Chapter four…is more random than anything ever. Have fun trying to analyze the workings of our inner minds…and, you know, like, REVIEW!!!!!!

000000000000000000000000000000

Everyone scrambled to their feet, except for Freddie, who lay in a ball on the floor, crying. Dumbledore glared at him disgustedly. "Your blood, that's what's red!" he shouted. Freddie whimpered.

Nick looked at Dumbledore curiously and leaned over to Greg. "Do you think we have reason to suspect this guy?"

"Naw," Greg said jovially. "Don't be silly. He's not violent at all."

Grissom stood slowly and glared at the CSIs. "I have never been more disappointed in you in my life," he said heavily. "You totally abandoned your training in a hard situation! You really fell apart, guys!"

Greg raised his eyebrow. "Oh, really, Grissom? Well, what about your little spider babe?"

Grissom reddened. "She is a classy lady, more than I can say for your choice of partner!"

Greg smirked at Nick, who looked offended. "I am totally classy," he muttered, adjusting his very, very short skirt.

"Of course you are, sweet-cheeks." Greg said, and patted Nick on the butt.

Sara raised her hand. "I have a question…who are we looking for anyway?"

They all looked at each other, and realized that none of them had any idea.

"Dumbledore's boy-toy, right?" said Warrick, then he paused. "But which one?"

"There are so many…" Dumbledore mused. "I think it was Mrs. Norris…no, wait, she's my cat-toy."

Nick shuddered. "I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that."

Dumbledore paid him no mind. "I think it was…Seamus Finnigan!"

Ten minutes later, the CSIs stormed into the Gryffindor common room.

"Everybody down!" Catherine yelled, pointing her gun wildly at the two students quietly studying by the fire. They screamed and threw themselves down on the floor. Nick tackled them, cuffing them both.

"Okay, where is he?"

"Who?" They sobbed.

"Finnigan! Tell us where he is!"

"He's upstairs!"

Warrick and Sara pulled out their own guns and flattened themselves against the wall of the staircase. They crept up slowly, ready for the first sign of danger. They came to a thick wooden door, and they paused outside it. Warrick nodded to Sara, and kicked the door in.

"Freeze! This is the police! Hands in the air!"

Seamus Finnigan was standing next to a huge printing press that was sitting at the foot of Seamus's bed. He looked up, his face stricken with a mixture of guilt and terror, and yet, oddly, slight joy. Warrick leaped across the room with the grace of a bounding gazelle, and, in a movement that could only be described as deft, cuffed him to the bedpost.

"Warrick…that was hot," commented Sara.

"I agree!" swooned Seamus, Stockholm Syndrome quickly setting in.

Warrick paid them no mind however, as he was completely engrossed in booking his suspect. There were two things that completely engrossed Warrick; gambling (of course), and cuffing criminals to bedposts. For the first time in months, he finally got to experience the latter.

The machine at the end of Seamus's bed coughed weakly and spat out a few muggle dollars. Grissom picked up the money and examined it. "Just as I suspected," he said. "It's counterfeit." More brilliant observations.

"It's the perp! It's the perp!" Sara chanted, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "Yay!"

"We solved the case! It's a counterfeit operation!" Warrick joined in. Then he stopped. "Wait. Weren't we solving a murder?"

Seamus broke down in tears as Grissom slapped his forehead. "Guys! Not again!"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

After that slight mishap, Grissom forced each one of the CSIs to make a 'non-hyper pact' in which they swore that they would focus on the case, and not gambling, DNA, Ronniekins, feminism, or punching, respectively. Fortunately, he found a way to manipulate the pact so he didn't have to swear off his bugs.

Then, they went to go interrogate Dumbledore about more of his boy-toys. They came out of that meeting with a list of about a hundred and forty names. Grissom sighed. "We've got out work cut out for us."

They managed to cross off the first eight names on the list with a little trip to the graveyard.

"I've been around for a long time, you seriously expect me to keep track?" Dumbledore protested.

The next twenty three they found to be sitting in the super-duper wizard prison, Azkaban. Apparently, Dumbledore prefered bad boys.

Grissom called the team into a huddle. "Okay, guys, This is obviously not working. Time to get SCIENCEY." They all cheered.

"Here we go, guys. 1, 2, 3…GO SCIENCE!"

Greg whipped out his handy-dandy fingerprint powder and began to dust the sheet of paper. Slowly, several fingerprints emerged. Dumbledore apparated the group to his magical Lab in the Sky. They ran the fingerprints through AFIS.

"It's a match," said Grissom heavily. "Caucasian male, approximately n-years old. Albus Dumbledore."

In a flash, Warrick had Dumbledore cuffed to the oddly-placed bedpost, attatched to the seemingly gratuitous lab-bed.

"But I wrote the list!" exclaimed Dumbledore.

Sara, ignoring him, decided to go on a rant. "You bastard!" she screeched. "We trusted you to help us solve the counterfeit operation—murder, and you betrayed us! How dare you! You stupid man! I hate men!"

There was only one way to placate her. Grissom laid a hand on her arm, and she melted into putty. "Guys," he addressed his team, "I think we may have missed something."

Greg snapped his fingers. "Damn, I thought I had it."

Nick patted his shoulder. "One day, Greggo, one day."

Greggo looked up at the ceiling for a second, deep in thought. "Or maybe…today."

The conviction in his voice caused the other CSIs, and Dumbledore, to turn their heads and stare. Dumbledore giggled and added Greg's name to his boy-toy list.

Greg blinked and shook his head. "Nope, lost it. Never mind."

"So, guys," Nick said, feeling a little left out with all the attention Greg was getting. Nick was easily as hot as Greg, if not hotter! Why did Greg get on the boy-toy list, and not him? He paused. On second thought, he didn't want to be on the list. "What do you want to do now?"

"Let's order pizza!" said Catherine, inspired.

"Let's gamble!" said Warrick, drooling.

"I meant about the case."

"Oh, that," Sara pouted.

Grissom stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I think its time we reassessed our options."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Nick asked.

"It means we're going to get a pizza."

Oh no. He should have known better. Pizza had the same effect on his team as chocolate. Except louder.

"CHEESE ONION OLIVE PEPPERONI PINAPPLE POKER CHIP!" Six voices screamed at once. Grissom put his hands over his ears and curled into a fetal position. So loud…so loud…

The other six stopped yelling and stared at him. "Damn, now who's going to order the pizza?" wondered Catherine.

The same thought struck all of them at once. The one to order the pizza…got to choose the toppings. They looked at each other.

This was war.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Several hours later, the group, bruised and bloody, sat down to their poker chip pizza (Warrick had triumphed over the less-crazed members of the team). Grissom had recovered from his noise induced panic attack, and was deep in thought over what to do next.

"How about we go back to the list?"

"That'll take forever! We still have one hundred and nine names left."

"Wait!" Grissom shouted, jumping up and knocking his pizza onto the floor. He paused for a moment, mourning it. It was a good pizza. "Let's identify the victim! Maybe that could lead us to the killer!"

For about the fiftieth time that day, the group was stunned into silence.

"We didn't identify the vic?"

Grissom shook his head.

Cue the collective forehead-smack.

00000000000000000000000

The CSIs had a slight problem. And, as usual, in the face of adversity, they…broke down.

"Why, why, why?" sobbed Greg.

"Oh, God. God, no! No!" cried Sarah.

"Praying Mantis. Tse tse fly. Arachnids," Grissom chanted, trying to calm himself.

The crime scene had been swept. Swept clean, like Snow White's cottage, only without the cute, pudgy little animals. The blood on the floor was gone, the body absent, and the cutlery arranged into an artful structure that reminded one of Modern Art. Nick, in a rage, punched the sculpture and accidentally impaled himself upon a fork.

"The pain makes me feel alive," he murmured, half to himself.

Grissom stared at the clean floor, feeling a mixture of terror and claustrophobia. "They got us," he muttered. "They got us good. Jesus."

"Yes?" asked Warrick, forgetting, for a moment, that he was not in fact Our Lord and Savior. Everyone ignored him, and he trailed off and stared at the floor miserably. Boy, did he ever need his Blackjack fix.

"Grissy, baby, what do we do?" Surprisingly, it was Greg who asked this, and not Sara.

"I know!" blurted Nick before anyone could stop him. "We can kill another person and place his body here so no one will now how royally we screwed this up!"

"You say that every time," Catherine said. "Seriously, how could we get so lucky more than once?"

"It did work, though," Nick argued.

"My scruples may be limited, but at least they exist," Catherine shot back.

"Hey Catherine," snickered Greg, "your scruples are showing."

"All right, people," Grissom said authoritatively. "Here's what we do."

The CSIs had never heard a plan so grotesque, so sickening, so immoral, and so damn brilliant. They stared at Grissom in awe.

"You are an effing genius," said Grissom to himself, as the others were too shocked to compliment him. He waited a bit, expectantly. "And handsome to boot," he added hopefully.

He was still getting a nice view of his team's incisors as they gaped at him.

"And athletic." Grissom sighed. Dimwits.

Finally, Catherine snapped out of it. "Grissom," she said in awe.

"Yes?"

"What is it?"

"It," he said, pointing to the huge robotic, pulsating, mutated, blood spewing, dancing, cutlery-covered contraption behind them, "is my super-duper crime scene simulating masterpiece."

They all nodded, smiling to supress their gag reflexes.

"See," Grissom explained, "the blood simulates the spurting experienced when one is stabbed by a fork, demonstrated by our own Nick Stokes."

"The physical pain distracts me from my emotional anguish," Nick announced to no one in particular.

Grissom cleared his throat and continued. "I combined that data with simulated profuse bleeding from a head wound caused by a puppet. Then I programmed in the exact dance steps done around the body, gathered from the footprint pattern around the body. Finally, I allowed for the variable of the copius amounts of metal surrounding the body. Pretty soon, it should spit out a transcript of exactly what occurred here."

Catherine raised her eyebrow. "Wow, Grissom, you…"

"Are perfect in every way? I know," Grissom said, smugly.

"Actually, I was going to say that you have no life whatsoever."

"Oh. That too."

They were distracted by a printing sound coming from the…machine behind them. Grissom approached it (how he managed to do so without vomiting was beyond the rest of the CSIs), and pulled a piece of paper out of a slot. He quickly skimmed it, and turned pale.

"Team…what I am about to read you may be the most terrifying piece of information you have ever experienced. It could scar you for life. Before I begin, I encourage all of you to seek therapy when we're done."

Greg gulped. "Read it quick, Grissom. What happened?"

Grissom looked confused. "What happened? Ooh, no, this isn't the transcript of the crime, this is my cholesterol level. This," he whipped another piece of paper, "Is the crime scene transcript."

"WHAT DOES IT SAY WHAT DOES IT SAY?" The five CSIs shouted eagerly, jumping up and down.

"It says this…" Grissom said, and began to read.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

BWAHAHA, now you HAVE to read the next chapter. I hope that this story is something like a car crash; it's terrible, but you can't look away…meaning, you can't stop reading. Even if you all hate it…we're having fun writing it. But hey, don't let me put words in your mouth, tell us what you think! Plz? Reviews? Kthx!