Chapter Eight
Rayfield stood like a hawk at the head of the layout table, an evidence box sitting on the lit surface directly in front of him. Grissom and Catherine were on the left side of the table, both resting their hands on its edge. Their sole focus was on the box and what lay inside, hoping it would present something valuable in Sara's defense that a single-minded detective may have missed.
"Don't think you're going to be able to tamper with anything, now. You wanted to see it, you can see it, but there will be no opening any sealed bags." He gave them a sly smile that disgusted them both.
The two of them nodded in agreement to his terms as the box was pushed towards them. The very first item pulled out was the knife, upright in its cylindrical container. The old blood was dry and caked on its silver blade, and two fingerprints in a smudge of blood could be seen on the wooden handle.
"Where was the second sample of blood located on this?" Grissom asked, holding it up for the detective to see.
Rayfield nodded towards it. "Towards the handle."
Grissom looked back to the weapon, examining the fingerprints. One larger one beside a smaller one. There was something curious about their positions, so he and Catherine made silent note of it. The knife was set aside, along with the lab reports stating the presence of two sets of DNA and the fingerprint analysis.
A bagged bed spread came out next, pale yellow with a faint flower pattern on it, along with a faded blood stain in the top right corner of the folded sheet.
"This blood? This sheet?" Catherine said with a glance up.
"Both Sara's," Rayfield promptly answered.
The examination continued, the two of them growing increasingly numb as they went through everything. A pillowcase matching Sara's sheets and bearing a similar stain. Her mother's blood soaked clothes—a robe, undershirt, and sweatpants. A glass with fingerprints. A bottle of Valium. The blue sheets covered in blood, those pillowcases. Suddenly, they pulled out Sara's clothes.
"Oh God," Catherine said on an exhale. Grissom merely stared with a solemn, serious expression.
It was a small yellow t-shirt. The slightly ruffled sleeves and small flower on the chest told them it belonged to a child. The blood that covered the front and bloody handprints on the shoulders said it belonged to a child whose childhood had been stolen. The small jean shorts told the same story.
Grissom's hands felt heavy as lead as he maneuvered these things in his fingers. It felt wrong, like he was breaking rules of some sort as he held them. It was surreal, picturing Sara as young enough to fit in them, let alone get them covered in her father's blood. Catherine set her hand on the shirt, but pulled away as if she'd been burned. The same feeling lingered with her as Grissom.
Finally, they brought themselves to set the clothing aside and pull out a bulk of photographs. First came those of her father's body, and they were mildly surprised that his appearance was not of an abuser. With eyes closed, he looked like a simple business man., respected, and fairly well-to-do. He lay askew beneath blood-soaked covers, his face sprinkled in blood. The next photo, and the blankets had been pulled back and you could see the stab wounds, seven, sporadically placed across his torso. As they paged through more photos, they saw close ups of each wound, a large blood pool on the floor beside his bed, with footprints running through it, and a pile of vomit near the door.
"Whose…?" Catherine began.
"Sara's," was the detective's prompt reply.
"What is the significance of the glass and Valium?" Grissom questioned.
"Allen Sidle was drugged. We believe it was done before, on a fairly regular basis. Laura was prescribed Valium because of her injuries, and stress, and has told us she'd often times drug her husband to avoid more beatings."
"Then these are her fingerprints on the glass?"
"Yes. However, we also know that Sara knows about what her mother did with the Valium, and could have easily taken that opportunity."
The two of them said nothing as they continued leafing through the photos. They reached the hospital photographs of Laura and Sara both. The resemblance was absolutely striking. Laura's eye was blackened, her bottom lip swollen. Her hair was long, curly, and ragged. Her blue eyes, lifeless. Sara's injuries were next, and Catherine found herself holding her breath in shock. There was a photo of the young girl's left arm, an enormous bruise in the shape of a large hand glaring from it. Her arm looked so small, so thin, her young hand so little. A cut on the back of her head was shown among wavy brown hair. Medical reports were stapled to the back, stating she'd suffered from a mild-moderate concussion as well.
As Grissom flipped through the last few, he asked, "What exactly do you think happened?"
Rayfield cleared his throat and rattled it off, "After she was injured, obviously she would feel betrayed. It was the first time something like that had ever happened to her. She'd go upstairs and wait for her mother to give him the Valium so things would be easier. After a couple hours of lying in bed, she goes down to see that Laura is asleep. She grabs the steak knife from the drawer, sneaks in, stabs him and wallows in her misery. Her mother arrives, gets covered in blood as well, and pulls Sara away from the body—the bloody handprints. She tells her to call the police, and Sara does so. Laura picks up the knife—her fingerprint. Not wanting to get her daughter in trouble, she takes the blame in silence. But after Sara ungratefully rejects her sacrifice, she decides years later, that the time has come to speak."
"And…the vomit by the door?" Catherine pointed out.
"Guilt," Rayfield stated simply.
"Sara!"
Squinting past a small headache, Sara opened her eyes and glanced out of the bars. But she saw none. She shot upright and saw Max standing in the open gate, the guard standing authoritatively next to him. Max was grinning, as always.
"You're getting me out of here?" Sara exclaimed, stunned.
"Come on, let's go get your stuff, at the front desk," he said through that smirk. He held out a hand, she took it, and they left the holding cell. Out in the steel hallways of the LVPD, they stopped to gather her personal items.
"Thanks, Max, really," Sara said through a small smile as she placed her cellphone on her hip and took back the spare pieces of jewelry she'd worn. Her gun was not given back.
"Just don't leave the country anytime soon. I like my car." He gave her a wink.
Sara let out a small laugh, the first one she'd managed in days. "I thought Nick, Warrick, and them were working on settling my bail?" she questioned as they headed out of the building and into the parking lot. The sun was cleansing, and Sara let it warm her skin as they crossed the asphalt. It had felt so odd, being on the other side of a jail cell, and she was extremely grateful to be outside. A shudder ran through her at the thought of being in there for a full sentence.
"Well, they offered, but my car was enough to cover it." He gave her hand a squeeze, and nodded towards the left end of the lot, where she spotted his vehicle. It was after that squeeze she noticed they were still unnecessarily holding hands. She quickly snapped out of his gentle grip, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Max cleared his throat and stuck his hand in his pocket as he said, "I'm staying in a motel towards Henderson so I'll just drop you off at your apartment and head off." He looked down at her with a pleasant grin as they reached his car. They entered in their respective places and Max set the key in the ignition.
Moments of silence passed while Max drove. Sara was thinking hard. Despite the fact that she really didn't want to spend any unnecessary time with Max, (to avoid compromising situations, of course), she couldn't leave him to pay for a motel room right after he'd just filled her bail.
Sara spoke up. "You know, I guess in payment for bailing me out and telling me what was going on and risking your career and coming to Vegas and all that, I could allow you to sleep in my apartment while you're here. Free." She smiled gently.
"You'd do that?" Smirk.
"It's the very least I can do, compared to what you've done for me," she said as though it were obvious. "I mean, honestly, if it weren't for you I probably would have had a full blown panic attack when Rayfield showed up. I'd have no clue what was going on. I'd be ten times the wreck I am already."
He was still smirking as he steered them towards her home. "Well if that's what you want to do then, I'll drop you off, go grab my things and by back by dinnertime."
Sara got to her apartment door, and was greeted by a brand new front door, which she opened with a set of new keys she'd grabbed from the landlord. He'd explained to her that he felt she was not responsible for getting her door kicked in, and would then not be the one to pay for it. She entered her apartment and gave a great sigh of relief once inside. A familiar place, with familiar sights, sounds, and smells. Her shoes were kicked off and she whisked herself over to her bed, where she flopped down on the sheets, pulling them up to her face and breathing deeply. It felt so good to be home. She'd only been away for about two days, but her queen size was much more comfortable than a cold bench.
Her consciousness was bordering, when suddenly she remembered she'd offered Max a place to stay.
Shoot.
When was the last time she'd had somebody stay the night at her house? Umm…not since Hank. Good Lord. She shot out of bed and dashed to her closet where she grabbed a box and climbed to see the top shelf. She pulled out a beige sheet and spare pillow and set them on the ground. Shoved in the far back of her closet was a green fleece blanket and she brought that out as well. What else? What else?
Dinner. That meant cooking. Damnit.
The blankets were lifted in her arms and she went out to the main room, where she deposited them on the couch. There was no way they would share a bed. The sofa was perfectly available. She put her hands on the side of her head and let out a breath of air, thinking of what she could possibly make for dinner.
She thrust open the refrigerator door and saw nothing of interest. In a slight frenzy she flung the cupboard doors open, and with a relieved sigh, saw the bare minimum required to make spaghetti—noodles and a can of sauce. Hoping Max wasn't counting on a gourmet meal, she set a pot to boil, and while she waited, made up the sofa for Max to sleep.
About fifteen minutes later, Sara was stirring the noodles in when a knock sounded on her door. Max entered a beat later, a suitcase over one shoulder.
"Hey," Sara greeted. "You're sleeping on the couch." Her head jerked over towards it as she snapped another handful of noodles in half and dumped them into the pot.
He set his suitcase on the floor beside the sofa, patting his hand on the sheet and blanket. Sara continued stirring the pasta as he headed back towards the kitchen. On the counter, settled in a corner was a jar full of pencils, pens, knickknacks, and other things, which Max reached into to pull out a hair clip.
"How'd you know that was in there?" Sara asked with a sly smile.
"I remember things." Max reached over to her dark hair, pulling it all back before he twisted it up in the clip. The next thing she knew, his hands snuck around her waist, clasping gently over her belly button as his head found its place between her neck and shoulder.
"Get…off…" Sara said tightly, troubled by how comforted his actions made her feel.
"Why…?" he asked in joking whine. "It feels just like old times…"
"There is a reason you are sleeping on the couch," she hissed, taking the wooden spoon she was using for the sauce and raising it threateningly.
Max let out a small chuckle. She could feel the corner of his smirk press softly into her neck, and she let the spoon fly, smacking him on the tip of his nose. He sprang up immediately, both hands on his nose, the red leaking down of the tomato nature, not blood. Sara couldn't help but smile as he assessed the damage she'd done. With a joking glare, he headed off in search of the bathroom.
There was another knock at the door, and Sara cried, "Come in!"
The knob turned, and all she saw was a giant vase of yellow lilies making their way into her apartment, with a pair of legs sticking out the bottom.
"It's Greg!" came his voice from beyond the flora.
"Wow…" Sara whispered, sweeping over to him quickly and relieving him of the massive gift. She lifted it up onto the counter beside her message pad and phone.
Greg grinned. "It's from all of us. Kind of a…sorry, congratulations, good luck present. And we felt bad about not being able to add to getting you out of jail."
A large smile crept across her face, not at all fake. She eagerly reached to him and gave him a tight hug, which he returned. "They're beautiful, Greg. Thanks so much."
He shrugged as she let go, his eyes pointed towards the ceiling as he gave her his silly, 'it was nothing' expression. With eyebrows raised, he peeked over Sara's shoulder to see the pot of boiling noodles. "Ooh…what's for dinner?"
Still grinning, Sara said, "Spaghetti—want to join?"
"Always ready for a chance to try the Sara Sidle cuisine. Want me to set the table?"
"That'd be great—three plates, three forks, three glasses."
He stopped midway to the cupboard. "Three?"
"Max is in the bathroom, wiping tomato sauce off his face," Sara added, with a soft snicker.
"Oh, he's here, huh?" he said with as little accusation as possible. Merely curiosity. Plates, silverware, and glasses were pulled out of the cupboards and drawers as Sara continued cooking. He placed them on the island as Max ambled out of the bathroom.
"Ah, hey there…Greg, isn't it?" Max said upon catching sight of the other man.
"Hey. We can't thank you enough for bailing Sara out, really. Putting your car up for collateral was a great thing, man."
Sara silently agreed as she watched the two men talk. It probably showed, how happy she was to be home, and the fact that she'd been so warmly welcomed back despite everybody's new knowledge made everything so much less stressful. Greg and Max sat down at the table, still speaking lightly with each other as Sara brought over the finished dinner, setting it on a hot pad in the middle of everything. They served themselves, and as they ate, Greg got to know Max a little more. He asked him about his favorite teams, his past jobs, his family. Sara listened to all the familiar information, smiling over the fact they seemed to be getting along well.
"So…you guys have known each other since you were kids, right?" Greg asked. The spaghetti had been finished long before, and Sara had handed out a beer to each of them as they continued talking.
"Yeah, and she wasn't much different back then, let me tell you," Max joked, causing both him and Sara to laugh. "As bold, stubborn, smart, and cute back then as she is today."
"Come on man, gimme the dirt!" Greg pressed teasingly, throwing Sara mischievous sideways glances.
"Well…there isn't really anything," Max declared, folding his hands behind his head, suddenly steeped in thought.
"I wasn't that interesting Greg, honestly," Sara added with a chuckle.
"Now, now, wait a minute," Max began suddenly. "If I do recall, a certain playground scuffle. You and me, against Meghan Berg and Sally Baker—remember?"
Sara looked at the ceiling, thinking hard. "That was…over the picture I drew, right? Fifth grade?"
Max laughed, his tilted smile clear as day. "That was sweet."
Sara smiled back, knowing he was matching his own quote from all those years ago. "And I was so scared my dad was going to get angry, but he ended up buying me a puppy so I could make friends!"
Greg choked on his beer. "The Sara Sidle—no friends?"
A shrug and grin, and the conversations continued, Sara feeling safe, comfortable, and happy for the first time in too long.