Disclaimer: I don't own.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I had no idea so many people still cared about this one! :) It makes me happy--Destiny is my baby, as I've said about a hundred times.
For those who asked, I'm sticking to cannon and the series as closely as possible. If I make a mistake, please correct me.
Kathy--I have it in my head that this this will be the one I'll work on right now, but if you don't want to reread it until I'm actually sure... give me a week. If I'm still updating close to daily, then you can reread it. I don't want you to go through all those chapters and then I stop posting. ...That would be very like me. :)
Also, this is kind of creepy, but I saw a commercial for Dunkin' Donuts today and thought of you. :) (...that was the place you like iced coffee from, yes?) ...I know. Creepy. I promise I'm not though! ...I just love my reviews. A little too much.
Enjoy! :)
Chapter 18: Praise
Grissom was…different. He seemed like he was trying more.
He took me out to a diner after Brenda… he looked… truly grateful when I'd brought him a sandwich… he noticed when one of my tires was low and followed me to a gas station, just to make sure I'd make it. When I'd pulled in and parked, I'd expected him to wave and drive away… but instead, he parked beside me, filled it up, checked the pressure, and even made us sit for a minute to make sure that it wasn't going flat on me.
So when he asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat before shift, I didn't think anything of it. Maybe a month ago, I would have jumped at the idea of a date… but now, it was understood that we shared meals, and they weren't dates. …For them to be dates, one of us would have to distinguish them as such… and we didn't.
And when he called to cancel, saying he'd been called in early on something important, but he should be in the lab by the start of shift, I was disappointed… but not crushed. I had also learned, since moving to Vegas, that Grissom's life was his work. It was no wonder he hadn't been willing to sacrifice it for me—I was the woman who slept with other men when his desire to spend the holidays struck me as threatening… and his work, was everything.
So I expected something interesting when I came in for shift, anxiously awaiting his arrival. Maybe he'd even have me work it with him—he liked to work with me… the way our minds worked was in sync, and it was more than easy to slip into an easy back and forth, bouncing ideas and evidence back and forth between us. When I entered the break room, Nick and Warrick were playing their football game—dream cast something or other… The two of them and Greg spent far too much time discussing it over breakfast.
I hardly had time to get settled and think about whether I wanted another cup of coffee after all I'd consumed prior to coming in, when Catherine stuck her head in the door—"Sara—Grissom called, he said the two of us should wait in his office…"
I beamed. I was on whatever exciting case this was—and with three of us working it, it had to be important. Catherine laughed and shook her head as I eagerly sprang from my chair, waving goodbye to the men and falling into step beside her. We didn't speak, because there was very little the two of us shared… but once we reached his office and had nothing to do but stand and wait… conversation feel obligatory.
I sighed. "So, uh… do you know what he's got for us?"
She smiled a bland smile, like she too pull the pull of social norms for conversation to occur, but also knew we had very little to talk about… except Grissom. But as a rule, the two of us didn't talk about Grissom. …Maybe that was just my rule, I don't know. "No idea…" Her eyes flickered around the room, lingering on the doorway and then his desk. "I'll bet he's got something about it around here though…"
She made her way over to his desk, and for a moment I lamented my inability to walk quite the way Catherine did. …Her steps were self-assured, the sway of her hips was simultaneously feminine and powerful. When Catherine walked—when Catherine just moved—you noticed. …So I guess I could see why Grissom might find her attractive. I mean, she rubs me the wrong way but… it's different, for women.
She pulled up a stack of papers and despite myself, I was curious. I moved over, glancing at them, but as far as I could tell they were case notes from day shift. Apparently they'd had a bug-riddled body that he'd been unable to come in to consult on, so he was double-checking their evidence before the D.A. would file charges. …When had Grissom been unable to come in?
"Okay, we're going off the board tonight." I turned, feeling guilty for looking through his papers, though Catherine seemed profoundly unconcerned.
"Off the board?" I asked casually, to cover said guilt.
"The ones that got away," Catherine explained, glancing at it the large cork board on his wall that looked like a fish. "Fish." She added, when I didn't seem to get it right away.
"Ohhh, I missed that one…"
Grissom, however, was all business. "First victim—Royce Harmon. About three months ago, Brass and I found this guy dead in his own bathtub, but his "suicide" was staged. I think the killer has killed again." He passed me the photos of the crime; clearly I was the only one out of the loop on this. "Photos of tonight's victim: Stuart Rampler." He handed Catherine the pictures of the newer scene. "Play the 'pick six things that are different' game—Bet you lose."
Catherine leaned over to glance at the more older pictures and I glanced up at Grissom, giving him a smirk. He had such an eccentric way of speaking. "This guy's good."
"Not good—exceptional. Print examiner lifted a thumbprint off the mini-recorder near the tub of our first victim. The print came back this." She glanced around and then walked behind, producing from a shelf a rubber hand. Have I mentioned that I love Grissom's office? I love his office. I raised my eyebrow anyway—loving his eccentricities was not part of the case—instead inspecting the fingerprints on the hand. Grissom spoke up.
"The killer purchased one of these rubber hands, laced the fingertips with cooking spray, and proceeded to place false prints all around the crime scene."
"This guy is good," I repeated, unwilling to change my adjective to suit Catherine's hyperbole. "Whose prints are these?"
"Some guy who works in a warehouse making Halloween paraphernalia. Scary masks, air-brushed tombstones, rubber hands. Turns out he used his own hand for the mold."
"So what do we do?" Catherine asks, interrupting my quirky genius in his element.
He brushed it off. He was used to it. "We split up. You and I go to the coroner. Sara, you go to the hotel. Dust every inch of that bathroom. Here…Use this." He reached moved over to a shelf and, once again, out of nowhere, produced a container of the red print dust he'd given me for Christmas the year Jim and Marlene died. He hands it to me, launching into an explanation. "Red Creeper. My own concoction."
"Wow." I say, for Catherine's benefit, and perhaps in part to make him feel guilty. I smirked and kept my eyes on the container. He'd never told me the name before, but I still had the small container he'd given me in my kit. It bothered me that he acted as if this were the first time I'd be seeing it… but I was excited to use it. I hadn't had authorization to use it at any other crime scene, though I doubt I would have anyway… it had been a gift.
"Well, serious case, serious print powder." He explains, unnecessarily, disregarding all my subtext entirely. "Be thorough. Don't take anything for granted." He instructed.
Unlike him, I address the subtext. He's telling me the level of trust he's put in me… He's telling me that there's a reason he sent me off solo and kept Catherine with him. "Yes, sir." I say softly, meaning the words fully, though in the past the title would have been meant to hurt. He had trusted me—I couldn't ask for more than that.
I was determined to find something, because Grissom was frustrated by this case. He had put his faith in me, in a case that was causing him no small amount of frustration, and no matter what he said, I did want to be his star pupil, just like in the second week of the conference at which we'd met. I wanted him to be impressed with me. Unfortunately, the bathroom was spotless… not even Red Creeper could help me now—the only thing I found was exactly what he wanted me to find. An upside down stamp on a stack of the victim's letters.
Back at the lab, Grissom and Catherine were still gone. I called to tell them about the stamp, but they were heading to see someone named 'Disco,' so I didn't keep them. I brought the mail to Greg, to test the DNA of the lickers. He teased me playfully while we waited for the results, and then they came in—the right-side up ones were from our victim, Stuart Rampler. The upside-down one… unknown.
"He's toying with us." I muttered, frustrated… wondering what exactly the stamps meant.
"Who?" asked Greg, glancing around as if to find the culprit with his nose pressed to the glass of the DNA lab.
"Anonymous." I answered, getting up and moving swiftly from his lab.
I figured I'd look into details about the victims. True, it wasn't a serial until there were three victims, but it was the beginning of a serial… and serials worked in patterns. They had systems… M.O.s. And if I was right about this killer—if he was sending messages via postage stamps—then all of this was to send a message. The victims were important.
The victims were white, single males in their forties… nothing else stood out to me, until I was glancing over photographs of Royce's personal effects. His wallet, with a license that listed, of course, his date of birth… it was Grissom's birthday, but 1958 rather than 1956. I doubt I would have noticed it if it hadn't been Grissom's birthday… but it stood out to me, so I checked Stuart's information. He was the same, but it was 1957.
I heard Grissom and Catherine down the hall, entering his office, and I jumped to my feet. This was important. "I did some comparative digging on both victims—" I rattled off the details, trying desperately to ignore the fact that Catherine was planted firmly on top of Grissom's desk. If I sat on his desk, he'd say 'Sara…' with that you-know-better tone. "…and, both have the same birthdays."
I glanced at Grissom. There was little to no chance the killer knew his birthday, so I didn't mention out loud that it was his. He could choose to share it with Catherine if he wanted to… and apparently, he didn't. "Royce Harmon, born August 17, 1958. Stuart Rampler, born August 17, 1957. One year apart."
Catherine started speaking—a backwards pattern, he was telling us to look backwards—but for a moment I knew that neither of us really heard her. Gil had met my gaze, and we communicated the silent knowledge of his birthday.
"…the postage stamp was upside down…" She finished, glancing at me for conformation.
"Yeah…" I added, grateful I'd been at least half listening. Grissom turns away from me as I speak, and the spell of the moment is broken.
"Maybe he's telling us… In order to go forward, go back. Sara, go back one more year—August 17, 1956. See if anything pops up with the same M.O." Other than your birthday?
"I'm gone." I nodded, sweeping from the room. I could forgive him the blonde perched on his paperwork, because I clearly knew the man better than she did… and his eyes had held mine, even when she was speaking… even when she was speaking about an elusive potential serial killer who had so far stumped him.
From Gil Grissom, there was no higher praise.
