lesser pay of CSI field work Grissom had been humoring of late-sat and rocked back and forth, his head bobbing to some rhythm playing in the iPod of his mind as he read a report. The energetic Greg alone seemed happy with where he was in the current investigation. Perhaps this was due to Grissom recently granting his request to leave the lab for the field, even though Greg's apprentice CSI status was not yet full-time.
Across from Greg, immediately to Catherine's right, sat Dr. Al Robbins, his metal crutch propped next to him, his eyes riveted to autopsy photos spread out on the table in front of him, like a losing hand of cards he was trying to assemble into some kind of winning order. His salt-and-pepper beard was merely flecked with pepper now, its sodium count long since out of control. The doctor's normally cheerful eyes seemed clouded as he looked from one stark picture in the pile to the next. The gravity of the situation was apparent in the coroner's rare public appearance outside of the autopsy room.
To Catherine's left, beyond Warrick, at the far end of the table, Brass stared into space, as if seeking an opinion on whether he should remain pissed off or give in to despair. He had been the last one to walk in, carrying a large cardboard box that now sat on the floor next to him.
Supervisor Gil Grissom, who had called this meeting, wasn't here yet, and his disheartened troops were getting antsy. They had been on the Marvin Sandred murder for a week and had little more to go on than the victim's name. The only thing working in their favor was the press coverage-no one in the media had thus far connected Sandred with CASt.
While Grissom had kept tabs on what each individual CSI (as well as Greg and Robbins) had been up to, this would be their first group meeting, to present, contrast, and compare what they'd all learned, and have a look at the lab results that were just coming in.
Grissom entered quickly, his demeanor just as serious as the rest but minus any overt sign of frustration. Catherine admired quite a few things about Gil, but not the least of them was the chief CSI's ability to remain objectively professional no matter how fast and hard the brown rain was coming down. Oh, there'd been exceptions; even Grissom had his weak spots-violence against children brought the human side out, in spades-but generally he maintained a high standard of scientific detachment that Catherine could esteem without really striving toward.
Catherine's process necessitated maintaining her humanity, and even subjectivity. Different strokes.
A light-blue lab coat was draped over Grissom's standard black attire; his wireframed glasses were on. Unceremoniously, he dropped a stack of folders onto the table with a dull thud. The CSI's upper lip formed a subtle sneer, which was the equivalent of anybody else tearing the room up and throwing things out windows.
Sitting up, Catherine said, 'Let me guess-somebody up there hates us….' She'd gone for a lighthearted tone but fell just short.
'Nicely deduced, Catherine,' Grissom said tightly.
Nick groaned. 'Atwater?'
'Atwater,' Grissom affirmed, the word sounding more like an epithet than the name of a human being- specifically, their boss, the sheriff. 'He's starting to get calls…about CASt.'
'Ah hell,' Warrick said, pawing the air.
Grissom continued, 'Our esteemed sheriff wanted my assurance that no one at CSI was leaking anything to the press.'
Brass said, an edge in his voice, 'Who is it, bugging the sheriff? Our pal Perry Bell?'
'No,' Grissom said. 'It's from the broadcast side-a local TV station.'
Catherine considered that for a moment, then asked, 'Do we trust our North Las Vegas brothers? Bill Damon and Henry Logan? You gave Logan kind of a hard time.'
'I did?' He seemed genuinely not to know what Catherine was referring to.
Brass said, 'I'd be more inclined to think it was one of our 'friends' from the
'Once the CASt aspect is public knowledge,' Nick said to the detective, 'any gentlemen's agreement you had with the
'If those clowns sold us out,' Brass said, his voice as hard as the table his hands rested on, 'they'll never get cooperation out of this department again…Gil, do you know
Grissom's shrug indicated that to him, these reporters were interchangeable, but he said, 'Jill Ganine.'
'Maybe we ought to go have a chat with her,' Brass said.
'I have no intention of wasting my time with the media,' Grissom said. 'If we've been betrayed by the
Brass grimaced, but said, 'Right. You're right.'
Grissom's eyebrows flicked up and down. 'We had a week without press pressure, and that luxury helped us get a good start on this thing.'
Warrick looked at Grissom like his boss was cutting out paper airplanes, but said nothing.
'Now,' Grissom said, finally sitting, 'we work the case and worry about the media in our spare time…and if any of you
He looked around the table, but no one volunteered to get things going.
Grissom turned to Greg, sitting immediately to his right; apparently the supervisor sensed the only positive attitude in the room and honed in on it. 'Make me happy, Greg.'
Greg said, 'All the blood belongs to the victim.'
Grissom looked no happier. 'Anything else?'
'The semen on his back did not belong to the victim. CODIS is still working on finding a match.'
While the Combined DNA Index System was growing, Catherine knew all too well that getting a hit off CODIS was far from a sure thing.
'Catherine,' Grissom said, turning her way, his face passive, any tension from the sheriff and media a distant memory now, 'what do we know about the victim?'
Without referring to the report before her, Catherine said, 'Marvin Sandred, forty-seven, lived in Vegas a little over a year. Worked for a welding supply company where he'd been for six months.'
She glanced at Brass to pick up her thread, which he did: 'I talked to Sandred's boss, and half a dozen coworkers, too. Nobody had anything bad to say about him. No one had much good to say about him, either-he was still the newbie, never really integrated with his coworkers. They thought of him as kind of a sad guy, oddly distracted, like work was something he was just putting up with till he could get back to…what really interested him.'
Taking over again, Catherine said, 'He was originally from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Ex-wife back there. Her name's Andrea Dean, Annie for short, remarried after Marvin moved to Vegas.'
Grissom winced in thought. 'You found this out how?'
But it was Brass who explained: 'I asked Catherine to make the call for me-I know it's not really CSI work, but I felt, woman to woman we'd get more.'
Catherine picked up: 'She really broke down big-time when I told her…cried so much, she asked me to call back in five minutes. I did, and she had composed herself, and answered all my questions. But she couldn't help us much, either.'
'Had she kept in touch with her ex?' Grissom asked. 'Ever visited him here?'
'They talked on the phone a few times. They were a childless couple, who broke up acrimoniously, over his cashing in his retirement and moving here…to be closer to his gambling habit.'
Warrick said, 'So that's what he was preoccupied about at work.'
Both Catherine and Brass nodded.
'By the way,' Brass said, 'the neighborhood canvass was a bust-what few people were home didn't notice anybody strange in the area, much less actually see our killer go to the front door.'
'So much for talk,' Grissom said. 'What about actual evidence?'
'The partial footprint is from a current Stasis M658 running shoe,' Warrick said. 'There weren't any of those in Sandred's closet, or anywhere on his property for that matter…and the next door neighbors don't own any either. Could belong to the killer.'
'Good, Warrick,' Grissom said.
