And the Red Queen's "Off with her head"…
--
Nick was an ass.
He was an incorrigible idiot Greg was stuck with, for some reason couldn't live without, and it was something Greg continued to mull over as he lay on the couch. His neck was resting against the armrest, knees upright and feet planted flat on the cushions as he sank further into the couch, trying to balance the laptop on his stomach.
It was uncomfortable – really, really uncomfortable – but it only brought Greg back to why Nick was an idiot and why he didn't shy away from letting Nick know last night after he told Greg what happened with White in the interrogation room.
Though, Greg did suspect the kava pills he took this morning may have had something to do with it. They were more or less a mild, herbal sedative, prescribed to him by Dr. Sobule before Greg was released from the hospital in Mesquite. He didn't think he needed them at the time, but Nick thought ahead and convinced him to have the prescription filled anyway. That particular conversation took place in an elevator, and Greg could only recall sitting in a wheelchair, nodding off, and sort of hearing Nick's voice through a semi-consciousness daze.
Consequently, Greg was only convinced it was a one-sided conversation when Nick later tried to justify the bottle of pills on the kitchen counter, the ones labeled with Greg's full name in that small, nearly illegible font – something about White, the case, and taking preventive measures.
The memory wasn't exactly forthcoming right now.
Still, it wasn't like the diazepam he used to take when he first began to have the attacks, and Greg wasn't as worried about going through the process of being weaned off it. It took ten months last time, forty long weeks and each day he wondered when he wouldn't be afraid of lapsing into some kind of withdrawal. He was determined not to that dependent on something like that again and refused to rely on pills for the rest of his life.
But while the herbal sedatives weren't anywhere near as strong as the diazepam, considering Greg's poor track record with medication, it didn't take long for a small dosage to kick in. Only a few hours later and Greg was already reeling from the side effects of what was supposed to act as a mild sedative. He felt drowsy, sleepy…somnolent…and any other synonym he couldn't think of right now.
He was trying to stay up, waiting for Nick to get back from the store if only to reinforce the notion that Nick was an ass because it was still his fault Greg was left somewhat sluggish and confined to the couch. It reminded him of some kind of endothermic chemical reaction, possibly an endothermic herbal reaction in this case, that was somehow adiabatic and only began to make sense when Greg lost his train of thought.
Greg hoped he would be lucid enough by Friday.
It was convenient he had today off, tomorrow, too; both of which were more so Grissom's doing and less of Greg trying to stay out of the lab. Greg was still working, but Grissom hesitated to sign him on full time. Although only temporary, it meant Greg worked shorter hours, overtime was defunct in his vocabulary, and reduced him to having Nick and a computer as the only source of reliable information on his off days.
Nick was off until Friday, too. Along with Greg's current inability to go to work, or even to move for that matter, the short suspension created a less than ideal pseudo vacation. However, opportune as it was, Nick made use of it wisely by getting the mail and going shopping in an attempt to find something edible to fill their precariously empty refrigerator.
Tenuously, he wondered if Nick would try to bribe him with food again.
While in the lab, Greg didn't hear about Nick's altercation with White. He left before that, but when Nick came home, Greg was immediately met with a bag of a Chinese take-out that definitely wasn't from the cheap place across the street from the police station they usually visited. Evidently, being suspended without pay for attacking White was enough to merit Nick buying authentic Chinese food that existed well beyond the scope of the usual Pu Pu Platter and Greg's extra carton of shrimp fried rice.
Food of all things, but it was something Greg wouldn't turn down on any given day and was a gesture that was so…
…so Nick.
But it didn't make Greg forget that besides being himself, Nick could be irresponsible, too. Angry or not, attacking White was stupid, careless, and exactly why Greg was having trouble ignoring the sudden craving for the leftover food from in the refrigerator. He didn't eat much of it last night, but the shrimp with peas and mushrooms was good, especially good with the braised noodles underneath. If he actually was hungry, Greg would have contemplated making the long trek to the kitchen.
Then again, if putting his feet on the floor seemed daunting, there was reason doubt he'd be able to make it to the kitchen.
Yawning, Greg flung one arm over the side of the couch, blinking away tears when he heard the sound of the front door being unlocked.
"Hey," Nick greeted, juggling his keys and two large bags as he made his way into the house. He pushed the door closed, locking it behind him and then turning around to face Greg. "Did you–"
"No, I didn't waste any food on the couch."
Nick stopped mid-step, adjusting the paper bags in arms and looking at Greg strangely. "I wasn't going to ask you that."
"I didn't say you were."
"Then why did you–"
"Because you're still an ass."
"You still on that?"
Greg was silent for a moment. "…yes."
"Whatever, man," Nick said casually, voice appeasing as he took the bags into the kitchen. "Feel like helping me put the groceries up?" he called out.
"Not really."
"That tired?"
"Lethargic," Greg said slowly, drawing the word out as he closed his eyes.
"Did it bother you this much last time?"
"It's not as bad as the diazepam, but the painkillers I was taking then didn't let me do anything but sleep, so…"
"Then why didn't you go to bed?" Nick asked simply, voice much closer and no longer coming from the kitchen.
Greg opened his eyes and looked at Nick incredulously. "That would require moving."
Nick kneeled down, arms over resting on his legs as he peered down Greg. "Your pupils aren't dilated," he said softly, placing the back of his hand against Greg's cheek. "Doesn't look like anything unusual to worry about."
"Aside from a low dose of sedative making me feel so tired?"
"Yeah, when it comes to some people," Nick conceded. "But that's pretty much normal when it comes to you."
Greg scrunched his nose. "Seriously, it feels like I don't have any energy left."
"Apparently enough to talk," Nick muttered, shaking his head as he took Greg's laptop.
"I was actually doing something productive, you know," Greg half-heartedly protested but only watched as Nick closed the computer and set it on the coffee table.
"No, you were staring at a blank screen. Your computer's not even hot, Greg."
"Okay, so it was on standby," Greg agreed reluctantly, "but maybe I was being productive about thinking to do something productive, which is like the new age of proactive productivity."
Nick dismissed the explanation with silence, massaging his forehead with both hands before he chose to speak again. "Yeah…yeah, I think it's time we get you up."
"I'm comfortable."
"No, you're out of it," Nick corrected, standing up and holding out his hands for Greg to take. "Come on, I'm not trusting you to make an important decision like this on your own."
"You really know how to hurt a guy's feelings."
"It's really going to hurt if I let you fall asleep on the couch like that. And then you're going to blame me when you wake up on the floor with a crick in your neck." He paused, looking at Greg thoughtfully. "You can get cranky like that."
"I get cranky?" Greg asked, grunting when Nick pulled him off the couch. He wrapped his arms around Nick, leaning into the other man as Nick moved to support the majority of his weight.
"Oh yeah, I'm definitely taking you to your follow-up appointment tomorrow."
Nick had been standing outside the interrogation room for an hour now but couldn't bring himself to leave. Not yet. Not when he was this engaged and Grissom and Brass were still able to carry a conversation with White.
Not surprisingly, Nick wasn't allowed back in the room or near White and was more than content to observe through the two-way mirror. It irked him that there was an officer assigned to him while he was here, positioned between Nick and the door to the room as if Nick posed some kind of threat to White, but it was a precaution he more than substantiated the other day. And knowing he had no reason to complain, Nick accepted the terms without comment.
As Brass was more than happy to point out, Nick was fortunate the incident hadn't blown up in his face and even more so because White decided not to press any charges against him. Accordingly, Nick was appreciative enough to swallow his pride at the prospect of being at the mercy of someone like White. Though, he didn't like the feeling it induced: the strange mix between resentment and gratitude.
But Nick thought it better to keep it to himself if it meant he was still on the case.
Brass didn't even want him there, didn't want him anywhere near White, and preferred to have Nick taken off the case period. For him, the short suspension and Nick's probation was nothing more than a slap on the wrist. At one point, Brass went as far as accusing Grissom of favouritism, which may have held true if White wasn't the one who asked for Nick.
After the initial confrontation with Nick, the first hours of interrogating White didn't turn out much more than a waste of tape. At first, White refused to talk, and anything he did mention was taken as nonsense and some kind of attempt at mind games. But then he started to talk about Greg, say things that Grissom and Brass refused to repeat. When he failed to goad them, White's interest in Greg eventually developed into a renewed interest in the person White knew was closest to Greg.
Nick repositioned his arms, crossing them over his chest and uncrossing them again as he transferred the bulk of his weight on left leg when his right leg started to fall asleep. Looking through the glass was the closest White going to get to Nick.
It was bad enough the man had some kind of morbid fascination with Greg and Nick by extension. The last thing they needed to do was answer to White's demands. Neither Brass nor Grissom told White that Nick was standing outside of the room, and so far, it looked like White was cracking down; whatever the reason, Nick wasn't too concerned. He only cared that they were getting closer to putting this case away for good.
"Do you think of yourself as a methodical person?" Grissom asked, adjusting his glasses as he leaned forward. "A federal agent like you…"
"Former agent," White said steadily, showing no signs of surprise at Grissom's knowledge of his background. "But sometimes, I like to think so."
Grissom nodded politely. "Fair enough. What about the other times?"
"We all can't be perfect."
"Like when you left the murder weapon covered your prints at the scene of the crime?" Brass asked. "I'll give you points for slashing the tires, maybe even premeditated murder. Who knows? You won't tell us." Brass bunched his shoulders, relaying his mock confusion. "But let me tell you, everything else didn't seem all that methodical, you know."
"You already arrested me." Stephen shrugged, lifting his wrists and displaying the handcuffs around them. "And apparently you have enough to keep me."
Grissom narrowed his eyes. "Are you admitting to killing them?"
"You haven't decided, yet?"
"We're following the evidence."
"Maybe you're not the only ones," White said cryptically. He sat back in his chair, placing his hands in his lap. "It's only a matter of time before they come for me, but I'll wait. I don't have anything better to do."
"Hey…hey." Brass rapped on the table, loud enough to get White's attention and startle Nick. "Let me make this clear for you, huh. Life without parole is the only thing you'll have to look forward to. And that's if you don't get the death penalty. So, you see, you're not going anywhere."
White didn't flinch, the expression on his face apathetic. "Last time I checked, the federal government didn't have time for empty threats from the state."
Brass frowned. "If they couldn't get you then, what makes you think they'll be able to get you now?"
"Like I said, I'm waiting. And in the meantime, think about what you really want to convict me for."
Grissom looked at White warily. "What about Tyler and Perry?"
"My old partner always said you were quick," White said, appearing somewhat impressed. "But maybe not quick enough."
"Names," Brass demanded.
"My old partner?"
"No." Grissom shook his head. He made a gesture to Brass, using his hand to tell the other man to be quiet. "What do you have against them, Tyler and Perry?"
"Things I could say. Things someone may not want me to say," White answered easily.
"What do you want to say?" Grissom asked.
"That doesn't have to do with Nick or Greg," Brass added, a less than subtle warning in the tone of his voice.
White snorted. "If you're so eager, we can save that conversation for another time," he said shamelessly. "No, what I want say…the questions I want to say for Grissom, since you seem to understand the importance of asking the right ones."
Grissom tilted his head, suppressing a curiosity that Nick didn't have a reason to hide. "I'm listening."
"With your…evidence, do you really believe you can save people?"
"That depends," Grissom replied cautiously. "Save people from what?"
"From a market that will only keep growing, a market that's been prevailing for years, and a market that will always sell."
"In Vegas?"
"In Vegas," White confirmed. "It all comes down to Vegas."
"And in Vegas It all comes down to three things: drugs, sex, and money."
"The only truths self-evident in the new world."
"Self-evident to whom?"
"The people who don't care."
"And these people, what is it they don't care about?"
"Did you know," White began, "you could buy a little girl in Nanjing for a couple hundred Yuan and sell here her in the States for more than a thousand dollars," he asked earnestly. It was the first time White admitted to knowing about human trafficking. It didn't directly confirm the possibility of White's involvement with trafficking, but it didn't make White's obvious excitement was any less unsettling or less difficult for Nick to take.
"That in old rural areas like Yulin," White continued, "if a little girl can't be sold…I think we can all agree there isn't really an alternative to look forward to. But the money, the money people are willing to pay—"
"And that's supposed to justify peddling them like that, the money?"
A flash of disappointment crossed White's face. "I like to think I'm not all that twisted."
"And if you are?"
"Well, if I am, then the ignorant people are, too. We're all mad."
"But there's a difference between being ignorant of a crime and committing one."
"Indifference?"
"No," Grissom said flatly. "Committing the crime."
White nodded in understanding, though of what Nick wasn't sure. "So, I guess I'll ask you again. Do you think really believe you can save people?"
Grissom looked at White in confusion, somewhat frustrated as he reiterated his initial response to the question. "Again, what am I saving them from?"
"No." Brass shook his head, gaze narrowing his eyes at White. "No, I think this time he wants to know who."
When they managed to track the text he received, Greg expected it to lead back to Davis. He had little doubt in his mind that she was the one who sent it and wasn't disappointed when they were able to find her because of it.
They traced the number from the original sender and were able to subpoena the records from the phone company. The number belonged to a prepaid phone that was bought with cash, but the phone company had an address in Lake Tonopah Apartments on file that was in fact registered to Alice Davis.
Greg would have gone, in some ways felt he needed to go in order to gain some kind closure, but he still wasn't cleared for the field. Instead, he slid into his old position as a lab tech, filling any gaps and handling paperwork on the side while Sara and Catherine left with Sofia to find Davis. He wasn't too bothered by it, though. Despite officially being a CSI, he was still trying to make his transition from the lab and often found himself going back and forth between responsibilities when asked.
If Sara and Catherine did find Davis, they would bring her in for questioning, and Greg could a wait a few more hours.
Only a few hours later, David bringing in Davis' dead body wasn't necessarily the return Greg anticipated.
With Catherine and Sara processing the scene at Davis' apartment, Warrick called Greg into the morgue, where Greg was able to identify the person on the exam table as Alice Davis – or at least he was when he saw her head on the table next to it.
The body was the first thing Greg saw when he walked into the morgue, and Greg had to force himself to swallow the bile gathering at the back of his throat when he first saw the head. It wasn't the first headless victim he'd seen, and normally he could stomach something like this. He survived his first autopsy, stopped blanching somewhere after the fifth one, and eventually even the sight of Doc Robbins cutting into bone became almost routine.
Maybe it was because Greg had some kind of connection with Davis, albeit hazardous and somewhat misleading, but whatever the cause, Greg couldn't bring himself to look at her misshapen face. He couldn't meet the gaze of those blank eyes, and redirected his focus to her body and the small, patch of scarred flesh on her forearm.
Robbins sighed, rubbing the back of his hand on his forehead. "Luckily for this young woman here," he said tiredly, shuffling in between the two tables. "Decapitation may not have been the cause of death."
"May have?" Warrick asked. "Catherine said she and Sara found Davis in a tub that was halfway filled with blood and whatever didn't make in there was on the walls."
"Yes, I couldn't help but notice the lack of blood to drain during the autopsy."
Warrick ignored the offbeat remark. "There's no way a person could spew that much blood after their heart stops."
"Didn't say there was, but there's also evidence of a hyperextension injury or in laymen's terms, the hangman's fracture. It's when the neck is so far bent back it separates from the spine, which is more than likely caused by extreme impact to the face."
Robbins pointed to the back of Davis' neck, where pieces of bone could be seen protruding from the skin. "Originally, I attributed it to what was used to cut off her head. Whoever did the hacking wasn't exactly precise, and it resulted in the jagged edges around the sections of detached skin alongside multiple lacerations on the bone."
"So, not exactly dead, but she was in the process of dying," Greg tried to clarify.
"Yes. If she was decapitated only a few minutes after necrosis set in, and her heart is still circulating blood, there's no reason why she wouldn't bleed."
Warrick blinked. "Small window of opportunity."
"Very," Robbins agreed. "Now, I can't say for sure if the neck and spinal cord injuries were what got to her first. The interval from spinal cord injury to death can be fickle, and there's no way of knowing for sure when someone dies because of it. Unless we had someone there at the time, it's essentially a question of the chicken or the egg. Either way, it probably wasn't an instantaneous death, though."
"And the broken nose was…"
"Well, judging by the prominent swelling of her nose and discolouration surrounding it, the fracture occurred before she died. And it's likely the acute impact could account for the hyperextension."
"Still, I wonder why someone bruised her face but not the rest of her body...except for her arm." Greg looked at Robbins, catching sight of Davis' head from his peripheral vision. "Earlier, you said some of the bruises were post-mortem, right?"
Robbins nodded.
"What about this?" Greg said, gesturing to Davis' forearm and the darkened area surrounding the section of skin he noticed earlier. "So, she was alive when…"
"Right. Of course, it's not fully healed, but the blood already started to clot in that area. I'd say it looks about two inches thick, more or less. You can still see the lingering fat that wasn't taken along with the skin that was removed."
Greg cringed, trying not to imagine what Davis must have felt when it happened.
"And speaking of missing skin," Robbins said, nodding to the rolling cart behind Warrick. "Hand that small jar in there to Greg, would you."
"Sure." Warrick reached for the jar and gave it to Greg.
"Saved that for you," Robbins explained. "The not so missing sample."
Greg looked up from the jar. "Is this her…"
"I found it in stuffed down the back of her throat, actually."
"I need to…I need to see this stretched out, to make sure of something."
"Make sure of what?" Warrick asked.
"Call it a hunch. Maybe something important," Greg said quickly. "Remember the rabbit tattoo Davis had that I was talking about? That's what this was…or is," he corrected, waving the jar in front of Warrick. "Gives whole new meaning to taking the red pill down the hole," he murmured.
"The red pill?"
Greg shook his head. "Never mind the bad pun. Grissom told me he saw a tattoo on White's arm," he said excitedly. "How much are you willing to bet it's a rabbit?"
"You're saying White killed Davis?"
"We can't put it past him, can we?"
"White has a solid alibi; he's been in lock up for the past four days."
"An alibi never stopped people before," Greg countered, turning to Robbins. "He could have killed Davis before we picked him if she's been dead for four days. That's plausible, right?"
"And I'll stress this again: I said it was possible. Don't quote me on anything longer than 48 hours, though. She's well past the stage of rigor, and the level of decomposition may suggest she's been dead at least two days, possibly three to five.
Greg stared at Robbins blankly before turning back to Warrick. "Doc agrees with me."
"But when we took White in, there was no sign of blood on him or any marks on his hands to match the bruising on Davis' face."
"What about the .45 pistol Sara said she found at the scene? Wouldn't that be enough to put him there?"
"Okay, yeah, I ran it, and it's registered to White, but a gun that didn't kill Davis isn't going to hold up. Especially since we don't even have any prints on it, much less his."
Greg paused, taking Warrick's words into consideration. "You're making it sound like someone's trying to frame White."
"Believe you me, I'm not trying to. "Warrick snorted. "But it's not impossible. And if someone is, they're going through heck of a lot of trouble to throw us off."
"I guess, but the way I see it, there's a small window of opportunity between when the text was sent and when White was arrested. I still say it's likely he killed her before we found him. I mean, who else do we have?"
"The same person who sent the text?"
"Davis? She's the one gave me the card that took us to White the first time."
"Do we have proof she sent it? For all we know, it could have been someone else."
"Back to the framing angle, then?"
"Maybe, but I wouldn't rule it out so fast," Warrick said thoughtfully. "But there's something else, too."
"Okay, I'll bite. If not framing, what else are you thinking of?"
"Well, who's to say White was ever working alone in the first place?"
Nick reached for the alarm clock on the night stand. Searching blindly, he knocked a set of keys on the floor, his hand flailing around before he finally hit the snooze button.
He rubbed his eyes, groaning as he waited for them to adjust to the light coming through the blinds. It felt like he'd been in bed all day, though when he looked at the clock, it wasn't even noon. Work wasn't for a couple more hours, but he didn't like to sleep in and needed to take a shower, anyway.
Yawning, he moved to check his phone for any missed calls – or he was going to until he realised Greg was sprawled on top of him and apparently knocked out. Nick sighed, adjusting the comforter over Greg. Taking the sedative was still making Greg drowsy, but after finally going to sleep six o'clock in the morning, Nick couldn't say he expected otherwise.
He spent last night staying up with Greg, a long night where the conversation lasted until they both fell asleep. They actually…talked. Really talked like they hadn't talked in a long time, and it was something Nick didn't realise they needed until now.
From Greg's nightmares and Nick's misplaced hero-complex to practicing breathing exercises for Greg's panic attacks and debating whether or not water had a flavour. About everything or nothing at all, it didn't matter. Just being able slow things down and take a step back to let it all out. It was a form of release Nick enjoyed but rarely allowed himself to have.
Maybe he'd let himself stay in bed for a little while longer, take the time to actually relax.
Readjusting the pillow behind him, Nick moved to sit up. He leaned against the headboard, grunting as he repositioned Greg on top of him. He smiled when he felt Greg shifting, the other man tightening his grip on Nick's shirt.
"I know you're not sleeping," he said shrewdly, running his hand through the back of Greg's hair. It curled around his fingers, the strands soft and slightly damp from Greg taking a shower last night.
Greg raised his head from Nick's chest, licking his lips and squinting at the other man. "You know," he said, voice somewhat groggy. "It'd be a lot easier to sleep if my makeshift pillow wasn't playing with my hair.
"Well, your makeshift pillow needs to move," Nick replied, still running his fingers through Greg's hair.
"No he doesn't." Greg peered at the clock. "It's not even twelve yet, and my pillow doesn't have to go to work until four."
"You can go always back to sleep, you know?" Nick said teasingly. "Just because I'm up, doesn't mean you have to be."
"Doesn't mean you have to get out of bed, either," Greg countered, letting go of Nick's shirt. Pulling the comforter over his head, he positioned himself above Nick, peering down at the other man's face. "I know I have morning breath, but…" he began softly, closing his eyes and pressing his lips against Nick's.
It was a slow kiss, mellow and easy to fall into, something Nick did his best to prolong. Sighing, he wrapped his arms around Greg, holding him closer and reluctant to let go even when Greg pulled away.
"Was that enough to change your mind?"
"You just trying to distract me," Nick whispered.
"That depends." Greg looked at Nick coyly. "Is it working?"
Nick bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the expression on Greg's face. "I still need to move."
Greg let his body sag on top of Nick, groaning as he pressed his forehead against Nick's. "You really know how to kill the mood."
"You think so, huh?" Nick said challengingly, moving his hands underneath Greg's shirt.
Greg began to twitch, the movement involuntarily as the pressure from Nick's fingers steadily increased. "No, I take it back," he said quickly, unable to contain the oncoming laughter when Nick pushed him onto the bed. "I take it…I take it–"
"Still think I'm ruining it?" Nick asked with a grin, his own laughter joining Greg's as the other man squirmed beneath him. Relentlessly, his hands travelled up and down Greg's sides, Nick anticipating the sporadic movement as his fingers continued to roam over Greg's body.
"No, I…Nick, stop," Greg tried to say, the plea an incoherent cry and falling upon seemingly deaf ears. He arched his back, contorting his body in an attempt to get away from Nick. "No, stop it. Please, just–"
"Had enough?" Nick asked, still grinning despite the look he was receiving from Greg.
Trying to catch his breath, Greg swallowed when Nick finally pulled back. "Not funny," he said after a moment, swallowing again as he continued to stare at Nick. He was panting heavily, face flushed and lips parted. "You really don't want me to go back to sleep, do you?"
"That depends," Nick said, intentionally repeating Greg's words and using them against him. "Are you awake now?"
"No thanks to you." Greg closed his eyes, pressing the side of his face into the sheets. "What time is it?" he asked when the alarm began to go off, the soft beeping echoing in the room.
"Ten after twelve."
"Are you going to get that or just stare at me?"
"Maybe," Nick said distractedly. "Wait a minute, stare at you? How do you know I'm staring at you?"
"I can feel you staring at me." Greg peered at Nick with one eye, opening the other when Nick didn't look away. "See, you are staring at me."
Nick found himself caught between words, amusement in his eyes. "You're something else, you know that," he said warmly.
"Yes, I do know."
Nick snorted. "Modest, too."
Greg reached for Nick's shirt, pulling the other man on top of him. "If you don't get the alarm, I'm going to kick you off the bed."
"No, you won't," Nick said surely, smiling into Greg's neck.
"One of these days I really will, you know."
"Is that a threat?"
"More like an indefinite guarantee."
"As long as you let me back in…I can live with that."
"–lab technician, as well as the officers killed in Mesquite last Tuesday night during the investigation. The police have already taken White into custody, but concerning White's trial, authorities withheld from making any further comment."
He was aware of exaggerating the sound, maybe just a little, but Greg couldn't stop the pitiful moan that even chewing on his pen didn't phase. Sara was sitting across from him but didn't say anything about noise, too engrossed in going through her stack of White's files and making notes on the margins.
Catherine sat beside Sara, on the other side of the table and furthest away from the TV. She licked the pad of her thumb, taking a sheet from her own stack of White's files and placing it into a small pile of papers that pertained to the case.
They divvied up the large folder Tyler and Perry gave them and still hadn't finished reading over everything. So far, they were able to link White to more than a few undercover gigs that ultimately undermined a couple major drug peddling circles. But he spent the majority of his career raising awareness and advocating against human trafficking in Vegas. Before his retirement, in six years alone, White participated in more than a dozen raids that broke a number of child prostitution rings.
In short, White was a good agent, the epitome of a good agent. He had the means to put a stop to something he not only knew was wrong but something he was clearly passionate about, and yet…after fifteen years none of it seemed to matter anymore. White's accomplishments, the difference he made in other people's lives, it meant nothing.
But it was why they were going through the files, trying to make sense of a case that had long ago spiraled out of control.
Greg sighed at the seemingly increasingly large pile of papers in front of him. It was grunt work but important work, and his only complaint was being subjected to the news while doing. The TV was on Channel 19, like it usually was. Strangely enough, it was the only channel they could get reception for.
He looked up the second the TV cut to a scene of Undersheriff McKeen walking down the steps of the courthouse, trying to evade a bombardment of press and an impromptu interview. Sporadic, bright flashes lit the screen and microphones were being shoved in front of McKeen as he manoeuvred through the crowd of people.
"–with the FBI and speculation for another gruesome murder. Police found her body earlier this afternoon at her home in Lake Tonopah Apartments, near West Lake Mead Boulevard. No more–"
Greg turned the TV off. "Somehow we managed to keep this case under wraps for more than a month, and then one day it all starts to unravel." He paused looking between Catherine and Sara as he put the remote on the table. "You guys weren't watching that, right?"
Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Apparently, not anymore," she said wryly.
"Were you really?" he asked, taking the pen out of his mouth.
"No, Greg," Catherine assured.
"Uh-huh," Sara agreed absently, head down as she scribbled something on a legal pad. She stopped, shaking the pen before she tried writing again. "Anybody have another pen I can borrow? I'm all out of ink."
"Here, you can have mine," Greg said quickly, offering his pen to Sara. "I've been doing this for five hours straight, and I need a break anyway."
Sara regarded the pen with mild disgust, retracting her hand before looking at Greg incredulously. "Never mind." She turned to Catherine. "Please tell me you have an extra so I don't have to leave the room?"
Catherine snorted, reaching into a pocket inside of her jacket. "Way ahead of you."
"Thanks." Sara nodded at the other woman, ignoring Greg's protest.
"Sara, I offered you a pen."
"And it's covered with your bite marks.
Greg frowned at Sara and reexamined his pen. "Great," he said sullenly, leaning against his chair. "The inevitable leaking process has begun, and Sara's afraid of getting cooties."
She pointed her pen at Greg. "Who knows where your mouth's been?"
Failing to stifle her laughter, Catherine looked at Greg apologetically. "Don't let it get to you, Greg."
"Like I ever let her get to me."
"No," Sara said, her voices serious. "What you heard on the news."
"Oh…that." Nervously, Greg tapped his fingers on the table. "Well, I guess it had to come out sooner or later. I was just hoping later; this kind of stuff turns ugly, fast."
The media had a habit of portraying the police department as inept. Despite all of the crimes they solved, all of the people they put away, the good couldn't outweigh the bad and the public was more interested in being entertained by the latest drama.
For now, Greg was the "lab technician" who was nearly strangled to death, which was fine as long as the media didn't look further into White, Davis, or the FBI and make the story into some big government conspiracy.
"Nobody would," Catherine agreed sympathetically. "But the longer we hold out, the more they'll want to know and the deeper somebody's going to dig for it."
"Worst case scenario?" Greg asked.
"We get bad publicity."
Sara looked at Catherine. "Best case scenario?"
"We get bad publicity."
"So, either way…we're screwed."
"There's always a talker," Greg said dully.
"Just be glad you're not the one who has to deal with office politics." Catherine began to stand, pushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. "I'm going to find Brass and Ecklie. We need to figure out who this talker is and how much they know before anything else gets out."
"We'll be here."
"I thought you were taking a break," she said as she passed the table.
Greg nodded. "In here. Bring something back for us?"
Catherine shook her head. "I'll leave you two alone."
When she left the room, Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as Sara did the same.
"So," Greg began, picking up from the conversation they had with Archie on Tuesday. "You still think the FBI is behind this?" He and Sara were the only one who seemed to think the FBI was more involved with White than they initially let on.
"Maybe not in general, but it has to be an inside job. Think about it. We've never had a problem with them before. Now, we're not getting evidence, nobody's telling us what's going or what happened ten years ago, we can't get a hold of Tyler or Perry, and then suddenly everything's pointing to White? Too many inconsistencies, I don't buy it."
"That's what Warrick said yesterday."
"Really?"
"Not in so many words, but yeah. I thought it made more sense that he would kill Davis because she pointed us in his direction, but Warrick brought up some good points that got me thinking. I mean, I'm not saying White's completely innocent. I just don't know what to believe."
"Join the club." Sara scoffed. "I'm not sure Catherine and Grissom even know what's going on."
"Well, not knowing where the Harrisons are, Davis being dead, and still no Tyler or Perry? We don't have a lot of options left.
"No," Sara agreed. "We don't."
"But we do have somebody still willing to–"
"Greg Sanders?"
Turning around, Greg was surprised to see Agent Tyler standing in the doorway. "Yes?" he said cautiously.
"Mind if we have a little talk?"
Not my best, I know. I've been working on this and the last chapter simultaneously, and I'm so ready to scrap this thing. It's long, too contrived, and makes me want to pull my hair out. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope everything comes together in the end...like it's supposed to.
Seriously, there's leeway, leeway, and then there's what I did.
This whole chapter was a mess, but I stand by the first part. Sick Greg is a running gag for me (one of them), so I used it to do something lighter because the melodrama is painful. Basically, I wanted to make Greg sound...sulky or something(?) without giving into writing a cutesy scene that turned out way too domestic and just plain corny in general. And of course, I wrote one anyway.
That really sappy part in the middle, no, I couldn't even begin to explain where it came from. I wanted to use that part as a resolution to the strain in Nick and Greg's relationship and somehow it became a complete 180 from the concept I had. Again, I don't know.
But yeah, thank you for reading and thank you to eustilly and QueenOfTheUniverse for reviewing.