help me with this. Their advice is greatly appreciated.
God's Will – Chapter 3
December 5, 2007
Grissom made his way down the hall toward the break room. He moved slowly, shuffling through the assignment slips in his hands. When he turned the last corner he could hear the murmurs of quiet conversation coming through the open doorway. His steps faltered and for just a moment he thought of how much easier it would be to be anywhere but at work, how much easier it would be if he didn't have to pretend he wasn't in pain.
Handing out assignments had become a minefield. One that Grissom was slowly learning to negotiate on a daily basis. The sympathetic looks from Nick, the worried ones from Catherine, the animosity from Greg, and the total lack of all three from Warrick, all combined to make the first fifteen minutes of each day an exercise in torture. It served to remind him exactly why he had never shared his personal life with anyone before.
Squaring his shoulders, Grissom entered the room. "Okay, everybody, listen up. We've got a full schedule tonight." The room fell quiet as they all recognized his no nonsense tone of voice.
"Catherine, you've got a B&E. Vartann will be there." He thrust a piece of paper in her direction and waited for her to take it from his hand.
Reading from the next page, he continued, "Nick, Warrick, you two need to meet Vega. You're on an assault with a deadly."
Finally, he looked at Greg. "You're with me. We've got a homicide." Greg rolled his eyes. "Is there a problem, Greg?" Grissom's voice was cold but his eyes flared hot with barely repressed anger.
Greg slid down in his chair, ignoring the warning glances from both Nick and Warrick. "No," he said, his tone glaringly belligerent.
"Good. Get your stuff and meet me at the car in ten." Grissom took a final look around, noticing the way both Nick and Warrick avoided his gaze, before turning and walking out of the room.
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The ride to the crime scene was filled with strained silence. Greg stared out the passenger's window, the fingers of his left hand drumming against his thigh while Grissom stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched in an effort to hold back his anger at the younger man's attitude. Grissom stopped the car at the end of the alley and cut the engine. He and Greg moved to the back and pulled out their kits before walking forward to meet Brass.
"Jim, what do we have?" Grissom looked around taking in the crowd that had gathered outside the yellow tape.
Brass sauntered over. "Gil. Greg. Looks like the guy on the other side of the dumpster pissed somebody off. Face is a bloody mess. Throat's been cut. Not his best day."
"You id him yet?"
Brass shook his head. "No wallet that I could find. I'm still waiting on David to release the body so we can turn him over."
"Well, let's get started." Grissom hefted his kit and said, "Greg, you take the perimeter. I'll be down here with our dead guy."
Greg's jaw tightened and he gave a mirthless laugh. "Of course you will." Turning on his heel he stalked off.
Brass' eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Sanders got a burr up his ass?"
Grissom gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Without another word he moved off down the alley and began photographing the body.
The processing seemed to take forever. There was nothing like a dirty, smelly, dark street to make the gathering of evidence harder than normal. Grissom and Greg covered every square inch of the alley from one end to the other, photographing and bagging evidence.
An accident about a mile away was making it impossible for David to get to the scene. Nothing more could be finished until the body was released. Grissom was exhausted and his control was hanging by a thread.
Greg was still processing the dumpster. His stoic acceptance of the duty had only served to irritate Grissom's already raw nerves. Finally, almost two hours after the CSI's had arrived at the scene, the familiar sound of a stretcher rattling over the pitted asphalt reached Grissom's ears.
"Hey, Grissom. Sorry it took so long." David knelt next to the body and took a thermometer from his bag. Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, "Do you have all your photos?" When Grissom nodded, he pulled the dead man's shirt out of his pants and pushed it up so that he could push the thermometer into the abdomen immediately below the ribs. A few moments later, he jotted down the liver temperature. Consulting the chart he had memorized years earlier, he turned and said, "Time of death is approximately 5 hours ago."
Grissom consulted his watch. "So he died around eight o'clock?"
David nodded and continued his work, making notes on the form that would accompany the body to the morgue. Finally, he said, "I'm ready to roll him if you could lend me a hand."
Grissom moved over to the other side of the body and together they rolled the victim onto his side. "Can you check for a wallet, David?"
David obliged by fishing a wallet from the man's back pocket and handing it to Brass, who had moved over to join them. He then unfurled the body bag and placed it underneath the body.
Brass flipped the wallet open and read from the driver's license. "William Lee. Twenty-seven. Portland, Oregon. There's no money in it but maybe he didn't carry cash."
"Or maybe he carried it in his front pocket to avoid having his pocket picked." Grissom looked up at Brass before turning his attention back to the body.
A few minutes later the bag covered the victim and was zipped up tight. David stood and motioned for the tech to come over and lend a hand. Turning back to Grissom, he asked, "How's Sara?"
Grissom opened his mouth to answer when a voice from inside the dumpster said, "Like he'd know."
David averted his eyes, choosing to pretend that he had never asked the question. He and the tech made quick work of moving Mr. Lee onto the stretcher.
Quietly, a thread of steel in his voice, Grissom said, "Greg, I need to speak with you. Now."
Greg's head appeared over the top of the dumpster, a retort on his lips. Seeing Grissom's face he changed his mind and clambered up and out.
Motioning Greg forward, Grissom said, "Follow me." When they reached the end of the alley that wasn't populated by police officers and nosy citizens, Grissom turned to look at his young colleague. "Do you want to tell me what the problem is?"
"Not really." Greg's voice was petulant.
Drawing in a deep breath, Grissom clenched his fists at his side. "Fine. But let me explain something to you." His voice was eerily calm, but the ripe anger put color in his cheeks. "Whatever you think you know about my personal life, I am reminding you that you don't. I know that Sara is your friend. And I know that you were hurt by her departure. But for everything you have lost, I have lost ten times as much. You can be hurt, you can be mad. That's fine. But you will continue to work with me as a professional or I will place you on emergency leave until you can get your emotions under control. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yeah. Crystal." Greg glared at the older man. "Can I finish now?"
Grissom gave a deep sigh. "Greg…" he began, his voice softer.
"Don't worry about it, Grissom." Greg turned and headed back to the dumpster to finish processing.
Dragging a weary hand over his face, Grissom followed Greg. Soon the truck was packed and the two began their silent journey back to the lab.
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Lab coat buttoned, Grissom pushed through the swinging doors into the dull metal world that was the morgue. "Hey, Al. Are you ready for me?"
"Is there something I need to know?" Doc quipped.
"Not yet." A smile played over Grissom's face, but didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't quit your day job, my friend."
Doc threw a hand over his heart, his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Ah, you wound me."
"Not as bad as someone wounded Mr. Lee here. What've you got?"
Doc pulled back the sheet that was covering the body. "Cause of death is exsanguination. The right carotid was transected. The wound travelled right to left in an upward direction. The depth suggests that the cut was made from behind. Your killer is probably left-handed. Both hands show severe bruising but no swelling indicating that the injuries occurred just before death. Two knuckles on the right hand are split which tells me our vic was more than likely right-handed. There are bruises on his face and torso"
Grissom looked up from his study of the body and asked, "Did David get photos?"
"Yeah." Doc nodded. "You may want to take a look at these. They look like shoe prints to me but I'm not the one to make that call." He indicated a series of marks on the victim's left side before passing Grissom a magnifying glass.
Studying the bruises for several moments, Grissom nodded and said he'd have Greg come back and photograph them. Maybe they would be able to pull something out of the database for shoe treads. After asking a few more questions, Grissom stripped off the latex gloves he was wearing and tossed them in the trash. "Thanks, Al," he said.
"Sure." Grissom had just reached the swinging doors when Doc called out. "Hey, Gil. Did you get a chance to look over that file?"
"Yeah," Grissom nodded. "I was going to talk to Brass later. I think there is definitely something not right."
"Well, I'm glad you think so because we got another one this morning."
"Another one?" Grissom's brow furrowed as he considered the possibility of that many deaths within thirty days. "Same profile?"
Doc nodded. "Yep. Rucker on days caught this one. But I put out an email asking to be copied on anything that matched the criteria. He left a copy in my box and I made one for you." He turned and began to shuffle through the papers on his desk. "Here it is."
Grissom walked back and took the report from the other man's hand. "I'll look over it before I go see Jim." As he made his way out the door, he called over his shoulder, "And I'll keep you posted."
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I met Renee in college. From the moment I saw her, she captivated me. She was sunlight and laughter, the first I had known since my mother died. I pursued her shamelessly. If I hadn't been so in love I might have been embarrassed by my behavior. But there was nothing, and I mean nothing, I wouldn't have done for just a second of her attention.
I married her a month before I started medical school. It was, without a doubt, the happiest day of my life. When I saw her in that long white gown, walking down the aisle toward me, I thought my heart would burst. She was a vision. I felt something I never hoped to feel. I felt whole.
The entire day was magical. There was food and dancing and Renee and I were right in the middle of it all. We spent our wedding night in the nicest local hotel I could find. And early the next morning we set off for Georgia. I would be attending medical school at Emory University and we had a lot to do to get ready for the beginning of classes.
Life was idyllic. I know people say that all the time, but I mean it. We laughed and talked and lived and loved. I studied and Renee taught school. And we made plans; the house we would buy, the trips we would take, the children we would have. It was all laid out. We would climb in bed after a long day of working toward our future and we would dream.
Soon, sooner than I had imagined, I began my internship. That was followed closely by residency. I was lucky to be accepted into the program at Emory so that Renee and I could stay in Atlanta. I worked hard, harder than I ever thought possible. The time I had to spend with my wife was sorely limited, but we were more in love than ever.
I was months away from being an actual physician, months from being able to reap some of the benefits from all our sacrifice, when things went horribly wrong. Renee began having problems. I knew enough about gynecology to know that something was definitely wrong and begged her to get checked out. I walked around for weeks with the heaviness of dread in my gut. I knew that things weren't right. Finally, she gave in and saw her doctor.
Nothing could have prepared me for the diagnosis. Cervical cancer. Stage five. There were tests and biopsies and consultations. There were tears and recriminations. And then there was surgery. My beautiful Renee was sterile. There would be no children. Not three, not even one. We were devastated. It was a harsh reminder of just how fragile hopes and dreams really are.
By the time I finished my residency Renee wanted to move back to Henderson to be near her family. She was dealing with things the best she could and I was trying to help. But there was something missing and she thought she could find it with her brothers and sisters. I finished my training in June of 2006, and when I passed my boards I found employment with a group in Henderson. It wasn't the life we had pictured but it was all we had. For some reason, just like with the death of my mother, I had a hard time believing that our problems were God's will.
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"Jim," Grissom knocked on the door as he walked in to Brass' office, "Do you have a minute?"
Holding up a finger to indicate that he would only be a minute, Brass motioned Grissom in and pointed at a chair. Grissom sat down and looked around while he waited for Jim to finish his call.
"Yeah….Okay, we can do that….Sounds good….Yeah, how'd you guess…Sure, see you then…Me too…Bye."
He flipped the phone closed and returned it to the clip on his belt. "What's up, Gil?" he asked, a smile lighting his craggy features.
"Should I ask you the same thing?" Grissom eyed his friend speculatively.
Brass flushed and adjusted the knot of his tie. "Nothing I want to talk about right now. You should understand that."
Dipping his head, Grissom conceded the point. "Just don't wait too long."
With a nod, Brass indicated that he understood Grissom's unspoken message. He cleared his throat and placed his hands flat on the desk. "Now, what can I do for you?"
"I wanted to talk to you about something." Grissom held up the file in his hand. "Al brought this to my attention a couple of days ago and I wanted to get your opinion."
"Okay. Tell me what you have."
Grissom slowly and methodically went through what he suspected. He laid out the case just like he would have for a jury; one fact at a time, drawing a picture of murder. When he finished, he looked at the detective and waited for him to speak.
Brass sat quietly, absorbing the information. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he said, "So, let me get this straight. You and Al are convinced that someone is murdering these women." Grissom nodded and Brass continued, "I understand all the mortality rate stuff. But I don't get how they died. What killed them?"
Grissom closed his eyes and sighed. Here was the hole in the middle of the theory. His eyes slid open and he said, "We're not sure."
A short bark of laughter escaped Brass. "Then I don't know what you want me to do." Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his desk. "Come on, Gil, you gave me a lot of numbers but nothing that proves foul play."
"I know that, Jim. But something is going on here. I'm just not sure what it is." Grissom ran a hand through his hair, his agitation showing in the gesture.
Brass studied the man across from him. He took in the tired eyes and defeated posture. "Look, Gil, you don't have anything for me to work with here. If there were one complaint from one family, one blip on a tox screen, anything, I would be all over it. But I can't just go in there and start poking around. Bring me something I can work with."
Pushing up out of the chair, Grissom gave Brass a weary smile. "I know you're right, but I don't have to like it." He walked to the door and turned back. "Thanks anyway."
Brass sat at his desk and watched Grissom until he disappeared around a corner.