It was quiet…well, as quiet as a crime lab could be. Yes, the sounds of scientists, investigators and equipment could be heard echoing through the clinical looking halls as various doors opened and shut but these were everyday noises. Sounds that could be ignored by someone who knew the lab well. Catherine Willows was one of those people.
Slowly stretching out her cramped body, she straightened the various kinks in her back and neck that could only come from filling out numerous amounts of paperwork. Paperwork that a certain someone should be filling himself. But it was like talking to a brick wall so she had long given up on it and between her and the rest of the team, they managed to keep Ecklie happy. Reaching a hand up to rest on one particular ache in her neck, she slowly rotated her head before unceremoniously flopping back into her chair and glancing at the clock. She didn't really need to know the time. She could already make out the familiar sounds of one shift leaving and the other coming in. Sounds that told Catherine she should really hurry up if she wanted to see her daughter before school. Yawning, she mentally listed the tasks she meant to do before going home and smiled. There was still one more form she had to fill out and then maybe she could get home in time to have breakfast with Lindsey. Smiling at the thought, she opened a drawer and quickly flicked through the pages before cursing under her breath when it seemed the form she wanted was not there.
Sighing, Catherine stood and slowly plodded into the corridor, her lean dancer's frame swaying unintentionally with every step. One or two people waved to her as she passed, calling, "Morning," or "See you Catherine," depending on whether they were coming or going.
Turning a corner, she paused and did a double take. Then, carefully, she backed up, turned round, rubbed her eyes and came back. No. It was no illusion. Gil Grissom was doing paperwork. Actual official paperwork according to the lab insignia across the top of the page. Maybe he would have the form she needed. It would be a lot easier than having to go all the way to the main office. He glanced up, seeming to sense her approach and smiled tiredly. It seemed she was not the only one who was exhausted.
"Hey," she greeted with a light smile, resting her body against the doorframe. "Don't you have a home to go to?"
"Only when I'm not here," he answered, struggling to stifle a yawn. "What can I do for you?"
Typical Grissom. Somehow he already knew she had not stopped by just to talk.
"You don't happen to have any extra 767 forms by any chance?" she asked hopefully. "I need to fill in one for this shift before I can head home."
"I'm doing it now."
That stopped her. Catherine blinked. "You?" She spoke slowly, almost hesitantly, trying very hard to wrap her mind around what Grissom was saying. "You are doing paperwork?"
"Yes."
"For THIS shift?"
"Yes."
"Willingly?"
"Yes."
"Before someone else has to threaten to take cases from you unless you do?"
"That only happened once and I didn't have you to help me then," her friend retorted indignantly.
The woman raised her hands in surrender. "Ok. Ok. I was just asking."
She watched him rub his eyes with his fingertips, glasses bouncing almost comically against his forehead. "Sorry. I'm just tired." Lowering his hands he glanced up at her, blue eyes meeting blue, each seeing their own exhaustion reflected in the face of the other.
"Look, why don't you head home? Have breakfast with Lindsey. Sleep. Do something non-work related."
"Look who's talking," she snorted, though the thought of going home was tempting.
Rolling his eyes, Grissom stared up at the ceiling like a bored child. "I promise I will leave the moment I finish this."
"You sure?"
Looking back into her eyes, he nodded. She beamed at him gratefully, bid him "Good morning," and hurried back to her office. Maybe if she moved quickly enough, she could make Lindsey those waffles she loved.
Grissom waited until Catherine had left before turning back to the form he had started to fill out. As Catherine had pointed out, he did not usually handle the paperwork. Heck, he hated it that much that if anyone found him filling something out, they automatically assumed it was either a slow day or Ecklie was breathing down his neck again. Brass usually thought someone had threatened to take his cockroaches again if he didn't. Even now, he would much rather be playing with his bugs or even just heading home. But this form was important. Not just to administration. To him. It was strange, but something told him he had to fill this out. That only he could do it justice.
So far, all he had filled in were 'NAMES OF PERSONNEL INVOLVED'. He wasn't really sure how to go beyond that or where to start in describing what happened. Most of them had just acted instinctively and when it came to explaining their actions, each one of them had fidgeted and glanced around, relying on everyone else to remember.
He fiddled with his pen a little, playing for time. Maybe he should just let Catherine fill this in, he thought woefully, allowing himself a brief moment of self pity before taking a deep breath and pulling it towards him.
Purposefully, he leaned down, placed pen to paper and printed, 'AREA OF INCIDENT: 31A PRESCOTT ROAD. "THE LAURELS"'
Another gristly death. Another crime scene.
The crime scene itself was a little more complicated than most, involving a body in the water. He could easily recall the groans that came from his team mates when he told them. Bodies in the water were one thing. Water deaths were something else. They were tricky and had to be processed as quickly as possible. When water dries, it can be very difficult to tell where footprints or water droplets landed unlike blood which leaves a stain. And from the description it was going to be worse than usual. There was just the one body, something that probably didn't require all six of them. But of course, it was not up to Grissom to decide how many people could be involved in the death of another Big Leaguer in Vegas society. 'Especially,' he thought, 'when they owned a house that could probably swallow the entire crime lab.'
"Sweet!" cried out Greg Sanders as he stared up, his eyes flickering from one end of the mansion to the other.
Behind him, Warrick Brown whistled his appreciation.
Neither one of them seemed aware of Grissom, who rolled his eyes at their antics. True, the house was impressive. But then, so were many of the other crime scenes he had come across in his lifetime. He was all for a bit of space and luxury, but somehow he couldn't help but wonder what it cost to clean. He liked knowing where everything was and not having to run half a mile in order to get it. In this job, sometimes speed was all it took to save a life or catch a killer. A house like this…too many rooms that were probably just for show.
"Come on. You can appreciate it a lot more AFTER we process!" he scolded, lifting his kit from the car and striding purposefully forward.
The hallway, like the rest of the house, was huge and, for some reason, circular with a banister running three quarters of the way around it. He squinted, trying to make out a door or a hallway that connected it to another part of the house.
"Leads to a balcony but not much else," came a familiar voice, pulling him back from whatever mental process he had gone into. He turned, meeting the eyes of Jim Brass who, as usual, had a pretty grim look on his face. Oh sure, Grissom knew he could easily deal with dead bodies and very little managed to phase him. He just couldn't stand the loss.
"An entire staircase for only one destination?" he repeated, amazed.
"Mentality of the rich my friend. Main staircase is in the house a bit more," Brass explained, pointing as a twinkling of humour darted to his eyes momentarily before he returned to the business at hand.
"Joseph Brush, fifty three, well established car dealer. Lives alone. Body was discovered by his maid, it's out back. Nick's waiting to interview her."
"Waiting?" Grissom raised his eyebrows.
Brass shrugged. "She, uh…CLAIMS she can't speak much English so we're waiting for a translator. She's refusing to answer our questions and keeps chattering at us in Spanish. But from what I can gather, she understands it. Brush left a note for her in the kitchen. In English. And our vic has a drink out here on a tray."
"And we know she brought it to him..?"
The detective gave him a look. "How often do you bring a drink out on a tray for yourself?"
Grissom pondered this for a moment. "Ok. So we're assuming she can read it and because of the tray we think he asked for the drink. Maybe it was part of a routine?"
His friend crossed his arms. "I don't buy it. I say she's faking the language barrier."
"Not necessarily. It's natural for a big enough shock to make you forget things. Details. Actions. Even languages. A dead body sounds like a big enough shock."
Holding his hands in a gesture of surrender, the cop admitted defeat. But as Grissom began to walk towards the back door, he called out something involving a free scotch if he turned out to be right.
Sara was already processing the scene when the three of them came outside, alternatively photographing and marking out areas of water that could be footprints. From this angle, it was difficult to tell. At the sound of footsteps on concrete she glanced up, moving to her feet and waiting until the other three joined her.
"What do we know?" Grissom asked immediately after greeting her.
"Not much," she confessed, brushing a wayward strand of hair from her face. "There's a lot of footprints but I can't really tell who they belong to yet."
"Where's our vic?" Greg interrupted, glancing behind her eagerly.
'Like a little boy at Christmas,' thought Gil affectionately. Their ex-lad rat was always eager to break another case and found new crime scenes exciting and fascinating. As far as he knew, Greg had not yet processed a crime scene involving a water death. 'He'll soon learn.'
Sara pointed behind her. "He's still floating in the pool. Body can't be processed without getting photographed and I couldn't photograph until you lot arrived because of the watermarks. But now that you're here..?" She trailed off, looking hopeful. Everyone (but Greg) could understand. Watermarks could not be ignored. Once they evaporated it would be difficult to know they were ever there. True, there were ways of telling but it involved a lot more work and usually an argument or two with people who were unaware of walking across a crime scene. Processing the footprints themselves, however, was a long and laborious task that no one really wanted to do.
"Go," Grissom waved her off. After all, she knew where the body was and a fresh pair of eyes on these footprints couldn't hurt.
"Oh, by the way. Catherine's upstairs. Told me she could use a hand when you arrived," the brunette called before heading towards the pool.
He nodded and turned back to the other two behind him. "Someone's going to have to do footprints and I need to go help Catherine."
Greg and Warrick gave each other and look, and hurriedly volunteered…each other. Grissom gave them a patient look, the look of a teacher waiting for his pupils to pipe down and get on with whatever they were meant to be doing. A quick game of 'Rock-Paper-Scissors' resulted in Greg finding himself banished to investigating the perimeter and Warrick reluctantly picking up where Sara left off. As for Grissom, he returned inside, found the main staircase and strode up to join Catherine, who jumped as he entered the room.
"Sorry," he called, a half smile on his face.
"No you're not," she teased, flashing her own flashlight into his face briefly.
He shot her a glare once he could see again, but Catherine completely missed it as she became involved with her search once more. "Any luck?"
"Not much. I'd say this was probably the master bedroom or a very posh guest room. There's a balcony outside but I can't find the…"
"Key?" he interrupted, dangling about three on a chain. Normally he would be professional about this, crack a few puns or quotes here and there…but it was fun to tease Catherine sometimes. She got so competitive and her reactions to some of his statements were priceless. Right now for instance, she didn't disappoint.
Her eyes were huge, mouth open in shock. "Where did you..?"
"Key rack," he replied conversationally as he moved toward the balcony door. She looked at him, still drawing a blank. "On the back of the wardrobe," he added, as if it were the most obvious place in the world.
"Of course," Catherine sputtered, disbelief etched across her features as he stepped past her in three easy strides.
Two incorrect keys and a bit of fumbling later, Grissom finally succeeded in opening the door to the balcony. There wasn't much. From the look of the floor, it appeared as if it had not been used in some time. Hardly surprising. With the view he enjoyed of the pool from here, this definitely was not something to be enjoyed alone. Lightly, he leaned his body against the railing, not really doing much. Just taking a moment, breathing in the mingled scents of the pool and the trees beneath him. From here, he could see the blond head of the youngest member of his team scurrying around, reminding Grissom of an excited puppy.
There was Warrick, painstakingly marking out every individual water mark. He was too far away to make out clearly, but no doubt murderous thoughts directed to a certain supervisor were going through his head in regards to the tedious task he was stuck with. But there was Nick, his dark hair making him distinguishable as he joined his team mate. Hopefully he had no more to check up on and had decided to help Warrick. Yes. There he was, taking a few markers from him. Good. That meant more could be processed before the sun began to dry everything out. Sara was closest, bending down to check something at the edge of the pool, her small figure nearly concealed by the tree branches above her.
"Hey! You coming to help or are you just going to stand there?" A slightly peeved Catherine Willows was not to be pushed. She went from irritated to infuriated in record time.
He went to help.
The light from her camera flash nearly blinded the uniform she was with and he protested, blinking rapidly against the spots that were probably dancing in front of his eyes.
"Sorry," Sara Sidle called out from her spot by the pool, an apologetic smile across her face. "But you may want to stand behind me while I do this."
A muffled string of curses met her offer and she struggled to refrain from rolling her eyes at him. Trust her to get the colourful one.
Her progress had been slow and methodical. Every possibly useful print was marked and recorded. Every suspicious looking mark or leaf was photographed and bagged. Even some that were not so suspicious. Long ago, she had learned that no evidence was too small or insignificant. It was the one thing that spoke for those that couldn't. The one thing that couldn't lie.
It was with that thought that she now stooped, swab in one hand, camera in the other. It was a tiny line, barely even noticeable against the pebbly roughness of the poolside tiles. It didn't look like blood, but often blood didn't. It was not always in perfect red pools. Sometimes it dried out or mixed in with something. One time she had discovered a green substance that turned out to have blood in it. That had been interesting. But a simple test should confirm it.
Even as she prepared the swab with phenolphthalein she knew it was ridiculous. A strange line or mark did not always mean traces of blood. It was more likely to be mould or a mildew growing between the damp spaces between the stones. But then again, COD had yet to be established and she was researching any possibilities. She was just doing her job, collecting evidence. So why was she adding hydrogen peroxide instead of just swabbing the surface? It made absolutely no sense at all.
So why did the bright pink swab not surprise her?
"Blood," she noted, head cocking to one side, interest soaring.
Turning back to the pool, she collected a sample of the blood for comparison purposes. In the end it was merely a swab. That thin line was too neat to appear on purpose. There must have been some cleaning up before the maid even thought about dialling for help. But the only problem was how to prove this. Time of death had not been identified when she last looked in on David, and in terms of the surface the blood had been found on and the fact she was outside with dawn fast approaching meant there was little to no chance of finding out. Sara stopped this train of thought fast. The case had barely even begun and already she was losing hope and depressing herself in the process.
Although…
"Hey," she called to the cop, beckoning him over. "Could you come here for a sec?"
The man approached cautiously, looking very nervous. Hardly surprising considering the number of experiments the CSI team preformed on unwitting volunteers…well, actually now that she thought about it, it was just Grissom and that was just the way he was. But since Greg's deliberate mildew contagion nobody seemed very eager to participate in experiments.
"See if you can turn off those lights," she pointed to the lamps on the other side of the pool and directly behind her. "Then come and stand behind me so that your shadow is on the floor in front of me."
It was a strange request. She knew this. So the look of confusion was not unexpected or really noted. Instead, Sara moved to position herself in the correct area and picked up her ALS which she had grabbed on the way out. She wanted to check things first. Blood and chlorine were not a good mix and there was no way of knowing what cleaning product had been used (if any). If she wanted to get what she needed, she needed to be one hundred per cent certain before she used Luminol and had to be quick with a camera in case anything happened. The Haviland case taught her that.
A shadow crossed her line of vision.
"Great, hold it there," she called, pulling on a pair of orange looking goggles and passing an extra set to the cop. "These'll protect your eyes and you may want to see this," she added, barely even glancing behind her. She was in total processing mode and raring to go.
Against the predatory light of dawn, the combined shadows of herself and the cop gave her the perfect contrast, making the ALS effective, but limited. In order to examine more areas, the pair of them had to move to shield another area from the misty light of daybreak.
The third time they moved, Sara found something.
Against the pebbles of the tiles was the unmistakable tint of blood. Blood which had evidently been wiped, or indeed scrubbed in places, like streaks on a mirror.
"What is that?" a soft murmur asked.
"Evidence," Sara answered shortly as she stood, back stiff from crouching. "It proves there was blood here and someone cleaned it up."
'Although who knows how old it is,' she added mentally.
"But no one else knows? I mean, it isn't official until you photograph it?"
She stiffened, nerves tense. Something about that question made her uneasy, though she was probably being paranoid. Her head turned slowly to face him. "No, not yet. But they will."
He nodded and returned his focus to the trees shielding the pool. Heart racing, she waited, watching his every move. But he seemed to have lost interest, preferring to stand and probably imagine rescuing a CSI from an intruder, leaving Sara to calm down and laugh at her foolishness. Rolling her eyes at stupid female intuition and male chauvinism, she began searching for her bottle of Luminol to highlight the blood.
With a groan, Warrick stood, joints creaking back into place like an old man's. Raising one hand to the back of his neck, he rotated his head slowly, easing out the kinks of the last hour. There were too many marks to process. Either this guy kept jumping in and out or someone else was in that pool. True, Nick's presence had helped considerably especially since dawn started breaking not too long ago. All he could do was thank God they were almost done.
There was a small chuckle behind him. "You're gettin' old my friend!" Nick Stokes laughed as he marked off the last of the footprints. "Looks like a size ten."
"Consistent with our vic," Warrick muttered distractedly. "And don't laugh about my age, I'm younger than you! I just need to stretch. I've been tackling these things longer than you."
"Yeah. Hardly the most exciting thing in the world," the Texan admitted as he finished processing his print. "I definitely prefer blood to watermarks. They're easier to process."
"And don't disappear when they dry. Hey Greg," he added as the man in question came to join them, returning their exhausted greetings with his own. "Where have you been?"
"Checking out changing rooms and a surveillance room," he yawned.
"A SURVEILLANCE room?" Nick blinked. "You've gotta be kidding."
"Hardly. The guy was an absolute nut about security. He even has a key card lock for his changing area and a number locker in there! Took me forever to get the damn thing open!" He shuddered, obviously remembering something nasty or unpleasant.
"Find anything?" asked Warrick curiously, neatly sidestepping a cop.
"Other than a secret passion for lavender shower gel, not much. Sara back at the lab yet?"
"She was busy processing the pool last I saw her," said Nick, grabbing a pen and scribbling some figures. "Cath and Grissom are still upstairs. Saw 'em about ten minutes ago."
The blond CSI said nothing, something he didn't do too often and vaguely disturbed his colleagues. Even worse was the fact that he kept looking at them and then looking away. Like a nervous child. Like, he wanted to say something but was reluctant to speak. As if he wanted to ask something, but not be made fun of. He was used to teasing and jeering, but hated being ridiculed.
It was Warrick who finally spoke. "What is it?" he snapped, irritated, instantly regretting his tine.
Greg didn't even notice. "Isn't it policy for CSI's to keep their kits on them at all times on scene?" His voice was strange…distant.
Nick looked up at that. "Yeah…" he answered warily, waiting for him to continue.
"Have you guys got yours?"
Warrick glanced at his feet where his lay as Nick tapped the lid of his with his pen. Greg indicated his own.
"And Catherine and Grissom are upstairs?"
Nick dropped his notebook in frustration as he moved to stand over the younger CSI, feeling Warrick adopt a similar stance beside him. "Greg, what the hell are you getting at?"
Greg swallowed, looking intimidated by his two superiors. Nick showed no mercy. Greg had something to say. He might as well say it. "I was only wondering why that cop was carrying one." He pointed to the door.
Warrick stiffened. "A cop?"
Greg nodded.
"What's a uniform doing with a crime scene kit?" he murmured softly, puzzled. "I'll go check it out. Maybe he forgot or something." With that he turned and hurried off in the same direction.
"Where did you say he came from?" Nick asked, a slight edge to his usually easy-going tone betraying his anxiety and discomfort.
"Over there," Greg answered, pointing in the general direction of the cop's journey. Then he looked. And he swallowed. Heart nearly stopping, he saw the pool just beyond his fingertip.
Nick was already striding towards it. Something was not right.
Slowly Grissom got to his feet, joints popping into place audibly in the quiet room. At times like this he could safely say he felt his age. Hours of processing had revealed a number of hairs, none of which belonged to their victim (considering he was bald) and what had looked like a very busy bed. But until the hairs were identified, they still had no suspects…and an entire house to examine, something Grissom was less than thrilled about. Each room was huge and there were a lot of them. If they all took this long to process, they could be here for weeks. Of course…being the boss had its' perks, one of which meant he could make someone else do it while he did what he did best. But then again…he didn't think he was that bad. At least they had moved to the guy's study.
"Hey, got a print or two in here," a female voice called from the closet.
"Hardly surprising considering the hair samples," he called back, glancing up at a formidable painting above the desk which just screamed 'Hidden Safe'.
"But according to Nick, the maid cleans everything at least once a week. And she wears rubber gloves."
"So?" Lightly he lifted the painting. Yup. There was the safe.
"So…one of these prints has to belong to our suspect!"
An angry shout from below stopped him retorting, closely followed by raised voices. Urgent raised voices, he realised with alarm. Even Brass…and Warrick. Two of the calmest men he knew. He could make them both out.
"What's going on down there?" Catherine poked her head out the door.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'll head down and find out. You keep processing…see if you can find anything incriminating. You," he called to an officer he recognised but couldn't name. "Stay with her please?"
He nodded, moving a little closer to the door while Catherine threw Grissom a 'Look' before continuing her search, a little less enthusiastically.
Warrick was not there by the time Grissom entered the main hallway but Brass was on his radio, voice soft but clipped, back facing him. Unable to make out individual words, he was instantly on guard. This was not a good thing.
"What's happening?" he called, momentum never breaking.
Brass finished his conversation and turned, focusing on his approaching friend. "Greg spotted a cop with a CSI kit. Warrick paused only long enough to tell me before going after him. Five officers are with him," he added quickly, hands raised defensively.
"Which cop?"
"Not one of ours. Looks like our suspect disguised himself somehow, hoping to escape easily."
Grissom cursed under his breath. "If you want to hide, stay in plain sight. Whose kit was it?"
Brass shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. All I know is it's not yours, Catherine's or Warrick's. And whoever owned it now has a case of compromised evidence."
"Not if we get it back fast enough."
"Here's hoping."
Neither wanted a repeat of the Chase case with the stolen evidence or even the Eiger case involving stolen pictures. Grissom didn't think he could take the stress of another internal investigation!
His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of several swift 'clicks' and what sounded like a gas leak. It was difficult to hear above the echoing clatter of running shoes but it was there. The harsh hiss met his ears and he turned to find Greg skidding to a stop and desperately trying to speak against protesting lungs. The hiss repeated, over and over until Greg mustered up the energy to raise his head. This time, Gil saw rather than heard. His name and Brass'. Trying to tell them something. Struggling to be understood. Brass crouched a little, his ear trying to make out words while Greg remained torn between trying to speak clearly and trying to breathe.
'Greg must have been running for a while,' he thought, stiffening as he realised something important. Greg didn't run. He didn't unless it was urgent. He would walk quickly sometimes but he had been flat out sprinting! Something was wrong. But until the CSI was able to breathe properly, whatever had happened would remain untold. And by the way he was acting, Greg wouldn't even think of trying to get his breath back until he had finally delivered his message.
Grissom grabbed his shoulder. "Greg. Tell me what's wrong." The younger man dropped his head again to gasp for air. "No Greg. Look at me and tell me what's wrong."
Full sentences were beyond him right then but he focused on his boss. Grissom relied on his eyes rather than his ears, making out the word, 'pool' and 'sa'.
He repeated them slowly, looking for confirmation from Greg as he spoke. "Pool…Sa…Pool…Sa…" His heart plummeted. "Oh no." SAra had been processing the POOL. And if memory served, part of that pool was shielded off by shrubs. Unconsciously his grip tightened, his face frozen in place. Could something have happened to Sara? When he finally used his voice, it was raised and urgent. The voice of a man in charge…and frightened. "Greg. Was that Sara's kit that was taken?"
The nod was quick but firm.
Straightening, he called Catherine's name, not really caring what she was in the middle of right then. He needed her. Turning back to Brass, who wore the same expression, he enlightened his friend on what he knew.
"Sara was processing the pool earlier. On her own. If that thief was dressed as a cop she could have called him over to clear an area for her."
Brass frowned. "But why didn't she notice a stranger?"
Resisting the urge to curse him for choosing today to be slow, Grissom went on. "This is SARA we are talking about. She would be so eager to get on with her job, she wouldn't notice the face. She would just see the uniform and follow protocol. God knows, I've given her enough grief about doing it!" He rubbed his temple in frustration.
A sharp tap of heels came up behind him. Catherine had arrived.
"Gil? What the hell are you pulling me from a potential crime scene for? Are you completely..?" She trailed off, staring at the red faced, gasping Greg just behind him. "What happened?" she demanded, rushing over and throwing an arm around the younger man.
"We have a suspect. He was here dressed as a cop and Greg claims he saw one walk away with a criminology kit. Warrick chased him and Greg just told us the kit is Sara's." Catherine stared, horrified as Grissom continued to issue orders. " Let Greg breathe, then get the full story out of him. We may need paramedics so make sure they don't go anywhere. Tell me the moment Warrick gets back. This guy could be dangerous but we need both Greg and Sara to identify him." Inwardly, he hoped he was making sense. He had never felt so detached from his tongue in all his life.
Thank heavens for Catherine. "Got it," she stated, turning her attention back to Greg and applying all her mothering techniques to make him breathe.
"Brass. You're with me," he ordered, his stride quick and purposeful, not even bothering to make sure he followed. Sharp taps told him he was.
"What are you thinking Gil?" the cop asked, eyes flitting to each corner of the garden.
"Sara was processing the pool right? I can't see her. This means no one else could," he added, indicating the rest of the garden. From here, they could see everything…except Sara. "This means she was over there," he pointed to a sheltered corner. "I also can't see Nick but his kit is right there." Again, he pointed as he breezed past the offending article. " So, he left it in a hurry. Greg has just run in panicking and scared."
"Something spooked him," Brass added.
Grissom nodded in agreement. "Besides. My gut is telling me something's wrong."
"Since when do you listen to your gut?" the detective gasped, trying to match Grissom's frantic pace.
"Since someone told me I had good instincts."
"So…why bring me?"
He chanced a glance behind him, hoping he wouldn't plough through anything important. "I may need you."
"You know…that doesn't fill me with much confidence."
"Me neither," Grissom admitted, swallowing nervously. "Me neither."
It was soon clear why Greg had come running to them in such a state. Though plenty of uniforms stood attentively to ensure the safety of the CSI's, none of them had noticed a small alcove off the corner of the garden. Like many wealthy men, Joseph Brush had valued his security and his privacy. One he indulged with high tech gadgets and equipment, the other with minimum staff and one or two sheltered parts of the house and garden. A small area of the pool was cut off from the rest by various shrubs and trees. It was here that Grissom now walked towards confidently. And it was here that both men soon heard frantic splashing.
As one, the two men went for their guns, each holding it with confidence. Brass moved first, every movement and step polished and precise from years of experience, Gil close behind him. Firearm poised, Brass moved round a tree, body shifting quickly as he took in his surroundings. Eyes trained to pick up any movement, Grissom came round a corner, ensuring that the area was secure before responding to a breathless call.
Moving out into the open, he stopped dead, heart stopping.
Nick was in the water, looking as if he were struggling to stay afloat. Spitting up water, he called to his boss again, one arm helping him to tread water while the other kept a limp and clearly unconscious Sara Sidle from slipping under.
Grissom was immediately on his knees by the pool, firearm forgotten while Brass continued to check for an intruder.
"Nick! Is she ok?"
"Dunno!" the Texan answered, spitting up more water.
"Well is she breathing?" He was getting frantic now.
"I can't tell. I'm just tryin' to stay above the water. Havin' bother movin'!"
Grissom dropped to his stomach, shifting his body out as far as he dared before stretching out his arms. "Move her here if you can. Brass and I will pull her out." A rustling of cloth and a warm pressure on his legs assured him he was secured. Brass wasn't about to let his friend get into difficulties.
Nick was struggling. Between trying to stay afloat and keep hold of Sara, he was merely succeeding in soaking them both.
"Nick! Float Sara on her back and push a little," Brass' voice called out. "The water should hold her up!"
"But hurry. We need to see if she's breathing!" Gil added, his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to burst out of his ribcage.
Nick did as he was told and somehow managed to manoeuvre Sara towards the two older men, leaving him to grope for a hand or foothold as Grissom carefully and swiftly grabbed Sara's arm, pulling her towards him. When her body reached the side of the pool, Brass moved to join in, holding her under her arm and pulling with all of his might while Nick pushed her legs. Between the three of them, she started to move until finally, she lay on the concrete, soaking wet and pale but still on solid ground.
Nick collapsed against the tiles. He didn't have the strength or the energy to get out and his exhausted gasps were all he was capable of at that moment. Brass sat back, panting heavily, thinking how he was too old to be doing things like this. A glance to the younger CSI in the pool told him he was fine so he focused his attention on his friend.
Gil was still on his knees beside Sara, fingers fumbling at her neck, searching for a pulse. Betraying nothing, his head dropped to her face, eyes focusing on her chest, face void of emotion. Listening intently. His barely audible curse cut through the stillness of the alcove and his companions glanced up in renewed dread as he moved her head to one side, placed his hands upon her chest and began pumping it with anxious vigour, eyes sparking with purpose, never once looking up.
"She's not breathing!"
Jim felt his heart plummet, his eyes wide with horror. Nick's head jerked up, his hands gripping the pool tiles with all of his strength, for one not caring about preserving the evidence.
Gil was still moving, desperately trying to get any water out of Sara's lungs, eyes focused and emotionless. Suddenly, he stopped. Pausing for a moment, he glanced at her limp body, obviously looking for something. The fact that he was instantly on the move again told the detective he had not found it. Moving with an urgency and care he rarely displayed openly, Grissom moved her body, straightening it out, carefully tilting her head back to face him and opening her mouth.
'Almost as if she were a mannequin,' Brass realised, though any humour from that thought was instantly dispelled.
Gil looked up, catching the eye of his old friend and frantically beckoned him over. Without a word, and completely relying on adrenaline, Jim scrambled over.
The two men looked steadily at each other in earnest. One desperate to explain something, the other desperate to learn.
"I need to breathe for her. Tell me if her chest rises." Grissom's voice was sharp and authoritative, the kind of voice that made an ex-Marine snap to attention and resist the urge to salute.
Gil tried not to remember who he was breathing for. Instead, he promised himself that if this worked, he would insist his team take a First Aid refresher course. Hell. He would even PAY for it if Ecklie refused to. Pinching Sra's nose, he inhaled quickly before lowering his mouth to hers, carefully and slowly breathing air into her body. When he had no more air to give, he sat up, mentally counting and looking across to Brass. He didn't look up. Lowering his mouth to Sara's again, he repeated the process, silently praying to whoever was listening that he wouldn't lose another CSI. Holly Gribbs was a long time ago, but the fear and pain her death had caused was still too vibrant and sharp. He didn't want to deal with it again. And Nick's kidnapping and potential death was still far too raw for everyone. Nobody could handle any more.
"It's moving!" called Jim when Gil came back up for air.
"Thank God," he whispered, breathless, before he moved on again.
Nick had never known it to be so quiet. Even underground there had been some sound, even if it was just his bad singing. Nothing had been like this. Leaves muffled the noise of the general area around them, cutting the small group off from the rest of the world and not a single person dared to break this silence. No doubt, this was what Brush wanted, a little seclusion for himself. But right now, Nick would give just about anything to hear a cough, a sigh…SOMETHING from the woman lying in front of him. Every breath Grissom gave to her was a piece of hope that faded quickly. With every rise of her chest, he mentally chanted encouragement.
'Come on Sara. Come on Sara. You can do this! Come back Sara.'
Everything in him wanted to focus on something other than this. To look at something certain. But his eyes wouldn't move from her. They couldn't. It was as if someone was holding his head in place. If they lost her…what would he do? What could he do? Any of them?
"Gil!" Brass' sharp voice cut through the air, making everyone jump. Nick glanced back across just in time to see Sara's body start to buck and his boss sit up quickly.
Harsh, desperate coughing echoed around them as Sara struggled to breathe on her own, lungs protesting at the work. With gentle hands, Grissom turned her body to one side, hand cradling her head as he rubbed her back as he would for a child, helping her to fight. He waited, tense, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing though he was almost certain the other two were relaxing in various stages of relief. He couldn't. Not yet. Not until she groaned and tried to stir, opening her eyes to meet his. To reassure him that she was alive.
She did.
"CSI Brown caught and apprehended suspect in police uniform Both CSIs Sidle and Sanders identifies suspect as attacker and suspected thief. Suspect in custody for assault and theft. Has not been identified. At present evidence suggests suspect murdered Joseph Brush .
CSI Brown received mild head injury from suspect during arrest. Was struck with butt of a firearm. Received immediate treatment at scene. Injury not serious.
CSI Sidle examined by paramedics at scene and doctor at hospital. Injury to the back of the head consistent with CSI Brown's, though more serious. Cut was also obtained during struggle to mid temple. Injuries in themselves concluded to be minor but still cause for concern. CSI Sidle to be observed for next twenty four hours."
With a sigh, Grissom pushed back his chair, dropping his pen in the process. Yawning, he transferred his report to his 'Out' tray, making a mental note to deal with it when he returned to work later. Rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, he considered the possibility of napping in the break room or even his office. But the thought was instantly quelled. As exhausted as he was, he was certain he did not want to deal with an angry Catherine when she realised he hadn't gone home again! Besides…he could do with a fresh change of clothes.
Caffeinated as much as he dared, he drove home, pausing only once to check on Sara's status at the hospital before moving on. Drawing up to his townhouse, he considered how long it would take the caffeine to leave his system before he could sleep but soon abandoned the notion. He had been awake too long. His brain felt fuzzy after hours of processing. With a sigh, he walked to the front door, waving to a local mailman (who was nice enough to hand over his mail for the day) and entered the house. Body remaining on autopilot, he started to clean his teeth, wash his face…little things that required little to no thinking power and allowed his feet to take him to what he really needed.
Eyes closing, he leaned back against the headboard. Not sleeping. Not even thinking. Just sitting there…until he found the energy to move his feet to prod the sleeping figure beside him. A low, questioning grunt answered.
"You ok?"
A yawn as she answered to the affirmative. "Your feet are cold."
"Only way I could think of to wake you up." He smiled, still not opening his eyes. He wasn't even sure if he knew how to any more.
"You must be tired," she groaned, a creak in the bed telling him as she shifted her weight. "Least you didn't sleep in your office again."
His eyelids cracked open at that. "Look who's talking."
She smiled one of her sleepy 'I'll-let-you-off-this-time-buster' smiles. He grinned back boyishly, catching the pillow she half-heartedly threw at him.
"How come you were so late?"
"Paperwork. Had to fill in a report about today."
"Fun."
He didn't say anything. He couldn't. Every possibility flew through his mind when he was forced to recall that scene. Greg not noticing the kit. Nick unable to bring Sara to the side. Something preventing air reaching her lungs…
Amidst the wave of scenarios crashing thorough his mind cam one soft touch. A touch that stopped everything. That made him look.
"I'm still here."
"I know. I just…"
She stopped him again. " I'm still here. Like you told me. You're good at mouth to mouth."
Grissom had to smile at her double meaning. "Must be all the practice," he teased as he shifted to demonstrate.
Sara snuggled into his embrace sleepily, enjoying the sense of security and peace she got from lying there. "Mmmmm…maybe I should nearly drown more often."
With a soft, sleepy chuckle, Grissom held her closer. "Don't you dare! Too much paperwork!"
A/N
Ok, I feel I need to say this. everything I have just described was the result of plot bunnies and research. If anything is majorly wrong considering the science or the medical aspects of this story, I apologise. the same goes for spelling and grammar. I am my own beta. I would also like to point out that as I am not American, some words may be spelled differently.
Hope you enjoyed. Now will you pretty please review? Make me happy and fulfilled. I want to know people will miss my plot bunny inspired stories before I leave (see Profile for more details)