Doc
Robbins watched out of the corner of his eye as
across the morgue, David carefully rinsed off the newest body.
Something was
slightly odd, and he wasn’t sure what it was. Focusing
carefully, he
concentrated, working one sense at a time, and when he got to hearing,
he
understood.
David
was humming.
And
David was not normally a hummer.
Puzzling
over this, Robbins reached for his cane and
slowly turned, looking at his junior colleague, carefully studying at
him,
trying to see if there was anything physically different about the man.
At
first glance, nothing seemed to have changed: same haircut, same
glasses, clean
smock—but David was smiling, not something you saw often from
anyone working
around gory motorcycle accident victims. Intrigued, Robbins was on the
verge of
asking, in a roundabout sort of way, when the other man looked up and
smiled
sheepishly.
“Oh
sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No,
that’s all right. Was that the Olympic theme?”
“Yes,”
David admitted, dropping his head a little.
Robbins nodded encouragingly, but that was all David seemed to have to
say on
the matter; with a sigh, Robbins shook his head and turned back to his
paperwork. After a moment, David silently slipped out of the morgue.
He
headed down the hall, slowing as he approached the
break room, coming to a dead stop at the doorway as he peeked in,
blinking.
Jacqui and Clem were commiserating over mugs of coffee, and Greg was
lounging
in a chair across from them reading a surfing magazine. They all looked
up, and
David blushed, not used to the scrutiny.
“Yes?”
Jacqui asked cheerfully. David fished in his
pocket and pulled out a pair of tickets; instantly Clem jumped up and
glided
over to him, smiling. She gave him a thumbs up, then studied the
tickets while
he watched her.
“Going
somewhere?” Greg asked, lightly. David nodded.
“
“Around
three o’clock’s fine. The ticket’s just a
formality of course . . .”
Clem
nodded, plucking one of them from his hand and
mouthing a bright-eyed ‘thank you’ to him. She
brushed past him out to the hall
as Jacqui gave a soft little hoot from the table, her eyes twinkling.
“David
you’re blushing!”
“Yes,”
he agreed, helplessly. Greg rolled his eyes,
torn between amusement and annoyance as he turned the page of his
magazine.
“Sooo,
you and Clem have a date,” he murmured, striving
for nonchalance.
Almost
making it too.
David
grew pinker, going from a carnation to a deep
fuschia, but he managed a small smile and squared his shoulders.
“Sort
of . . . “ came his wondering reply. Jacqui
grinned and stood up, carrying her coffee mug with her.
“Well,
a word of advice--just don’t let her dominate
the conversation—“ she teased as she stepped past
him. David blinked, started
to say something, and stopped. Greg gave an impatient sigh.
“It
was a JOKE, dude. Sheesh—“ he grumbled, finally
tossing down his magazine and shooting David a pitying look.
“I take it you
don’t do this sort of thing often.”
“Well,
Natalie competes once a year . . .”
“I
meant the dating part,” Greg managed, with what for
him was commendable patience. David pursed his mouth thoughtfully, and
cleared
his throat.
“I
date,” he managed in a soft rebuke. At that point
though, Catherine bustled in, grinning with a cat-like smugness as she
surveyed
the room.
“Gentlemen,
we have work to do—either of you two seen
Brown or Stokes around here?”
Both
of them shook their heads as Catherine gave a
little growl, dropping her hands on her hips.
“Damn
it, here I am with the perfect opportunity to
lord it over the men and they’re out—I mean
honestly, what’s the good of being
acting supervisor if there’s no gloating?”
“You
can gloat over US,” Greg invited, dubiously.
Catherine glanced at him and David, then snickered, somewhat
heartlessly.
“Thanks
Greg, but—I don’t kick bunnies.”
***
*** ***
Sara
shifted through the folders of papers, a pencil
clenched in her teeth. Through the windows of the
“I
can’t find the checklist for the lecture on the
principles of fiber processing!” she whined softly. Grissom
grinned and kept
his gaze on the highway, his hands lightly gripping the steering wheel.
“It’s
there, Sara—probably taped to either the front
inside or back inside flap of the folder. Relax, calm
down—“ he told her. She
turned to glance at him, and he took a moment just to appreciate how
lovely she
was in her maroon sleeveless sweater and dragonfly necklace. Even her
scowl
couldn’t hide her charms.
“It’s
one of the first presentations and I just want to
make sure it’s ready to go—honestly, I had all this
stuff sorted and filed and
stacked JUST right when we left, Grissom. Down to the last paperclip
and
highlighter!”
“You’ll
do fine, trust me.”
“WE’LL
do fine,” she corrected absently, pulling a
sheet at random and looking it over. Grissom said nothing, and she
glanced over
at him, her brown eyes wide, slightly frightened.
“Griss—“
“You
have the knowledge and the talent, Sara.
Presenting is part of job.”
“No!
YOU do the lecturing, I just hand you the samples
and set up the AV stuff . . . you KNOW I’m not good at
talking to a group!”
came her panicky retort. Grissom hid his smirk out of a sense of
self-preservation as Sara bit her bottom lip; when she did that sort of
thing it
was all he could do not to pull over and kiss the daylights out of her.
A
few more miles passed by, and finally Sara gave a
loud, noisy sigh.
“Shit.
You’re going to make this mandatory, aren’t you?
Some part of my evaluation.”
“No
I didn’t say that. You know as well as I do that
any performance evaluation on you is now Catherine’s
bailiwick. I look at your
solve rates, prior cases and goals only.”
Sara
nodded reluctantly and turned her head to look at
him again, “But you still want me . . . expect me, to
present.”
Grissom
slowly nodded, his hands tightening on the
wheel.
“We’ve
got two presentations each day for four days,
Sara. That’s a lot of lecturing, even for me,” he
admitted. “And you know
trace, specifically fiber, better than anyone in
“Yeah,”
she conceded reluctantly, carefully setting the
folder into the filebox at her feet. Grissom relaxed a bit and pointed
with his
chin.
“Keep
an eye out for a sign. According to the
directions, we’re within a few miles of the
turnoff.”
Sara
looked up just in time to catch sight of a
billboard, advertising the dubious charms of someplace called
CockaDoodle.
Judging from the ten-foot smoldering eyed Adonis gracing it; it seemed
to be a
male strip club. She tried not to smile as they passed the billboard.
“Wrong
sign I guess.”
Grissom
merely shook his head. “A little Vegas
goes a long way.”
“I
don’t know . . . given the clinging effect of those
pants it didn’t look little to me,” she observed,
as much to tease Grissom as
anything else. He snorted.
“What
is it they say—the camera adds ten pounds?”
At
that, Sara did laugh. The
“It
looks quaint. Very . . . home town-y.”
“Mayberry
of Nevada,” Grissom agreed lightly, taking a
left turn at the one major intersection. A few miles later, Grissom
pointed
with his bearded chin to a brick building with gold three-dimensional
letters
that spelled out Sheba Police
Department. Grissom pulled up
and
parked.
Sara
looked at him. “So. Think they’re going
to
be stand-offish and suspicious, or wide-eyed and excited?”
she asked,
grinning.
Grissom
shrugged. “If this is payback for a favor
at Sheriff
“Professional
huh? I guess that means no holding hands
on our way to the malt shop tonight,” she pointed
out.
Grissom
pursed his mouth, shooting her a wry look as he
unbuckled his seat belt. “Ah, but we are affianced,
are we not? With that
state of being comes a certain degree of privilege, and
permission—“
“—In
your case, prevalence,” she snorted.
Grissom
arched an eyebrow. “Perks. After a long
day of lecturing, I deserve all I can get.”
“Of
what? Pampering? Petting?”
“Of
something else that begins with the letter P but
will get me evil looks if I say it,” Grissom cheerfully
concluded, climbing out
of the car, leaving Sara laughing. She followed him, parking
her sunglasses
on the top of her head as she followed him through the glass doors into
the
building.
The
young officer at the information desk looked up at
them, smiling. Her nametag read HARPER.
“Hi,
we’re from the Las Vegas Crime Lab—“
Grissom
didn’t get to finish as the woman smiled, revealing big white
teeth.
“Cool
beans and salad greens! The chief and Daisy’ll be
glad you made it in good time! Do you have things to unload, to bring
in from
the road?”
Sara
nodded, and Officer Harper rose, coming around the
desk. She motioned to a hallway off to their left.
“I’ll
get TJ to come help get your stuff to the
conference room. Chief Morgan is out at the moment, but in the meantime
I’ll
take you to Daisy’s office. Was it a long trip?”
They
walked down the hallway, their shoes clattering on
the old linoleum; Sara caught signs pointing out different departments
within
the building: Booking, Bail, Records, Impound Lot. Officer Harper led
them
deeper in the maze of offices, stopping at one with a sign reading: D.
Brandtstein, Coroner.
“—And
here we are never fear. Daisy? Company’s here!”
Officer Harper called as she leaned around a doorframe of an office.
Grissom
and Sara looked in at the woman seated behind the untidy desk.
She
was a slim woman with great masses of pearly white
hair held back by various tortoiseshell combs into a chignon of sorts.
Around
her neck hung two different pairs of glasses, and her lab coat had
embroidered
pink skulls along the lapels. She rose up, smiling and came around the
desk,
hand extended.
“Doctor
Grissom and Ms. Sidle, right? Rory said you
were two of the best criminalists in the state, quite likely the whole
southwest! I’m Daisy B. Welcome to
“Thank
you,” Sara replied, her hand pumped heartily in
turn after Grissom’s.
He
shot her a quick look before turning his attention
back to the coroner. “Please call me just
Grissom--Doctor Brandtstein?”
“Oh
forget that name, just Daisy or Doc B. I’m not
about to take anymore Frankenstein comparisons, not at my age. So, what
time
would you folks like to start tomorrow? I haven’t sent out
the last memo for
the staff yet because I wanted to give you time to get in and settled
up at the
Wayside Inn.”
“Ah,
we appreciate that—say, ten o’clock tomorrow then?
Elements of Crime Scene Preservation in the morning, and Principals of
Fiber
Processing in the afternoon?” Grissom offered
thoughtfully.
Daisy
nodded. “Copacetic! I can promise you a
good turnout for both of them—Harper here can run to
Kinko’s if you need any
more copies of things, and Joe—that is Chief Morgan, should
be back shortly.”
“A
good turnout would be—?” Sara ventured
softly.
Daisy
laughed. “Well, in terms of actual police,
about thirty, all told, but we’ve got a fair share of
interested citizens,
students, general busybodies and other parties who’ve
indicated they’d like to
attend. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
Grissom
frowned a little, cocking his head. “This
isn’t entertainment, Doc. What Ms. Sidle and I are presenting
is fairly serious
and at times very graphic. I don’t object to anyone showing a
genuine interest
in criminalistics, but this isn’t for the average person off
the street.”
Daisy
gave a nod, her grey eyes twinkling. “I
understand, Grissom, I surely do, but I’m hoping that by
having some of these
people see the science and reasoning that goes into an investigation,
we’ll
have more co-operation from them, and less interference. Our force is
fairly
small, and too many times we’ve gotten to a crime scene after
a bunch of Lookie
Lous have trampled through the area.”
Grissom
winced, as did Sara.
Daisy
nodded sadly. “Not the best of situations,
so the more public knowledge, the better as far as I can
see—still with me?”
Grissom
nodded just as a dark-haired man strode down
the hall and towards the office door. He was in a blue button-down
shirt with
the sleeves rolled up, gun, badge and radio hanging on his belt; as he
looked
up, his gaze sought out Daisy first, Grissom noticed, then scanned the
others.
“These
our guests, Dais?” his deep bass voice rolled
out.
“Yes.
Joe, I’d like you to meet Doctor Grissom, who
likes to be called just Grissom, and Ms. Sara Sidle, both from the Las
Vegas
Crime Lab.”
“Joe
Morgan, chief,” he rumbled politely as another
round of handshakes took place. He grinned at the coroner, shaking his
head.
“Wow,
***
*** ***
Catherine
sat back and rubbed her eyes, staring
blearily at the stack of files on the left side of the desk. She could
swear
that it should have been smaller, but it didn’t look that
way, even after three
hours of industrious signing off and transferring folders to the right
side of
the desk. Her coffee had gone cold, and at this point, she found
herself
wishing for a field case—anything to take her out of this
chair and away from
the numbing process of clearing out the month’s statistics.
Maybe
she needed to rethink this whole supervisor
business.
Stretching,
she rolled her head from ear to ear and
tried not to let the crackle of her neck bother her as Clem strode by,
laying a
stack of mail and a memo on the desk. Catherine muttered a quick thank
you and
picked up the envelopes, sorting through them with renewed briskness.
Some bug
society, an insurance claim form, a reminder about the LVPD Picnic day
. . .
and at the bottom, the memo:
To:
Gil Grissom, Sup/night shift
From: Robert
Carvello, Director
RE:
Sexual Harassment in the workplace
Grissom:
It’s
been brought to my attention that your
follow-through with the night shift staff regarding the federally
mandated
annual training on the LVPD sexual harassment policies is practically
nonexistent. HR tells me that none of your staff have gone through the
required
seminar with the exception of G. Sanders at your request back in April
of last
year. Please rectify this situation within the next ten days before
payroll is
notified and fines are levied against your staff.
R.
Carvello
NB:
I don’t need to remind you we’ve got a Federal
audit coming up, and I am NOT going to give them anything to nitpick
over,
Grissom. Get on the team.
Catherine
blinked, a chill shooting through her chest;
the thought of the audit didn’t frighten her half as much as
the threat of
fines. The government played rough on that department, and she knew any
cut in
pay would probably be more than any of them could afford to lose. She
set the
memo down and shook her head, wondering how Grissom had forgotten such
an issue
this year. The answer hit her a second later.
Sara,
of course.
Catherine
gave a twisted grin. Grissom hadn’t had had
any sort of problem scheduling other required seminars; in fact,
Catherine
remembered attending several and giggling with Nick over some of the
more
simplistic scenes in the Earthquake Safety video. But it was clear to
her that
by loving Sara, Grissom had internalized rather than resolved his
workplace
ethics conflict, and the end result has here under her hands:
unconscious
denial.
It
was like the deafness all over again.
“Damn
it, Gil—“ she growled softly, rubbing a hand
along her forehead. She thought for a long moment, then reached for the
phone
on the desk. A few quick number punches, and she reached her
connection.
“Teddi
Zathric, Human Resources, how can I help you?”
“Hi,
I’m Catherine Willows with the Crime lab, night
shift and I need to talk to someone about scheduling my crew to see the
Sexual
Harassment presentation?”
“Hold
on, let me transfer you—“
Catherine
did, grimly, tapping her pencil and doodling
on the phone pad in front of her—little images of Grissom
dying in several
unpleasant ways. She was still on hold, and had just drawn a fairly
realistic
garroting when Greg wandered in, a new file in his hands. He glanced
down at
the pad and grinned.
“Not
happy with your boss?”
“You
could say that—you’re the only one off the hook at
the moment, Greg.”
“Really?”
he perked up, handing the folder he carried
to her. Catherine sighed, shifting the phone to her other ear and
adding the
manila folder to the stack on the left of her.
“Yep.
You’ve been through the Sexual Harassment
seminar—how was it?”
Greg
gave a nonchalant shrug, but his look was wary.
“Informative, yet boring. Why?”
“Because
it looks like the rest of us are going to have
a burn a Saturday morning to take it,” Catherine growled.
Greg made the mistake
of smirking, and she swatted him with the nearest file, making him
dodge out
the doorway.
“Hey
hey, talk about a case in point, boss lady! Watch
where you swing that thing!”
“This
isn’t harassment, it’s disciplinary
action—“
Catherine corrected him, but she grinned and tossed the folder back on
the
pile. Greg hesitated a moment, shooting a look down the hall towards
the
morgue.
“So
when you say everyone . . .”
“I
mean EVERYONE. From me, all the way to Archie and
those part-time typists in the records room. Grissom didn’t
schedule anybody
this year but you, and so now we’re all going to have to
attend it this
Saturday. Thirty-three people are going to have to re-arrange their
weekends .
. .” she sighed. Greg tried to look sympathetic as he clung
to the doorway.
“So
that means Doc Robbins too, huh? And . . . David?”
Catherine
nodded absently, listening to the voice on
the receiver, but Greg had peeled himself away and was headed back down
the
hall, whistling happily. He threw himself into his rolling chair and
spun
around once, then got back to work.
***
*** ***
“This
is . . . interesting,” Grissom finally commented.
Sara blinked. She set the suitcase down and did a slow pan of the room,
trying
not to miss anything.
“Grissom,
it’s shaggy. Hideously shaggy. Wall-to-wall
and halfway to the ceiling shaggy! This entire room is like being in
the back
of some teenager’s Econo-van from nineteen
seventy-seven,” she muttered.
She
wasn’t far off. The room was done in a shade of
burgundy that looked as if it had come out of a wino’s lunch.
The thick shag
carpeting did indeed stretch throughout the room and three feet up the
walls,
leaving both Sara and Grissom with the impression of standing in a
giant furry
mouth. The sections of wall NOT covered were a faux rock design in dark
slate,
the spaces between the fake stones as white as bathroom grout. Above
them was a
faux Tudor ceiling with wood beams crossing the white plaster, complete
with
a huge wrought iron chandelier. Grissom walked over to the king-sized
bed, his
head cocked to one side as he studied it a moment.
The
thick velour bedspread matched that of the shag
carpeting.
Exactly.
On
the wall over the bed hung a stuffed ram’s head, the
tangerine glass eyes crossed, the curling horns looking menacingly
sharp.
“It
IS a little disconcerting,” he admitted in a low
voice.
Sara
sighed. She wandered over to the faux rock
fireplace and found the gas switch, flicking it on; instantly a blaze
flared
up, and the light of the fire gave the red of the room a lurid
brightness. The
ram’s head took on a slightly demonic appearance.
Sara
laughed weakly. “I feel like I’m staying
in
Liberace’s love shack. Satin throw pillows, the TV set into
the rock wall
here—Freak O’Rama, babe. If the sheriff calls and
tells us Laura Palmer is
dead and wrapped in plastic I wouldn’t be a damn bit
surprised.”
Grissom
chuckled, examining the bedside lamp with its
burgundy shade and long silk fringe around the bottom.
“Let
me remind you that YOU chose the Burgundy Room,
Sara, so I wash my hands of it.”
“Great,
so I get Frankenstein’s brothel while YOU get .
. . ” she motioned to the wood paneled connecting door.
Grissom opened it and
peered in.
“I
have the Bobby Vinton room, apparently. Blue velvet,
as far as the eye can see—“ he sighed. Sara moved
to peek through the door and
shook her head commiseratingly as she crossed her arms.
“Powder
blue is NOT a masculine color, Grissom. You’re
going to feel your testosterone evaporating every second
you’re in there.”
“Very
likely,” he winced, trying to stifle a yawn and
not succeeding. Sara took pity on him and slipped into his arms as they
stood
in the doorway, caught between two rooms.
“So—pick
a color, any color—“ Grissom murmured into her
hair as he stroked her spine. Sara experimentally licked the hollow of
his
throat above his open collar and he gave a little moan of pleasure.
“I
look good in burgundy, definitely,” she murmured,
her attention still on his throat. Grissom tugged her back into her
room and
closed the door on the Blue room. Sara pulled out of his embrace,
yawning.
“Bed
then?”
“Seems
wise. We’re still running on a diurnal sleep
cycle. Do you want the bathroom first?”
“Yeah.
Why don’t you go ahead and unpack,” Sara
suggested.
Grissom
nodded. He set the case on the dresser and was
just flipping the latches open when he heard her laughter echoing
beyond the
door.
“What?”
“More
velour décor, Gil. Geez! Even the toilet seat is
burgundy!”
He
gave a little shudder and finished hanging up
various items in the closet. Once done, Grissom looked up at the
ram’s head and
sighed. Very cautiously, he climbed on the bed and braced his hands
around the
neck of the taxidermied mountain goat, giving it a tug. It
didn’t budge. He
tried again, harder, but the head remained firmly in place, the
cross-eyed
glare of the beast chiding Grissom for even making the attempt to
dislodge him.
“Ah
. . . what are you doing?”
He
looked over his shoulder at Sara and whatever he was
going to say died on his lips as he took in the sight of her standing
there.
She wore a long sleeved black tee shirt and matching panties, tied up
low on
each hip with bows that Grissom instantly decided needed to be untied
with his
teeth.
“Rammed.
I wanted to make sure we didn’t get,” he
attempted to explain.
Sara
ambled over, looking up, her smile wide and close
to a laugh. “We didn’t get?”
“Sara—“
he waved at the stuffed head, “Think about the
logical chain of events. The bed is against the wall. The head is on
the wall.
The bed, ah, moves. The wall vibrates. The ram’s
head—“
“—Falls,
okay, yeah I get it. The last thing the two of
us need it is to end up in the Sheba Emergency room because we were
clocked by
a dropping mountain goat head while in the throes of hot monkey
love.”
Grissom
arched an eyebrow at her and wordlessly she
dared him to reassess her summation. He stepped off the bed.
“Stunning
summation,” he grudgingly
admitted.
Sara
laughed, and it died away as she reached up and
stretched, letting the long lean lines of her body straighten
out.
Grissom
felt his mouth go dry.
“Sara
. . .”
She
brought her arms down and looked through her lashes
at him, then advanced, pouncing in one quick, slightly wobbly leap.
They fell
back on the bed, which sank in a bit under their combined weight and
Grissom
glanced up.
Sara
looked up as well. “So?”
“So
it’s bolted on. Barring a major earthquake it’s
safe to assume Rocky isn’t going anywhere.”
“Can
we . . . cover him?” Sara asked softly. “I mean,
not that I’m a prude, but I don’t want to be uh,
watched . . .”
Grissom
laughed. He swiftly undid his shirt and tossed
it in a surprisingly accurate throw; it flared open and hooked right
over the
animal’s face, effectively blocking it with a drape of grey
cotton.
Sara
sighed in relief. “At least it’s not a
burgundy shirt—“
***
*** ***
The
last rays of the setting sun peeked through the
heavy drapes, and managed to catch Sara in the eyes; she rolled over,
draping
herself sleepily on Grissom’s chest, giving a contented
little sigh as she did
so.
He
stroked her back, feeling amused that both Figaro
and Sara seemed to love the same touch, both arching their spines into
his hand
when he did it.
The
cell phone rang; lazily Grissom reached for
it. “Grissom.”
An
indecipherable chatter blared out; Sara wished
Catherine didn’t sound so strident, and nuzzled into Grissom,
wrapping her leg
around his hip, pressing herself into the part of him happiest to
receive the
caress.
“Crap.
No I didn’t forget, I talked to Ann Che about
booking the conference room in September, but we got bumped when they
tore up
the carpeting for black mold, remember?”
More
chattering; Grissom slid his free hand down the
small of Sara’s back and across her bare bottom, caressing it
absently. She
smiled against his chest.
“Fine.
If you’ve got it scheduled for Saturday then
it’s covered. Anyone who doesn’t make the Saturday
seminar can catch the
make-up one the following weekend.” He patiently responded.
Sara slid over him,
pressing her hips harder, and Grissom shot her a warning look even as
he
smiled. She licked her lips and pressed her mouth to his chest,
eliciting a
gasp.
“Catherine,
do what you have to—I have to go,
something’s come up—“ he growled into the
phone, snapping it shut and tossing
it back on the nightstand. Sara laughed at his last remark, but Grissom
didn’t
give her time to laugh long; he cupped her bottom and gave a deep sigh.
“Sara—“
he bleakly gazed into her eyes.
“Yes?”
“I
hate to ask this but--where’s your patch?”
