Sara
Four days pass before we have even a thread to follow in the Walton case. Only Gil has spent any time at home, though dark crescents beneath weary eyes suggest that he is just as haunted as the rest of us. He brings me a salad that I'm picking olives out of when Brass pokes his head into the break room, a lightness to him that immediately strikes hope.
I pause my careful extraction, turning to face him.
"Tell me he's talking"
"We've got him in an interrogation room, so that's a start" he says, lightly jingling his keys in a thick hand. "Wanna go for a ride?"
I grin, slipping the lid back onto my salad. Aside from a brief questioning by Sofia, Darrel Walton has been strictly off limits. Despite the mounting evidence that he may be more involved than he's been letting on, we've been sitting on our hands until the DA gives us the go ahead. It seems that day may have finally come.
The midday sun feels brutalizing as we step out of the lab. I squint against the glare from the financial building across the street, reorienting myself. I've lost track of time. I know it's been four days since I walked into that house, but the rest is fluid. Irrelevant, really. I'll re-establish equilibrium when someone is paying for this heinous crime.
By the time we reach Jim's charger, beads of sweat are forming at the back of my neck and I'm longing for coastal summers. The cold reprieve of the ocean. It's the second heatwave to blanket the Southwest this summer, even the Agaves weary in their stone planters, praying for rain. I glance up at the cloudless sky while collecting wild hair into a ponytail, wondering how long before brush fires begin sparking up in the hills.
"Do you think we'll eventually get a confession out of him, or are we going to have to sweet talk the DA into expand the warrant?" I ask, slipping into the suffocating confines of the car, immediately reaching for the air conditioning.
"Look, I know you're convinced he's our guy, but you still don't have any definitive evidence. And I'm going to need some very definitive evidence before we go accusing a man of murdering his kids"
I raise a hand in surrender as we pull away from the curb.
"I know, it's just all the evidence is pointing to him right now and I want to know what we're dealing with here"
Running a hand over his buzzed head, he chuckles, the sound void of amusement.
"I don't know what we're dealing with. I vow to find his wife and he tells me I better- that she's the one who did this"
He glances at me, trying to gauge my reaction to that idea.
"Now I don't know what to make of that, the woman has no prior charges, no history of mental illness. She was on the school board for god sake"
He's silent for a few moments, ruminating.
"They seemed like a nice, normal family"
"No such thing" I muse, watching heat exhausted tourists roam towards the strip, zombie-like. Heat rising from the asphalt in waves.
I'm surprised to find Sofia already in the interrogation room with Walton when we arrive. She looks relaxed as ever, hand gripping a cup of coffee, waiting. For what, I'm not quite sure.
I glance at Jim in question, receiving a dismissive shrug in response.
"Let her do her thing"
He gives my shoulder a squeeze before leaving me to watch the interview unfold.
Darrel Walton sits unmoving, arms crossed over his thick chest as he stares at some indistinct point on the wall. Sofia, leaned casually back in her seat, observes him silently. This can't be easy. She held his hand, informed him that his kids were dead, his wife missing. Aside from the small breakdown that I witnessed, she spent the next day and a half no more than a whisper away. I know from experience that when your instincts are proven to be wrong, it can feel like a betrayal by your own mind, your own intuition, and in some absurd way, by the suspect. As though they should have felt your hand in theirs and confessed to everything out of respect for your unwarranted trust.
Ten minutes pass before I slip out to grab a coffee, returning to the exact same scene. I reposition myself against the ledge, just thick enough to lean against, and wonder what she's thinking about. I can only imagine it's all job-related politics and old case files up there, but I know that's untrue. I try to imagine her cooking dinner, watering houseplants. My lips twitch into a fleeting smile, the image absurd.
I wonder briefly about the man from the bar, the one with dark hair and glaring intentions. I wonder if she took him home- I can't imagine she would ever allow it to be the other way around. I wonder if it's entirely about sex or if she is genuinely looking for connection. I wonder if she avoids relationships or if she craves the intimacy of one. I think about Grissom.
I think about the way he talks to her- rarely irritated, rarely closed off. I think about his hands, clumsy and soft. I think about their dinners, the conversations in his office that span longer than his and mine ever do. I think about the leather couch in his study and wonder if she's ever been in there. I stare at her through the one-sided window- her immaculate ponytail, her cornflower eyes- and allow myself to wonder if he's touched her. I think of her skin against the dark leather of the couch, golden hair mussed, breathless.
I tear my gaze from her to focus on Darrel, catching sight of my reflection in the glass, eyebrows tightly knit. I focus on his crumpled shirt. His wedding ring. His blunt nail beds. I stare at his cuticles as I imagine Sofia's husky laugh, her penetrative gaze as she climbs onto Grissom's lap, soft hands hungry for the feel of her.
I push off the ledge roughly, taking a sip of coffee as I pace from one side of the small room to the other. Irritation begins seeping in, replacing my earlier sense of sympathy. I allow myself to really look at her once more- the perfect curve of her nose, her slender neck. Toned arms. Honey skin- before firmly sealing that traitorous corner of my mind. Instead I focus on what we've learned about Walton. About the blood on his shoes that matches his middle daughter. The neighbour that claims to have seen him return home late in the night in an unfamiliar car. His epithelials beneath his youngest daughters' nails. Why isn't she doing her job? There is so much to ask.
Sofia is the queen of both patience and impatience, depending on the situation. When we both see a case in the same light, we work seamlessly together. Few words are needed, we read each other incredibly well. Unfortunately, we often differ on where to gift our patience, and therein lies my constant irritation.
She takes a slow sip of coffee and I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. She is squandering our opportunity. Another ten minutes crawl by before she pushes back from the table, excusing herself. She saunters out the door and I'm in the hall before she has a chance to get further than a few steps out of the room.
"What are you doing in there?" I ask incredulously. Bright eyes appear surprised to see me, barging out of the observation room, but surprise is quickly replaced by cool determination.
"He didn't do it"
I scoff, so taken aback that I physically step away from her.
"What?"
"He didn't do it, Sara"
"Are you clairvoyant now, because I didn't see you ask him a single question"
She crosses her arms, navy blouse bunching at her elbows. She runs her tongue over her lip, a sure sign of irritation.
"He is in there voluntarily right now, if I push him, he won't talk"
"He's not talking! Have you even spoken to him or are we just solving cases based on your instincts now?"
I'm aware that some of this irritation may be fueled by a severe lack of sleep and mounting frustrations. From Grissom seeming to handpick her as a case partner wherever possible these days. Regardless, all evidence is pointing to Darrel Walton, and she isn't doing her job.
"My instincts are a very large part of this job"
She has lowered her voice to little more than a tense whisper, closing the space between us to dampen the spectacle we are on the brink of making. She looks exhausted, smells of vanilla and dark coffee, and I want so badly to puncture her inflated sense of self-importance.
"He claims the blood on his shoe is from Clara's bloody nose the previous evening, that he hadn't noticed. He's spent the past week in a clinically diagnosed state of shock, so I'm inclined to believe him"
Her tone is measured and even, but I can feel the tension in her body; the anger bubbling just below the surface.
"I want whoever did this to pay just as much as you do, but I told him I wouldn't push him. There is an art to this-"
"More importantly" I interrupt, voice rising again despite our proximity, "there is a protocol to this, which not only involves asking questions that the suspect might not feel like answering, but including the CSI on the case who has been pouring over the evidence for the past four days"
In an instant, I watch her patience slip.
"You are a bull in a china shop when you get invested, Sara. That kind of interrogation rarely works, especially in cases like this. I've been working with him for days and I know that trying to berate him into a confession won't work"
This feels like an unjust sentiment, her well-worn tactic of brazen interrogation having taken everyone aback at times, but that is low on my current list of irritations.
"You are too close to him" I growl, forcing my volume down as we have started drawing attention from passers-by. She scoffs, fixing me with a penetrative gaze.
"Are we still talking about Darrel Walton?"
Something akin to wildfire slowly begins spreading through me, igniting every single resentment I've ever held about her. How dare she bring Grissom into this. How dare she insinuate that I'm being unprofessional. How dare she assume something she knows nothing of- there's no way he mentioned our relationship to her… was there?
"In here, now"
Brass brushes past us towards the observation room. I shoot Sofia a seething look before turning to follow him into the room.
It's cramped in there with all of us and I'm closer to her than I would like. Jim appears more tired than angry as he opens his hands towards us.
"We have a narrow window to talk to Walton before he shuts down completely or the DA forces us to back off, and you two are wasting time shouting at each other in the hall?"
"This entire interview has been a waste of time, she isn't even talking to him" I exclaim, jutting my arm out towards Walton in reference, narrowly missing Sofia's face in the process.
She flinches, running her tongue over her lip again before turning to Jim.
"I told him we can talk when he's ready, he knows that has to happen eventually. If I force it, he'll shut down"
I open my mouth to protest but he holds a hand up, shooting me a look that is half irritation, half pleading.
"I have a press conference to give in an hour, I don't have time to play mediator for you two today" he chastises, as though he ever plays that role. As though he isn't a constant chaotic neutral. He turns to Sofia, face softening in a way that is generally reserved for her.
"Sofie, I trust your process, but this is time sensitive, just ask the questions. And let Sara in there with you"
I refuse to be petty, biting back a smile as she represses an eyeroll that I wouldn't have noticed if they weren't so frequently directed at me. She nods once, sleek ponytail falling over her shoulder.
He's out of the room before he turns back to her.
"Oh, and Steve Walton, the upstanding brother of this guy, was arrested today as a suspect in an armed robbery in Phoenix. He's got a rap sheet as long as my arm, I need you to go check him out. Take someone with you, they're expecting you down at Phoenix PD tomorrow afternoon"
I watch her face sour for a moment, quickly replaced by a thin veil of professionalism. She gives him another nod as he disappears out the door.
Taking a breath to recenter herself, she throws a quick sideways glance at me.
"Let me take the lead"
An hour of questioning gets us nowhere. Every question I ask, Sofia reframes in a softer way, and I don't understand this instinct to protect him. His answers are short, his demeanor tired. Clara had a bloody nose. He'd been playing with Norah and her little nails had dug into his neck as she held onto him. Having kids is messy he explains before a sob lodges itself in his throat and he rediscovers that indistinct spot on the wall behind us. Sofia shoots me a look of utter distain before putting an effective end to the interview.
Deciding that our relations for the day are unsalvageable, I head back to the lab. I make it halfway to the locker room before I'm intercepted by Ecklie, unkempt and weary, informing me that I'm maxed out on overtime. I bite back the urge to fight him, relenting to the need for a shower and some sleep.
I'm surprised to see Sofia as I enter the breakroom hours later, eyebrows knitting in confusion as I slide my bag off my shoulder.
She looks exhausted but polished as ever. A crisp white blouse rolled up at her elbows, ponytail burnished and tight. I eye the second coffee cup that she's retrieved from the counter behind her, dropping my bag onto a chair.
"Here, I don't want to start this on bad terms" she states, pushing off the counter and wandering over, passing me the warm coffee. I frown as I take it, looking at her with confusion. She mirrors my confusion before it morphs suddenly into weary irritation.
"Grissom didn't tell you, did he?"
"Tell me what?"
"You and I are going to Phoenix"
If possible, my frown deepens.
"Together?"
She arches an eyebrow, conveying that look of almost constant underlying amusement.
"Obviously"
"… when Brass said bring someone with you, I'm the someone you chose?"
She stares at me for a moment before a chuckle escapes her lips. As if we would ever choose one another.
"Good, you two have connected" Grissom's voice draws our attention to the doorway where he's peering into the breakroom. "Good luck in Phoenix"
"Woah, I did not agree to this. Catherine and I haven't finished going through-"
"Catherine will be fine without you for a few days"
My jaw slackens for a moment before I press my lips into a thin line, glancing at Sofia and shaking my head.
"Days? No… I can't"
"You can. I need you to"
He fixes me with a pointed look and I scoff, grappling for any good reason why this will not work. Unfortunately I am completely untethered and he knows it.
"Call me if anything comes up. I'll see you both in a few days"
"You could have at least given me a heads up" I call after him, glaring at the empty doorway before turning hesitantly back to Sofia. She quirks an eyebrow, tilting her coffee cup forward to tap mine. Cheers to mandated misery.
"I'll meet you out front in twenty" she states, shoulder brushing mine as she moves towards the door. I roll my eyes, taking a long sip of coffee. I'm surprised to find it exactly as I like it- no cream, an asinine amount of sugar.
"Fuck" I mutter under my breath.
Days.