Catherine
arrived,
toting two kits and looking slightly harassed. As she walked through
the living
room and into the kitchen she wrinkled her nose.
“Nice
suit,
overkill on the sage dressing and what the holy hell is up with the
stuffed
animal collection?” she demanded, looking around the kitchen.
Grissom shot her
a glance and went back to lightly prodding the dead, skinned prairie
dog in the
nearest pan.
“Thank
you, I
prefer sausage or cornbread myself, and I have no idea yet,”
he responded
looking eagerly to the kit. Catherine unpacked it and let him fish for
the
large tweezers while she donned gloves and looked around.
“So—I
count eleven
animals all dead, all stuffed, and what? Ready to pop in the
oven?”
“The
oven was on
but we turned it off for safety reasons, “ Grissom responded,
fishing a long
curly grey hair off of the animal. Catherine handed him a bindle and
continued
looking around.
“Any
utensils?”
“Sink’s
full of
them. We’re smelling the garbage disposal, which probably has
the eviscera
clogging it.”
“Charming.
Gil,
what’s going on?”
“The
call came in
about six hours ago. Apparently a political canvasser showed up and
found the
door open. He walked in and discovered the kitchen like this and called
the
police. So far it’s just an animal control issue, but given
the deliberate
nature of the scene we’re processing it as a
crime.”
“It’s
got a
ritualistic feel to it, yeah,” Catherine agreed cautiously.
They
worked in
tandem, collecting trace evidence consisting mostly of hair and items
for
prints. Catherine checked the garbage can and found the stuffing boxes,
fishing
them out carefully.
“That
reminds
me—can I talk to you about Thanksgiving?” she
muttered, looking up at him.
Grissom was dusting a cupboard knob and nodded absently.
“Lindsey
and I are
going out of town this year. It’s the first holiday since
Eddie died, and I
just don’t want to do anything traditional, you know? So my
sister and I are
taking the kids to my mom’s, in
“Sounds
like a good
idea,” Grissom murmured softly. Catherine shot him a mournful
look.
“I’m
sorry.”
“Don’t
be. I’m
pretty sure I can swing alternate plans, Cath. You and Lindsey need the
change
of pace, so don’t worry about me. I’ll be
fine.”
“You
sure?” she
asked softly, relieved and guilty at the same time. Grissom shot her a
smile.
“Positive.”
“Okay
then—“ she
muttered, slightly piqued at his nonchalance. While having Grissom over
for
Thanksgiving wasn’t exactly a tradition, she’d come
to enjoy someone around to
share a glass of wine with, and the last three years had been good.
She
moved to the
sink and fished out the topmost knife, noting the grease smears on the
handle.
“So
what are you
going to do instead? Work?”
“Actually
I may be
going out of town this year myself. We’ve got more than
enough volunteers for
the overtime coverage this year,” Grissom replied absently.
He flashed a light
through the cupboards and added, “Poor grade canned goods,
mostly vegetables.
Generic cigarettes.”
“Low
income
pantry,” Catherine confirmed as she took a sample of the
dishwater. They worked
efficiently throughout the kitchen, collecting samples from every
surface and
item they could think of, and an hour later, Catherine rubbed her eyes
and
sighed.
“Okay,
we can get
all this back to the lab and I’ll make the prints here a
priority. I will tell
you this though—whoever prepped these animals knew what they
were doing,
foodwise.”
Grissom
nodded.
“Agreed—the
eviscerations seem clean and in keeping with cooking, such as it
is.”
“Granny
Clampett
cuisine,” Catherine snickered. She shot Grissom one last
lingering look, gaze
taking in the dark ensemble with something akin to appreciation. He
followed
her stare.
“I
canNOT get over
the suit. And you’re wearing cologne. This is suspicious,
Grissom. Who is she?”
He
cocked his head,
eyes bright.
“An
older woman.
Very special.”
Startled,
Catherine
looked up at his face while they walked out of the house.
“God!
We’re almost
having a personal conversation here! Next thing
you’ll be telling me
she’s seen you naked—“
“Ah,
but she has,”
he confessed, “More than once.”
Catherine
stopped
mid stride, flabbergasted. Grissom sailed by blithely, almost reaching
the car
before she came after him.
“I
can’t believe
you just SAID that! You ARE Gil Grissom, right? Not some alien clone
from a
crashed saucer out in the desert—“ Catherine
muttered. He gave her a patient
glance.
“What’s
more
upsetting—that I spent private quality time with an older
woman, or that she’s
seen me without clothing?”
Catherine
struggled
with that question all the way back to the lab.
Sara
looked at the
fingerprints with a shared sense of satisfaction; next to her, Jacquie
blew on
her nails and buffed them on her lapel, smirking.
“A
palpable hit in
under eight seconds—almost a lab record if I DO say so
myself. Our garbage
gourmet was in the armed forces. Honorably discharged Army Ranger by
the name
of Staff Sergeant Truman Ibarra.”
Sara
picked up the
sheet from the printer and flashed a slightly distracted smile at the
other
woman.
“Excellent—I’ll
see
about pulling up his records. Thanks, Jacquie.”
“No
problem, I got
my game ON tonight—“ the plump tech replied,
turning to the next request
sitting in the basket. Sara wandered out to a free station in one of
the alcoves
off of Trace and logged onto a computer. As she settled herself onto a
stool,
Catherine peeked in.
“Hey.
You got our
boy?” she mused softly. Sara shifted to let her come over and
look on the
screen. On it, a young, cleft chinned blue-eyed man squinted out from
his ID
photo, looking pensive. Sara frowned.
“He
looks sort of
familiar—“ she muttered.
“Hmmm---“
Catherine
studied the photo carefully. “Well it’s pretty
old—taken in 1972, so almost
thirty four years have gone by, but I know what you mean. He does look
like
someone I’ve seen before.”
Before
they could
begin to look at Truman Ibarra’s record, Greg bounced into
the small alcove,
grinning like a boy with a secret he was dying to share.
“I’ve
got some
interesting information about the All Creatures Great and Stuffed case
for you
ladies—“
Catherine
looked
over her shoulder at him, trying not to grin at his enthusiasm. He took
that as
a sign to continue.
“Blood
on the
critters and pans proved to belong to said animals. However, the blood
on the
kitchen table and knives is human, two distinct types, A positive and
AB
positive. Further, the grey hair proves to match the A positive, and
it’s
male.”
“Ibarra
here is A
positive, so he’s got to be source number one,”
Sara pointed out, scanning down
the data file. Catherine nodded and looked at Greg, who was still
standing
there, expectantly bright-eyed.
“Very
good—so far.
Now we need a crime. As far as we can tell this guy could have cut
himself
while pulling a Julia Child on Chip and Dale here. We don’t
have evidence of a
crime, just odd eating habits.”
Everyone
sighed;
Greg slunk away. Sara crossed her arms and continued to stare at the
military
record on the screen.
“Into
the Rangers
at nineteen, three tours of
Catherine
sighed,
and leaned closer to look at the mid-sized photo.
“He
looks like he
could be Grissom’s older brother.”
“No.”
But even as
the words left Sara’s mouth she could see the hints of
similar features on the
face. Catherine shook her head in amusement.
“Hey,
I’ve only
seen one photo of Grissom from when he was younger, and this
guy’s
close—Geez! The second doppelganger in Vegas this
year. I wonder when I’m
going to run into MY copy out there—“
“Get
out, he does
NOT look like Grissom. The eyes are too close and the
haircut’s all wrong.
Besides, Ibarra is a Hispanic name, and you have to admit, Grissom is
pretty
WASP.”
“Oh
yeah, but I
never said he was an exact clone or anything—he just has some
similar features.
And anyway, it’s been three decades since this shot was
taken. For all we know
he could be bald, or fat or whatever.”
Sara
nodded;
Catherine hit the print button, and then turned to her.
“Speaking
of three
decades, I think Grissom’s seeing
someone—finally.”
Keeping
her gaze on
the printout, Sara prided herself in keeping her reaction to a shoulder
shrug.
Catherine nudged her.
“Come
on, Sara—“
she urged softly. When Sara finally met her gaze, Catherine’s
expression was
laced with compassion.
“What?”
“What?
Don’t give
me that. I’m not blind, okay? I just think maybe you ought to
make your move
soon if you don’t want to lose him. Grissom’s
pretty clueless, but I’m not.”
Catherine
gently
patted Sara’s shoulder in gentle reassurance. Sara struggled
to keep her
expression neutral.
”Catherine,”
she
began carefully, “What makes you think
Grissom’s . . . dating?”
The
redhead rolled
her eyes.
“The
signs are
there—he’s cheerful, he remembers to do his
paperwork, and tonight, he told
me—“ Catherine paused. Sara struggled not to smile
and kept looking at her.
“He
told you what?
Something about the way he was dressed?”
“He--mentioned
he’d
just spent some time with a woman,” Catherine edited
carefully, sighing. Sara
simply nodded, and turned her attention back to the printout.
“So
that’s it?
You’re just going to leave it at that?” Catherine
asked softly, torn between
frustration and concern. Sara looked up at her.
“The
man has a
right to see whomever he wants. And he’s my supervisor,
Catherine. That’s a
pretty big obstacle to changing the status quo, even if I wanted to
try.”
Catherine
shot her
a wry look and shook her head.
“Look,
if you’re
worried about biased evaluations, get Ecklies to do it—hell,
even I could sign
you off if it came right down to it. My point
here—“ she lowered her voice and
moved closer to Sara, “—Is that whoever this woman
is, she’s not YOU. I’ve
watched the two of you for the past four years and believe me, THIS is
where
the chemistry is.”
Sara
closed her
eyes, and Catherine, mistaking it for frustration, patted her shoulder
again.
“Personally,
I
think you ought to go for him.”
“Ya
think so?” Sara
choked out.
“Absolutely.
I’m a
woman, nothing gets by me,” Catherine reassured her
colleague.
Brass
looked at the
woman on the other side of the interrogation room table and managed a
faint,
patient smile. The woman was having none of it. She was thin and coal
black,
her hair braided in a tight cornrows streaked with white at the
temples, and
deep lines bracketed her mouth. Her eyes were large and luminous
though, and
her voice had the huskiness of a die-hard smoker. She wore a
beautician’s smock
over her thin frame.
“I’m
sorry I didn’t
get back sooner, but I’m tellin’ you it was an
accident, detective. Tru didn’t
mean to cut me, all right? He was upset, and I was tryin’ to
take his knives
and we both got a little careless. I had to go take him out before he
got
hurting himself again.”
“Mrs.
Marsaille—“
Brass began, but the woman shook her head and coughed into one thin
fist, her
full lips smiling.
“Call
me ‘Vive.
It’s shorter and you won’t mangle it as
badly,” she dryly suggested.
A
little miffed,
Brass began again, trying to ignore Grissom’s quick glance of
mild amusement.
He looked over at the woman and spoke once more.
“All
right, ‘Vive.
We know you own the house and Ibarra has it listed with the VA as his
current
address. So what did you argue about? And where is Ibarra
now?”
Her
eyes softened
and she looked over at Grissom, as she had repeatedly during the
interview,
studying his features.
“We
didn’t argue.
Truman just had one of his fits. They come on every couple of weeks,
and they
get so bad that if he doesn’t get out to the desert quick
he’s no better than a
baby, wetting himself and not all there in the head. He was fixing us a
week’s
worth of dinner when it hit him.”
“A
week’s
worth—‘Vive, does Truman
hunt—animals?” Grissom asked softly. She turned,
meeting his eyes and nodding.
“Oh
yes. His
pension goes for his migraine medication, not that it helps all that
much, and
my paycheck goes for the taxes and upkeep of the house.
‘Tween us, food is
sometimes hard to come by, and my Truman isn’t a little man.
So he goes out and
gets the animals don’t nobody miss. Things my granny taught
me to cook,
squirrels and doves and such.” She paused and lifted her chin
proudly. “But no
dogs or cats, if that’s what you’re thinking. Me
and Truman don’t do THAT. Just
the wild things.”
No
one spoke for a
moment, and then Grissom laid his hands on the table. In a soft voice
he asked,
“He
has fits?
Epilepsy?”
‘Vive
spoke slowly,
staring at the gauze bandage on her skinny forearm, the words tumbling
forth
reluctantly.
“No.
Not that kind.
He has too much noise in his head. Something from long ago when he was
in the
Army. He says they gave him things they wanted to test, and now he
hears
everything too much. When it builds up, it gets in the way of his
breathing and
thinking and he has to go to the desert for a while. He’s
been like that ever
since I’ve known him, so I don’t know about if the
story about the CIA is true,
but the rest of it is. He goes out in the desert for a few days or a
week and
the wind calms him down.”
Fascinated,
Grissom
cocked his head, his gaze never leaving the woman on the other side of
the
table. Brass gave a little, almost pained sigh.
“The
desert calms
him down? And you just . . . leave him there?”
“He
insists. And
I’ve seen how it helps, more than the medicine ever did.
After a few days he
comes home and he’s fine until the next time. Usually Tru
knows when it’s
coming. It just hit fast today,” ‘Vive added,
shooting a pleading look at
Grissom. His expression was thoughtful.
“Hypersensitivity
to noise is a common reaction to quite a number of medications,
although
Catherine and I didn’t find any in the house.”
“It’s
not the
migraine medicine he takes now that’s got his head full of
noise, it’s the
stuff they gave him a long time ago back in
“Technically,
killing vermin isn’t a crime, and if no assault charges are
filed—“
‘Vive
climbed to
her feet and smiled, while Brass stepped back, watching her. As she
passed by
Grissom she stopped and looked up at him once more, her expression
slightly
haunted.
“You
know, you sort
of look—“ she began, then shook her head and walked
off through the doors.
“It’s
kind of
sad—they’re the people who fall through the cracks
of society’s systems.
From what I could gather there’s a ultra restricted file on
Ibarra covering two
years of his life back in the mid seventies,” Sara murmured,
looking at
Grissom. They were in is office compiling the report on the Ibarra case
after
collecting the last statement from Ms. Marsaille, who was waiting up
the hallway
in Brass’ office for a cab. Grissom had his jacket off and
his shirtsleeves
rolled up; Sara took a moment to flash him a grin. Lowering her voice
she
added,
“By
the
way--Catherine is convinced you’re seeing someone.
She’s been giving me some .
. . advice.”
Grissom
looked over
the tops of his glasses at her, his gaze intently focused, his mouth
twitching
slightly.
“Concerning--?”
“Us.
You and me.
She thinks I should make a move on you before you get too serious about
this
other woman of yours.”
He
took a moment to
consider that thought, leaning back in his chair. Sara watched him, her
gaze
dark and wary. She was all too aware of the glass walls around them, of
the
casual flick of glances their way, so she turned away from him and
paced to the
shelf of jars, studying the nearest one. Grissom sighed.
“Well,
usually
she’s better than I am when it comes to people. If she thinks
you should seduce
me, then . . . you probably should. Might be best for everyone
concerned.”
Sara
didn’t have to
look over her shoulder to know Grissom was squelching down a smirk; it
was
apparent in the light blandness of his voice. She picked up a jar with
a
preserved two-headed scorpion in it, turning around and examining the
dead
creature through the glass side.
“Oh
I don’t know if
I could. I’m bound to be depressed by the news of
you knocking boots with
someone, Gris. And maybe a little . . . “
“—Jealous?”
Intrigued, he rose from his chair and stepped towards her, reaching for
the
jar. Grissom eyed her through it, his gaze speculative and slightly
risqué.
“Interesting. I’ve never seen this side of
you.”
Sara
blinked and
lowered the jar, looking at Grissom intently, her big eyes soft and
velvety.
“Grissom—“
Whatever
she was
going to say died on her lips as her gaze moved beyond him and to the
figure
shambling past the doorway of the office. He followed her stare and as
he
looked, the other man looked back, hesitating a moment in the hall.
“This
were
Genevieve at?” came his hoarse voice, thick with suppressed
pain. Grissom moved,
reaching the doorway, shaking his head.
“No,
she’s down in
three-twenty-eight. Can I help you?”
The
other man met
his glance, eyes widening for a moment, and Sara slowly shifted to
Grissom’s
side, staring.
The
man was a bit
taller than Grissom, with a leaner, olive-toned face, but the same blue
eyes
and cleft chin. The mustache he wore was thick and full, biker style,
and his
hair hung in long grey shaggy ringlets to his shoulders. On his lanky
frame he
wore a faded flannel shirt of black and green, tucked into ragged but
clean
jeans. His threadbare fleece vest was tattered, his belt buckle touted
the logo
of Budweiser, and his cowboy boots were well-scuffed.
“I’m
here to take
her home. She okay? No trouble?” the questions were slow but
serious, his voice
a rough timbre and the faintest of Hispanic accents.
“She’s
not in
trouble, and neither are you, Mr. Ibarra,” Grissom reassured
him. At the sound
of his voice the other man cocked his head in a gesture so familiar to
Sara
that she gasped.
“Orale.
Why . . .?”
he started to ask, then closed his eyes, obviously in pain. Grissom
shot a look
at Sara, who understood. She scooted past them and into the break room,
grabbing a paper cup to fill it with water. She came back quickly
enough to
hear Grissom speak again.
“
. . . Animals and
a few traces of blood. Given the circumstances we thought it best to
process
the scene as a crime until the evidence told us otherwise.”
Ibarra
nodded
tightly, and when Sara handed him the water he took it gratefully,
swallowing
most of it in a few gulps.
“Thanks.
Blood’s
hers and mine. We had an accident—“ So saying,
Ibarra waved the palm of his
left hand, revealing two long gashes, one across the inside of all four
fingers, the other parallel to it along the heel of his hand. He was
trembling,
Sara noticed, and his right eye was terribly bloodshot. Grissom studied
the
callused palm, nodding.
“You
grabbed it by
the blade when she wrestled the handle from you,” he stated.
Ibarra nodded.
“’Vive
saved me
from me again. Listen, I need to see her, comprende?”
“Si—“
Grissom
replied, leading the way down the hall. Sara brought up the rear of the
group,
catching the startled looks through the glass walls of various offices
and labs
as people watched them pass.
Obviously
the resemblance
wasn’t all in her imagination, Sara realized.
They
reached
Brass’s office, and Grissom opened the opaque door after
receiving a reply to
his knock. Sara watched ‘Vive Marsaille rise and rush over to
Ibarra, hugging
him tightly.
“Tru!
Oh lord honey,
you need to be in the hills right now, what are you doin’
here?” she chided
him. His grip around her squeezed tight, and he pressed his cheek to
hers in a
quick intimate gesture. Brass joined Grissom and Sara at the door,
studying the
scene carefully.
“Our
missing man—“
“He
wasn’t missing,
he came back,” Sara pointed out. “As if he knew
there was a problem.”
Grissom
nodded, his
expression puzzled as Ibarra reluctantly pulled away from
‘Vive and ran the
back of his hand under his nose. A faint trace of blood streaked his
knuckles.
“I
hitched back in
because I felt trouble. We gotta go though, dulce mio. Shakes are
coming—“ he
warned, shooting a glance at Brass, who held his hands palm up, in an
appeasing
gesture.
“Hey,
no charges,
no case. Free to go—“
“Thank
you.”
“Gracias—“
With
mumbles and
apologetic looks, Ibarra and ‘Vive squeezed past Sara and
Grissom, holding
hands as they walked down the hall. Faint sounds of their conversation
drifted
back.
“—Better,
I’ll
bring you back some rattler this time, Mija.”
“You
will NOT,
Truman Javier Ibarra! I HATE those damn snakes and you know it. They do
NOT
taste like chicken, no way!”
“Do
too.”
“Do
NOT.”
“Okay,
okay
‘Vive—maybe some lizards?”
Sara
watched them
go, her stomach tense. She caught Brass’s gaze and nodded;
they both glanced at
Grissom, who looked—
--Slightly
lost and
bewildered.
“You
know he looked
like you,” Brass pointed out. Grissom winced a little,
nodding.
“I
did pick up on
that, yes,” he replied. Sara shifted her gaze back to the
detective, who gave a
faint sigh, adding,
“You
don’t have any
relatives you don’t know about, do you?”
Grissom
swung
around, mouth in a wry twist of a grin.
“Now
that doesn’t
make ANY sense. How could I know about them if I didn’t know
about them,
Jim? I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but
statistically, there’s
only a one hundred percent certainty of that on my mother’s
side.”
Sara
reached out to
touch his shoulder.
At
that moment,
Nick hurried up to them, a paper in his hand.
“Grissom!
I got a
match to those hiking boots in the Noda case—“
The
shift was
finally over.
Sara
moaned at the
sweet deft touch of Grissom’s hands on her shoulders. They
were big and firm,
rubbing the tension right out of her, and heating her through their
palms. She
closed her eyes and rode on the wave of relaxation gently radiating out
from
her neck. Grissom stepped closer and breathed in her ear.
"How’s
this
for a first step in seduction?”
“Totally
excellent.
I am putty in your fingers at the moment,” Sara confessed in
a low tone. “If I
were a cat, I’d be in your lap right now.”
“Oh,
I think I
could handle petting parts of you for a long time,” he
replied in a serious
tone. They stood in the parking lot under the sodium arc lights,
huddled near
Sara’s Accord. She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes soft
again as she
smiled.
“It’s
Saturday,”
she pointed out, hoping that despite the long shift he might figure out
what
she meant. He gave a nod, encouraging her to continue. The wind blew
around
them and through the chain link fence, making a cold, lonely sound as
it
whistled between the cars.
“And
the week is
over—“ he sighed, never letting his gaze leave
hers. She tensed again, but
Grissom’s fingers softly kept kneading and Sara gradually
softened once more,
giving a little moan of pleasure.
Grissom
cleared his
throat.
“I’m
sorry, Sara,
but as an experiment it was—inconclusive. The timeframe was
simply too short to
make a projection about future happiness. Objectively speaking, I think
a
second experiment with a longer span would be the only fair way to
assess our
compatibility.”
Sara
looked down at
her shoes, her grin soft, her heart racing. Grissom leaned closer,
adding,
“And
I don’t dare
bring you back to the townhouse, Miss ClosetPeeker.”
“Miss
ClosetPeeker?” Sara spun, her face a study in outraged
amusement. Grissom
lifted his chin smugly.
“You
heard me. I’m
going to have to bribe you with one of those Advent calendars with
little
chocolates in it, aren’t I? Keep you occupied so that finely
tuned evidence
gathering brain of yours doesn’t spoil Christmas.”
Sara
gave a chuff
of annoyance, but Grissom lightly squeezed her shoulders and caught her
gaze,
his own glinting with a boyish mischief behind his glasses.
“Look
at it this
way Sara—we can go home, and you can start trying to torture
hints out of me
for the next six weeks. I’m perfectly willing to suffer
through all attempts to
bribe me with encounters of a sexual nature.”
“I
BET you are—“
she muttered, her voice low as they both sensed someone else moving
through the
parking lot. Grissom let her shoulders go and shifted away from her
carefully
as Warrick lumbered past, barely glancing their way.
“Night—“
Sara
called. Warrick waved a hand and moved on. Grissom dropped his hands in
his
jacket pockets.
“So—do
we . . .
continue?”
She
heard the
quaver in his voice, the little sound enough to bring a prickle of
tears to her
eyes. She looked up and nodded emphatically.
“Um,
yeah. I have
to agree that we can’t jump to hasty conclusions with
insufficient data. We
need more evidence. At least another week—“
“Just
a week more?”
the flat disappointment in Grissom’s tone echoed out, and
Sara choked a wet
giggle down. She batted her eyes at him.
“Wellll—someone
keeps taking about Christmas as if it’s a done deal, and
that’s hardly the
case. I need—persuading.”
Grissom
smiled. He
shot a look around the empty lot, then leaned down and lightly brushed
his
mouth over hers in a faint, barely there hint of a kiss; for the first
time in
her life Sara understood what her mother meant as their auras blended
for a
moment, flaring bright and clear in the cold Nevada morning.
