Nine Years Ago

Chapter 1

The tall slim brunette leaned her shoulder against the wall, holding a foot square white paper with a name on it. Definitely, she had gotten the short straw and this time, it wasn't a winner. Her friend and co-worker had selected the guy from the body farm. That was pretty cool. Another got the best-selling author. Three days to drive them around to different events, eat with them, hearing what either one had to say would be---interesting. They had also gotten the biggest cars to use.

She got stuck with the bug man. Ugh---she hated bugs. Just the thought made her skin crawl. Ha! That was almost funny. She clicked the list in her brain. An hour to the conference center, if traffic was good; that should be a real fun drive. Maybe he would sleep. Then the opening speaker and dinner tonight. She did not technically eat with him. The "hosts" had their own table. Secretly, they called themselves "escorts" and laughed. Second day, breakfast, meetings, a round-table discussion, a free afternoon, and the big dinner party scheduled at a local winery. Third day, early meetings, then back to the airport. She got to attend everything for free for acting as host to an invited speaker---just so her bug man got where he needed to be.

There would not be much one-on-one, she thought. Lots of people knew the guy, so he would stay busy. Bugs, gross. She couldn't believe she pulled his name.

She stood straighter as a crowd descended the escalator. She held her sign above her head. Didn't want to miss him and have to have him paged.

She saw him lift his hand as a signal, then came towards her with hand outstretched. "Grissom." He said. "Gil Grissom. You must be my host?"

She shook his hand. "Yes, Sara Sidle." She smiled. "I'll be your driver, your tour director or whatever else you should need." She smiled ever brighter, her tone matching. She would be the best "host" this old bug guy ever had. "Luggage is this way."

They headed toward luggage pick-up. She easily matched his stride, he found his luggage; then they found the car. She checked him out as they walked to the car. Over forty, not slim, but not overweight either. Curling hair. Dark jacket and pants, blue shirt. She realized his blue shirt matched his eyes. He smiled easily, making comments about the weather, how much he appreciated the conference providing transportation.

As she drove from the airport, he asked if she would like to eat. "Some place near the water. We don't have much coastline in Vegas." He spoke as easily as he smiled. "I left after work and I don't remember eating since yesterday."

"You work grave?" Sara asked, surprised that someone his age would still be on what most regarded as the shift for newbie's, or those who did not progress up the promotion ladder.

"I do." He replied. "Actually, I like that shift. Vegas never sleeps." He laughed at his own comment.

She turned onto a side road, saying "I work grave here."

"Do you? Night person, then. Police or forensics?"

When she responded with forensics, he asked several questions about her supervisor, about equipment they used, how work was divided. Clearly interested in how things worked. He did not mention bugs, so maybe this wasn't going to be so bad.

Sara found the little oceanside café hidden from tourists but a favorite with locals. Its looks belied the good food. After ordering at the take-out window, they found an outside table. He pulled the chair out for her which she noticed.

They found it easy to talk about the food, then work. She found him interesting, asking questions, waiting for her to answer. He reminded her of good teachers she had known, not a bug man. He had not talked about bugs--- yet.

The drive to the conference center passed quickly. He talked. She answered. She turned left after the bridge to let him see the city. She thought he should see how the city looked from a distance.

When they arrived at the conference center, her two co-workers were already there and hanging around the front door. She knew they were checking out her bug man. She smiled—her bug man! He was going to be ok. Not a word about bugs.

The three young people compared notes. Sara decided she might have gotten the best one. The author talked--into a small tape recorder during the entire drive from the airport. The body farm guy claimed jet lag (flying the wrong way for jet lag) and slept all the way. Sara got to brag that her bug man had not only wanted to eat, but talked to her about her work. She realized that she had done most of the talking spurred by his questions. Interesting man.

Grissom enjoyed these conferences. Hearing what others had to say, how others were working, meeting people with similar interests could keep him sleepless for days. He slept long enough on the plane to keep him going until late tonight.

His biggest surprise was the young woman waiting for him, not your typical California girl from the movies. She was smart, articulate, serious. They had not stopped talking, especially when he learned she also worked in forensics and at night. Her uplifting tone was easy to hear; her voice steady and she faced him when she spoke. Unlike so many women, especially young women, she answered questions directly, and with a little encouragement, she would elaborate.

Sara Sidle, his 'host' for the conference. Other than drive, he wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. She did grab his bag from the luggage carousal which he quickly took from her. He would not have a slim, slip of a girl hauling his bag around. He wasn't that old.

And her smile. He could not remember another smile like hers. He could not remember thinking about a smile like hers in years. She smiled easily and it spread across her face like an opening flower. He knew that smile could have dangerous consequences. He was old enough to know that!

She left him at the front door. Turning, he saw her give her friends a two-thumbs up signal. He smiled, knowing some silent game signal had passed between them.

Later, during the opening speaker and dinner, he found her at a table with the same group, talking and laughing as women do, unaware they were observed. Afterwards, she made her way to his table near the front, waiting for him to finish his conversation.

"I wanted to check with you—anything you need?" She asked.

"No, nothing. What are you doing? Would you like to join some of us?" he said, "We're moving outside. It's work talk." Then he restated his comments. "Only if you have nothing else. We could use a young voice."

It took her three seconds to decide.

As in the break-up of any large group, some headed out the door, others moved around tables to meet with old friends or make new ones, and quickly a large number moved outside, finding a place or a chair while introducing themselves or each other. Everyone had a story to tell, a solution sought, a question to ask. Sara found a place near the edge of the group, but near enough so she could hear Gil Grissom. Conversation gradually moved the crowd into smaller and smaller groups as topics popped up and those interested shifted space to talk and compare experiences.

Sara followed the bug man—after all, he had invited her to join. And while she wasn't intimidated as the lone female, she listened rather than venture into discussions. The group discussed using technology in establishing evidence, presenting understandable information to judge and jury. Their talk turned to serial killers and efforts to use technology to track backwards to find their victims.

Forgetting she was the only female and the youngest person in the group, she spoke, "Technology development is going to change what is presented; juries will demand it." She leaned forward to continue. "However, we must remember cases like Ted Bundy. Stopped for a broken tail light, held on a fingerprint, and convicted based on bite marks on a victim. How much is technology and how much is skillfully gathering hard evidence? Neither can stand up without the other."

Grissom was not the only one to notice her quiet steady voice.

A man from Florida immediately continued her Ted Bundy thread; nearly a decade after being put to death and law enforcement officials never tired of discussing his nationwide killing spree. Sara talked about DNA profiling and clearly knew how to discuss the complicated techniques in development.

Finally, a man stood, yawning, and checking his watch, "It's after 1 AM. Since I'm a lead speaker at a breakfast meeting, I need to get some sleep! I expect to see all of you there." He laughed as he led the breakup of the last remaining group. "Young lady, you need to be there. We need your compassion, your questions—and your good looks to keep us on our toes!"

Another man closed in on her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Miss Sidle, isn't it? Will Smithson, Denver PD. Any time you want to change jobs, let me know." He rocked closer to her face.

She smoothly pulled from his grasp. "Thanks, I—I think I'll stay where I am." Still smiling she dropped her head and stepped back. Grissom quickly stepped forward, placing a hand on her elbow.

The man from Denver laughed loudly, "Ok, Grissom, I see you want this smart filly in that Vegas stable! I should have known." He laughed and headed inside.

Grissom dropped his hand. Sara stood beside him shaking her head. "I hate those guys. Why not just shake my hand? Why not ask me if I'd like to work in Denver? Is that so hard?"

It was Grissom's turn to laugh. Instead of trying to answer, he asked her, "Are you hungry? Let's find something to eat."

Once inside, they found the kitchen had long closed for the night and the only place open with real food was a 24 hour diner a short drive away.

She was the first to make a decision. "Come on. I'm your host! We can eat pie at 2 AM and see who else is up."

He smiled at her enthusiasm. He could not remember the last time he did something spontaneous and this looked like a good time to start.

They laughed and talked on the short drive. He told her stories about several of the conference participants from years past. Inside the diner, they both ordered apple pie which the waitress insisted that it would not be right to eat apple pie without ice cream.

Sara asked questions about Grissom's topic at the conference, about his work, including how an entomologist got into forensics. "I'm not real fond of bugs," she added.

He carefully picked one slice of apple from his pie. "See this apple." He held it on the end of his fork. "Without bugs—bees to be exact—we would have no pretty apples. Perfect apples result from pollination at least six times, or the apple is small, stunted and misshapen. It literally takes thousands of bees to make apples."

And as she ate the last of her pie, he explained how he started and continued to work in forensics, following a bug's life.

Later, she curled into bed, thinking this had been a good day. Her bug guy had ended up being very likeable, even nice. She still did not like bugs.

Breakfast was a confusing, self-service affair. Tables loaded with all the typical breakfast foods, and people filling overflowing plates. Sara grabbed a muffin, an orange, and coffee, wondering what bug was responsible for making her orange perfect. Checking the program, she found the speaker she wanted to hear, but kept looking for her bug man. Dr. Grissom, she decided, she had to call him before she slipped and called him Bug Man.

Instead, he found her. "Sara! Come with me. This guy is a terrific speaker—you will love his topic."

She allowed herself to go with him. And it was interesting. Two FBI researchers presented AFIS information and plans to have a paperless system in place in the near future. The next session was a round-table discussion where Grissom was on the panel. She was certainly going to that one; after all she was his 'host'.