A/N: Okay, I'm not very good with this shorter chapter thing. I feel like I need to post more chapters or something. So, here's another one. I have no self-restraint.

Chapter 3:

Gil had spent all night at the Hayashi house, and with Nick and Warrick's help, they were able to get done before their shift ended. He had spent the last couple of hours trying to figure out how he was going to explain everything to everyone and what to do once the shit hit the fan, because it would.

He called the Director of the Lab. Then once the call ended, the Sheriff called him. They were to assemble at the LVPD main building at noon. He'd been given the memo by Sheriff Atwater that FBI Agent Collins would be picking him up at his house at eleven. He understood why an FBI agent was going to pick him up personally even though Atwater had been confused by the gesture. It was a precaution. If it was Lecter, then he was a target.

Things were going to happen, things that he couldn't control. It wasn't just the FBI that concerned him, but that the National Tattler was still in business (it was no longer a paper but a news blog). The Lecter case was what put them on the map. Both the national and international media were going to be all over this case and so was his face.

The media attention wasn't even his main problem, but the lab. More importantly, the people at the lab. His team. How was he going to tell them? How could he? He let out a sigh and rubbed his head.

Secrets and lies. Spoiled secrets. Being exposed.

He entered the crime lab and deposited all the evidence in the various sections. They all got bags and boxes marked and labeled with the same case number: 133569. Ironically enough, that had been the exact same case number as the Francis Dolarhyde case.

Prints went to Mandy—Jacqui Franco? She only rolled her eyes at him and sent him on his way with a snarky, "I'm still here, Gil!"

DNA went to Mia Dickerson who wore a face mask and was triple gloving for some odd reason. "Don't ask," she said from behind the mask as she took the bags from him.

The photograph that he'd collected off the refrigerator and other documents went to Ronnie Litre, who only waved at him from inside the draft free room he was using to infrared some papers. The only reason for using the draft free room was because the papers hadn't been through trace yet. He left the bag with the picture there with a note saying to send it through to prints and trace after he was done.

He stopped at the entrance to the trace lab where he expected David Hodges. Instead, it was Neil Jansen. "Neil, where's Hodges?"

Neil straightened up to his full height from the microscope he'd been crouched over. "Oh, uh, hi, Dr. Grissom. David called in. Family emergency. His mother…I think?"

"Oh, well…" They both stared at one another a moment, both feeling equally as awkward around one another. "Here," he said as he handed him the evidence bags. "Top priority."

"I'm in the middle—"

"Top. Priority."

Neil took the bags from him and started nodding. "Okay. Yes, sir, got it. Top priority."

"Neil, don't call me sir," he told him before leaving the trace lab.

He found Leah, which was just Leah—like Cher—in Toxicology and deposited the containers containing the contents from the wine bottle, tea pot, and the teacups. "Process these for any traces of toxins or drugs."

"Anything specific I should be testing for?" Leah asked as he was backing out of the lab room.

He stopped and thought about it. "Psychedelics. Hallucinogens. Anything that can paralyze the body."

His camera went to Archie Johnson in the A/V lab to process the crime scene photos. Archie had headphones on and was watching a video. Without disturbing him, he dropped off the camera on the workstation table, tagged it in, left a note on it, and then left.

His last stop was Firearms and Toolmarks. Ballistics was located within that section of the lab. He was expecting Bobby Dawson to greet him, but the rooms were empty. "Hello?" A door opened and out walked Richard "Rich"...He had no idea what the guy's last name was. "Where's Bobby Dawson?"

"Already off shift. I am the man of the hour. What can I do for you…?" Rich asked as he narrowed his eyes. "Who are you again?"

He eyed the guy as he dropped the box containing the medieval medical device on the table along with all the knives in the kitchen and a gun he found in the bedroom. "Grissom." When that didn't ring any bells, he said, "Graveyard supervisor for the last five years." Still nothing. "The bug guy?"

Rich snapped his fingers as he said, "Bug guy, right," as he pointed to him.

"Anyway, process this box. Everything in it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it," he said as he started backing out of the room. "Molds, ballistics test, run everything."

"Question before you go, bug guy."

He stopped at the door and sighed.

"Paul Newman or Robert Redford?"

Was he serious? He stared at Rich for a moment. There wasn't much he knew about the guy, but what he did know was that Rich was a gun enthusiast. He also liked muscle cars, and drove a 1969 Mustang GT. On his right arm was a Marine Corps tattoo. Rich wasn't watching The Natural or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but Bullitt and The Great Escape.

Forming an answer, he told him, "Neither."

Rich was surprised. "Why?"

"Steve McQueen's better."

Rich smirked. Correct answer. "I'll get right on this, bug guy. Expect my report by the end of the day."

He continued down the hallway, wondering what in the hell that was all about, and entered the break room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then another cup of coffee. He added three sugars and two containers of Irish Cream into one of the cups. The other he kept black.

Greg walked in behind him. "Hey, Grissom."

He didn't say anything as he handed the pot over to Greg before picking up both cups.

"Me and Sara caught a 4-19—"

"I'm busy, Greg," he said as he headed for the door.

"We already solved—"

"Put it in the report," he told him as he pushed open the door and started down the opposite hallway away from his office.

The crime lab had three shifts: Days, Swings, and Nights (which was called "graveyard" due to the hours). The shift he worked was from 11pm to 7am, five days a week. That meant they needed more than one team per shift. They had three teams working the Night Shift. Three teams working every shift, actually. His team was Blue. Joe Boyd's team was Silver and Harlyn Reno's was Gold. They had a rotating five-two-five-three work schedule. Work five days, off two days, work five days, off three days. Rinse and repeat.

Each team had four to five CSIs plus supervisors. Some nights all three teams were on duty, others only two, and about once or twice a month only one team was solo with others on-call. Tonight, they were double stacked with both Blue and Gold on duty.

Harlyn was in her office, packing up as it was nearing the end of shift and the start of her long three-day weekend. She had put on her black leather jacket and was putting her ponytail through the back of the Chicago Cubs baseball cap she'd put on her head as he walked through the door.

He kicked the door shut with his foot as he said, "Mornin', Harlyn. How was your night?"

She eyed him, the cup of coffee he went to hand her, and said, "Oh, hell no, Gilbert."

He sat the cup down on the desk as he sat in the chair. She was a very stern young woman. A Midwest transplant and Navy Veteran. Tough but fair, and with her long brunette hair and blue eyes, a knock-out who could very well knock you out for calling her that. And her smile, mostly cheeky. Unless she was pissed off. Then that was when she showed her teeth and you better run. She was also the only one who got away with calling him Gilbert. Besides Sara.

"I'm so sorry—" he went to say before she cut him off.

"No."

"I've already talked to the Sheriff and the Director. I told them that I'd be the one to tell you because I'd rather not have the A.D—"

"I'd rather not have to put my foot up your ass. The only time you bring me coffee is if it's bad news for me and my team." Her eyes went to the cup of coffee. "I can smell the Irish Cream."

He leaned back and took a sip of the coffee as he waited for her to accept his peace offering.

She picked up the cup, took a drink, and then said, "You caught a big one, didn't you?"

"Had to use a two-hundred-pound test."

"A whale?"

"Shark."

Her eyes narrowed at him before shaking her head. She was angry, but it was the job. "I have a camping trip planned with my dog. Was going to do some hiking. Fish." She'd get over it. "Asshole." Or not.

"It's not just overtime for today—"

"I have to cancel my entire trip?"

He gave a nod. "My team's off rotation until further notice."

She sighed and sat back down in chair. "Damn it. Try telling my guys that they're not getting a weekend. Once the yelling starts, Gilbert, my foot—"

"In my ass, I know," he said as he stood and went to leave her office. Turning back around, he asked, "Has Rich in Firearms ever asked you—"

"Newman or Redford? I picked Robert Redford. He told me they were backlogged. Didn't get my results back for a week. You?"

"Steve McQueen. He'll have something for me by the end of the day." At her confused look, he told her, "A question like that is never about you, but the person asking the question."

She gave that some thought as she said, "Huh. I'll try to remember that."

He left her office and felt his stomach growl. He had tried to eat earlier but wasn't having it. Coffee seemed to be the only thing it would take. He spotted Catherine and Jim heading his way as he opened his office door. Damn it. Brass told Catherine. She had that look. She knew.

"Hey, Gil," she said as she stepped into his office with Brass right behind her. Brass shut the door.

Before she could say anything else, he interrupted her, saying, "Catherine, I uh, need you to gather everyone in here. The whole team."

He thought about waiting and letting the news do the talking for him, but this was his team. This was his responsibility. They trusted him and he had to return that trust. He had to tell them before anyone else could.

"Done. Save me from twisting your arm."

Once Catherine was gone, he leveled Brass with a hard glare. "Mum's the word?

Brass sat down in the chair as he told him, "It's Catherine. Besides, I didn't tell anyone else." He adjusted himself in the chair, messed with his tie, and said, "I did some digging—"

"Of course you did, you're a detective."

He couldn't help but feel a sense of betrayal before pushing it down. It didn't matter. This was happening whether he wanted it to or not. Sitting down behind his desk, he sat the coffee cup down and rubbed his head as it started to hurt.

"I don't know how to do this." And he meant it. This scared him more than anything.

"Seeing is believing. You might want to lead with that." Brass pointed up to a book on his shelf.

He glanced at the book Brass was pointing to. The one with his birth name printed on the spine. Son-of-a-bitch, did Brass already dig up his birth certificate too?

A few seconds later everyone was walking into his office. Catherine followed by Warrick, Nick, Greg, and Sara. Sofia had gone home after shift. It had been her last night as a CSI and she would start her next night shift on duty as Detective Sofia Curtis.

"Shut the door," he said to Greg.

Sara raised her eyes at his tone as Greg shut the door. Everyone in the room was thinking the same thing: what was happening?

Once the door was shut, he got up from his desk and turned to his bookshelf. His body moved without his consent. It was as if he was on autopilot. He grabbed the book off the shelf, the one he'd written when his name was still William Graham. When he turned around, they were all standing in front of his desk watching. He sat down on the edge of the desk, book in hand, and waited for his head to steady. He wasn't good at verbalizing anything that wasn't a crime scene.

He often had a way of shutting down emotionally. A calmness came over him, a wall was thrown up blocking anything from getting out or reaching in, and he was steady. This was different. His mind wasn't there at the moment. He was so far removed from the present that it felt like it wasn't even real. In his mind a memory.

"Linear regression of insects to determine time of death."

He turned in his chair and spotted Jack Crawford smiling in the doorway. In his hand a book.

Walking further into his office at Quantico, he presented it to him while saying, "Congratulations on the book. I understand it's a forensic breakthrough. Care to give me your John Hancock to mark the occasion."

Taking the book from Crawford, he flipped open the cover as he grabbed a pen. "I know you didn't come here for my autograph, Jack. Why are you really here?" he asked as he signed his name and then handed the book back.

Crawford took the book, glanced at the spine of it before telling him, "I want you to come with me to Baltimore—"

"Is this about the Chesapeake Ripper?"

There was a slight nod. "Yeah. Two bodies in as many days. He's on a spree. This last one's a female. Princeton student. I had them seal the crime scene."

He stood from his desk and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go."

When he spoke, it wasn't from the perspective of the man he'd been since coming to Vegas, but from the man he used to be. "I published this book," he said as he felt it in his hands. "March 1980. I was only twenty-three years old. It became the titular textbook for the study of entomology to determine time of death for the FBI. I worked for them at that time. I was a Special Investigator. Oftentimes, I worked with Special Agent Jack Crawford in Behavioral Science. We worked on the Hannibal Lecter case together."

He looked up and around the room at his team. Sara was staring at the book, eyeing the name of the author. Jim was looking at him with deep concern. Catherine was trying to be his rock. Nick looked slightly scared, but relatively okay. Warrick was, well, Warrick. And Greg was confused as hell.

He opened the book to the back flap where it held the information about the author, including the picture. Turning it around to show them, he handed it first to Nick and waited. There were no words he could think to say as the book was passed around to each member of his team.

Sara looked up at him in disbelief as she said, "You caught Hannibal Lecter?"

"I figured out it was him. I wasn't the one who actually caught him. Jack Crawford did that," was all he could think to say.

Greg asked, "Why didn't you say anything?"

He shook his head as he said, "I couldn't. That book is the only remaining original first edition. It was reprinted and distributed without my photograph after I went into Witness Protection following the escape of Lecter in 1990."

Sara's eyes met his as she took the book back from Greg. She looked over the photograph of a much younger version of himself again. Her fingers touched the page.

Warrick frowned as he asked in confusion, "If you're in Witsec, why tell us now?"

Brass's hoarse voice answered for him, "We think Hannibal Lecter is in Vegas now to settle an old score. The double homicide out in Summerlin South. Doctor Joy Hayashi was Grissom's doctor. The crime scene was reminiscent of Lecter, right, Gil?"

He gave a nod.

"It might be a copycat," Greg said.

"It's not," Gil said. "He left a picture, handwritten note on the back. I'd know his handwriting anywhere. This is as personal as it gets. I believe that Joy Hayashi was just the first. All of you are in danger."

They all looked around at one another. Over the years they'd become a family. There was a resolve in all their eyes. A confidence and determination.

Warrick spoke first, "We got this. He'll have to go through all of us to get to any of us."

"Yeah," Nick said as he gave a nod. "We'll catch him. Lecter's an old man now anyway—"

"Do not underestimate Hannibal Lecter," he stressed. "He may be an old man, but he's smart." Everyone was staring at him now. He'd been detached as his mind thought about an older, wiser, and very skilled madman. He shook his head. "The FBI called a meeting set for noon. I have a feeling everyone else will find out then. We're all going. Harlyn's team is going to stay and anything we have that is pending, sign over to them. We're off rotation. This case is the only one we'll be working on until Lecter is either caught or killed. Go home, get some rest and something to eat. I have a feeling none of us will get much sleep for a while."

"Yeah," Brass said as he gave a nod before shaking his head. "I think I'm going to need a drink first."

"You and me both," he muttered as he glanced up and spotted Sara watching him. She had so many questions. There was so much she didn't know about him. Then he added, "And, please, do not call me Will Graham. My name's still my name. Okay–Greg?"

Greg gapped as he looked around at everyone, saying, "I wouldn't've—"

"Yeah, you would've," Nick said as they started to leave his office.

As he was shutting his office door behind him, Jacqui and Mia were headed his way. "Grissom," they both said in unison.

He glanced between both and said, "Jacqui, you first."

"Prints came back a match to Hannibal Lecter. It sent up all kinds of red flags. The FBI's been informed."

Mia handed him the DNA results that he'd gotten off the teacup and fork, saying, "Ditto. DNA has been 99.9 percent confirmed to belong to Lecter."

He took both printouts as he glanced around at his team and said, "Well, there's no more speculation. We know who our main murder suspect is."

As his team left to go home, he informed the higher ups of their findings. He talked to Sheriff Atwater first then the Director of the Lab. He didn't tell either of them who he really was, only told them that Joy Hayashi had been his doctor and his team might be in danger.

Then, he finally left the lab and went home.

TBC…