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.        ********* “What have you got?” Sara asked Ronnie that evening as they poured themselves coffee in the breakroom, ten minutes before the start of shift.    Ronnie added several packets of sugar to her coffee, making Sara hide a wince.  “Basically, you can’t get diphenhydramine in patch form in the United States.  In fact, as far as I can tell, you can’t get it anywhere.  But I’d bet a lot of money that if you know the right people in the right place, you can have it made up custom.”    Sara blew out a breath, disappointed but not really surprised.  “Probably a safe bet.  Thanks, Ronnie.”    Ronnie pulled out a chair and sat, blowing gingerly on her cup.  “We’re not going to be able to trace it, are we?”    Sara leaned against the table, thinking unhappily of Greta.  “Nope.  I have another assignment for you, though, if Julia doesn’t have anything urgent.”    Ronnie nodded, and Sara waited, amusement stirring.  If she knew the girl’s curiosity...    Ronnie shifted, cleared her throat, sipped her drink, and finally glared at Sara.  “All right, all right--what is it?”    All of thirty seconds.  Didn’t even beat her previous record.  “I need you to find out where someone would get a Saint Nicholas chaplet.  You might need to go talk to people if you can’t find out online.”    Eyes bright, Ronnie nodded and started to get up, but Sara laid a hand on her shoulder and pressed down.  “Hey, you still have seven minutes before shift starts!”    Dr. Reyes came in to find them laughing, and she smiled at them both, eyes crinkling.  “Good evening, people.  Glad to see you’re doing well.”    Sara and Ronnie tried to compose themselves.  “What’s up tonight, boss?” Sara asked, smothering a last chuckle.    “Ronnie, you have a break-in at a pawn shop.”  Reyes handed her a slip of paper.  “When you’re done with that, report to Sara unless you hear otherwise.”    Grinning still, Ronnie rose, scooped up her cup, and took the slip.  “You got it.”    Reyes turned to Sara.  “I want your report on the serial first; we’ll go to my office.”    Sara nodded, and tossed a wave to Ronnie as she hurried out of the room.    It didn’t take long to outline the facts to Reyes.  Sara added her speculations as well, then fell silent.    Reyes sat back, obviously thinking, and Sara waited patiently.  Finally her boss stirred and spoke.    “So what we have is a killer not only skilled in forensics, but someone who has access to court and medical records--and not just those of Nevada.”    “It looks like it,” Sara admitted.  “It’s possible that the killer just happened to know all the children in question, or at least know their histories, but it’s more likely that it’s someone working in law enforcement.”    Reyes’ breath hissed through her teeth, an angry sound.  “One of our own.  That’s bad.”    Sara scowled in agreement.  Betrayal of oaths aside, investigating one’s own team, as it were, was always, always painful and messy and difficult.  The investigation itself would be seen as a betrayal, and the repercussions often lasted for months, even years, fracturing the trust between the investigators and those with whom they worked.    “It doesn’t have to be someone working for Las Vegas,” she pointed out dutifully, but Reyes’ glance across the desk said what they both knew--a killer staging scenes in the city most likely belonged to the city.    “Who has access to those records on a regular basis?” Reyes asked thoughtfully.    Sara shrugged.  “Lawyers, court advocates, social workers, coroners.  None of whom are going to be experts in forensics.”  CSIs and cops both had access to court records as a part of their jobs, but medical records were more of a case-by-case thing.    Reyes fiddled with a pen lying on her tidy desk.  “I suppose that it would only take one or two sessions--the killer could have obtained several files at once, if they knew what they were looking for.”    “There’s no point in trying to track through specific records, not if he has legit access,” Sara mused.    Reyes pursed her lips.  “Why take a child from Yakima?  That doesn’t fit the pattern, when all the others are local.”    “Opportunity, maybe?  No, that doesn’t fit.”  Sara frowned thoughtfully.  “That’s a hell of a long trip.”    “It must be the children specifically,” Reyes said, flicking the pen away and looking as frustrated as Sara felt.  “He’s on a mission to rescue these children.”    They looked at each other in mutual exasperation, and Reyes swore softly in Spanish.  “All right.  Every bit of information is potentially useful, even if we can’t use it now.  Is there anything more you can do at the moment?”    Sara hesitated, but in the end honesty won out.  “No.  Ronnie is going to do some more research for me when she gets the chance, but everything’s processed as of now.”    “All right,” Reyes said again, and held out an assignment slip.  “Go deal with this.  I’ll let Ronnie go ahead with your assignment when she gets back, if you’ll take anything else that comes up in the meantime.”    “Sure.”  Sara felt her spirits lightening a trifle.  Reyes did do her best to be fair.    “You’re doing good work, Sara,” her boss added seriously.  “You’re the best CSI for this case, and I’m just sorry that we don’t have the resources to let you work it exclusively.”    Touched, Sara smiled.  Reyes waved a hand in dismissal.  “Now get out of here and leave me to my memos.”         Two more days passed without further breaks in the chaplet murders.  For a wonder, the press had not yet gotten hold of the fact that a serial killer was at work; it probably helped, Sara reflected, that only two of the families were local, since no one had come forward to claim Baby Doe.  But she knew it was only a matter of time before some enterprising reporter found out about the chaplets.    Lucky for us that the killer doesn’t seem to want attention.    Ronnie managed to fit in her research, finally reporting to Sara and Reyes both.  “There is no such thing as a Saint Nicholas chaplet,” Ronnie explained in the breakroom before assignments.  “He just doesn’t seem to be that popular when it comes to prayers, I guess.  I went over to Our Lady of Sorrows when I couldn’t turn anything up online, and the priest was busy, but there was a nun who was willing to talk to me.”    Ronnie smoothed a hand over her hair.  “She confirmed that Saint Nicholas doesn’t get put into chaplets, but she also said that making them isn’t that hard.”    Sara leaned forward across the table.  “You mean, the killer could be constructing his own chaplets?”    Ronnie shrugged.  “Sure.  You can get all the parts online, believe me--they’re sold all over the place.”    Reyes nodded slowly.  “Beads, links, a medal and a crucifix.  Simple.”    “All you’d need is a pair of pliers,” Sara added dryly.  She suppressed a swearword; she’d been hoping for some traceable chaplet pattern.    Ronnie turned her hands palm upward.  “I can try to trace the medals themselves if you like.”    Sara glanced at Reyes, who nodded.  “And the crucifixes too, please, Ronnie.  Thanks.”    It was odd, having someone else do the legwork, Sara reflected; she was used to handling the chases herself, spending hours clicking a mouse and peering at a computer screen as she followed leads and tested theories.  On one level, she still wanted to do it herself, to make sure nothing was missed.  But the division of labor made sense; she could process a scene faster than Ronnie, and could be trusted with any crime solo, while Ronnie was still under supervision for some.    And I have to admit--she’s good at this kind of thing.    “Later,” Reyes added.  “First, you two get a shooting over behind the Great Mohave.”  The supervisor stood.  “I have a murder to get to over in Henderson, so call me if you finish before I do.”    “Right,” Ronnie acknowledged.  Sara followed her out of the room, remembering with some wistfulness the time when she worked with five other people and there was more time.    The shooting had produced no fatalities, though one man was in surgery to have a bullet removed from his leg; Sara and Ronnie processed in harmony, measuring angles and testing the shooter for gun shot residue.  The area behind the casino was a warren of small streets scarcely bigger than alleys, not deserted but not high-traffic areas either, but the shooter had not run and the scene was relatively small.    Sara scarcely noticed when one of the officers guarding the scene responded to a call on his radio by leaving the area, but within minutes he came back at a run.  “Sidle!  You’re handling the rosary murders, right?”    Sara didn’t bother to correct his phrasing, instead looking around and hoping that no one from the press had overheard him.  “Yeah--Franklin, what--“    He caught her arm, lowering his voice.  “We got a fresh one, right around the corner.”    Shit.  “Ronnie, keep going, find me when you’re done,” she snapped as she snatched up her kit.  Ronnie’s mouth opened in surprise, but Sara ducked under the tape before she could answer, and followed the officer at a trot.    The new body wasn’t quite right around the corner; it was a block away in an alley full of cardboard recycling Dumpsters.  But Franklin had been correct in calling it “fresh”.  A paramedic was just stepping away.  “Still warm,” she said sadly.    Sara pushed down a surge of anguish at the sight of the little boy, who looked asleep, his hand curled around yet another chaplet, and whirled on Franklin.  “Go back to the SUV and get me the long box from the back, and CSI Lake,” she ordered, measuring out the box’s dimensions with her hands.  “Move!”    Fortunately for her temper, he didn’t argue, taking off at a jog back the way they’d come; Sara heard him barking orders into his radio about setting up a search.  She stripped off her gloves and stuffed them in a bindle, barely taking the time to seal and label it before pulling on another pair.  The paramedic lingered, looking interested.  “What is it?”    “How long since TOD?” Sara asked, kneeling down next to the small body.    “No more than half an hour, I’d guess,” she answered.  “Whoever it was has balls to dump a body right next to a crime scene.”    Technically Sara wasn’t supposed to touch the body until the coroner pronounced, but if she were careful, it was possible to do this without actually coming into physical contact.  “There’s a chance we can get fingerprints off his skin if we move quickly.”    She leaned over the little boy, trying to judge the angles, and a faint odor reached her nose over the dry smell of cardboard.  It was...familiar.    The scent made her blink, but as she reached for the memory, it retreated, leaving her feeling troubled.  Sara bent down further and sniffed more deeply, and the smell teased her again, but wouldn’t come clear.  Grissom would be proud of me, she thought absently, and wished for the sniffer device that the Nightshift possessed.  She could request it, but by the time it arrived it would be far too late.    A third breath revealed only that the odor was dissipating.  Before she could chase it further, Franklin returned, with the box under his arm.  Ronnie pounded up behind him, panting.    “Great,” Sara said, and had the officer put the box down and open it up.  “You can help.  Ronnie, have you done this before?”    She knelt too, wide-eyed.  “Not outside the lab.”    Sara handed them each some poles.  “We’re setting up a portable fuming chamber.  Time is of the essence here, people.”    The paramedic, whose shirt label read “Lakeisha”, came forward and helped Sara unfold the plastic sheets.  Within moments they had the corpse boxed in--without touching it, Sara was proud to note--and she was dripping cyanoacrylate into the fumer.    Footsteps signaled the arrival of more people, and Sara looked over her shoulder to see more cops setting up a perimeter behind Dr. Nat.  The coroner crouched down to see what they were doing.  “Think you’ll find anything?” she asked.    Sara sat back on her heels, watching the fumes begin to curl out of the pan.  “No, but we can’t afford to miss the chance.”    Nat nodded, and raised her brows at the paramedic, who shook her head.  Nat glanced at her watch.  “I’m pronouncing,” she said easily.    Sara shot her a skeptical look, and Nat grinned.  “Professional opinion,” she said, jerking her head at Lakeisha.  “I can look closer when you’re done.”    They did make an interesting sight, Sara thought, all kneeling around the shrouded figure and waiting for the fuming to finish--one cop, one paramedic, two CSIs, and a coroner.  But the procedure wasn’t a common one--it was quite unusual to get to a body before the fingerprints-on-skin window was closed.    Finally the time was up.  Sara handed out masks from the fuming kit.  “Stand back,” she warned.  “This’ll be pretty toxic.”    The observers scrambled back a short ways, and Sara slipped on her mask and took hold of the plastic, folding it out of the way and flinching at the rush of acrid vapor.    Ronnie came forward to help her dismantle the apparatus, and as soon as they had it down, Nat knelt next to the body, examining it with quick, deft skill.  She concentrated on the exposed skin, since none of the other victims had been stripped and redressed, and after a moment gave a hoot of excitement.  “Sara, here!”    Sara snatched up a magnifying glass and bent to look where Nat pointed, at the tanned bare wrist.  The cyanoacrylate had settled there, delineating what seemed at first glance to be merely a smudge, but--    Sara held out a hand behind her.  “Lifting tape, Ron.”    Within seconds, the tape was in her hand.  Sara peeled it open and laid it delicately over the spot, pulling it off again with especial care.  Folding it over, she lifted it into better light.    “Well?” Nat asked eagerly.    “Maybe,” Sara said slowly.  “There’s not a lot of ridge detail, but we may be able to do something with it.  Sharp eyes, Nat.”    “Yes!” the coroner hissed in triumph.  Sara grinned at her, but felt moved to caution nonetheless.    “It might turn out to be nothing, you know.”    “Shut up, I’m celebrating,” Nat retorted comically, bending back over the body to continue her search.    No other prints turned up, and Nat made her declaration official and packed up the body.  Sara sent Ronnie back to finish the shooting scene while she processed the latest murder.    As she by now expected, nothing else turned up--not even an errant hair.  There were plenty of shoeprints to lift in the alley’s papery dust, but one broad area leading outward had been swept--not perfectly, but enough to obscure the prints of whatever feet had trod there.    Ronnie reported back to Sara as soon as the rookie was finished with her scene, parking the SUV at the mouth of the alley, and Sara got the chance to enjoy one of the privileges of seniority--ordering someone else to do the Dumpster diving.    “Look on the bright side,” Sara told Ronnie sweetly as she stared at the four containers.  “It’s all cardboard.”    Ronnie’s groan told Sara that she knew just as well as the older CSI that other, more noxious trash had almost certainly landed in the Dumpsters along with the recycling, but Sara also knew it wouldn’t be too bad compared to other scenes they had both experienced.    “There won’t be anything there,” Ronnie grumbled, though she was already walking back to the SUV for coveralls.    “I know, but we have to check anyway.  Besides, we might get lucky.”  Sara looked down at the bindle she held, the chaplet rattling inside.    “Lucky how?” Ronnie asked in exasperation, sitting on the SUV’s back bumper to unlace her boots.  “This guy never leaves anything behind.”    “Not true.  Think about it, Ron.  The body was still warm.  Assuming he kills them elsewhere and stages the scene, and we’ve found nothing to say otherwise, he must have just left when the body was found.  He might have panicked and dumped something rather than get caught with it.”    Franklin’s ordered search for the killer had come up empty, much as Sara suspected.  With busy sidewalks just a minute or two away, the killer had most likely vanished into the mass of humanity before the body had even been discovered.  But there was still the possibility that someone had startled him, that he’d had to cut his setup short.    And either way, they still had to check.    Ronnie stepped into the coveralls and zipped them up, resigned.  “Okay, but if I have to work over tonight, I’m making you call my boyfriend and explain why I’m late.”    Sara let the corner of her mouth turn up.  Ronnie’s boyfriend was a waiter at the Sahara, and extremely easygoing.  “You do that.  I’m heading back to the lab.”    Ronnie gave an exaggerated sigh, and shoved her feet back into her boots.    Officer Franklin was one of the two cops standing guard over the scene, and he nodded as Sara closed the SUV’s rear door.  “We’ll keep an eye on her.”    “Thanks.”  Sara nodded back, pleased.  Too much had happened to CSIs on site in recent years for the police to be casual about securing scenes any longer.  They all knew that it was very unlikely that the chaplet killer would come back, let alone with any idea of harming Ronnie, but that didn’t mean they would take the chance.    Dr. Nat had already undressed the body by the time Sara got to the morgue, and had the boy’s clothes bagged and labeled.  Sara opened the one containing his shirt and inhaled, but all that met her nose was the biting scent of cyanoacrylate.  She winced and resealed the bag.    “What are you sniffing for?” Nat asked, snapping photos of the body.    Sara frowned.  “I’m not sure.  I smelled something on him when we found him, something familiar, but I couldn’t place it.”    The flash went off.  “I didn’t smell anything but Superglue, but that doesn’t surprise me.”  Another flash.  “Can you catch this guy, please?  I’m getting real tired of having babies show up on my tables.”    Sara took her request as it was meant, a complaint rather than a demand.  “We’ll do our best.  Any identifying marks?”    Nat lowered the camera.  “A couple of small scars, the kind of thing any seven-year-old might pick up playing.  I’ll give him the full rundown and send it all up to you when I’m done.”    “Thanks, Nat.”  Sara collected the evidence bags.  “Can you swab his face and throat for me?  That might be the source of the odor.”    “Will do.”  Nat was already focusing on the body again, so Sara left her to her work.    Jacquie was waiting in Fingerprints when Sara arrived.  She was another bonus of working Swing, in Sara’s opinion; Mandy was good, but Jacquie was better, and Sara had missed her when she’d switched shifts.  “I hear you have something for me,” the tech said.    “News travels fast,” Sara said dryly, and handed over the one print they’d lifted from the victim’s arm.  “It’s not good...”    Jacquie’s nose wrinkled.  “No, it’s not.”  She shot Sara a look that mingled anticipation and amusement.  “Fortunately, I am.”    She put the print under her magnifier and studied it for a few minutes.  Sara waited quietly, wanting to hear the verdict as soon as it was pronounced.    Finally Jacquie blew out a breath.  “Not good,” she repeated.  “It actually looks like a glove print--your killer was wearing latex that got coated with oil, probably from touching skin.  There’s just a little ridge detail showing through.”    “Enough to work with?”  Sara bit her lip, suddenly aware of how much she wanted this to identify their killer.    Jacquie straightened, opening her scanner lid and placing the lifting tape on the glass.  “Probably not.  But I might be able to narrow the field a little.”    She scanned the print and tapped at her keyboard, starting AFIS on the hunt.  “This’ll take a while,” she added absently.    “Page me,” Sara instructed, and Jacquie nodded.    The first thing Sara did with their victim’s shirt was to swab it, patiently wiping every inch in search of the substance that had generated that teasing scent.  Analysis turned up sugar, flavoring, food coloring, and a few crumbs of crayon, but nothing that fit her memory.    Sara was staring at the results and trying stubbornly to remember when a tap at the door made her look up at Warrick standing somberly in the opening.    “Is it that late?” Sara asked, glancing at her phone for the time.    “Yeah.”  Warrick came in, a photo in one hand.  “I hear you got another rosary murder.”    “It’s a chaplet,” Sara corrected.  “Yeah, why?”    Warrick held out the photo.  “This him?”    Her stomach sank at the sight of the studio shot.  The kid was grinning happily at the camera despite his missing top teeth.    She sighed.  “Yeah.”    Warrick nodded grimly.  “The call just came in.  He was supposed to be at a sleepover party in someone’s backyard.  It took them hours to realize he was missing.”    Sara stared down at the static images.  “He was probably dead before they even noticed.”    Warrick shook his head, and she gave him back the picture.  “Dr. Nat had the body, you can talk to her if she’s still here.”    “I’ll do that.”    He turned towards the door, and Sara thought of something.  “Oh, Warrick--can you try and find out if there was anything...wrong?”    Warrick turned back, forehead wrinkling in puzzlement.  “Can you be more specific?”    Sara tapped the table absently with her fist.  “Look, all the other kids--something bad was happening to them, or was about to happen.  Disease, abuse, stuff like that.”    Warrick put his hands on his hips, brows going up.  “The killer is saving them from something?”    He’d never been slow.  “It’s a theory.”    “Huh.  Well, I’ll see what I can find out.”    Her phone rang, and Warrick waved and departed as Sara flipped it open and waved back.  “Sidle.”    “Hello dear,” came Grissom’s voice.    She smiled, she couldn’t help it.  “What’s up?  Don’t tell me you’re actually running late.”    “No, I’m running north.”  Sara heard the hum of an engine behind his words.  “I’ve been asked to do a consult in McGill.  Apparently they’ve got a body with lots of bugs.”    Sara snickered.  “Let me guess, someone up there knows the Sheriff.”    “Got it in one,” Grissom said sardonically.  “Something about making all state resources available.  You know how these things go; this’ll be a two-day trip.”    “At least,” Sara agreed.  It was generally far easier to do at least the preliminary analysis on site, and that meant staying for a while.  “I’ll miss you.”    “And I you.”  She heard his sigh, soft in her ear.  “Hopefully this’ll be straightforward.”    “Yeah.”  Sara blinked, her pleasure at hearing his voice fading.  “Drive safely.”    “I will.  I’ll call you when I get here, if it’s not the middle of your night.”    “Call anyway,” Sara said firmly.    Grissom chuckled.  “All right.  Love you.”    She glanced around quickly, but there was no one to overhear.  “Love you too.”  A smirk touched her lips.  “I’ll be dreaming of you tonight.”    His groan made her smirk widen.  “Don’t tell me things like that while I’m driving.”    “I just want you to hurry back,” Sara said innocently, and Grissom laughed.    “That’s a given.  I’ll talk to you later, honey.”    “’Bye, Gil.”    Still smiling, Sara closed the phone and went back to work.         Light was beginning to streak the eastern sky when Sara unlocked their front door.  She smothered a yawn as she walked into the house; processing little Joseph Sanchez’s murder had turned into a double, with nothing besides the fingerprint turning up.  Ronnie’s efforts, as she had predicted, had been fruitless.    Sara dumped her keys in their accustomed place and wandered deeper into the house, feeling...flat.  She was used to coming home to emptiness, but always with the expectation of Grissom arriving sooner or later.  The knowledge that he was miles and miles away made the day to come seem uninteresting and lonely.    Idly, Sara kicked off her shoes and dug a yogurt cup out of the fridge, devouring the contents while pondering the case she’d left behind at work.  Jacquie had reported in to say that AFIS had locked up and that the search would have to be rerun later, once the software was straightened out--a frustrating delay, but not unheard of.    When she went to check the messages on their phone, the only one was from Grissom.    “Hello, honey.  Just checking in, I hope you’re asleep.  I got here safely, but it’s threatening to storm and I need to get to the body right away.  I’ll call you later.”    Sara listened to it twice, licking the last of the yogurt from her spoon and smiling around the utensil.  He’s having fun already, I can tell.    She brushed her teeth and undressed for bed, deciding to skip the pajamas for once, and slid between the sheets.  Rolling over, she pulled Grissom’s pillow into her arms in lieu of the man himself--    --and froze.    That was the scent she’d smelled on the body.  Stronger now, and definitely familiar--the scent of Grissom’s pillow.  Cotton and male and the gel he used to keep his curls under control.    For a long moment Sara couldn’t move, feeling her heart pounding and the cloth of the pillowcase warming against her skin.  A pillowcase, a pillow, so easy and convenient a weapon to press against a small sleeping face--    Don’t be ridiculous, her brain said sharply.  There have to be a thousand other men in the city who use the same hair gel--more than that.  Cotton pillowcases are common and cheap.  All this means is that the killer happens to use the same brand of hair product.    It made sense.  Of course it did.  And this was Gil.  Her gentle, sweet lover, who would never even dream of something so sick.    Gradually Sara relaxed, letting the pillow go, scoffing at herself for thinking for even a second that Grissom could be responsible for five murdered children.    But it wasn’t until she pushed his pillow onto the floor that she was able to sleep. 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