INEQUITY
                               by
                         Melissa Rivers
                                
          TITLE:    Inequity 
          AUTHOR:   Melissa Rivers
EMAIL:    missy@lexicon.net
          WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/missyliannem/csi/html
CATEGORY: Tag to Too Tough To Die (Season 1)
          SPOILERS: Major spoilers for Too Tough To Die (Season 1)
RATING:   PG13
SUMMARY:   A telephone call brings Sara face to face with her demons.
STATUS:   WIP
ARCHIVING: CSI Fanfic Archive; CSI Grissom/Sara Archive. Otherwise, not without permission.
DISCLAIMER:
CSI:Crime Scene Investigation and its characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Alliance
Atlantis & CBS Production Company.  I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and
no money whatsoever has exchanged hands.  No copyright infringement is intended.  
AUTHOR NOTES:
This story was well on the way to being finished when CBS changed their website and provided
background profiles for the characters, negating what I had envisaged for the story.  Actually, it
pretty much shot a lot of the story out of the sky.  So, I have adapted my original idea and let my
muse guide me.  I would never have imagined the story would go in the direction it did and I hope
you enjoy it.   I have also created a couple of places to suit my needs.  Have no idea if there is
anything like it in Vegas and if not, please consider it literary licence. :)
FEEDBACK: On or off-list is fine, but please let me know what you think.  If there are any glaring
errors, please let me know as I'd like to correct any before it is put on my website.



Intricately woven wrought iron gates guarded the entrance, their immense size overshadowing the
approaching dark Tahoe.  As the vehicle entered the driveway,  the heavy gates slowly opened.  Sara
drove the SUV  between the twin red brick pillars supporting the gates.  Two silver lions were
crouched on the top of each pillar, stone sentinels silently watching.  

Sara slowly drove the Tahoe along the sweeping drive, tyres crunching over the pebbled surface. 
Trees lined the driveway, their leafy branches snaking out and twisting as they met their neighbour,
entwining to form a leafy canopy.  Early morning mist wove its way hauntingly through the
branches, the air cool and damp.  A large, rectangular building rose majestically above the broad
expanse of lush grass and disappeared into the low lying cloud that shrouded the city.  A soft fine
mist of rain began to fall, giving the Haven View Centre an ethereal look.   

Parking the SUV in the small visitor's area, Sara noticed that there were only two other cars.  She
quickly put it down to the early hour of the morning rather than the fact that it might be because it
was the Haven View Centre.  When she had admitted to Tom Adler that she knew several people
in the centre, it had been an extension of the truth.  Her knowledge of them was limited to knowing
that they went there and the crime that had put them there.  She hadn't known them before their
participation in life was destined to be limited to rely on the consistent care of others for their every
needs.   None of them had impacted the same way that Pam had; reminded her so much of the pain
she tried so hard to hide from.  

Sara felt guilty that she had agreed to visit Pam.  It was so far from the truth.  All she wanted to do
was run away and hide, rather than face the ghost of the past.  Ever since she had begun working on
the case, memories had haunted her.  They had invaded her consciousness throughout the day and
night.  It was only every now and again that a case would hit the jagged wound that never healed,
causing it to fester and weep.  Pam had brought back memories that she tried to deny existed;
memories that threatened to overwhelm and destroy.

Most of the time she managed to keep her mind occupied with her job.  But then a case like Kaye
Shelton or Pamela Adler would come along.  They disturbed the structured balance, causing fissures
to fracture and fragment the wall of protection she had built up around herself.  

Reluctantly, Sara opened the door.  She stepped out into the rain, the cool, fine mist softly falling
against her skin.  It didn't take her long to cover the distance from the parking lot to the building. 
As she got closer, she was surprised by the way the building had been modernised without losing the
majestic grace of the stately old building.  

The glass doors slid back to grant Sara access.  She hesitated.  She noted the twin cameras recording
her arrival, both were discretely tucked away high  into the alcove protecting the front entrance. 
Remembering the call that had prompted her visit, she resisted the urge to turn away and leave.  

Sara moved quietly down the linoleum passageway.  Her rubber soled shoes occasionally making
a squelching noise against the freshly cleaned surface.  Her investigative training kicked in and she
was automatically assessing the remaining scent in the air - the fresh smell of pine.  

Stark, white walls were broken by paintings.  Some were reprints from well-known artists while
others were by unknown painters.  One, in particular, caught her attention and she stopped, frowning. 
 Sara had never seen anything like it.  The painter had combined the abstract with the traditional.  
Bright, aggressive dashes of colour filled the outer edges, drawing attention to the painting.  The
wild, bold and  frenetic display harboured a deeper secret within its inner sanctum.  The pudgy yet
delicate fingers of a young child linked with that of an adult, lines of maturity and experience
blending with wonder and inquisitiveness.  Both witness to the birth of new life through experience;
the explosion of colour and beauty as a butterfly broke free from its self-made constraint.  Sara
looked at the depth of passion that had gone into the painting, the butterfly looked as if it would
continue to fly, out into freedom.  

"That was done by one of our patients, Liam Finch," a soft-spoken voice said behind her. 

Sara jumped, caught off-guard.  She hadn't heard the approach of the petite, dark-haired nurse.  "It's
impressive," she commented, referring to the painting.

"Yes. He was very good.  It's a pity to lose such talent." 

"He's dead?"

"No.  But he has Alzheimers.  He has lost his ability to paint.  We encourage our patients to
contribute to the centre, putting a part of themselves into the place where they live.  It's their home." 
The nurse looked towards Sara inquisitively.  "Are you here to see someone?"

"Ahh...yeah.  Pamela Adler.  Her husband said she had been transferred to Haven View."

"Tom's with her at the moment.  She's in Room 24.  Straight down the hall and the last room on the
right."

"Thanks."

Sara found the room easily.  Once again she hesitated before entering, each step bringing her closer
to a past she tried desperately to forget.  

"Hey.  Sara.  Hi."  Tom's crisp voice broke through her uncertainty.

"Hi Tom."

"The doctor was right.  It's a nice place.  The staff are lovely and Pam is settling in well."
                                                            
Sara frowned at his phrase.  She took a look at the woman who lay prone in the bed. Pam was
shrouded beneath sheets and blankets, neatly wrapped.  The dark woman's head still bound in
bandages, nestled in a plump pillow.  The nasal canula had been removed.  Pam was now breathing
on her own with no assistance.  Yet, other than this single external sign, there was no change from
the time Sara had last seen her in hospital.   

Suddenly, as she looked on, past and present collided.  The memories exploded within her as she
remembered another hospice, another life that had been destroyed through the cruelty of a vicious
killer.  Massive internal and external injuries that had cut short a life that had so much potential, so
much desire to give.  And such a good friend.

"I'm sorry.  I can't do this."   Sara saw the look on Tom's face and felt guilty at the hurt that she
found there.  Right now, she could not cope with staying, the reality of his situation too close to what
she had known.  She felt the tears well up within her chest, turned sharply on one foot and quickly
headed back to her car.

The rain was coming down more heavily now.  Fat, round drops hit her face, mixing with the salty
rivulets of pain running down her cheeks.  Unlocking the car, she sat in the driver's seat motionless. 
She did not want to go home, but at the same time, she did not want to be with people either.  Her
refuge, the CSI building, was out of the question.  Someone was sure to question her presence at this
time of the morning.  In San Francisco, she had a haven; a place where she could go and come away
with some degree of clarity.  But this wasn't San Francisco and she needed a place, something to
give her a chance to regain her balance.  

Gunning the engine, Sara reversed the Tahoe and drove, resolving to find a new place, a new
sanctuary in which to rebuild her wall.

End Part 1/?

Part 2/?

Gil Grissom sat at his desk, fingering the message from Tom Adler.  He had already spoken with the
him, discovering that Sara had visited Pamela Adler at Tom's invitation.  The man had been
concerned about Sara's abrupt departure.  Ever since the call had come through, Grissom had tried
to contact Sara, both on her home telephone number and pager.  His calls had all been picked up by
her voice mail.  

If Tom had been concerned, Grissom was even more so.  But he was also angry.  Angry that Sara had
not heeded his advice, had allowed herself to be caught with an emotional attachment to the victim. 
Past experience had proven that this was not wise;  the plight of the victims and their families ate
away at the psyche, shifting the focus of an investigator from the evidence to the moral desire for
justice.  

Grissom chewed on his bottom lip, watching the phone and wishing that it would ring.  Thinking
back, he regretted not pulling Sara aside and asking more about why this particular case affected her
more than others.  Her enthusiasm for her job was vividly evident, the joy at investigating and
solving a crime a challenge and delight.  In her, he could see pieces of himself.  And there was
something lurking below the surface with this case that he had failed to pinpoint.  Her reactions to
this particular victim were personal.  

Grissom had tried to steer her away from becoming too closely involved.  Now, he was angry with
himself for not having a more serious talk with her.   He should not have let her think that he was
closed off from his victims - far from it.  Yet, he had let Sara walk away thinking that he was able
to just shut off his emotions, whereas it was a matter of control.  

"Hey, Gris."

Grissom looked up and found Catherine Willows in the doorway, her hip resting against the door
jamb.  Her head was cocked slightly to the right, her arms crossed as she patiently waited for him
to talk to her.

"Oh, hi Cath," he responded absently, giving her a cursory glance.  

"What's wrong?" It didn't surprise Catherine that she was going to have to play twenty questions
with Grissom.  He was never one to be forthcoming with information at the best of times and when
he did, it tended to be cryptic, layered with textured meaning.

"Huh?"

"You've been playing with that piece of paper, chewing your lip and watching the phone as if it was
God's answer to all the world's problems for the last minute that I've watched.  Probably longer at
a guess.  What's wrong?"

"Here." Grissom waggled the piece of paper in the air in her general direction.

Pushing off from the door jamb, she took the piece of paper and read it.  "Tom Adler."  Catherine
thought for a moment.  "As in the Jane Doe shot as a gang initiation?"

"That's the one."

"Didn't you wind up the case last week?"  Catherine sat down in the chair opposite, crossing her
pant-clad legs.  Placing the message back on his desk, she asked, "Isn't the kid in juvie?"

"Yep." His answer was short, his tone clipped.

"Case over.  So, what's the problem?" 

"Sara went and visited the victim at the hospice she has been placed in."  

Now the other shoe dropped.  Grissom was protective of his staff, particularly those that he had
personally trained.  "Why?"

"You tell me and we'll both know.  She's become attached to the victim, Cath.  I don't know how
to get through to her."  

"Did you try?" The question sounded terrible, even to her own ears, yet she felt it must be asked. 
Grissom had a tendency to avoid these sort of situations.  

Grissom gave her a wry look.  They both acknowledged his lack of people skills and Catherine
would often take on the role of mediator in circumstances which required placating ruffled feathers.
"Yes, I tried.  Did I succeed?  Obviously not."

"You're going to have to try again."  Catherine was well aware that Sara was not one of those people
she ever succeeded with either.   "She's not going to be an easy nut to crack."

"Huh?"

"She's like you, Gris.  Work is her life.  She hides from people behind the facade of work.  When
you tell her to walk away from it, it is like asking her to cut off an essential part of herself.  You're
the best example to her.  Tell her how you do it.  And don't just tell her you ride roller coasters.  It
won't cut with Sara."

"Cath, do you think I don't feel anything?"  Grissom voiced the comment that had left him
questioning how Sara and others viewed him.

"What do you mean?" Catherine leaned forward, resting her forearms on the top of the desk, her
arms crossed casually

"It's a conversation I had with Sara.  She accused me of not feeling anything."

"Then the answer is no; you hide it well though.  But then I know you better than most.  Gil, you
understand her more than you think you do.   Instead of being her boss, her teacher, talk to her." 
Catherine pushed herself up from the chair and walked to the doorway, stopping when Grissom
continued.

"I've been trying to.  Tom Adler rang because Sara ran out of the hospice, apparently quite upset. 
I've been unable to get her on her phone or pager.  I only get her voice mail." Grissom raised his
eyebrows, a silent question in his expression asking her to acknowledge that this was highly unusual
for Sara.

"Well, she's due to start her shift in twenty-five minutes, so she shouldn't be far away." Catherine
placated.  Until the time Sara was due to start, they could not assume anything.   

"Don't you find that strange in itself?  The fact that she's not already here?" 

"This is Sara we are talking about.  I find a lot of the things she does strange," Catherine responded
before leaving the room.

Gil gave a twisted smile at her retreating figure and wondered what Catherine's assessment of his
own idiosyncracies were.

End Part 2/?

Part 3/?
                                 <><><><><>

Sara finally found what she had been looking for.  The old church stood on its own, out in the middle
of a dusty paddock.  The white-washed weatherboard building was freshly painted; obviously
someone still attended to its upkeep.  Arched stain-glassed windows faced the dirt road and dark,
solid oak arched doors protected the inner reliquary.  

Pulling the SUV to a stop, Sara turned off the engine, her hand remaining on the keys as she
surveyed the scene in front of her.   Already, she could feel the rapid beating of her heart begin to
settle down and the painful, thick lump constricting her throat begin to release.  This scene had some
familiarity, provided some connection to the sanctuary she had always sought in San Francisco; the
peacefulness and solitude that enabled her to take time to gain perspective.  

Hopping out into the rain, she walked past the church, heading out beyond the building into the field
behind it.  Old fashioned wrought iron fencing surrounded a large area, segregating it from the old
church out front yet joining all that remained within.  Moving slowly through the gate, the disused
hinges grating loudly in protest, Sara walked reverently between the heavy, dark grey headstones. 
She took time to read each obituary to a life that was lost to the living; a testimony to love, disease,
war and life itself.  Families torn apart and reunited once again in death.  Losing herself in the images
of the past, she allowed time to evaporate.   

While the church was well kept, the graveyard was the opposite.  Each grave was overgrown with
weeds.  Some of the headstones hard to read, the harsh, wild weather of time taking a toll on the
chiselled stone.  Sara found herself automatically pulling the tough weeds from around each grave
as she read the inscription, the rain helping the ground release its grip on the roots.  The tedious work
occupied her hands while her mind extrapolated life stories from the small snippets of information
gleaned from the headstone.   Time and the manual labour dispelled the anxiety that had filled her,
giving her a chance to do some internal brick-laying once again.

                                 <><><><><>

Sara arrived at the CSI building with only ten minutes to spare before her shift.  Her clothes were
still drenched and muddy.  A miscalculation in the time it would take to get back from the cemetery
not allowing for her to go home, have a shower and change.  She was grateful that she always kept
a spare set of clothing in her locker for those days when bodies suddenly expelled unexpected foreign
material that impregnated the clothes.  

Tossing her handbag over her shoulder, Sara went directly to the locker room to get her change of
clothing, avoiding eye contact with anyone who happened to pass her along the way.  Only Warrick
was in the room, changing his shirt.  He swivelled his head in her direction as she entered the room,
noting her bedraggled appearance.  

"What did you do, walk to work?"

Sara had hoped that no one would be in the locker room, but she had been prepared for it.  She
wasn't about to tell anyone how she had spent the day. 

"Flat tyre.  No guy would stop to help," Sara offered blandly in explanation as she passed by Warrick
to get to her own locker.  She was grateful that the rain had continued to fall or otherwise her lie
would not have washed with him.  

"Do you blame him if you were wearing that expression on your face."

"Thanks, Warrick.  When you're wet and muddy, let's see what expression you wear on your face." 


"Actually, I've experienced the wet part and it's rather unpleasant.  Cheer up, the day can only get
better," Warrick remarked, thinking back to his recent experience with the pool at Portia Richmond's
mansion.  He gave her a gentle pat on her shoulder for support.  As he was about to leave the room,
he swung around to face Sara.  "By the way,  Grissom was looking for you.  Said he'd paged you."

Sara frowned.  Pulling her pager from her hip, she cursed herself inwardly, turning the pager on as
she did so.   She had turned it off before heading into the Haven View Centre and had forgotten to
turn it back on when she had left.  

"Unusual for you to miss an opportunity to work, particularly with Grissom," Warrick commented,
curious as to why Sara had not answered her page.

He got no answer.  Sara only slammed the door to her locker, avoided Warrick's inquisitive gaze as
she pushed past him and went to get changed.  As she left the room, Sara almost collided with Nick. 
He moved sideways, out of her way, the moment he witnessed the determined look on her face.  
Nick watched as she strode away, purpose in her stride,  her head bowed down.

"What's up with Sara?  Why is she soaked?"

"Two folded anger - annoyance; whatever you want to call it..   She had to change the tyre on her
SUV in the rain and also missed a page from Grissom.  I'd imagine she's wondering what wonderful
case she missed."  

However, Warrick wasn't so sure it was that simple.  From what little he had gleaned about Sara
since she had arrived in Las Vegas, he knew she was ambitious and intelligent.    She expected a high
standard from those around her, but expected even more so from herself.  Her interests outside of CSI
were nil and she has a propensity to do overtime at the drop of a hat.  For Sara to have turned off her
pager there had to be something going on.  As to what, he had no idea.   Warrick wasn't even sure
he wanted to find out, knowing how protective Sara was of her personal life.  But concern for his
colleague had him intrigued enough to pursue it further.

"That would drive her crazy.  Changed her tyre in the rain, huh?  What I wouldn't pay to have seen
that."

"Man, I don't think you'd want to be close when she was changing a tyre.  You'd never know what
direction she'd throw the tyre iron in her current mood."

"True, so true," Nick responded.  "Hey, I hope I won't be having Miss Sunshine tonight.  If I do, I
may just need to take up Greg's offer of a valium or two."

Warrick laughed as they made their way down to the break room cum briefing room.  Catherine and
Grissom were already there, seated at the able.  They were  in deep discussion which stopped as soon
as they entered the room.  
 
"Have you seen Sara?" Grissom asked as the two men walked into the room, gripping his cup of
coffee tightly. 

"Yeah, Grissom." Warrick confirmed, sitting down on the couch.  "She's getting changed.  She got
a flat tyre on the way here and ended up having to change it in the rain."

Catherine raised her eyebrows.  She looked across at Grissom and sent him a silent message to tread
carefully and not make any assumptions.  


"Really?" 

"Okay, here are the assignments.  Catherine, a 428.  Victim is at University Medical Centre."

Catherine sighed as she took the piece of paper.  These type of cases were not how she liked to start
the day.  

"Nick - 419.  Body was found at Cave Rock."

"On my own?  Yes!" Nick responded gleefully.  

"No," contradicted Grissom as he handed over the assignment.  " Sara will be working with you
when she gets here."

"Damn," Nick muttered under his breath.

"What?" Grissom looked up from the last piece of paper in his hand, raising his eyebrows to query
Nick's obvious displeasure.  

"Nothing,  Just you haven't had the pleasure of Sara's wonderful mood.  It's going to be a blast
working with her."  Nick walked out of the room in search of his assigned partner, grumbling under
his breath about how a certain snarky CSI should get a bit more sleep.

Grissom and Catherine exchanged glances.  Taking on the role of head of the graveyard shift had not
been Grissom's personal choice and with the current state of affairs, he knew why he had never
aspired to the position.  

"Warrick, you're with me.  Murder-suicide.   Sunrise Manor." 

Catherine gave Grissom a pointed look, obviously wanting to say something to him but refraining
from doing so in front of her colleagues.

"Go ahead, Warrick.  I'll be with you in a moment." Grissom handed Warrick the assignment sheet,
before leaning back against the bank of cupboards.  

"You're avoiding her already."

"Cath, a murder-suicide is not what she needs to be working on right now, particularly not this one."
Grissom knew a few of the finer details of the case.  It wasn't simply two people involved in the
murder-suicide but an entire family.  Would Sara cope with it after the pressure she had placed
herself under on the Pamela Adler case?  Personally, he didn't want to find out. 

"I disagree.  It will give you an opening. And if she doesn't cope, you'll be there.  It'll be safer than
sending her out with Nick."  

"Or do you mean safer for Nick."  

"Look Gil, you've got a situation and you've got to do something about it.  Now, not next week.  It
might be too late by then."

End Part 3/?

                            <><><><><>

Okay, someone queried the origins of my English... I'm confusing them with the fact my English is
using British English but my quotation marks usage is American.  I'm Australian and we have no
strict rule either way.  Yes, I use British English for spelling, but that's just showing my age :) These
days, you can get either from us Aussies. 

Part 4/?

Warrick waited down the hallway for Grissom to finish talking with Catherine.  Leaning against the
wall, he thought about the last few days.  The balance that normally existed in the team on the
graveyard shift was off.  It all seemed to stem from the recent Adler case that Grissom, Nick and Sara
had investigated.  Nick had mentioned how Sara had become personally attached to the victim,
referring to her as 'Jane'.  Ever since the investigation was completed, Sara had been unusually quiet,
her exuberance for the job quelled.   

It confused him that she was still maxing out on overtime.  Her thoroughness for detail was still
exemplary. Yet the spark that lit her eye at the discovery of a piece of evidence that would solve a
crime, however minute, had gone.  Warrick even missed those little annoying habits that she had and 
her off the cuff remarks.  

Hearing the familiar footsteps of Grissom coming down the hallway, he pushed off the wall, falling
into step beside his boss.

"Hey, Gris.  Can I talk with you?"

Grissom looked across at Warrick, a slight inclination of his head indicating for the young CSI to
proceed with whatever he wished to discuss.

"Ah, somewhere private?"Warrick added tentatively.

They moved through to Grissom's office in silence.  Entering the office, Grissom dropped the file
he was carrying on the desk and leaned against it. Warrick closed the door to provide them with some
privacy.  

"What's the problem?"  Grissom prompted.

"It's not a problem per se.  It's about Sara."

"What about Sara?"Grissom asked, quelling the disturbing nervousness he felt as soon as Warrick
mentioned her name.  Only moments before Catherine had been on his case about her and now
Warrick.  He wished that he could just bury himself in his lab and run several trials at once.  At least
he'd be able to keep better track of them than he seemed able to do with one particular CSI, who
seemed to be the subject
of everyone's concern.        

"Something's not right.  You know how you said she didn't answer her page." 

Grissom nodded.

"There was a reason.  It was switched off." Warrick, normally confident in his discussions with
Grissom, found this one unnerving.  His nervousness showed, his hands alternately crossing in front
of him to dropping by his side and back again.

Grissom absorbed this fact, now understanding why she hadn't returned his call.  That had concerned
him greatly and for a moment he was relieved.  But his relief was short-lived as he wondered why
she had not switched it back on.  

"Gris, when would Sara switch off her pager?  She's the ultimate workaholic in this lab beside you. 
There hasn't been a day in over a month when she hasn't worked and the first break she had, we
hauled her back in on the Portia Richmond case."

"I agree she needs to take some more time away from the lab."

"That's not what I'm meaning, Gris." Warrick walked over to lean against the desk beside Grissom. 
"To take Sara away from her work would be like taking away part of her soul.  Something's
bothering her and it's changing her.  She's not talking like she usually does.  She's just not being
'Sara', if you know what I mean."

Grissom nodded, accepting both Warrick assessment of the change in Sara and also Catherine's
warning.  Both of them were good judges of character, much better at it than he was.  He wasn't
going to ignore their advice and risk losing one very good CSI because he wasn't willing to take
action.  "Would you start work on the 419 with Nick?  Sara will work with me." 

"Sure thing.  Nick'll be happy."

"It's not being done for Nick's comfort."

"I'm glad."  Warrick pushed away from the desk, heading for the door.  

"Warrick," Grissom called after him.  Warrick paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. 
"Give me a call once you've finished at the crime scene.  I may need you as well on this one."

"Sure thing."
                            <><><><><>

Grissom checked through his aluminum field kit.  He never went out to a crime scene without
ensuring that every possible piece of equipment was there and in working order.  It was a habit that
also gave him a chance to try and work out what he was going to say to Sara.  

"I heard you're taking Sara with you."  

Grissom looked up at Catherine.  "What is this place? Gossip Central?"

"Well some of us like to be kept informed. Especially when we are concerned," Catherine replied
tartly.

Grissom gave her a quizzical look.  He gave up on trying to understand the human psyche.  It was
much easier to deal with the physical evidence of a crime than the changing tide of human emotion. 
"When you've finished with the 428, we'll probably need a hand with this one."

"How many?"

"Four.  Father and three kids."
                            <><><><><>


It was easy to find the house that was the subject of the murder-suicide.  Police cars cordoned off the 
street.  A patrol officer waved the black Chevy Tahoe, its lights flashing, through to the scene of the
crime.  Black and yellow crime scene tape separated the double storey weatherboard house from the
others in the street.  Long grass bent over under the onslaught of un-seasonal rainfall.  The garden
beds were a mixture of plant and weed.  Even in the rain, onlookers littered the sidewalk, cowering
beneath a sea of umbrellas.  Curiosity combined with shock were mirrored in their faces at the
rumoured nature of the crime.  

Grissom looked across at Sara as she parked the Tahoe.  She had been silent on the drive over to the
crime scene, none of the usual effervescent enthusiasm for the investigation evident.  Her hair hung
in damp curls around her face.  Eyes glazed with tiredness were surveying the crime scene.  Noting
the dark hue of blue under her eyes, fatigue seemed to scream at him from her very core.  

Used to her unusual sleeping habits, her quest for another challenge insatiable, Grissom had allowed
Sara to make the maximum use of her overtime.  It benefitted not only the CSI lab when they were
short-handed, but also kept her active mind occupied.  Looking across at her now, and with the
telephone call from Tom Adler playing on his mind,  he wasn't so sure.  Maybe he did need to watch
her a little more closely, curb her habit for excessive overtime and enforce a break from their
psychologically demanding job.  

Following Cath's advice and taking Sara under his proverbial wing, Grissom had been relying on
Sara to ask about his page.  Yet Sara hadn't uttered a single word other than an off-hand greeting. 
Not a word; not even a question about the missing page.  Consequently, he had found it impossible
to begin speaking to her at all during their time together in the SUV without making the next few
hours an awkward investigation.  Grissom needed her focused on the work at hand, not dwelling on
an exchange that benefitted no one at this time.  

Brass came up to the Tahoe, breaking Grissom's deep thoughts..  "Here's what I have so far. 
Teenage boyfriend of the eldest daughter came to pick her up for a junior high dance.  No one
answered the door.  He went out back and found the son lying dead on the porch.  He then called the
police on his cell phone."

"He didn't enter the house?" 

"No. He was adamant about that."  Brass nodded towards the teenager standing between two officers,
nervously switching feet as he looked on at the scene unfolding before him.  "First officers on the
scene found husband dead in the study, a 9mm semi-automatic pistol by his side.  Two daughters,
both killed in an upstairs bedroom, gunshot wounds to the head.  Son was killed out on the porch. 
Three shots to the torso.  Looks like he was trying to escape."

Brass leaned down to glance into the Tahoe. "It's only the two of you?"

"For now," Grissom replied.  "Catherine will be over once she's finished with a 428."

"Any note?" Sara asked.

"No.  Not that we've found on a cursory check.  Naturally, we've been waiting for you guys and the
Coroner to arrive."

"Brass, are your men taking photographs of the crowd?"

"What for?  It's a murder-suicide."

Grissom gave him a pointed look.  "Apparent murder-suicide."

"Yeah.  Right," Brass acknowledged grudgingly, feeling it was a waste of resources.  He'd been
inside the house.  It was obviously a murder-suicide.  It had the hallmark signatures of such a crime. 


"Sara.  You ready?"

She nodded and hopped out of the vehicle.  Opening the rear hatch, Grissom and Sara donned blue 
coveralls with 'Forensics' stencilled on the back.   They slipped booties over their shoes to prevent
contamination of the crime scene.  Taking their field kits, they proceeded to begin their investigation,
which really had begun the moment they arrived.  Both Grissom and Sara had been visually casing
the scene and observing the onlookers, noting details that the casual viewer might consider
inconsequential. 

End Part 4/?
          
                            <><><><><>

Part 5/?

Sara followed Grissom  up the concrete path that led up to the front door of the house.  Both carried
their field kits; Sara also had a camera casually slung over her shoulder.  She noted the lights on in
one of the upper rooms, a sliver of light escaping between drawn curtains.  Looking across the lawn,
the grass saturated under the day's continual rain, she slowly panned her powerful Maglite over the
surface, searching for signs of footprints or other evidence of the killer.  The wet weather was doing
its best to wash away any evidence outside the house.  

"Damn, we're losing evidence."

"Sara, focus."  Grissom directed as he also ran his flashlight over the surrounding lawn in the
opposite direction to that of Sara. 

Sara pulled herself upright, bristling under his demand.  Her experienced eye caught signs of
disturbance  in the long grass.  A small shrub in the garden bed also seemed to have some broken
branches. "There's something over there."  

Grissom came up beside Sara, shining his own torch alongside the beam cast by hers, the two mixing
to become one as they focused on the possible trail of evidence.  

"Brass, did the kid walk this way to get to the back of the house?  Any of your officers?" Grissom
asked, running his Maglite over the disturbed area.  Both were likely sources of the obvious tracks. 

"Not that I'm aware but I'll find out."

"If any did, I want to speak with them.  I'll need their prints."

"Footprints?" 

"Naturally.  The paramedics and police officers' fingerprints will already be on the database. I'll need
the kid's fingerprints as well; for elimination or otherwise."

"Grissom, you don't seriously think the kid did this?"

"I don't think anything at this stage.  The evidence will speak for itself."  Grissom put down his case
and opened it.  "Sara, photograph the scene while I see if I can get a decent cast off a print.  I'll
second your sentiment; the rain is going to hamper our efforts."  

Working diligently, Sara photographed each area of trampled grass and dirt.   Time was of essence
at this point, but so was accuracy.  Without jeopardising the validity of the evidence, Sara and
Grissom had the scene canvassed and had the evidence collected in the least amount of time.   

As they packed the evidence collected from outside the house into the back of the Tahoe, the rain
finally stopped.  They both stripped off their wet gloves and paper booties, dropping them into a
garbage bag in the back of the vehicle for disposal later.

"Talk about timing.  Who have I ticked off today?" Sara grumbled under her breath, brushing the
beads of rain from her forehead.  Digging deep into her pocket, she pulled out a black hair elastic
band . She pulled the wet, heavy strands away from her face and tied it back at the nape of her neck.

Grissom chose to ignore her rhetorical question, despite the fact that he would certainly qualify to
be on that particular list.  Remembering his resolve to not distract Sara from the scene through a
discussion, he avoided the opening she had provided him with.  Sara was obviously running on
adrenalin alone

"Now for inside," Grissom said, slipping on a new set of paper booties and latex gloves.  "I want to
walk through first before we begin processing the scene. Sara, photograph as much as you can." Sara
nodded in acknowledgement, slinging the camera and its case once again over her shoulder.  "I'll
take my own notes."  

Grissom turned around, searching the perimeter of the crime scene for Jim Brass.  He signalled to
Brass, indicating that he wanted to talk to him.  The homicide detective casually made his way over
to his CSO successor.  "We're going to begin inside.  How many have been through?" Grissom
asked, gesturing towards the police officers.

"Paramedics and a couple of police officers."

"Did they touch anything?" Grissom asked.   The three of them once again walked up the path
towards the house.  This time they would go inside and see what devastation had been wreaked upon
the family within.

"What do you think?" Brass responded, sarcasm attached to each word.  While he had worked as the
head of the graveyard shift for the CSI unit and had a special affiliation with the night shift, he still
was a cop and his allegiance to them shone through.

"It's not what I think that matters.  Find out."  

"I've already asked," Brass replied.  "Paramedics went through and found all victims dead.  Each had
sustained  massive blood loss.  They checked all the rooms because they wanted to make sure there
were no further victims."

"And the boy still insists he didn't enter the house?" Grissom still found this hard to believe.  

"Yeah.  He's adamant that he rang 911 right after he found the boy out back."

"What's your feeling?"

"He's hiding something."

"Arrange for one of your officers to take him back to the Criminalistics Bureau.  Mandy will take
his fingerprints.  

The double entrance doors were partially open, leading into a hallway bathed in a gentle yellow light
from two small wall lamps.  Despite this fact both Grissom and Sara had their flashlights in their
hands.  The hallway showed no sign of any disturbance.  Beside a vase of flowers set on top of a
mahogany bureau were several unopened letters.  Grissom noted that an elastic band still held them
in a bundle.  

They both put down their field kits to the left of the open doors, out of the path of their investigation. 
Cream single loop twist pile carpet covered the hallway floor, extending into each of the rooms and
up the stairs.  It was hard to miss the incomplete, muddy footprints that stained the otherwise pristine
carpet.  Grissom bent down and looked more closely at the footprints.

"Sara, what do you make of these?" Grissom asked Sara as she photographed the prints, his flashlight
lit over one of the footprints.  

"Single track prints," Sara commented, crouching down beside him to look more closely at the trail. 
"Coming from the stairs to this room to the left." Sara ran her own flashlight along the clearly
marked trail.

"It's the study," Brass informed them.

Narrowing her eyes, she took a closer look at the print Grissom had highlighted.  "Mud and...  is that
blood?"  She cocked her head to the side and turned to look across at Grissom, seeking his
affirmation.

An almost imperceptible nod acknowledged her question and confirmed the answer.  Grissom placed
the square rule beside the print.   "Size 8," he stated as Sara took another, closer shot of the footprint.

"Small for a man, large for a woman," Sara pointed out.

"Exactly."  Grissom gave a knowing smile.

"You know something I don't, Grissom?" 

"I'll wait for the evidence to speak for itself."

Sara shook her head and rubbed at her right temple, her fingers trying to massage away the telltale
signs of a headache.  Grissom's cryptic words were not helping either.  She should be used to this
by now, but he still managed to get her frustrated by his lack of projecting.

"Follow the trail up the stairs or into the study?" Sara asked tiredly, pushing herself upright.

"Study first."  

The trail stopped at the doorway of the study.  Sara continued to photograph the scene and followed
Grissom into the room.  She absorbed the atmosphere.  The room was lit by a single desktop lamp. 
A coppery smell still filled the air, mixing with the distinctive odour of nicotine.  An ashtray, filled
with several cigarette butts, sat to the right hand side of the intricately carved rosewood desk.  The
highly polished surface marred by the head lying face down on it, blood seeping into the large, white
blotting paper under it.  

Grissom approached the body, noting the gunshot wound to the head.  "Male. Caucasian,
approximately forty years.  One perforating gunshot wound to the right temple.  Exit wound behind
the left ear.  Bevelling and burn marks indicate close proximity of the gun to the skull at point of
impact."

"So the trail of footprints to the doorway were not those of the person who fired the shot," Sara
asserted as she finished another roll of film.  

"Unlikely," Grissom agreed.  "Not unless the murderer took his shoes off, which I would highly
doubt occurred." 

"Killer?  You don't think this was a murder-suicide."

"Never judge a book by it's cover.  Acquaint yourself with the crime scene, Sara.  Don't let other
opinions cloud your judgement."

As Sara changed the film, she looked around the room.  A mahogany leather seat occupied the wall
behind her, below an original painting.  Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall to her left. 
Scanning the titles, she noted the diversity in their content.  It was then that the methodical placement
of the books struck her.  Not by title or author or even size.  "Colour.  The books are sorted by
colour," she murmured softly, running her flashlight over the bookshelf. "Except for one section." 
  

"And the importance of this fact?" Brass asked, a couple of steps behind her.

"Probably nothing," Sara responded.  "It might be indicative of an obsessive tendency."  The last
section was unruly in comparison to the rest of the bookshelf.  The titles were all related to
psychology and psychiatry.  A combination of medical texts and expositions on specific
psychological conditions.  

As she ran her flashlight over the spines, a glint of metal flashed.  Crouching down to take a closer
look, Sara narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she realised what it was.  "I've located the slug. 
It looks like a 9 millimetre."

"Photograph the evidence.  We're on a walk through," Grissom reminded her.  

"There's a 9mm Luger in his hand," Brass commented, indicating to the handgun still grasped in the
man's right hand slumped by his side.

Grissom noted size of the entrance wound and exit.  "Injury is consistent with a handgun.  Estimate
would be in the range of a 9mm, but I'll wait for confirmation from the autopsy."  Moving around
the other side of the desk, Grissom got on his hands and knees acquainting himself with the scene
below the victim.   

"What're you looking for?" asked Sara. 

Silence.  Sara waited patiently rather than asking the question twice.  Previous experience had told
her that if he didn't respond initially, he would, given time.  

Brass sidled up beside Sara, a questioning look on his face.  "What's he up to?" 

"Not sure."

Minutes seemed to tick over slowly.  Sara and Brass hunched down on their haunches to see if they
could work out what Grissom was doing, but they only got a better view of his broad back.  

"Shoe size is an eleven," Grissom commented as he crawled out of under the desk.  "No blood
spatter on the top of his shoes.  Underneath, there's traces of blood in the tread."

"There were no tread marks on the carpet in this room," Sara commented, her brow furrowing in
confusion as she swung her flashlight over the carpeted floor.  Following a path from the doorway
to the desk, there were no overt signs of footprints, unlike what was in the hallway.  

"The residual blood is within the tread."

"But for blood to get within the tread, there would have to have been blood on the tread itself."

Grissom didn't answer.  He raised his eyebrows slightly and inclined his head towards the hallway. 
Sara  pursed her lips, acknowledged his silent instruction and followed him out of the room.   

"This is a mess," Sara commented as she changed the roll of film in the camera again to begin
photographing the trail of footprints that marred the carpeted staircase.  At least four to five different
sets had left their mark, overlapping and intermingling, almost ruining the chance of getting clear
prints.  

"Just photograph the evidence.  We'll worry about the contamination later," Grissom said quietly,
knowing that she was referring to the additional prints having been left by either police officers and
paramedics.

They worked their way slowly up the stairs, avoiding touching or interfering with any possible
evidence.  Photographs of the family decorated the wall at various intervals.  At the top of the
staircase, one of the photographs had been dislodged from its position, tilted at an angle.   Four
bloodied fingerprints were visible on the wall directly below the picture.  Three were smudged and
unlikely to be of any value.  The fourth was clearly defined.

"Sara, make sure you get photos of those prints," Grissom instructed.  He bent down to take a closer
look at the footprints.  Narrowing his eyes, he focussed on the peculiar dance one set of the footprints
seemed to have done and then looked at the fingerprint, evaluating the possible significance of the
two.  After quickly jotting down his observations in his own shorthand, he turned around to towards
Brass.

"The girls are in the bedroom to the right of the stairs," Brass informed them.

The room was not overly large, the walls painted a delicate shade of lemon.  The lights were on in
the room, illuminating the atrocity within.  To the left of the doorway, blood and brain matter coated
the top of a small chest of drawers,  located beside a single, white powder-coated wrought iron bed. 
A child's teddy bear lamp on top of the chest had been knocked over, blood also covering its surface
and the wall behind.

Grissom could just see the soles of a young child's shoes from where he was standing in the
doorway.  One foot in front of him, the carpet was soaked with blood, blood that had been smeared
as if something had been pulled through it.  A few feet further lay the body of an older girl, probably
in her mid teens with two bullet wounds.  

He held his emotions in check, his face grim.  Moving into the room, he went to the younger girl
first, hunkering down beside her.  Sara was only a pace behind him, the camera capturing his
observations in chromatic detail.
    
"One female caucasian, approximately eight years old.   Pool of blood surrounding the skull .  Body
located beside the first bed three feet east of the doorway.  Body does not appear to have been
moved.  Shot once through the frontal lobe." 

Other than Grissom's grisly analysis of the crime scene and the sound of the camera shooting, there
was silence in the room.  The act of violence perpetrated against these two girls was horrific,
particularly the older girl.  Moving towards the second girl, Grissom began his notations again.

"Second female.  Caucasian, approximately sixteen years old.  Shot twice - once in the chest and one
shot to the back of the skull.   Burn marks indicate close proximity of gun to the victim's skull
causing massive facial trauma. Drag marks indicate that the second female was shot initially one foot
inside the doorway with the second shot in the middle of the room approximately four feet south of
the doorway."

"Why do they have to kill the kids?" Sara asked, her voice breaking slightly as she asked the
question.

"Suicides?"  Grissom looked at Sara for confirmation of her question. At her nod, he continued,
"suicide is a selfish act.  The belief that it affects no one but themselves is a fallacy that makes it
easier on the person to commit the act."  

As he carried on this conversation with Sara, he frowned as he took a closer look at scene and the
injuries sustained by the two girls once more.  

"I still don't understand why they kill their children.  Why not let them have a chance at life?"

"A person who is capable of taking their own life has the capacity to convince themselves that death
is a better option for their children than life.  Although, I'm not sure that's the case here.  We cannot
rule out other causes, particularly in light of this evidence," Grissom pointed out.

"Huh?" Sara asked, confused.

"Sara, take another look at this scene."  Grissom stood up, surveying the scene from Sara's
perspective What do you see?"

"Two victims.  One shot at close range, one at some distance; both causing massive internal damage. 
Blood and bony tissue...these injuries weren't caused by that Luger."  Sara looked across at Grissom,
her eyes widening in realisation that she had automatically boxed the crime into the murder-suicide
category that Grissom warned them all not to do.  Never make assumptions, collect the evidence and
let it speak to you.

"Right.  These are injuries caused by high velocity ammunition.  Handguns are low velocity."

"Less than one thousand feet per second.  Average is five to six hundred feet per second.  High
velocity exceeds two and a half thousand feet per second.  The amount of tissue damage is
determined by the kinetic energy lost by the bullet in the body."

"And kinetic energy is determined by bullet weight, velocity and gravitational acceleration."

"Rifles and shotguns that produce high velocity are used in less than five percent of crimes
perpetrated against the public," Sara pointed out.

"It doesn't mean that one wasn't used."

"But there are also cartridges which mimic the high velocity impact a rifle will produce.  The .44
Magnum,  .38 special and some .357 Magnum loadings."

"Definitely not a 9mm Luger," Grissom conceded.   "And the multiple footprints leading in and out
of this room make it hard to declare a simple murder-suicide scenario.  It could be, but it also might
not be.  Keep your mind open to all possibilities, Sara."

Grissom left the room, Brass and Sara following in his wake.  Moving out to the porch, they found
the body of a young boy.  He had been shot several times in the chest, large bore holes witness to the
massive internal trauma inflicted.
                                                  
"Second male.  Caucasian, approximately ten years.  Shot three times in the upper torso.  Lying in
a pool of blood."  Grissom finished his notes, brushing the back of his hand across his forehead when
he had completed the last word.  

"The position of the body looks like he was moving away from the shooter," Sara said.

"Possibly."

"Probably."  Sara gave him a challenging look.

"Sara..."

"Yeah, yeah.  Don't interpret, acquaint myself," Sara responded quoting Grissom's grounding
comment that he often said to pull her back into assessing the scene.  She continued photographing
the body, finishing the film.

Grissom looked across at her, his mouth slightly agape.  He marvelled at how she remembered so
much of what he said to her.  This worried him.  His intended conversation with Sara was going to
be tough, especially knowing that she remembered his words so well.  

"That's it for the prelim.  Let's get to work.  Sara, will you process out here?"

"Okay."  

                            <><><><><>

A flash caught her eye.  Sara looked up from her examination of the boy's body.  The porch lights
burned brightly, bathing part of the lawn area in white light.  The flash came again, the swaying
movement of the long bladed grass in the gentle breeze revealling its hidden prize.  Grabbing the
camera, Sara approached the spot with caution, careful not to disturb the evidence as she took
photographs of the bullet casing. 

Picking up the spent shell on the wet grass, Sara looked back at the body.  On the walk through with
Grissom, logic had dictated to her to assume the boy had been running away from the killer.  Shot
three times in the back.  She'd assumed he'd been killed last, trying to get away from the killer.   
Now, she wasn't sure.  If he had been shot running away from the house, his killer inside, the spent
shell should have been inside the house or just outside the door, not out in the grass.  

Dropping the shell into a paper evidence packet, Sara sealed the top and pulled out her pen to label
it.  As she crouched writing the label, she looked back towards the body.  Her mouth twisted into a
frown, her eyes narrowing.  Were they wrong?  She searched the lawn for extra shells, the length of
the grass hampering her efforts.  Expanding the search area, almost at once she found the other two
shells three feet away.   Together with a shoeprint.  It was smaller than what they had found earlier. 
 

With the evidence, photographed, collected and packaged, Sara began surmising a scenario of her
own. Sara took a closer look at the gunshot wounds on the dead boy.  Estimating his height and the
location of the spent shells, she located the three slugs.  Two were embedded in the timber frame of
the window, beside the open door.  The third had a higher trajectory, indicating a change in the level
of the gun; most likely, the closest shot to the victim.  She dug the slugs out of their hiding place and
put them with the other evidence on top of her open field kit.  

Kneeling beside the boy on one knee, Sara took a closer look at the bullet wounds on his back.  "Why
did this happen to you?  To your family?" she whispered to the cold corpse, life having left his body
hours ago.
  
"Leave him alone."

Sara started at the sound of the shaky voice.  She hadn't heard the clip of approaching feet.  She had
been totally engrossed in her job.  Slowly turning her head towards the sound of the voice, she found
herself staring into the muzzle of a handgun.  A handgun which was shaking unsteadily in the thin,
pallid hands of an unsettled woman.  Sara noted that the woman's eyes were darting left and right,
never focusing on one spot.   

"Don't touch him.  You have no right." The woman screeched, the gun jumping up and down in
Sara's direction.

"Ma'm, I'm with the Crime Scene Investigation Unit...." Sara said softly, trying not to make any
sudden moves or distress the woman any further.  

"This is my home.  My son.  You have no right to be here.  I've got to take care of my children." The
woman's voice softened as she spoke of her son; her children.  Tenderness filled her voice and the
gun lowered.  

Sara absorbed the change in her demeanour.  This was a perfect example of why she preferred
dealing with dead people.  Their moods did not change with the wind.  "Ma'm, your son has been
shot.  I'm sorry, but his injuries were fatal ..."

"No.  You're lying.  He wasn't dead when I left him.  You killed him!" The unnerving screech
punctuated the words.  The hand on the gun suddenly steadied, the muzzle focusing solidly on Sara.

'Oh, shit!' Sara thought as she realised that this conversation had taken a deadly turn and dove to the
ground. She rolled awkwardly, away from the boy's body, natural instinct causing her to try to
preserve the crime scene.  Curling herself up tightly, she covered her head with her hands, protecting
herself; trying to make herself as small a target as possible.  The report from the gun rang out clearly
in the still evening air.  

End Part 5/?

Part 6/?

Catherine pulled up the navy SUV beside the first CSI vehicle.  Sara and Grissom had already been
at the crime scene for close on two hours.  Although, she knew, they would have barely scraped the
surface.  Multiples made their job more intensive as they needed to not only work out when, where,
what with and why but also the sequence in which the murders took place.   Sometimes working out
the sequence would also prove the why of the tragic deaths.  

The street was quiet and there were no onlookers which didn't surprise Catherine.  The night air was
beginning to get chilly, the unusual rain having brought a cooler change to the humid climate.   She
had no doubt that the street had been lined with curious neighbours earlier.  A crime scene drew
onlookers like a cadaver attracted flies.  

Catherine slipped on a pair of paper booties over her shoes and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. 
Holding them in her right hand, she grabbed her field kit and walked up the path towards the house.

"Catherine, glad you finally made it," Brass said as he came out the front door of the house. 
"Grissom's upstairs.  First room to the right."

"Right.  Thanks, Brass," Catherine said over her shoulder as she entered the house.  She ended up
having to back track her steps for a moment while the coroner's office removed a body from upstairs. 


"Is that the last one?" Catherine asked the tousled haired coroner's assistant as he judiciously stepped
backwards down the front step.  

"Nope," John answered with a sharp shake of his head.  "Two to go."

"Busy night, huh?" Catherine commented.  It was unusual that the bodies were still being removed
nearly two hours after the arrival of the CSIs at a crime scene.

"Yeah.  Haven't you noticed the full moon?" John indicated towards the round, full moon shining
brightly,  peeking out from behind the clouds filling the night sky.

Catherine followed his gaze.  "Always a sure sign of trouble."

"It sure brings out the weirdos.  At least we're on this end of it.  Couldn't imagine being a cop or a
medic on a night like this."

"I'm sure the people in your bag would prefer not to have been on their end of the deal," Catherine
reminded him grimly.

"I know."  John sent her a cheery grin as he continued with his job.  

Catherine carefully made her way into the hallway and took in the scene.  She avoided the evidence
trail and went upstairs.  From the amount of blood on and at the top of the stairs, Catherine realised
that the room Grissom was working in would not be pretty.   

"Hey, Gil.  You called..." Catherine drawled, as she put down her field kit beside Grissom's in the
girls' bedroom.

"Yeah, we need more hands on deck," he responded, indicating the crime scene.  He was crouched
over a pool of congealing blood, collecting samples for analysis.

"What a mess," Catherine commented, her eyes slowly absorbing the amount of blood and gore
coating the floor and walls of the room.  "What did they use?  A shotgun?"

"Something of that magnitude," Grissom said as he sealed the small vial containing the sample. 
"Sara has also suggested a couple of smaller loadings which can produce the same high velocity
trauma."

"She would," Catherine responded, trace of sarcasm lacing her tone.

Grissom turned his head sharply at the tone.  "Where's that comment come from?"

"Dissecting Sara from her computer is almost like conducting an amputation," Catherine responded
dryly.  
A smile tugged at the edges of Grissom's mouth.  He had to agree with Catherine on that point.  The
amount of information that Sara managed to scour through her computer searches was amazing.  

"How did she take what you said?" Catherine asked, bending down beside him.

"We haven't talked yet," Grissom said shortly, avoiding meeting Catherine's eyes.  He spied a hair
mixed in with the blood; it was short, dark and curly, unlike that of the victim.

"What're you waiting for?"

"An appropriate time to discuss it.  This," Grissom indicated to the scene around him with the
tweezers in his hand, "is not the right time."
Catherine didn't bother even to respond to his reasoning.  Instead, she rewarded him with a withering
look.
  
Grissom returned her gaze, his mouth slightly twisted.  "I'm going to speak with Sara.  Tonight is
not the right time.  She is running on adrenalin alone."

"How's she coping?" 

"The usual.  It's not the first time Sara has worked like this." Grissom thought of the occasions when
the toll of the extensive hours she put into an investigation had her falling asleep at her computer
terminal or in the lounge.  It was only when she slowed down for a break that the tiredness seemed
to hit her.  He hoped that the pattern would continue with this case. 

"It's the first time you have been worried about her though," Catherine reminded him quietly.

Grissom couldn't disagree with her there.   It had been Sara's close association with the victim that
concerned him.  He should have recognised the signs earlier; he had overheard the whispered
promise in the hospital.  The overhelming need to give the victim an identity, a past before she died,
should have registered with him.  He had worked with Sara often enough to know that this was not
how she would react normally.  Something was wrong and he'd ignored all the pointers.  
  
"Anyway, you wanted me on this crime scene.  What do you want me to do?"  Catherine knew that
this scene was going to take many more hours of investigation.  The fact that the victims had not all
been shot in the one area immediately making the task more complicated.

"There's the study to still be done.  We've only done a prelim," Grissom told her.  "I'd also like you
to do an analysis of the crime scene.  Find out the sequence and then we may know the who and
why."

Catherine frowned at his comment, her brow furrowing. "So, taking a guess, the father in the study
with a rifle."

"Father and study correct, 9mm Luger was the weapon of choice." Grissom informed her succinctly,
raising his eyebrows at her as he labelled another evidence bag.  

"But these injuries aren't consistent with a Luger," Catherine stated, pursing her lips together as she
looked around the room again.  

"Begs the question, doesn't it?" 

"So it might not be a murder-suicide."

A gunshot resounded in the silence.  Grissom paled, instantly remembering how Holly Gribbs had
come to lose her life.  His earlier concern for Sara immediately had him frozen, worried that Sara had
suffered the same fate.

"What the hell?" Catherine turned quickly, drawing her gun from her holster, trying to determine
where the shot had come from.  

Grissom followed her out the door, to the top of the stairs.  Basic training had both Grissom and
Catherine cautious in their movements, despite the fact that they wished to run around the house to
ensure that all their team were okay.

They were on the stairs when they saw Brass entering the front door, his gun drawn.  Behind him
were two local police officers, their eyes anxiously searching the room, guns held tightly in their
hands.    
"Where did the shot come from?" Brass asked them in a stage whisper. 

"Down here somewhere," Catherine responded, carefully moving down the stairs, one step at a time.

"Where's Sara?" Brass asked.   

"I had her assessing the scene out the back," Grissom responded, his voice steady, not revealling the
fear that gripped him.  

Brass directed the two officers to check the downstairs area of the house.  "Let's check out back. 
Stay behind me."

End Part 6/?

Part 7/?
                            <><><><><>

Sara was relieved when there was no sudden impact of a bullet hitting her body or grazing her skin. 
A rain of warmth fell on her arms, hands and head, followed by a heavy thud.  The smell of death
permeated Sara's senses.  She opened her eyes, blinking slowly.  Peering between crooked arms still
protecting her head, she noted the scene in front of her.  A combination of grey brain matter and
blood covered the area, substances that both had not been there before.  Hesitantly Sara released the
tight grip  of her hands on her head.  Looking at the raw material coating her arms and hands, a small
shudder of revulsion ran through her.  

"Sara?" Grissom called out.  "Sara?" 

Sara unfolded herself from her cramped, protective huddle.  Pushing herself up into a sitting position,
her left leg crossed beneath her for balance while she rested her right elbow on the other bent knee. 
All her energy seemed to disappear as she absorbed the scene around her.   Sighing, she brought her
hand up to her temple, massaging the area, attempting to ease the pulsating pressure pounding a
monotonous tune. 

"Sara? Are you all right?" Catherine asked.

Surprised at hearing Catherine's voice, she frowned, lines furrowing her brow.  The voices sounded
so distant, far away from where she was surrounded by death.  Stopping the massage on her temple,
she swivelled her head to see a trio of concerned faces.  Grissom, Catherine and Brass filled the
doorway.  

"Ah...yeah... I think so," Sara responded, her voice unsteady, the magnitude of the situation still
keeping her off balance.  She found it hard to fathom that the gun, which had been aimed at her when
she dived to the ground, had failed to deliver the bullet in her direction.  Sara felt numb, unsure how 
she should feel.  Grateful that the woman had chosen to blow off her own head?  A shiver shook her
thin frame and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, warding off the chill that was permeating
her clothing.  Her own voice sounded muffled, caught in a maelstrom of silence.  

"Sara, we need to get you checked out.  Make sure you're okay."  Grissom was concerned at how
slowly she was reacting, her movements stilted.  He moved out through the door towards his dark-
haired CSI.

Sara shook her head, wincing as the action increased the pounding in her head.  "No.  I'm fine.  Just
in need of a shower."  

"Don't be disturbed if we don't agree with you," Brass commented, following closely behind
Grissom.  It was hard to discern if she did or didn't have an injury.  Blood splatter coated the back
of her overalls in viscous streaks.  He watched her reaction to the scene, or lack of reaction.  Shock
was obviously beginning to set in.  There was a slight tremor in the hands resting on her knee. 
Following her gaze, looking over the changed crime scene, old evidence mixing with new, he asked,
"what happened?"

"The mother came back," Sara said simply.

"She's the mother?" Catherine asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Sara answered softly, her gaze falling on the still body.  The force from the bullet had blown
away half of the woman's skull.  Technically, she noted that the bullet from the .44 Magnum had
performed exactly as expected.  The skull had exploded in both directions, the force of the bullet
causing the brain tissues to expand and collapse upon themselves, expelling the brain matter through
both the entrance and exit wounds.  

"Did you use your gun?" Brass brought Sara's focus back on his line of questioning.  He recognized
the distant look in her eyes.  He wanted to get the basic police procedural requirements covered so
that she could be removed from the scene as quickly as possible. 

Sara shook her head.  

"I'll need it anyway... procedure."  

Sara nodded, unfazed by the request.  She hadn't drawn the weapon at all during the exchange with
the woman.  Pulling her gun from its sheath at her hip, she handed the gun over to Brass.  "You'll
need my clothes as well."

"Yes.  We will.  Later.  Right now, I want you to see a doctor," Grissom told her shortly.  

"I told you, I'm fine."

Grissom held out a hand to help Sara up.  She grasped his hand, frowning at the grisly residue on the
back of her gloved hand.  She let out a yelp of pain at pressure placed on her wrist as she rose to her
feet. 

"That doesn't sound like 'fine' to me," Grissom remarked as he captured the injured arm to look at
it more closely.  He pulled off the latex gloves covering her hands, dropping them to the ground.  

"It'll only be a sprain.  Look - each finger bends."  Sara demonstrated, her fingers performing a
miniature Mexican wave.  Sara looked directly at Grissom, her brown eyes meeting his as she tried
to convince him that she was all right. "I can even twist it this way and... that."  The look backfired
as she winced at the pain that shot up her arm as she manipulated her wrist, her voice catching in her
throat.

"Sara, it's the 'that' that I'm concerned about," Grissom said softly, touching her shoulder lightly. 
"Humour me, will you?"  

She nodded, too tired to argue, knowing that Grissom would not be satisfied until she had been given
the all clear by medical personnel.

"Cath?" Grissom asked with a single word.

Catherine interpreted his unspoken question.  "Come on, Sara.  Let's get you down to Southside." 
Walking towards the doorway, Catherine left it to Sara to make the decision to leave.  She knew her
teammate well enough to know that it would need to be her decision to go, rather than being pushed.

Sara gave the crime scene one last look, cold reality seeping through the protective layer of shock. 
A small tremor shook her light frame and she quickly followed Catherine back into the house.

"Wonder why the woman lost her head - literally?" Brass asked as he slipped the gun Sara had
handed him into an evidence bag.  

"Half her head."  Grissom collected the camera Sara had left beside her kit, intending to photograph
the changed scene.  He noticed the evidence bags and the completed evidence list and nodded,
approving.  Sara was nothing, if not thorough.   There would be no compromise of the chain of
evidence in this case, despite the almost disastrous result.
  
"Right," Brass said shortly.

The sound of footfalls in the kitchen behind them had both men reacting, Brass reaching for his gun. 
It was only Sara, her brown eyes squinting at them. She was still clad in her overalls, the dark stains
marring the surface a lurid reminder of the danger she had endured.

"You were going to the hospital," Grissom pointed out, his tone harsher than he intended.

"Yeah.  In a moment," Sara brushed his concern aside.  "I'd better give you a quick rundown on the
scene before she turned up.  Grissom, that boy wasn't shot from behind."

Grissom raised his eyebrows, waiting patiently for her to continue.

"I found the shell casings in the grass over here and three bullets were in the timber frame of the
window."  Sara pointed to the various sites where she had discovered the evidence.  Finally, she
threw in the main reason she had returned to the porch.  "The mother also made reference to having
been here before."

"What did she say exactly, Sara?"

"He wasn't dead when I left him," Sara rushed the words, quoting the mother's chilling phrase.  The
pounding in her head was increasing, the bright lighting on the porch aiding the marching band that
was currently practising its maneuvers within her head.  

"That could mean anything," Grissom pointed out.

"True.  But she wasn't shocked to find him lying shot on the ground."  Sara looked over at the
woman, the sight instantly replaying the scene in her mind; the gun levelled in her direction and the
shot which muted the sound of everything else.

"I'll need a full statement from you," Brass pointed out.

"After she's been to the hospital," Grissom interjected, placing the camera back beside Sara's field
kit.  "Brass, stay with the evidence."  

Brass looked back at Grissom, a mixture of displeasure and understanding filling his face.  He didn't
appreciate being commanded by him, especially considering that Grissom had once been his
responsibility; the one who answered to his commands.  Yet, at the same time, he knew why the
instruction was given.  
Grissom lead Sara out of the house towards Catherine's SUV.  The gunshot had brought the
inquisitive neighbours out into the street again.  Together with a circus of media. Grissom frowned
as they walked down the path; Sara's head was downcast and her pace distinctively subdued,
ignoring the cameras that were capturing their every move.    

Catherine was at the rear of the vehicle, a large evidence bag in her hand.  Sara undid the buttons
with her right hand, the nerves of her injured arm still twinging sympathetically in response to the
earlier inspection.  
"Do you want some help?" Catherine offered, seeing her struggle with a button.

"No." Sara shook her head.  She needed to do this on her own.  She hadn't been shot as luck would
have it and she wasn't going to break down in front of everyone because she'd been scared.  Her
pride wouldn't allow her to do that, but she was struggling all the same.  It would be so easy to curl
up in a corner and cry. 

The overalls and booties were dumped into the bag and tied securely.  Grissom picked up the bag and
watched Sara hop into the SUV.  

"She'll be okay, Gil.  She's strong."

"I know.  It's just... it shouldn't have happened."  He shook his head.  It was so soon after the Holly
Gribbs murder with similar circumstances.  This time a CSI had not been fatally injured, but it did
not make him feel any better.

"No murder should happen, but we both know that they do.  There was nothing you could have done
to prevent this.  You were all following procedure."

"Cath, make sure she gets properly checked out.  Her hearing as well." Grissom had noticed the way
Sara had reacted when they were speaking, squinting her eyes and focussed concentration on their
words.  It could be a simple headache, but he wanted to be sure.  

"Sure."    

End Part 7/?
                                 
Part 8/?
                            <><><><><>

Sara frowned, her forehead creasing as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.  Swivelling around, she
noticed that she was in a quiet, dimly lit, suburban street.  The night air was cold causing her to
shiver, her thin top little resistance against the chill. A crisp breeze swayed the trees lining the street,
their skeleton-like branches casting eerie shadows.

Sara moved forward slowly down the street, her steps at first tentative.  As she walked, she found
herself drawn towards one particular house.  There was no outward sign of movement within the
house.  A single outdoor lamp threw a soft round beam of yellow light on the porch.  Carefully, she
moved closer until she stood at the bottom of the four uneven steps; steps that would take her up
within the glow of the candescent  light.  

The weatherboard house was in need of repairs, white paint peeling in large, irregular flakes from
the long planks.  The front door was ajar, no light escaping from inside.  Sara went up each step
cautiously, the old woodwork creaking ominously beneath her weight and sending a shiver of fear
down her spine.  She moved forward, somehow knowing that this was what she must do despite an
insistent warning that told her to leave.  A distant memory tugged at her, but remained sealed.

Pushing the door open, Sara gingerly stepped over the threshold into a pitch black hallway.  She left
the door ajar to allow some light to guide her way down the carpeted hall.  She grimaced and shook
her head.  Instinct had her wanting to turn away, knowing that what she would find would haunt her. 
 A deeper force was drawing her down the darkened hall like an insignificant mosquito to a light trap. 
She had to go down there, searching; searching for what she did now know.  Her feet picked up the
pace, her strides becoming longer as she began a gentle jog.   A ball of fear welled in her chest, her
mouth opened to call out a name that didn't reach her lips.

In the darkness, Sara felt her foot collide with a solid object seconds before the impact sent her to
her knees, falling to the ground beside the thing that had caused her to lose her balance.  She frowned
as she felt her hands connect with a wet surface on the carpet.  She pulled her hands away, holding
them close to her face in an attempt to identify the substance.  It had a distinctive odour.  Sara felt
the dampness leeching through the knees of her jeans as well. 

Tentatively, she reached out to touch what had caused her fall.  Shock filled her as she realised it was
a body.  Sara suddenly recognised the odour.  Her mind rapidly connected the pieces of information
her senses and hands had discovered and she rose to her feet seeking to find a light switch.  

She found one within the room opposite.  Her hand rested on the switch as light illuminated the room
and hallway.  The pitch black scene was a harlequin of colour.  In front of her lay the body of her best
friend in a pool of blood, dark red stains on her torso revealling multiple stab wounds. 

"No." 

The sound broke through the silence in the room.  Sara jolted awake.  She took in the scene around
her, relieved to find herself on top of a hospital bed, far away from the scene which had haunted her
for over a decade.  Catherine was leaning over the edge of the bed, her hand resting on top of Sara's.

"Hey," Catherine greeted her, her blue eyes wide with concern. "You okay?"

Sara nodded, running her tongue around the inside of her mouth before speaking.  "What time is it?"

"Just after two."  

"Catherine, I can go see a doctor in the morning," Sara said, a note of pleading in her voice.  She
pushed an errant strand of hair away from her face as she tried to displace the painful dream into the
deep recesses of her memory.  "As I said, I'm sure it's just a sprain.  It's silly to sit here and waste
the hospital's time and money on a simple sprain."

"Sara, my daughter knows better than to continue to bug me with the same argument..." Catherine
trailed off, letting her colleague make what she would of the statement.  "Besides, Grissom'd roast
me alive if I came back without a doctor's evaluation of your injury."
                                                                  
Catherine knew she wasn't far wrong with that assessment either.  She had witnessed the look on
Grissom's face when he had seen Sara curled up on the ground.   It wasn't an expression that she
wanted repeated.  The combination of shock and horror had rooted him to the spot, absorbing the
crime scene in front of him.  

Those who didn't know Grissom would have assumed that he was doing his job, taking in the body
of the boy to his left, the middle-aged woman with half her head exploded over the porch and his
cowering CSI.  But Catherine had known better.  He had been scared, frightened that one of his own
had been injured while doing a job he had given them.  There was no way she was heading back to
the labs without Sara having been given a full once over by the ER doctors.

"Sorry I fell asleep."  Sara let her hand drop to her side, resigned that she was not going to be able
to wheedle Catherine into agreeing to let her go home.  

"You looked like you needed it," Catherine stated, her eyes narrowing as she pondered the small
snippets of distress she had witnessed prior to Sara waking.

Sara nodded, her eyes hooded as she sought to clear her mind of the image that filled it.

"Although I'm not sure it gave you much rest.  Nightmares?" Catherine forged forward, deciding that
it would be best to bring the subject to the fore, since Grissom seemed to be unable to broach the
subject.  "You don't need to answer that.  I'm pretty sure that I know the answer.  Sara, we've all
suffered from the problem of a case getting to us.  There is always going to be that one case that hits
too close too home.   Grissom's worried about you."

"Grissom worries too much."

"Maybe you don't worry enough."

"What do you mean?" Sara whipped her head sideways to stare at her strawberry-blonde haired
colleague. 

"You live your life through your job.  It's dangerous.  You will burn out," Catherine told her matter-
of-factly.  "Maybe not this year or the next, but time will catch up with you and you'll be a shell of
the Sara that everyone knew."

"Why does everyone think I don't have a life outside of work?"

"Because you don't.  Sara, we see you every day.  When do you take time off for yourself?  You need
a balance between work and everything else.  Otherwise you'll be another Franovich."

"What do you suggest?"

"Find an interest outside of law enforcement."

"That's what Grissom said."

"He gives good advice."  Catherine gave her a meaningful look.

A short, dark-haired doctor walked into the room, a stethoscope around her neck.  She hardly looked
old enough to go to college let alone treat patients in a busy emergency department.

"Sara Sidle?"

Sara nodded and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, dangling over the speckled
linoleum floor.  She introduced Catherine, stating that she didn't mind her staying in the room during
the exam.

"Dr. Langmead."  The young doctor introduced herself before quickly confirming the necessary
details on the form completed by the triage nurse.  "I'll take your blood pressure before I go any
further."  As she went through the basic exam, she asked Sara various questions about her general
health.  "A bit low."

"How low?" Catherine interjected, concerned.

Dr. Landmead looked to Sara for guidance, who nodded her consent, not worried by the result at all.

"98 over 60."

"It's fine, Catherine.  My BP is usually around that level.  My mother and grandmother both had low
blood pressures.  It's probably a family thing."

"You should be careful though," Dr. Langmead warned her.  "You need to make sure you eat and
drink regularly."  

"Yeah, I know.  I've been told that before."

"She's not great at following instructions which relate to her health," Catherine told the doctor
sardonically, remembering the numerous times that Sara had forgone both food and drink to forge
forward on a case.  It wasn't even taking into consideration her unusual sleeping habits.

Sara shot her a dirty look, thinking that she should have made her wait outside.  

Dr. Langmead accepted the unsolicited information, narrowing her eyes as she looked at her patient. 
"You fell on an outstretched hand?"

Sara nodded.

"No other injuries?  You've got blood and...." The young doctor stopped as she realised what the
other substance was.

"No other injuries.  And yes, I have blood and brain matter in my hair," Sara stated curtly.  If she had
had it her way, she would have gone back to CSI and had a shower before going anywhere else. 
Grissom and Catherine had other ideas and at the time, she hadn't felt like fighting the two of them. 


"Okay, let's have a look at it."  

Sara held out her left arm as the dark-haired doctor poked and prodded it this way and that, eliciting
a few sharp intakes of breath as the movement sent waves of pain up her arm.  Dr. Langmead applied
a temporary splint to the arm and an ice pack to the area to help reduce the swelling.

"Okay.  It looks like it could be a scaphoid fracture.  I'm going to send you for an x-ray.  However,
with scaphoid fractures, they are difficult to visualise on an x-ray due to the variable blood supply. 
Either way, I will be placing your wrist in a cast,"  Dr. Langmead said as she made several notes on
the chart.  "I'll send a nurse down to take you to x-ray shortly." 

The doctor left the room and Catherine sidled up beside the bed where Sara was still sitting, silent,
contemplating the ramifications of the injury.

"And you said it was only a sprain."

"I was hoping," Sara said softly, fiddling with the battered, loose gold watch band on her left arm. 
Undoing the clasp, she held it out towards Catherine.  "Can you look after it for me while I'm in x-
ray?  It's special."

"Sure," Catherine agreed as the watch was dropped into her hand.  She gently rubbed over the
surface.  "You must have cracked the face on the ground.  You'll have to get it fixed."

"No I didn't.  It's been like that for over ten years."

"Why don't you get it fixed?" Catherine was confused.  Why would Sara have such a nice watch,
obviously expensive, that didn't fit her wrist properly and have a damaged face.

"It's a reminder to pay attention.  I didn't do that tonight.  I was so engrossed in the scene, in my own
thoughts that I didn't hear her."

"The mother?" Catherine asked, reeling at the sudden change in the direction of the conversation. 

"Yeah, she was standing less than two feet from me and I didn't notice.  Why didn't she shoot me?"

"I don't know.  It's not your time.  I can give you all sort of glib answers, but no one really knows. 
If I were you, I'd be grateful that I had been given another chance and make the most of it.  Life is
for living."


End Part 8/?

Part 9/?
                            <><><><><>
                              
Grissom watched the SUV drive away into the darkness, the expression on his face unreadable.  A
flash of light drew his attention back to the crime scene that still needed processing.  It was a
daunting task to face on his own.  He had called in Catherine to assist Sara and himself because it
had turned out a much more involved case for them all.  Pulling out his cell phone, he quickly hit the
speed dial for a familiar number.  The phone was answered quickly after only two rings.

"Warrick.  How are you going with the 419?"

"Hey Griss.  Just finished at the scene.  We're headed back to the lab right now," responded Warrick,
his voice distorted, the intermittent reception of the cell phone service playing havoc with their
discussion as the car moved back towards the city centre.

"I need you and Nick to help me finish up evidence collection here.  Drop off your evidence at the
lab and get over here asap."

"Okay, what's the address?" Warrick asked, quickly jotting down the location as Grissom relayed
it to them.  He warned them that it was another gruesome scene with complications.

Warrick found his disclosure unusual.  Grissom usually kept these details close to his chest, or only
revealled them in person.  To do so over the cell phone, made him wonder what was wrong.  There
was an underlying concern in Grissom's voice that had him speculating.  "How's Sara holding up?"

"She's at the hospital," Grissom answered curtly, not needing the reminder of the current emotional
and physical state of his CSI.  "Get here as soon as you can."  With that, he cut off the connection,
moving back towards the house.

The night air was now still as if the brutal discovery within the home had caused nature to go into
quiet mourning.  The coroner's department was moving the another body out of the house and into
its van, the fourth for the night which filled the final space in its rear.   As John shut the doors on the
ravaged remains  of a family, another black vehicle pulled up haphazardly beside it, lights flashing. 
David hopped out of the car with another assistant.

"David; we've got an extra one for you out back."  Grissom nodded towards the house and led the
way through the crime scene.

"Detective Brass told me what happened," David commented, his cell phone grasped in his hand and
carrying his case in the other.  "Frightening stuff.  How's Sara?"

"At the hospital," Grissom answered, his words clipped.  Noting the concerned look on David's face,
he continued, "she's fine."  He said it to reassure himself as much as for David.

"Oh.  That's good."  David followed Grissom towards the back of the house.  "So the mother was
the killer, huh?"

"Possibly."

"I though that the mother admitted to killing her kids."

"Nothing is concrete.  We will all interpret the evidence without letting other events cloud our
judgement."

"Good, you're back," Jim commented, breaking his pacing of the footpath leading up to the porch
area.  Despite the fact that he was used to seeing dead bodies, he had found it rather macabre and
disconcerting to stand watch over them alone.

David looked at the scene before him.  It wasn't necessary to determine time of death by the usual
method since it had been witnessed and could be accurately assessed.  Moving around the body, he
conducted a couple of examinations and made some notes before finally beginning his collection of
the victim - or murder suspect, depending on which way you looked at it.  "Interesting void in the
pattern," he remarked, waving his hand to indicate the blood splatter pattern.

"Sara," Grissom answered, his eyes capturing all David's movements around the victim, carefully
stepping to avoid the evidence on the ground.   

Grissom surveyed the new crime scene, his face grim.  The woman had shattered half her skull;
blood and grey brain matter coated the porch.  Except for one distinct area; the small area where they
had found Sara curled into a ball, her arms covering her head, trying to protect herself from
unexpected danger.  It had been the first time he had ever seen her scared.  

It was so easy to imagine the scene that Sara had been faced with earlier that night.  An unstable
woman, waving a gun unsteadily at her as she had been caught unaware, processing the crime scene. 
Her dive to the ground to avoid the lethal projectile.  

Even in the early days of working with her, Sara had never shirked away from a crime scene
investigation.  Volubly expressed her distaste, but not once had she conveyed fear at what she was
investigating.   Her need to excel in all that she did meant that she had sought to work on cases that
others would find difficult. Her exposure to a wide range of crime scenes had come not only from
where she had trained, but also from her drive to be the best at what she did.  The bigger risk with
Sara was that she would get emotionally involved in the case as she had done with Pamela Adler. 


Looking at the spot where she had curled herself into as small a target as possible had given him a
margin of insight into how frightened Sara had been for her life.   The reality of how close Sara had
come to being a victim at this scene hit him with full force.  

David realised he had unintentionally drawn Grissom's attention back to the shooting.  His curiosity
wondered what had happened and how Sara had been caught in such an invidious situation.  Her job
was to come in after the danger had passed.  What had gone wrong?  Patience was going to go a long
way tonight.  He knew that Grissom wasn't going to provide him with a detailed exposition and he
would have to wait until the LVPD Express, as he had nicknamed the departmental grapevine, gave
him a more accurate picture.  With the aid of his assistant, David removed the body and left Grissom
and Brass alone on the back porch.

"Pretty gruesome," Jim commented, breaking the silence.

Grissom raised his eyebrows.

"To find one of your own caught in the line of fire."

Grissom felt his chest tighten as he remembered that this wasn't the first time one of his own had
been looking down the barrel of a suspect's gun.  Nick and Sara had both been lucky.  A split second;
an unsteady, uncertain hand could have put both of them in the morgue like Holly.  

"It shouldn't have happened, Jim.  I though the kid was involved.  His footprints are all over the
place.  I didn't even give a thought about where the mother was."

"Don't be so hard on yourself.  The initial call was murder/suicide.  You saw that it wasn't kosher. 
You did your job.  You're not psychic."

"In cases like these I wish I was."

"Grissom... you said the kid's footprints were all over the place?  

"Yeah.  On the stairs, in the girls' bedroom and outside the study."

"What about out here?"

"Nope."

"The kid's telling us porkies.  He said that he saw the brother out the back here and immediately
called us."  
"Obviously he's covering something; the question is what?"

"I think I'm going to try and find out."

End Part 9/?

Part 10/?

Warrick frowned, dropping the hand holding the cell phone into his lap.   Nick drove the Tahoe with
familiar ease through the brightly lit Vegas streets.  He looked across at his dark-skinned partner and
narrowed his eyes.

"What's the prob?  What'd Grissom want?"

"He needs our help on that multiple at Sunrise Manor... and Sara's at the hospital."  

"What?" Nick's head swivelled so quickly, he was lucky not to suffer whiplash.

"Don't know why or how, but the sooner we drop off this stuff at the lab, the quicker we'll find out." 
Warrick's tone was even, despite the fact that his concern for his colleague had set his heart racing. 


They made the drive to Sunrise Manor in the least amount of time possible without breaking the
speed limit.  Nick held back on speeding, remembering Grissom's words the last time he had sped
to a crime scene.  From what he knew about Grissom, particularly when he was concerned about
Sara, it was best to stay on his good side.  

Two patrol cars guarded the crime scene and protected the sole occupant of the house.  Nick pulled
the Tahoe up beside the police cars and the two young men jumped out.  It was nearly 3.30 a.m and
the street was deserted; the neighbours apparently favoured their warm beds in lieu of their
inquisitive nature.  

As they entered the house, they found their superior waiting for them in the hallway.  Grissom's  eyes
were hooded and he avoided looking at them directly, immediately issuing instructions on what he
needed them to do. 

"What's this about Sara and the hospital? What happened?"  Nick interrupted him, his curiosity and
concern demanding answers to the questions filling his mind.

Grissom sighed and finally looked at them both, revealling haunted smoky blue eyes.  "She was
injured when avoiding a bullet."

"What?"  Warrick flashed back to Holly Gribbs' death come back to him, a time when his addiction
affected his judgement.  "The perp was still here - in the house."

"No.   And we're not sure it was the perpetrator who shot Sara.  The mother of the murdered children
returned while we were analyzing the scene.  Sara was caught out the back on her own.  She hurt her
arm when she hit the ground.  Catherine's taken her to the hospital.  She'll be fine."  The last few
words were said to not only convince the two men, but reassure himself.

"Where's the mother now?" Nick asked.

"Dead.  Shot herself point blank with a .44 magnum."

"Messy," commented Warrick.

"Right.  Now we need to wrap up the collection.  Time is getting away from us.  The two girls were
killed upstairs in the front bedroom.  I will finish processing the room.  Nick, you process the
staircase and the landing.  Warrick, the study. Make sure you get everything, both of you.  This case
isn't as straight-forward as it first appeared."

Grissom answered Warrick's questioning look with a single raised eyebrow, his blue eyes
encouraging the younger CSI to look beyond the surface.  Grissom had a feeling about this case. 
There was conflicting evidence and if he was right, the young boy would be able to clear up some
of the confusion.

                            <><><><><>

Grissom sat in his chair, his fingers subconsciously working the multi-coloured cube as he waited
and thought.  

"Grissom."

He looked up and found Nick standing in the doorway.  He hadn't heard him arrive until he spoke. 


"The kid's advocate is here."

Grissom put the Rubik's cube back on the desk and accompanied Nick to the police department
interview rooms.   

Brass met them in the hall.  "Kid has asked that his parents stay outside and the advocate has advised
him of his rights.  Are you ready?"

"Let's do it," Grissom said, tilting his head slightly to the right.

They walked into the room and sat down opposite the teenage boy and his counsel.  Grissom watched
the boy as Brass made the necessary introductions and statements for the tape; the way his eyes
darted around the room warily, his hands constantly on the move.  

"James.  You stated you were friends with Samantha Ryan."

"Yeah.  We've been going steady for three months."

"Now, at the scene, you said that you hadn't entered the house."

"Yes..."

"Your footprints tell us otherwise.  You were in the house, weren't you?"

James' eyes widened as he realised that they had found out the truth.  

"Why don't you tell us what happened?"

"I couldn't believe it.  The way her head blew apart like that.  It went everywhere.   Why?  Why did
it have to happen?  It wasn't Sam's fault.  She didn't deserve to die like that.  I should've done
something... but I couldn't.  I couldn't move.  I just laid under the bed and watched, watched as they
both died.  I did nothing to help..."  With those last choked words, James broke down crying, his
head sinking down into his folded arms on the table, shoulders shaking visibly as the sobs racked his
entire body.

"Let's take a break," the advocate suggested.

Grissom and Brass nodded their heads, saddened by what the boy had obviously had to witness, yet
no closer to the truth of who exactly had perpetrated the crime.  Brass noted the break in the
interview for the taped record and stopped the tape before they both moved outside.

"That was not what I was expecting," Grissom commented as he poured water into a plastic cup from
the bottled water container.

"No," Brass agreed, leaning back against the smudged, yellowed wall.  "But he does have the
answers we need.  He witnessed everything."

"He might only know what happened in the bedroom.  I doubt he saw anything else, otherwise why
wasn't he killed as well?"

"Because the killer didn't know he was there."

"Exactly."  Grissom wanted to get back in and continue the interview, but knew that if they pushed
too far, they'd get nothing.  This was too important to push too far. "What have your interviews
turned up?"

"Husband was a psychiatrist.  He had a practice downtown and was well-respected.  His wife
suffered from schizophrenia.  She'd been under psychiatric care up until three months ago with
regular fortnightly consults and was on prescribed medication.  Her former psychiatrist was unable
to state whether she was taking them.  The script was last filled four months ago."

"That doesn't mean her husband wasn't prescribing for her."

"Husband's secretary mentioned that his wife had gone off them a couple of months ago. 
Apparently, the husband tried to convince her that she should take them, going so far as to slip them
into her food or drink.  She worked it out and started making sure she didn't eat or drink anything
that could have been tampered with."

"What were the family dynamics?"

"Kids were apparently embarrassed by the way their mother acted.  Tended to visit friends rather than
having friends over.  Relationship between husband and wife was rocky since she'd gone off the
medication."

"Any reported physical violence in your ..." Grissom broke off as he noticed the advocate coming
towards them.

"He's ready to continue."

                            <><><><><>

Catherine looked across surreptitiously towards the dark-haired woman in the seat beside her.  Sara
had been silent ever since they left the hospital.  The x-ray had shown a scaphoid fracture and her
arm was now encased in a cast from her palm to elbow.  Sara hadn't appreciated Catherine's
interference when she queried about Sara's hearing and headache.  Dr. Langmead had insisted on
running through a series of tests which had managed to delays their stay for another two hours.

Parking outside the CSI building, Catherine was about to suggest that Sara wait in the car while she
grabbed both their bags.  But Sara was too fast for her, already undoing her belt and opening the
door, adapting to her single-handedness quickly.

Catherine shook her head, amazed at the pig-headedness that her colleague currently possessed.  She
could feel the way that Sara was pushing her away and knew the cause.  Sara wasn't one to let
another into her personal life, she was even less likely to share the things that scared her.  Catherine
realised that Sara was struggling to put the moment of weakness behind her and show them all how
capable she was.

Locking the car, Catherine found Sara still in the foyer signing in and searching for her ID.  

"Looking for this?" Catherine asked, holding Sara's ID in her hand.  

"Thanks," Sara said, reaching out to get the plastic card.  She gave a puzzled frown when Catherine
didn't let it go.

"Sara, why don't you lie down in the break room while I go see Grissom, then I'll take you home."

"Where's Grissom?"

"Interviewing the kid," Warrick informed them both as he entered the foyer.  "Sara, how's the arm?"

Before either of them could stop Sara, she was gone, brushing by Warrick in her rush.  

"Does Grissom know she's here?"  Warrick asked.

"No."

"We'd better go after her."

"You know something, Rick; looking after Lindsay is easier than keeping an eye on Sara.  Kids are
forthright and you can anticipate them."

"Sara's Sara.  I can't believe that you ever thought anything involving her would be easy."

"Guess you're right." Catherine responded, following Warrick out the door.

                            <><><><><>

Sara watched the interview through the darkened glass, resting her head against the cool surface
while using the wall that met the glass for support.  Despite the fact that the tablets she had been
given were beginning to take effect, Sara forced herself to keep attuned to the interview.  She needed
answers to the question that had been plaguing her ever since she had woken from her nightmare at
the hospital.   

"James, why don't you tell us what happened from the time you arrived at the house," Grissom
invited, gently.

James pulled himself up in his seat, placing his forearms on the table in front of him.  He avoided
looking at either of them, fixing his gaze on the table surface.  His fingers rubbed at a scab on his left
arm, he pushed at its the surface as he began to detail what he knew.  

"Sam and I were going to the dance that night.  I'd gone to her house to walk her back to mine.  My
parents were going to drive us to the dance.  Sam didn't want to be embarrassed by her mother."

"How so?" Brass interrupted.

Grissom frowned at Brass.  He had wanted the boy to tell the whole story before he asked any
questions.

"She was crazy.  She'd say the stupidist things.  The kids would tease Sam about her loopy Mom."
James looked up at the two of them, trying to ensure they understood how ridiculous Sam's mother
had acted whenever she came to the school.  

"What happened after you arrived?" Grissom directed the boy back to the crime scene.

"Tom was outside playing football.  I said hi and then Sam was there on the porch.  I gave Sam the
flower I'd bought her to wear." 

Sara imagined James talking to his fair-haired teenage girlfriend, handing over the single flower,
encased in its protective covering; the shyness of the exchange, the tentative movement of their heads
coming closer together before being broken apart by the boyish disgust of Tom behind them.

"We went inside to her bedroom.   Sam had her dress on but wanted to put on some make-up.  Annie
followed us.  She's Sam's sister.  She wasn't a pain in the neck like my sister.  She just played in the
corner with her dolls.  Everything was fine until her mother came home.  She wasn't meant to be
home that night.  She'd been in hospital since earlier that week."

James' next words took Sara right into the world that he had experienced that night.  A terrifying
moment where he didn't know whether he would be next.  

A bang rang out in the air; it sounded like a gunshot, but most cars back-firing did.  The two of them
laughed, brushing aside their initial fear.  A voice rang out in the air, strong and volatile.  The sound
of several doors being slammed, one after another, floated up the stairs.  

"Shoot - your Mom's home... what're we going to do?" James asked.  Sam's mom hated him being
in the house, let alone in her daughter's bedroom.  He had to find a way out and quick.

"Under the bed."

"What?"

"Get under the bed.  She won't look under there."

James did what he was told and slid under the white iron-framed bed.  The quilt hung down over
each side evenly, diminishing his view of the room; all he could see were feet and hear voices.

"Sam's mom was ranting about something.  All the words were jumbled and mixed.  It didn't make
any sense.  The next thing I know, that bang we heard before, was in the room.  Sam fell to the floor
and I could see blood.  Annie was screaming.  Sam was crawling on the ground.  She looked across
at me; she was so afraid.  I wanted to go and help her, but I couldn't move."

James wanted to reach out and touch Sam, reassure her that he was there for her.  Slowly, small
movements drew her closer to him.  Annie stopped screaming.  He broke his fixated stare at Sam to
find the small girl slumped on the ground on the other side of the bed, blood flowing freely and
forming a large pool around her dark hair.  Another shot rang out in the air.   Sam was no more, her
face blown away by the final, fatal shot.  He sank his teeth into his crossed arm, preventing himself
from crying out, knowing that he would be next.

"I wanted to help her, I really did.  Please, believe me, but I was scared..."

"James, you had a right to be scared.  There's nothing to be ashamed about," Grissom reassured him. 
"I know this is really difficult for you, but can you tell me what happened next?"

"She just left the room.  I didn't move because I didn't know if she was still in the house.  I waited
for ages under the bed, then there were footsteps.  I pulled myself further under the bed.  It wasn't
her though.  It was Mr. Atkinson.  He checked both Sam and Annie, looking for their pulses.  He was
crying so hard. I'd never seen a man cry like that before.  Then, he saw me.  Told me to go home and
walked out of the room."

James slid out from underneath the bed.  He looked down at the two bodies,  ravaged by wounds that
had spilled their blood across the floor.  Kneeling beside Sam, he touched her tentatively; her body
was still warm.  Suddenly, he felt his stomach rebel and stumbled out of the room.  In his haste, he
lost his balance.  James caught himself against the wall with a splayed hand, knocking the picture
on the wall askew.  He went down the stairs two at a time, his shaky legs only just managing to keep
him upright.  

The front door was within easy reach when he heard the sound behind him.  He waited for the shot,
the one that would end his life.  None came.  Turning his head, James found Sam's father sitting in
his den, gun in his right hand.  Their eyes met.  

"I'm sorry, James.  This shouldn't have happened."

James wiped away at his eyes, brushing away the tears that had fallen quietly and freely throughout
the interview.  "Then I left.  I knew what he was going to do.  I was outside when I heard the shot. 
They were all dead.  Everyone.   I called 911."
    
Sara slumped back against the wall, closing her eyes.  In the end, it had been a murder-suicide, just
not with the usual connotations.  A whole family wiped out in one night of terror.  And, a teenager
probably scarred for life by what he had heard and witnessed.  She could easily identify the
nightmares he would experience for years to come.

"Sara, you okay?"

She jumped at the sound of Warrick's voice, not having realised there was anyone else in the room. 
"Yeah, I'm fine.  A bit tired."

"Why don't you go lie down in the break room?  I'm going to finish up here and then take you
home," Catherine informed Sara, pushing her hair out of her eyes.  

"I might just do that," Sara agreed.  She pushed off the wall and headed towards the door.  Her two
colleagues watched her leave.  

"Warrick, make sure she gets there safely.  I want to talk to Grissom." 

"Sure Cath."

End Part 10/?

Part 11/?

"Jim, what happened out there?"

Brass frowned at Grissom, not understanding what he was referring to.

"At the crime scene.  How did the mother gain access to a sealed scene?  Sara shouldn't have been
put at risk like that; none of us should have."  

"Grissom." Catherine overheard his last statement as she walked down the hallway and deliberately
called out his name to break the impending confrontation.  Catherine watched the two men; the air
around the pair literally sizzled with tension.  

He looked up, surprised to find her standing there.  "Where is she?" Grissom looked past Catherine,
his hooded eyes searching for Sara.

Brass took this as his cue to leave.  "I'll talk to you later, Gil."

Grissom nodded his head distractedly, pushing aside his concern about the lack of crime scene
control., keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Catherine.  

"I convinced her to lie down in the briefing room for now."  Catherine turned on her foot and waited
a moment for Grissom to follow.  "Warrick went with her.  She saw the interview with the kid."

Grissom sighed and inclined his head slightly towards Catherine as he said softly,  "How did she take
it?  Is she okay?"

"Physically?  She's got a scaphoid fracture, whatever the hell that is.  Doctor says she'll be fine. By
the way, you were right about her hearing.  She's got tinnitus from the gunshot.  It should clear
within a couple of days - a week at the max.."  She stated the facts succinctly, her tone softening the
bluntness of the words and her hands flowing in a smooth dance as she spoke.  

" Oh, and she  has a headache.  Although, she claims that she had that before she went to the crime
scene.  Emotionally?  I don't think she's good.  I was going to take her home, but given the time, I
think you should."  Catherine ran through the details quickly as they walked together.  Her last words
stopped Grissom in his tracks.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you."  Catherine faced him and her eyes challenged him to take up the opportunity; either to
talk with Sara or at least to take care of her for today.  "Our shift is virtually over.  I need to go home
to Lindsay."

Grissom nodded, understanding not only her responsibility but also her need.  After dealing with a
case like this, you wanted to draw your family close around you, to assure yourself that you were safe
from the evil that inhabited the streets you tried to protect.  Catherine was right, it was time for him
to take responsibility and ensure that Sara was going to be okay.

"Here, give this back to her."  Catherine took Sara's watch out of her pocket and dropped it into the
palm of his hand.  "Ask the right questions and you may find the answer you have been looking for."

"With a broken watch?" Grissom raised an eyebrow, confused by what significance the watch could
possibly hold.

"Sara mentioned that it was a reminder - a reminder to pay attention.  Gil, she's having nightmares."

"I know.  She told me."

"She did?  When?"

"When we investigated that guy who shot and then dumped his wife's body in the mountain; Scott
Shelton.  She was having trouble sleeping, putting herself in the place of the victim."

"I don't think that's it; not this time."  Catherine shook her head to emphasise her words.  "She called
out the name Naomi several times before she woke up with a scream.  I think it's much more
personal."

"So, how do I deal with it?  I can't just ask her."

"You're going to have to work it out.  Sara trusts you.  You've got history which will serve in your
favour.  If it's personal, she'll open up to you more than me.  Trust your instincts.  It works with your
cases - why is it so difficult for you to do the same with Sara?"

Grissom fingered the watch, running his thumb over the cracked and scratched face.  He'd noticed
Sara wearing the watch previously, the loose band falling over her latex gloves frequently at a crime
scene.

"Because it is Sara," he thought to himself, the skin on his thumb catching slightly on the rough
watch face.

Catherine watched him silently, knowing that an inner struggle was taking place.  "I'll go and get her
bag."     

                            <><><><><>

Warrick sat on the couch in the break room, silently channel surfing as he watched over his sleeping
colleague.  It had surprised him when she had offered no resistance to Catherine's suggestion and
even more so, that she had actually fallen asleep.  

"Hey man, what's with watching TV?  There's work to be done," Nick said, his voice booming in
the silence.

"Shhh." Warrick whispered, pointing towards the sleeping form on the opposite couch.  

"Wow.  She's sleeping.  Greg provide you with some valium?"  Nick chuckled as he dropped down
on the seat beside Warrick.  "Seriously, what's the secret?"

"Have no idea.  She crashed as soon as she laid down."                               

"She really must be hurt."

"Cath only mentioned a fracture.  I think it's exhaustion."    

"Miss 'let's work three days straight' Sidle?" Nick asked him, incredulously.  

"Good point.  Maybe Greg did slip something into her drink."

Grissom entered the break room, his eyes questioning as he found Nick and Warrick both sitting on
the couch opposite Sara.

"She's okay, Griss.  She's just sleeping," Warrick reassured him.

Grissom watched as she slept.  It wasn't the first time that he had caught her asleep, although it was
the first time she had adopted a more comfortable position.  It still wouldn't be as comfortable as her
own bed.  He leaned over her and brushed his hand against a stray lock of hair, the softness delicate
against his rough, calloused fingers.   "Sara."

No response.  Crouching down, he tried again, saying her name a bit more loudly this time and
running his hand down the side of her face.  "Sara."

She looked up at him groggily, her eyes slipping shut again.

"Sara, c'mmon." Grissom shook her shoulder gently.  "You need to go home.  Sleeping here is not
an option."

Her eyelids fluttered open again, narrowing as they absorbed his presence in front of her. 
"Grissom?"

"Yes, Sara.  How about I take you home?"  Grissom gave her a small, uncertain smile.

"Comft'ble here," she slurred, curling herself up into a tighter ball, closing her eyes once more.

"No, you can't sleep here, not tonight." He shook her shoulder again, forcing her to open her eyes
again.

"Slept 'ere plennie of times."

"Hmm, well, maybe I'm changing your sleeping habits."  Grissom watched her for a moment, her
lethargy unusual.  "What painkillers did they give you?"

"Dunno... but, they're good."

"So I've noticed." Grissom pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.  "Cath, what pain meds
did the hospital prescribe?"

"I don't know.  She's got a bottle of painkillers in her jacket.  Why?"

The sound of her voice resounded loudly in the room.  Grissom turned around to find Catherine
placing Sara's bag on the table, cell phone in her hand.  

"Sara's almost out cold," Grissom said, his voice tinged with concern.  He fished through the coat
hanging over the end of the couch.  He turned the bottle in his left hand until he could read the label. 
"I know what the problem is now, Catherine," Grissom told her with a small shake of his head.

"Care to let us in on the secret?" Nick interjected into the two-way conversation.

"Sara takes antihistamines.  It's increased the sedative effects of the Doxolene in the painkiller. 
She's going to sleep for quite a while."     

Warrick frowned, pondering the statement.  "Since when?"

"Huh?"

"Since when has Sara had allergies."

"Years... pollen," Grissom told him, distractedly.  It worried him that she had not thought about the
interaction of the two drugs.  Sara was more careful than that; had always double checked any
medication that she was prescribed.  In actual fact, he recalled how difficult it was to get her to take
anything other than her antihistamines.  

"Grissom, she needs to go home," Catherine reminded him, softly.  She moved alongside him and
handed him Sara's bag and keys. 

"Warrick, can you give me a hand getting her out to my car?"  Grissom bent down beside Sara again,
intending to wake her enough that he would be able to get her into his car.

"Griss, don't."  Warrick touched Grissom's shoulder lightly, stopping his hand from reaching out
and giving their sleeping colleague a gentle shake.  With a swift swoop of his arms, Warrick easily
scooped Sara up into his arms, her weight causing him less exertion than one of his weight workouts. 


Grissom expected a protest to emanate from the quiescent figure.  He was surprised when she only
snuggled in closer and mumbled about being cold.  Something about her actions made him feel lost
in a sea of emotion.  He wished that he had thought to pick her up rather than try to wake her; to have
had the height and the guile to have completed the action as swiftly and with the confidence Warrick
exhibited.  

"Gil, your car keys?" Catherine asked, looking at him inquisitively.

Grissom quickly wiped any emotion from his face.  Catherine had an intuitiveness that defied
definition.  He really didn't need her on his case about Sara any more than she already was. 
Catherine was a romantic at heart and... 'Where did that come from?' Grissom thought as he dangled
the keys to his car in his hand and followed the entourage out to the parking lot.

End Part 11/?  


Part 12/?

See Part 1 for disclaimers


Early morning light danced across the dappled sky, streaks of pink dashed here and there as the sun
began its ascent on the horizon.  

"Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning," Grissom muttered to himself as he drove towards
Sara's apartment.  The last few days had been a warning to him.  

Glancing across at the passenger seat, Grissom noted that Sara had curled herself up tightly again as
if warding off a chill.  As soon as he had started the car, he had turned on the heating.  The interior
was now overheated, yet she continued to huddle and mutter about the coldness.  

It was very tempting to turn around and take Sara to his place, tuck her into his own bed and watch
over her.  But that would defeat the purpose of his taking Sara home.  Home was a place of comfort
and warmth.   As Catherine had pointed out, his place was a hermetically sealed condominium.  He'd
argued with her that it was a townhouse and she had quickly pointed out that men had a habit of
avoiding the obvious truth.  He knew that Catherine hated the austerity of his apartment.  He liked
to think of it as easy to care for.  Less clutter meant less work.

Right now, he was sure that God was conspiring against him.  Every light turned red at his approach. 
He was tempted to use his strobe light, despite the regulations.  Common sense made him sit
patiently at each set of contrary lights and gently take off once it had turned green, keeping his
passenger safe, rather than flooring the accelerator.  He had investigated enough accident scenes to
know not to give into the urge to speed.   All it took was one driver going through a red light and
another being very quick off the mark to end in disaster.

Grissom finally pulled up outside Sara's building.  Her apartment was on the third floor.  He recalled
Sara's complaints earlier in the week, prior to the Pamela Adler case, about the lifts at her building
being out of action.  Twisting his mouth, he thought about how he was going to get Sara up there
without dropping her as he tried to open the door.  He didn't quite possess Warrick's athletic skills
and resigned himself to the notion that he would need to make two trips.

Grissom turned to check that Sara was still sleeping.  She had stirred for a moment as he stopped the
car, before adjusting to the cessation of movement.  Her eyes remained closed.  Grabbing Sara's
handbag and keys from the back seat, he raced inside the building.  He looked to see if the lift was
possibly working, but the large red words 'Out of Order' on the white cardboard told him the truth
of the matter.

Grissom took the stairs two at a time, not wanting to leave Sara alone in the car for any length of
time.  He was breathing heavily by the time he got to Sara's apartment on the third floor, his breath
coming out in audible gasps.  

He quickly opened the front door and dropped her handbag on the cluttered desk that stood a few feet
away.   It surprised him that the desk was cluttered; the state of the art computer system was
surrounded by an assortment of magazines and catalogues.  A cork board hung over the desk, the
surface almost fully covered with an assortment of details which made up her life.   One particular
item on her desk took him totally by surprise.  It was a picture of a day that was permanently etched
on his mind, and now he knew it was one that she sought to remember as well.  It was a reminder of
a time when things weren't so complicated.  Or when he was not afraid to show his emotions.

He picked up the photograph that had been taken at the theme park, running his finger over it as he
was caught up in the magic.  Sara's eyes sparkled brightly and a broad smile lit up her face as she
looked across at the man standing by her side, his arm draped possessively over her shoulder. 
Grissom gave a tentative smile as saw how the photograph had captured in technicolour the way he
had been caught by that megawatt smile, the one that easily melted his heart like a plate of ice cream
left out in the sizzling Vegas heat.

It was a time from the past; an invitation he had never regretted making, despite Sara's wholehearted
fear of heights.  Their hands had been clasped together tightly with each twist and turn of the roller-
coaster.   Sara had closed her eyes tightly against seeing the world stretch further away from her inch
by inch only to return at an almighty pace, geared by the force of gravity.  Grissom had felt the fear
coursing through her and his hand had reached out to grasp her death grip on the seat, sliding beneath
them to offer comfort and reassurance.  Her hand had at first gripped his in a tight embrace before
settling in the gentle caress of his large, slightly calloused hand, their fingers entwining in mutual
quiescence.  He had looked across at her face as their hands had settled, forgetting the enjoyment of
the ride, which had been replaced by something else; something much more important which left him
fully content and whole.

Grissom sighed and put down the photograph.  It dawned on him that he had been caught up the in
the memories much longer than he intended.   

Jogging down the stairs, he wondered how the time could have passed so quickly.  He was so busy
watching his feet pound down firmly on each step in order not to not miss one that he almost collided
with the person coming up the stairs.

"Sorry..." Grissom began apologising to the person, breaking off when he saw who it was.  "Sara,
what are you doing?"

"Going home. Isn't that why you drove me here?" Sara gave him a quizzical smile, not understanding
the reason for the look of shock on his face.

"But I was coming down to get you," Grissom explained.

"Well, I would love to say that I waited, but you know that's not in my nature."  Sara gave him a
flippant smile over her shoulder as she continued her arduous trek up the six flights of stairs.

"I thought the tablets had knocked you out."  Grissom frowned, wondering how she had come to so
quickly.   

"Obviously not.  I'm awake... sorta."

"Let me give you a hand."

Sara was tempted to refuse, but the thought of all those stairs still ahead of her caused her to have
second thoughts.  The few stairs that she had already navigated had her head swimming.  All she
wanted to do was sink down on the stairs and sleep.

Grissom came around to her right side and slid his arm around her waist.  Sara's right arm settled
easily against his body and her head dropped against his shoulder as she gratefully accepted his
assistance.  Each step she took felt as if her shoes had been filled with cement, the energy she had
found upon waking in the car dissipating like melting ice.  The couple of sets of stairs to her
apartment took on the proportions of Mount Everest, the summit out of reach in her unfit condition.

"I need to rest a moment," Sara whispered faintly, her breathing laboured.

"Sara, are you okay?" 

Grissom's concerned voice drifted through the heavy fog that was clouding her mind.

"I'm fine,"  Sara said, tiredly, the words spoken to reassure herself as well as Grissom.   The last time
she had felt so devoid of strength was when she had been struck down by a severe strain of the Hong
Kong 'flu back in San Francisco.  "Just need to... uh... rest a moment."

Grissom took in her tired features and the sudden loss of colour to her face.  Without warning and
before he had a chance to even think about the consequences of his actions, Grissom scooped her up
into his arms, rescuing Sara from slowly sinking to the bare, cold concrete stairs.

"What are you doing?" Sara yelped, the firm arms capturing her by surprise.

"Carrying you home." Grissom simply stated the obvious.  "Although, if you keep twisting around
so much, Newton's laws of gravity may come into play before we make it there."

Her movements stilled instantly, suddenly comprehending the danger of free-fall to them both.  Sara
chided herself for being so obstinate and risking Grissom's safety with her stubbornness.  She
allowed herself to settle into his strong, surprisingly well-muscled arms, her head dropping against
the curve in his shoulder.  As the wonders of medicine once again brought her under their spell, a
distant thought struck her: his shoulder seemed to be perfectly contoured to support her head
comfortably.  

Grissom gave a small smile of triumph as he noted the change in the rhythm of Sara's breathing.  It
was only a few more steps and he would be on the third floor landing.  Carrying Sara securely in his
arms, he made his way carefully to the landing.  He was relieved when he made it to the last stair,
his cargo still safe from harm.  

Entering her apartment, he made his way down the narrow hallway to the left of the door.  It ran
behind the kitchen gallery.  The hallway opened into a room barely big enough for the queen size bed
occupying the middle of the room.  A cream-gold jacquard quilt cover adorned the bed, the colour
lightening the headiness of  the deep burgundy walls that shrouded the room.   

Grissom moved into the room and struggled to maintain his balance as his foot caught on the cream
floor runner that was beside the bed.  His bowed legs struggled to counteract the way his torso swung
back and forth like a pendulum.  The added weight of Sara in his arms made it almost impossible to
keep upright.  To save both of them from falling to the floor, Grissom allowed himself to fall
backwards onto the bed.  

*Crunch.*  Grissom gasped as his head connected with the hard, teak headboard.  He wanted to grab
the spot with his hands, to put pressure on the spot as the darts of pain danced across his eyes. 
Instead, he swallowed and bit down on his lip to stop the temptation to let out any sound.  A muffled
yelp still managed to escape his lips as he maneuvered Sara into the centre of the bed.  

"Grissom?" Sara looked at him from heavily hooded eyelids.

"It's okay, Sara."

"What happened?" She rolled onto her side to look up at him, her eyes confused to find him on the
bed beside her.  

"Nothing that a couple of Tylenol won't fix," Grissom reassured her softly.

"Can't mix my meds," Sara muttered, trying to fight to keep her eyes open.

"Nice of you to remember that now," Grissom said with a chuckle, instantly regretting it as the sound
reverberated through his head.  Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he suggested, "Why don't you
go to sleep?"  Grissom was pleased to see that her eyes had already closed before he finished his
words, a small smile on her face.  

He smoothed her hair away from her face, noting that her soft, dark-brown hair was curling at the
ends.  The damp Vegas air had won the war today.  Grissom found the spirals tempting to wrap
around his finger.  But he resisted.  

Instead, he looked around the relatively small room.  Sunlight was breaking through the small break
in the middle of the heavy, velvet curtains, the colour a perfect match to the quilt cover.   Despite the
smallness of the room, Sara had managed to also squeeze into one corner a bureau of drawers.  A
silver brush set was laid out on smooth teak surface beside a small, silver teddy bear money box. 
Grissom smiled as he saw that Sara's name was engraved in the small name plate on the front.  It was
obviously a childhood treasure.  

In the opposite corner sat an old-fashioned, well worn rocking chair.  A crocheted blanket was folded
on the seat.  Grissom pushed himself up gently from the bed, moving slowly so as to not disturb Sara. 
He walked over to the rocking chair and picked up the blanket.  Shaking it out, he gently dropped
it over Sara's sleeping form.   

Reassured that she was sleeping soundly, Grissom walked down the hallway to the kitchen.  He was
surprised to find that Sara used a kettle on a gas stove, rather than an electric.  It took him three tries
to get the front burner alight.  He shook his head, knowing that he could get a bunsen burner going
faster than Sara's gas stove.  

Waiting for the water to boil, Grissom found his eyes wandering around the room.  The room was
the exact opposite of his spacious townhouse.   Her house looked lived in, despite the hours she spent
at the CSI labs.  Photos were perched on most surfaces.  He looked at each one, getting a deeper
glimpse into the personal life of Sara.  

Grissom assumed that the man and woman on either side of Sara, their arms hooking around her
narrow waist, were her parents.  He had never met them.  But the familiarity in the features on the
elder woman's face gave him an idea of what Sara would look like when she was her mother's age. 

Another photo took him by surprise.  Sara was standing beside a young woman who's features
resembled Sara's almost perfectly and looked to be about the same age.

"Twins?" Grissom thought.  He dismissed the idea.  Sara had told him that she was an only child. 
But a twinge of curiosity flamed in his sub-conscious.   Another photograph sat beside it.  Sara and
the girl were both dressed in Harvard sweaters.  The other girl was as blonde and blue-eyed as Sara
was dark and Sara towered over her small, petite friend.  Both of these showed Grissom another side
to Sara, one he hadn't been privy to and one that Sara had kept to herself. 

Grissom found himself wondering why Sara had shut him out of this part of her life.  The
photographs had been taken at a time when they had been together.  It made him wonder what else
she hadn't told him.

The whistle of the kettle broke through his thoughts.  He went through the motions of making his
coffee.  The last fourteen hours were weighing heavily on him, and he knew that he needed to talk
to Sara.  He carried his coffee mug back into her bedroom.  Easing his weary body into the rocking
chair, Grissom watched Sara sleep as he sipped his coffee.  His eyes grew heavy, and  the coffee mug
was only half empty when they finally slipped closed.
 
"Nooooo!"

End Part 12/?

Author's Note: In this chapter I have made two deliberate references to which explanations will not
be given in this story as they tie into one story that I'm currently writing and another that I hope to
write soon.  

Part 13/13

See Part 1 for disclaimers

Author's Intro Notes: This chapter is rather heavy, but it is also the final one for Inequity.  Thanks
to everyone who has reviewed.  It always pleases me to know that someone is enjoying what I'm
writing. This was my first story in this fandom and I didn't expect it to take over twelve months to
complete.  For that, I must also apologise to the readers. 

And a final, big thank you to Alison (Vigirl) for all the time and effort she put into editing.  It was
wonderful to get the feedback on what works and what could make the story better.

Previous parts may be found at
http://www.geocities.com/missyliannem/csi.html

Part 13

The scream jolted Grissom out of his slumber.  Lukewarm coffee spilled over the lip of the mug as
he was jerked awake in shock.  He ignored the damage to his pants, more concerned about Sara.  The
deep-set agony contained in her scream pierced his heart.  

Placing the mug down on the polished floorboards, he quickly moved to Sara's side.  Grissom knelt
down on the floor so that he would not exacerbate the spine-chilling fear that held Sara in its grasp. 
He tentatively reached out to give her shoulder a gentle shake.

"Sara... wake up.  Sara!"

Morbid fear filled her eyes when she initially opened them.  Within a moment, it was replaced with
relief.  "Grissom?"  

"Yeah. It's me."  Grissom smiled down at her.  He raised his eyebrows, a silent question in his eyes. 
"You okay?"

"I am now."  Sara unsuccessfully tried to push herself up into a sitting position in the bed

Grissom sat down on the bed beside her and gently eased her up.  He left his arm comfortably around
her shoulders.  Sara rested her body against his solid mass, taking quiet reassurance  from the warmth
and security she felt within his embrace.

"I thought you would've gone home," Sara said quietly, turning her head towards him as she spoke.

Grissom shook his head, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.  "No.  I wouldn't leave you." 
To himself he added, "to face your demons alone."  

Sara shook her head.  Her brain felt as if it had been filled with cotton-wool, but she also could have
sworn that Grissom had said he wouldn't leave her; it must be the drugs.

"It's the tablets." Grissom unwittingly confirmed her suspicions, not realising the full extent of her
thoughts.  He had merely interpreted the clouded expression in her eyes.  "Sara, you forgot to tell the
doctors about your antihistamines.  You don't normally make that mistake.  Why this time?"

"I wasn't thinking.  I wanted to get out of the hospital, to remove the mem..." Sara broke off and
looked down at her plaster-encased arm.  She had said too much.  Sara knew that Grissom wasn't
going to leave it alone.  Maybe it was time to share her fears, her past -  to give up a part of herself
rather than have the pain eat away at her instead.  

"Have you ever talked about it?"  Grissom took the opportunity to finally broach the subject that had
been so difficult since Tom Adler's call the previous afternoon.  Gently resting his chin on top of her
head, he suggested,  "Why don't you tell me about your nightmares?  Those memories you don't
want to remember."

"It was a long time ago," Sara said, her voice defeated.  Her fingers fiddled with the edge of the
crocheted blanket.

"It may be a long time ago, but obviously you are still suffering its effects." Grissom reminded her
softly.  He didn't want her to back out of telling him when he felt she was so close.  "Who was it?" 
He ran a hand lightly over her dark hair, trying to ease her nervousness.  Grissom hoped that his
actions wouldn't frighten Sara.  He needed to know the events that weighed down so heavily on her,
so many years into the future.  It was the only way he would be able to help her.

"A friend.  She was murdered by her boyfriend." Her voice was flat, devoid of the heavy emotion
that filled her eyes.

"Was he caught?" Grissom knew that this revelation was going to be fairly brutal and he worried as
to the exact nature of Sara's involvement.  

"Yes and no."  Her mouth twisted as she remembered back to the day the man who had been
responsible had been sentenced.  A smile had been fixed on his face as the judge declared the
sentence, his eyes telling her that he had won.  Not only had he beaten the system, he had taken her
friend away from her.

"That's ambiguous." Grissom lifted his eyebrows in surprise.  Sara normally saw things in black and
white.  There was no halfway measures about her, including her sense of justice.

His words brought Sara back to the present.  "It was inequitable justice." A spark of the Sara he knew
shone through.  She had straightened her back, pulling away from him slightly as she said the words
with conviction.  

"Tell me," Grissom encouraged quietly, his voice soft and barely audible as he whispered the words
beside her ear.

"Naomi and I met at Harvard."  Sara remembered the day the two of them met.  They had been
unlikely friends through their very different social experiences, yet they had gravitated towards each
other.  While opposites in so many ways, they had found many levels on which they had
commonality - an understanding that had been borne of true friendship.  

"We shared a dorm and hit it off immediately.  She taught me how to enjoy life - she showed me a
different life to what I'd always been used to.  Naomi was one of those students who really didn't
need to study to get outstanding grades.  And she was pretty.  She had the choice of all the guys she
could want and tended to play the field, never settling down with one for too long.  But then in our
final year, there was Matt.  He was the one thorn in our friendship.  I couldn't stand him and Naomi
adored the guy."  Sara stopped, lost in the past - the ghosts rising from their graves to haunt her
during her waking hours.  

"What happened?" Grissom prompted, still gently stroking her hair.  

Sara relaxed under his touch, the action reminding her of her mother's hand when she had suffered
from nightmares as a young child.  She leaned back into his chest, slipping further down on the silky,
jacquard quilt cover.

"After a few months, Naomi moved into his house.  That was when the abuse really started.  He
controlled who she was seeing and when.  It wasn't long before she was beginning to miss classes. 
When she did attend, she wasn't the vibrant friend I'd always known." Sara's voice wavered as she
relayed the events that had led up to her friend's death.  "I tried to keep in touch, but it was virtually
impossible.  Matt seemed to always know when I was visiting and make sure she couldn't see me. 
We spoke on the phone when we could, but that was all.  And I missed her most important call.  The
call that would have saved her life."

Grissom waited as she stopped talking for a couple of minutes.  He held her.   She was struggling to
get her emotions under control, to keep the tears that filled her eyes at bay.  When he felt that Sara
was able to continue, he prompted, "What call was that?" 

"She left a message at my dorm the night she was killed.  I was at a party and didn't get home until
late."  Sara shook her head, brushing away the tears with the back of her hand. "By that time it was
too late.  If only I'd been there, I could have stopped it."

"Could you?" Grissom asked, his hand searching his pockets blindly for a handkerchief.

"What do you mean?" Sara twisted her head to look up at him.  "Of course, I could.  I would have
got her out of the danger, out of his grasp."

"Why do you think you could do something that so many friends and relatives of other victims are
unable to do?" Grissom asked as he finally pulled the elusive piece of cloth out of his pocket.

"Because I was her friend.  She trusted me." Sara broke off again as she thought about the powerful
words she had just said.

Trust.  It was something that they had given each other implicitly.  Sara thought about the people in
her life, those whom she trusted with her secrets.  After Naomi, she had cut herself off from everyone
emotionally.  Even with Grissom, she had held back.  She had not allowed him into every corner of
her life, refusing to risk losing a friend again.  It dawned on her that today she had to reassess that
decision of long ago. 

The arms around her were strong.  The hand that ran over her hair gentle and reassuring.  The soft
rise and fall of her body against his own comforted her.  It was time to trust again.  

Sara took a deep breath and continued, "she rang me that night.  Wanted my help.  Except I wasn't
there to answer her call.  By the time I got to her, it was too late.  He'd stabbed her and left her to die
in her own blood."  Sara remembered the blood.  Blood that didn't seem to stop.  It seemed like a
river flowed from her friend.  The carpet around her was discoloured and spongy with its sticky mass. 
Frantically Sara tried to stop the blood, but there was so much, so many cut that the viscous fluid
flowed from.

Sara shuddered as she remembered her frantic attempts to save her friend's life.  

"The problem was, she didn't die.  But she was dead to everyone around her. He stole her soul and
left an empty shell in its place.  Except the shell breathed.  So the law said it wasn't murder or
manslaughter.  It was inflicting grievous bodily harm.  For that, he was given five years jail.  He got
out after three years - apparently for good behaviour.  It's inequitable justice."    

The tears that had been threatening finally began to fall.  They rolled down her face in jagged rivulets
of pain.  Grissom handed her the handkerchief he had found not long ago.  

"And for how many years have you been punishing yourself?"  Grissom asked, his hand stilling on
her head.  He turned her head to face him with a gentle finger against her chin.  "When are you going
to give yourself time out for good behaviour? Sara, you need to forgive yourself or you're going to
lose control.  You can't compromise your integrity or your safety because of the past.   You have to
learn to forgive yourself, Sara.   No one else is blaming you for what happened to your friend."

"I am," Sara told him stubbornly.  "I should have recognised the signs.  They were all there.  If I'd
paid attention and wasn't having so much fun with my other friends, I could have prevented it from
happening."  Sara hit the mattress on the bed in frustration.  "While she was suffering abuse at Matt's
hands, there I was dancing away at parties, going out to movies, enjoying life without my best friend
who had been my constant companion for three years."  

"It's also easy to blame yourself in retrospect," Grissom said.  "Sara, you were young.  There's no
way to know whether it would have worked out differently if you had answered the call."

"I would have gone to their house earlier, not as late as I did.  I wouldn't have tripped over her dead
body in the dark.  All her life had been drained out of her.  But not enough to kill her."

Grissom's eyes widened as he realised that Sara had placed herself in danger.  If Matt had still been
there when she arrived at the scene... He shuddered to think what might have happened. "You could
have also ended up a victim, been on that floor with your friend."  The words brought him back to
the events of today.  Sara covered in the blood matter, huddled on the ground.

"But I didn't.  I wasn't."

"No, you weren't.  And I want to make sure that you keep it that way.  Sara, last night was too close. 
When that gunshot was fired, I thought you had been hurt...I thought that you were dead.  I don't ever
want to feel that fear again."

"I didn't put myself in danger," Sara said, defensively.

"I'm not saying you did," Grissom corrected her.  "I'm trying to tell you how I felt.  I could have lost
you tonight, Sara. It scared me."  The words were rushed as if they had been sent on gale force winds. 

"Really?"  Sara was surprised.  Her eyes slowly rose to meet his, the intensity of his fear clearly
visible in their depths.   She slowly admitted her own fear.  It only confirmed to her the mutual trust
they had with each other at this moment. "So was I.  I never want to be on the wrong end of a gun
like that again."

Sara felt amazed that it had been so easy to say the words.  All the years she had bottled her emotions
inside herself.  Now that she had told Grissom about Naomi, there was only a sense of relief at
having shared the burden of guilt.  Despite what Grissom said, whether rightly or wrongly, she would
always feel that she was partly responsible.  
    
"Sara, I don't want you to be in that sort of situation again.  Tonight was an error on the part on the
officers at the scene, but the way you react to some cases, you put yourself in the place of the victim. 
In doing so, you are putting yourself at risk and the others around you.  You need to learn to distance
yourself.  Don't allow your personal grief to cloud a case."

"It's not always that easy.  If we don't speak for the victim, victims like Pamela Adler and Naomi,
who will?"

"Evidence, us and time."

"But sometimes we don't always have time," Sara reminded him.  

"We can't compromise a case or ourselves by our emotions.  But we can use that to bring about an
end," Grissom reassured her.  His many years of experience had taught him that.  Now he needed to
teach Sara the same.

"I don't see how."  

"Through time and experience.... it will show the evidence."

"Grissom, do you always have to be so cryptic?"

"Only when you're around.  Sara, seriously, time will prove to you how you can utilise your strong
sense of justice to your advantage."

"I thought I was."

"No.  But you do seriously compromise your health by allowing your cases to be your sustenance. 
It's unhealthy to not only your physical well-being, but also psychologically."

"So now you want me to see a shrink?"

"Sara, stop putting words in my mouth."

"It's such a nice mouth too..." she added, her fingers reaching up to trail along its edges.

"Don't change the subject.  No, I'm not saying that you need a psychologist, but I want you to think
about the fact that you have a family.  We may not be your blood relatives, but we're always there
for you.   I'm always here for you... all you need to do is ask."

Sara gently smiled at him.  The words meant a lot to her.  It was important to her that she had been
accepted as part of the family.  But it was his final ones that truly struck a chord in her heart... he 
would always be there for her.

She ran her hand carefully over his, feeling that she owed him an explanation.

"I walk through cemeteries."

Grissom looked at Sara, confusion marring his face.  He expressed his incomprehension at her
statement. "What?"

"You asked me what I do to relax.  I walk through cemeteries."  Sara gave him a grin.  Sometime she
got a kick out of throwing him off balance.    

While he understood intimately the intricacies of entomology, the human psyche left him confused. 
Sara had a knack of doing it to him more than most.  This was not the first time that he had been left
speechless by one of her abstruse statements.

"Why?"

"It gives me a sense of balance to the grim loss of life we see daily; the damage some people will
inflict on the innocent.  In a cemetery, there are families linked through generations.  Lives may be
lost through disease or tragedy, but the majority reach their end naturally.  Lives reunited through
death; a patchwork of history carved into stone.  It reminds me that there's more out there than the
vicious criminals that create the havoc we investigate."

Grissom smiled.  When she had mentioned the word 'cemetery', he had immediately suspected a
more gruesome reason for her walks.  It was reassuring to know that his assumption was incorrect. 
As he would often remember a teacher mentioning to him - don't assume, it makes an ass out of you
and me.

"Oh, I nearly forgot, Catherine gave me this."  Grissom pulled the watch out of his pocket, passing
it over to her.  

Sara fingered the watch, a smile flittering across her face.  "I don't need it anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because you've reminded me tonight of all the things this watch was meant to remind me of."  

Grissom wasn't sure what she meant by this statement, but let it flow by.  Obviously his words had
had some effect and he hoped that she would now take heed of what he had said.  

Sara allowed the watch to fall to the quilt cover and reached over to capture his hand within hers,
tracing lightly over the lines that time had shaped and weathered.  She rested comfortably on his
chest, his other arm gently resting on her back.   It wasn't long before they both were drawn back into
the comforting web of sleep, content in the fact that home was where the heart is. 

The End.
                         
Author Notes: 

Too Tough to Die still leaves me pondering each time I watch the show and this story was an attempt
to fill in some of the gaps.  We don't know about Sara's past and I am a firm believer that Sara
herself did not suffer any abuse, yet she had close contact with it.  We also have from the CBS
website that during her years in Harvard, she partied, something she had never done before.  I thought
that there had to be a reason why she began and also why she stopped that partying.  Inequity was
my answer.  It took a lot longer to get to the end, to provide the scenario that I'd developed in my
mind from what I'd seen in the show and what had been written about Sara's past.  I hope you
enjoyed the ride.

I drew the watch into the story because I could never understand why Sara would wear a watch that
loose, particularly since the nature of her job requires preciseness.  Interestingly, the watch I was
referring to disappeared in Season 2, so that's why it disappeared in this story as well.

Finally, I wasn't intending to bring a case file into this story, but it just happened.  It is a sad scenario
that there is always the possibility when you are dealing with a psychiatric illness that lives may be
lost.  However, this is no way reflects the majority of people who deal with their disease effectively
and are able to function in society.