Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: So I struggled with this chapter, and it's way longer than most, but I don't know that there's anything I'm willing to cut. I wasn't going to reveal to you lovely readers for a while why Sara's mom finally snapped, but... it seemed right. :)
Reviews are wonderful, thanks to all my faithful readers and reviewers, and as always, I'll try to update more regularly (and also update my others... I have a new idea floating in my head, but I've told myself I'm not allowed to write any of it until I finish Consequences, Baby sooo hopefully that will give me some motivation!).
Also, I posted this in a hurry, so I didn't proof-read. Sorry. :(
Chapter 16: Barbara
It was my night off... I hated nights off.
But Grissom had insisted that I take time off, once he realized that I hadn't had a night off since I'd started, either being called in or coming in to finish a case when I was scheduled to be off. It might also have had something to do with the phone call the previous week. It had been rather unexpected, and so I was flustered and not thinking clearly… and admitted too readily that I hadn't been sleeping.
But really, he'd known for years that sleep was at times a stretch for me. He didn't sound surprised, even, just concerned. And I was so happy that we might be friends again, might be speaking outside of the lab again, that I couldn't be upset at my unintentional revelation.
So here I was, stuck on my couch in my lonely apartment, a bottle of beer on the coffee table in front of me, open but full. I had taken a single drink upon twisting off the top, and hadn't touched it in the hour since. The worst part of having a night off is just that—it's nighttime. Your body won't let you sleep, but unless you want to go get trashed at a club or gamble the night away in the clock-free casinos, there's not much to do but watch infomercials, reread old novels, and listen to the police scanner.
I had called Kelly earlier—we'd talked for a couple hours, catching up. She berated me for being so unreachable, but then, we worked opposite schedules. Joey had grown so much since I'd last seen him, she told me, talking endlessly about his daycare and how much he was talking and how Eric had already bought him a little tee ball set. She talked about her kids, and her art, and I found myself listening happily, tears in my eyes.
Her life was beautiful, and happy, and I honestly wasn't bitter. I was envious, yes, but not spitefully so. I was honestly happy for her.
But it was difficult to listen to, which prevented me from focusing on any book I tried… which left the scanner. After a few hours, I dragged the thing into the bathroom and ran myself a bath. I hadn't had a hot bath in a long time, as I hadn't had a day off and didn't particularly like the idea of soaking in whatever I had brought back from my crime scenes. But I hadn't been near a dead body since my last shower, so I figured it was alright.
Surprisingly, the hot water soothed me to the point that my eyes were drooping. I was exhausted, but ever since the diner, I'd been having the same nightmare over and over—Greg had told Grissom that he was the one I'd slept with, and the look on his face made it immensely clear that there was no possible forgiveness for my great lie… no future for us. Because in truth, I hadn't given up hoping that my proximity alone would tempt him back to me, eventually. I don't know how I retained the hope, especially after hearing about Teri Miller, but then how else could I explain the softness in his tone when he said my name?
It was different than when he said any of the guys names, and even different from the way he said 'Catherine.'
I shook my head, feeling a strand of hair fall from the knot I'd wrapped it up in, to keep my hair dry. I didn't want to have to tame my curls again tonight. When my eyes drooped again, I shook my head and sat up a little straighter. Being tired didn't make sleep acceptable… I couldn't stand losing him again, in a dream or otherwise. I rose out of the tub, slowly, thinking that I'd have to camp out on the couch because my bed would be far too tempting, when a call came over the scanner, requesting police for a 419.
If it were a slow night, Grissom would be mad if I went in to work. But then, if it were busy, he would just be grateful… and there was no chance that I would fall asleep at a scene. I hesitated in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my thin frame, and then turned the volume up and moved to my bedroom. I would begin dressing, and wait for more information.
I hadn't even finished toweling off before I heard a request for back up, EMTs, and CSIs. It sounded serious, so I dressed in real clothing, rather than pajamas, and let my hair fall around my shoulders, grateful that I'd kept it dry. I really needed to work right now.
I was slipping on shoes as the scanner announced that it was a confirmed quadruple 419, with two possibly hurt. I breathed a deep sigh of relief, switched it off, and hurried out to my car. A big crime like this was very public, so I knew Grissom would be on it, whether he'd had another case tonight or not. When we were getting along, I always looked forward to working with him. …Always.
It was a short drive, and by avoiding the strip, traffic was manageable. It was less than fifteen minutes from leaving my apartment that I arrived on the scene, slipping out of my vehicle and flashing my credentials to the officers guarding the crime scene tape. They smiled—we knew each other by sight, although I didn't know either of their names and I was fairly certain they didn't know mine. There were other officers contaminating the crime scene by puking in the bushes outside the house, but I was torn between correcting them and getting inside as fast as possible—it reminded me of the day my father died, which was a rather unpleasant memory, all in all.
The latter impulse won out, and I hurried inside, moving along the walls and following his voice up the stairs in time to hear his note-taker about to be sick.
"I got it. Go get some fresh air." I pulled the clipboard from his already clammy fingers and turned my gaze to Grissom. He was watching me intently, the question in his eyes. "I heard on the scanner. Quadruple. Figured you might need a hand."
His eyes tell me that he's grateful, but his words are concerned. "You never sleep, do you?"
I shake my head, not meeting his gaze, but keep my voice soft—there's no reason for us to fight.
"No."
I glance at him, and there's a moment in which our gazes are locked, and then he breaks it, looking around himself. Which is when I notice the blood swirl on the wall. Was it a cult? An imitation? I ask Grissom, because if anyone could tell at a glance, it would be him. He shakes his head. Even he doesn't know why anyone would do this.
We finished the walkthrough, and I was beginning to get excited. Obviously I hated the death of it all, but if I refused to think about the people and just did my job, a case like this could keep me awake and therefore nightmare-free for several days, just to process. The only moment I had stuttered had been in the master bedroom—the mother had been killed in her sleep, and in a way that was both crazy and yet seemed to make perfect sense, I could feel her there. Grissom could too—I saw it in the set of his shoulders as soon as we entered. So when he asked, "Do you feel this?" I didn't have to ask what he meant.
I nodded. "Her soul's still in the room."
He was in full work mode when we exited the home, directing people right and left and calling the entire shift to this scene to help. I didn't know if it had been a slow night or not, so I wasn't sure whether this request was extreme or not… but considering the line of press already congregating outside the crime scene tape, it probably wasn't. The sheriff would be on his ass for days.
He sent me to blow up the pictures I'd made, and alert the lab that, as far as we were concerned, this crime scene was the only one in Vegas tonight. I understood this—in truth, it was a horrible scene… two dead little boys, the daughters lucky as hell to have survived… a mother killed while sleeping, the father taken down in an effort to protect his youngest daughter… and Gi—Grissom had always told me he had a hard time with dead kids. But then, nobody found the job easy when it came to children. Still, his tone was so professional and commanding and in-control, that I didn't hesitate a moment.
"Yes, sir." Everything else could wait. This was the only crime in Vegas.
By the time I returned from the lab, Grissom was arguing with the sheriff and the duties seemed to have been distributed already, although there was certainly more than enough to go around. Nick and Warrick were doing the perimeter, Catherine was inside… but surely, on a quadruple, it wasn't overkill to have three people inside. I waited for him, and it didn't take long. …That wouldn't make the sheriff happy.
"You want me inside?"
"I need you to transport the little girl to the police department. Brass is waiting for you."
My temper flared. "You're kidding me, right? I'm a taxi service on the biggest case of the year?!"
He didn't seem impressed. He pursed his lips and gave me a look of barely concealed exasperation. "Sara… I need one of us with that little girl."
And he walked away, just like that.
The entire ride over to PD, I played that sentence over and over in my mind. Who, exactly, had he meant by us? Did he need one of the team with her, because then it should be Warrick—he'd been the last to be promoted. Or Catherine—she was the mother, wasn't she? Hell, Nick was nurturing as anything. …Or had he meant us as in one of the two of us? …Then, of course, he couldn't leave, but…
But what the hell did that mean, if he wanted one of the two of us? Why? What did I possess that the others didn't? …No, he must have meant one of the team… in which case, it shouldn't be me. I'd come in on my night off!
I was in this same temper when I reached PD—I held back only long enough to get the girl a piece of paper and crayons, and then I didn't hesitate to tell Brass that I thought Catherine ought to be playing babysitter, rather than me. He chuckled and made excuses—for some reason, he seemed to like me a lot, despite the frequent disagreements he had with Warrick and Grissom—and I was left to now escort Brenda to the hospital to meet with her social worker. …Which was great, because I just love social workers.
Ugh.
She scribbled out her picture when I told her it was pretty, and knocked everything from the table in the sweep of her little arm when I asked if she wanted to go for a ride. …I wasn't mad at her. My heart went out to her—poor little girl had lost almost her entire family in a single night. No, I was mad at Grissom. I wasn't good with kids, so why on earth would he send me with Brenda. Clearly I was only upsetting her further.
I tried to talk to her in the car—of course, she didn't speak…. didn't even react. Once at the hospital, she was taken to get checked over more thoroughly than the paramedics had done, and I was joined ten minutes later by her social worker. The woman was kind when she introduced herself and took a seat next to me, but she also had a certain demeanor, like she was not only all business but all control.
I knew this type of person, and I braced myself for the confrontation that was to come, because I never enjoyed confrontation, really, I just… had too little control over my temper to avoid it, more often than not. And when Brenda came out, apparently in need of a psych evaluation, it started.
"Thanks, I'll take it from here," she said, treating me exactly like the taxi driver I had complained of being only an hour or so previously.
"What… What's the… head exam for?" I sounded like I was one of those people who thought anyone who talked to a psychiatrist or psychologist was crazy. …I wasn't, but I'd spent too much of my life around shrinks to trust them implicitly.
"I said, I'll take it from here." Like I had a hearing problem? I took a quick, calming breath.
"Look, …if there's any… forensic evidence found… during this exam, I need to be there."
"It's already going to be tense…" the woman was winding up, but Brenda was already moving over to me. "Go back to your crime lab, I'll keep you posted."
He little hand slipped behind me, clutching onto my shirt, tugging gently. A glance at her showed the first flicker of genuine emotion I'd seen on her—fear. And I knew, even if I didn't need to stay with her for any particular reason, I wouldn't leave her with that look in her eyes.
"It's okay, Brenda. I'm not leaving you." I said the last part to the woman, who sighed her frustrated at me, but the little girl pressed against my side was far more important. She needed me.
I took a seat then, and Brenda climbed into my lap, but still chose not to speak to me. After a moment, her eyes became distant again, and she stopped reacting to things around her. I knew this reaction well—it perfectly matched the way my mother had looked after she killed my father. She'd backed away in horror, covered her face with her bloodied hands, and slid to the floor, back to the corner of the kitchen cupboards and the wall, sobbing. And when the sobs stilled, she was no longer my mother… she wasn't anything. Her eyes, her expression… they were both blank. And I huddled beneath the kitchen table in my tattered nightgown, afraid of my dead father and afraid of my empty mother.
The psych evaluation was basic and short—because Brenda didn't move or react or even look at the man. As he was winding down, I realized something—and quickly wrote on the piece of paper that was still blank before me, the seven-letter word that she had spoken to Grissom… the only word she'd spoken all night.
The man looked down at it with curiosity, and back to Brenda, whose eyes had not flickered ever remotely when I'd moved from my place beside her to lean over the table and slide the paper to him.
"Brenda?" Nothing.
"…Buffalo."
Something in her snapped, in that moment. She was kicking, screaming, flailing her arms. She leapt to her feet and threw the chair in which she'd been sitting as far as she could—only a few feet, but the act itself was still frightening. She pushed at the table, threw anything her hands could grasp at the man, and then dissolved into tears, her head in my lap.
The brilliant doctor that he was said she was in a catatonic state induced by trauma, and that he wanted to keep her at the hospital for observations. …I wondered exactly what he would be observing, since thus far, he hadn't told me anything that wasn't already obvious. Next he'd be pointing out that she had blonde hair, or that she was a girl. Instead of telling me about her catatonia, maybe he should be helping me figure out why the word buffalo upset her so much… or maybe he should be making Brenda… not catatonic. That, I would find helpful.
When she fell asleep, I headed back to the crime lab. I needed to catch up with the others, see what they'd found. Brenda needed a little rest, and I could hardly determine exactly what had happened to her without an idea of the direction the case was taking. Which, I think, should be rather obvious. Exactly what could I do without a lead?
Apparently, this didn't occur to Grissom. I moved into the break room, where everyone was seated, and grabbed myself a quick bite as well, as this would probably be my only chance to eat tonight. I slid into a seat, figuring out what was suspected so far—other than what I'd already heard from Greg as I walked through the lab—and then, for some reason, was confronted, after I told Grissom that Brenda had freaked out at the mention of the word buffalo.
"And… what are you doing about it now?" He asked, in his best condescending tone. Catherine's expression—eyebrows raised as if to question whether I should have been trusted with something so important was the last straw.
"…Going back to the girl. …I left her in the car."
Ah, and there it was. The pair of them looking alarmed. It took all my self control to keep a straight face and not roll my eyes at them.
"The windows are cracked." The silence intensified, their eyes wide, and though I was angry about the way the entire night had played out—this was just the cherry on top—I couldn't help but laugh a little, giving him my best condescending expression too. "Give me a little credit. She's at the hospital."
I got up, flashing a grin at Nick and Warrick, who were struggling to control their laughter, and completely ignoring a still slack-jawed Catherine and Grissom. If I didn't love him so much, I would think they deserved each other.
I stayed with her the rest of the night, while she slept, and into the next day. I tried to get her to talk, and she wouldn't… and so I observed at her shrink tried a myriad of different ways to get her to communicate. When my phone rang, and it was Grissom, I was expecting him to be upset I hadn't yet returned to the lab or gone home. Somehow, though, he knew I was still with Brenda—and wanted me to look for signs of sexual abuse, although there had been no overt signs…
The ultraviolet pictures revealed bruises across her shoulders, and a rape kit came back—there was semen present, although it had mostly deteriorated, but the bruising indicated rape. I wanted to be violently ill—her father had raped her and, once Grissom spoke to Tina, it became clear that she was not the younger sister, but the child of Tina and their father.
At which point I was ill, because if my mother hadn't snapped and killed my father when she saw… I could have been just like Tina. I could have had a Brenda of my own. And though I struggled to not blame my mother for killing my father—because I would never have gone to foster homes if she hadn't—there was not a single part of me that could blame Tina. …I would have done exactly the same thing.
I held Brenda's hand, not knowing what to say, because I was certain it was her father's actions in life, not his death, which had done the most damage, and because we understood that particular kind of pain more fully than anyone ought to.
