Sin City

Sitting with her legs tucked under her on the small brown leather couch by a window whose closed blinds were keeping out the early morning sun, Catherine watched Grissom scramble eggs, standing in his sandaled feet on the hardwood floor in the open kitchen with its stainless-steel refrigerator and counterspace that spilled into the living room of the spacious, functional condo. Where they weren't lined with bookcases or stacked electronics, the white walls were home to framed displays of butterflies-beautiful dead things that Grissom could appreciate.

Catherine was sipping orange juice; actually, a screwdriver, the juice laced with vodka at her request.

'Like a bagel with this?' he asked, poised over the eggs with the same quiet intensity he brought to any of his experiments.

'That'd be fine-no butter, though.'

He shuddered at that thought, but continued with his work.

'You know, I took this job because I like puzzles,' she said.

'Me too.'

'And I like the idea of finding out who is responsible for the senseless violence that seems to be all around us, chipping away at what we laughingly call civilization.'

She was a little drunk.

Grissom said, 'Again, we're on the same page.' He, however, was not drunk; only orange juice in his glass.

'I never expected,' she said, 'in a job where I only carry a gun 'cause it's part of the job description…where I'm investigating the aftermath of crimes, not out on the streets like so many cops are…I never…never…never mind.'

He lifted his head from the eggs and looked over at her. 'You saved Sara's life…and Conroy's. You should feel good about yourself.'

'Would you feel good about killing someone?'

'…No.' He used a spatula to fill a plate with eggs. Half a bagel-unbuttered, lightly toasted-was already deposited there.

Sighing, she pulled her legs out from under her and sat up on the couch. 'You didn't do me any favor, you know, sending me back into that world.'

Grissom walked over, her plate in one hand, utensils and napkin for her, in the other. 'You mean, those strip clubs?'

'Those strip clubs. That young woman I shot…' And the tears came, and Catherine covered her face with a hand.

Grissom, stunned, sat down next to her, but gave her plenty of space, her plate of eggs in one of his hands. He waited patiently for her crying to cease, then when she looked at him, handed the plate toward her.

She took it, but he left his hand there for a long moment, and for that moment they held the plate, together; their eyes met and finally they both smiled a little…friends.

Soon he'd gone to fetch his own plate of eggs, and his own bagel-buttered, untoasted-and sat next to her on the couch, where they ate in silence, other than an occasional compliment from Catherine on his cooking, which he did not acknowledge.

'This guy Pierce,' she said, and sipped her drink.

'What about him?'

'I don't know, I just can't wrap my mind around the guy…. He's not a monster. I mean, he must love his daughter-he tried to take the blame for her. But he also coldbloodedly cut up his wife with a chain saw.'

'We look at dead people dispassionately,' Grissom said. 'Bodies become evidence, to us. Some would consider us coldblooded.'

'Maybe. But that man loved that woman once…Lynn Pierce used to be a vibrant, happy woman who Owen Pierce loved. How could even a coldblooded bastard like him learn to live with what he's done? And that his daughter murdered her own mother? His wife, a woman he must have once adored? How can he handle it? How can he deal with it?'

'Oh I don't know,' Grissom said, and took a bite of bagel. He chewed, swallowed, and-conferring Catherine his angelic smile-added, 'Maybe in prison, he'll get religion.'

Author's Note

I would again like to acknowledge the contribution of Matthew V. Clemens.

Matt-who has collaborated with me on numerous published short stories-is an accomplished true crime writer, as well as a knowledgeable fan of C.S.I. He helped me develop the plot of this novel, and worked up a lengthy story treatment, which included all of his considerable forensic research, for me to expand my novel upon.

The real-life C.S.I. to whom Matt and I have dedicated this book-Criminalist Sergeant Chris Kaufmann CLPE, Bettendorf (Iowa) Police Department-provided comments, insights and information that were invaluable to this project. Books consulted include two works by Vernon J. Gerberth: Practical Homicide Investigation Checklist and Field Guide (1997) and Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Investigation (1996). Also helpful was Scene of the Crime: A Writer's Guide to Crime Scene Investigations (1992), Anne Wingate, Ph. D. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own. Also drawn upon was Dead Water (1995), Pat Gipple and Matthew V. Clemens, a nonfiction account of a torso slaying and a pioneering genetic trial.

Again, Jessica McGivney at Pocket Books provided support, suggestions and guidance. The producers of C.S.I. were gracious in providing scripts, background material and episode tapes, without which this novel would have been impossible.

Finally, the inventive Anthony E. Zuiker must be singled out as creator of this concept and these characters. Thank you to him and other C.S.I. writers, whose imaginative and well-documented scripts inspired this novel and have done much toward making the series such a success both commercially and artistically.