A/N: I apologize for the extremely long delay in updating. Thank you so much for the reviews and your continued support by reading. It's greatly appreciated.

Chapter 14

Nick rounded the corner of the crime lab and spotted Kevin Collins in the lobby talking on a cell phone. Kevin called him earlier to ask if he'd made any progress on identifying the John Doe with the Army tattoo. It'd been a navigational nightmare trying to get names of all the servicemen who served in that division during the Gulf War. Nick had been passed around so often from one office to another that he'd gotten whiplash.

Kevin snapped the cell phone shut and said, "Jeffrey Davenport."

"Who's Jeffrey Davenport?"

"The man who's going to give us the identity of your John Doe. He's agreed to meet with us," Kevin told him as they started out of the crime lab and into the midday sun.

Nick slipped on his sunglasses as he asked, "Did he serve in the same unit?"

"Not exactly. He was a Lt. Colonel in the 101st Airborne, but he knows a lot of the veterans from Operation Desert Storm who live here in Vegas."

"How?"

Kevin opened the driver's door for his car as he said, "He mediates support groups for the VA and helps homeless vets get off the streets. He thinks he might be able to ID the guy, or, at least, point us in the right direction. Coming?" he asked as he dropped down into the driver's seat.

He walked around to the passenger side and got in. It wasn't long before they arrived at a building on Charleston Boulevard. Outside the building, flapping in the breeze, were the American Flag, the Nevada state flag, and the flags of all the armed forces. Walking through the halls of the Veteran Outreach Center and Recourse Department, they came upon a door for room 3213.

Kevin tapped on the door and pushed it open. Sitting behind a desk with several certificates, diplomas, and framed medals on the walls was a man in a Nike sweatsuit. He dropped the pen in his hand and stood as he smiled wide, "Kevin, good to see you."

As they shook hands, Nick wondered how the two of them knew one another given the fact that Kevin was also a veteran. "Jeff, this is Nick Stokes with the crime lab," Kevin said as they were introduced.

Jeff shook his hand before grabbing the gym bag off one of the chairs in front of the desk and tossed it against the back wall. "Have a seat. You caught me on an off day."

That explained the attire, Nick thought as he sat in the chair. "We could've scheduled this for another time—"

"It's alright," said Jeff as he sat back down behind the desk. "I understand this is time sensitive. You got a picture?"

Nick had brought along the file he had on the John Doe. Inside were two photographs. One of the dead man's busted up face and the other the tattoo. He handed both to Jeff and waited.

Jeff took a moment to look both over, shaking his head in disgust, before saying, "I want to say he looks familiar, but…his face. That's one hell of a beating he took. I am familiar with that division though. I know a lot of tank guys from the war."

"How so?" Kevin asked.

Jeff glanced between him and Kevin before saying, "Desert life was a culture shock to a lot of guys, you know. I'm from Tennessee, so my first deployment to a desert was like dropping onto the moon. And that's what it was; a drop on the moon, if the moon was in Hell and not in space. You know how shocked I was to step outside and see nothing but sky, sand, and mountains? No buildings, no people, no nothing. We had to build everything from the sand up, and then break it all down just to move it again. The same process. Over and over, for hundreds of miles."

Nick glanced over at Kevin, wondering where in the heck Jeff was going with this, and saw him staring almost blankly at the floor. He was lost somewhere in his head, much like Grissom would get.

Jeff kept talking. He thought that maybe Jeff liked to talk. "I spent months in the desert, building and training, inching closer to Iraq. It was like living as an animal. We went months without showering. And the heat? Like I said, we were in Hell. Then the day before the invasion finally came. We had to walk only about one to two miles to the helicopters, but with all the gear and the heat, it felt more like ten to twenty. We were stopping about every mile because the weight was so incredible. I was a SAW gunner, which means you're carrying a lot more ammo. Each drum is like 200 rounds, and I was carrying seven drums and that's on top of claymores, grenades, C-4, extra clips of ammo, water and other food you had stuffed in there."

"And the 1st Armored Division?" he asked since Kevin was lost in his own memories of war.

"They gutted the seats out of a UH-60 Black Hawk that normally sat at max fifteen in order to accommodate over twenty of us soldiers. Packed like sardines in a can. It was the first day of the ground attack in Iraq. February 24th, 1991. I arrived in Saudi Arabia in October. Four months in the desert, training, living, and it all came down to getting on that helicopter. 101st Airborne Division's 1st Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Battalion, 327th Infantry Regiment. Front lines. I was part of the largest military air assault since D-Day, but we called it G-Day. I thought we'd crashed when we hit the ground because we were so loaded down that we hit bottom. We were trained to jump out once we landed, get immediately into battle mode, but no one could move for several minutes. I started panicking because I knew we were sitting ducks in a barrel. It took us five minutes to get out. Now I'm claustrophobic, but living here, in the desert of Las Vegas, feels familiar yet…it takes me right back to the helicopter. I can close my eyes and still hear the sound of the propellers. Then why move here, you ask? I missed the desert, and I love the heat. Humidity weighs you down, makes you tired. I learned that that dry heat, yeah, it's hot as hell and at first you think you're going to die, but then you feel good. Your body feels good. There's nothing weighing you down anymore, once you get rid of the baggage."

Nick gave a nod, cleared his throat and asked, "And what happened on February 27th?"

Jeff blinked, as if he'd realized where he was and that he'd asked a question. "The tanks arrived and the whole desert exploded into flames. The sky was on fire. The Republican Guard had no chance. It was a slaughter. That's what happened. Our casualties were two hundred and ninety-two. Theirs? Estimated twenty to fifty thousand. February 24th to the 28th was called the '100-hour war'. That was all it took. Four days. On the 28th, we liberated Kuwait. I know the 1st Armored Division because I rode on one of their tanks through the building oil fields and into the city as fire burned the ground and smoke blanketed the sky. Sometimes, I swear I can still see the flames and smell that oil burning out there in the desert. That's why I do this now. I counsel. I run the support groups. And I make sure that if a veteran falls into substance abuse or becomes an alcoholic, or ends up on the street, that he, or she, has someone they can call for help. I know I helped this guy," Jeff said as he tapped the photo of John Doe that was on his desk. "Tell me about him."

Nick shook his head and said, "I don't know much—"

"What do you know?"

"He used drugs, had old marks on his arms and between his toes—"

Kevin said, "We think his first name's Nathan. Or Nathaniel."

Jeff's eyes rose as he said, "Why didn't you lead with that? Nathan Storen. He was in the 1st Armored Division. Long-term drug abuser, lived on the streets for a while, but I got him cleaned up and a job with a taxi company. Starlight Taxi Service."

Nick wrote that down as Kevin stood. He followed suit as he stood and shook Jeff's hand. "Thanks for the help." As he left the office and walked in-step with Kevin, he asked, "We don't know that this is the guy. It could be—"

"First name's Nathan—"

"How'd you know—"

"Grissom told me," Kevin said as he pulled out his keys and sunglasses.

Kevin must've talked to his dad on the phone before their meeting. Was that who he'd been on the phone with when he was in the lobby of the crime lab? "And how does Grissom know?"

Kevin only glanced at him before pushing open the door as they walked out of the building. "Are we still playing basketball tomorrow?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Just wondering," Kevin said as he slipped on his sunglasses. "I'll drop you off at the crime lab. I've got something I've got to do. A meeting."

Nick checked the time and saw it was getting late in the day. It was well past his bedtime. He figured he could eat, go home and sleep for a few hours before work. Before getting into Kevin's car, he pulled out his cell phone and left a message for Captain Brass about the possibility that his John Doe could be Nathan Storen. Then he opened the car door and got in.

Kevin was quiet after that, once again lost in his head, as he drove him back to the crime lab.

Clearing his throat once the car was parked, he said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said off-handedly. He was still clearly not fully present. "I, uh…I have a doctor's appointment then I think I'm going to hit up Warrick and check out that spot where all our victims got arrested."

"What spot? Want me to come with you?"

"Warrick caught it," Kevin said as he hit the button to unlock the doors. "His lead, not yours. Follow up with Storen."

Nick gave a nod as he opened the door. "Hey, uh…got dinner plans? Since I blew off breakfast?"

Kevin finally seemed to come up from some fresh air as he smiled slightly. "Yeah, okay. Uh…pizza and wings? Just discovered this place over off Tropicana."

"Yeah, I know it. I'll give you a call later," he said as he got out and shut the door. Instead of going inside the lab, Nick headed to his truck. He needed to finally get some sleep, especially if he wanted to be awake to meet Kevin for dinner.

Rolling out of bed, Greg pulled on a pair of boxers and slipped his feet into a pair of flip-flops. He smelt the Blue Hawaiian coffee's aroma mixing with the scent of sage as he headed down the hallway. The sage was coming from the incense burning in the living room. On the speaker against the wall was the stereo remote. He grabbed it and turned on the stereo system, selected a CD, and hit play.

~"That Van Gogh sky shrinks the city that shrinks me…"~

As the music filled the condo, he grabbed a clean mug off the drying mat next to the sink full of dirty dishes and filled it with the coffee before heading to the bathroom. He sipped the coffee as he turned on the hot water.

~"That Van Gogh sky shrinks the city that shrinks me…"~

His shower was quick as he cleaned himself and brushed his teeth. Getting out, he grabbed a towel and coffee and headed back to the bedroom where he quickly dressed. Hair still wet, he ran gel through it and left it alone. His eye drops were beside the bottle of allergy medication that he took with a swig of coffee. The prescription bottle beside the allergy medication was on its last refill.

~"Man's amazing paved maze and the paths we take…"~

The music stopped as he turned off the stereo but took the CD out of the player. The rest of the coffee went into a to-go cup that he carried with him out of the apartment. Getting behind the wheel of his car, he slipped on his sunglasses and put the CD into the car's player.

~"Man's amazing, the paths we take…"~

The Vegas strip was a tourist trap he had to fight through as he headed across the city. He had a doctor's appointment. By the time he parked, he was five minutes late and the coffee was gone. The waiting room was blue and there were two paintings on the wall. One of scribbled whorls and loops on one side and sprouting flowers on the other. Another a scenic portrait of a tree broken up into all four seasons: spring, summer, fall, and winter.

As for reading material, the only two magazines on the table were Reader's Digest and Wired. There was no Rolling Stone, or Maxim, not even a Vanity Fair. The door opened and Brenda smiled at him as she opened the door. She didn't like formality and told him to never call her Dr. Lucas.

So, Brenda it was.

~"Take…"~

She smiled. He smiled.

"Last time we talked, you told me you had a date for this morning. How did it go?"

He shrugged. "Good. She's wonderful. We ate at my place; I cooked."

He thought back to the morning and instead of thinking of his date, he thought of his conversation with FBI Agent Collins. He'd told Kevin that he could handle grim because it was part of the job. He saw death every day. "It's part of the job."

He thought about the serial killer they were after, and all those dead girls. The barn in Montana and Warrick being shot.

"Warrick," Greg's voice trembled as he rolled him over and checked for a pulse. He could feel the beating of Warrick's heart under his fingers. Then he felt the barrel of a gun against his head. Clenching his eyes shut, his jaw tensed as he prepared for impact. For death. "Please, don't," he gritted out between his teeth, praying for a miracle.

It came as he felt the pressure disappear from his head. He wanted to relax but the pulse under his fingers was slowing. Opening his eyes, he saw Warrick unconscious on the ground. He had on his field vest but didn't know if he'd been hit or how bad it was.

"Oh, please, be okay," he found himself saying before turning his head and seeing the woman standing over him. It had to be Clarice Starling. Who else could she be? "Why—"

"You work for him, don't you?"

"For who?" He had no idea what was going on. He was stunned and confused. Mostly in shock. Warrick had been shot. Agent Greenfeld and the Sheriff were dead. "What?"

"You know who!" she yelled. "Graham!"

"You mean Grissom?" he asked. It was hard to think clearly. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe. Focusing on sucking air in his nose and blowing it out as he felt his insides twist up and squirm around like eels. He was going to get sick.

"Las Vegas CSI," she said before pointing the gun back at his head. "Get up!"

He was panicking, like he'd done after getting blown up in the lab. Fire all around him, pain in his back and head. The ground was shifting under him as his hands shook and mouth went dry. His hands kept shaking.

His hands. Clenching them, he stopped them from shaking in front of Benda.

~"I know traps ease, I know traps ease

I know traps ease…"~

She was waiting for an answer and all he kept thinking about was how he handled Kevin being shot.

As the helicopter landed in the field near the barn, he felt numb. He saw the blood on the ground in the barn, in the grass of the field, and on Kevin's clothes. Warrick was kneeling over him, calling out for help, as he stood frozen. All he could do was watch. He felt so helpless but didn't know what to do. Paramedics were running from an ambulance as FBI agents descended onto the property. Brass was there, in his vision, but all he could see was the blood, the tubes, and the panic on everyone's face.

"Greg?" Brenda asked, interrupting his thoughts. "I asked you a question."

He hadn't heard it.

~"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

Oh, I know you know…"~

He went to speak when his pager went off. Removing it from his belt, he said, "Sorry, Brenda. Duty calls." He excused himself as he stepped out into the waiting room and called Warrick. "I got your page."

"Hey, Greg, sorry to bother you, but I'm supposed to meet with Agent Collins but can't make it. I know you're working—"

"I got you, Warrick. What's the address?" Once he got the address from Warrick, he told Brenda he had to reschedule.

Once back into the car, he turned the music back on and adjusted the volume until it was blaring so loudly in his head that it was all he could think about.

~"Trapeze

Trap-ay…"~

Tears started to well in his eyes as he fought through the traffic once again. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he felt the palpitations of his heart in his chest. He put the window down to let in some fresh air as he fought back the anxiety attack. He took in a deep breath, felt it catch in his tight chest, and pushed it out.

Seeing a familiar sign, he quickly pulled into the parking lot and around the drive-thru. As he waited behind the line of cars, he put the window back up, sucked in a deep breath and then screamed out as loudly as he could with the music as the tears rolled down his face.

~"Ah-ahhhhhhhhh…"~

He sucked in another deep breath, rubbed his face, and then collected his order of iced coffee and another coffee for Kevin. The barista gave him an odd look.

"Are you okay?"

He fought for a smile as more tears stung his eyes. "Yeah. I'll be fine. Thanks."

~"Ahhh…I know."~

He arrived at the address Warrick had given him. It was a building located on the corner of 6rh and St. Louis. Already waiting, leaning against his car, was Kevin. He got out and carried the two cups over to him and handed him one.

Kevin, surprised, took it and asked, "What's the occasion?"

Greg shrugged, saying, "It's late afternoon and figured you could use a pick-me-up. If you haven't noticed, I love coffee. Some days it's the only thing that gets me through."

Kevin took a sip and smirked. "You CSI guys really do pay attention. Black."

He didn't know how anyone drank plain black coffee, but no one was perfect. Turning his attention to the building, he studied the symbols on the walls. "Why are we at an occult nightclub?"

"Is that what this is?"

Greg pointed to the symbol on the wall and said, "That is the pentagram. For Wiccans the five points represent earth, sky, fire, water, and Spirit. When it's upright, it means protection. When it's inverted, it represents the occult. Satanism. It's inverted. So, why are we here?"

Kevin glanced over at him as he said, "Warrick found a pattern. All four of our dead girls had been arrested right here, at this corner, on four separate occasions."

Greg rounded his car and got his field kit out of the back. Kevin started for the front door, and he followed. It was a beige concrete building with blacked out windows so no one could see inside. The building was two stories with a clerestory roof. "Did this used to be a church?"

"According to property records, it stopped being a church three years ago."

They headed up the steps to the front door. Tacked on it was a black-and-white flier. Reading it aloud, Greg said, "Castevet's Coven. Psychics, Astrologers, Tarot Readers, Witches, Vendors and Much More. Hours: Midnight to Sunrise. Sponsored by The Sin City Satanic Community. RSVP: Adrian Woodhouse."

"Adrian Woodhouse. There's a start," Kevin said. "I'll call it in and try to track this guy down."

He laughed as he said, "You won't," as he took a photo of the flier. "I thought you read."

Kevin looked taken back as he said, "I do."

"Rosemary's Baby?"

"I heard of the movie. Never seen it or read the book. I don't…like horror. See too much of it."

"I love horror movies and when they're based on books, I read them. Adrian Woodhouse is the name of Rosemary's baby. He's the antichrist."

"Uh-huh, so that's a waste of time."

Greg opened his field kit as he asked, "Can I collect the flier?"

"Yeah. Collect it and process it. Maybe we can get a hit on fingerprints."

"You think our suspect is Adrian Woodhouse?"

Kevin shrugged. "Could be. Or he could be a member."

He slipped on a pair of latex gloves as he asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Because on the other side of this building is a big, spray-painted symbol of the Eye of Horus. Saw it when I drove up. I want you to take pictures of everything, Greg, as if this were a crime scene."

"Are we going to go in?"

Kevin shook his head as he stepped away. "Not yet. I'm going to come back here tonight when it's open. See what this corner looks like after midnight, and why all our victims flocked here. I don't remember seeing any symbols or books, no pictures or paraphilia of any kind in our victims' belongings that suggested that they belonged to a satanic nightclub."

"It's not just a nightclub. They host psychic and tarot readings, live bands—mostly punk rock and heavy metal—and they even have book signings for their members who are publishers."

Kevin eyed him as he asked, "Are you a member?"

"Me? No."

"Then how do you know so much about it?"

Greg dropped the flier down into an evidence bag and sealed it up. "I know some members. Met a few over the years at concerts. They're a mostly tight-knit group, aggressively inclusive, with a very anti-authority and punk rock ethos. Let's just say, they enjoy putting the "Sin" back in Sin City. In my opinion, they're harmless artists, musicians, magicians, and all other kinds of performers just having fun. I don't think they actually do any real devil worshiping or anything. It's all for show, like…Black Sabbath, y'know, Ozzy Osborne. Ouija boards, magic tricks, candles, incense, metal music, and a whole lot of alcohol."

"And drugs. This could be our drug connection."

"That's an assumption. Just because they like calling upon the spirits of the dead doesn't mean they do drugs." He grabbed up his camera and started taking more pictures. Getting around to the other side of the building, he took a picture of the Eye of Horus that was spray painted onto the concrete. There were also other symbols. "That's the 'All Seeing Eye', the 'horned hand', aka, 'devil horns', or as all of us rockers use it for, 'rock on'," he said as he made the hand gesture.

"You don't believe this stuff, do you?"

"Grissom never told you?" he asked as he took another picture of the wall.

"Told me what?"

"I have a gift."

Kevin frowned at him as he started for the building. "Gift of what?"

"ESP. Nana Olaf was a Psychic and she—"

Kevin started laughing.

"She was the real deal. Said I also have it. Her psychic abilities got me curious, so I studied it. That led me down a rabbit hole of all things mystical, including the occult. Do I believe in it?" He shrugged. "Of course. I also like to keep an open mind. Grissom believes in it."

Kevin stopped laughing. "He told you that."

"Yeah, well, not in so many words. We worked on a case involving a psychic once. He's a cynic, but he also believes. There's just a lot of frauds that make it hard to be a true believer."

"You're saying that my dad, Mr. Science, believes in magic?"

Greg smiled as he lowered his camera and told him, "Check his office. He has a voodoo handbook, and another on the History of Folk Magic on his shelf. I mean, he did grow up in New Orleans, so he probably knows about most of this stuff anyway. New Orleans is the land of the occult. Practically its birthplace."

"Just 'cause he reads about it doesn't mean he believes it. You know how he is. Didn't he get a book about Ancient Egypt to read about all these symbols? He learns all he can so he can understand the suspects, and…" he trailed off as if something occurred to him.

"What is it?"

Kevin rubbed his neck as the sun beat down on the both of them as he said, "The reference to New Orleans and the Lord Byron poem that Lecter had left. It referenced the 'magic of the mind' and the 'power of thought'. What's that called? Gaining insight into the past and future?"

Greg thought about it before saying, "Divination magic. Those who use it gain insights into the unknown across space and time. They can see the future, the past, and across great distances, even into other dimensions. Are you thinking that…that Grissom, that's what he does? I thought it was recreating the crime scene by interpretation of the evidence."

"It is, partly. What he does, he'll say it's from empathy, memory, and an overactive imagination." Kevin pointed to the concrete wall, the symbols, and said, "This terrifies me. Okay? Not because I think it's real, but if our killer thinks it's real…He might think his gift is equal to that of my dad's."

"Grissom has a gift?"

"I think our killer might think he does. Now, it was all over the news, right? Lecter's return, Grissom being Graham, and all that followed. Do any digging and you're bound to read all those old articles and the literature on Lecter. Hell, Lecter thought they were both Gods. This freak also thinks he's a God. An Ancient Egyptian Sun God. A killer with that kind of pathology…along with a killer obsessed over a woman that resembles Sara. I mean, what are the odds of them both showing up here at the same time? I don't think it's a coincidence."

"But didn't you say that our killer, and the spree killer, are two different people?"

"I do, but that doesn't mean they're not partners. We know they've been together at one of the crime scenes. They know each other, so…What if they're working together and their targets are my dad and Sara?" Kevin rubbed his head in frustration, kicked some rocks and sand, and said, "I'm not liking it."

Greg couldn't agree more. His friends were in trouble, and he knew he couldn't do anything about it except to process whatever evidence he finds, which include the flier in his field kit.

"Done?"

"Uh, yeah." He grabbed up his field kit and started for his car. "What're you going to do?"

"I need to see if I can put our two suspects together at any other of our crime scenes," Kevin said.

"How?"

Kevin let out a breath and glanced over at him, saying, "I have to do what Grissom does. Get into their heads and recreate crime scenes."

TBC…

Disclaimer song used/mentioned: "Flashpoint: Catheter" by Cap'n Jazz.