A/N: New chapter! And decided to add one more before ending this one! Let us hear from you!
What's More Fun Than A Kiss Under the Mistletoe?
Chapter 5
Only two people working the scene, with Jim Brass pitching in before leaving with Mildred Davis, it took several hours to do all that was necessary even when the primary suspect had readily admitted to killing her sister. After taking her official statement, Brass asked Sara to stay with Mildred Davis as the older woman cleaned up and changed her clothes before she was taken into custody. So it was awhile before Sara walked into the room where the murder had taken place.
The pool of blood had spread in a shapeless mass where Lillian Sheffield had fallen.
Grissom looked up, saying, "You should have seen her—brutal—it appears she had been backed into this corner."
Sara looked around at the L-shaped room; the longest part had two sofas, several chairs, and a wall of bookcases. The shorter part appeared to be frequently used; it was a library of sorts with books and magazines stacked around, papers scattered between two recliners, a large television, and two brandy glasses, one empty and one almost full.
The only disruption of the room was the front corner, around the pool of blood, where a small table was overturned, a few framed photos scattered around, and a dozen evidence markers placed in a scrambled path to the corner.
Sara knelt beside Grissom, saying, "Mildred—Millie—said she killed her sister because of something that happened sixty years ago—any ideas?"
Grissom made an effort to stand, using Sara's shoulder to push up, groaning as his knees and back straightened. "I've been on this floor way too long," he said. Once he stood up, he stepped two feet away from Sara. "I haven't been upstairs—not sure there is anything else we need with a confession. But there was a lot of rage in this."
Sara sighed, saying, "Come on. You need a break and how often do we get the chance to see an original Vegas house." She easily stood and gave him candid look, eyes sparkling. "Other than the uniforms out front, we are the only people in this house. And we might find something—interesting."
They did look, walking around a second floor of unused rooms that appeared unchanged for decades. At one end of the long hallway, they found a room with personal items belonging to Lillian. Everything was in its place, no clutter, clothes hanging in a long closet, and one book on the bedside table. The adjoining bathroom was the same—folded towels, toiletries precisely placed.
At the other end, after passing a number of closed doors along the way, they entered Millie's room.
"This is certainly the opposite of her sister's room," Sara said. "And it looked this way when she changed her clothes."
Bed was unmade; clothes scattered and heaped on the floor. Books were piled all around the room and on a desk, papers and files spilled onto the floor. Bathroom was messy, cluttered, and stained with soap scum, bottles, empty and half-filled, covered any flat surface.
Sara walked to the desk and began looking at files and papers.
Grissom said, "What are you doing?"
Turning to him, she said, "Humor me. I'm looking for a reason—sixty years ago on this date—what would cause a person to wait that long for—for revenge? And she said she'd found the papers."
Grissom shrugged, walked to a stack of books and files near the bed, and stooped to look through all the assorted papers, books, magazines, and catalogs. He thought they were wasting time; an elderly woman who killed her sister with multiple stab wounds, one that nearly decapitated her sister, could not be in her right mind. Both shuffled papers for a while.
"Hey," Sara said, "I think I've found something!"
She had found several files and a small notebook filled with cramped writing. "There is a medical file." She flipped dozens of pages looking at dates. "These go back forty or fifty years—she's been institutionalized for decades."
Grissom knew he wasn't going to budge her from reading the files so he said, "Let's take it to the dining room—we can sit in chairs."
She grinned and shot him a glance as he approached her. "I think there's a pillow if you need it," she teased.
It took an hour with both reading to determine the history of Mildred Davis.
"If all this is true, it's tragic," said Grissom.
"She was in an institution for sixty years—according to her notebook—not a diary because she's written notes that are haphazard—no real time line." Sara flipped back several pages of the notebook and read. "Raped on Christmas Eve and admitted to—I can't read the name—two weeks later because of hysteria. They kept me in a medicated daze until I was eighteen."
Sara looked at Grissom, asking, "Can this be correct? That would be three years!" She read a few more sentences before Grissom's phone interrupted her.
"Jim," he said, "Let's see what he knows."
A few minutes later, they packed up the files and notebook, evidence bags, cameras, and kits and headed back to the lab.
Brass had promised more information and food. He was also curious to hear what they had found. He added, "Mildred Davis is in custody at Stein Hospital and I've got a load of information on the family."
Back at the lab, there was enough food for thirty people. Sara counted twelve people around the table that was filled with every Chinese dish she'd ever seen on a menu. While eating, Grissom talked about the murder of the night; the ones who had not been at the scene had heard enough to be curious.
When Brass, Grissom and Sara were finally alone, Jim pulled out a thick folder, saying, "I got the tech guy to print whatever he could find about Mrs. Sheffield—then realized I really didn't need most of it. Lots of social news, lots of donations and plenty of money, death notices for her husband and her only daughter. The husband's been dead twenty-five years. Her daughter," he rifled through several pages. "Her daughter died from cancer ten years ago."
Sliding a page across to Sara and Grissom, he continued, "There is a granddaughter living in Los Angeles. According to tech Tim, there were no calls between dear departed granny and this granddaughter in a quick search of phone records. I've called LA to have someone visit with the news." Waving a hand, he said, "I've not found anything about a sister."
"We found more," said Sara as she pulled out the papers they had brought from the house. She glanced at Grissom. "Mildred wrote her thoughts, ideas in a notebook and has this collection of—of medical records from a private facility in Reno." She flipped several pages before finding the one she wanted. "Look at this." Her finger pointed at the faintly printed document and the date. "When Mildred was fifteen, the first year she was institutionalized, she had a baby. A girl who was handed over to Mildred's parents the day she was born."
Jim scrambled fingers through the papers on Lillian Sheffield, found a society column and pointed at the date. "The sister married in June of the same year."
"She said her sister stole her child and her grandchild," Sara said.
Again, Brass searched, saying, "Yeah, there are several society pics of the daughter—high society stuff." He pulled out a copy of a newspaper article. "Here she is."
The photo showed a smiling teenager wearing a white ball gown; parents standing by her side.
As Grissom listened, he was going through copies Brass had brought to the table. He said, "Sara, look for medical records. One doesn't remain institutionalized for sixty years because of hysteria at age fifteen."
In a few minutes, about forty pages were in order.
"What are we looking for?" Sara asked.
"Private care—Mildred Davis was there for sixty years—it would mean some kind of—of assessment especially in the last twenty years. She told you she'd found the papers—what did she mean? Someone signed off and paid for her to remain in an institution."
Brass was the one to find the first signature. "Her father signed this one." Quickly, he did the math, saying, "She would have been twenty-five."
"Here's another one—Lillian." Pressing her fingers against her eyes, Sara said, "This is too bizarre—was it because of the baby? Lillian—their parents—didn't want anyone to know? Or was it something else?"
Leaning back in his chair, Grissom sighed. "Sixty years—another time, different standards. Money, social standing—the rape of a teenager, perhaps a mental breakdown—one life erased to keep the rest of the family in good standing with their society." Shaking his head, he said, "She'll be institutionalized again—a tragedy."
He gathered all the papers together. "It's Christmas Day. Next shift starts," he glanced at his watch. "The day shift will be here soon and we can go home. I know I need sleep."
Jim Brass, pushing back his chair, missed the quick meeting of eyes by the two others at the table. As he came around the table, he said, "Always good working with you, Sara." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, adding, "Merry Christmas, Sara." With a chuckle, he added, "Don't hang around this guy too much—he'll have you working twenty hours on Christmas day."
Grissom pulled a face. "Head out, Sara. Day shift can handle anything new that comes in. And thanks—this was…"
"I'll put all this away, Grissom." She smiled at Brass, saying, "Merry Christmas to you, Jim. Thank you for the food and your help." She handed him a stack of files. "Walk with me to temp storage?" She knew not to ask about his plans; he'd be back at work in twelve hours, same as she would be.
As they left the room, Sara turned, winked at Grissom, and continued walking with Brass, files tucked under their arms.
A/N: Decided we needed one more chapter of celebration! Thank you for reading! And thank you to all who send comments/reviews.
Long Live GSR!