Author's Note: It occured to me that I never thank my reviewers. I bow my head in shame and thank ye now, particularly the loyal few of you who've stuck with me through my two other stories too. Y'all are awesome, and you and I both know who are ;o). It flatters me. And... I lied last author's note. While this chapter is fun, it's not half as fun as next chapter. I was going to include it all as one giant chapter, but it was too huge for my tastes (longer than one and two combined) so I decided instead to split them up into two seperate chapters. Enjoy-eth yourself-eth. And excuse-eth the bastardization-eth of Olde English...eth. Really, I don't know what's wrong with me.
Nick looked at the body for a long time. He was pretty sure Brass was telling the truth, but there were pieces of the puzzle that didn't fit. Woman kills baby for no apparent reason, husband kills woman in a wave of fury, husband shoots himself in guilt. He supposed it was straightforward enough, but somehow it felt very strange. He set the camera on the table and glanced briefly back at the reflecting window. For a moment, he thought he saw a flutter of movement, but when he turned around again, everything was as it should be.
He shrugged of his misgivings and laughed at himself. Maybe we all need a break, he thought to himself. He breathed a low, long sigh. There wasn't much he could do with the body. It was obvious what the cause of death was, and any incriminating evidence would be found on the gun itself. If Walter did in fact shoot himself, his prints would be all over it. Not to mention ballistics would probably corroborate Brass's story as well. Or not, Nick reminded himself, trying to be objective. But it was hard. He was a strong believer in Occam's razor, and this was the simplest explanation he could think of. Shaving away all unnecessary postulations, he was left with only this.
Becoming philosophical, Nick slumped into the bloody chair across from Allan Walter's body and stared at the dead man, applying Occam's razor to the unnatural dread rising up in his belly.
All things being equal, the simplest solution tends to be the best one.
Instinct told him there was something to fear with this corpse, when rationality reassured him that there was nothing in the immediate vicinity to do him harm. Occam's razor would conclude that Nick's fear was an irrational one which arose from being alone in a dark room with a corpse, and so Nick accepted this explanation and tried to dispel this phobia by grinning at the corpse and making light of the situation. He leaned in on the table and shook his head with a light laugh, considering how tragically humorous this man's death really was. Nick couldn't say it was unpredictable. Allan Walter had just lost his entire family in a matter of hours. More than that, he had watched his wife murder their only daughter, and then he murdered her. There's bound to be baggage there. He wondered if perhaps Allan Walter was better off dead.
Feeling slightly more relaxed after dealing with the fear that he had deemed irrational, Nick leaned back in his chair and gathered the evidence he had collected before rising to his feet and heading towards the door. On his way out, he could have sworn he'd seen Allan Walter's eyes in the mirror, which Nick had closed previously to blind that vacant stare. He thought they were watching him as he left the room. Nick turned around and looked at the corpse, whose eyes were indeed closed. Looking back at the reflection, he noted that they remained so.
Occam's razor would dictate that Nick had just seen a trick of the light, and knowing this, Nick shrugged it off and left the room.
Unbeknownst to Nick, in this instance, Occam's razor was wrong.
On her way to ballistics, Sara saw Greg who waved at her.
"You're coming today, yeah?" he asked.
"I don't think so," she said. "Got too much to do. Sorry."
She tried to walk away but he caught her by the shoulder. "Nah, you have to come."
"Why are you throwing a party anyway?" Sara asked, sounding tired.
"Surprise," he said.
"What surprise?" she asked.
"You'll have to come to find out," he said. And with a smile, he headed off. Sara looked after him.
"What surprise?" she called, but he didn't respond. She frowned and tried to focus on the Walter suicide, but found her mind wandering to what Greg's surprise could be. Cursing her curiosity, she continued on her way.
"Bobby," she said upon seeing him. "Check this and see if it's consistent with a suicide."
Bobby took the file and gun from her without even looking up. "Will do in a sec, I'm still trying to figure out how this John Doe got GSR all over him."
"I thought it was fired point blank," Sara said.
"Nah," said Bobby, shaking his head as he examined the photos of Nick and Greg's Hawaiian Shirt man. "Looks that way, but the hole isn't big enough. Gun don't match the bullet either."
"You're kidding," Sara said.
"Nope," Bobby replied. "Greg was annoyed. Looks like he'll be staying longer than he planned."
"Fantastic," Sara said. "I hope mine's more simple. I'll be back later to check on it... But that's odd. He was upset? He seemed happy to see me."
"Well he would be, wouldn't he?" Bobby replied with a grin. "I mean..." He seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say. "Never mind."
"What...?" Sara probed slowly.
"Forget it," Bobby answered quickly.
Sara decided to let it go. "OK. Well... hope everything goes more smoothly with my evidence."
"I'll get on it," he promised her. She began to walk away. "You going to Greg's shindig?"
Sara cast him a jaded glance. "I have to, if I want to figure out what the hell it's for."
Bobby looked surprised. "You mean you haven't figured it out?"
Sara shrugged. "It's something I should know, isn't it? What, is it his birthday or something? Did I forget? Will he be mad?" She looked horrified. "Oh god… Should I bring a gift?"
But Bobby was laughing. "Relax, Sara," he said. "Just show up, and you'll give him the best present in the world."
Sara rolled her eyes. The new information Bobby had given her made her wonder even more at Greg's intentions. She felt as though she was forgetting something very important, something she should remember like her own name, and yet it was buried behind memories of crime scene photos and trace evidence logs.
Hoping to God she hadn't forgotten Greg's birthday, she strode off quickly down the hall towards reception, where she was planning on begging the attending secretary to fill her in on all the birthdates of her colleagues.
She stopped short of the desk and her eyes doubled in size as the breath caught in her throat.
Catherine was sitting casually in the waiting room, examining her newly painted red fingernails as her foot bobbed up and down over her knee. She wore a short black leather skirt and a low-hanging crimson halter top which left little to the imagination.
"Catherine!" Sara exclaimed in a low, harsh whisper, as if afraid others might hear. "What are you doing?" She hurried over to her colleague, quickly taking off her jacket and throwing it over Catherine's shoulders as the blonde rose to her feet. Catherine shrugged off Sara's jacket apathetically.
"Warrick wanted me to come in," she said, as though she was wearing her usual vest and suit. "I dressed up a little. Sorry."
"Don't apologize," Sara said, looking Catherine up and down. "I mean—do, do apologize, but… well…" She was confused. "Are those stilettos???"
Catherine looked behind her at her feet. "Yes, I think so."
"I didn't need an answer," Sara said. She stayed as far away from stilettos as possible after they had caused her to sprain her ankle once on a very embarrassing date. Ironically, Sara remembered it had been with that Irish guy she'd thought of earlier. She dismissed the thought quickly and focused on Catherine. "Those are hardly appropriate work shoes!"
"Depends on what the work is," Catherine said slyly.
"Put some clothes on, you're embarrassing yourself!" Sara insisted, throwing the jacket over Catherine's shoulders again. Catherine took it off and handed it back to Sara.
"No, thank you," she said.
"What are you doing?" Sara asked again, still baffled.
Catherine smiled. "Making the best of it," she said.
"Best of what?" Sara exclaimed. Standing next to Catherine wearing her slacks and t-shirt, she felt incredibly underdressed and wondered at her concern for this trivial thing.
"If I'm going to be called a whore," Catherine said bitterly, "I might as well act the part."
She began to walk off down the hall, her stilettos echoing loudly. But Sara wasn't done. "No one called you a whore!" she screamed down the hall, making a few passersby stop to give her a strange look. As Catherine disappeared around the corner, Sara looked up at the ceiling, appealing to some unknown higher power. "It may be a slow night," she said to herself. "But that doesn't mean it hasn't been weird."
Nick was in the break room when his surprise encounter with Catherine occurred. He heard her come in and say hello to him. He smiled as he poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup.
"Hey, Cath," he said, not looking up from the coffee. "Glad you could make it, Grissom was going to make me—"
Nick almost spilt the hot liquid all over himself when he turned and took in the sight before him. Catherine was leaning against the closed door of the break room and she was sending him a very seductive smile.
Nick's eyebrows shot up, not knowing exactly what to make of the situation. "Uh… coffee?"
She slowly made her way over to him, her eyes never leaving his. Her manicured fingers slowly slid around the Styrofoam cup, purposefully brushing against Nick's own hand. As soon as Nick was sure she had a good grip on the cup, he pulled his hand away quickly and took a few steps backward.
Catherine licked her lips as she slowly sipped the coffee. "Mm…" she said, a little too happily.
"Uh…" Nick muttered, still searching for words as his throat constricted in fear. He coughed. "What are you doing? I mean, uh, that's not exactly what you normally…"
"Sh," Catherine whispered, waving her finger at him. She put the coffee down on the table and approached him again. Her fingers traced his belt and her hands crawled under his shirt.
"Oh no!" Nick said suddenly, pushing her away as he laughed awkwardly. "Um, Cath, you know you're gorgeous, girl, but I got things to do."
"Oh come on, Nick," Catherine said, her voice low and sensual. "I've seen the way you look at me during the day. You want me."
"No more than I want to work a double, Cath, which is what I'm doing, which is what we're both doing actually, so why don't you go and change your clothes, put on some sneakers and a very baggy sweatshirt, and we can get back to work, alright?" Nick was babbling. He hoped maybe his rambling would distract her long enough for her to come to her senses.
She continued to pursue him and he backed up against the table. As his hands fumbled for something to hold onto, he knocked over the coffee and the coffee pot, which spilt all over the table and dripped onto the floor. She forced him to jump up on the table and tried to straddle him. She bit his neck hard and he yelped, taking her firmly shoulders and gently pushed her away, deftly avoiding a very sticky situation. He made for the door.
"I gotta go, Cath," he said quickly, rubbing where she'd bitten him on his neck. "I'll, uh, see you later." He ducked out as fast as possible and let out a sigh of relief as he leaned against the door. He saw Grissom about to enter the break room and advised him against it. "I wouldn't, if I were you."
Grissom frowned at him and was about to ask why when he looked past Nick through the glass window and saw Catherine watching them. Furious, he pushed Nick aside and walked briskly into the break room. "What in the world are you wearing?" he demanded.
She sat on the table and kicked her feet back and forth, licking her finger.
"Do you like it?" she returned.
Grissom shook his head. "You left without a word and then you come back dressed like this? What's wrong with you?"
She hopped off the table and approached him. "What do you want to be wrong with me?" She ran her hand up and down his arm and removed his glasses, grinning impishly.
Sufficiently awkward, Grissom went from angry to worried, to exceptionally self-conscious all in the course of three seconds. "Um…" he said, looking for those elusive words of authority. "Why don't you go home, Catherine," he suggested, his voice betraying his insecurities. "You seem… ill."
"I feel perfectly fine," she whispered confidently in his ear.
"OK…" said Grissom, chills running down his spine. He was backed up against the door now as she pressed up against him. He snatched his glasses back from her. "Then maybe I'm sick. I'll see you later."
He quickly fumbed with the knob on the door behind him, opened it, and closed it again with a sigh, locking Catherine in like a dangerous animal. He looked at Nick absolutely terrified, but Nick was chuckling.
"Wow, Griss," he said, shaking his head. "Didn't know you were such a ladies' man."
In the safety of the hallway, Grissom's terror dissolved into annoyance once again. "Get her out of here," he said. "I think she's coming down with something. Something bad."
Nick shook his head. "Oh no," he said. "I'm not going in there again. You got off easy. She didn't try to take your shirt off."
Grissom frowned. He tried not to picture this image in his head, failed, and deftly shook his head quickly to clear it. "Just do something. I can't have her walking around here like that. I can only imagine the field day Ecklie would have with her."
Nick cocked an eyebrow. "In what sense, exactly?"
Grissom's eyes narrowed, offended on Catherine's behalf. "In the Ecklie sense. He'll call her behavior unprofessional–"
"Which, let's not forget, it is," Nick put in.
Grissom nodded. "Yes, but he'll find some way to use it against her and she could get fired."
"Right," Nick said, his amusement disappearing quickly as Grissom reminded him of the gravity of the situation. "I'll get Sara to deal with her. Unless you think Catherine will try to seduce her too."
"Even if she does," Grissom said, looking back at Catherine in the break room. "Sara will have none of it."
"No kidding," Nick said, taking out his phone and dialing Sara.
The ringing came from two places: Nick's receiver and somewhere in the hall. All of a sudden, Sara rounded the corner, taking out her phone as Nick hung up. "Sara!" he called. "We have a situation."
"Did Brass let someone else die?" Sara asked.
"No," said Nick. "But Catherine looks dressed to kill."
Sara frowned, then recognition dawned on her face. "Oh yeah," she said. "I know, I saw her earlier."
"You saw her earlier and you didn't send her home?" Grissom sounded shocked.
Sara simply shrugged. "It didn't seem like such a problem. Just weird."
"So I take it she didn't try to take your shirt off?" Nick asked.
Sara looked appalled. "What?"
Nick gestured into the break room. "Catherine pounced on Grissom and me. Not that it was entirely unpleasant, just… weird."
"Weird is a very good word," Grissom agreed.
"Men," Sara muttered before pushing past them and entering the break room. Catherine looked up upon her entrance. "Catherine, Grissom thinks you should go home."
"But I just came all the way back over here," Catherine said, pouting. "I'm not leaving until I see Warrick."
"OK, fine," Sara said. "Go see Warrick and then go home."
Catherine yawned. "You people. First you call me in, then you tell me to go, next thing I know you'll be calling me in again."
"Did you hit on Nick?" Sara asked. "And Grissom?"
Catherine smiled coyly. "Why? Jealous?"
Sara opened her mouth to snap back defensively but instead just snapped it shut. She didn't know why Catherine's words had bothered her. "No," she said simply. "They just said you scared them. That you were being 'weird.'"
"Aw, and I had hoped to make an impression," Catherine sighed, sounding disappointed.
"Oh, you made an impression alright," she said. She paused. "Come on, let's get you home and into a more conservative outfit."
Catherine nodded and accommodated. As she followed Sara out the door, she winked at Nick and Grissom, who looked at each other in confusion.
Sara led Catherine down the hall, checking over her shoulder every so often. She was muttering to herself. "I can't believe those guys, acting like children who want their parents to go in and squish a spider. Like they really needed me to talk to, you don't seem that unreasonable. So are you OK to drive home or do I need to take you?" But by the time Sara turned around again, Catherine was gone. Sara sighed. She did not need to add babysitting her friend to the list of things she didn't want to do that day. Right after 'figure out what the hell Greg's party is for.'
Of course, maybe she should prioritize the list.
Sighing, she retraced her steps, hoping to find some trace of the very sick Catherine.