A/N: Thanks for reading!

Christmas in Vegas

Chapter 2

Sara Sidle arrived at the house on Popular Street, one of the old neighborhoods in Vegas with neat yards and small houses built five or six decades ago. One uniformed policeman stood near the front door. A fire truck was still parked at the curb.

A small artificial wreath was hung on the door; not much else indicated the season. Next door, the yard was decorated with a blow-up Santa and reindeer. Across the street, even in the afternoon, multi-colored twinkling lights covered several bushes, hung along the porch and surrounded windows.

The policeman greeted her with "Hi, Sara! I was hoping it'd be you."

She recognized him from two previous investigations; new, young, a little eager to please. "Jake—how are you? What's inside?"

He held up two fingers, saying, "The neighbors called in a gas smell. Gas company and fire guys got here, turned off the gas at the street, and tried to rouse the couple who lives here. When we arrived, neighbor had a key." He stopped a moment, shaking his head. "House was filled with gas—one look, I knew they were gone. One of the fire guys tried for a pulse before realizing—they—they were cold."

"Did you…" Sara pulled on gloves as Jake interrupted her.

"No, no! I—I backed out! The fireman only touched the man on his neck." The young man smiled, saying, "I remembered my training, got out and called you—called CSI."

Nodding, Sara opened the door; Jake started to follow her, seemed to remember he should remain at the door and stepped back.

"I'll call if I need you," Sara said, adding "Thanks."

The smell of gas permeated the first room, a neat living room filled with worn furniture Sara had seen before in homes of elderly. Two recliners, one with a beige cushion flattened from wear, were in front of an old box television set; a table between the chairs was oddly free of the usual bits and pieces of life. Glancing around, there was no newspapers, no mail, no recent photographs. The kitchen, with a small table in the center of the floor, was clean, strangely absent of anything indicating people lived here. A blackened coffee pot sat next to the stove and smelled of recent use.

She paused long enough to take several photographs of the old fashioned stove and the large box of matches next to it.

Passing a bedroom and bathroom, she found an old man and woman, both dressed in faded pajamas, on a narrow bed in the last bedroom. As Sara walked around the bed, she noticed coffee cups, one on the table beside the bed. The other was still in the old man's hand. Both cups were empty. Slowly, carefully, she took a series of photos.

The woman's feet were covered by a blanket; hands were folded as if she'd gone to bed and fell asleep. The old man's head was on a pillow, fallen to one side. She noted a small amount of dark liquid, probably vomit, spotted his pajamas. He too appeared to have gone to sleep.

On the table nearest the man, she found a folded paper. Written in scratchy print on lined note paper, she read the letter of a ninety-one year old man who had been caring for his wife, a woman with dementia. For eleven years, he had managed their daily lives until he had become so frail he could no longer do what was needed to keep both of them in their house. He decided it was time to end their lives by drinking coffee laced with several prescribed medications and turning on the gas.

Biting her lip to keep her emotions checked, she carefully placed the note back on the table. Sighing, she looked around the room. A photograph of a young couple, he in uniform, was on the wall next to an old dresser. Two old and stained hats were on top of a chest along with keys, a knife, a few coins, and a wallet. Opening the wallet, she found a driver's license, several other cards, and thirty-seven dollars.

Six bottles of prescription medications were lined along the back of the chest. She lifted each one, finding three empty. Just in case, something was found later, she took several photographs of the bottles before pulling an evidence bag from a pocket and placing the bottles inside.

The room was sad—depressing—and still reeked of gas. Her eyes watered—from irritation, she decided.

Pulling out her phone, she almost called the coroner's number, thought better of it, and walked back outside where Jake was standing guard.

The young man turned, alert, his eyes inquisitive, when she opened the door.

"The gas smell—I needed a breath," she said. "Did you notice the note by the bed?"

"No—no, I got out. Talked to the neighbor across the street who had a key."

Sara nodded. "Looks deliberate." She didn't want to say 'murder/suicide'. "Did the neighbor mention when she'd seen him?"

"Two days ago—he was at the mailbox. She was worried about him, offered him coffee but he said he needed to get back to his wife. Said the wife hadn't been—she thought the wife had Alzheimer's."

Again, Sara nodded as she called the coroner's office. A few minutes later, she said, "I'm going to—ah—I'm going to walk around the house. The coroner should be here soon."

"This is my first one—murder suicide."

Reaching out, she patted his shoulder. "From his note, he—he made the decision. He wanted to die at home—with her."

"Family?"

She shook her head. "In the note, he said they didn't have any family left."

He nodded, a brief grimace almost made it to his face before he frowned and said, "It's sad, isn't it? But he chose—I—I don't think his wife knew—she wouldn't know, would she? Not if she had Alzheimer's, right?"

Sara did not know how to respond, so she patted his shoulder again and took a long walk around the house, finding an unkempt back yard, several dilapidated chairs, a broken swing hanging from a tree, a stack of cracked flower pots and overgrown flower beds. Standing in the middle of the yard, she noticed a nearly-buried brick path, intertwined like laces on a shoe, and then found an abandoned bird bath toppled from its pedestal.

Carefully, she wiped away dirt, grime, and weeds to discover an intricate design; flowers and vines had been carved around the base. Reaching for the oval-shaped bowl, she turned it over, again wiping away grime until she could see a faded blue colored surface shaped like an open flower.

Remaining where she was, pivoting on the ball of her foot, she saw the yard, not as it was, but as it had been. Someone's garden, lovingly tended, flower beds filled with fragrance, meandering paths, comfortable chairs, a bench underneath a tree, a fruit tree espaliered along the fence. Her tears surprised her; quickly, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and stood.

A few minutes later, she rounded the corner of the house in time to see the coroner's van back into the driveway. Her recent reaction in the yard was pushed away as she helped David with the two bodies, but later, as she headed back to the lab, she made a quick decision.

This was Vegas, she thought. A person could find anything—buy anything—twenty-four hours a day. The second place she stopped, she found what she wanted. Traffic wasn't bad so she made another stop, placed her purchase in the most conspicuous spot in the condo, and arrived back at the lab before anyone—meaning Gilbert Grissom—noticed she had disappeared for an hour.

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