A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Part four

If you haven't read Dilemma, then all you need to know is that Greg calls his grandma 'Mama Asty'.

I'm disgusted with myself; a whole month and all I can come up with is one measly chapter?

I closed the door and stared into my darkened living room.

My home was quiet and gloomy, qualities that I'd valued in the past but that now felt oppressive. It was too quiet and too dark, and I didn't want to be there.

At some point I started taking deep breaths, which was a ritual of mine. Whenever the horrors I faced at my job came close to overwhelm me, I came home and closed the door and spent a few minutes focusing on the simple task of breathing. Little by little I was able to regain some sort of balance, and every stressful thought faded away from my mind –at least for a while.

It didn't work out that day. How could it? I'd killed someone. How could I even hope that closing a door and taking a few breaths would help me overlook that fact? There was a man lying on a slab at the morgue, and I'd put him there. If he'd been already identified, then his family probably knew by now, which meant that somewhere there was a mother quietly grieving for her son. Or a wife, trying to comfort her fatherless kids -

Tears blurred my sight and I blinked them back, almost angrily. I'd never let my emotions take over, and I was not about to start.

I almost wished I'd asked Karen to stay a while longer. Uncomfortable as it was, having her weeping in my living room was better than being left alone with my thoughts.

Thinking of her reminded me of her confession. Mama Asty had told me once about Karen's propensity for nasty acts against insects, but I never thought she'd be cruel to her own brother too. I still had some trouble believing it; Greg had always spoken fondly of her. He had obviously forgiven her.

I wanted to be angry at her for the things she'd done to Greg, but couldn't. I couldn't even resent her for trying to interfere in our relationship –she wasn't the only one who'd tried, anyway. Some of Greg's friends had made it clear they didn't want me around, either.

I couldn't be angry at any of them because, no matter what they did or said, it never made any difference to Greg. He'd stuck by me.

The thought filled me with remorse.

The truth was, I never do much to deserve his loyalty. Karen may have been a horrible sister but I was a lousy boyfriend. She'd tried to make it up to him, at least. Me, I'd wasted every chance I'd had.

All I could do now was think of the things I should have done for him but failed to, words I could have said, gifts I could have given him… places we could have gone to but didn't because I said 'no' so often, he just stopped asking. That I had my reasons, (we just couldn't afford to be seen together in public), didn't really matter; deep down, I knew I could have found a way. Saying 'no' was just so much easier.

Not that saying 'yes' would have kept us from breaking up. The real problem between Greg and me was that I could never let my guard down. All through our relationship I watched over everything I said and everything I revealed about me. It got to a point where I would hardly say anything. Silence wasn't Greg's style; he would fill in the gaps with nervous, incessant chatter... Until he grew silent, too.

Greg simply ran out of patience.

He still was the good-natured guy that Karen remembered, but he had a temper, too. If Karen thought Greg was the submissive, compliant partner in a relationship where I was the boss in all aspects (or a substitute father), then she was wrong. Greg would have never done anything just because I said so –nor would I had wanted him to; he had a strong will of his own and it was one of the things I liked about him.

We were just too different. By the time he said, "Maybe we should take a break," I didn't hesitate; I agreed. The truth was, I was relieved. I liked being with him, but I wanted things to be the way they were before, when boundaries were clearly defined between us. I was hoping we'd go back to being friends, but it was not to be. Things were just not the same.

For one thing, he knew too much about me now; and while he never used this knowledge against me, it made me uncomfortable nonetheless. There were also character traits of his that had never bothered me but I found irritating now, like the way he flirted with every female who crossed his path, or the overly friendly chats he had with Nick or Warrick.

I was jealous, plain and simple.

I never confronted Greg about this; instead, I simply avoided working with him. It was a coward's solution, to say the least. And it was unfair to Greg, who was simply being his usual, friendly self.

"I'm sorry, Greg." I whispered, and my living room was so quiet that it seemed that I was shouting the words, "I'm so sorry -" I repeated, and then I uttered one of the many terms of endearment I wanted to use when we were still together but never dared, "Baby."

It was a sweet word, and it felt good to be finally able to say it, even if Greg wasn't there to hear it.

Actually, after the things Karen had said earlier that day, maybe it was for the best that he'd never hear it. I didn't think he would have appreciated being called 'baby' by a man old enough to be his father.

Or maybe he wouldn't have cared?

Maybe.

Maybe he would have reacted by rubbing my cheek with his thumb, while giving me the half-amused, wholly tender smile he gave me whenever I did something out of character.

Maybe…

But I didn't want to think about that now. I shook my head, suddenly impatient with myself. This was not the right time to fantasize about the things I did or didn't do during my failed relationship with Greg. I had responsibilities, duties to perform. Warrick might have everything under control but he still needed me to put the case together.

This thought spurred me into action.

I went back to my car to get the things I'd brought from my office -personal documents, files and a small aquarium with my tarantula in it. Catherine had made a half-heartened offer to feed her for me, but I didn't know when I'd be back, and I didn't want to add to my colleague's new responsibilities.

I set the aquarium on the kitchen counter while I decided where to install it. I raised ants and spiders in a shed at the back of my house, but I didn't think my tarantula would adapt well to a crowded neighborhood.

I'd think about it later. I had other, more immediate tasks to perform, like checking on my calls and writing down an account of the events of the night before. It was standard procedure; sometimes the interrogation process failed to cover every aspect of a case, and important details could be lost if one didn't immediately set them down in writing.

I picked up my laptop and went to my living room to work.

I read the last paragraph I'd written and then I read it again.

There was no use; I hit Delete again.

My neck had started to hurt, and I needed a break.

I looked up from the screen and realized that night had fallen, and the only light in the room came from my laptop. I'd been sitting on the couch, working diligently on my story for what felt like hours but without making any real progress. It seemed that for every two paragraphs I wrote, I deleted one.

I was having trouble with my objectivity.

Out of frustration, I put my laptop aside. I picked up my cell phone and checked on my messages again. There was no word from Warrick yet but there was yet another message from the sheriff, urging me to consider granting an interview to a reporter of his choice. 'Damage control', he called it.

I ignored him again.

I had messages from Brass, Dr. Pierce and Det. Morrison. Brass' line was busy, so I called Dr. Pierce and Detective Morrison. The doctor wanted to see me again, this time in her office. She wasn't satisfied with the way our earlier meeting had ended. She knew I'd been holding back, and I knew that she knew. She was easily placated her by my offer to see her on Monday.

Morrison, on the other hand, had some questions that couldn't wait.

He already had statements from Greg and Warrick, he said; he just wanted to make sure that he had a complete picture of the events of the night. As a token of his trust, he was willing to pose the questions on the phone.

I braced myself. If Morrison had indeed talked to Warrick and Greg, then the questions he would pose were probably of a personal nature.

But they were not. Morrison seemed more concerned about technical aspects of the case. He was particularly curious about the fact that two CSIs and an armed perp didn't hear me enter the house and approach them. Morrison had me go over my story twice before he accepted my explanation –that everything had happened fast, and that their focus was on each other, not on me.

Contrary to what I expected, Morrison didn't inquire about the emotional aspects of the case. Unlike Hall, he must have realized that emotions were Dr. Pierce's realm, not his –which was fine with me. If Morrison had brought up the matter, then I would have had to admit that my emotions had started to muddle my memories of the event.

Now, every time I pictured the shooting, I had the impression that time had stood still after I fired my gun.

In my mind, I saw Warrick's eyes bulge and Greg's mouth open up in surprise the minute they heard the shot. They stared at each other, paralyzed –no, horrified- by the possibility that one of them might be hurt.

In a split second that seemed to last into an eternity, the three of them had stood in the middle of the room -Greg and the perp, locked in an obscene embrace, with Warrick staring helplessly at them.

But movement was restored at last, and in the bloodiest form possible: the perp's head burst in a thousand fragments, and the impact caused him to fall heavily on his back, taking Greg down with him.

"Oh, man, oh, man -" Warrick groaned as he rushed to them. Both Greg and the perp were covered in blood, and Warrick must have momentarily wondered whether it was the perp's head he'd seen explode –or Greg's. There was a moment when I wondered, myself.

But I didn't tell any of this to Morrison. Instead, I stated the facts:

"After the shooting, CSI Brown kicked the man's gun out of reach, and then he kneeled down to examine their injuries. Once he made sure that CSI Sanders hadn't been shot, he helped him sit -"

There were details that I kept to myself, like the fact that the man had been holding Greg so tightly, that Warrick had to forcefully pull the arms away in order to free his friend. I didn't tell him anything about Greg's painful efforts to talk, or the look on his face when he realized that there was blood trickling down his neck.

Greg had touched the back of his head and then looked incredulously at the bloody fragments of flesh on his hands. Warrick's rushed explanation, "You're ok, man. Bullet didn't hit you," didn't help much, because by then Greg was looking at me, and the gun in my hand.

There was a look of disbelief on his face; disbelief and something else.

And it was the memory of what happened next that filled me with shame -

Morrison's voice cut into the silence.

"Dr. Grissom?" he said, "Are you ok?"

No.

I managed to tell the rest of my story –a bunch of half-truths, really. Morrison didn't notice; or maybe he did and chose not to say anything. Any inconsistencies on my story would simply be added to his report.

After he hung up, I sat with the phone in my hand. It vibrated from time to time, signaling my incoming calls, but I didn't want to talk to anyone, anymore. Finally, I put my phone aside and then I closed the laptop, shutting down the only source of light in the room.

Somehow, being in the dark made it easier to be home. Ever since my break-up with Greg, my house had stopped being the haven it once was. Now, it was here that I felt the effects of the break-up the most. Seeing Greg at the lab hurt too, but at least I had my work to keep me occupied. Here, nothing distracted me for long. and it was my damn fault, for letting him into my home.

He'd visited only twice, but he'd made a lasting impression: He changed the position of my pots and pans, thus making it impossible for me to find anything at first glance anymore; he nicked a corner of the kitchen countertop, which meant I'd either have to change the entire piece or learn to live with it; he altered the order of my CDs and my books… And so on, and so on.

And none of this was irreversible; I mean, I could rearrange my books and pans and CDs –if I ever mustered the energy to do so. It was my memories of him that I couldn't cope with. If I picked up a book or a pot, I was inevitably reminded of the mischievous look he gave me as he explained the twisted logic behind his new arrangement of my CDs and books. And if I went to the kitchen, I was reminded of his frustration when he found out that try as he might, he just couldn't put the pots and pans back the way they were before.

Being in the dark helped because then I didn't have to look at the things Greg had touched.

It usually worked, but not that night. Just sitting on the couch was enough to bring memories of him. BG (Before Greg) I would always sit in the middle of the couch, but now I was sitting in a corner, just like he'd always liked me to.

Greg never sat on a couch –he lay down. If he wanted to sit, then he simply grabbed a chair. But when we watched TV at his place, he insisted on laying down with his head on my lap –hence, my taking a corner of the couch. I didn't mind; his couch was big enough for the two of us.

My couch, on the other hand, was hard and unyielding, and too small for him to lie down with ease. I was sure that one look at it would put him off the first time he saw it, but it didn't. Even the lack of cushions didn't deter him; he simply brought a pillow from my bedroom and put it on my lap.

We'd watched a documentary like that –at least, I tried to watch while he stared at me, silently daring me to concentrate on the TV while he was there. I really wanted to see the show but I also wanted to look down at him. Finally, I'd tried to compromise. I lifted the hem of his t-shirt and began to rub his belly.

"Grissom?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"You're scratching my stomach." He said testily.

I looked down.

"So?"

"You think I'm a puppy or something?"

I guiltily pulled my hand away, but he caught it and put it back.

"I didn't say you had to stop." He said.

Great.

By then, it was obvious that watching TV was the last thing in my mind, so I turned it off and dropped the remote. I had better things to do with my hand, like massaging Greg's scalp, something that never failed to draw pleasurable sighs from him. It was one of his erogenous zones.

No wonder he was always trying to call attention to it with those extravagant hairstyles.

Greg's response was immediate.

"Mmmmmh, Gil -" he groaned, closing his eyes.

Encouraged by his reaction, I turned my attention back to my first objective. Caressing his flat belly wasn't enough now, and so I let my fingers thread further down, lightly touching him through the thick fabric of his jeans until they came to rest on his crotch.

I gave him a little squeeze.

He shivered.

I slowly undid the top button of his jeans and then I pulled the fly halfway down.

"May I?" I asked before moving any further.

He opened his eyes.

"Yes." he said, staring intensely at me while I slid the zipper down.

I didn't make any attempt to remove his clothes; instead, I simply slid down my hand under his boxers and firmly cupped his erection. There wasn't much room but I thought I could manage.

He wasn't so sure. He lay his hand on top of mine before I proceeded any further.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" he asked huskily, "It's going to be hell on your CTS."

"Maybe it'll cure it." I replied.

He chuckled.

"Go on, then," He said, and then he closed his eyes again and gave in to the pleasure I was giving him.

My whole attention was on him now. With one hand on his genitals and the other caressing his face and his chest, I suddenly pictured myself as a musician –a pianist, playing a masterpiece on a Steinway.

Greg tried to sit at one point, "You, too," he said, reaching for me. But I firmly pushed him back.

"No." I said. "This is for you." I wanted it to be all about him. I wanted to see everything –the slow build-up of passion, the final explosion - reflected on his face.

And I did. I saw it and felt it too, and it was all so intense that when he came, I did, too.

We lay sprawled on the couch after that.

"That was hot," he whispered, still out of breath. When I looked at him, he gave me a lazy, sated smile. He patted the wet spot on his pants and chuckled. I thought he was going to jump and take off his jeans, but he didn't. Instead, he reached for me.

"Now, kiss me," He said, and I tugged at him until he was sitting up and leaning heavily against me. We wrapped our arms around each other and kissed and kissed until the lethargy got to us.

By the time we woke up, our necks hurt and the semen in our pants was dry and stiff. The memory of how painful it was to take off our semen-spattered boxers still made me wince, but we never complained. It was all worth it.

Now, months later, the memory of that afternoon made me smile. It was at moments like this that I almost forgave myself for getting involved with Greg. It had been unethical and it had ended disastrously, but hey, it felt right at the time. And we had fun, Greg and me. I was happy -

And it suddenly hit me, the realization that yes, I'd been happy in the relationship. And if my memories were to be trusted, Greg had been happy too.

I wished I'd told Karen about this.

I wished I'd told Greg.

I wondered what he was doing at the moment. I could easily picture him, sitting in bed, eating Jello and talking nonstop –which is exactly what he was doing the one time I visited him at a hospital, right after his lab exploded.

He was making light of his injuries, joking about being offered the title role on 'Scarface 2'. He was making us laugh, but Doc Robbins was more perceptive; he realized that behind Greg's mirth there was real concern about the scratches on his face. The Doc didn't say anything, but the next day he gave Greg some home-made ointment, guaranteed to heal his wounds.

If only Greg's wounds were as easy to treat now. That man had put a gun to his head, for God's sake. The gun could have been empty for all we knew, but that didn't change the fact that he'd threatened Greg's life. It would take love and patience to help him heal this time.

Thank God his family was there for him. It was the best medicine he could hope for.

Or was it? According to Karen, Greg had been sedated. Didn't anyone in his family know the unfortunate effect that narcotics had on him? He was going to experience one hell of a hangover if the dosage wasn't carefully monitored.

Someone should have cautioned the doctors-

This made me pause. What if no one but me knew this? If this was the case, then it was up to me to warn the doctors. With this thought in mind, I reached for my cell phone but in the semi darkness I didn't notice the glass that Karen had left on the coffee table, and I accidentally knocked it over.

The glass broke at my feet.

Mildly annoyed, I turned a lamp and then hunched down to pick up the pieces of glass. Using a magazine, I retrieved the fragments that had ended up under the couch, only to meet with something solid. I knew what it was, even without looking. It was a photo album. As to what it was doing under the couch, well, that's where it had ended, when I shoved it out of the way a few weeks before.

I should have picked it up a long time ago but let's face it, I'd been lax on my housekeeping duties lately. Or maybe I'd purposefully ignored it, since it was because of this album that Greg and me had split.

God, it seemed stupid now, to fight over an album. But even now I couldn't see how it could have been any different. I'd tried so hard to keep my private life to myself… only to find Greg sitting on my couch, browsing the album, looking at pictures that I hadn't looked at in more years than I cared to admit. It was more that I could take.

I was wondering what to do about the album when my phone –the one in the kitchen- rang. It was my private number and the ring cut shrilly into the silence.

I rose to take the call.

It was Jim.

"What the hell's going on with you?" he said reproachfully, "I've been calling you for hours."

I opened my mouth to give him a suitable retort, but held back at the last minute.

"Sorry." I said quietly.

"Ah, it's ok," he said, softening his tone, "You're not in the mood to talk -I understand. Did Morrison give you a hard time? Wait, forget I asked," he added quickly, "We can't talk about that until they've officially cleared you." He paused for a moment, "So…" he hesitated, "How are you holding up?"

The compassionate tone in his voice irritated me. When I didn't reply, he continued, in the same tone, "Listen, Gil…" he said, "About what happened last night -"

"Do you have anything on the case?" I interrupted.

Jim tried again.

"Gil, I know how difficult this must be for you," He said patiently, "It's always harder on civilians -"

The slightly patronizing tone he used was even more irritating than the compassionate one but this time I didn't interrupt. The truth was, Jim was entitled to patronize me. My behavior had been less than sterling so far: I'd exposed my guys to a dangerous situation, I'd almost killed one of them myself, and then, after Jim arrived, instead of keeping some professional cool, I'd stumbled away and thrown up behind some bushes.

Jim didn't say anything while I was doubled up and heaving, but he'd offered me a handkerchief afterwards. He'd been the model of kindness all along, and I'd hated every minute of it.

"Jim?" I said, cutting into his little speech, "Do you have any information on the case?"

"We have an ID on the guy," he said quietly.

I couldn't believe he didn't just say so in the first place.

"Gil?" he said, "You there?"

"Who's he?"

"Frank Jenkins." Jim replied, "Age 38 -"

"He has a rap sheet?"

"A huge one," Jim replied, "This was a real psycho, Gil. Started out as a juvenile Peeping Tom and graduated into a full-blown rapist. According to the files, he did a few stints in prison but always managed to get reduced sentences, mostly because his victims were men. They were reluctant about appearing in court."

There was a faint rustling of paper in the background, which meant he was reading from a file.

"He moved to Miami a couple of years back," Jim said, "Didn't get in trouble –or so everybody thought- until last month, when he became the primary suspect in the rape and murder of three young men -"

"Jesus -"

"He was dubbed 'The Disco Killer', because his victims frequented the local night clubs. The evidence connects him to three murders, but the lead investigator says the number of victims might be higher than that. There's half-a-dozen men still missing. They were hoping Jenkins would led them to the other bodies as part of a plea bargain, but he escaped before an arrest could be made."

He paused, probably to give me a chance to say something, but I was too stunned to speak.

"The Miami detective says Jenkins used the same MO every time," Brass added then, "He kidnapped the guy, drugged him, took him to his place where he would keep the guy for weeks. What Jenkins did to these poor guys -"

But Jim didn't finish that line. "Bottom line," he said instead, "He killed them after weeks of torture and starvation, then dumped them in some swampy area. Decomposition on one of the bodies indicates that he was killed about two years ago, right after Jenkins first came to Miami." Jim paused again. "Gil, these guys, hum…" he hesitated, "They all shared the same look -"

"What do you mean?"

"They were all young, dark-haired, good-looking…" He said slowly, "They looked like Sanders, Gil. He fits the victim's profile. Which means…"

This time he waited for me to speak.

"Which means that Jenkins wasn't just using Greg as a shield -" I said.

"He was kidnapping him." Brass said, "They found Jenkins' car just around the corner; whether he was there to burglar a house or assault someone, we may never know. What seems obvious is that once he saw Sanders, the compulsion to get him was too great to ignore. Even a cop's presence didn't deter him."

Oh, God.

"Does Greg know all this?" I asked.

"No," Jim said, "Not unless Jenkins himself told him. But don't worry, Gil; he's going to be all right. Hell, it could have been worse, don't you think?"

When I didn't comment, he continued, "Listen. Everyone's behind you on this one -and I mean everyone, Gil. Every lab technician, every CSI -from Las Vegas and Miami –every cop… They're all rallying to get IA off your back -"

As if I cared about Internal Affairs at that moment.

All I could think of was that if Warrick hadn't been there, Jenkins could have easily taken Greg with him. All he had to do was put enough pressure on Greg's throat to render him unconscious, and then he would have easily taken him out of the house -

And then –

Oh, God.

"Is there anything I can do, Gil?"

"Just tell Warrick that I'll be here," I said hoarsely. "If he needs anything."

"Sure. Anything else?"

"No."

"Ok," he said casually, "Listen, I'll probably talk to Greg tomorrow, in case you want me to say something to him -"

This struck me as stupid. What was I going to tell Greg, "Gee, I'm sorry that I almost got you killed by a psycho?"

"No," I said hoarsely. "It's ok."

"Are you sure?"

I considered telling Brass about Greg's problems with sedatives, but didn't. Who the hell did I think I was, anyway, pretending to know Greg better than his own family and his doctors?

"I am sure." I said firmly.

"Yeah, well..." he hesitated, "I suppose it'll be better if you talk to him in person."

I frowned. Was Brass hinting at something, there? But before I asked, he spoke.

"Listen, Gil. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but word is, you'll be cleared by tomorrow morning. The guys from Miami think you did all of them a favor," he paused, "I know you will never see things under that light, but their word will have a lot of impact -"

I didn't want to listen to Brass anymore. Instead, I bit into the inside of my cheek –which was raw and bloody by now- and then I looked around. All day I'd been able to find something to distract me from each painful situation, and this time was no different.

The aquarium on the kitchen counter caught my attention. My tarantula was huddling in a corner. She'd been uprooted from her cozy corner in my office and she didn't seem to be taking it well.

Still holding the phone close to my ear, I opened the lid of the aquarium with a shaky hand and reached inside. To my surprise, my spider recoiled. I frowned and tried to touch her again, but this time she retreated farther away. Finally, she simply hid inside the hollow branch that she used to nest.

Startled, I pulled my hand away. I stared into the aquarium, wondering what it was that she saw that made her recoil like that. It was as if she were afraid of me, or as she didn't recognize me –

Maybe she didn't.

"Hey, pal?" Brass said suddenly, "Is everything ok?"

I almost laughed at the question.

'Sure, everything's ok.' I almost said, 'I killed someone, hurt a man I care about, and it feels like everything around me is crumbling.'

But I held back. "I'm fine," I said calmly, "It's just hard to believe this is happening." I said wearily.

I regretted the words the minute I said them; I'd been trying to keep a stoic front all along and I'd just ruined it.

"I know, pal." Jim said, using his compassionate tone again. "But look, you've got to see this as a -"

I forced myself not to listen. Brass was trying to help but I knew that if we kept up this conversation it was going to cost me. I was going to say things I didn't mean to, and end up revealing more than I could afford to. Or I'd break down, which was just as bad. Losing control terrified me. No matter what, I'd always been able to keep a hold on my emotions, but the more we talked, the more tenuous that hold was becoming.

"Jim," I said abruptly, "I've got to go. Got a few things to do -"

Brass hesitated.

"Ok," he said at last, "I'll call tomorrow, then."

I put the phone back on its base and then I leant on the kitchen counter. I stared into the darkened room for a long time.

"Why?" I said. Why had it all come to this? Why had it all ended so badly –my relationship with Greg, my job, everything I held dear. Everything I depended on was lost, now.

It had taken a scared reaction from my spider to make me realize this.

All day I'd been able to put up a good front for people. They'd talked to me, they'd listened to my responses, and they'd generally behaved as if nothing had really changed. But I couldn't fool everybody. My spider, always so sensitive to my moods, had perceived something that humans could not. There was no fooling her.

As to why… Maybe there was no mystery, not really. Maybe the answer was right there, on the floor, under the couch. The album that I tried so hard to keep hidden because it held the truth about me. Well, that truth was in the open, now.

All my life, I'd ran away from the past but it had finally caught up with me.

It was more than I could take.

"Can't lose it," I said, still trying to hold myself together, "Can't lose it, can't lose it -"

But in the end, the decision to stay in control was taken out of my hands. I didn't notice it at first, because the initial symptoms usually varied –a ringing in the ear, or bright spots blurring my sight- but the next symptom was noticeable enough. A tentative pat in my temple, like the tip of somebody's finger gently examining my skull.

Shy at first, the touch would grow bolder as it searched for a way in, a soft spot to break through.

A migraine.

That day it felt like a caress -a mother's caress; almost comforting. Long fingers, tapping here and there, first a temple and then the other… then the back of my head… Insistent. There had to be a way in -there always was.

That day, I welcomed the pain.

TBC