"What bugs you most?"
A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (oh, and somewhat AU).
The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.
Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.
Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.
Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.
Chapter 10/??
"52-pickup"
During the first week in the CSI lab, getting into the end of May, Mickey asked for and got permission to work in the pathology area until the bacterial cultures and other prokaryotic DNA supplies arrived. Apparently that part of the tour had been the next-most interesting, and rather than wait around in DNA, why not do something else? Captain Brass had cringed inwardly at her enthusiasm about the autopsy labs, but kept his comments to himself.
She also very quickly found the Police department's pool, learning that it was indeed open 24-hours, with video surveillance instead of lifeguards on duty. Dinner break or end-of-shift swims became part of her daily routine. It was on such a morning at the end of the first week that Mickey made her way to the CSI break room. They were having their weekly "pow-wow" and case progress reports over breakfast take-out and had invited her to participate.
Shoes squeaking on the tiled floor, Mickey visibly sighed with relief when she saw that they hadn't started yet. "Oh, good. I thought I was late." She had changed into her street clothes after the swim, and her hair was still damp. Normally, Mickey wore full surgical scrubs in the autopsy rooms like Dr. Robbins and David Phillips did.
Warrick shook his head, smiling over a coffee. "Nah. Griss just called and he's running late getting back from the field." He pointed back over his shoulder. "Your box has your name on it, oh Chlorinated One." She smirked, pointing a finger at him: it also hadn't taken long for the rest of the crew to start teasing her about the inevitable "eau de autopsy room" in Dr. Robbins' areas downstairs…Sara recommended lemon-scented soaps and shampoos as a precautionary measure.
Everyone else was there, chatting over their breakfasts, with a short stack of case folders in front of each of them. Nick and Catherine had their heads together, sharing the newspaper while Warrick, Sara and Brass talked quietly while they waited for Grissom. Mickey grabbed her Styrofoam take-out box and a bottled V-8 juice before sitting between Sara and Jim on the end.
"I think I owe somebody money," she said to the group in general, her stomach growling in response to the now-open box lid.
Jim shook his head, swallowing a forkful of scrambled eggs. "I got you on this one. How was the pool?"
She grinned, and it emphasized the swim-goggle marks under her eyes. "Excellent. Thanks for breakfast, Uncle Jimmy." Mickey set the toasted bagel aside, clearing a path to the ham and eggs. One benefit of swimming for exercise was that it made her hungry afterwards; any weight gain would be mostly muscle mass.
"No problem, Mouse. How far today?"
Shrugging, Mickey told him: "Easy day, two thousand."
Nick actually looked up from the paper at that. "Seriously? Two thousand laps, damn."
"Yards, meters; I'm not sure which one for this pool yet."
Stokes had to laugh at himself over that misunderstanding. "More than a mile? I sure as hell wouldn't call that an easy day…" he said under his breath.
Catherine folded over a page and leaned across the table to look over at Brass. "Hey Jim, Mickey, your Red Sox are three and a half games up in the AL East," she said.
"The Bo-Sox? I always thought you were from Jersey," Warrick commented.
"Not originally. Well, I did go to Seton Hall for college and then stayed in Newark on the P.D.," he replied, sounding a little wistful (but you had to know the man to even hear it in his voice). "But I grew up not too far outside of Bean-town."
"Boston's a great city," murmured Sara, looking up briefly from her article. Mickey looked over at her, questioning. "Oh, Harvard for my undergrad." Sara seemed pleased to learn this about the detective and his niece; it was a non-work conversation topic and something that they shared in common.
"Cool place to live," agreed Mickey. "I was born in the same town as Uncle Jim, Canton, but we moved when I was very little. Navy stuff." She shrugged, adding: "That's how we ended up in Florida."
"Man, Seton Hall always has some great round-ball teams," said Warrick, almost wistfully. In his gambling days, NCAA men's basketball was like a gold mine. "March madness…"
Jim chuckled. "Yeah, but they were all out of roster spots for slow and chunky 5'9" guys. Hockey was my thing back in those days."
Eyes wide, Nick made a sound of disbelief. "No kidding? Scared of you, Brass," he teased.
Jim got up to throw away his empty container, and get a refill on coffee. "Oh, absolutely; power and grace, even before the 'Great One' hit the NHL. Plus I'm over 6'2" in skates, Nicky." He joined in the general laughter, and just then, Gil arrived, traveling lightly for once with just a yellow legal-sized note pad.
"Sorry I'm late, guys. Give me a second here to get situated," he said, gathering his own take-out box and pouring a fresh cup from the coffee pot.
"I'm telling you, it'll be the Rangers and the Braves in the World Series this year," Nick was continuing after reading the NL box scores. "A-rod is too hot."
"No way, Cowboy," Mickey had to speak up on that one. "The ALCS will be New York-Boston; NLCS will be Florida-Chicago. Atlanta is done for a few years while they rebuild, and Texas doesn't have the pitching yet."
"Get out of town," Nick scoffed. "Alex Rodriguez is MVP material, even if Boston has the highest team batting average these days, consistently."
"Seriously, Nicholas. Twenty bucks says those are the division match-ups for the end of the 2003 season. He may win the league MVP, but he won't see the big dance, not with the Rangers at least."
"You're on. What about the World Series?" He reached across the table to playfully slap fingertips, "shaking" on the wager.
Mickey, Brass and Gil all sighed loudly and dramatically. "I'd surely like to see a Cubs-Red Sox World Series, but that's one too many curses to get by," she said. "Damn those Yankees." The rest of the crew laughed quietly at the superstitious revelation by the visitor.
Grissom chuckled as he started on his own breakfast. "Even I would be forced to take the week off to head back east to see that one," he said ruefully. "The Chicago Cubs haven't been in a World Series in my lifetime. Oh well. It's still a dream, and it's a long season still to come, so hope springs eternal. Sara, how's your 419 at the Tangiers?"
Sara moved aside her article and opened up the top folder. "The vic was identified as a Mr. Malcolm Moldovsky, of Galveston, Texas, aged 81. Dr. Robbins is going with natural causes based on his post and toxicology findings."
"I bet the old cowboy won big at the tables and stroked out from excitement," Nick commented. "Poor guy couldn't get a break back home."
"Oh come on, Nicky, that's a terrible cowboy name," Catherine added, tossing the newspaper over to the counter behind her. There were chuckles around the table at Stokes' expense.
"No, actually, Mr. Moldovsky immigrated to Texas from Poland in 1942," Sara continued. "And, the cause of death was Viagra-induced sexual congress followed by a massive myocardial infarction; silendafil citrate doesn't mix well with anti-hypertensive drugs." Unconsciously, Grissom, Stokes, Brass and Brown all flinched in sympathy.
Mickey leaned over to look at the photograph in Sara's case file. "Interesting, I did the canoe-cut on this one. The lung cancer this guy had was unbelievably rampant so at least he died happy. Would have killed him by Christmas if not sooner." Brass and Willows both looked over at her curiously, and a little impressed by the way she contributed (and more than a little stunned that she was still eating while looking at the autopsy photo).
"Any foul play?" Gil asked, quietly noting Mickey's comments and mannerisms; he looked forward to meeting with Al Robbins for a progress update on Dr. Kaye.
Sara gave a shake of her head. "None. His wife of sixty-one years is coming up totally clean. She'll inherit modestly, but there's nothing weird or out of line coming up at all. They had no children, no other next of kin; both of them came over during the war and made good here. Just a few animal rescue and kids' cancer charities, things like that."
"Who's your detective?" continued the supervisor.
"O'Riley. Doc Robbins is all set to sign off and release the body to the widow so she can take him home," said Sara.
"Okay. Thank you," he said, making a note on his yellow paper. "Nick, what about you?"
And so it went. Each investigator reported on his or her case progress, with Detective Brass sometimes chiming in from the police end, and Mickey getting a quick lesson in LVMPD codes. Most of them were yawning widely by the time the dayshift started filing in, putting food into the community refrigerators and heading to their laboratories.
Shortly after 7:30 a.m., Brass and Mickey headed home, with a quick stop at a movie rental store so she could find "Happy Gilmore" for her uncle. She wanted him to see one interpretation of a hockey player on the golf course. It would take a little longer to convince him that DVD technology was better than VHS (and gawd-awful Beta), but she had all summer to work on that.
-/-/-/-/-/-
A few weeks later, on what started out as a perfectly ordinary shift, Mickey and David Phillips, one of Dr. Robbins' best pathology assistants arrived at the scene at about 2:30 a.m. Uniformed officers were busy taping off the area and keeping onlookers back several hundred feet. Given the hour, there weren't many, but then again, this was Las Vegas, a city that never sleeps. It was a narrow side street just off Las Vegas Boulevard, known locally as "the Strip". What appeared to be a man's body lay crumpled in a heap on the pavement. A puddle of blood and other aromatic fluids had pooled beneath him.
"Did you hit any of the casinos during the ASM? They usually do some good deals out here for the conference attendees," he commented, continuing their conversation from the drive over as they wheeled a gurney to the perimeter of the yellow-taped area. Both wore dark blue ball caps and lined windbreakers with "Coroner" emblazoned on the back in fluorescent yellow letters. A rookie-uniformed officer greeted them politely in response to David's M.E. card, and he raised the tape for them to pass under it.
"Thank you, sir. Ma'am," he said with a nod and grim look. The young black man tilted his head slightly to one side, listening carefully to the police radio receiver he had attached to his shoulder harness.
Mickey was carrying the aluminum medical examiner's case and had to catch up slightly to answer the earlier question. "Now that you mention it, they did have some deals going on. I wasn't really interested. Uncle Jim offered to call some of his pals in the biz too, like tour guides if I wanted. I don't even like bingo at church," she said and he grinned.
"Too much smoke," said David. "Makes my allergies kick up like crazy; smoke and cats if I'm really unlucky. Here you go." He handed her a pair of latex gloves, and put a pair on himself. Phillips then knelt and removed his camera from its case. Moments later, he had the labeled scale grid placed and started snapping photos for Dr. Robbins' evidence. At his request, Mickey held the clipboard ready to take any notes for him.
"What a mess," Mickey commented, looking around, noticing the details he was photographing. The corpse had landed face up, which was unusual in a case like this, and it looked like the man had voided his bladder and bowels upon impact. She squatted down on her heels, keeping well out of the way and making sure not to touch anything, but close enough to hear if David needed anything handed over.
He was well versed in the art of talking while he worked, having practiced for years with the medical examiners in the department. "Yeah, it usually is when they do a 'number three' like this guy. Vegas is full of tall buildings, so lots of jumping targets of opportunity. Lots of motive as well, if they lose too much at the tables. Kinda sad. Mickey, would you look in that case for the thermometer? It's a big silver one."
She rummaged around for a few seconds and pulled out what looked like a meat thermometer. "This?" In spite of the surroundings, she gave a short laugh. "My mom has one of these."
David chuckled too. "So does mine, thanks. The digital readout is large and it photographs well. Doctor Robbins loves to shop the catalogs for cool lab stuff." He carefully moved aside clothing and slipped the device into the corpse's right abdomen to check the liver temperature. "Okay, the time is now 0238 and our DB temperature is 96.5." Mickey wrote this down for his notes on the case.
They heard new sirens arriving, adding to the flashing light-environment at the crime scene. Soon, Sara Sidle and Catherine Willows had arrived and been admitted under the tape as well. Both smiled at Mickey in welcome "to the field". David returned their greetings shyly.
"Hi David," said Willows as they walked over. "Hi Mickey. You guys just pronounce?"
"Yes, ma'am. 0238, officially," David told her, beginning to perspire a bit in Sara's presence. He'd had a crush on her for at least two years. "C.O.D. and manner of death as yet undetermined, of course. Apart from a bad landing."
"It probably wasn't the takeoff, was it? Hi Mickey, first 419 pickup?" Sara asked, setting to work around the body with her own camera. All four were now gloved and bundled against the chilly Las Vegas night in their lightweight jackets.
"Yes, Dr. Robbins said it was pretty slow for now," she replied. "And I did want to see what went on out in the field at least once while I'm here."
Catherine laughed as she inspected the concrete around the body, shining her flashlight but not yet touching the scene. "You sound just like Greg Sanders. Sara: jumped, pushed or fell? Griss might want us to bring Norman in on this one." Sara only smiled and shook her head, knowing Grissom's predilection for hands-on experimentation over computer simulations. "Norman" was the nickname for full-sized dummies that could be used to re-enact some crime scenes. He could be tossed from buildings, bridges, you name it, all in the name of science, and he never complained. Norman could be trusted to take one for the team.
Sidle moved to one side and snapped photos from another angle. Mickey had handed over the clipboard so that David could finish the official paperwork before Catherine released the body to his custody, and he readied the body bag on the gurney. "Not sure yet. His shoes don't gibe with the rest of his clothes, though." She pointed at the dead man's almost perfectly clean black shoes.
"Military or new cop maybe?" offered Mickey. "But not Navy. My Dad would've had a hissy fit with this guy."
"Yeah, I'll go with newish corframs." The shiny black shoes with rubber soles were commonly issued in the military: they required very little polishing, and were preferred for that reason. "Good call for a microbiologist."
Mickey smirked. "And don't forget Navy brat. Only shoes I clean are my golf spikes." She continued to move the scale as Sara indicated. Behind them, Detective Brass had arrived to consult with Catherine Willows, the senior on-scene CSI.
"How you doing, Cath? No wallet, no I.D., no eyeballs so far on this one," he told her briskly, hands stuffed deep into his overcoat pockets. "Passing patrol car found our stiff." Jim's eyes widened when he recognized his niece under the baseball cap. She had just stood up to stretch out a knee that had stiffened. "What the hell?! How about a quick word over here, Michelle?" He jerked his head towards a patrol car just beyond the tape's perimeter, its lights still flashing their blue and red.
Mickey really didn't have time to reply as she was not so gently steered outside of the yellow tape. It was his use of her given name that brought up her first reaction: "What's wrong, Uncle Jimmy?" She pulled off her gloves as she'd been instructed to do if she left the crime scene for any reason. There would be fresh gloves in the field kits to replace them as needed.
His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his receding hairline. "What's wrong?" Jim echoed hoarsely. "This is a really bad idea, Mick. I mean touring the forensics labs is one thing…"
"Come on, it's a routine pickup. Dr. Robbins and David both said so," she said calmly. She watched as he rubbed the stubble on his chin, trying to stay calm himself. For some reason, it was a gesture that reminded her of her own father back home in Florida. "All I did was ride along in the van."
"In the middle of the night, in a bad neighborhood. It's a crime scene, for Christ's sake."
Mickey bristled immediately at that, and couldn't help letting her temper fly a bit. "It's not like I'm out here by myself! Shit, I know it's a crime scene, give me some credit. I am staying out of the way, letting the CSIs do their thing. I'm also staying out of the way of the cops, right?"
"You really shouldn't be out here seeing this, Mickey," he said lamely. It was all he could think of as he looked over at Catherine, Sara and David concentrating on their work. Mickey followed his gaze, beginning to understand.
Willows, Sidle and Phillips had watched for several moments at the two of them with their heads close together by the patrol car, a bit shocked by the Captain's sudden negative reaction at seeing Mickey there, working with them. His tone had been angry but Catherine realized she also heard almost parental concern. She tapped both Sara and David to get their attention, and indicated that they should continue processing the scene for now. Explanations could wait.
Mickey took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, quietly, letting her tense hands and arms relax. She knew him well enough to comprehend that he wasn't angry with her, but rather surprised at the situation. He didn't like too many surprises, especially as a life-long cop.
"Uncle Jimmy, I'm fine," she said in a soft but firm voice. "Yeah, it's totally disgusting stuff, but do you know how many autopsies I've already been in on, assisting? And this is only my third week. Dr. Robbins is a great teacher downstairs, he really is."
In spite of himself, Brass grimaced at her mention of the autopsy room, which by now she knew he avoided whenever it was humanly possible, and smiled. "I haven't touched anything, honest," she continued earnestly. "Ask David, Catherine or Sara; they'll tell you. The bug DNA stuff is supposed to be in bids or on order back at the lab, so don't worry. Some of it should get here by the end of the month, and I'll be tucked up safe and sound indoors at the P.D., chained to a lab bench in the shiny glass habi-trail."
He sighed. "Okay, but be careful please, Jesus. I'm putting a cop or two on you…uh uh, don't argue with me, young lady. Homicide detectives are in charge of the entire crime scene until the body gets back to the morgue, capisce? That means me." Jim pointed a finger sternly to emphasize his words, but his eyes were amused now that he'd blown off his worry. "Remember, the handsome Captain guy you ride in with sometimes?"
"Yes, sir, Captain Brass," Mickey replied, trying not to grin as her gaze flicked down to his badge. "I will be extra careful and will be sure to listen to the detective."
"Good, get back to work, Dr. Kaye," he told her with a wink. "Sergeant!" He called over to one of the uniformed officers he recognized. "Bring your partner."
As Mickey made her way back under the yellow tape boundary, Jim strode over to meet the pair of officers halfway. He held out his hand to the older man. "Howard, good to see you."
Officer Ferguson shook hands with the Captain, resting his left thumb in his gun belt's buckle out of habit. "Jim, you doing okay?" The veterans had known each other for at least ten years, and shared many common experiences. Sergeant Howard Ferguson still preferred fieldwork to desk assignments any day.
"Yeah, fine thanks. I have a special duty for you and Officer…"
The rookie spoke up, surprised to be addressed directly by the Detective Captain. "Shepherd. Lloyd Shepherd, sir." He looked so new that Brass and Ferguson both could not even remember when they were that young.
"Okay, son. For you and Officer Shepherd here," he went on. "I want an armed baby-sitter on both of the coroners on this one. You are to remain within six feet of Dr. Kaye and Mr. Phillips over there, understood?"
Ferguson glanced over at the science-types, busily processing the crime scene and the body, which was now being loaded gently into the body bag. It took three of them to carefully move the dead weight. "You got it, Captain." He reached over and patted the rookie's arm.
Both men noticed that Shepherd had not moved. If he had been a lighter skinned black man, they would have seen him blanching. "What is it, Shepherd?" asked Brass.
"Sir, I'll do my best. But…" he stammered, looking over at the body bag and swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down rapidly. "Do…do you want us to accompany the coroners all the way into the morgue?"
Ferguson chuckled, and headed under the tape, holding it up for Brass and the young cop to come through. "Not necessary," said Jim. "You get 'em safely back to the P.D., and that'll do." Shepherd heaved a sigh of relief, and then recovered his look of grim attention as he moved toward the gurney that was now being loaded with its limp burden.
"Yes, sir. You got it, Captain," he assured Brass with an enthusiasm he was just starting to feel. Jim and Ferguson shared an amused look out behind the young man's back, each one knowing exactly what his apprehensions had been. Both were sure that Lloyd Shepherd had the makings of a fine police officer, even with his moderate squeamishness. They easily remembered their first mandatory autopsy experience from their respective academy days; it had not been pleasant.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Nearly an hour-and a half later, Gil Grissom made his way downstairs to the maze of pathology labs, carrying his usual clipboard and short stack of manila folders. He pushed his way through the double doors and had no trouble finding the M.E. on duty.
"Come on in, Gil. I was just firing up the macchiato machine. You interested?" offered Dr. Al Robbins. He was taking a break while the college-student assistant cleaned the autopsy area. With two prosthetic lower legs, he needed to sit frequently. He wasn't all that fast anymore, but he managed to get around so well that most people didn't even realize that he was a double amputee; a result of a fiery car accident at age 30. Most figured that the ever-present support crutch was for his back or something else.
Gil nodded. "Yes indeed, thanks." He took the chair next to Al's at the lab bench, and tucked his reading glasses into his shirt collar.
Robbins eyed his colleague speculatively before he spoke, and closed the notebook he was about to record data and observations in, giving him full attention. "So what can I help with? We've not got anything cooking for a couple of hours, and you don't visit without a reason, even with the promise of a freshly-ground coffee."
Grissom sighed tiredly and smiled. "You've got me pegged, Albert. I heard there was some excitement earlier with our jumper pickup downtown."
"Really? How so?" asked Robbins. "I haven't even cut him open yet with two customers ahead of Mr. Doe for my table." He propped up one leg in an open bottom drawer, giving a quiet sigh of relief.
"Brass told me Mickey went out on the call. She's not a CSI, or even a Nevada resident for that matter," he began. Grissom stopped almost guiltily when Mickey passed by in the hallway, carrying samples. She nodded and smiled to him through the windows, but kept on going. "Officially, Dr. Kaye is a visiting scientist with us."
The coffee machine hissed and spluttered, and its contents began to smell delicious. It was a strange combination of aromas in the room: cleaning solutions, coffee and other assorted laboratory odors. "All true, and yes, she did. David got the call, I offered and Dr. Kaye had previously expressed an interest in seeing what went on prior to any DB's arrival here." He waved distractedly at the autopsy room in general. "Seemed like a good opportunity for us so I didn't see a problem." He poured two short macchiatos and handed one to Grissom, black.
"Thank you. And on the street, Jim Brass assigned two uniforms as a special armed escort for David and Mickey until they got back here with our John Doe. He was in my office a few minutes ago, and was not a happy camper."
"Why didn't he come see me? It was my doing, not yours." A sardonic look from Gil gave him that answer: Brass did not voluntarily visit the pathology lab area. "Never mind." Robbins gave a quiet chuckle as another possible reason came to him.
"Al, I'm just trying to figure out what he was so worked up about. You know how he gets…"
Robbins shook his head, somewhat amused at Grissom's confusion. "You don't have kids. Brass does, I do. Gil, it was 2:30 in the morning, in Las Vegas, just off the Strip, with a D.B. pancake on the sidewalk. Phillips is never armed, you know that, none of the coroners are." A light bulb of comprehension came on for Grissom, finally. "Jim was just being protective of his niece, grown woman or not. Hell, no doubt that I probably would have done the same thing." Al Robbins had three grown daughters himself, all between 20 and 26 years old.
"It does make sense." He sipped at the coffee, enjoying the subtle chocolate flavors.
"Trust me," said Robbins, tasting from his own mug. "Let her deal with it, outside of the office. That should be one helluva time if they both get their Irish up and I wouldn't want to see it." He paused contemplatively. "OK on second thought, maybe I would, but just as a non-participant spectator and from a very, very safe distance on the sidelines. Anyway, was there any kind of procedural violation? Was any evidence compromised in any way? David communicated to me that it was a routine pick up. We just sent the ten-card upstairs to FP; I think Jacqui has it running."
"None that I can see. Dr. Kaye was invited by Sheriff Mobley himself to stay on as a visiting scientist for the summer and I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it happen with my own eyes; Brian never knew what hit him when she turned on the charm. He practically blank-checked the prokaryotic DNA project; we're waiting on Purchasing to come through with the bids."
"Good, so don't worry about it," Al told him reasonably.
Grissom laughed and put up one hand in surrender. "Alright, alright. How is our visiting scientist then?"
Robbins gave a low whistle. "Outstanding. She and I are going to publish a few things by the end of summer, I think, with a well-trained interest in pathology, microbiology, and a cast-iron stomach. Mickey should have done the M.D. as well, but…" he shrugged. "Damn sharp young lady." Al Robbins' advanced degrees were in the M.D./Ph.D. program from Johns Hopkins University and his expertise had been in high demand all around the country before he and his family had settled in Las Vegas.
"Yeah, I know, pre-med was ditched for a double major followed by grad school. She told me when we first met in Brass' office last month. Any chinks in the shining armor?"
Robbins pondered a moment. "Moderate T.M.J., sleep-induced bruxism, mild myopia requiring corrective lenses…"
Grissom stopped him, not quite laughing. "Anything pertinent to the unit?" But he was thinking with amusement: what do you guys sit around and talk about down here?
"Well, I heard through the grapevine that she has a bit of a temper and might swear like a sailor if provoked enough. Not surprising if she's related to our Captain Brass, really, and her father's a retired Navy senior chief. Oh, Mom or Dad's brother?"
"Mom's, I think; yes, Jim's older sister is Mickey's mother. Why?"
"Just wondering. Let's see, more flaws…I know one, her coffee is absolutely terrible, terrible stuff. Don't ever let her near the machine; Dr. Mickey drinks instant." He gave a shudder of mock disgust. Instant coffee was highly blasphemous to Dr. Al Robbins. He and Greg Sanders were well known as the department's coffee gourmands.
Gil did laugh this time. "That is serious. So, you're satisfied with her job performance?"
"Absolutely, yes. Good God, I finally get a charming and good-looking female assistant down here and you upstairs greedy Gusses want to steal her away to DNA. I may never speak to you again," said Robbins, but he was smiling warmly. He caught a scandalized look from Grissom. "No. No, don't you dare give me that dirty-old-man crap. She's going out with Dawson from ballistics." His tone indicated that he approved, a carryover from his close relationship to his own children.
"Bobby D. and Mickey? How do you know all this?"
"Gil, I have three daughters, and a wife of thirty years," replied Robbins patiently. "I listen sympathetically even if I don't understand what on Earth they're talking about sometimes, especially if one of the girls has a new boyfriend. It's an art dealing with smart women and making sure they're happy. Poor David moped for hours when he found out. Some guys have all the luck."
"OK, then I trust your judgment on this," said Gil, standing to leave, and mentally filing away the rare "gossip" from the night shift Chief Medical Examiner. "Thanks, Al."
Robbins stopped him short and gently moved to take the mug from his hands. "Uh uh. You know the rules about my secret stash down here. Sanders might get sticky fingers again."
"Ah, sorry about that." He finished the coffee under watchful eyes, and then returned the empty mug, winking conspiratorially. "I forgot."
TBC
A/N: for sheer entertainment value, why not check out www(dot)imdb(dot)com and search for Paul Guilfoyle's filmography? Some of the character names he has portrayed are hysterically funny!