Sara was able to work out fairly quickly that Nick and Warrick were just the same as always. She'd told Nick to check with Greg at trace for the test results, to which Nick had just said, "a little early for April fool's, don't you think?"

She found Warrick a little later trying to sort out a gambling debt, and began to accuse him of losing money at "the Tangerine", a casino she had just made up off the top of her head. Warrick caught it immediately, and was in the middle of giving her a mouthful, when she just smiled and walked off.

Grissom was more worrisome. When Sarah Jane had first warned her about trusting her friends, Sara's first thought had been Grissom. Grissom was a man who knew his literature, inside and out, and she suspected he took a certain pleasure in pointing out literary allusions so he'd sound smart. She remembered when they had been down in the basement, listening to that British voice recite the line from Hamlet about being crazy "north-north-west". She had looked over at Grissom, but he hadn't said anything. Hadn't pointed it out, hadn't told her the play or the act or the line number. She thought she saw a hint of a smile on his face, but could that have been her imagination? Grissom did seem to know more about the vic than anyone else. Was that knowledge only gathered from those tapes?

Sara knew she had to be careful. Grissom had been the one to point out the Doctor's interrogation technique to her, after all. Grissom would be expecting her to question him. And if, somehow, he wasn't the person he seemed to be, the moment she began to question him, he'd know. He'd know exactly what she was doing, and that she had found him out. And she had a feeling that might not go so well.

Not that she actually believed any of this, she told herself. Not that she actually thought that John Smith was actually trying to save the world from inside of a prison cell or that he really did have some terrible weapon that he kept locked up in a phone box. And there was certainly no way that the vic was an alien. She'd heard enough cock and bull stories to know one when she heard one.

It was just like back in San Francisco, when she worked on the Case that Never Ended.

Stop listening to all this craziness and consider the evidence, she told herself. The evidence doesn't lie—that's what Grissom always says. So she considered the evidence. And started getting paranoid again. After all, she'd heard Dr Bradshaw on that tape, claiming that excaliber was a musical instrument and that the Boston Tea Party had happened in the Middle Ages. She'd heard him accepting made up historical events as if they were common knowledge. Sara didn't have an explanation for that. Maybe that was why her heart skipped a beat with every step she took towards Grissom's office. Maybe that was why she still had that horrible thought that maybe Grissom was not Grissom—that maybe the real Grissom was…

No.

Don't say it.

She went over to Grissom's office, where he was listening to one of the tapes while staring at the fetal pig he kept on his desk. That was good. That was in character. She gave a knock on the door and he jumped a little, turning off the tape and ushering her over to his desk.

"Sara," he said with that familiar warmth he used whenever he addressed her. She looked deep into his eyes and knew that for the sake of her sanity, she really, really needed this to be him.

"Yes," she said in an overly cheerful voice. "Just got off the phone with Sarah Jane Smith. Pretty sure she knew our vic, but she didn't really give me any new information. Warrick and Nick are bringing in Joe Trudge for questioning, but until they get back, I'm free for whatever else needs to be done, so… lead on, Macduff!"

Grissom gave an exasperated sigh. "Sara," he said in that lecturing tone, "I've told you a hundred times that Shakespeare never wrote that. It's 'lay on', not 'lead on'. 'Lead on' hardly makes any sense in context. He's asking the man to strike him through with a sword, not asking the man to follow him to a fancy dress party." He paused. "And since when did you ask me what to do next in a case anyways? Are you sure that you're feeling all right? Do you need some time off?"

Sara slammed the door shut, and sank down in the chair in front of Grissom's desk. "No, I'm not all right," she admitted. "I'm not all right at all. I think I'm turning paranoid. I was so sure you weren't really Gil. I really thought…" she trailed off, and looked into his eyes. "That conversation with Sarah Jane Smith sort of freaked me out. She kept telling me things like I'm the only one who's really me and I can't trust anyone. And I just kept thinking about what you said and what the vic said and it just got all mixed up."

Grissom was about to say something in response, when the door opened, and Catherine Willows poked her head in. "I've pretty much finished up that theft case I was working on. Seems like the rest of you are pretty busy. Want me to help lighten the load?"

Grissom gave her a warm smile. "Well, you know what they say. All work and no play makes Clint Eastwood a dull boy."

Catherine looked disappointed. "So you're saying you've got it under control?"

"We're just fine," said Grissom. "Just awaiting the autopsy report. Nothing you could contribute. Best if you just turned in early. Besides, I know you've been worried about Lindsey all week."

Catherine didn't even seem to acknowledge the fact that Grissom had mentioned her daughter, which was odd, considering how worried Catherine had been about Lindsey a few days ago. Sara had tried to sooth her for nearly an hour whilst Catherine lamented that Lindsey was failing math and was falling in with the wrong crowd and all sorts of other typical parental concerns. Now, Catherine just seemed disappointed that she couldn't get to work on their case.

"Well, keep me up to date," she said, and left the room.

Sara turned back to Grissom, who gave her a pointed look.

"Not paranoid," said Grissom. "Just cautious."

"That wasn't Catherine," said Sara. "Catherine… Gil, what's happened to Catherine?"

"I really don't know," said Grissom. "But I think you're right to be careful, Sara. There's something bad going on here, and I can't work out what it is."

Sara could feel her limbs shaking. She had a terrible feeling that she was in way over her head.

"Oh, and Sara," said Grissom. "Make sure that Nick and Warrick know not to pass on any case information to Catherine. Just… find some excuse. You're good at that."

"You're an anomaly," said the Doctor. "Like me. You come from nowhere and go to nowhere. No, it's worse than that. You're… an echo. A ghost."

"Do you encounter many ghosts, Doctor?" asked Dr Bradshaw.

"Ghosts, magic, all indistinguishable from technology," said the Doctor. His voice sounded strained, as if he were fighting to stay conscious.

"I think you saw a ghost two months ago," said Dr Bradshaw. "Didn't you, Doctor?"

"Ah," said the Doctor. "Worked that one out on your own, did you? Guess I shouldn't have been so worried about you finding out who he was."

"As far as I can count, you appear to have nine ghosts haunting you," said Dr Bradshaw.

"I think you're a few off," said the Doctor. "You might want to consider that before you try to kill me again. After all, I might be lucky number thirteen."

"Or number ten," said Dr Bradshaw.

The Doctor paused. "Are you sure about that?"

"Oh yes," said Dr Bradshaw. "I'm sure." He paused a moment. "Do you feel trapped, Dr Smith?"

"I'm not sure," said the Doctor. "Ask me in a few hours, maybe I'll have an answer then."

Grissom was still listening to the tapes after Sara left. Sara had insisted on staying in the office with him until Warrick and Nick got back, and it was obvious that the more she listened, the more responsible she felt. It was easy to understand why. The Doctor's voice was growing wearier with every flip of the tape, as he kept pleading with Dr Bradshaw to 'please, please, let me help you'.

"He doesn't sound like a murderer," said Sara. "And Sarah Jane was so sure that he was one of the good guys."

"He's certainly a murderer," Grissom told her. "He's all but admitted it on tape. Remember Lady Macbeth, who claimed to 'look like the innocent flower', while she was, in fact, 'the serpent under't.'" Grissom stared absently at the fetal pig on his desk. "People aren't what they seem." He considered what he had just said. "Nothing is what it seems," he amended.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this whole thing seemed contrived. Convenient. The tapes that just happened to click off while they were investigating a room. The messages telling them what to think and who to trust and what to do. That script the prisoners seemed to follow whenever they were questioned. Verity Cordman dying after she kept insisting that the Doctor wasn't real.

But the Doctor was real, wasn't he? After all, they heard his voice on the tapes. They saw his handwriting scribbled across the walls of his cell. They had his body in the morgue.

Sara was long gone when Greg visited his office. Grissom tried to give him a smile, but in his current mood it came out as more of a grimace. "Greg," he said. "Did you get those machines working?"

"Not yet. But I got your trace results right here," said Greg, waving a packet of papers in his hand. "There's definitely aspirin in the water and the food. And I'm guessing if your vic was allergic to aspirin, he probably would have avoided them. On the other hand, those IV drips you found in the medical center?" Greg put the results on Grissom's desk. "Those were definitely poison."

Grissom couldn't say he was surprised. "Really," he said, but he clearly wasn't expecting an answer.

"Oh yeah," said Greg. "Everything from cyanide to mercury. Pretty sure most good hospitals don't put cyanide into the saline solution."

Grissom flipped through the lab results. "Well," he said. "I suppose that's something." He was interrupted by a phone call. He picked up the receiver. "Grissom."

"Grissom, this is Robbins," came the voice. "I'm about to begin the autopsy on your vic, John Smith. But I thought I should call because… well, several things."

Grissom waited for Al Robbins to continue. The man hesitated, but went on.

"It's been nearly twenty-four hours now," said Robbins, "you'd expect some sort of rigor mortis to set in. But, well, there's nothing."

"I'm sorry?" said Grissom.

"I mean he's cold to the touch, but other than that… it's like he was just murdered. No, it's like he's sleeping."

"Is he breathing?" asked Grissom.

"No," said Robbins. "No signs of life. Just… well, no signs of death, either." He paused. "And that's the other thing. I remember this body when we picked it up from the crime scene. We have photos of all the scars and the knife wounds and the marks around the neck. And… they don't look the same anymore."

"How so?"

"The bruises around the neck look… maybe a few weeks old now? And the cuts have scabbed over. And there's this paste all around the skin. I took some samples, but I have no idea what it is."

"I'll be there in about a half hour. Can you wait for me before you begin the autopsy?"

"Can do," said Robbins.

Grissom hung up the phone. He had a terrible feeling that he was missing something very important, but he couldn't put his finger on what. He remembered what Verity Cordman had said before she died. How much of this case was real, and how much had been fabricated? And why?

"How are you feeling today, Doctor?" asked Dr Bradshaw.

"I suppose 'electrifying' would be the best term after the past twenty-four hours," said the Doctor. "I'm assuming that now that we're on tape, you'll stop asking me questions I'm fairly certain you know the answers to, and will start asking me questions that make no sense."

"Do you think my questions make no sense?" said Dr Bradshaw.

"I think you make no sense," said the Doctor. "You need help. You need something I have. Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. I can help you." He paused. "No, I didn't think that would work. It never does. I suppose I must be going mad."

"Why are you going mad?"

"Because I continue to do the same thing and expect different results," said the Doctor. He gave a sharp cough that sounded unhealthy and crusty. "I'll try something else," he said, his voice a little hoarser. "Do whatever you want to me, but please let these poor people go."

"You want me to release the prisoners back onto the streets?" asked Dr Bradshaw. "You do have a reputation for optimism and faith in human goodness, but this is beyond ridiculous."

"You know who I mean," said the Doctor. "These guards. The kitchen staff. Verity Cordman. The real Dr Bradshaw. You're whispering in their minds, changing around their thoughts. You're taking them over like they're just empty shells, you're squeezing the life out of them."

"Another one of your deluded fantasies, Mr. Smith?" Dr Bradshaw almost sneered. "Why do you think that Verity Cordman has changed? That any of these people have changed?"

"Because Verity Cordman lived in New York two years ago," the Doctor said. "And she's convinced that everything that happened in September occurred on August 14th. Because she thinks that the roadrunner is the national bird and that the president rides around on Air Force 2. Because they all sound like you!" He gave another cough, this one sounding even more sick than the one before. "Just let them go," he wheezed.

"And Sammy?" asked Dr Bradshaw. "Do you want me to let Sammy go? Do you want me to let Sammy back on the streets?"

The Doctor didn't answer, just fell into a fit of coughing.

"I didn't think so," said Dr Bradshaw, with an air of smugness. "Do you feel trapped, Doctor?"

"Yes," admitted the Doctor. "For now."

Grissom was in the car when he heard the phone ring. He turned to Sara, asked her to answer. She did.

"Sidle," she said.

"It's Robbins," said the voice on the other end. He was panting, out of breath. "I… he… the body… I mean…"

"Slow down," said Sara. "What happened?"

"The vic," said Robbins, "he woke up!"

Sara suddenly had the most bizarre feeling that she'd had this conversation before. She almost didn't think before asking, "Does he look the same?"

"What do you mean, does he look the same?" Robbins asked. "Of course he looks the same. Do most dead people tend to get a complete makeover just before their autopsy?"

"I just thought… never mind," said Sara. She had this nagging feeling that this was all terribly familiar, just like that terrible case she'd covered three years back. She shook her head, that gesture would rid herself of the déjà vu. The last thing she wanted to do was to reawaken memories of that case. It was because of that case that she'd moved to Las Vegas. "Where is he now?"

"Out cold," said Robbins. "He tried to get up and walk over to me when he just collapsed. I checked his vitals. He's definitely breathing, but his heart is racing and his body temperature is very low."

"We'll be right there," said Sara. She closed the phone, and looked at Grissom.

"He woke up, didn't he?" asked Grissom.

"Yeah," said Sara. "How'd you work that one out?"

"Blood doesn't tend to congeal when you're dead," said Grissom.