The wind had really picked up. As he steered the lift around the pavement to the outside of the building, he couldn't help feeling extremely grateful that Sara had declined to go with him. She and Morgan were finishing up in the vault, and he had an eyes-free stretch of time to mess up his lift maneuvers. A shudder of embarrassment ran through him again, as his banging into the shelves refused to stop playing itself over and over in his head...
But miraculously... even though it had seemed like it might tip in the wind... he made it to the edge of the wall beneath the window. The crime-based possibilities ran through his mind on his way up. Had someone been trying to break into the vault? Or had they actually succeeded...?
The former seemed considerably more likely when he saw how well fortified it was. Through the glass, Sara and Morgan appeared to be leaving. Neither of them looked back at him until right before the door closed. Sara's eyes darted up to the window, and then away. He flinched a little at the suddenness of it. But she did not look up again.
He sighed, and reached into his belt loop for the scraper he'd put there. The chips in the brick were not huge, save for one. Getting a sample of it would be messy. But that was the nature of the job, sometimes... and if he wanted to stay out of trouble for the missing evidence, and the IA shooting inquiry, he'd better do his duties – including the messier ones – on the double.
He half-expected the mocking of his life when he descended the lift five minutes later. There was a little plaster on his beard, and quite a bit more on his shirt. But when Sara and Morgan took his bagged moldings, neither seemed inclined to comment. Except for Morgan passing him a towel from the back of their GMC...
Feeling badly about his earlier reaction, he held his arms out, and tried to crack a smile. "Anyone want a picture?" he tried, before cleaning it off.
Still without words, the answer was a "no". He frowned at his towel, where the plaster was already beginning to harden a little. Well, when all else failed, turn back to work...
So instead, he tried: "Right. Think we've got enough for examination?"
Sara nodded, and applied her sunglasses from her vest pocket. Morgan skimmed over their notes collection.
Nick sighed, and gave up. "Alright, alright... Let's get back to the lab. See what we can find... And I don't know if anyone wants in, but I'm gonna talk to Madame Challal about the break-in attempt."
"Sounds good," answered Morgan. "We'll take the evidence, then, Sara?"
"Yep."
The ride back was still kind of awkward-feeling, even though he was the only one in the car. Sara and Morgan were behind him, and they appeared in the rear-view to be talking rather animatedly to each other. Morgan was driving, and Sara was drinking a lot of water. He kept glancing at her all the way back to the parking lot. She must've gone through three bottles before they arrived...
But pulling in, they saw that they had another issue on hand. Brass was out front, pulling a young guy in a dark blue hoodie up the front steps to the police department. As Nick climbed out of the GMC, he could hear some colorful protests issuing from said young guy. He exchanged a couple of glances with his team members, and they began to haul what they had inside for inspection.
It wasn't long after setting up that the call came. "Hey! We found Martin Trem. Wanna talk to him?"
"Yeah." Nick pressed his fingers to his other ear, more to drown out Sara and Morgan's background speculations than anything else. "I'll be there in a few."
Beep.
"You'll be where?"
He looked over, and saw that Sara seemed to have decided she was speaking to him again. Rather from the laugh she'd obviously just shared with Morgan, or because her mood was swinging again, he didn't know. It was so like her... And quickly, this time... It made him smile.
"Interrogation," he answered. "That guy they were dragging up the stairs was Martin Trem."
"Oh," she replied simply. "Maybe we'd better ask our student to sit in on it."
"No time. But see if you can get ahold of him for other reasons. We could use the extra help."
"I didn't do anything wrong!" was the protest being shouted when Nick reached the interrogation room.
"Then how did your spit end up at a murder scene?!" Brass was shouting back.
Almost as if he was seeing his face from the outside, Nick could just envision the weariness setting in. But he didn't let it stop him. He opened the door, and dove right in.
"Gentlemen," he greeted, more as a sarcastic formality. "Catch me up."
"Our young... guest... here, says he doesn't know how he ended up drooling on the sink at our crime scene," Brass began to explain.
"That's 'cause I didn't–"
"–wait your turn!" Brass cut off. And then back to Nick, "So, we're having a little chat. Just until he jogs his memory enough to remember how such personal DNA came to be at our victim's house. In such a personal, homeowner-oriented room."
Sounded reasonable. Nick turned from Brass to the suspect, and cocked his head slightly to the side. "He makes a compelling argument, man. Spit's kind of hard to leave lying around without being somewhere. You're gonna need a real good alibi."
"Try my girlfriend," shot back Trem. "I was with her that night. I can show you!"
Nick ran a hand over his head, through his hair. "You can show us... How?"
"My cell, man! My cell...! I've got a picture."
"Well... You also have your phone," hinted Brass. "Make with the evidence, then."
Shaky hands reached into a t-shirt pocket, and withdrew a smartphone. After a couple of sharp breaths, and some dramatic finger swipes, there it was. There was no denying it...
Nick sighed, and let his head fall on the table. "Yep. Time stamp, right there."
Brass' attitude changed like Sara's. From outraged to opportunistic in a flash... "Alright." He took the other chair and dragged it up to the table beside Nick. "Then maybe we got off on the wrong foot. If you weren't there around the time of the actual murder, then you must have been there at some point. Because we have the evidence: we know your saliva came to rest on the kitchen sink, somehow."
"Yeah, I don't know that, either," insisted Trem.
Nick exhaled a tight breath, and looked the young suspect up and down. When he'd stopped to take a closer look at their case file, he'd seen that Trem had landed in the system because he'd been caught steeling barbecue rib sandwiches from his school's cafeteria. A petty thief... And he looked just like it, too. Sagging clothes, unkempt hair, bad smell, and a baseball cap turned off to the side... It all contributed to the image that this kid had about as much motivation in life as he probably had bristles left on his toothbrush. If he even owned one, and Nick wasn't entirely sure he would bet on that...
Brass must've caught to the same vibe. Because he leaned his head down a little before he spoke. Or cut to the bone, rather... "Look, kid: your criminal record is small, and that one entry is punk play. We've been surprised before, but I can't say I'm too shocked that you didn't do it. But at the same time, you've obviously done something. Or you know something we don't. And that's what we're looking for. It's your quickest way out of trouble."
"Hey, I'm hardcore!" shrieked Trem. "I know how to hang with the rough!"
"Obviously," Nick reinforced Brass with. "You're handling this so well. Your hands were shaking like a leaf when you were showing us your cell phone. Which we'll take possession of, and use however we legally need to if you don't clean up. And quick... Tell us what you know."
"Uh uh!" Trem refused quite adamantly. "I ain't no snitch! You can toss me in the brig, whatever you want! I ain't talkin'!"
"If we do that, your whole life could be over. You'd be an official suspect, with an official arrest on you. Think about it," urged Brass.
"Good! Ain't nobody about to doubt my edge!"
Nick rolled his eyes, and decided to take a backseat on the matter. Because if anyone could break through, it would have to be Brass. And the irritation was taking him to the kinds of unprofessional levels he had sunk to during his investigation of the McBride case.
After several more increasingly-inventive layers of "no, no, no", Brass gave up. And gave Trem exactly what he wanted... An escorting officer led him away right before their eyes, and both could not help shaking their heads.
"What did he go to school for?" asked Nick, as the young man's misguided life began to roll down the hill with the person it belonged to.
"Get this: criminal justice," answered Brass.
Nick turned and looked at him with an upward flick of the eyebrows. "Shit..."
"I know. Totally inappropriate, right? For such a bizarre head case... I'd almost think he did it to learn how to avoid the law..."
"If he did, then he's more serious about his criminal lifestyle than we thought."
"Nick!"
The namesake looked around. Down the hall, Greg was approaching them with a wide wave. He looked tired, but surprisingly eager. He came to a stop just before running into Nick.
"How's the case going? Supervisor...?"
He jabbed Nick's gut with his elbow, and the latter was momentarily seized by the urge to yank his hair.
Instead, he settled on a false groan. "Careful, man. I think I banged myself up a little at that last scene."
"Oh...! Sorry. Where's Sara?"
With an unexpected rush came the unexpected sadness. In all his recent thinking of past times, there was one memory of a dynamic that Nick suddenly realized he didn't like to dwell on. And it came out with the reverent affection in which Greg had asked his question. A deflated tone came to rest on Nick's voice, and it would not go away, even as he tried to clear his throat to reply.
"She's with Morgan. They're looking over our evidence. But, hey, what're you doing here already?"
"Oh, I couldn't sleep. Lots going on, you know?"
"There's always a lot going on. And you don't want to be in the middle of all of it."
"Well, probably not, but I'm pretty keen on being in the middle of this one. Girl at the desk says this has been a hot one. Could you use some help? Catch me up! Override me in on the case!"
In the corner of his eye, Nick could see Brass turning back to look at him. And that was it: being annoyed with Greg's budding enthusiasm and hopeful wishes was not a good reason to exclude him from the proceedings. Sara would be more angry, Morgan would be disappointed, and it would not look like a good call by the covering shift leader.
So he nodded, and motioned for Greg to follow him back to the lab. "We'll get ya clocked in while the ladies are giving us the rundown on the evidence."
"Good luck!" called Brass after them. "And, Nicky...! I'll call you when we find Brandon!"
Nick waved over his shoulder. "Thanks, Jim," he called back, with half the enthusiasm.
"'Brandon'?" inquired Greg.
"Yep. Little liar... Don't worry, we'll get you all up to speed..."
When Nick returned, with Greg in tow, Sara sighed a gulp's worth of air in relief, and ran to fling her arms around her closest, dorkiest little friend.
"Greg!" she exclaimed. "I was getting so close to texting you..."
He returned the hug with a little hesitation, and she could just imagine the expression he was wearing as he said: "Really? I never thought..."
"Oh, you haven't been in on this one," Morgan added, coming over to them.
She all but inserted herself between him and Sara, on the premise of getting a greeting hug in, too. Sara could feel the bittersweet sensation of a snobbery that came from knowing something someone else didn't know. It clambered up her chest and left her through her smug smile. Forgetting that she was supposed to be kinda, sorta mad at him, her eyes darted to Nick.
Who was standing behind Greg by the door, eyes averted from the scene, and moving his super secret management card between his fingers absentmindedly... Her smugness began to fade as she registered his depleted appearance. The one he usually only let show, these days, when he thought no one else was looking... His hair seemed to have collapsed somewhat from its partially-neat state. His eyelids hung down, as if he was fighting the urge to fall asleep. Something must have been on his mind, and it couldn't have been good; he was breathing in short, quiet, but rapid bursts, and the worry lines on his face were in full swing. His lips shook once or twice. He lifted one hand, and scratched the side of his neck. Then he rubbed one temple, and straightened up, though he did so without looking in her direction.
But still, some kind of upset lingered on him. And she didn't think it was anything familiar, unless she really strained her mind back to a few times before, over their long years' working and playing together... She sighed. And rubbed her wrist with her other hand's fingertips... and opened her mouth to talk to him.
Right as he seemed to decide that enough greeting was enough. "Alright," he stated, quite simply. "Let's get Greg on the clock, and fill him in on the night's events. God only knows when Russell is coming..."
He gave the laptop on the desk a yank, and it slid against his thigh, where it stopped. Sara's empathetic discouragement seemed to vanish with the sliding of his card through the reader, and the zipping of his fingers over the touch screen's number keys. From empty and low to tall and expanded, he eyed Greg with the utmost in unnatural confidence, and flapped the laptop shut.
"You're all in." And then to the ladies of the room: "What have we got?"
"A summary," Morgan said, mostly to Greg. And then to Nick: "In evidence, too."
He nodded once with a single smile that didn't reach his eyes. But Morgan didn't seem to notice. She turned back to Greg and kept going. Sara felt the life of her excitement slide to the floor, for the fiftieth time that day. Where she suddenly wished, so very dearly, that she could go, herself for a lengthy nap.