csi fic: eye of the beholden
SUMMARY: Years ago, they made a pact never to discuss it. Now, years later, the secret is unfolding.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
RATING: Teen
A/N: I’m not a big fan of first-person narratives but I recently read a book called “My Sister’s Keeper”. It had alternating first-person narratives and I just fell in love with the style the author used. I was inspired to do a first-person shifting narrative. Each chapter corresponds to a different POV.
~~~~~~~~
Catherine Willows
~~~~~~~~
I walk into the layout room, which currently resembles organized chaos, if such as thing is possible. Under the bright illumination of the overhead lights, everything in the layout room seems stark, almost devoid of life. It’s like life has been swept away by the cold sterility of the room. I shiver at the thought and think of something my grandmother told me as a child: that those sudden shivers are caused by someone walking over your grave in the future.
My eyes scan the small room and latch onto the slim figure of one Greg Sanders. He is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt advertising some band I’ve never heard of. He’s hunched over the layout table, papers and photographs laid out before him in a jungle mess. But I would bet good money that if I asked him where a particular piece of evidence was, he would be able to locate it in two seconds flat. Such is the life of a crime scene investigator, I have come to discover. This is especially true when we get cases like this one, ones that involve serial murderers. In these kinds of cases everything becomes memorized and all of the evidence becomes achingly familiar. You just can’t leave these cases at work.
I walk over to the layout table, my loose red head swinging lightly in step with my movements. I lean over Greg’s shoulder. He’s still studying something, highlighting a piece of paper with an orange highlighter. I don’t think he has even registered my presence yet, so engrossed with the case before his eyes. I’m not surprised. This is a high-profile case, really, involving five victims in three different cities. It’s a career maker, not that Gil, Greg or myself realized this when we took the call-out just three nights ago.
I wait for a few seconds to see if Greg will acknowledge me. He doesn’t so I figure that I need to alert him to my presence. “How’s it going?” I ask, my mouth close to Greg’s ear. The young CSI, whose hair today is a mixture of brown and blond hues, jumps at the sound of my voice in the quiet layout room. He turns and glares at me but the glare doesn’t quite reach his mouth. The corners of his mouth are turned up slightly and while his eyes are tired, there’s a gleam of something buried in those green orbs.
“You got something for me?” I ask.
Greg nods, his crazy hair flopping around his face. Under the harsh white light of the layout room, Greg looks just like a little boy, all excited with the triumph of discovery. He has the same look Lindsay has when she gets a good mark on a test. I feel the same maternal pride well up in me. Greg has become my like my child over the years, especially since his training to become a CSI. I’m not at all surprised that I feel happiness at how well he’s doing as a CSI; I feel the same way when Lindsay brings home a report home laced with A’s and B’s. It’s instinctive, I think.
“Well, tell me what you’ve got,” I prompt with a nod towards the mess on the layout table. Now I’m feeling like the little kid, awaiting for something great. It’s the feeling that I once told Holly Gribbs about. One where you feel like a giant and it’s just a great, wonderful feeling. It’s one that drives me. It always has and I think it always will.
Greg grabs the stack of papers he had been working on when I arrived just minutes ago. “I think I may have found a possible connection between the victims.”
I do a double-take. I really wasn’t expecting this. Finding the reason behind a serial killer’s selection of victims is often an essential step towards identifying the killer. But if two other teams of CSIs couldn’t find any link, could Greg, after such a short period of time, really have found a link?
Apparently Greg realized what I was thinking as he is quick to explain. “I took all the notes the CSIs in Portland and Boise made on the previous victims and went over them. Most of them focused on the adult lives of the victims, not really surprising considering that the victims were all in their mid-thirties but I went back to their late teen years and I think I have something.”
I nod encouragingly and smile in appreciation for the work Greg has done. He’s been thinking outside the box, which is always a good thing for a CSI. When Greg first started training to be a CSI, I had worried that he didn’t have the instinctive chops that made a CSI a great CSI. But, as I work more and more with Greg now that nightshift has been restored, I’m realizing that he does have that instinctive edge that makes for a great CSI. I guess I just wasn’t seeing what was hiding beneath Greg’s exterior originally.
“There’s a place called Seven Hills located in Colorado. So far I have it confirmed that four of the five victims stayed here in the late 1980s,” Greg says. His fingers twitch nervously and play with the edge of the papers he’s holding. “I’m waiting for Seven Hills to fax me their records.”
I’ve never heard of this place, which isn’t surprising considering the fact that the place is supposedly located in Colorado. “What can you tell me about this Seven Hills place?”
Greg sets down the papers. “It’s a facility for troubled youth, or at least that’s what their blurb says, that was opened in 1980. It’s not for violent youth but more for youth that have lost their way and need some help finding some direction.”
I nod. “Sounds like a fun place.”
The jean-clad man shrugs. “I suppose, if your parent is desperate enough, that it might seems like a good solution.”
“You’ll let me know if you if you find anything else?” I ask. Greg nods his head, already going back to his evidence that is spread out on the layout table like a butterfly with outstretched wings. I leave him to it and head out of the layout room. I have a stack of paperwork just waiting for my signature. With a sigh, I walk toward the office that I share with the dayshift supervisor, wondering just how many pieces of fowl statutory will be littering the desk we share tonight.
Three hours later, Greg pages me to return to the layout room. I rise from my chair, stretching my arms. I hear a resounding crack. I’m happy for Greg’s page, because it means an escape from the chair that has held me hostage for the better part of the last three hours. I don’t mind doing paperwork-it’s a necessary evil of being the assistant supervisor assigned to the nightshift-but because Gil hates to do any paperwork, I’m usually stuck picking up his slack. I don’t mind, sometimes. I guess that I’m just used to mothering people. Doing Gil’s paperwork feels strangely like having to do Lindsay’s laundry. It’s just something that I do.
I walk slowly to the layout room, my heels clicking against the floor in the quiet lab. Usually there’s hustle and bustle but tonight the lab seems strangely deserted, oddly quiet. Even the phone isn’t ringing. With no phone, I can’t hear Judy’s bright, little girl voice. It’s just strange.
I lean in the doorway of the layout room. Greg is bent over the layout table once more. I wonder if he’s changed positions at all in the past three hours. I sure hope so, otherwise he’ll have one kink it his neck tomorrow night. And I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. I once had a sore neck that lasted for a week. I felt like I was going to die. It was horrible and I think, if I recall correctly, that Gil was the one who finally massaged my neck until feeling returned. It was sensual or anything, just a friend offering relief from pain.
“So, what do you have for me?” I wince slightly at my tone. It sounds almost gossipy.
Greg spun around to face me. His eyes were slightly red-rimmed and tired. I wonder if his request from Seven Hills wasn’t as successful as Greg would have liked. He must have had some success, I figure, since he’s paged me. He wouldn’t have paged me if he hadn’t found anything.
“Seven Hills faxed me a list of their residents from the 1980s. All the victims stayed there in the summer of 1987, from what I can figure.”
I nod. “From what you can figure?” I ask.
Greg turns back to the layout table and grabbed a stack of paper. There are several spots of orange color on the page. “The records aren’t complete. They’ve been inputting their records into the computer but it’s a slow process. I don’t have a complete list of their residents from back then. I have a partial list constructed but, other than the fact that all the victims were there, I can’t find any other link.”
“How many residents were there back then?”
“About one hundred,” Greg says, whistling at the number. Apparently this place was a popular place to send disturbed youth. I’m not really surprised. Parents will go to desperate lengths to find a way to get a normal child. They don’t seem to realize that normal is relative. I’ll just settle for a child that isn’t breaking the law.
I watch as Greg shuffles the papers in his hands. He looks like he wants to say something but it’s like he doesn’t quite know how to. His face shows a restlessness that I’ve only seen occasionally on the younger man’s face. “Greg?” I prod, hoping that my tone will convince him to spill his guts. It works for Lindsay, some of the time. It usually works for Gil.
Greg sighs and leans back against the layout table. “There’s a name on the list…” he begins before trailing off, leaving the rest of his statement hanging in the air. I’m instantly on the alert and curious.
“And?”
Greg ducks his head, the universal motion of someone who has to do something that he doesn’t want to do. It’s like when you’re a child and you’ve been told to clean up your room, only you forgot so you shoved your dolls and stuff animals underneath your bed. Then when you parents come and ask you if you cleaned your room, you duck your head and shuffle your feet, hoping that they won’t notice the guilt in your eyes. Only because they’re your parents, they instantly recognize the signs of guilt and prompt you into confessing, which you do because you get so scared of the punishment you’re parent is about to dole out. Greg’s movements were just like that. It would have been amusing if the situation hadn’t been so serious.
I wait until Greg glances up. Before he can dart his head down again, I give him what I hope is an encouraging look. I’m sure my daughter would say that my encouraging look is more like an accusing look but she’s in that pre-teen hellion stage where she absolutely detests her mother. I went through that stage; come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever grew out of it. But that’s something for another day. I refocus my attention on Greg, who is still acting like the reluctant child with toys stuck under his bed. I call his name again and finally Greg responds.
“There’s one Nicholas Andrew Stokes on the resident list, born March 12, 1970,” Greg states. I take it all in. Nicholas Andrew Stokes-Nick’s full name. March 12, 1970-Nick’s birthday. All roads lead to perdition, or so they say.
“I guess we need to talk to Nick,” I reply. Greg gulps and clutches the edge of the layout table, clearly not relishing in the thought of talking to Nick about what I imagine will be a very sensitive topic. I don’t blame him. I’m not relishing the thought of that conversation. Nick is a private person and I doubt that any conversation relating to Seven Hills will bring about good memories. The conversation would probably dig up old memories that are better left forgotten. Still, it is what we have to do.
“Maybe it would be best if just one person talks to Nick,” Greg suggests and I can see the logic behind his reasoning. One person will be less confrontational. Perhaps with one person Nick will open up more. My eyes dart to Greg and he’s looking at me with a pleading expression. I’ve already decided that I should be the one to talk to Nick, have at least some idea of what has gone on in his childhood. I nod at Greg and hold out my hand for the file. Greg passes it willingly. He gives me a brief smile. I turn and start to walk away. Before I can get far, his hand comes to rest on my shoulder and he gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I smile back at the younger man, grateful for the small measure of support because, sometimes, all we really need is just that a small gesture to confirm that we’re not alone in the world.
TBC
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
RATING: Teen
A/N: I’m not a big fan of first-person narratives but I recently read a book called “My Sister’s Keeper”. It had alternating first-person narratives and I just fell in love with the style the author used. I was inspired to do a first-person shifting narrative. Each chapter corresponds to a different POV.
~~~~~~~~
Catherine Willows
~~~~~~~~
I walk into the layout room, which currently resembles organized chaos, if such as thing is possible. Under the bright illumination of the overhead lights, everything in the layout room seems stark, almost devoid of life. It’s like life has been swept away by the cold sterility of the room. I shiver at the thought and think of something my grandmother told me as a child: that those sudden shivers are caused by someone walking over your grave in the future.
My eyes scan the small room and latch onto the slim figure of one Greg Sanders. He is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt advertising some band I’ve never heard of. He’s hunched over the layout table, papers and photographs laid out before him in a jungle mess. But I would bet good money that if I asked him where a particular piece of evidence was, he would be able to locate it in two seconds flat. Such is the life of a crime scene investigator, I have come to discover. This is especially true when we get cases like this one, ones that involve serial murderers. In these kinds of cases everything becomes memorized and all of the evidence becomes achingly familiar. You just can’t leave these cases at work.
I walk over to the layout table, my loose red head swinging lightly in step with my movements. I lean over Greg’s shoulder. He’s still studying something, highlighting a piece of paper with an orange highlighter. I don’t think he has even registered my presence yet, so engrossed with the case before his eyes. I’m not surprised. This is a high-profile case, really, involving five victims in three different cities. It’s a career maker, not that Gil, Greg or myself realized this when we took the call-out just three nights ago.
I wait for a few seconds to see if Greg will acknowledge me. He doesn’t so I figure that I need to alert him to my presence. “How’s it going?” I ask, my mouth close to Greg’s ear. The young CSI, whose hair today is a mixture of brown and blond hues, jumps at the sound of my voice in the quiet layout room. He turns and glares at me but the glare doesn’t quite reach his mouth. The corners of his mouth are turned up slightly and while his eyes are tired, there’s a gleam of something buried in those green orbs.
“You got something for me?” I ask.
Greg nods, his crazy hair flopping around his face. Under the harsh white light of the layout room, Greg looks just like a little boy, all excited with the triumph of discovery. He has the same look Lindsay has when she gets a good mark on a test. I feel the same maternal pride well up in me. Greg has become my like my child over the years, especially since his training to become a CSI. I’m not at all surprised that I feel happiness at how well he’s doing as a CSI; I feel the same way when Lindsay brings home a report home laced with A’s and B’s. It’s instinctive, I think.
“Well, tell me what you’ve got,” I prompt with a nod towards the mess on the layout table. Now I’m feeling like the little kid, awaiting for something great. It’s the feeling that I once told Holly Gribbs about. One where you feel like a giant and it’s just a great, wonderful feeling. It’s one that drives me. It always has and I think it always will.
Greg grabs the stack of papers he had been working on when I arrived just minutes ago. “I think I may have found a possible connection between the victims.”
I do a double-take. I really wasn’t expecting this. Finding the reason behind a serial killer’s selection of victims is often an essential step towards identifying the killer. But if two other teams of CSIs couldn’t find any link, could Greg, after such a short period of time, really have found a link?
Apparently Greg realized what I was thinking as he is quick to explain. “I took all the notes the CSIs in Portland and Boise made on the previous victims and went over them. Most of them focused on the adult lives of the victims, not really surprising considering that the victims were all in their mid-thirties but I went back to their late teen years and I think I have something.”
I nod encouragingly and smile in appreciation for the work Greg has done. He’s been thinking outside the box, which is always a good thing for a CSI. When Greg first started training to be a CSI, I had worried that he didn’t have the instinctive chops that made a CSI a great CSI. But, as I work more and more with Greg now that nightshift has been restored, I’m realizing that he does have that instinctive edge that makes for a great CSI. I guess I just wasn’t seeing what was hiding beneath Greg’s exterior originally.
“There’s a place called Seven Hills located in Colorado. So far I have it confirmed that four of the five victims stayed here in the late 1980s,” Greg says. His fingers twitch nervously and play with the edge of the papers he’s holding. “I’m waiting for Seven Hills to fax me their records.”
I’ve never heard of this place, which isn’t surprising considering the fact that the place is supposedly located in Colorado. “What can you tell me about this Seven Hills place?”
Greg sets down the papers. “It’s a facility for troubled youth, or at least that’s what their blurb says, that was opened in 1980. It’s not for violent youth but more for youth that have lost their way and need some help finding some direction.”
I nod. “Sounds like a fun place.”
The jean-clad man shrugs. “I suppose, if your parent is desperate enough, that it might seems like a good solution.”
“You’ll let me know if you if you find anything else?” I ask. Greg nods his head, already going back to his evidence that is spread out on the layout table like a butterfly with outstretched wings. I leave him to it and head out of the layout room. I have a stack of paperwork just waiting for my signature. With a sigh, I walk toward the office that I share with the dayshift supervisor, wondering just how many pieces of fowl statutory will be littering the desk we share tonight.
Three hours later, Greg pages me to return to the layout room. I rise from my chair, stretching my arms. I hear a resounding crack. I’m happy for Greg’s page, because it means an escape from the chair that has held me hostage for the better part of the last three hours. I don’t mind doing paperwork-it’s a necessary evil of being the assistant supervisor assigned to the nightshift-but because Gil hates to do any paperwork, I’m usually stuck picking up his slack. I don’t mind, sometimes. I guess that I’m just used to mothering people. Doing Gil’s paperwork feels strangely like having to do Lindsay’s laundry. It’s just something that I do.
I walk slowly to the layout room, my heels clicking against the floor in the quiet lab. Usually there’s hustle and bustle but tonight the lab seems strangely deserted, oddly quiet. Even the phone isn’t ringing. With no phone, I can’t hear Judy’s bright, little girl voice. It’s just strange.
I lean in the doorway of the layout room. Greg is bent over the layout table once more. I wonder if he’s changed positions at all in the past three hours. I sure hope so, otherwise he’ll have one kink it his neck tomorrow night. And I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. I once had a sore neck that lasted for a week. I felt like I was going to die. It was horrible and I think, if I recall correctly, that Gil was the one who finally massaged my neck until feeling returned. It was sensual or anything, just a friend offering relief from pain.
“So, what do you have for me?” I wince slightly at my tone. It sounds almost gossipy.
Greg spun around to face me. His eyes were slightly red-rimmed and tired. I wonder if his request from Seven Hills wasn’t as successful as Greg would have liked. He must have had some success, I figure, since he’s paged me. He wouldn’t have paged me if he hadn’t found anything.
“Seven Hills faxed me a list of their residents from the 1980s. All the victims stayed there in the summer of 1987, from what I can figure.”
I nod. “From what you can figure?” I ask.
Greg turns back to the layout table and grabbed a stack of paper. There are several spots of orange color on the page. “The records aren’t complete. They’ve been inputting their records into the computer but it’s a slow process. I don’t have a complete list of their residents from back then. I have a partial list constructed but, other than the fact that all the victims were there, I can’t find any other link.”
“How many residents were there back then?”
“About one hundred,” Greg says, whistling at the number. Apparently this place was a popular place to send disturbed youth. I’m not really surprised. Parents will go to desperate lengths to find a way to get a normal child. They don’t seem to realize that normal is relative. I’ll just settle for a child that isn’t breaking the law.
I watch as Greg shuffles the papers in his hands. He looks like he wants to say something but it’s like he doesn’t quite know how to. His face shows a restlessness that I’ve only seen occasionally on the younger man’s face. “Greg?” I prod, hoping that my tone will convince him to spill his guts. It works for Lindsay, some of the time. It usually works for Gil.
Greg sighs and leans back against the layout table. “There’s a name on the list…” he begins before trailing off, leaving the rest of his statement hanging in the air. I’m instantly on the alert and curious.
“And?”
Greg ducks his head, the universal motion of someone who has to do something that he doesn’t want to do. It’s like when you’re a child and you’ve been told to clean up your room, only you forgot so you shoved your dolls and stuff animals underneath your bed. Then when you parents come and ask you if you cleaned your room, you duck your head and shuffle your feet, hoping that they won’t notice the guilt in your eyes. Only because they’re your parents, they instantly recognize the signs of guilt and prompt you into confessing, which you do because you get so scared of the punishment you’re parent is about to dole out. Greg’s movements were just like that. It would have been amusing if the situation hadn’t been so serious.
I wait until Greg glances up. Before he can dart his head down again, I give him what I hope is an encouraging look. I’m sure my daughter would say that my encouraging look is more like an accusing look but she’s in that pre-teen hellion stage where she absolutely detests her mother. I went through that stage; come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever grew out of it. But that’s something for another day. I refocus my attention on Greg, who is still acting like the reluctant child with toys stuck under his bed. I call his name again and finally Greg responds.
“There’s one Nicholas Andrew Stokes on the resident list, born March 12, 1970,” Greg states. I take it all in. Nicholas Andrew Stokes-Nick’s full name. March 12, 1970-Nick’s birthday. All roads lead to perdition, or so they say.
“I guess we need to talk to Nick,” I reply. Greg gulps and clutches the edge of the layout table, clearly not relishing in the thought of talking to Nick about what I imagine will be a very sensitive topic. I don’t blame him. I’m not relishing the thought of that conversation. Nick is a private person and I doubt that any conversation relating to Seven Hills will bring about good memories. The conversation would probably dig up old memories that are better left forgotten. Still, it is what we have to do.
“Maybe it would be best if just one person talks to Nick,” Greg suggests and I can see the logic behind his reasoning. One person will be less confrontational. Perhaps with one person Nick will open up more. My eyes dart to Greg and he’s looking at me with a pleading expression. I’ve already decided that I should be the one to talk to Nick, have at least some idea of what has gone on in his childhood. I nod at Greg and hold out my hand for the file. Greg passes it willingly. He gives me a brief smile. I turn and start to walk away. Before I can get far, his hand comes to rest on my shoulder and he gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I smile back at the younger man, grateful for the small measure of support because, sometimes, all we really need is just that a small gesture to confirm that we’re not alone in the world.
TBC