Author's Notes: Another chapter of this story that was written on the road; this one was finished in Kingman, Arizona;) I do promise, new chapter of "All I Have to Do" is on the way. Thanks for sticking with me! Sorry about the breaks again.
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Moments
by Kristen Elizabeth
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In his parents' bedroom, Samuel Grissom was on a treasure hunt.
It wasn't gold that he sought in his father's sock drawer, or his mother's jewelry box. It wasn't silver that he looked for under the four-poster bed or behind the TV. He was after something much better.
Candy.
It wasn't like he would be stealing it, he told himself. The candy was rightfully his. He'd accumulated a mountain of it on Halloween, having insisted that his father drive him not only through their own neighborhood, but several developments around theirs, as well. The result was a heavy bag of sweet riches, into which he'd only briefly dipped.
His parents had whisked it away while he slept, still in his monster makeup. When he'd awoken and found it missing, he'd been sure that Rosalind was behind the crime. He'd been so convinced that he'd barged into her room and woken her up, accusing her of Grand Theft Chocolate.
Rosalind was thirteen, and liked to pretend that she was above such childish things as trick-or-treating, as well as fighting with her hopelessly idiotic little brother. That hadn't stopped her from eyeing his haul the night before with what could only be described as envy in her eyes.
On that morning, she'd made an exception to her rule about fighting. Their screams had roused their mother, who had threatened to haul them both down to the police station for a "good talking-to" courtesy of Detective Jim.
"She stole my candy!" Samuel had yelled, his small body full of righteous fury. He was certain that justice would prevail if only their mother knew the horrible truth.
"Did not!" Rosalind shouted back, apparently less intimidated by the idea of Detective Jim than she had been when she was younger. "Why would I want your stupid candy? It would just make my head as fat as yours!"
Sara stood between her children, one hand holding the collar of Samuel's pajamas, the other firmly pressed against her daughter's shoulder.
"Your sister did not steal your candy," she'd said. "Your father and I are keeping it safe for you. You can have a piece of it now and then, like when you finish your homework early or make your bed without being told. But you are not going to eat it all at once, and make yourself sick. Or give yourself cavities. Now, apologize to your sister."
Apologizing sucked, but it was nothing compared to facing the reality that your parents were holding your hard-earned candy hostage.
So, while they were occupied making dinner one night, and his sister was talking to Ariel on the phone, Samuel had decided to take back what was his.
In his father's nightstand, he found nothing but a book with a title that had too many big words, breath mints, a flashlight and a tablet of crossword puzzles, most of the little boxes filled in with neat letters.
His mother's nightstand yielded even less comprehensible items. A book with a title he could read, but didn't totally understand (The Joy of Sex), pills in a pink package, a box of tissues, and a bottle of clear stuff that smelled like cherries.
But no candy.
He was starting to get a little frustrated, but knew from watching movies like Indiana Jones that the treasure was never just out in the open. You had to dig a little bit in order to find it.
And that was when he spotted his father's briefcase, the one he took to work. Usually, he left it in his study. Samuel considered it his first clue.
He pulled out manila folders that bulged with paperwork. It would be hard to hide candy in them, but like a true treasure hunter, he felt obliged to check to make sure.
He opened the one on top. It was marked with a date, a long string of numbers, and the simple title "CS Photos."
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Sara paused with her knife halfway through a carrot she was chopping for the salad that would accompany the macaroni casserole Grissom was pulling out of the oven. The hairs on her back of her neck stood at full attention.
"Where are the kids?" she asked him.
"Rosalind's on the phone in my study," Grissom said, closing the oven door. "Samuel's probably playing in his room."
Even hearing this, Sara couldn't shake off her sudden chill. "Oh. Okay."
He glanced over at her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She tried to resume her work with the carrot, but her hands trembled. "I don't know."
"Do you want me to go get them for dinner?"
Sara expelled a breath. "Yeah. Please."
At the door that led into his study, his sanctuary of quiet thought, he could hear the bubble-gum laughter of his daughter.
He poked his head inside. "Dinner's in a few minutes," he told Rosalind. "Say goodbye to Ariel."
At the stairs, he could still hear her grumbling faintly.
"Sammy?" His son wasn't in his room, even though every toy he owned, from his Legos to his Nintendo, was strewn over the floor.
He passed by the children's bathroom, but it was dark and empty. "Sammy?" he called out again. No answer.
A bit of what Sara had felt in the kitchen touched him just then. "Samuel, where are you?"
Grissom entered the bedroom he shared with Sara. His ten year-old son was sitting on the cream-colored carpet, surrounded by photographs that he instantly recognized.
There had only been two murders so far, but most of his team, himself included if he was honest, believed that Las Vegas had a new and deadly serial killer, with a morbid interest in what lay inside a woman's body, and a propensity for yanking it out.
"Jack the Ripper for the new century," Greg had gruesomely joked, and no one had argued the assignation.
It was the sort of case he only spoke about outside the lab when he was lying in bed with his wife, after making love. It was the sort of horror he would have done everything in his power to keep away from his children.
Samuel looked up at him. His cheeks, still slightly chubby with baby fat, were drained of their usual color. His eyes, Sara's eyes, were blank. They didn't beg Grissom for understanding. It was as if his son had already accepted that the images around him were incomprehensible, and nothing could be said that would make them okay.
But nothing would make them go away, either. The murdered woman and her disemboweled corpse were part of his son's world now. As much as he might wish he could, Grissom couldn't right this wrong.
"Did you take the pictures?"
"Yes." His knees protested, but he knelt down next to Samuel. "The pictures are part of what I do when I try to solve a crime."
But Samuel wasn't interested in procedures. "How can anybody do this?"
Grissom shook his head for a long moment before he could answer. "I hope I never know, scout."
The answer was beyond his son's understanding. He lowered his dry eyes back to the pictures. The woman was naked, but her bare breasts didn't hold the faint whisper of strange excitement that the ones in the dirty magazine his friend Brandon had stolen from under his big brother's mattress had.
"Will they do it again?"
Grissom weighed all possible answers, and settled on the truth. "If they aren't caught and stopped, probably."
"Why?"
"Because…" Again, he went with the truth. It was safer somehow, even safer than the comfort of a placation or an outright lie. "…just like there are good people in the world, there are people who only seem to want to hurt others."
"Why?"
He lifted his shoulders. "Maybe they're sick. Maybe…they just like it." He held up a hand before Samuel could ask the question again. "I don't know why they do. It never makes sense to any of the good people."
Samuel considered this for a moment, before pointing at the victim's mutilated body. "Was she someone's mom?"
Grissom was so glad to be able to honestly answer, "No."
A frightening thought overtook Samuel; Grissom could see it in the way his eyes, which had almost begun to show signs of life, flattened again. "Could someone do this to my mom?"
It was the kind of question that kept him up on those nights after Sara had fallen asleep against his chest, and the house was unnaturally still. He didn't have to be sleeping to have that nightmare, replacing the latest victim's face with Sara's. Or Rosalind's. Or even Samuel's.
This time, he lied. Because Samuel didn't need to know that mommies were mortal, and Grissom didn't need to be reminded that life came with no guarantees.
"Never," he said firmly. "Never. Your mom is a tough, tough lady."
Samuel sniffed just then and launched himself at his father. His knees ached, but he held his son fiercely. Protectively.
"I just wanted my candy," the boy sobbed, letting go everything he'd been holding in since he opened the folder and found pictures of a woman's bloody, broken body. "I'm sorry I looked in your work stuff, Dad."
Grissom held him tighter. "I'm sorry I brought it home."
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After dinner, Grissom helped Rosalind with her homework. Fractions were the bane of his daughter's existence. If mixed numbers and denominators were the worst things to ever happen to her, he'd get down on his knees in thanks.
Sara supervised as Samuel worked on his science project, a model of the solar system, which was due in a week. Every now and then, she'd glance away from the hot glue gun, and lock eyes with her husband. Her questions would have to be answered later.
When the final planet was suspended from the wire coat hanger, it was fifteen minutes past Samuel's bed time. Sara stood to accompany him upstairs, to make sure he actually got into bed, preferably in clean pajamas, and with brushed teeth.
But Grissom stood up. "I'll go," he said. "Rosalind's got this stuff down." His daughter sighed with a fair amount of drama, but was pleased by his confidence in her.
In his room, Samuel had already shucked his day clothes and was in the process of pulling a T-shirt over his head when his father knocked and entered. With him, he carried two miniature Snickers bars. Grissom offered both of them to his son, but Samuel pushed one back into his father's hands.
They ate their bite-sized treats in reverent silence. Afterwards, Samuel brushed his teeth extra hard before slipping into the bottom level of his bunk beds. Grissom had no idea if the crime scene photos would feature in his son's dreams that night.
He knew from experience, however, that there was only one way to keep them out of his.
With a fine mist of sweat still clinging to their skin, and their arms, legs, bodies entwined, Grissom talked to his wife.
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To Be Continued