Fandom:
CSI
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: GSR
Summary: Another
serial killer strikes Las Vegas--but this one has a twist.
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong
to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do
not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any
way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if
you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any
errors are mine, all mine,
no you can't have any.
Spoilers: through "Bull"
Note: this story includes the non-graphic deaths of children.
I owe this story to Cincoflex and to Laura27md!
*********
The doorbell roused Sara from a sodden but
blessedly nightmare-free sleep. Snagging a robe, she padded
downstairs, yawning, and opened the door to find Greg outside, haloed
by early-morning sunshine. His eyes narrowed at the sight of
her. “I hate you,” he said, and came in.
“No sleep?” Sara guessed dryly, and went to dig out the premium coffee from the freezer.
“A solid double,” Greg confirmed, collapsing onto the couch
with a groan. “You’re lucky I took a shower before I
got here.”
“Believe me, I’m grateful,” Sara teased as she poured
beans into the grinder of the coffeemaker. “I’ve
smelled you before.”
Greg snorted and stretched out full-length on the cushions, propping
his feet on the armrest. Since the soles of his shoes extended
beyond the cloth, Sara didn’t chide him. “You know, I
thought being on Swing would keep me from having to work all
night.” He yawned. “Anyway, Ronnie’s tied
up in a meeting, but she said to tell you that there’s no new
info.”
Which meant, to Sara’s relief, that they had found nothing they
could call probative in the search of the house or Grissom’s
office. Except--
“What about his mother’s rosary?” Sara asked as soon
as the grinder finished roaring. “He keeps it in a drawer
at work.”
Greg’s voice floated over the back of the couch. “I
don’t know anything about that. She said she had something
else for us, though, but it’s gonna have to wait until she gets
out.”
“When are we meeting her?” Sara punched the brew button and left the machine to its work.
Greg glanced at his watch. “Hour.”
He was halfway to sleep, Sara judged. “I’m going to
get dressed. Make yourself at home, you know the
drill.”
His only answer was an indistinct mumble, and Sara left him to his impromptu nap. The coffee would keep.
Forty minutes later Greg was nursing a travel mug of hot coffee, and
Sara was driving his car to the little curry shop where they had
arranged to meet. The elaborate lengths they were taking felt a
little silly to Sara, but none of them wanted to betray their
clandestine association through carelessness.
Ronnie had beaten them there, and was working on a huge meal when they
arrived. She waved at them as they came in, her eyes bright, and
Sara suppressed a slightly sour grin. Oh, to be twenty-four again.
Greg sat down opposite Ronnie, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”
She pointed her fork at him. “This from the guy who eats lutefisk?”
They seemed to be getting along quite well, Sara observed as she took
her seat and watched them bicker amiably. “What’s the
word?” she finally asked.
Ronnie swallowed her bite and turned to Sara. “Frankly,
we’ve got nothing, but everyone is claiming that Grissom just
keeps his chaplet-making equipment someplace else.”
“Which makes sense, if you think about it,” Greg broke
in. “I mean, you live together, he wouldn’t do it there.”
“True.” Sara looked back to Ronnie. “What about the rosary in his desk?”
“Oh, it’s an antique. It has a woman’s name on
the box--Olivia? We figure it’s his mother or grandmother,
but no one’s had time to look it up yet.”
“She was his mother.” Sara relaxed slightly.
The rosary was less probative as evidence if it was known to be a
keepsake.
“Yeah, good.” Ronnie sipped at her soda.
“His car was definitely broken into, but none of the others think
that’s significant. I documented everything
though.”
Sara smiled. “Thank you, Ronnie. It may be important later.”
Greg drummed his fingers on the table, frowning in thought.
“How are we going to narrow down a list of suspects on this
thing? I mean, it’s just too wide open right
now.”
He was right, and Sara’s spirits sank a little. “I
don’t know. I started looking at some of his past cases,
but there are so many.” She sighed. “We need
more data. Maybe interviewing the people who were nearby when the
children were abducted...”
She trailed off, oppressed by the enormity of the task. With
official sanction, it would only be a matter of time and footwork, but
without it would be nearly impossible. Maybe if I pretended to be a private detective...
“Data. Huh.” Greg leaned his elbow on the table
and rested his chin in his hand. “Well, you know, the
killer has to be getting his data from somewhere. I mean, lab
schedules and all that--it’s not like they’re
public.”
“They’re not secret, either,” Sara pointed out, but Greg shrugged.
“No, but think about it. If somebody on the outside wanted to know where Grissom was going to be when, without asking obvious questions, they’d have to have a line into the lab.”
“Police scanner,” Sara said, slipping into the old
back-and-forth that she had been used to with Nick and Warrick,
brainstorming ideas and trying to find the flaws.
“That wouldn’t tell them when he was going out of
town,” Ronnie interjected. “Maybe calling the front
desk?”
“Good idea, but nah, the receptionists aren’t allowed to
give out that kind of info,” Greg said, and Sara smiled a
little. I guess he’s doing some mentoring of his own. “And Grissom never uses the calendar on the lab’s intranet.”
“He couldn’t claim to forget staff meetings if he
did,” Sara sighed. “So, postulating some kind of
insider access to the lab...”
The easy, almost lighthearted energy evaporated as the conclusion became clear. Sara felt her guts chilling. Either someone at the lab is siphoning info, or the killer actually works there...
Greg looked as though he’d tasted something worse than
lutefisk. “I’ll cross-check the records. See if
anyone doesn’t have an alibi.”
Ronnie set down her fork as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite,
and Sara frowned. The lab wasn’t so large that they
didn’t know basically everyone who worked there, at least by
sight; the idea that one of their colleagues could be either a serial
murderer or a sellout was not pleasant at all. The alternative--a
cop--was no better. They’d faced the possibility before,
but this time it seemed more dire.
“It’s a place to start,” Sara said at last.
“If we want to clear Grissom we have to find a thread to
follow.”
“I have this really cool metaphor about spiders and webs, but
I’m too tired,” Greg sighed, slumping as though he had no
spine.
Ronnie rolled her eyes, and Sara found the strength to grin a
little. “Fine. Go home and get some rest, both of
you. I’ll work on Grissom’s case files and see if
anything stands out.”
“Want a lift?” Greg asked, straightening a little, but Sara shook her head.
“I’ll catch a cab back, you sleep. Ronnie, if you have any questions, give me a call, just--“
“--Use my own phone, I know.” Ronnie grinned at her,
a bit of her enthusiasm resurfacing. “No
worries.”
Sara smirked, pleased that Ronnie had caught her out.
“Okay. Ron...if there’s any way...can you make sure that
Gil’s computer is locked up tight? If the killer does work at the lab, he or she might try to plant evidence on the hard drive.”
Greg tilted his head back to grin up at Sara. “Your boss is
already on top of that. All the evidence in Grissom’s case
has to be signed out by two investigators at once.”
Ronnie nodded. “She’s double-checking documentation
too. It’s almost like...” The young woman
hesitated. “...Like she thinks he might be framed as
well.”
“She’s just covering the lab’s collective ass,”
Greg disagreed amiably; Sara sensed that the issue had already been
discussed.
“Well, I’ll let you guys know if anything turns up,”
Sara said as she rose. She ran a hand over Greg’s hair,
neatly dodging his swat, and smiled at both of them.
“Thanks, you two. This means a lot to me.”
Ronnie blushed, and Greg just grinned back. “Hey, it’s Grissom, y’know?”
She did.
A call from Grissom’s lawyer interrupted Sara’s study of
Grissom’s old cases, and she was almost grateful when he asked if
he could stop by and see her. The files were interesting, with a
strong flavor of her lover despite the clinical precision of his notes,
but she wasn’t finding anything that seemed to point to their
killer.
Maybe a break will help.
When the doorbell sounded, Sara rose to let the lawyer in; unlike
Dayshift’s Randall, Mr. Saxena was not at all dismayed by the
fact that he was several inches shorter than she, and passed with
courteously murmured greetings.
She gestured him to a seat on the couch, and he took it, setting his
briefcase neatly on the coffee table. Sara chose an armchair,
offered something to drink--which he politely refused--and waited for
him to speak.
Saxena was bordering on elderly, and the softness of age combined with
a round face made him look--to her mind--like a rather intellectual
guinea pig. But the mild exterior hid a razor-edged mind; Sara
had been cross-examined by him more than once, and respected both his
brains and his instincts. Grissom could hardly have chosen a
better defender.
“I saw Dr. Grissom this morning,” he began, and Sara sat up
straighter. “He sends his love, and said to assure you that
he is being well taken care of.”
The words should have been absurd coming from the little man, but to
Sara they were precious. “Thank you,” she said,
wry. “Is he telling the truth?”
Saxena’s small return smile acknowledged the hit.
“Yes, in fact. I can’t say that he’s
comfortable, but jail isn’t designed for comfort.”
“Too true.” Sara sighed, thinking of Grissom spending his sleeping hours on the hard, narrow cot.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Ms. Sidle,” Saxena
said, resting his hands on impeccably-trousered knees. “I
consider this case to be one that could go either way. The
evidence is mostly circumstantial, but it can be used to paint Dr.
Grissom in a very poor light.”
Sara winced. “I know.”
Saxena nodded. “Exactly. The prosecution will
probably take advantage of the fact that you investigated this case; I
can try to get the judge to rule you as an unacceptable witness, but I
may not succeed.” He blinked benignly. “There
is one other option, however.”
Sara nodded, her hands clenching on the chair’s arms.
“I know, but we may not be able to prove in time that
Grissom’s being framed.”
That made Saxena’s brows rise. “You believe that someone is trying to frame him?”
Sara frowned. “You think he’s guilty?”
“Not...exactly.” He shook his head, then fished out a
pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and put them
on. His eyes looked huge behind the lenses as he peered at
her. “Ms. Sidle, many criminal defense lawyers would say
that guilt and innocence are both immaterial, that all that matters is
creating reasonable doubt in the mind of a jury. I am not one of
them.”
He stroked his chin with one finger, a meditative fidget.
“I have known Gil for a number of years, mainly in a professional
capacity; we are not close friends, you understand, but have found
occasion to, ah, talk shop in a social setting, once in a
while.”
Sara didn’t quite know where he was going, but curiosity was
rapidly getting the better of her, so she didn’t interrupt.
“The truth was, when I found out the crimes of which Gil is
accused, my first thought was that he had gone mad.” Saxena
sighed. “It was the only explanation that made sense, that
someone so self-possessed and otherwise rational would be able to carry
these killings out and remain, on the surface, the same.”
“You thought his personality had split?” Sara asked softly.
“Possibly.” The lawyer blinked again, as if
processing information. “In any case, I did not consider
him fully rational--I advised him strongly to plead not guilty by
reason of mental disease, but he refused.”
Of course he did.
Grissom would, she had reflected more than once, make a truly
terrifying criminal if he did choose to switch sides, but he would
never plead guilty for something he knew he had not done.
She could remember the times he’d reminded her that the system
wasn’t perfect, that sometimes the guilty did go unpunished, but
somehow the innocent being punished was worse. Left to his own
devices, Grissom could survive prison; she could see him writing
letters and books, reading, trying patiently for an appeal. But a
former criminalist convicted of murdering half a dozen small children,
in with the general population--
He wouldn’t last a month, and nothing about that month would be easy.
“He’s not insane,” she said firmly. “No
blackouts, no strange behavior. He’s being
framed.”
“So you say.” Saxena looked intrigued. “Are the police aware of this?”
“Not...exactly.” Sara bit her lip. “How much of what I say to you is in confidence?”
“Hm, that touches on the matter I wished to discuss, but for the
purposes of this conversation, let us say all of it.” He
smiled gently. “This is, after all, a private
interview.”
“All right. I strongly believe he’s being framed, but
I have no evidence--yet--to prove it. No physical evidence,
anyway.”
“So it is not an official investigation?” When Sara
shook her head, Saxena deflated slightly. “Ah, well.
I wish you every success, but unless it becomes official it is outside
my purview.”
“When it does, I’ll let you know,” Sara said,
stressing the first word slightly, and Saxena’s smirk let her
know that he’d caught it.
“Very good. Now, as I was saying, there is one way to avoid
having you called to testify on the prosecution’s
behalf.”
He stopped, and Sara gaped at him as she realized what he was proposing. “Are you serious?”
The lawyer smiled again. “The law states that a wife cannot
be compelled to testify against her husband, nor a husband against his
wife. Dr. Grissom said that you are already engaged; and while it
is not common, a quick exchange of vows is possible.”
Sara sat silent for a moment, trying to absorb the idea. Marrying
Grissom in a jail cell seemed almost absurd, a melodramatic way to
avoid the witness problem, but it would work, and it wasn’t as
though they weren’t planning on marrying already.
But in her mind’s ear she heard Grissom, a little shy but dreamy,
talking about the ceremony he had in mind, a small private wedding
without haste or fuss; someplace beautiful, he’d said, the romantic in him breaking free for a moment.
Whatever else it is, a jail cell is not beautiful.
“Did he suggest it?” Sara asked.
“Actually, he turned down the idea,” Saxena admitted,
looking the slightest bit sheepish. “But you may be able to
convince him otherwise.”
Sara could easily guess at Grissom’s reasons--for one thing, he
would not want to tie her to him if he were convicted. Stupid. It’s not like I’m going to abandon him if that happens.
“Let’s...wait a bit,” she said at last. “Things may change.”
“True.” Saxena accepted her demur. “But
do not wait too long; if you do marry, it must appear
credible.”
“I know.” Sara sighed. We have got to figure this out.
After Saxena left, Sara put away Grissom’s disks and got ready to
go visit him at the jail. As she pulled on her shoes, she
realized that the sound her subconscious had been ignoring for the past
few minutes was the deep, repetitive barking of Bruno next door.
She frowned. Bruno was not an idle barker, and he sounded like he
meant business. Sara walked to the window and looked out and
down.
The boxer had a nice setup in the high-fenced yard next door; a large
shady tree, a few toys to chew on, and a wading pool filled with water
for when he felt the need for a dip. The couple who owned him
weren’t usually prone to ignore his noise for so long, but Sara
had a more than sneaking suspicion that Bruno got shooed out into the
yard at times so that the neighbors could have some “private
time”.
I guess they’re a little too...involved...to pay attention right now...so what the hell is he barking at?
Sara went downstairs and out the back door, calling the dog over to the
fence to reassure him. He came happily, and Sara scratched his
ears through the chainlink, trying to examine what she could see of the
street without being obvious about it.
But she had to go back inside and look through the front window before
she spotted what had set Bruno off: a strange car parked along the curb
across the street, engine idling. She squinted at the figure in
the driver’s seat, and swore when she recognized the
reporter’s face.
Great. News 3. The second I walk out the door they’ll be all over me--
Fuming, Sara considered leaving anyway. But
even if I get into the car in the garage, they’ll follow
me. And I really don’t want to have any kind of interaction
with the press outside the jail!
She pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying to ease the weight within, then sighed in exasperation. Think outside the box, why don’t you.
It was a moment’s work to call for a cab to meet her two blocks
away, and hardly more than that to lock the back door behind her and
hoist herself over the backyard fence. The neighbors on that side
were at work, and there was no one but Bruno to see Sara escape.
This time the jail sergeant was an older woman who informed her without
malice or flexibility that Sara had five minutes, and let her into the
cell block.
Grissom’s clothes were gone; in their place he wore the standard
baggy orange jumpsuit, which did nothing to flatter him. The
sight of it sent a nasty twinge through Sara’s stomach. It makes him look...guilty.
Reminding herself that it was just psychology, she strode up to the
bars. Grissom’s grin was wide, though his eyes looked
shadowed, and his fingers wrapped warmly around hers as she put her
hands through the bars.
“Hi, honey,” he murmured, mouth curling up, and Sara couldn’t help smiling back.
“How are you?” she asked, squeezing his hands. “You look tired.”
Grissom shrugged. “The gentleman in the next cell chose to
serenade us most of the night with selections from, I believe, Rent. Unfortunately, if he had any ability to carry a tune he left it behind with his sobriety.”
Sara winced, though the humor in his words was clear. “Mr. Saxena stopped by to see me.”
“Good.” Grissom dipped his head in a nod. “He wanted to talk to you.”
“About getting married?” Sara asked, but Grissom frowned.
“I told him that was not an option.”
Sara had felt the same way when Saxena had raised the subject, but now
she wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea. “Why
not? It makes sense.”
Grissom took a firmer grip on her hands. “Sweetheart, I
would do anything within my power to keep you from having to go through
cross-examination if I could. But I don’t want to tie you
to me--right now.”
It was obvious what he meant, and Sara shook her head.
“Gil, they’re not going to find you guilty.”
His lips twitched up the slightest bit. “We can’t be sure of that,” he said gently.
She glared at him. “I’m not going to just walk away, you know.”
“I know.” Under better circumstances he would have
kissed her, she could tell. “But you don’t need the
burden of a convicted husband.”
Sara’s temper was rising, but she didn’t let it get away from her. I refuse to fight in the middle of the jail.
“We’ll discuss it later,” she said, letting him know
that the matter was by no means settled, and the gleam in his eye told
her he understood--both her stubbornness and her reasons for putting
off the argument.
“Good idea,” he agreed.
Sara wanted to tell him about the efforts they were making to find the
real killer, but the jail wasn’t the place for that, either, not
when there were people listening from the other cells. Instead,
she switched subjects. “I have some questions about those
old files you were telling me about.”
Grissom straightened, interest lighting his face. “What do you want to know?”
His case files occupied the rest of their meager time--not necessarily
what either of them would have chosen to discuss, but Sara wasn’t
about to touch on more personal matters knowing that behind her were
faces pressed to bars in hopes of catching their conversation. At
five minutes on the dot, the sergeant returned.
“Tomorrow?” Grissom asked with a touch of hope in his voice, and Sara smiled at him.
“Soon as they open.” She squeezed his hands one last
time and pulled her own reluctantly back. Grissom sighed, and
Sara tapped her lips with one finger to see him smile again before she
turned away.
The kiss would have to wait a while, but she swore it would be delivered.
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