Sudden Death
Summary: You think you're prepared for anything. You're not. A tragedy in three acts.
"We tried to wash our hands of all of this. We never talk of our lack in relationships. And how we're guilt-stricken, sobbing with our heads on the floor... We fell through the ice when we tried not slip we'd say..."-- The Verve Pipe
Prologue
I had been called in on my day off. That was the funniest part. I wouldn't have been there if Grissom hadn't called me. I'd been angry at him, so much that I had snapped at him.
"I really need this time, Grissom," I'd said. "I have so many things I need to do— I made a list. It's ten pages long."
"I know," he'd told me. "But we need you." The truth was, they hadn't really needed me. Or at least, if they had, they would definitely have to get by without me now.
I parked a little ways away from the lab because the parking garage was full. I had no way of knowing that that particular parking spot was cursed. I had no way of knowing that he was waiting for me.
You'd like to think that your death would mean something. And if it doesn't, then you at least hope that it doesn't happen until you're old, with grandchildren. You know that people die every day, and that their deaths are often meaningless. You never think that you'll join the statistics. That you'll end up as just another body on Doc Robbins' table.
I stepped out of my car and opened the door to the back, reaching in and taking out some groceries I'd picked up. Grissom had caught me on my way home from the store, and I had ice cream in there. With no time to stop off home first, I'd just have to stick it in the fridge in the break room and hope it didn't melt as fast. By the time I had turned around again, he had his gun shoved into my gut. I looked into his eyes, which were desperate and wild.
"I need your car."
"Take it," I said breathlessly, not wanting to cause any trouble. I'd report it and get my car back later. Hell, I'd run the case myself. I could give a good enough description of the guy who took it, although I doubted Brass would take 'wild eyes' as a very telling detail.
He hesitated, the gun pressing right above my navel as he glared at me. It was dark, but we were under a streetlamp, clearly visible to passersby. He was standing so near me, his gun hidden beneath his jacket, that we might have looked more like lovers than mortal enemies. I could smell his breath, which reeked of onions. His black hair was disheveled and oily, and his brown leather jacket was worn out and patched in some places. He wasn't a rich man by far.
"I told you to take it," I repeated, a little louder, hoping to catch someone's attention.
"Shut up," he snapped, making me flinch as he pushed the gun further into my gut.
I reached out a trembling hand with my keys in it, still clutching the groceries firmly to my chest. He snatched them out of my hand in a quick motion. He looked me up and down for a moment, and that's when I really got scared. I had no idea what he was going to do. A chill ran down my spine, and then—
Bang.
It echoed off the buildings, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and pouring out my wounds. Yes, I actually heard the blood drip down my side and into a pool in the gutter. I dropped my groceries and leaned against the car, slowly slipping down the side of it as my hands absurdly clutched at my stomach as though trying to keep the blood in. I looked down and saw my shirt was crimson. I was shaking. I heard the front door slam. The car drove away and I fell back, into the street. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as pain radiated from the wound. I heard people yelling. Help! Police! A woman's been shot!
Somehow, I knew it didn't matter, though. Somehow I knew I would be dead before they got there.
You think your death will mean something. But in your last moments, you realize it doesn't mean anything at all. In all honesty, it didn't have to be me. It could have been anyone at all. It could have been one of my friends. They wouldn't be able to find parking in the garage either. And if I hadn't come in tonight, maybe one of them would have taken this space. When you wake up everyday, you think you're prepared for anything. You're not.
My last thoughts were of Lindsey. She was spending the night at a friend's house tonight. I was going to pick her up tomorrow and take her to the Cirque Du Soleil show, Mystère. She's never seen it.
You think your death will mean something. But in your last moments, you realize it's your life that means the most.
The Body
Grissom had come in early to a desk full of paperwork and at least four new cases. He was glad he'd come in early. He knew he was going to have to call everyone in today. It would be a busy night indeed. So with a sigh, he'd called Catherine and told her he had to cancel her day off. She hadn't been too happy with him, and he couldn't blame her. It was her first day off in a month.
Afterwards, he had sat down with a tired sigh and began his paperwork. Sara had popped in, the first of his team to arrive, and offered to help him out, but he told her he had more important work for her and gave her the first case of the night, a 419 over at the Flamingo. Upon Nick's arrival a few minutes later, he'd told him to go help out Sara. Warrick arrived, and Grissom gave him the next case in his pile, another 419 out in Henderson. Greg, arriving last, got the dredge of the deck, a breaking and entering charge along with a pet-napping of a beagle. He waited for Catherine to show up so they could take on the last case, the rape and murder of a seventeen year old girl right outside of her high school.
After about half an hour after calling Catherine (and without even making a dent in his paperwork), Grissom looked at his watch and decided to try Catherine's cell phone when his desk phone began to ring. He answered it, not expecting the call to change his entire night.
"Grissom."
"Gil, it's Jim. We have a really big problem…"
Grissom frowned as he held the receiver of the phone between his ear and shoulder as he filed away some of his paperwork. Where had his pen gone? It seemed to have rolled off his desk. He'd get another one. He opened one of his desk drawers.
"Tell me about it," he muttered. "Busy night."
"Gil, we have a car theft and a murder," Brass said, his voice unusually strained. "Just a few blocks from the lab…"
"OK, I'll get Nick on it then," Grissom said, his hand searching the bottom of the drawer. He had to have more than one pen in his office…
"Don't," Brass said. "You should see this."
"Why?" Grissom asked.
"Gil, it's Catherine."
"Is she with you?" Grissom asked, halting in his search. "Because she's late."
"No, I mean…" He took a deep breath. "The vic. It's Catherine."
He stopped. The receiver fell to the floor, the crashing sound of it jarring Grissom back to reality and he seized it.
"Gil, are you still there?" Brass was saying.
Grissom swallowed as nausea began to grip his stomach. "Uh… I think so. Where is the scene?" Brass told him and he scribbled it down. "Thanks, Jim. I guess I'll see you in a minute."
He hung up and called Sara, his heart racing. It rang three times. He didn't realize how relieved he would be to hear her soft voice.
"Sidle."
"I'm, uh… gonna need to reassign you," he said.
"But Grissom, I'm still processing the scene over here with—"
"I know, but Nick can handle it," Grissom said. "I need you over at St. John's High School. A girl has been raped and murdered. Can you take that for me? Something's come up."
"Grissom, what are you talking about?" Sara asked, sounding annoyed. "If you wanted me to take the rape and murder case, why didn't you just give it to me in the—"
"Sara, Catherine's been…" He couldn't say it. He had been so calm in saying everything else to Sara, yet for some reason he couldn't bring himself to actually say it. As if actually saying the words would make it true. His mouth searched for the words and Sara patiently waited, as if she knew it was important, as if she detected Grissom's pain in the long, wordless pause. He took a deep breath. "There's been a… murder and Catherine…"
"Grissom, don't…" Sara began.
He closed his eyes. "Catherine's dead."
Sara paused for a moment. "OK…" she said quietly. "I'll… I'll take the scene. Do you want me to tell Nick?"
They would all find out sooner or later. Grissom felt like he should have been the one to deliver the news, but he couldn't. He didn't think he could deal with that. "Yes," he said at last. "And the others, if that's OK."
"OK," she said in a whisper. "Will you be alright?"
He wanted to answer her in so many ways. He wanted to tell her that no, he wouldn't be alright. He wanted to tell her that he had loved her since before he could remember. He wanted to tell her that he wanted her there with him, to hold his hand, to take care of him. He wanted to tell her she was everything to him. But instead, he said, "Yeah, I think so. I'll call you later. Bye."
It was strange how arriving at the scene was like arriving at any other. The police cars, the crime scene tape, Brass shaking his head in disgust… The only difference was David, who wasn't by the body like he normally was. He was about five feet away from it, staring at it as if waiting for it to jump up and tap dance for him. He tried to move closer and only managed a step. Brass approached the assistant coroner and said something to him. As Grissom got nearer, he overheard the conversation.
"… want to, you don't have to. We can call in day shift to…" Brass looked up and saw Grissom standing there. "Gil," he acknowledged.
"Jim," Grissom returned. He nodded at David, who looked a little green. "David."
As if to show courage in the face of the graveyard supervisor, David smiled, then looked at the body and went nearer, crouching down and doing his job. Grissom and Brass watched him a few feet away.
"How could this happen, Jim?" Grissom asked quietly.
"Eye-witnesses say there was a shot, and then the car drove off," Brass replied. "Just your average carjacking. Doesn't look to be any motive other than that."
"There has to be…" Grissom said, shaking his head. "Maybe one of Sam Braun's enemies? Someone she put away who was angry with her? Someone who—"
"Gil," Brass interrupted sharply. "Horses. Not zebras."
Grissom took deep breaths, his whole body tense. This was all too surreal. He wasn't really there. She wasn't really there. Lying in the gutter, half on the sidewalk, half on the street. She had a strange expression of surprise on her face, her glassy eyes staring up at the flickering streetlamp above her. Spilt groceries surrounded her. Grissom saw a few apples and a tub of melting ice cream rolling around nearby. His nausea intensified and for a moment, he thought it was going to get the best of him, but he managed to keep everything down.
David rose to his feet and turned to face Brass and Grissom, looking greener than ever. He sniffed, his eyes red. "Uh… T… TOD was… She's been dead probably… an hour… maybe two…"
Grissom nodded as he approached her body and kneeled down reverently, as though she were the corpse of a saint. His fingers moved to her face and he closed her eyes, pushing the hair back from her forehead. She was still warm. His heart lurched and he felt the tears sting his eyes. This was real. All too real.
His hand trailed down her pale arm until he found her hand, neatly manicured and covered in dry blood. He held it, like he would have held it if she were alive and well. He clutched it hard as his throat constricted, but she didn't squeeze back. And all he could think about was how he was going to tell Lindsey. He wondered what would happen to her. She would probably live with her grandmother. She had already lost her father. And this death was so… pointless…
It could have been anyone. It could have been Sara. Or it could have been a stranger. Random. It was completely random. And it wasn't fair.
His hand went to cover his mouth as he choked back a sob. He rose to his feet and shook his head slowly. He couldn't do it. He couldn't treat her like an anonymous victim. Not only was it impossible, but it wasn't ethical. They needed to call day shift. They needed someone else to do it. Someone who would treat her as just another victim. Someone who didn't know her. He turned to Brass and shook his head, but Brass nodded.
"I already called Ecklie," he said. "He's sending in a few people from day shift."
Brass had read his mind. He always did. Grissom was cold. He needed to go back to the lab. He needed to be with his team.
"Where's David?" he asked Brass.
Brass nodded his head over towards an alley where David was doubled over, retching. Grissom wanted to do the same.
There had been no warning. There had been no reason. Her life had ended in a matter of minutes. Decades of experience, of memory, of emotion, of living, taken away from her in… minutes… seconds… a single instant.
And for absolutely no reason.
Random.
Anonymous.
Meaningless.
Grissom was cold. It was the middle of summer, and yet he was freezing. He needed to get out of there. Without a word, he spun on his heal and headed away, far away. He wasn't sure where he was going. He just needed to get out of there.
When he returned to the lab, Sara and Nick were already there, standing outside of his office. When they heard him approach Nick straightened up and Sara turned around. Nick's eyes were bloodshot. He was trembling. Sara was pale, but her eyes were dry.
"Your… scenes…" Grissom said absently.
Nick scoffed. "You have got to be kidding," he said.
Grissom looked down. He knew what Nick meant. "You guys can… have the night off… Day shift will take charge, I guess."
He made a move to go past them and into his office when a delicate hand rested on his shoulder. He turned and looked at Sara, her deep brown eyes wide as they bored into his.
"Can I talk to you?" she whispered.
"Do the others know?" Grissom returned, sounding businesslike.
Sara pursed her lips. "I called Warrick," she said. "He should be back here soon, he said he… he couldn't concentrate."
"And Greg?" Grissom asked.
Sara shrugged. "He didn't answer his phone…"
Warrick came bounding down the hall, interrupting their conversation. He looked angry as he approached them, out of breath. "Where is she?" he asked Grissom, his eyes feral.
Grissom just shook his head, helpless. "She's…"
"I want to see her," Warrick insisted. "I need to…" But he didn't know what he needed to do.
"She'll be brought in soon," Grissom said. "I don't think you should see her."
"Did you?" Warrick asked.
Slowly, Grissom nodded. "It wasn't…" He swallowed. "It didn't give me any closure, Warrick."
"But it'll help," Warrick said. "Otherwise… I mean… what if it's not really her? What if you're wrong? I'll never be sure unless I see her, Griss."
Grissom nodded. "OK then…" he said. "If you want to… when she comes in… I'll let you know. But in the meantime… you guys are excused. You don't have to be here."
The four of them stared at each other in awkward silence when Sara's phone loudly broke it. Cringing at the volume of it, Sara smiled, a little embarrassed as she reached for the phone.
"Sidle," she said in a whisper, as if to counter the intensity of her ringing phone. Her face fell as someone spoke to her on the other end. She looked at Grissom with terrified eyes. "Greg…" she said sadly.
In the silence of the hall, Grissom was standing so close to Sara he could just make out what the youngest CSI was saying.
"Why so depressed? I just told you, I solved my case in an hour and a half. That's got to be some sort of record."
"Greg…" Sara said again, helplessly. "Greg…"
"That's my name, yeah," Greg said. "Although I don't think you have the pronunciation quite right. Keep trying, maybe you'll get it."
Sara closed her eyes tight, looking irritated. "Greg!" she said sharply, her eyes snapping open.
"What?!" he snapped back.
Sara took a deep breath. "Greg, Catherine's been killed."
There was a moment, and then the line went dead. Sara took the phone away from her ear and stared at it a moment before looking up at Grissom. And then, it started to ring again. Sara answered it.
"I'm sorry," came Greg's voice from the other end, laughing lightly. "I think there's something wrong with our phones, you were breaking up. Did you say 'Catherine's got skills?'"
Sara sniffed, her voice trembling. "Oh Greg, I wish I did…"
There was another pause. "Ah," Greg said. "Then, um… Then you said…"
"Yes," Sara said quickly, not wanting to hear Greg repeat it.
"Oh…" He didn't seem to know what to say. "Then, uh… I, uh…how?"
Greg seemed to ask the question they were all wondering and Sara's eyes fell on Grissom. "How?" she repeated, looking at their supervisor.
"Gun shot wound to the stomach," Grissom said quietly. "Carjacking. Random…"
Sara turned back to the phone. "Did you…?"
"I heard," Greg said. "Uh… Listen, I uh…I gotta go…"
"You have the night off," Sara said quietly. "Grissom's given… all of us the night off…"
"That's good… Do I have to come back into the lab? I mean, I have evidence to drop off, but it doesn't matter, they found they're stupid beagle and…" He forced a laugh, which quickly died. "I just… I can't go back there, Sara. If she's… Then I… I just can't go back there tonight."
"Go home," Sara advised. "Get some sleep."
"Right," Greg said and he hung up.
Sara looked up at them, who were all looking at her before looking dejected and putting her phone away. She looked away from their faces, somewhere towards the side. No one knew what to say. And Grissom was tired of standing in that hallway.
He opened the door to his office and went inside without warning, closing the door on all of them. He leaned against it and stared up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. No one knocked on the door. No one called his name. He didn't hear a sound beyond his office. He didn't know what they were doing.
A part of him felt as if he should go back out there to be with his team. But another part of him just really wanted to be alone.
He found it bitterly ironic that it was Catherine, mostly because in his mind, it could have been any of them. It could have Warrick. It could have been Nick, or Greg, who they've already saved before. It could have been Sara.
It could have been him.
It had finally happened. They put their lives on the line every day, they were in danger every day, and yet she died off the clock. By a man who wanted her car. No other agenda. No other reason.
The whole thing made him sick to his stomach. The tears stung his eyes. His mouth was dry. He never wanted to leave his office again.
After a few minutes, there was a tentative knock at his door. He didn't say anything. And then, she called out his name. "Grissom?" He still didn't reply. "Grissom, I want to talk to you. Please?"
With a sigh he turned around and opened the door to see her standing there. The others had left. She was alone. She was hugging herself tightly, running her hands up and down her arms as she looked at him with desperate brown eyes. He stood aside and let her in before closing the door.
And then, without warning, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely. He was caught unaware, but tried his best to match her intensity, despite the overwhelming sense of despair that was creeping up in his chest. Her arms held him tightly, her lips hungry. His hands rested on her back lightly, gently, contrasting her ferocious need to hold him, to taste him, to feel him.
And then, he felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. Not his own, but hers. She was crying now, openly, angrily, as her fists clenched behind his back and she broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his as she let the tears come, sobbing in his embrace. He reached one hand up and pushed her hair back from her face. Just as he had done with Catherine.
"It'll be alright." He found himself speaking the words he didn't believe himself.
She laughed through her tears and pulled away from him, her arms resting on his shoulders as she looked him in the eyes. Her face was red now and the eyes which had been so dry when he'd seen her in the hall outside of his office were now flooded with all of her fears.
"It won't be," she said, shaking her head. "It's not, Grissom, she…" Sara couldn't finish, and she was angry at herself for breaking down. She let out a frustrated growl. "She had so much! She was so much! I never really… we never… and I… She was a good person and it's not fair!"
Her sobbing over took her again and Grissom held the back of her head as she cried into his shoulder, softly stroking her hair to calm her. "It isn't fair," he agreed.
"You think you've seen it all…" Sara mumbled into his shoulder. "You think you can face anything. And… and you can't…" She pulled away again so she could look at his face. "I… I never had the chance to tell you that I…"
"I know," he said.
"And what if I…"
"Sh," he hushed her. "Don't say things like that."
Her grip on him tightened as she pressed herself against him. "I need you, Grissom… I need to feel you. And I'm sorry if I ever—"
"I know," Grissom said quietly.
And she smiled through her tears because he did know, he knew everything, he knew her, he knew the world, because he was Grissom, and Grissom always had an answer for everything.
He kissed her softly and she returned it, delicately this time, and not half as angry. They held each other. They helped each other. They needed each other. And they would never let each other go.
Epilogue
When you work with death on a daily basis, it's easy to forget about what comes before it. People die every day, and they join the mass of people who went before them. Every death affects the world in one way or another, even if it's only on a small scale. Mine caused a change in the CSI night shift.
Sara and Grissom relied on each other to get through it. Scared into action, they thought of all the words they never said, not just to me, but to each other. He became more pensive, and she became more cutthroat when it came to cases, and more sarcastic when it came to her humor. She walked with more pride, spoke with more confidence. I think she tried to be a little more like me. She never realized that I'd always tried to be a little bit like her.
After his phone conversation with Sara, Greg didn't return to the lab for two weeks. And when he did, his eyes were a little duller, his jokes a little dimmer, but joking nonetheless. He's more taciturn than he used to be. In my opinion, that's the real tragedy.
Warrick filed for a transfer. He said he couldn't work in the lab everyday without being reminded of me. Grissom couldn't blame him. But Nick was upset by his decision. The two didn't part on good terms. But Warrick called him the other day, from his new job in Carson City. And Nick smiled as they spoke. It was the first time he's smiled in the past six months. And really, Carson City isn't far. It's not like they'll never see each other again.
Nick, for his part, has been going to the gym a lot more often. He runs a lot. I remember him doing that after his abduction, too. I think that's how he best deals with things.
They all still think about me. Even if I didn't know that, it's evident in their eyes.
I may not have had an affect on the world. I won't be mourned globally. Most people don't even know I died. But for those who knew that I lived, I had an affect on them. A good one. And that's enough.
Author's Note: A coworker's brother was shot and killed in a carjacking last week. I don't know the coworker very well, and never met her brother, but the event did strike me and it got me thinking. I started this story intending on keeping the victim anonymous (which may be apparent by the fact that the prologue is so generic until the last few lines). I quickly realized that if I wanted to describe how people other than Grissom reacted to the death, I would need to name the victim. So I picked a name out of the proverbial hat (it was actually a random number generator to which I assigned their names to a number before hand) and came out with Catherine. The choice to make her the victim was as random as her death. It was almost Greg. It was almost Sara. It could have been Nick or Warrick if the program I used ended up randomly generating their number. But I think that the reaction would have been just as traumatic, no matter who it ended up being.