GRISSOM VS. THE DOMINATRIX
CHAPTER EIGHT
Busted! Shit shit shit! DAMN you, Catherine. Now what? Grissom thought frantically.
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
Grissom pulled his hands back and folded his arms. He dared a quick look in the faces of his coworkers, dreading but needing to know their reactions. Catherine looked smug. Very pleased with herself. Nick looked baffled and repulsed. And Sara...oh, God, Sara...I never wanted you to know...looked disgusted. And as if a piece a puzzle had fallen into place as well.
He could see their minds working, imagining the activities he had participated in, as reactions flicked across their faces. Since he had done many of those things, he couldn't summon a coherent sentence.
Nick spoke first, looking at him carefully. "Heather...is a murder suspect, Gris."
"Suspect, Nick. Not a murderer."
"So you did have sex with her," Catherine said quickly.
"I didn't say that," Grissom said quickly.
"You didn't deny it either. Omission is as good as confession. Well, well. The great Gil Grissom. Who leads a blameless life. Who never goes out..."
"I never claimed to be perfect..."
"Because we live in a fishbowl," Willows finished her thought. "Is a pervert. Who knew?"
"My personal life is none of your business!" Grissom yelled angrily. "Not up for discussion! This is a place of business! I suggest we get back to work," he spat, "and leave the insults and innuendo out of our conversation. Now!" His fist banged on the table and the others jumped.
"I...I'll be in the AV lab," Nick blurted. He rushed out.
"So much for holier than thou..." Catherine started to say.
"Catherine! That's enough, dammit. I'm still your supervisor. Insubordination and disrespect...be careful what you say. Or face the consequences."
"Whatever. I'm going to check with Hodges." She strode out.
Sara hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound.
"Sara?" he said desperately.
"Yeah?" she seemed dazed.
"Sara, I..." he trailed off, completely at a loss.
"So that's why," Sara said slowly.
"Why what?"
"Why you wouldn't date me. Because I'm not...into that...shit. Because I'm not...a whore. A high class one, but still a whore." She left as well.
Grissom covered his face with his hands.
The rest of the shift was strained. Word spread before Grissom had even left the room, and everyone gave him strange looks or became awkwardly silent when he entered. Greg played the Rolling Stones When the whip comes down on his amplified iPod and he heard some snickering, but the music was turned off and everyone dispersed by the time he tracked it down. At last he retreated to his office and did paperwork, then went home the moment shift was over.
The next night, Grissom walked into his office as usual. There, in the center of his desk, was a large, black, studded leather dog collar.
He sank into his chair and pondered on how to respond. Within minutes, an idea came to him. Grissom got out his kit and dusted the leather for prints. When two clear ones emerged, he smiled grimly, tape-lifted them, took them to Mandy, and, as politely as ever, asked her to run them against those of the department. She gave him a puzzled look but followed his orders without question.
"Thank you," Grissom said quietly, and walked to the breakroom.
"Catherine. My office. Now." He strode out.
Catherine smirked at Warrick and followed.
The sound of raised voices penetrated Grissom's door. Everyone became abnormally silent and listened attentively to the audible scraps. "Fingerprints...juvenile...public knowledge...childish, spiteful behavior...private life...you're a hypocrite...will not be tolerated...jackass...go home, Catherine."
The door banged open and slammed shut. Catherine's heels clicked loudly as she stalked out to the locker room and then the parking lot, without a word to anyone. Her tires screeched as she pulled out.
Grissom returned to the breakroom. Nick, Warrick, and Sara looked up at him nervously, as if waiting for an explosion. He paused in the doorway and looked at each of them in turn.
"I've suspended Catherine. For the rest of the week." A small murmur of surprise. "I trust I won't have to go through this...or suspend...any of you?"
"No, sir," they responded, nearly in chorus.
"Good." He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "You have no idea how much I hate this personnel/ disciplinary/ supervisor bullshit. I just want to be a scientist. A CSI."
"Sorry, Gris," Warrick said quietly, and Grissom gave him the ghost of a smile.
"All right then. We're going to be short-handed, so let's get to it. Dead guy at the Rampart, in a service corridor. Sara, grab Greg?"
"You got it."
TBC