IV.

Charlotte's funeral was held on a Tuesday, in the same parlor I had been in eight years ago. Different faces, but the same sadness. There were so many people that showed up they had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate the mourners and even then that wasn't enough. The room simply wasn't large enough to fit all the people that had loved Charlotte.

I remember this day distinctly because I sometimes I revisit it in my dreams and memories. All the details, they flood my senses. The scent of jasmine (her favorite flower), baskets full of violet petals filling the room with her presence. The quiet sound of people whispering to one another. A lull of silence. Voices. Another lull.

I remember looking over several times to see Charlotte's father weeping, her mother's head resting on his shoulder. I also recall standing up, standing in front of all those people and talking. No one had asked me, it was I who had asked her parents if I could. I think it caught them by surprise that I would volunteer to deliver the eulogy. I think the students there, too, were surprised. Had I even ever talked during school?

But you see my love for her would always outweigh any anxiety for public speaking and this was something I wanted to do. Strangely, this is one part of the memory I never can recall with the most preciseness. The words, they jumble together as I try to rehear them in my mind. She was a beautiful girl, beautiful spirit and beautiful mind. I stumbled and faltered over every syllable. Someone later told me that I didn't say anything at all. Or if I did, they couldn't hear me through all the tears I cried. . .

For the most part, I do not wish to think about this day. Not now, not ever. For even as the years create a greater gap from the event and the present moment, I still feel it is all too fresh, too crisp. But do not misunderstand me. It is that day I wish to forget but not Charlotte.

Never Charlotte.

Sometimes early in the morning before the rest of the world has started, I will make a cup of Earl Grey and sit in the silence of my darkened home. And when I do, I tend to think of what could have been. There is a statistic that says few people marry their high school sweetheart, but who knows? Who knows what could have been?

I cannot answer these questions, cannot account for what universal force took Charlotte out of this world and put me on the path I am on today. Some believe in karma, others believe in God. I believe in many things, but as you well know, religion does not claim a place amongst this list. I believe in one event triggering another. Of one life ending so another can begin. Cause and effect. Each action is just a reaction to something that has already happened.

Her murderer was never caught, never prosecuted; I could not bring her back to life. As bitter as the injustice made me, it kindled a passion that had laid dormant. Perhaps I could not help what was done to Charlotte, but I could help others. Give others the peace of mind that I would never possess.

It was my freshman year at college that I discovered a new passion. Forensic Science.

I had been accepted to UCLA as just another biology major but leaning towards etymology. As a side job I was working as an intern at the Las Angeles County morgue—not really officially as they had no place for a college student with no degree, but I liked knowing I was useful to them.

But by twenty-two it was made official when I became the youngest coroner in L.A.'s history. Nothing really fazed me, not the recognition by my peers nor the new found power of being 'someone' in the eyes of society. I was married to my work back then and some say I still am. I was surrounded by what I was good at, cutting things open and finding out what had made them tick. Which is not to imply that I am like Descartes and believe that creatures are just giant clocks. . . that would be ridiculous.

The work was fine; where others turned squeamish at the sight of blood, I merely brushed it off my shirt sleeve and continued on. I knew that in some small way, I was helping unravel the mysteries that surrounded this Jane Doe, or why a healthy athletic teenager suddenly died.

I was content, though perhaps not satisfied. Maybe that's the reason why I listened to Dr. Fisher, a recruiter from Las Vegas, one day when he entered my office one evening.

"Mr. Grissom?" There was a knock at the door and I looked up from my paperwork to see the white-tufted hair of an old man as he poked his head into the room.

I settled the pen on the table. Paperwork was never my pleasure, but neither still was conversation which is why I hesitated before saying, "Yes, what can I do for you?"

The old man, a tiny weathered creature, shuffled across the linoleum floor as he entered. Coming to my desk he laid out his hand, which trembled in the air, "My name is Maxwell Fisher from the Las Vegas Field Services."

My gaze darted to the window, where just outside the glass I could see one of my bosses talking to another individual. The old man in front of me must have guessed my reaction as he quickly added, "relax my boy, I have already spoken with your supervisors about this little visit and I am authorized to be here."

He said this with a warm smile but I remained passive. Fisher had not been the first to approach me in my four years of working as a coroner. People as far as New York had called, written, even showed up on my front door to discuss recruitment offers. I had turned them all down, just as I was about to do with whatever this man had to say. After all, he seemed rather old and probably did not have many breaths left to spare on me when it was all going to end in refusal.

But something he said next stopped me from doing this.

"I am aware that you are quite comfortable here, Mr. Grissom and that before I can even tell you what I have come here to say, you are already thinking of ways to decline any offers I might present," he said with a very labored heave, "which is quite a pity because something tells me you might be interested in taking on bigger challenges."

I quirked a brow, interest mildly peaked, "go on."

"Ah glad you will give this old coot the time of day," he said with a chuckle. Fisher pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and continued, "But really it would be in your best interest to at least keep an open mind."

"I try to keep an open mind, but not so open that my brain falls out," I answered.

"Oh splendid wit you have there! Shaw?"

"Stone."

"Of course," Fisher said with a nod. "Well I can tell I like you already, my boy. Sharp as tack. Which I suppose is all the more reason for me to get you out to Las Vegas."

Evidently Fisher had taken to me quicker then I to him.

"But of course, the incentive. Normally this is the part where I discuss things like the higher position and pay raise but you've been offered this all before—even turning down a chap from D.C. So why bother with all that," at this point I was rather impressed with the background check this man had done. I didn't realize very many knew at all I had turned down a job at Washington D.C.'s office but evidently he did. "Well what would you say to full access to Las Vegas's criminal investigation lab?"

"I would have to say, what's the catch?" After all, I couldn't believe what this man was saying. But a voice inside me was already saying 'yes' even before my governing rationale could kick in.

"My colleagues and I have deliberated for many months as to who would best fit the job and your name has came up numerous times. We are essentially giving you the keys to the palace so to speak, Mr. Grissom," he said and there was a sincerity in his eyes that partially convinced me this wasn't a hoax. "Think of what you could do with this."

"I haven't lead criminal investigations before though," I answered truthfully.

"Neither did your predecessor," Fisher said.

"And how'd he do?" I asked.

The old man smiled, his lips tugging back creating more wrinkles on his face. "Well, I'd say he ended up doing just fine for himself. After thirty-five years and hundreds of solved cases, he seems pretty proud of what he accomplished. Which is probably why he wouldn't want his job to go to just anyone," Fisher said with a wheeze, "in fact, I'm pretty sure that's why he flew out to Los Angeles and personally visited the office of a young Mr. Grissom—to ask him eye to eye to consider this job."

At that point, I was already making up my mind. Even before I considered buying a ticket to Las Vegas, I already knew where my destination would be.

So with the faintest of smiles, I replied, "Mr. Fisher, I would like to consider your offer."