A/N: This W.I.T.C.A. meeting is hereby called to order and I must open by saying that I am a little surprised by all of the writers who seem to be hiding in the darkest parts of this closet and refusing to admit that they are there, even though we can hear their heavy breathing. We know you're there *pant pant pant* (Seems to be the only language some of them understand.) Acceptance is the first step in healing.
I would like to thank 'The J Word', without her help on this it would have been a lost cause months ago. I owe you my first male child.
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Chapter Thirty-Five
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Brass knocked on the layout room doorframe to get Warrick's attention. "Hey, Rick. You doing anything after shift?"
Warrick kept his eyes on the table and was writing information on a evidence bag. "No. I was just going to head home."
Brass took a step inside. "I just got a call from Colten Anderson."
Warrick stopped writing and looked up. "It's about damn time."
"He's been out of town for two weeks, but he said we could come by this morning."
Warrick packed up his evidence. "Give me 15. I'll head to the locker room now and meet you in the garage."
After a quick shower, Warrick stood in front of his locker dressing. He couldn't believe two weeks had passed since he found out information about Reggie Shelling's brother, John, who died in prison. He had hoped the information could lead to finding the last of Grissom's kidnappers and help his mentor put some demons to rest.
Then the trial happened. And a high-profile triple homicide at work. And all the rest of the shit that Vegas dumps on the crime lab.
His thoughts floated to his visit to the prison where John Shelling called home for the past ten years.
"Prisoner's name?"
"John Shelling," Warrick said in his deep voice. "Date of incarceration, Feb. 12, 1997. Date of death, July 14, 2007."
The member of the Jasper Correctional Institution staff looked through box labels in search for the right one. "Here we go. Prisoner 478623-JMS — John Shelling. Could I see the court document again, please?"
Warrick produced the court-ordered document for the staffer. After Catherine called about what she found out from Grissom about his memories of the Shelling case, it didn't take long for Brass to secure a warrant for John Shelling's belongings. Warrick volunteered to pick up and examine the items.
The staffer signed and time-stamped the document. "OK. Sign here, and it's all yours."
Warrick signed the paper on the clip board and handed it back to the staff before unlatching the manila envelope. "Has anyone else inquired about these items?"
"I'm just store and go. That's something to ask the warden's office. I have a table in the office out there you are welcome to use, but we need to leave the storage area."
Warrick nodded and let the staffer lead him out of the room. Using a table in the corner of the office, Warrick took a quick inventory of the items — a watch with a dead battery; a gold necklace with a cross; three sheets of art paper with various shapes and figures drawn upon it; and a journal with about 3/4 filled with handwriting.
Warrick took the journal and leafed through the pages quickly. He recognized several biblical quotes based on forgiveness. Warrick also recognized the names of psychological and spiritual books that Shelling excerpted word-for-word to create his own personal self-help text. But before putting the book back into the envelope to take back to the lab, Warrick did one more thumb through. Among the last few pages was something scrawled vertically on the outer margin of the page. An address to a location in Sumerlin, Nevada.
Before leaving the prison, Warrick went to the warden's office to inquiry about Shelling's visitors. "I asked the guard at the storage facility if anyone else has been interested in Shellings' belongings..."
The warden grabbed a file folder in his in-box. "Two days ago I got a letter giving me notice that someone would be petitioning for Shelling's body for burial. Someone who was not a member of his family or of his estate."
The warden turned the file around so Warrick could read the letter. While he skimmed the text, his eyes fixed on the address of the petitioner -- 3420 Waxfield Drive, Sumerlin, Nevada. That was the exact address scrawled upon a margin on Shelling's journal.
"Warden may I have a copy of this letter please?"
After Warrick found the journal, he and Catherine visited Gil and Sara to fill them in on the new leads in his case. Grissom listened intently to everything they said as he looked through the journal that John Shelling had written. When he closed the journal and shut his eyes his colleagues stopped talking. They all waited silently as he processed all that they had said and images flashed in his mind again.
Warrick shook his head at recalling how guilty he felt for leaving their friend in such a bothered state. What he didn't know is when he and Catherine left, Gil picked up his journal and wrote until his hand hurt and the book was full. Despite his aching hand he did feel much better when he was done.
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Colten Anderson was a volunteer at the prison and a very difficult man to contact. Jim and Warrick had been to his home and called his number several times with no answer. He taught literacy, English as a second language and creative writing. While he wasn't a naive man, he felt called to work at the prison. While he sported neither a smile nor a frown, he answered the knock at his modest home in Sumerlin with a pleasant demeanor.
"Gentlemen?"
On his doorstep stood Brass and Warrick. They too sported neither a smile nor a frown. But Jim removed his sunglasses before speaking. "Colten Anderson?
"Yes."
"I'm Detective Jim Brass from the Las Vegas Police Department and this is Warrick Brown from the crime lab. You're a hard man to find. We wanted to ask you a few questions about your work at Jasper Correctional."
Anderson inspected Brass' badge and Warrick's credentials and then looked at the men in their eyes. His action prompted Warrick to remove his sunglasses as well. That seemed to be good enough for Anderson. "OK. Come in gentlemen. I'm sorry that you have not been able to contact me, my father lives in Mesquite and he's been ill for the past two weeks."
Once inside no one sat down. Just didn't feel right. "Sorry to hear that." Warrick said sincerely.
"May I ask why you two gentlemen are here?"
"We're investigating a crime in which John Shelling's name came up," Brass said. "You've recently petitioned to take charge of his remains?"
"That's right," Anderson said moving toward the kitchen. "Can I get either of you a cold drink or some coffee?"
"No thank you," Warrick said. "Mr. Anderson, how well did you know Mr. Shelling?"
"I didn't know him well at all," Anderson said as he doctored his coffee. "He was a student in my tutoring session. His interests were in creative writing. Depending on his mood, I would suggest different books for him to check out."
"Do you know why he was in prison?"
"Mr. Brown, isn't it?" Anderson received a nod then continued. "Mr. Brown, if I knew anything personal about those prisoners I don't think I could volunteer there. But I try to believe in the concept of rehabilitation, which is why I work there. And I understand with what you two men witness, that probably sounds like complete and utter bullshit. But for now, that is how I stand."
Brass looked at Anderson with skepticism as he watched the man take a few more sips of coffee. "So, do you think Shelling could have been rehabilitated?"
Anderson let out a small laugh. He knew he was being challenged. But instead of fighting or being self-righteous, Anderson just spoke the truth. "Fortunately, I don't make those decisions, sir. But if you are asking if I think John Shelling could be rehabilitated after what he did, I really don't know."
Anderson turned away to go to another part of his house, but Warrick was quick to stop him with the timber of his voice. "Wait a minute. You knew what he did? I thought you said you didn't know the background of the inmates."
Anderson came back to the kitchen with a letter in his hands. "I did learn something about Shelling but after his death. He sent me a letter by mail. It was postmarked several weeks before his death. But it took a while to get here. Here. You take it."
Warrick and Jim looked at the letter. What they saw was a confession. What they saw was affirmation of what Grissom thought about the Shelling family -- that John Shelling killed his daughters to save them from a terrible fate Reggie planned.
The letter spoke about how Reggie Shelling was involved in domestic human trafficking, as a seller. John admitted he was heavy into drugs and deep in debt. He needed a way out, and Reggie gave him an option, which he chronicled in the letter. John knew his brother had no love for his nieces, but John was so high, he couldn't see it till it was too late. That was probably why Reggie could convince John to let his brother take the girls and sell them off. Reggie told John the money could fuel John's habit and give him cash to take care of things.
"That ex wife of yours and her little whores are ruining you! Let me handle them. I'll get good money for them, John. Especially Courtney. That little piece of ass could tap $1,000 a night easy. And all it takes is a little discipline -- both physical and chemical."
John was high again and couldn't decide, but Reggie kept pushing.
"I'm trying to help you. Trying to protect you! They will destroy you!"
John was so confused. And it is so hard to say no to his brother.
According to the letter, he agreed. But when John was alone in the house with his daughters, he couldn't believe what he agreed to. So in his drug-crazed mind, he killed them to save them from his brother. The last line of John's letter summarized the incarcerated man's tortured soul.
"Reggie was the devil disguised as my brother. But I was a monster to agree with him. And I was a demon when I killed my babies. I deserve all that comes my way. The putrid stench of my sins will stay with me forever. I only hope the good Lord and my angels will forgive me. For I never will."
Warrick placed the letter in an evidence envelope. "Mr. Anderson. We would like to keep this for evidence."
"You do what you have to," Anderson said followed by a sip of his coffee. "Has anyone retrieved his body?"
"No."
"I asked our pastor if I could ask donations to give John a proper cremation," Anderson said. "In the letter John said his daughters were buried and the only place he would want to be is at their side. But he told me he wasn't worthy, even in death to be with them. So he asked he be cremated and his remains be scattered among the trees that shade their graves."
The men fell silent until Anderson asked, "You gentlemen need anything else?"
"No. Thank you." And Brass and Warrick left.
The two colleagues made one last stop before returning to the lab that day. When Sara answered the door her smile seemed a little forced. She was pleasant and a little more cordial than normal.
"Everything okay, Sara?" Jim asked as they stepped inside.
"Yeah, I'm just not feeling too good today. Morning sickness and all that."
"Ah, is there anything that we can do?"
"No," her smile became a little more warm and a little less guarded. "It's just a baby thing."
"Yeah, I remember when my wife Marcy was pregnant. That woman would eat any and everything all day but come morning... I would have all I could do not to be next to her puking my guts out."
Sara clutched her stomach with one hand and grabbed Jim's arm with the other. "I'm gonna stop you right there. I'd rather not think about it if you don't mind."
Jim chuckled when he realized what she meant. "Sorry, Sara. Is Gil around?"
"Yeah, he's upstairs. What's going on?"
"We have a new piece of evidence that I think he'd like to see." Warrick said and showed her the letter from John Shelling.
She lead them upstairs and into the master bedroom where Gil lay on the bed with his injured leg propped up on pillows. He was reading the latest forensic journal and peered over his reading glasses when they entered the room. Sara sat down on the edge of the bed beside him and Warrick pulled up the chair while Jim stood at the foot of the bed silently watching. Gil looked between his friends and then to Warrick when he spoke.
"We just got back from Colten Anderson's house."
"I was beginning to wonder if he fell off the map." Gil said with raised eyebrows.
"Helping his sick father in Mesquite." Jim interjected and Gil nodded.
"He gave us this letter that was sent to him by John Shelling before his death." Warrick continued as he passed the letter to his mentor.
Gil quietly read through the letter as the others watched him. They tried to gauge his reaction but his face remained still. When he was finished he took off his glasses and laid them and the letter on his lap. He looked out the window for a few minutes as thoughts swam in his head. He thought back to the night that he had first entered John Shelling's house and found his three daughters. He thought of what would have happened to them had John let Reggie do with them as he pleased. Thoughts of Michael O'Tool sharing his testimony of being owned by Reggie Shelling and Rubin Denalgio soon joined the others. All of those images mixed with memories of what happened to him during his own time in captivity.
Sara took his hand when she saw his eyes begin to mist and Warrick and Jim exchanged bothered looks. "Gil?" Sara quietly called to him and he slowly shook his head.
"They had no way out," Gil's choked voice was barely more than a whisper as he looked back down at the letter. He looked up at Sara as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "They had no one to save them."
He sighed as he handed the letter back to Warrick and informed them that he was tired. They said their goodbyes and Sara walked them to the door.
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Dr. Diller recommended Gil receive care from an orthopedic surgeon from Desert Palm. Dr. Dennis Hardgrove had shared the same laid back demeanor as Diller and although Gil was tense around the new man Hardgrove never gave it a second thought. He had been friendly and after learning what their careers were he didn't try to simplify. Gil appreciated that and found it easier to accept the technical terms than that of a layman.
Insurance accepted the surgery quickly and it was scheduled for the following week. Gil had been warned to stay off his feet as much as possible as there was swelling due to his activity and Hardgrove said that it would interfere with the surgery. So he had to spend a lot of time laying in their bed watching TV or reading.
It became increasingly difficult for Sara to spend her days with Gil and not say anything. The closer it came to the day of his surgery the more agitated he became. She knew that it weighed heavily on his mind and although he didn't say anything to lead her to think so she also knew that he was worried. Even though she did feel bad for him it did nothing to alleviate the extra stress that he caused her on a daily basis.
His knee hurt him but the mental pain that his inactivity caused seemed to be worse. Not being able to busy himself gave Gil more time to think and his thoughts often drifted to his time in capture. On many occasions Sara would walk into the bedroom and find him staring into space with the same look of pure hatred in his eyes.
She knew that the anger was building in him again and when she offered him the new journal that she bought for him, as his original one was full, he looked at it and tossed it onto the nightstand. He found it almost pleasurable to dwell on his thoughts of revenge again and he didn't want to make them go away so quickly this time.
His disregard for Sara's thoughtfulness had taken her to the brink and pissed her off. At first she felt like crying and immediately left the room, unbeknownst to the man on the bed. Once downstairs she quickly chastised herself for being so sensitive. She decided that she had every right to be pissed off. She had been waiting on him hand and foot for almost a week. She had cooked and cleaned and done everything but held him while he peed.
To top it all off I'm carrying his child. She thought as she pulled the box of ice cream out of the freezer. As she slammed the frozen box down on the counter she began mumbling as her thoughts took voice. "He doesn't have the decency to even say thank you!" She slammed the glass bowl down on the counter and slammed the drawer shut after retrieving a spoon. "What does he think I am, his fucking maid?!"
The next few days were cold at the townhouse. Neither of the couple showed affection for one another. Sara was coming to realization of the fact that she was carrying life inside of her. All the years of her never wanting kids and now she was pregnant. Not that she was having second thoughts but it added to her anxiety. The hormones only increased and what she needed from Gil she was getting the exact opposite. She was beginning to wonder if he would ever be capable again of giving her what she needed from him.
One afternoon while Sara was in the kitchen making sandwiches emotions surfaced for both lovers. Gil had had more than enough of lying in bed and gingerly made his way downstairs to the kitchen. When he opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of water Sara turned around to see who it was. She almost couldn't believe at first that he was downstairs but her mood changed again.
"You're supposed to be off your feet, Gil." She said tersely as she grabbed the bottle from his hand.
"I'm thirsty, it's fine." Gil clenched his jaw as he grabbed the bottle back.
"Do you ever want to walk again, or are you happy with me waiting on you hand and foot?" Sara sneered as she went back to the sandwiches, mangling them in the process. "I mean, what do you want from me, Gil? Do you realize how fucking tired I am? Do you?" Gil was silent as he stared at her and processed what she was saying. His lack of response only made her more angry. "You know, there are times when you just make me want to scream! You know that!" She looked down at the plate of mangled sandwiches in her hand. "Look at this! I can't even make a sandwich because I'm so… goddamn… pissed!"
"Sara. Come on. I never said I was hungry," Gil said. They were both angry. They were both tired. They were both in pain.
"Oh, just shut the hell up, Gilbert!"
Gil looked as if he'd been slapped across the face. His eyes grew wide and his breathing became ragged as visions of Shelling standing in front of him, holding the bottle of water, flashed through his memory. His eyes began to tear as his body flinched with the feeling of the roach clips being ripped from his skin.
She instantly recognized the look in his eyes and took a step forward. "Gil?" When she put her hand on his arm he flinched and pushed it away.
He stumbled and staggered and worked hard not to fall on the floor. But he did, despite his efforts, and once down Sara had to think fast. What if he had another outburst? What if he hurt her? What if he hurt the baby? The question bombarded her at a thousand miles an hour.
She quickly decided and went to his side, kneeling on the floor. He looked up at her with the familiar look of terror and confusion in his eyes. As reality began to creep back in Gil began to violently pound his thigh. Sara grabbed his wrist. "Gil, stop it!"
"I can't! It won't fucking go away!" He propped his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands as he began to gently rock back and forth. His body flinched again when Sara put her hand on his shoulder. "We can't talk or have a fucking argument without these goddamn flashbacks coming up! And look what it's doing to you. You shouldn't have to put up with this and you can't keep babysitting me! If you knew how worried I am about you… and all I can think about is myself and these fucking memories!" He glanced up at her. "I'm sorry, Sara, I don't mean to be a burden. Really, I don't. I want to be the best husband and father that I can be."
With Sara's help he got back onto his feet and moved back into the kitchen. They stood in an uncomfortable silence for a couple of minutes. Sara's feelings still brewed. She wanted to be forgiving, but she was too tired. And for some reason, stewing in her frustration and anger felt better than turning the other cheek.
Gil, on the other hand, started to focus on Sara. Maybe if he began to focus on her needs, he could somehow make up for his feelings of insignificance in the relationship. She was the best thing in his life, and she deserved to be treated well, even if it meant bothering his abused knee. So he began to busy himself.
Sara stepped up close behind him. "What are you doing?" She demanded.
"I'm just making you a little lunch." Gil said as he took two slices of bread from the bag.
"No! Dammit, Gil, you're supposed to be off your feet!"
"It'll just take a minute." He soothed as he turned and put his hands on her shoulders. "It's okay, Sara, just let me do this for you and I'll go back upstairs."
Sara sat down at the table as she watched him return to his task. She was pissed that he wasn't listening but decided not to say anything and let him do what he wanted. She knew that he wouldn't listen to her anyway and that pissed her off all the more.
When he was done Gil set the plate down in front of her. He knew she was angry, but considering all her stress and circumstances, she had every right to be. "Can I get you anything else, dear?"
She opened the bread and saw that he used fresh tomatoes and greens and had even added that special sauce of his that she liked. His kindness still did nothing to ease her bad mood and she turned a cold shoulder to him.
"Can I get you anything else, honey? Something to drink?"
"No, this is fine. Now go upstairs before I call Warrick." She took a bite of the sandwich, deciding that it was enough thanks for him, and Gil turned away dejectedly and made his way back upstairs.
Hours past. Gil stayed in the bedroom and Sara puttered around the house. She flitted from room to room. She would start an activity like laundry and then stop to go to the kitchen. She would wash a couple of dishes and then stop to start a crossword puzzle.
By mid afternoon, she sat on the couch and caressed her stomach. She sat for some two hours, just stroking her belly and watching old 1980s sitcoms on a local channel. Although her eyes were on the television screen, her mind was far from processing the stale plotlines. Sometimes thoughts made her frown, other times made her roll her eyes, and a final one made her just stop and sit up.
She sat up and pondered. "Huh," she said in a slow, reserved tone.
Before the next episode of "Night Court" started, she turned off the television and went to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway to see Gil laying on the bed and watching the ball game with little enthusiasm on his face.
"Did you say that you wanted to marry me?"
"What?" Gil looked at her as his brow furrowed.
"At lunch time. You said that you wanted to be the best husband you could be."
That had been at noon and when Gil looked at the clock it was 5:30 p.m. He shut off the television and set the remote on the nightstand. "Yeah… I do." Sara went to the bed and sat down next to him. He gingerly sat up and scooted next to her on the bed. "I love you, Sara… I always have. I know you're mad at me… and I don't want to ask you and have you say, 'Yes' or 'No' for the wrong reason."
Sara sighed as she took his hand and spoke quietly. "I'm not mad at you… it's just these damn hormones. I know that it's not your fault that you're laid up… and if it were up to you you'd be out going to work and living your life. Not stuck in this bed waiting to be cut open. If there is one thing that I have learned from this job is that life's too short to stay angry with the ones you love." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips then pulled back enough to look him in the eye. "If the invitation is still open… my answer is yes."
Gil caressed her face as he pulled her closer for a deeper connection. As they kissed each other passionately he reached into the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a small velvet box. When he backed off from the kiss he held the box up between them. He singlehandedly opened the black case and revealed the diamond ring inside.
"I'm afraid I can't do this properly… but… Sara Sidle, would you be my wife?"
Tears filled her eyes as she looked from the clear, precious stone and into his soft, blue eyes. "Yes, Gil Grissom," she struggled to speak passed the lump in her throat. "I'll be your wife."
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The proposal had changed Sara's mood. She still became easily agitated but when she looked at the precious stone that held much more value than anything financial it lifted her spirits and her mood would change. Even if it didn't last long. The day before Gil's scheduled surgery he was especially moody himself and Sara had to remind herself almost every fifteen minutes not to get angry and to be understanding. She found herself separating from him frequently by leaving the room so that she wouldn't say anything and make it worse. Then she would go back downstairs and proceed in beating the couch cushion as Stacey had suggested.
That evening she had just about had her fill and couldn't take anymore. When the phone rang and it was Warrick asking if they wanted company she nearly screamed at him. Twenty minutes later he and Jim were ringing the door bell. Sara welcomed them in and they looked at each other warily when they noticed the agitated look on her face.
"How you doing?" Warrick asked with a warm smile.
"I'm okay," she smiled sheepishly. "Sorry for being so abrupt on the phone. It's just been a bad day."
"Ah, the surgery?"
"Yeah, he's just... really worried... and that's made us both moody."
"Where is Captain Cricket?" Jim asked and Sara smiled as she lead them into the living room.
"He became very tired of being upstairs all day and insisted on at least laying on the couch."
Gil looked up from the television when they entered the room. "What are you guys doing here?"
"Thought maybe you could use some company." Warrick held his friendly smile.
"And a distraction." Jim's grin made Gil laugh.
"What'd you have in mind?"
"I was thinking poker. Take all of your money before the doctors do."
"Sounds good, I could use a good distraction."
"Well, if you boys are going to keep your eyes on Doctor Feelgood here than I am going to the store." Sara leaned over the back of the couch and gave her fiance a quick kiss on the lips.
"What are you going to the store for?" Gil asked.
"I need some ice cream... and a few other things." She smiled when Gil chuckled and said her goodbyes.
The evening proved to be a good distraction. They had played several hands and talked about everything but the surgery and Gil's case. It made his friends feel good to hear him laugh and although he may have denied it Gil felt good, too.
"I need to get up for a minute," he announced and Jim and Warrick pulled out the card table so he could get off the couch. After using the bathroom he stopped by the kitchen. "You guys want anything?" He called.
When they both placed an order, Jim's being a sixteen inch pizza with all the toppings, Gil laughed and pulled some drinks from the fridge and a bag of chips from the cupboard. He looked at the clock and wondered where Sara was, as she had been gone almost an hour, and his cell rang. He picked his phone up off the counter and read the ID. 'Sidle' He smiled as he flipped open the phone and thought how it would soon be changed to Grissom.
"Hey, honey, get all of your shopping done?" The familiar masculine voice that replied to his question froze Gil's heart and turned his blood to ice water in his veins.
"Who's my good boy?" Reggie Shelling asked.
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A/N: There, that's what I call tough love. You come out those dark corners and join the rest of us!
Hmmm... Shelling seems to get some sweet kick out using other people's phones. Sick bastard! So... he had Greg the first time... UH OH!!!!!
