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Chapter Two - The Evidence Never Lies?
The victim had been in perfect health,
with the exception of the large caliber bullet that had
pierced his back just bellow the 5th thoracic vertebrae, transecting
the spinal cord before exiting mid-chest, leaving a huge exit wound. Aside from
that, the victim bore no other injuries, apart from the devastating acid burns
that covered his entire face and hands, which Dr Robbins determined had
happened post-mortem. There were absolutely no defensive injuries, no sign of
struggle.
The time of death wasn't too hard to pin
down.
"Liver temp and the extent of rigor
are telling me that he'd been dead no more than 3 hours when those kids found
him, Gil," the Doc said. "Maybe even a little less. Lividity wasn't
even fixed when David examined him at the scene."
"He was found at around
"Yes," the Doc replied. "I
don't know who this guy thought he was fooling by throwing bugs into the
mix."
"Yeah, it was obvious they hadn't
appeared naturally," Gil replied. "But the question remains, how did
they get onto the body? Cross-contamination from another DB we haven't found
yet? Or deliberate planting?"
"Maybe our killer didn't think we'd
find the body this quickly. Was hoping his bugs would have more time to do
their thing," the Doc suggested.
"Maybe," replied Grissom. "Or
maybe he's trying to tell us something."
---
Grissom left the morgue and headed back to
the lab. Outside DNA he bumped headlong into Greg Sanders, who looked both
alarmed and very confused.
"Watch out, Greg," Grissom said,
exasperated. "No running in the lab."
"Grissom. I was just coming to find
you. Something's... come up."
Grissom followed him as he returned to the
lab. Greg had recently begun to work out in the field with the rest of the
CSIs, but a variety of difficulties regarding finding his replacement meant
that he still had to put in time in DNA.
"What's wrong?" Grissom asked.
"Has the DNA come back on that hair?"
"That's the problem. It has. But...
it has to be wrong. Unless..." he paused, looking hopeful. "Was Sara
working that case with you?"
"Sara?" repeated Grissom,
puzzled. "No, it's her night off. What's going on Greg?"
"It's her hair."
Before Grissom could begin to process
this, Catherine bustled into the lab looking worried.
"Grissom. We've got a problem."
"Not another one."
"The print on the beer bottle? It's
Sara's."
---
A far away pounding noise began to stir
her senses. Slowly, as she started to come to, certain sensations made their presence
known. First was the gnawing nausea in her stomach. Then came the pounding in
her head. Finally, as she opened her eyes slowly, she realised from the pain in
her neck that she had somehow slept on the bathroom floor all night.
Sara sat up slowly, fighting the urge to
vomit. Raising an unsteady hand to her face, she felt her clammy skin.
Something was definitely not right.
The pounding came again, and she finally
realised that it wasn't in her head, but on her front door.
Grissom pounded again. Brass stood
restlessly at his side.
"Take it easy, Gil, will you? I'm
surprised you haven't broken something yet," he said, eyeing his colleague
uneasily. He had never seen Grissom this upset in all his years of working with
him.
Finally the door creaked open. Sara looked
like death. Her normally shiny dark hair lay lank around her ghostly pale face.
Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked like she could barely stand.
"Grissom?" she asked, looking
confused. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Grissom said
incredulously. "Where the hell were you last night? What happened? Were
you drinking?" he quizzed her, his anger mounting with every word.
"Easy, Gil," Brass warned.
"What? Last night was my night off. I
met a friend. I came home. What the hell is going on?" Sara replied,
half-scared, half-furious at Grissom's attack. "And, no, I wasn't drinking."
"You look like hell," Grissom
answered back, walking past her into the apartment. It vaguely crossed his mind
that he'd never been here before.
"Gee, thanks," Sara said
ironically. "Please, come in."
Brass hesitated, and then followed Grissom
into the apartment, closing the door behind him. Sara moved to the couch and
sat down, looking as though she no longer had the strength to stand.
"Look, Sara," Brass started.
"Some evidence has turned up in a case we got last night. It's pointing at
you."
"What?" was all Sara could
manage. She looked from Brass to Grissom, who was staring at her intently, as though
trying to read her thoughts. "What evidence?"
"Finger prints. DNA from a
hair," Grissom told her. He sat down opposite her, placing his elbows on
his knees as he sat forward, never taking his eyes off her. "The hair was
on a male victim. The finger print was on a beer bottle beside him. How did
they get there, Sara?"
His voice was calm. Too calm, Brass thought.
"I don't know. I..." Sara
stammered, completely lost. "I don't understand."
"Can you tell us where you were last
night? Who you were with?" Brass wanted to know.
"I went to the bar at the Tangiers.
An old friend from college is staying there. She just flew in from LA
yesterday. We talked for a little while, then... then I came home. I don't
remember anything else after that. I must have fallen asleep."
"Sara," Grissom's voice pulled
her gaze back to him. "Were you drinking?"
"No. No, Grissom, I swear," Sara
looked scared, but more than that, she looked earnest. She had to make him
believe her. "I haven't had a drink since... well, since that night. I wasn't drinking. I had an
orange juice. I only stayed at the bar for 45 minutes. An hour at most."
"Then what happened?" Brass
pressed her gently.
"I went out to my car..." Sara
hesitated. "I came home..."
"You're leaving something out,
Sara." Grissom knew this woman. He knew that she was always forthright and
honest. But for some reason, this time she was holding something back.
"I don't remember," she finally
admitted in a small, scared voice. "I remember leaving the bar. I vaguely
remember getting to my car... but then, nothing. I don't remember driving
myself home..."
She looked into Grissom's steely blue
gaze, desperately trying to tell if she believed him. "But, I swear to
you, Grissom. I wasn't drinking."
Grissom looked at her. Her dark brown eyes
burned with an intensity he hadn't seen in a long time. She wanted him to
believe her. But more than that, he saw the fear in her eyes.
"I believe you."
Three words. Three small words, but they
meant so much to her. She let a small breath of relief escape her lungs. But
that tension was quickly replaced by an even bigger anxiety. What had happened
to her last night?
Grissom sat back, removing his glasses and
rubbing the bridge of his nose as he processed what Sara had just told them.
His ever analytical mind began to format an opinion.
"Sara, you might have been
drugged," he told her. "That would explain the disorientation, the
memory loss. We should get you to the lab. Run a blood test."
"Okay. Let me grab a shower
and..."
Grissom shook his head regretfully.
"You can't, Sara. You might have evidence on you."
Sara sighed resignedly. "Let's go
then."
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