Honey and Salt chapters 9 and 10
Two chapers for the price of one. Enjoy!
Chapter 9.
In my brief tenure as a CSI, I have seen many disturbing, heartbreaking, and just plain gross sights. Human beings and animals in various stages of decomp, maggots and blowflies feasting on the flesh of some poor child, and of course, I’ve seen more than my fair share of blood and brain matter. Yet, not even on my first case did I feel the need to excuse myself, so I could vomit in some dark corner. Not once did I hesitate in performing my duties; that is until today.
Whoever said ‘be careful of what you wish for, you may just get it,’ knew what they were saying. Because, while there may have been many times that I wished Claudette would die, I didn’t actually mean I wanted her dead. She is though, and I can’t help but stare at her body laying in a bloody pile in some godforsaken alley. The coppery smell of her blood is in a losing battle with the intense odor of urine and fecal matter.
The bum, who was most likely just looking for a place to take a whizz, is being detained by a detective. He’s trying to perform the near impossible task of both questioning the old man and holding his breathe at the same time. Even at 10 feet away, I can smell him quite clearly. A slight breeze caries his slurred voice as he asks about a reward forcing me to bite my tongue. I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation. Most people who came knew her, would not think she was worth the time used to call 9-1-1.
my attention returns to the crime scene, and a sudden numbness comes over my mind like a thick fog, obscuring my senses so that I can no longer see or hear anything aside from my ex’s body, and my own pounding heart. My hands start to shake slightly, causing my case to drop loudly to the ground as I stare intently at Claudette’s body. My subconscious mind is doing its damnest to memorize every drop of blood splatter, every bruise and every cut. She looks more like ten miles of bad road and less like an unfaithful whore. And yet, her face is unharmed, the killer wanted to make sure there were no problems in identifying her. Like the placement of the body, it’s another message.
“Sofia?” Sara calls out. It takes several moments for the fog to lift, and for me to focus on what’s going on around me. I blink dumbly for a few seconds and my cheeks heat up as I realize to my dismay, that I’m the center of attention. The detective, Sara, and even the bum are staring at me confused. “Are you okay?”
“I, um . . . ”
“Do you need to throw-up?” she asks in a low voice.
“No, I . . . just . . . I can’t be here. I know her.”
“We all do - sorta. She’s from swing shift. We’ll need to call Catherine at some point so she can inform her next of kin.”
“No. I mean, I know her in a way that could make me a suspect in her murder. I had a personal connection with her. I can’t be here.” I say in a low voice. I don’t like airing my dirty laundry to people I barely know, and what went down between Claudette and me was as dirty as you can get. I just hope that Sara doesn’t try to dig the whole story out of me right here and now, because the last thing I need is for some ‘lovely’ homophobic epithets to be spray painted across my locker door because this detective can’t keep his yap shut.
Sara looks at me oddly before my meaning sinks in. With a silent “oh” she pulls out her cell phone and calls Gil. I feel stupid, but this is proper protocol, not to mention I need to get the hell out of here.
A minute later, Sara returns her attention to me. “Grissom says there’s a B&E at 121 Beatrix Ave, Harold’s liquor. You can take that, and he’ll come help me.”
I nod my head in thanks, surprised at her generosity, but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. I grab my kit and beat a hasty retreat to my truck, where I turn on the loudest music I can find and blast it at full volume. I don’t want to think about what I saw, and I sure as hell don’t want to try to sift through the jumbled emotions scattered throughout my brain.
Thankfully the traffic is light and I get to the crime scene within ten minutes. After a quick summary from the presiding detective, I begin the tedious job of fingerprinting the cash register and counter top. As I suspected there are a multitude of fingerprints, both full and partial and for a while I’m able top lose myself in evidence gathering.
Back in the truck, I once again turn the radio’s volume up and allow the heavy metal playing to drown out any unwanted thoughts and emotions. I don’t want to feel anything, and I shouldn’t, Claudette hurt me like no other person, and I don’t want to feel sympathy or remorse for her. I definitely don’t want to remember, or even admit, that there was actually good times between us, that I actually loved her and thought I’d spend the rest of my life with her. No, I just want to finish this case and go home to Catherine. She’s the one who owns the key to my heart, and she’s the one I want walking by my side for as long as possible.
Two hours later finds me standing exhausted in front of Catherine’s door. I feel as if I ran the Boston Marathon with a baby elephant on my back. Every muscle is sore and I can feel the beginnings of a headache start to spread. Even my eyelids feel as if they are being weighed down, and the muscles in my jaw feel sore from being clenched for so long. I barely get my hand up to knock on the door when it flies open to reveal Catherine. She’s dressed for bed in white T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, but she’s awake and alert as she ushers me into her home and onto her couch.
“Sara called me,” she starts without a preamble. “How ya holding up baby?” Her voice is softly soothing, and I allow my head to find the crook of her neck, where I’m able to smell her sweet scent. No perfume, no soap, just pure unadulterated Catherine. All my exhaustion disappears and all thoughts of Claudette disappear as well, as I place gentle kisses up her neck, along her jaw-line and finally right on her mouth. Pulling away she looks me in the eyes for several moments as if she is trying to read me, trying to figure out what has gotten into me. Quite frankly, I’d like to know myself, because all I want to do is lose myself in Catherine’s touch, bury myself in her scent until I can no longer remember anything. Not even my own name. I want to forget this day ever happened, forget I ever knew a woman named Claudette King and just savor this moment.
“Catherine . . . I . . . ”
“I understand Sofia. You don’t need to explain a thing.” And I don’t, because even though I don’t understand my own head, she does, maybe she’ll explain it to me one day.
Getting off the couch she leads me to her bedroom, where she closes and locks the door. It isn’t long before we are both naked and I’m devouring her sweet pink nipples. Catherine moans softly but does little else, this is for me she’s saying. She is trusting me to set the pace and that almost does me in. I stop and try to pull away but she won’t have any of that.
“Catherine . . . ” I can’t seem to form a thought, never mind speak clearly.
“Shhh, this is for you Sofia, no need to say a word.”
And I don’t, I lead her to bed and for the next several hours the only sounds that can be heard are our low moanings and sighs.
Chapter 10.
Sara’s waiting for me in the locker room when I come in for shift. Catherine’s there too, she’s gathering her things so she can go home. I greet them quickly, and go to my own locker. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s an odd tension to the air, that’s making the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
“Sofia, I need to speak with you, privately,” Sara says as she eyes Catherine wearily.
“Is it about Claudette?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level. Inside though, I can feel a couple of baby butterflies making their presence known. I can also feel the weight of Catherine’s stare on my back.
“Yeah, that’s why I want to speak with you - alone. I don’t think you want your dirty laundry being aired in front of anyone.”
“Whatever you say to me, you can say in front of Catherine.”
Sara’s slightly shocked at my statement, but to her credit she recovers quickly. “Uh, okay. Well, we went through Claudette’s home and found a not so little black book with hundreds of names and what looks to be a rating system. Your name was in there.”
“Geez,” I mutter before sitting heavily on the bench behind.
“Yeah, there were a lot of people - men and women in there. So, lots of potential suspects, with possible motives. We’re also looking through her old case files, just in case revenge may be a factor.”
“I’d look for someone with someone with military connections,” I suggest, which earns me a questioning look from Sara; a wordless why? “The position of the body. My uncle was in the army, when his kids misbehaved he’d make them perform the dying cockroach. He said it was how they punished soldiers. Based on the position, I’ll bet good money that he or she was sending a message of what they think of her.”
“And the fact that she was placed in an alley frequented by the homeless as a latrine, adds to it.”
“Exactly . . . ”
“Wait a minute, back up,” Catherine interjects. “What exactly is the dying cockroach?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain. But basically, you lie on your back. Then, you raise your arms and legs so that the shins and forearms are perpendicular to your torso. Rifles are placed across them and your head is forced off the ground as well. My uncle used baseball bats which are infinitely more difficult. You would have to hold that position for at least an hour, if you dropped any of the bats; you had to start all over again. At least that’s what my uncle said. He may have exaggerated.”
“Wow,” Catherine whispers.
“Anyway,” Sara continues. “I didn’t think you’d want your name spread all over the lab, but I need to ask a few questions - off the record, of course.”
“Of course,” I reply. “Ask away. I have nothing to hide.”
“We established TOD as Thursday between nine and 11 p.m. You were off, right?”
“I was on a date. We left at eight-ish and ate at Mario’s on Trenton Street. Then we went to a club on Fremont, the Oasis. We didn’t get home until after 3:00 a.m. and we went almost directly to bed. I didn’t leave until almost one p.m. the next day.”
“And did you leave your date’s side at any time of the night for more than a few minutes?” I can practically see the wheels turning in Sara’s head, as she mentally estimates how long it would take, to murder her, pose her, and make it back to the club.
“I wouldn’t be much of a date if I wandered off for an hour or two,” I reply cheekily.
“Right. And your date? Do they have a name?” she asks with a slightly defensive tone. “Just in case we need to contact them for verification,” she adds on quickly, a little too quickly.
“No, unless this turns into a formal questioning, I can’t name names. Reputations are at stake.”
Not to mention law enforcement isn’t exactly known for its open mindedness.
A chilly look passes over her face, but she nods her head, indicating acceptance. But I can tell her curiosity is killing her. She’d give her left hand to know who my date was. Does she think I have some design on winning Gil? Can she be that naive?
Catherine sighs behind me in exasperation. She saw the look in her eyes as well, or maybe she just knows Sara better, knows that she is not going to stop questioning until she finds the answer, one way or the other.
“Sara,” Catherine whispers roughly. “She was with me! Now do you see why we don’t want it announced over the intercom system?”
I have to stifle a laugh. Sara resembles a trout that’s on dry land. Her mouth opens and closes several times as she tries to digest what she’s just heard. She wasn’t expecting this, probably never suspected either of us had a gay bone in our entire bodies. Even now she’s reassessing us, hopefully coming to the conclusion that neither of us are a threat to her, or her crush on Gil.
“I, um, won’t say anything . . . about you two. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Sara,” I reply, though I don’t think she heard me. She’s staring at Catherine, and for, once I can’t read her expression at all. A minute passes in awkward silence before Sara takes her leave, throwing over her shoulder that Greg is waiting for me in the break room.
“What was that about?” Catherine asks, not bothering to hide her confusion. Turning to face her I shrug my shoulders. I’m as clueless as she is.
“Are you sure that was a wise move Catherine? Outing us to her?”
“I don’t know. It’s too late either way.” She draws in a deep breath and releases it. “I’m sorry. I just got tired of her staring bullets at us because of some fictitious love triangle, or square, or whatever.”
“She won’t say anything?”
“No. She may be a lot of things but a squeal or a gossip? No way.” Gathering her bags, she comes to where I sit and places a slender hand on my cheek. With the other she presses a key into the palm of my hand. “This is to the front door; you already know how to disarm the alarm system. I’ll see you at home, right?”
I nod my head. “I’ll see you at home,” I repeat.
It wasn’t until almost ten minutes into shift that it dawned on me; when did I start thinking of Catherine’s house as my home?
Chapter 9.
In my brief tenure as a CSI, I have seen many disturbing, heartbreaking, and just plain gross sights. Human beings and animals in various stages of decomp, maggots and blowflies feasting on the flesh of some poor child, and of course, I’ve seen more than my fair share of blood and brain matter. Yet, not even on my first case did I feel the need to excuse myself, so I could vomit in some dark corner. Not once did I hesitate in performing my duties; that is until today.
Whoever said ‘be careful of what you wish for, you may just get it,’ knew what they were saying. Because, while there may have been many times that I wished Claudette would die, I didn’t actually mean I wanted her dead. She is though, and I can’t help but stare at her body laying in a bloody pile in some godforsaken alley. The coppery smell of her blood is in a losing battle with the intense odor of urine and fecal matter.
The bum, who was most likely just looking for a place to take a whizz, is being detained by a detective. He’s trying to perform the near impossible task of both questioning the old man and holding his breathe at the same time. Even at 10 feet away, I can smell him quite clearly. A slight breeze caries his slurred voice as he asks about a reward forcing me to bite my tongue. I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation. Most people who came knew her, would not think she was worth the time used to call 9-1-1.
my attention returns to the crime scene, and a sudden numbness comes over my mind like a thick fog, obscuring my senses so that I can no longer see or hear anything aside from my ex’s body, and my own pounding heart. My hands start to shake slightly, causing my case to drop loudly to the ground as I stare intently at Claudette’s body. My subconscious mind is doing its damnest to memorize every drop of blood splatter, every bruise and every cut. She looks more like ten miles of bad road and less like an unfaithful whore. And yet, her face is unharmed, the killer wanted to make sure there were no problems in identifying her. Like the placement of the body, it’s another message.
“Sofia?” Sara calls out. It takes several moments for the fog to lift, and for me to focus on what’s going on around me. I blink dumbly for a few seconds and my cheeks heat up as I realize to my dismay, that I’m the center of attention. The detective, Sara, and even the bum are staring at me confused. “Are you okay?”
“I, um . . . ”
“Do you need to throw-up?” she asks in a low voice.
“No, I . . . just . . . I can’t be here. I know her.”
“We all do - sorta. She’s from swing shift. We’ll need to call Catherine at some point so she can inform her next of kin.”
“No. I mean, I know her in a way that could make me a suspect in her murder. I had a personal connection with her. I can’t be here.” I say in a low voice. I don’t like airing my dirty laundry to people I barely know, and what went down between Claudette and me was as dirty as you can get. I just hope that Sara doesn’t try to dig the whole story out of me right here and now, because the last thing I need is for some ‘lovely’ homophobic epithets to be spray painted across my locker door because this detective can’t keep his yap shut.
Sara looks at me oddly before my meaning sinks in. With a silent “oh” she pulls out her cell phone and calls Gil. I feel stupid, but this is proper protocol, not to mention I need to get the hell out of here.
A minute later, Sara returns her attention to me. “Grissom says there’s a B&E at 121 Beatrix Ave, Harold’s liquor. You can take that, and he’ll come help me.”
I nod my head in thanks, surprised at her generosity, but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. I grab my kit and beat a hasty retreat to my truck, where I turn on the loudest music I can find and blast it at full volume. I don’t want to think about what I saw, and I sure as hell don’t want to try to sift through the jumbled emotions scattered throughout my brain.
Thankfully the traffic is light and I get to the crime scene within ten minutes. After a quick summary from the presiding detective, I begin the tedious job of fingerprinting the cash register and counter top. As I suspected there are a multitude of fingerprints, both full and partial and for a while I’m able top lose myself in evidence gathering.
Back in the truck, I once again turn the radio’s volume up and allow the heavy metal playing to drown out any unwanted thoughts and emotions. I don’t want to feel anything, and I shouldn’t, Claudette hurt me like no other person, and I don’t want to feel sympathy or remorse for her. I definitely don’t want to remember, or even admit, that there was actually good times between us, that I actually loved her and thought I’d spend the rest of my life with her. No, I just want to finish this case and go home to Catherine. She’s the one who owns the key to my heart, and she’s the one I want walking by my side for as long as possible.
Two hours later finds me standing exhausted in front of Catherine’s door. I feel as if I ran the Boston Marathon with a baby elephant on my back. Every muscle is sore and I can feel the beginnings of a headache start to spread. Even my eyelids feel as if they are being weighed down, and the muscles in my jaw feel sore from being clenched for so long. I barely get my hand up to knock on the door when it flies open to reveal Catherine. She’s dressed for bed in white T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, but she’s awake and alert as she ushers me into her home and onto her couch.
“Sara called me,” she starts without a preamble. “How ya holding up baby?” Her voice is softly soothing, and I allow my head to find the crook of her neck, where I’m able to smell her sweet scent. No perfume, no soap, just pure unadulterated Catherine. All my exhaustion disappears and all thoughts of Claudette disappear as well, as I place gentle kisses up her neck, along her jaw-line and finally right on her mouth. Pulling away she looks me in the eyes for several moments as if she is trying to read me, trying to figure out what has gotten into me. Quite frankly, I’d like to know myself, because all I want to do is lose myself in Catherine’s touch, bury myself in her scent until I can no longer remember anything. Not even my own name. I want to forget this day ever happened, forget I ever knew a woman named Claudette King and just savor this moment.
“Catherine . . . I . . . ”
“I understand Sofia. You don’t need to explain a thing.” And I don’t, because even though I don’t understand my own head, she does, maybe she’ll explain it to me one day.
Getting off the couch she leads me to her bedroom, where she closes and locks the door. It isn’t long before we are both naked and I’m devouring her sweet pink nipples. Catherine moans softly but does little else, this is for me she’s saying. She is trusting me to set the pace and that almost does me in. I stop and try to pull away but she won’t have any of that.
“Catherine . . . ” I can’t seem to form a thought, never mind speak clearly.
“Shhh, this is for you Sofia, no need to say a word.”
And I don’t, I lead her to bed and for the next several hours the only sounds that can be heard are our low moanings and sighs.
Chapter 10.
Sara’s waiting for me in the locker room when I come in for shift. Catherine’s there too, she’s gathering her things so she can go home. I greet them quickly, and go to my own locker. I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s an odd tension to the air, that’s making the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
“Sofia, I need to speak with you, privately,” Sara says as she eyes Catherine wearily.
“Is it about Claudette?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level. Inside though, I can feel a couple of baby butterflies making their presence known. I can also feel the weight of Catherine’s stare on my back.
“Yeah, that’s why I want to speak with you - alone. I don’t think you want your dirty laundry being aired in front of anyone.”
“Whatever you say to me, you can say in front of Catherine.”
Sara’s slightly shocked at my statement, but to her credit she recovers quickly. “Uh, okay. Well, we went through Claudette’s home and found a not so little black book with hundreds of names and what looks to be a rating system. Your name was in there.”
“Geez,” I mutter before sitting heavily on the bench behind.
“Yeah, there were a lot of people - men and women in there. So, lots of potential suspects, with possible motives. We’re also looking through her old case files, just in case revenge may be a factor.”
“I’d look for someone with someone with military connections,” I suggest, which earns me a questioning look from Sara; a wordless why? “The position of the body. My uncle was in the army, when his kids misbehaved he’d make them perform the dying cockroach. He said it was how they punished soldiers. Based on the position, I’ll bet good money that he or she was sending a message of what they think of her.”
“And the fact that she was placed in an alley frequented by the homeless as a latrine, adds to it.”
“Exactly . . . ”
“Wait a minute, back up,” Catherine interjects. “What exactly is the dying cockroach?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain. But basically, you lie on your back. Then, you raise your arms and legs so that the shins and forearms are perpendicular to your torso. Rifles are placed across them and your head is forced off the ground as well. My uncle used baseball bats which are infinitely more difficult. You would have to hold that position for at least an hour, if you dropped any of the bats; you had to start all over again. At least that’s what my uncle said. He may have exaggerated.”
“Wow,” Catherine whispers.
“Anyway,” Sara continues. “I didn’t think you’d want your name spread all over the lab, but I need to ask a few questions - off the record, of course.”
“Of course,” I reply. “Ask away. I have nothing to hide.”
“We established TOD as Thursday between nine and 11 p.m. You were off, right?”
“I was on a date. We left at eight-ish and ate at Mario’s on Trenton Street. Then we went to a club on Fremont, the Oasis. We didn’t get home until after 3:00 a.m. and we went almost directly to bed. I didn’t leave until almost one p.m. the next day.”
“And did you leave your date’s side at any time of the night for more than a few minutes?” I can practically see the wheels turning in Sara’s head, as she mentally estimates how long it would take, to murder her, pose her, and make it back to the club.
“I wouldn’t be much of a date if I wandered off for an hour or two,” I reply cheekily.
“Right. And your date? Do they have a name?” she asks with a slightly defensive tone. “Just in case we need to contact them for verification,” she adds on quickly, a little too quickly.
“No, unless this turns into a formal questioning, I can’t name names. Reputations are at stake.”
Not to mention law enforcement isn’t exactly known for its open mindedness.
A chilly look passes over her face, but she nods her head, indicating acceptance. But I can tell her curiosity is killing her. She’d give her left hand to know who my date was. Does she think I have some design on winning Gil? Can she be that naive?
Catherine sighs behind me in exasperation. She saw the look in her eyes as well, or maybe she just knows Sara better, knows that she is not going to stop questioning until she finds the answer, one way or the other.
“Sara,” Catherine whispers roughly. “She was with me! Now do you see why we don’t want it announced over the intercom system?”
I have to stifle a laugh. Sara resembles a trout that’s on dry land. Her mouth opens and closes several times as she tries to digest what she’s just heard. She wasn’t expecting this, probably never suspected either of us had a gay bone in our entire bodies. Even now she’s reassessing us, hopefully coming to the conclusion that neither of us are a threat to her, or her crush on Gil.
“I, um, won’t say anything . . . about you two. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Sara,” I reply, though I don’t think she heard me. She’s staring at Catherine, and for, once I can’t read her expression at all. A minute passes in awkward silence before Sara takes her leave, throwing over her shoulder that Greg is waiting for me in the break room.
“What was that about?” Catherine asks, not bothering to hide her confusion. Turning to face her I shrug my shoulders. I’m as clueless as she is.
“Are you sure that was a wise move Catherine? Outing us to her?”
“I don’t know. It’s too late either way.” She draws in a deep breath and releases it. “I’m sorry. I just got tired of her staring bullets at us because of some fictitious love triangle, or square, or whatever.”
“She won’t say anything?”
“No. She may be a lot of things but a squeal or a gossip? No way.” Gathering her bags, she comes to where I sit and places a slender hand on my cheek. With the other she presses a key into the palm of my hand. “This is to the front door; you already know how to disarm the alarm system. I’ll see you at home, right?”
I nod my head. “I’ll see you at home,” I repeat.
It wasn’t until almost ten minutes into shift that it dawned on me; when did I start thinking of Catherine’s house as my home?