Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own anything related to CSI (unless you count my t-shirts, mugs, DVDs, comic books, etc J). All the characters belong to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, Alliance Atlantis, etc. The writers and the actors are just so good that the characters they bring to life insist on running around in my head and doing things that I then need to write down J
Title: Theft of Reason
Author: Grissomgal71
Rating: PG-13
Category: Angst/Mystery
A/N: This is my first attempt at CSI fanfic. I hope you all enjoy it. Reviews would be most appreciated. I have to thank Angelia, Ginger, and Gus for reading this and pushing me to finish it. Extra special thanks to Grissom, my wonderful beta reader, who helped make this story the best that it could be. I also want to offer my gratitude to all the great CSI fanfic writers out there who continue to create amazing stories that I love to read, and for inspiring me to write my own J
Chapter 1: The Attack
"No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear." --Edmund Burke
The dark-haired young woman walked slowly up to the front of the house. It was 9:30 at night, and the outside lights weren't on. That was the first sign to Veronica that something was wrong. As she crept closer to the stoop, squinting in the dimness, she noticed that the front door was open a few inches. With her heart rate shooting up and her mouth going dry, she pushed the door open enough so she could slip inside. "Kim?" she called softly, her voice echoing in the darkness.
When she got no response, she stepped further into the living room, and taking a shaky breath, cried out more loudly, "Kim!" Standing in the eerie silence, Veronica could feel that something was wrong. She flipped on the standing lamp closest to the door, and looked around. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she moved toward the stairs leading to Kim's bedroom.
With each step Veronica ascended, adrenaline pumped harder through her body. She heard the blood rushing through her ears as she reached the doorway of the bedroom. Approaching the room from one side and peeking in warily, Veronica saw a limp, white arm hanging off the foot of the bed. Taking a tentative step closer, she also spied two legs hanging over the side. Keeping her eyes low, so she wouldn't have to look at the rest of what she knew was on the surface of the bed, the young woman turned away from the horrifying sight, raised a hand to cover her mouth, and ran out of the house.
* * * * * * *
Gil Grissom pulled up in front of Kimberly Miller's roomy suburban home. He climbed out of his dark blue Tahoe carrying his large silver field kit, and headed for Captain Jim Brass.
Brass was talking to a shaken-looking young woman as Grissom approached. "Thank you, Ms. Wilkinson, that's all for now. If you don't mind, this nice officer will take you back to the police station for a few more questions," the captain told her, flipping closed the notebook he had been writing in. Turning away from her, he took Grissom's arm and led the criminalist away as he said, "Evening, Gil."
"What have we got, Jim?" the CSI asked.
He glanced at the notebook quickly. "Victim's name is Kimberly Miller, age 26. She was found in her bedroom by Veronica Wilkinson over there." He pointed at the woman he had been speaking with. "The girls worked together at Starr Telemarketing. When the vic didn't show up for work tonight, Veronica called, got no answer, and then came over to check. The paramedics have already pronounced."
"Cause of death?" Grissom wondered.
"Looks like strangulation."
"Thanks, Jim," he said, then turned as two more members of his team pulled up, climbing out of their SUVs. When they reached him, he filled them in as they all moved as one toward the front of the house, "Body's in the bedroom, possible strangulation. Woman ID'd as Kimberly Miller, 26. No witnesses; the vic's coworker called it in."
Grissom shined his flashlight over the doorknob, locks, and side of the half-open front door. "No forced entry," he reported.
Sara Sidle nodded her head, agreeing with his findings. "That means she knew her attacker, or he appeared to be harmless or trustworthy, or…"
"…the killer had a key," Nick Stokes finished for her. He began looking around in the dirt and shrubs to see if a spare key had been hidden somewhere. Maybe the killer had put it back on the way out, or had accidentally dropped it. He continued his search as the others entered the dimly-lit house.
The tall lamp to the right of the doorway that Veronica had turned on still provided the only illumination in the whole house. The bright orbs of the CSIs' flashlights bounced all around the large living room, sometimes meshing together and then becoming separate rings again. Nothing seemed out of place down there.
Grissom moved his flashlight and traced it up the staircase to the left, which he realized must lead to the bedrooms. Nick had reappeared next to him after his unsuccessful search for clues outside.
"Sara, you take the door," he instructed. "Photos and prints. Let's see if anyone besides our vic and her friend touched that knob tonight."
"You got it," she told him, closing the back of the camera over the fresh roll of film she'd just snapped inside. She clicked the shutter a couple of times, advancing the film to its starting point.
Grissom had turned away and was heading up the stairs. "Nick, you're with me," he said.
Reaching the bedroom just to the left of the stair landing, they walked in silently, stepping carefully so as not to disturb any possible evidence. Nick started snapping photos with his camera immediately, the flash creating blinding bursts in the darkness.
The victim lay almost peacefully on the bed, her wayward limbs hanging limply over the edges the only sign that she wasn't just catching a nap on top of the covers. Grissom got closer, shining his light on her face. Her eyes were open, and she looked shocked, as most victims do. Grissom's light trailed over her neck and two obvious, angry-purple bruises shown clearly; they were separate and distinct, but overlapped near the center. It was also clear what they were impressions of.
"Handprints," he said to Nick, indicating the victim's neck with a jerk of his chin.
Nick's flashlight joined his on the woman's throat. "No ligature marks. The guy just used his hands."
"He grabbed her from the front," Grissom added. He held up his hands, thumbs toward himself, fingers curled on the opposite side, as if they were around an imaginary victim. "See the overlapping thumb prints?"
Nick nodded and then took some more pictures.
"The circumference of her neck was too small for his hand span," Grissom continued, "so he had to lay his thumbs one over the other on the front of her throat."
"I'll take a measurement," Nick offered, letting the camera lay around his neck and pulling a tape measure out of his kit.
As he worked, Grissom played his flashlight along the victim's torso. She was wearing a silk shirt, short black skirt, pantyhose, and high heels. Her clothing was impeccably neat and arranged. The shirt was smoothly tucked in; there were no runs in the stockings and no scuff marks on the patent leather shoes. He moved the light back to her face, this time noticing that her makeup was also neatly applied. Her wavy blond hair was mostly unmussed, spreading out around her head on the bedcovers.
Grissom drifted his circle of illumination down her arm and onto the hand that was hanging off the end of the bed. He hunkered down for a closer look, studying her fingers and long, painted nails, his head tilted to the left. Her fingers were slightly curled, and he could see the bright red polish on her nails. The painted surfaces were shiny and unmarred, the nails themselves perfectly manicured without a nick or chip evident anywhere. Standing, Grissom turned to the dark-haired man next to him. "What do you notice, Nick?"
Nick straightened up as he checked out the room. He knew Grissom was asking his opinion to teach him, not to test him, but Nick still felt a nervous twinge of anxiety about providing the "right" answer; he always wanted to prove to his supervisor that he was a good investigator.
Nick took in everything around them, and a deep breath for good measure. Then he started slowly, "No visible defensive wounds on her hands, no indication of blood or skin under her fingernails, no noticeable accumulations of pulled-out hairs. The bed, room, and her clothing are perfectly neat—no indication of a struggle at all. The vic's briefcase and handbag are laid out on the bed as if she were about to head out." He concentrated for a moment, then broke out in a famous Nick Stokes grin—the kind that could charm the birds out of the trees. Nick didn't notice it as he spoke, but a small smile had appeared on Grissom's face at the same moment, "She definitely knew her murderer. She was shocked at what he started to do, but she was docile because she was familiar with him, and didn't think he would ever do anything to hurt her. He took her by surprise, but she knew him."
"Very good, Nicky," Grissom commented. "Kimberly Miller knew her attacker, now let's see how the evidence can help us get to know him, too."
Nick nodded, and he began searching around for physical evidence of the attacker. He tried to think about places the killer would have made contact with, and possibly left a trace of himself behind. Nick's eyes lit on the bedroom door, and he knelt down, examining the knob. He grabbed a brush and some fingerprint powder and got to work.
Sara came up the stairs. "I'm done with the front door," she reported to Grissom.
"Good," he said. "Why don't you go back down and check around the outside of the house? After that, how about checking out the rooms on the first floor?"
"Okay," she replied, turning around.
Grissom went back to examining the body, and Nick continued collecting evidence from around the room. He didn't seem to be finding much—just a few fingerprints that were scattered around. Pulling a lighted magnifier out of his kit, Grissom began looking for anything interesting on the victim's body or clothes. As he moved down Kimberly Miller's still form, he found very little to lift. There was a hair or two near her shoulders that appeared to belong to the victim herself. He saw no fibers, until he backtracked and looked just under the hem of the victim's skirt. Two thin black threads were resting there on her nylon-covered thigh.
Grissom used a tape-lifter to grab the fibers, and then folded the clear adhesive onto the white cardboard backing for a better look. He held it up and tilted it around, trying to catch the best light. "Got two black threads here," he told his colleague.
Nick came over to inspect them, examining them under the strong magnifier. "Doesn't look like cotton," he commented to Grissom. "Wool maybe?"
Grissom squinted at the small threads. "Could be. I'll take it back to Trace."
Nick nodded, and continued looking around. The room didn't seem to offer them much else. They called the coroner inside a few minutes later to remove the body, and then they continued their unproductive search for any other clues left in the bedroom. When they had all collected everything they thought they needed from Kim Miller's house, they piled into their Tahoes and headed back to the lab.
* * * * * * *
Walking quickly down the hall, Grissom almost ran into Nick and Sara on their way back from the print lab. "Hey guys," the supervisor said, stopping in front of them. "Any word on those prints?"
"Yeah, we just came from there," Sara explained. "Doc Robbins sent over Kim Miller's ten-card, and Jacqui matched one set of the prints I got from the front door to the vic."
"What about the other prints you found on the knob?"
"Unknown," Sara continued. "No match in AFIS. But if you ask me, they probably belong to that other woman—the vic's coworker from the scene? She did admit to Brass that she touched the door to let herself in."
Grissom took that in for a second, looking down, his lips pursed. "See if Brass can get prints from the coworker for comparison," he said, addressing the two of them as a unit. "Anything on the bedroom door, Nick?"
"Yeah—the prints I lifted were the vic's," he replied dejectedly. "So were the others I found around the bedroom. Sorry, Grissom, we don't seem to have any leads."
"I was heading to the DNA lab to check in with Greg. Maybe he'll have something for us."
"Okay, fill us in if he comes up with anything," Nick said, as he and Sara continued down the corridor.
Grissom entered the lab, but technician Greg Sanders spoke before Grissom could even utter the question, "I haven't gotten to your stuff yet, Grissom."
Off the supervisor's raised-eyebrow glance of impatient disbelief, the young tech continued, "I'm sorry but I have a huge backlog from days. They had a case with about twenty DNA samples."
"You put Ecklie's stuff ahead of mine again?"
"I didn't have a choice," Greg replied, more apologetic than defensive now.
"Look, Greg," Grissom began, leaning against the counter on his elbow, "we have only one or two items from our scene for you to analyze." He reached over to the end of the pile of evidence on the lab table and picked up the tiny number of bindles belonging to the Kimberly Miller case. "Just a few hairs and two mystery fibers," Grissom finished with a small smile.
Exhaling in defeat, Greg grabbed the envelopes from Grissom's fingers. "I'll do your stuff next," he promised.
"Thank you, Greg," Grissom said, as he turned away and walked out of the door.
Grissom was certain that they didn't have enough evidence to identify a suspect, let alone convict anyone for the murder of Kimberly Miller. Even when Greg was finished with his always accurate work in the lab, Grissom knew nothing they had would be probative. Before stopping by to see Greg, he had already decided to go back to the crime scene himself. It wasn't that he didn't trust his team—he did, implicitly and always. It was just that he knew there had to be something they missed. The killer wasn't a ghost; he had to have left some physical trace behind. They must have missed it—Grissom himself included—and someone needed to go back and keep searching until they found it; he had elected himself.
On his way out of the criminalistics building, he passed by Catherine Willows coming out of the break room. Since she was the only member of his team he saw, he decided to give her the message about where he was headed. "I'm going back to the Kimberly Mille crime scene," he informed her, still moving toward the exit. "Call or page me if you need me."
"Sure," she promised as she watched him go.
* * * * * * *
Grissom nodded at the officer stationed in front of the Miller house, as he walked in through the unlocked door. Leaving the door halfway open, he scanned the dark living room with his flashlight. Putting down his field kit next to the couch, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and looked around again, searching for anything his team may have missed on their first sweep of the house. Something tiny sparkled on the carpet under the beam of Grissom's light, and he squatted down to get a closer look.
Outside, a dark figure melted into the shadowed side of the Miller house. Officer Jenkins shifted restlessly on the front stoop, and squinted at his watch in the dim glow provided by the streetlight. Still three more hours… he thought. It felt like he had been guarding this crime scene forever, and he still had several hours left on his shift. The black figure slipped out of the gloom behind Jenkins, and before the officer knew it, something hard connected with his skull and he hit the ground, unconscious.
Grissom was examining the small sequin he had found on the rug, wondering how they had missed it earlier, when he heard a soft swishing behind him. He spun around, still in a crouched position, and met the intruder's swinging arm as it came around clutching the small blackjack. The weapon caught Grissom across his left cheek, the impact sending him sprawling backward. Dazed but hanging onto consciousness, the CSI lay there, blinking up at his attacker.
Because his glasses had flown off when the intruder had hit him, and the blow was so close to his eye, Grissom's vision was less than clear in the darkness. He could only tell that the man who had attacked him seemed tall, and was dressed totally in black, including a knit ski mask that obscured his face and leather gloves.
The dark man kneeled down and leaned toward Grissom. He unzipped the criminalist's jacket, and reached for the automatic holstered at his hip. Before the intruder could grab the gun, Grissom collected himself enough to lash out with a hard kick to the other man's side. The attacker was knocked off-balance and Grissom was able to flip on top of him. The CSI grasped desperately for the other's neck, got both hands around it, and began to squeeze, trying to incapacitate him. The man in black worked to pry Grissom's hands off his throat, but couldn't break the strong grip. So he pushed hard against Grissom's face, twisting his neck to the side, until he forced him to let go. Grissom's gloves began slipping off as his hands were pulled from the other's neck, but he continued to swing his arms and was able to land a hard fist to his aggressor's jaw. The other man was momentarily distracted, but then he was able to gain his own tight grip on Grissom's throat.
The two men flipped back over, the attacker now on top, his hands continuing to choke off Grissom's air. As the criminalist's movements of resistance faded away, the black-clad man loosened his death-hold just long enough to allow Grissom to hang onto consciousness. He stood, and seemed to study the prone CSI for a long moment. He raised a gloved hand to his jaw, and rubbed it gingerly through the ski mask. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and he spit it out disgustedly, directing the spray toward Grissom's still form.
Grissom remained unmoving on the floor, blinking up at the dark man above him, trying to make sense of what was happening. The only coherent thought floating through his dazed brain was evidence…don't let this guy get away without leaving evidence linking him to the crime…
The man in black suddenly stepped out of Grissom's line of vision. He tried to turn his head to follow the movement, but sharp pain shot through his skull and he almost passed out. The dim world above him swam in and out of focus and a wave of nausea roiled up from his stomach. Closing his eyes tightly for a moment to clear his vision, Grissom reached weakly for his gun. As the weapon cleared his holster, he began swinging it in the direction his attacker had disappeared.
The shadowy intruder turned just in time to see the CSI's automatic pointing at him. He reacted swiftly, stomping on Grissom's hand and forcing him to lose his grip on the weapon. He dug his heel further into the back of Grissom's right hand, twisting deliberately, shifting his weight until he heard bones crunch. Grissom screamed in pain. Then the black-clad man moved quickly, stepping on the CSI's back, forcing his face into the carpet. He began kicking Grissom in the ribs with the toe of his boot, each dull thump punctuated by a grunt of pain from the injured criminalist. After several kicks, the attacker reached down and flipped his victim over onto his back. Grissom's eyes were barely open, scarlet blood smeared all over his face. The man in black let loose with once last vicious blow to Grissom's jaw, spraying blood across the light-colored rug. Satisfied that his victim would not be able to tell anyone about him for a long time, the dark figure moved to the fireplace mantle, grabbed the item he had come for, and walked out the door, leaving the unconscious CSI supervisor behind him, sprawled on the now blood-spotted floor of the empty Miller house.
* * * * * * *