"What bugs you most?"
A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (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 14/??
"The Green Monster"
Around 10 p.m. one night in mid-July, Grissom and Brass had stopped off in the Captain's office to complete several cases that had been months in the works. On the desk was a wrapped package that simply said: "Happy birthday from Mickey".
"I had no idea, Jim. Happy birthday," Gil told him, smiling. "Is it a big one, or should I even ask?"
Brass chuckled a bit ruefully. "You could say that. Five-oh, Cousin." He reached for his letter opener and read aloud the card first: "Uncle Pete and Johnny helped me on this one. Hope you like it. P.S. I didn't tell anyone around here, just in case you wanted to keep it quiet!" Jim looked up and saw the question on Grissom's face. "My two older brothers back home. Oh, would you look at this…"
He lifted from the box a carefully folded Red Sox home (white) jersey, and when he turned it around, he actually gasped in surprise. It was a number nine, and signed "Ted Williams" in black permanent marker. Without question, Jim knew it was authentic; he had wanted one of these since he was a kid.
Grissom, who was an avid baseball fan too, whistled softly. "Impressive. The Splendid Splinter."
Brass held it to his chest to check the size before folding it back and returning it almost reverently to the box. "I was there for his last at-bat at Fenway. He hit…" Just then, his cell phone rang. "No rest for the wicked. Brass, homicide."
Gil sat quietly, reading from one of the case folders, not meaning to listen in. His ears perked up and he met Jim's raised eyebrows when he heard the detective say "Mr. Merrifield." Brass wrote down some further information, gave a few instructions, and then rang off.
"Shit. Guess what?" he began, looking mildly irritated.
"Well, by the name I overheard, I'd guess one, I need my field kit; and two, we need a bug doctor," replied Grissom, his eyes sparkling with interest. "Other than myself, I mean."
"Two for two, my favorite Cub-fan, but this time the model home actually has furniture in it." Jim grabbed his keys from the top drawer as they left his office and headed to the lab area.
"At the Pathways development again?" Gil asked as they went along the open corridor.
"Nope. Painted Desert."
Grissom frowned at this news. The Painted Desert development was on the opposite side of town from the first site. He shook his head in an effort to control his speculation, and stepped into his office quickly to drop off the files and collect his field kit. They decided to take one vehicle this trip.
At the lab area where one of the spaces had been transformed into a microbiology lab, they found Mickey giving instructions to a student intern. "How about duplicates at 25 and 37 degrees C for each culture? Thanks, Janet. I'll be in DNA if you need me." She turned at a knock on the glass.
"Hey, Doc," greeted Brass. "Got a call for you."
"For me? What's up?" She noticed Grissom had arrived behind the Captain, field case in his hand.
"Another red-bug for your collection," Brass told her. A nod from Grissom confirmed it.
"Whoa, crank up the weird-o-meter, Dr. Gil," she commented, then immediately pulled off her lab coat and stuffed several pairs of latex gloves in her pants pocket. In a matter of minutes, they were driving on their way to the Painted Desert development. While Grissom spoke quietly in the backseat on his cell phone, checking in with his other CSIs, Brass turned to Mickey with a broad grin.
"Thanks for the number nine jersey, kid. You didn't have to do that."
She reached across the front seat and gently poked his arm. "I know, but it's your birthday. We looked into a 1986 Bill Buckner ball; didn't think you'd like that as much."
Jim and Gil both chuckled, appreciating the joke. Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner was infamous for being the player who let the ball slip between his legs during the 1986 World Series. The New York Mets went on to win it; Buckner went on to finish his major league baseball career elsewhere.
At the call-scene, all of the houselights, inside and out, were on. They saw Matt Merrifield pacing the driveway as they arrived. He had been waiting anxiously to meet them, and launched right in.
"Captain Brass, this is ridiculous! I mean I've just started to get the last one cleaned up. Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, sounding very agitated.
"I know, Mr. Merrifield," Jim said diplomatically, holding up one hand to cut him off. "Would you please wait over there with my officers while the CSIs take care of this? Thank you."
Reluctantly, Merrifield went over to where Sgt. Ferguson waited. His partner, rookie Officer Lloyd Shepherd stood attentively at the front door.
"Good evening, Dr. Kaye," he greeted as they came up the short walkway. "Captain, Dr. Grissom."
Brass and Grissom nodded as they passed through the front door; Mickey stopped to put on a pair of gloves. "Hi Shep," she replied. "You still swimming?"
Shepherd grinned. "Yes I am, of course. We've been missing you though; nobody drowns like you do. How's the eye?" He nodded at her stitches. Mickey's swim goggles would never fit comfortably over them.
"I'll be back in a week or so, thanks." Mickey chuckled and stepped into the house where Detective Brass and Grissom had begun making their observations. She had met Officer Shepherd at the P.D. pool: she swam laps nearly every night on dinner break, and he had been taking a rescue class (for which she had volunteered as a "drowning victim" when they needed one). He had also been one of the "armed escorts" at her first 419 pickup.
"Same stuff?" Jim asked the two scientists, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell. He pointed his flashlight at the glistening red ceiling and shuddered.
Grissom glanced over, deferring to Mickey who had begun to remove sterile swabs and containers from his open field kit. "Yes, more than likely. But the good news is that Greg is now set up for its DNA. We'll use the first site culture as an exemplar," she replied.
Brass stepped carefully into the furnished living room as Mickey collected samples and Grissom worked the digital camera. Without warning, an electrical panel box gave a loud crack in the hallway and all of the lights went dark. Jim quickly drew his sidearm and moved back toward Grissom and Mickey. They all heard something crash and break, maybe a closet door, in the back of the house.
"Outside, now, both of you," Brass commanded harshly. "Shepherd! Get in here!"
Out on the emergency-lighted front porch, Gil had out his radio and was calling for backup. He could hear Sgt. Ferguson doing the same thing. Merrifield, too, came quickly to the front door, practically screaming: "What in the hell are you people doing? I am not believing this crazy…"
From inside the house, Grissom heard a strangely muffled gunshot, and he instinctively knew it wasn't from a police-issue weapon. He moved himself between Mickey and the front door, trying also to grab Matt Merrifield, as he was about to rush inside.
The next few scenes played out in very fast forward motion, or so it seemed: a person dressed all in black burst from the foyer and out the door; a muffled gunshot whispered again; Merrifield's head jerked back unnaturally and he crumpled in a heap on the front porch, a single gunshot wound to his forehead; and, something hard connected with Grissom's skull and he went down with a bleeding wound on the left side of his temple. The assailant paused briefly, taking aim at Grissom.
Mickey didn't stop to think; she reacted, spun around and connected viciously with the assailant's face. There was a loud crunch as her elbow broke the man's nose, blood erupting everywhere, and her momentum carried her around further as she stripped the gun from his startled grasp. For good measure, two quick, well-placed knees to his groin left him a writhing and bloody mess on the front step. Still seeing red, literally, Mickey cocked then re-cocked the weapon and held it mere inches from his face.
"Don't even flinch you unbelievable piece of shit!" she shouted at him from her one-knee firing stance, angry and startled herself. Her gloved hands didn't shake in the least as she held his 9mm Beretta pointed directly at him. If they hadn't seen it, neither veteran cop would have believed the story. Jim raced from the house just as O'Riley was coming up the lawn, moving more quickly than expected for a man of his size.
"Mickey! God-dammit get out of there," yelled Brass as he came up alongside her, cautiously putting a hand on hers where it held the gun. Jim noted in passing that her grip and balance were textbook-perfect: her father, Jack Kaye, USN Ret., had taught her well.
"It's over; it's over," he said in a calmer tone. "Take it easy, kid. Here Mouse, gimme the weapon. Please." His heart was hammering in his chest, and it took all of his training to keep the emotions at bay just then.
He tried to keep his voice low, calmer than he actually felt at the moment, as he waited for her breathing to slow a bit and to relax. Jim breathed a sigh of relief when her forefinger came off the trigger and she finally looked up at him. He recognized the momentary "thousand yard stare" before she nodded and blinked it away in the next heartbeat.
O'Riley, meanwhile, had checked on the downed Grissom and Merrifield, and was on his radio calling for EMS. Gil was bleeding from the gash, and was unconscious, but unfortunately, Merrifield was dead. As Brass eased the 9mm from her hands and helped Mickey to her feet, two more uniformed officers arrived to restrain and handcuff the mystery assailant who was now wailing with pain, one hand had been trying to hold his nose, the other to hold his crotch. His testicles felt like they were somewhere in the region of his solar plexus.
Brass holstered his own weapon, took a glove from his coat pocket to wrap the grip, and then handed the Beretta and its clip to yet another uniformed officer who bagged and tagged it as evidence. He helped Mickey off to one side and checked her for injuries, shining his flashlight in her eyes. A small band-aid covered stitches at her right eyebrow, but that was pre-existing.
She grimaced and pushed it away; her irritability perfectly normal as the adrenaline was still rushing through her veins. "Hey! Stop it, I'm fine. I'm not hit, Uncle Jimmy." Mickey turned to look at her sleeve where he was tugging around the blood, probing her arm underneath the shirt. "Not mine."
Unconsciously, they both sighed at the same time and said: "What the hell just happened?" Brass steered her to sit in the open driver's side of his car when he saw her legs wobble and she suddenly turned very pale.
"Hang on a sec. We need to get these gloves off," he told her, taking an evidence envelope from the side pocket of the car door. "That's it, inside out. They're evidence now since you held the weapon he fired inside the house." He sealed the envelope, then signed and dated across the seal. It wasn't exactly chain of evidence procedure but he'd pass it along to the assigned CSIs when they arrived.
Mickey's face went tight with concern. "Is Dr. Grissom okay?"
Before Jim could reply, O'Riley arrived and Brass stood to hear his report. "One civilian and one officer dead, Jim. Paramedics are on the way for Gil. He's groggy but alive. It looks like our guy pistol-whipped him after the Beretta jammed."
Mickey nodded. "I cleared it," she said quietly, her hands shaking now. "Officer Shepherd didn't make it, did he?" She looked sad and tired hearing the burly detective's report, learning that an officer had died and that the assailant was in custody.
"From what I saw, Mickey, you saved Grissom's life," Brass told her. "I bet he has a monster headache, but he could have just as easily been shot like Merrifield, or you." She shook her head but couldn't speak.
O'Riley reached in the open window and gave her shoulder a gentle grip. "Yes, you did." He left his hand there until she looked up at him. "Those were some nice moves, too, Doc. Remind me never to piss you off, know what I'm sayin'? I kinda like my cayoons where they are." She gave him a teary smile before he moved away. She couldn't look Brass in the eyes, even though she heard him chuckle quietly at the sergeant's bad Spanish. Not caring who was watching, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head; Jim couldn't describe the relief he felt that his favorite niece was safe.
"I need you to stay right here until the CSIs arrive. You've got evidence on you they'll have to process, okay?" he whispered gently in her ear as he kissed her hair again.
A tiny sniffle escaped her, but she looked up finally, trying to smile at him; Mickey's eyes shone with unshed tears. "Yes, Captain. I won't move a muscle."
TBC