Jem's Christmas Present Part 2
An Un-Bearable Christmas
Part 2
This is the conclusion of Jem's Christmas present, a special thank you for her story "Prisoner 4929," which continues to entertain us.
Merry Christmas Moonstarer! And thanks to everyone who has come to read.
Now let's get to business. If I recall Greg had evidence and theories to share...
Grissom found Greg deep in thought in the layout room. Photos of the crime scene were on display on the wall, pieces of evidence laid out neatly and arranged in a meticulous order on the table. Grissom had to admit; the young man did a wonderful job.
“This is nice work, Greg. What do you have to share?”
“Let’s start with the primary scene - Hampton’s residence. The hands match DNA for Melissa Sinclair and the head and feet belong to Hampton.”
“OK, that was something already established,” Grissom added.
“Well, those hands seemed to have done some handiwork. You remember that knife you found at the house with polyester strands?” Greg saw his boss nod in the affirmative. “Well, it looks like Melissa Sinclair left a healthy set of prints on that knife.”
Grissom seemed intrigued. “So one of our victims perpetrated the Teddy Bear Massacre?”
“Looks like it,” Greg said.
“Valerie Martin made about 20 bears at that Build-a-Buddy workshop,” Grissom said. “And by the way, remind me to tell you what I learned about making teddy bear condoms. What are the chances the bears came from Valerie’s collection?”
“Better than you might think. We found cat hairs on the bears that matched those from your pants,” Greg said. “AND… there was urine present on the inside of the bears. Thanks to that war wound of yours, we were able to match the cat’s DNA in the urine on the bears. Which means after they were sliced up, possibly at the Hampton residence, they must have ended up back at Valerie Martin’s house.”
Greg seemed pleased with himself, but then his mind refocused. “Teddy bear condoms?”
“Yes. Teddy bear condoms. Red ones,” Grissom said, not taking his eyes off the evidence. “I thought of you when I heard about them.”
“That is the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said to me, Grissom.”
“Really? I thought you would appreciate it.”
“Anyway,” Greg said shaking his head, “we found several of the victims’ prints all over the car - windows, doors - along with semen and vaginal contributions in various locations of the car. We were able to get a partial off the hunting knife, but not enough for a viable search. But we did match the prints we extracted from inside the rubber gloves you found in Hampton’s garage. And that was a match to Valerie Martin.”
“She was in the system?” Grissom asked.
“Apparently she volunteers with the American Girls Club, and since she volunteers with youths, she had to be printed.”
“Does the partial have commonalities to the full print off the knife?” Grissom asked.
“Yes,” Greg said. “I think Valerie followed Hampton and Sinclair out to Sloan Canyon. I assume it was no secret in the neighborhood that they frequented there, since the old neighbor knew about their love spot. At the location, we found tire treads behind Hampton’s car that are consistent with the make of the tires on a Ford Escort. According to the DMV, Valerie Martin has a blue 2004 blue Ford Escort registered in her name. And there was a blood trail from a passenger door of Hampton’s car to an area at the base of the mysterious tire treads.”
“So, if we follow the evidence,” Grissom said, beginning the reconstruction, “Valerie Martin followed Joshua Hampton and Melissa Sinclair to Sloan Canyon...”
“Where they would have a romantic rendezvous...” Greg added.
--- FLASHBACK ---
Joshua and Melissa were engaged in a romantic tryst in the back seat of the Mustang. Both were naked, or nearly naked as their passions neared completion. Little did the couple know that Joshua’s spurned lover and neighbor was watching and waiting for her chance.
She seized the moment and surprised the couple.
At first Valerie’s mind and body raced with uncontrollable adrenaline, making her jumpy. But her body movements became fluid as she sliced the two people over and over. With each cut, each tear, each slice, she felt renewed and powerful. It was a feeling she never experienced before.
She continued to slice and rip through their flesh, even though she was well aware their lives had slipped away long ago. She should have been repulsed by the carnage of their guts splashed and exposed. But she reveled in it. She painfully shredded them, just as Josh had painfully shredded her heart and Melissa had painfully shredded her soul.
And then she stopped. The word “enough” floated in her head.
At that moment she went to her car, started it and backed it up to Josh’s bumper. She popped her truck and found she still had household supplies that she purchased at Wal-Mart earlier. She took the items out of the trunk - her Windex, Barkeepers Friend, vacuum bags, even the kitchen gloves she opened and put on before she picked up the hunting knife she bought at the flea market.
But her focus quickly returned to the task at hand. She wanted to make room in the trunk, so she put the items in her back seat, except the black, trash bags and some of her gardening tools.
She needed those shears. Something told her using them would feel right.
And the black bags? Well, she needed those too. She didn’t want the trunk to get too dirty.
--- END FLASHBACK ---
“So after she kills the couple, Valerie, either at the scene or at another location, severed Hampton’s head and feet and Sinclair’s hands and then transported them to Hampton’s house,” Grissom said, processing a theory.
Greg looked through the photographs, until he found a photo of the interior of the car - a close up of one of the head visors. “Take a look at this. When Riley and I searched the car, we never found a garage door opener, but the visor had an indention like a remote was there.”
“Hampton did have an automatic garage door opener,” Grissom confirmed.
“So, if Valerie took the remote, she could just park her own car with the bodies and remains in Hampton’s garage,” Greg said.
“But she didn’t have a key to the house,” Grissom continued, “so she probably had to climb the fence and then break open the lock on the back door. Then she could go to the garage, remove what she wanted, clean up and go.”
“It’s a valid theory,” Greg said.
“We need to get into her house and search for evidence and get a look at her car,” Grissom said.
“I still don’t understand why she would do this. I mean these were some brutal killings,” Greg said. “And what about the OJ?”
“Well, whatever her reason, it must have taken everything she had to be around the orange juice,” Grissom reasoned. “I suspect that is why she was so haphazard about the gloves she used when she dumped the orange juice. We never found any bloody gloves or bloody clothes or excess body parts, probably because she had no problem taking them with her. But she probably couldn’t stand the gloves with the orange juice residue or the empty juice containers. That’s why she hid the containers and immediately just dumped the gloves almost right beside them.”
“But why did she do it in the first place? Revenge for bears? Unrequited love,” Greg said.
“At this point, what’s important is that with the fingerprint evidence and tire treads, we have enough to get a warrant and search her premises,” Grissom said. “But, I don’t think you have to worry about that, Greg. Your shift was over several hours ago, and I believe you’re off for Christmas.”
“But what about the warrant?”
“Brass and I will handle it,” Grissom said. “Go on. Merry Christmas.”
Greg’s fact lit up. “If you insist, boss. I hope she won’t ruin your Christmas.”
No worse than I might already have, Grissom thought. “Bye, Greg.”
“See ya,” Greg said as he went out the door.
Grissom kept his eye on the evidence and was about to make another phone call when Greg bounded in again. “Yes, Greg?”
“Umm... maybe after the holidays, I’ll ask you about that bear condom thing...” And before Grissom could respond, Greg was out the door again.
----------------------
Brass knocked lightly on Grissom’s doorframe before entering without a word. He stood in front of Grissom’s desk and placed a photo in front of him.
Grissom looked at Brass as he picked up the photo. “What’s this?... Is this you?”
Brass sighed. “It does look like me, doesn’t it?”
“Who’s the little girl?”
Brass sat down. “That is five-year-old Valerie Martin after her parents were arrested.”
“You were at the scene?”
“No. That is Detective John Fletcher, formerly of Las Vegas, now retired in New Orleans.”
“Amazing resemblance, Jim.”
“So, my curiosity got the best of me, and I found information about what happened to put Valerie into foster care,” Brass said. “Her parents were drug dealers, and one particular deal went very, very wrong. I found this old file, and I called the retired detective. He remembered the night. Apparently Valerie wouldn’t come out of hall closet. Guess what the detective used to lure her out?”
“A teddy bear,” Grissom said. “You must remind Valerie of Detective Fletcher.”
“I guess so.”
Grissom looked at the photo again. The little girl’s face was filled with fear and horror. Five years old. She was only five years old. And she clung to both the detective and the bear with all her might. Grissom sighed. She wasn’t five years old anymore. “I think we have enough for a warrant.”
He described the evidence and theory to Brass, who simply nodded and listened. “I’ll get on it now, before everyone leaves for the holiday.”
--------------------------
As dusk was quickly turning into night, Valerie stooped down to pick up her gardening tools she just used to trim and cut branches from her gardenia plant. While the Hampton residence had a privacy fence that bordered one side of Martin’s property, the other side where she was working had no fencing.
She barely lifted the bottom of her weathered sweatshirt to expose her gardening belt. With care, she fastened her hand tools to the belt. The sounds of revved engines and sirens startled her. Then she heard several cars pull up at her house. As she stood in the patch of grass between her house and her neighbor’s, she saw two familiar faces. One welcome. One not.
“Valerie Martin, we have a warrant to search your premises,” said the man she regarded as the “nice one.”
“A warrant? But why? Where are those people going?” Martin’s expression was one of fear and concern. While her dark black cat purred at her feet, she reached down to hold her gray, tabby. “Please, don’t scare the other cats! Could I please go in there?”
Brass approached Valerie. “Is there anyone in the house, Ms. Martin?”
“No.”
“Where is your car?”
“I don’t... it’s in the shop.”
Brass looked at Grissom. “You need to stay outside, Ms. Martin. An officer will be at your door. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Valerie said, as she held Jorge tighter, and kept checking the side of her house. “Fine.”
Brass watched as Valerie paced in the side yard. Officers gave the all clear, so Grissom followed Brass inside the residence. “If we can’t inspect a car right away, I think some officers should go in the backyard to see if there is any recent soil disturbances,” Grissom suggested.
The house was quiet, minus a few soft meows from cats retreating to familiar hiding spots. It was also chilly, since many of the windows were open. An eerie aura encapsulated the interior of Valerie’s home.
“I’ll check out the kitchen,” Brass said.
“I think I’ll check the bedroom,” Grissom said, as he retreated to the right hand side of the house, with his Surefire M4 flashlight in hand.
Inside a wooden box on the bedside table, Grissom discovered a note apparently written by Melissa Sinclair to Valerie. He read it by the light of his flashlight:
Josh doesn’t like you anymore. He is with me and me only. The bears are only a warning; because if you continue with your harassment of the two of us, let’s just say, your precious cats could end up looking like your little bears. Stay away from us.
The drapes of the window moved slightly as a soft breeze gently swept inside, but there was nothing of interest along the walls of either side of the 3-foot by 3-foot window. Instead, Grissom’s attention focused along the opposite wall where a long dresser stood. Upon it were a dozen bears, including two or three that looked stitched up.
As he inspected a bear, Grissom heard a noise behind him. He flashed his light around the room, and the familiar gray, tabby cat, Jorge, jumped on the dresser in front of Grissom. The cat startled him for a second causing Grissom to drop his flashlight. As he bent over to pick it up, Jorge took the opportunity to take a healthy scratch along Grissom’s face close to his eye. He swiped at the cat with the back of his hand.
Valerie came through the window almost without a sound. Running toward him at full speed, she wielded a tool from her gardening belt - a hand-held cultivator with three prongs sharpened to points. The attack caught Grissom by surprise. He had no time to react as she plunged the implement into his left shoulder. He felt time slow down as the cultivator ripped his flesh. The pain stole his breath, and he fell back, landing hard on the floor with Valerie standing over him, ready to attack again. Her eyes burned with intense anger borne of pure insanity.
Valerie fell to her knees on Grissom’s chest, driving the air from his lungs. He managed to connect a fist with her face, but it didn’t stop her. She began the attack again. Grissom raised his hands and arms in defense, so his arms took the brunt of the assault but not all of it. He felt a searing pain along his left cheek where a prong sliced through his skin repeatedly.
Unlike her attack on Josh and Melissa, Valerie didn’t utter a word. The fact that Grissom’s punch didn’t faze her proved she could take a beating. And after killing Josh and Melissa, she knew she could deliver a brutal beating, too.
She continued to stab Grissom, totally focused on raining blows on him and where she drew blood: his shoulder, arms, hands, chest, not even aware who the man was bleeding by her hand. She saw him begin to weaken, his arms falling away. She raised the pronged cultivator high in the air. Its target was his neck. She brought it home and raised it to strike again.
Until her concentration was broken.
“Valerie, freeze!” Brass commanded as he held a gun on her.
Valerie stopped but still brandished the gardening tool in front of Grissom, who was losing a great deal of blood and in obvious, serious pain. His arms, which were barely raised above his body, shook with spasms, and he appeared to be losing consciousness.
“He was touching my bears.” Valerie screamed at Brass.
Brass swallowed and steadied himself, hoping to calm the tone of his voice. “Valerie, that’s his job.”
Valerie turned to Brass, her expression softened and marred with some confusion. She took a step away from Grissom but still held the fork in a threatening manner. “You... you look... familiar. I think... you... look so... familiar.” She was looking at Grissom but speaking to Brass.
“Valerie, do you remember the night you were taken away from your house on Marquette Drive? Do you remember that night?”
Valerie looked down, but then caught Brass’s eyes again as she nodded in the affirmative.
“Do you remember the officer who talked to you while you were in the closet?”
“You gave me the bear,” Valerie said, her eyes misted. “You gave me my bear.”
It was Brass’ turn to nod in the affirmative. It was a lie. But it was a lie to save a friend.
“I loved that bear. His name was Gary.”
“That’s a nice name, Valerie. I’m sorry someone hurt your bear.”
“She killed Gary. She killed my bear.” Anger and rage laced Valerie’s voice, and she gripped the tool furiously and turned back toward Grissom.
“VALERIE! I’m sorry Natalie did that to you!”
Hearing that name stopped Valerie in her place. “How did you know?”
“Jack told us,” Brass continued. “Natalie had no right to do that to you. She should never have hurt you; she shouldn’t have ever hurt anyone.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, Valerie, I do. She hurt a friend of mine. And she hurt him,” Brass said, pointing his gun toward Grissom. “Natalie hurt him. She took away someone he loved.”
For the first time, Valerie loosened her grip on the tool and dangled it to her side. But she still took a step toward Grissom.
“She hurt you?”
Grissom had tried to focus as best he could, barely registering the conversation while his face contorted with pain. He was able to meet Valerie’s eyes and heard her repeat her question.
“Natalie hurt you?”
He could have said many different things about Natalie, about Sara, about his faults, his failures, but the question was simple and so was Grissom’s response. A simple response was all he was physically and emotionally capable of offering.
“Yes.”
Valerie stared at him and fiddled with the implement in her hand. Brass watched intently and took two tentative steps toward her. “Give me the weapon, Valerie.”
He stared at her wondering if she was going to stab Grissom again. His bleeding didn’t look like it was letting up at all. Brass had his Glock in his hand and hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot the woman. Officers behind Brass awaited a decision, and Brass held the officer standing outside the bedroom window at bay. If they were to storm the room, Valerie could slam the weapon into Grissom and kill him.
“Call the paramedics,” he said in a low voice to the closest officer, never taking his eyes away from Valerie.
“Already did,” the officer replied. “They’re on the way.”
For another minute, Brass felt like he was in a stereotypical Mexican stand-off with Valerie poised over Grissom’s body like a mad woman. Then, Jorge meowed and entered the room. The animal started to walk toward Grissom, where a pool of his blood expanded across the floor.
“Jorge,” Valerie said timidly. “Don’t walk around there. You’ll make a mess.”
Jorge looked up at his master and gave another meow. “Go on,” Valerie said softly, with a hint of a sad smile. “Shoo.”
Once the cat was outside the bedroom, Valerie took a deep breath and turned the handle of the tool toward Brass’s waiting hand.
Uniformed officers came into the room to cuff Valerie and arrest her. Brass knelt down next to Grissom, who looked like he was going into shock. The blood loss was a serious concern; he’d lost too much in a short period of time. All Brass could do was tell his friend to hang on and assure him help was on the way. As if to emphasize the point, they heard the wailing sound of sirens.
It was not long before paramedics loaded Grissom onto a gurney and transported him to Desert Palm Hospital.
Grissom’s ears filled with the jumbled sounds of the ambulance siren and the paramedics barking information to the hospital. But soon everything turned into a buzz. I’m bleeding... a lot, Grissom thought. I should have made plans for Christmas. Why the hell didn’t I try with Sara? He could feel the pain from his wounds clouding his brain, until his eyes rolled back, and he felt nothing.
---------------------------
As Brass made his way through the halls of the hospital, he passed by a few dry erase boards decorated for the season. Some had tinsel along its frames, others just had giant, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” messages. But one in particular reminded him of the person he was visiting. On it someone wrote Christmas trivia questions, including “In what country and what century did the mistletoe tradition originate?” He shook his head and smiled, as an intern and two nurses passed by him. There were still five hours of Christmas left; maybe he should have worn a Santa hat, too.
He only slowed his gait when he approached room 508. He didn’t bother knocking since the door was open. Inside he saw Grissom awake. His forearms and palms were heavily bandaged. Brass could just make out the bandage covering the wounds on Grissom’s left shoulder and neck, where he suffered deep stab wounds that required 56 stitches. The large slash wound on the left side of Grissom’s face had required 20 stitches. The wounds to his chest another 41.
The detective was not one to be a loss for words, but it’s never easy to see a friend hurting. So, he relied on what always worked for him: humor. “So, you going to live?”
“Yes, I think so. I feel woozy.”
“I bet,” Brass said. He found his hand was shaking as he went to gently grab his friend’s bandaged forearm. In a flash, Brass recalled seeing Grissom fighting to stay conscious as he lay in a pool of his own blood. Brass took a quick breath before speaking again. “So it that your new friend?” Brass motioned toward Grissom’s morphine pump.
“I think I’ll call it Trixie,” Grissom said, with a slurred voice and a ghost of a smile.
Brass laughed. “Good for you.”
“Because it really does the trick... get it?” Grissom chuckled.
“That’s good, Gil,” Brass said. “But be careful you don’t offend Trixie or any of the nurses. Today you showed your knack for really pissing off a woman.”
“Just today’s experience?” Grissom said as his smile dissipated into a wince. Brass could tell his buddy was in more than physical pain, and he almost moved to leave, until Grissom spoke up again. “But that’s going to change. And soon.”
Both men stayed silent, with Brass expecting Grissom to fall asleep. But instead the man in the hospital bed piped up again. “At least I’ve given you something you wanted for Christmas.”
“What are you talking about?” Brass said, taking his hand away.
“You wanted to come and visit me someplace on Christmas,” Grissom said, as he pushed the his pain pump. “And here you are.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the hospital, asshole.”
“Be more specific next year,” Grissom chuckled lightly at his joke. But his eyes grew heavy. With his eyes closed he said, “Merry Christmas, Jim.”
Brass took a deep breath as he watched his friend drift to sleep. He brought a chair close to the bed, sat down and placed his hand back on Grissom’s forearm.
“Merry Christmas, Gil. I hope you get the happiness you deserve.”
THE END
-----------------------
Thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated...:)
'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas' written by Meredith Wilson, 1951.
'Ugly Bug Ball' written by Robert and Richard Sherman, 1963.
Part 2
This is the conclusion of Jem's Christmas present, a special thank you for her story "Prisoner 4929," which continues to entertain us.
Merry Christmas Moonstarer! And thanks to everyone who has come to read.
Now let's get to business. If I recall Greg had evidence and theories to share...
Grissom found Greg deep in thought in the layout room. Photos of the crime scene were on display on the wall, pieces of evidence laid out neatly and arranged in a meticulous order on the table. Grissom had to admit; the young man did a wonderful job.
“This is nice work, Greg. What do you have to share?”
“Let’s start with the primary scene - Hampton’s residence. The hands match DNA for Melissa Sinclair and the head and feet belong to Hampton.”
“OK, that was something already established,” Grissom added.
“Well, those hands seemed to have done some handiwork. You remember that knife you found at the house with polyester strands?” Greg saw his boss nod in the affirmative. “Well, it looks like Melissa Sinclair left a healthy set of prints on that knife.”
Grissom seemed intrigued. “So one of our victims perpetrated the Teddy Bear Massacre?”
“Looks like it,” Greg said.
“Valerie Martin made about 20 bears at that Build-a-Buddy workshop,” Grissom said. “And by the way, remind me to tell you what I learned about making teddy bear condoms. What are the chances the bears came from Valerie’s collection?”
“Better than you might think. We found cat hairs on the bears that matched those from your pants,” Greg said. “AND… there was urine present on the inside of the bears. Thanks to that war wound of yours, we were able to match the cat’s DNA in the urine on the bears. Which means after they were sliced up, possibly at the Hampton residence, they must have ended up back at Valerie Martin’s house.”
Greg seemed pleased with himself, but then his mind refocused. “Teddy bear condoms?”
“Yes. Teddy bear condoms. Red ones,” Grissom said, not taking his eyes off the evidence. “I thought of you when I heard about them.”
“That is the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said to me, Grissom.”
“Really? I thought you would appreciate it.”
“Anyway,” Greg said shaking his head, “we found several of the victims’ prints all over the car - windows, doors - along with semen and vaginal contributions in various locations of the car. We were able to get a partial off the hunting knife, but not enough for a viable search. But we did match the prints we extracted from inside the rubber gloves you found in Hampton’s garage. And that was a match to Valerie Martin.”
“She was in the system?” Grissom asked.
“Apparently she volunteers with the American Girls Club, and since she volunteers with youths, she had to be printed.”
“Does the partial have commonalities to the full print off the knife?” Grissom asked.
“Yes,” Greg said. “I think Valerie followed Hampton and Sinclair out to Sloan Canyon. I assume it was no secret in the neighborhood that they frequented there, since the old neighbor knew about their love spot. At the location, we found tire treads behind Hampton’s car that are consistent with the make of the tires on a Ford Escort. According to the DMV, Valerie Martin has a blue 2004 blue Ford Escort registered in her name. And there was a blood trail from a passenger door of Hampton’s car to an area at the base of the mysterious tire treads.”
“So, if we follow the evidence,” Grissom said, beginning the reconstruction, “Valerie Martin followed Joshua Hampton and Melissa Sinclair to Sloan Canyon...”
“Where they would have a romantic rendezvous...” Greg added.
--- FLASHBACK ---
Joshua and Melissa were engaged in a romantic tryst in the back seat of the Mustang. Both were naked, or nearly naked as their passions neared completion. Little did the couple know that Joshua’s spurned lover and neighbor was watching and waiting for her chance.
She seized the moment and surprised the couple.
At first Valerie’s mind and body raced with uncontrollable adrenaline, making her jumpy. But her body movements became fluid as she sliced the two people over and over. With each cut, each tear, each slice, she felt renewed and powerful. It was a feeling she never experienced before.
She continued to slice and rip through their flesh, even though she was well aware their lives had slipped away long ago. She should have been repulsed by the carnage of their guts splashed and exposed. But she reveled in it. She painfully shredded them, just as Josh had painfully shredded her heart and Melissa had painfully shredded her soul.
And then she stopped. The word “enough” floated in her head.
At that moment she went to her car, started it and backed it up to Josh’s bumper. She popped her truck and found she still had household supplies that she purchased at Wal-Mart earlier. She took the items out of the trunk - her Windex, Barkeepers Friend, vacuum bags, even the kitchen gloves she opened and put on before she picked up the hunting knife she bought at the flea market.
But her focus quickly returned to the task at hand. She wanted to make room in the trunk, so she put the items in her back seat, except the black, trash bags and some of her gardening tools.
She needed those shears. Something told her using them would feel right.
And the black bags? Well, she needed those too. She didn’t want the trunk to get too dirty.
--- END FLASHBACK ---
“So after she kills the couple, Valerie, either at the scene or at another location, severed Hampton’s head and feet and Sinclair’s hands and then transported them to Hampton’s house,” Grissom said, processing a theory.
Greg looked through the photographs, until he found a photo of the interior of the car - a close up of one of the head visors. “Take a look at this. When Riley and I searched the car, we never found a garage door opener, but the visor had an indention like a remote was there.”
“Hampton did have an automatic garage door opener,” Grissom confirmed.
“So, if Valerie took the remote, she could just park her own car with the bodies and remains in Hampton’s garage,” Greg said.
“But she didn’t have a key to the house,” Grissom continued, “so she probably had to climb the fence and then break open the lock on the back door. Then she could go to the garage, remove what she wanted, clean up and go.”
“It’s a valid theory,” Greg said.
“We need to get into her house and search for evidence and get a look at her car,” Grissom said.
“I still don’t understand why she would do this. I mean these were some brutal killings,” Greg said. “And what about the OJ?”
“Well, whatever her reason, it must have taken everything she had to be around the orange juice,” Grissom reasoned. “I suspect that is why she was so haphazard about the gloves she used when she dumped the orange juice. We never found any bloody gloves or bloody clothes or excess body parts, probably because she had no problem taking them with her. But she probably couldn’t stand the gloves with the orange juice residue or the empty juice containers. That’s why she hid the containers and immediately just dumped the gloves almost right beside them.”
“But why did she do it in the first place? Revenge for bears? Unrequited love,” Greg said.
“At this point, what’s important is that with the fingerprint evidence and tire treads, we have enough to get a warrant and search her premises,” Grissom said. “But, I don’t think you have to worry about that, Greg. Your shift was over several hours ago, and I believe you’re off for Christmas.”
“But what about the warrant?”
“Brass and I will handle it,” Grissom said. “Go on. Merry Christmas.”
Greg’s fact lit up. “If you insist, boss. I hope she won’t ruin your Christmas.”
No worse than I might already have, Grissom thought. “Bye, Greg.”
“See ya,” Greg said as he went out the door.
Grissom kept his eye on the evidence and was about to make another phone call when Greg bounded in again. “Yes, Greg?”
“Umm... maybe after the holidays, I’ll ask you about that bear condom thing...” And before Grissom could respond, Greg was out the door again.
----------------------
Brass knocked lightly on Grissom’s doorframe before entering without a word. He stood in front of Grissom’s desk and placed a photo in front of him.
Grissom looked at Brass as he picked up the photo. “What’s this?... Is this you?”
Brass sighed. “It does look like me, doesn’t it?”
“Who’s the little girl?”
Brass sat down. “That is five-year-old Valerie Martin after her parents were arrested.”
“You were at the scene?”
“No. That is Detective John Fletcher, formerly of Las Vegas, now retired in New Orleans.”
“Amazing resemblance, Jim.”
“So, my curiosity got the best of me, and I found information about what happened to put Valerie into foster care,” Brass said. “Her parents were drug dealers, and one particular deal went very, very wrong. I found this old file, and I called the retired detective. He remembered the night. Apparently Valerie wouldn’t come out of hall closet. Guess what the detective used to lure her out?”
“A teddy bear,” Grissom said. “You must remind Valerie of Detective Fletcher.”
“I guess so.”
Grissom looked at the photo again. The little girl’s face was filled with fear and horror. Five years old. She was only five years old. And she clung to both the detective and the bear with all her might. Grissom sighed. She wasn’t five years old anymore. “I think we have enough for a warrant.”
He described the evidence and theory to Brass, who simply nodded and listened. “I’ll get on it now, before everyone leaves for the holiday.”
--------------------------
As dusk was quickly turning into night, Valerie stooped down to pick up her gardening tools she just used to trim and cut branches from her gardenia plant. While the Hampton residence had a privacy fence that bordered one side of Martin’s property, the other side where she was working had no fencing.
She barely lifted the bottom of her weathered sweatshirt to expose her gardening belt. With care, she fastened her hand tools to the belt. The sounds of revved engines and sirens startled her. Then she heard several cars pull up at her house. As she stood in the patch of grass between her house and her neighbor’s, she saw two familiar faces. One welcome. One not.
“Valerie Martin, we have a warrant to search your premises,” said the man she regarded as the “nice one.”
“A warrant? But why? Where are those people going?” Martin’s expression was one of fear and concern. While her dark black cat purred at her feet, she reached down to hold her gray, tabby. “Please, don’t scare the other cats! Could I please go in there?”
Brass approached Valerie. “Is there anyone in the house, Ms. Martin?”
“No.”
“Where is your car?”
“I don’t... it’s in the shop.”
Brass looked at Grissom. “You need to stay outside, Ms. Martin. An officer will be at your door. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Valerie said, as she held Jorge tighter, and kept checking the side of her house. “Fine.”
Brass watched as Valerie paced in the side yard. Officers gave the all clear, so Grissom followed Brass inside the residence. “If we can’t inspect a car right away, I think some officers should go in the backyard to see if there is any recent soil disturbances,” Grissom suggested.
The house was quiet, minus a few soft meows from cats retreating to familiar hiding spots. It was also chilly, since many of the windows were open. An eerie aura encapsulated the interior of Valerie’s home.
“I’ll check out the kitchen,” Brass said.
“I think I’ll check the bedroom,” Grissom said, as he retreated to the right hand side of the house, with his Surefire M4 flashlight in hand.
Inside a wooden box on the bedside table, Grissom discovered a note apparently written by Melissa Sinclair to Valerie. He read it by the light of his flashlight:
Josh doesn’t like you anymore. He is with me and me only. The bears are only a warning; because if you continue with your harassment of the two of us, let’s just say, your precious cats could end up looking like your little bears. Stay away from us.
The drapes of the window moved slightly as a soft breeze gently swept inside, but there was nothing of interest along the walls of either side of the 3-foot by 3-foot window. Instead, Grissom’s attention focused along the opposite wall where a long dresser stood. Upon it were a dozen bears, including two or three that looked stitched up.
As he inspected a bear, Grissom heard a noise behind him. He flashed his light around the room, and the familiar gray, tabby cat, Jorge, jumped on the dresser in front of Grissom. The cat startled him for a second causing Grissom to drop his flashlight. As he bent over to pick it up, Jorge took the opportunity to take a healthy scratch along Grissom’s face close to his eye. He swiped at the cat with the back of his hand.
Valerie came through the window almost without a sound. Running toward him at full speed, she wielded a tool from her gardening belt - a hand-held cultivator with three prongs sharpened to points. The attack caught Grissom by surprise. He had no time to react as she plunged the implement into his left shoulder. He felt time slow down as the cultivator ripped his flesh. The pain stole his breath, and he fell back, landing hard on the floor with Valerie standing over him, ready to attack again. Her eyes burned with intense anger borne of pure insanity.
Valerie fell to her knees on Grissom’s chest, driving the air from his lungs. He managed to connect a fist with her face, but it didn’t stop her. She began the attack again. Grissom raised his hands and arms in defense, so his arms took the brunt of the assault but not all of it. He felt a searing pain along his left cheek where a prong sliced through his skin repeatedly.
Unlike her attack on Josh and Melissa, Valerie didn’t utter a word. The fact that Grissom’s punch didn’t faze her proved she could take a beating. And after killing Josh and Melissa, she knew she could deliver a brutal beating, too.
She continued to stab Grissom, totally focused on raining blows on him and where she drew blood: his shoulder, arms, hands, chest, not even aware who the man was bleeding by her hand. She saw him begin to weaken, his arms falling away. She raised the pronged cultivator high in the air. Its target was his neck. She brought it home and raised it to strike again.
Until her concentration was broken.
“Valerie, freeze!” Brass commanded as he held a gun on her.
Valerie stopped but still brandished the gardening tool in front of Grissom, who was losing a great deal of blood and in obvious, serious pain. His arms, which were barely raised above his body, shook with spasms, and he appeared to be losing consciousness.
“He was touching my bears.” Valerie screamed at Brass.
Brass swallowed and steadied himself, hoping to calm the tone of his voice. “Valerie, that’s his job.”
Valerie turned to Brass, her expression softened and marred with some confusion. She took a step away from Grissom but still held the fork in a threatening manner. “You... you look... familiar. I think... you... look so... familiar.” She was looking at Grissom but speaking to Brass.
“Valerie, do you remember the night you were taken away from your house on Marquette Drive? Do you remember that night?”
Valerie looked down, but then caught Brass’s eyes again as she nodded in the affirmative.
“Do you remember the officer who talked to you while you were in the closet?”
“You gave me the bear,” Valerie said, her eyes misted. “You gave me my bear.”
It was Brass’ turn to nod in the affirmative. It was a lie. But it was a lie to save a friend.
“I loved that bear. His name was Gary.”
“That’s a nice name, Valerie. I’m sorry someone hurt your bear.”
“She killed Gary. She killed my bear.” Anger and rage laced Valerie’s voice, and she gripped the tool furiously and turned back toward Grissom.
“VALERIE! I’m sorry Natalie did that to you!”
Hearing that name stopped Valerie in her place. “How did you know?”
“Jack told us,” Brass continued. “Natalie had no right to do that to you. She should never have hurt you; she shouldn’t have ever hurt anyone.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, Valerie, I do. She hurt a friend of mine. And she hurt him,” Brass said, pointing his gun toward Grissom. “Natalie hurt him. She took away someone he loved.”
For the first time, Valerie loosened her grip on the tool and dangled it to her side. But she still took a step toward Grissom.
“She hurt you?”
Grissom had tried to focus as best he could, barely registering the conversation while his face contorted with pain. He was able to meet Valerie’s eyes and heard her repeat her question.
“Natalie hurt you?”
He could have said many different things about Natalie, about Sara, about his faults, his failures, but the question was simple and so was Grissom’s response. A simple response was all he was physically and emotionally capable of offering.
“Yes.”
Valerie stared at him and fiddled with the implement in her hand. Brass watched intently and took two tentative steps toward her. “Give me the weapon, Valerie.”
He stared at her wondering if she was going to stab Grissom again. His bleeding didn’t look like it was letting up at all. Brass had his Glock in his hand and hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot the woman. Officers behind Brass awaited a decision, and Brass held the officer standing outside the bedroom window at bay. If they were to storm the room, Valerie could slam the weapon into Grissom and kill him.
“Call the paramedics,” he said in a low voice to the closest officer, never taking his eyes away from Valerie.
“Already did,” the officer replied. “They’re on the way.”
For another minute, Brass felt like he was in a stereotypical Mexican stand-off with Valerie poised over Grissom’s body like a mad woman. Then, Jorge meowed and entered the room. The animal started to walk toward Grissom, where a pool of his blood expanded across the floor.
“Jorge,” Valerie said timidly. “Don’t walk around there. You’ll make a mess.”
Jorge looked up at his master and gave another meow. “Go on,” Valerie said softly, with a hint of a sad smile. “Shoo.”
Once the cat was outside the bedroom, Valerie took a deep breath and turned the handle of the tool toward Brass’s waiting hand.
Uniformed officers came into the room to cuff Valerie and arrest her. Brass knelt down next to Grissom, who looked like he was going into shock. The blood loss was a serious concern; he’d lost too much in a short period of time. All Brass could do was tell his friend to hang on and assure him help was on the way. As if to emphasize the point, they heard the wailing sound of sirens.
It was not long before paramedics loaded Grissom onto a gurney and transported him to Desert Palm Hospital.
Grissom’s ears filled with the jumbled sounds of the ambulance siren and the paramedics barking information to the hospital. But soon everything turned into a buzz. I’m bleeding... a lot, Grissom thought. I should have made plans for Christmas. Why the hell didn’t I try with Sara? He could feel the pain from his wounds clouding his brain, until his eyes rolled back, and he felt nothing.
---------------------------
As Brass made his way through the halls of the hospital, he passed by a few dry erase boards decorated for the season. Some had tinsel along its frames, others just had giant, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” messages. But one in particular reminded him of the person he was visiting. On it someone wrote Christmas trivia questions, including “In what country and what century did the mistletoe tradition originate?” He shook his head and smiled, as an intern and two nurses passed by him. There were still five hours of Christmas left; maybe he should have worn a Santa hat, too.
He only slowed his gait when he approached room 508. He didn’t bother knocking since the door was open. Inside he saw Grissom awake. His forearms and palms were heavily bandaged. Brass could just make out the bandage covering the wounds on Grissom’s left shoulder and neck, where he suffered deep stab wounds that required 56 stitches. The large slash wound on the left side of Grissom’s face had required 20 stitches. The wounds to his chest another 41.
The detective was not one to be a loss for words, but it’s never easy to see a friend hurting. So, he relied on what always worked for him: humor. “So, you going to live?”
“Yes, I think so. I feel woozy.”
“I bet,” Brass said. He found his hand was shaking as he went to gently grab his friend’s bandaged forearm. In a flash, Brass recalled seeing Grissom fighting to stay conscious as he lay in a pool of his own blood. Brass took a quick breath before speaking again. “So it that your new friend?” Brass motioned toward Grissom’s morphine pump.
“I think I’ll call it Trixie,” Grissom said, with a slurred voice and a ghost of a smile.
Brass laughed. “Good for you.”
“Because it really does the trick... get it?” Grissom chuckled.
“That’s good, Gil,” Brass said. “But be careful you don’t offend Trixie or any of the nurses. Today you showed your knack for really pissing off a woman.”
“Just today’s experience?” Grissom said as his smile dissipated into a wince. Brass could tell his buddy was in more than physical pain, and he almost moved to leave, until Grissom spoke up again. “But that’s going to change. And soon.”
Both men stayed silent, with Brass expecting Grissom to fall asleep. But instead the man in the hospital bed piped up again. “At least I’ve given you something you wanted for Christmas.”
“What are you talking about?” Brass said, taking his hand away.
“You wanted to come and visit me someplace on Christmas,” Grissom said, as he pushed the his pain pump. “And here you are.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the hospital, asshole.”
“Be more specific next year,” Grissom chuckled lightly at his joke. But his eyes grew heavy. With his eyes closed he said, “Merry Christmas, Jim.”
Brass took a deep breath as he watched his friend drift to sleep. He brought a chair close to the bed, sat down and placed his hand back on Grissom’s forearm.
“Merry Christmas, Gil. I hope you get the happiness you deserve.”
THE END
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Thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated...:)
'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas' written by Meredith Wilson, 1951.
'Ugly Bug Ball' written by Robert and Richard Sherman, 1963.