(no subject)
Title: Like Minds (Chapter 3)
Author: Knightmusic and Laurelgardner
Rating: R (each chapter will be individually rated)
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Will Graham
Summary: A frightening and brutal signature killer brings Will Graham to Las Vegas to join the investigation. We all know how Grissom feels about getting into bed with the FBI. Maybe this partnership will change his mind.
Author's Note/Warnings: Crossover with Red Dragon/Manhunter. This chapter rated R for language (not sex; sorry about that, but rest assured that it's on its way!). See Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: We own neither CSI nor Red Dragon/Manhunter. We're too old to play with action figures, so we do this instead.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
The two men drove in silence to the crime scene. Grissom wasn't interested in making small talk, and to his relief, his new partner didn't seem to be either.
Will sat in his seat, utterly motionless. His eyes were closed and even his breathing was still. One might have thought he was asleep, but Gil could tell by the stiffness of his posture that he was actually quite alert. He seemed to be deep in concentration. Grissom wagered a guess that he was trying to clear his mind; it was something he did himself in much the same way, usually when he found himself facing a dead end in an investigation.
As he drove, his own thought process was in a very different place; rather than trying to clear his head, Grissom worked to get his thought process humming again.
He reviewed to himself the facts of the cases as he knew them; four serials in six weeks - the guy would strike again soon if they didn't catch him...
No, don't think about that.
Four serials in six weeks, spread out all over the Las Vegas area. Victims had been left mutilated in their homes, no signs of sexual assault, no robbery.
He wished he knew more about what was there, rather than what wasn't. But at this point, most of what he knew about the case came from water-cooler talk or from the news, and that kind of information wasn't very helpful. It was full of speculations, attempts at answers.
Grissom knew that what times like these really called for were questions. Big and little. He thought of a few without even trying; how did he enter the houses? What forms did the mutilations take? What kind of instrument was used? Were they performed post or antemortem? If post, how were the victims murdered?
Most of this he would know once he'd had time to do some reading, or after Sara's briefing, which he knew would be as thorough as the paperwork, but more succinct and pertinent.
He felt a brief, unavoidable swell of pride; he loved that his team was so good he could count on them to be smart for him when he had other things to do.
He slowed the Tahoe as he pulled it into a residential neighborhood, squinting as the morning sunlight hit him in the face. He didn't often see a crime scene for the first time in daylight, and it always looked odd to him. At night, the lights, the buzz of officers coming and going, and the low hum of sirens made the scene stand out against the backdrop of the dark night. But by day it was almost ordinary to look at, just a busy spot on the street. It seemed a strange sort of abomination; a grisly murder scene sitting there calmly, pretending it had just as much right to exist in broad daylight as anything else did.
Not that this scene wasn't trying its best to stand out; there was plenty of commotion around this particular house. Too much. Too many people. Driving closer, he identified the reason for the bulk of the crowd gathered outside the yellow tape, and he didn't like it.
"Oh, geez," he groaned.
Will snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Gil's voice. "What?" he asked, then he, too, saw and understood. He made a noise of frustration that more than rivaled Gil's, dropping his face into one hand while slamming his other fist on the dashboard in a mixed gesture of anger and exhaustion.
"Reporters," he said in a voice thick with contempt. "God damn it. I fucking hate reporters!"
Gil cocked his head to one side, remembering something; Will Graham was a celebrity, and not just in the world of criminalistics. Ever since he'd brought in "Hannibal the Cannibal", reporters couldn't leave him alone. To fuel the need for sensationalism, the nature of his eidetic abilities had been exaggerated, twisted into something approaching psychic talent. Then, the Dolarhyde murders had only fueled the media frenzy, especially when they whole nasty affair had ended with a personal attack on Will and his family.
Watching the press coverage from a distance, Grissom had felt embarrassed for the human race. The tabloids had stopped short of trying to connect Will to the death of Princess Diana or the alien abduction of Elvis, but only just. He could hardly begrudge Will his reaction to seeing their crime scene swarmed with reporters now.
Will reached behind his seat and into his duffel, fishing for a moment before pulling out a battered mini tape-recorder that looked about as old as Greg Sanders. His jaw set with obvious determination, he hopped out of the Tahoe the moment Grissom parked it.
Instantly, reporters swarmed him. It was like watching seagulls descend on a piece of newly-dropped popcorn.
"Will Graham!"
"Agent Graham, does the FBI have any new leads at this time?"
"Does your involvement in this investigation indicate a connection between this case and Hannibal Lecter?"
"Mr. Graham, do you think you'll be able to get inside this killer's head?"
Eyes ablaze with cold fire, Will ignored them all, shoving aside microphones and not even blinking as flash bulbs went off around him. He didn't answer their questions, didn't say so much as a word; he just pushed through.
One stray reporter wandered from the pack over to where Grissom stood, having exited the Tahoe with his field kit in hand. Eagerly the man thrust his microphone in Gil's face.
"Gil Grissom, do you feel that Special Agent Graham is psychologically fit for duty at this time?"
Grissom was blind sighted by the question; it was so ludicrous. "What?!"
He shouldn't have answered. If Will had been dropped popcorn, he was an entire spilled carton. Believing him to be more receptive to their inquiries, the reporters turned their full attentions to Grissom now. In a moment, he was swarmed with bodies and questions. He couldn't even make out most of what they were asking him now, it was just a blur of noise. He couldn't get through them, either, not until Will doubled back, grabbed his arm and pulled him through, elbowing his way through the crowd in a rather more brutal manner than Grissom would have.
"CSI Grissom and I have no comments at this time," he shouted. "So you can all fuck off!"
Once they were safely on the other side of the yellow tape, Grissom glanced back at the reporters, astounded.
"What was that about?"
Will's face darkened. "You don't know?" he asked.
"Don't know what?"
But before Will could answer, they were interrupted; Sheriff Atwater came running over to them, looking as though he hadn't slept in least 36 hours but hadn't even had the time to notice he was tired.
"Graham!" he cried, reaching for Will's hand and shaking it fiercely.
"Can you believe this? This is a cold scene, for God's sake. Are they all here because of you?"
"Probably," said Graham.
"But how did they know?"
"Someone told them," said Will simply.
Ecklie, thought Grissom, and his mouth curled sardonically. The day-shift supervisor wouldn't ever do something as imprudent as tipping off the press, but if he'd thought one of his underlings had a mind do so, he wouldn't have stopped it. Might even have encouraged it, if he thought he could do so without having it traced back to him.
"Well, what the hell are we going to do? We have to tell them something," said Atwater. Behind his sunglasses, Gil's eyes narrowed with distaste. Atwater wasn't Brian Mobley, and Gil was grateful for that at least, but he was still a politician first, a police officer second.
"We don't have to tell them anything," Will said flatly. "And I suggest we don't. Reporters are like mosquito bites; the more you scratch them, the more they itch."
Grissom smiled a little at the analogy.
Anxious conflict played across the sheriff's face. Grissom guessed that the career-conscious Atwater was undoubtedly struggling to maintain his patience with this "FBI legend" in the face of all the havoc his presence here was stirring up.
"Reporters out the ass," he complained. "Changing CSI teams mid-case...I hope you know what you're doing, Graham."
For a moment, it looked as though Will was about to fire off another smart-assed comment, but instead he sighed, almost imperceptibly, and his face took on a resigned expression.
"Look, Sheriff," he said calmly, "I know it's tough. Believe me, I don't envy you guys the job you have in this town, trying to solve crimes fast, and all the while the city's pressuring you to keep the public happy because of the tourism...but right now, we need to catch a killer first and tell everyone how we did it later. You're a real professional, so I know you can understand that."
Atwater was speechless for a moment, stunned. Then he slowly nodded. "All right, Graham," he said brightly. "You go to it. I'll deal with the press."
Will smiled warmly. "Thank you, Sheriff. I really appreciate it."
Grissom bit the corners of his mouth, trying to suppress an ironic smile; Will Graham had just played the Sheriff, played him and won. And Atwater didn't even know it.
He followed Will up the walkway to the house.