Previous part of Remuneration.

***

The evening sky, now a dark grey, caused the scene on the playground to resemble that of a 1950's newsreel. The colors that had been so vibrant in the sunshine were now washed to muted tones of grey. Robin Freeman was sitting in the sandbox and playing with her Malibu Barbie and Jeep. She didn't notice how dark it was getting. She did notice the pretty doggie that came right up to her and joined her in the sand. The dog had a leash that was dragging on the ground.

"Hello," she said to the dog. The dog wagged his tail and licked her hand. Robin laughed.

"There you are," a man said to the dog as he walked up to the sandbox. He reached for the end of the dropped leash.

Robin looked up at the new arrival and smiled. "Is this your doggie?"

The man smiled back. "Yes. Do you like him?"

Robin looked back at the dog and nodded. She petted the dog's back. "He's nice."

The smile on the man's face faded to a look that was more often seen on a hunter's face who had finally spied long sought after prey. "He thinks you're nice, too."

"What's his name?" Robin wanted to know.

Before the man could answer, their attention was drawn away from the dog.

"Robin?" a voice from a nearby house called. Across the street, the light on the porch of the Freeman home came on and a woman stepped out of the front door. She called again. "Robin! Time to come inside!"

"I have to go now," Robin said dejectedly. She didn't want to leave the nice man with the pretty doggie.

"That's okay," the man said. The expression on his face had not changed. "Maybe we will meet again and you can play with my dog."

"Robin! Now!"

Robin got up and collected her toys. "I'd like that," she said. She gave the doggie one last pet and then ran for home before she got into real trouble.

He watched the little girl go and wound the leash a little tighter around his hand. She would do nicely. Finding her had been all too easy.

"See you soon, Robin," he said quietly.

Grissom had to fight the media circus not once but twice in order to make it into his office. The local members of the fourth estate had him surrounded at home and at work. It was a pleasure to finally arrive in the relative quiet of his own office, even if he wasn't the actual supervisor on shift. Those duties fell to Catherine until his innocence was proven. His current duty had been restricted to the entomological analysis of this one crime scene. Grissom looked forward to the analysis but felt a bit odd being at the lab and being unable to assist with any of the myriad other things going on. He dropped his briefcase on his desk and sat down. The certainty that he would be found innocent was something that Gil never questioned. He believed in the criminal justice system and, more importantly, in the Las Vegas Crime Lab and in Nick. Grissom wasn't ignorant of the fact that sometimes innocent men went to jail. This wouldn't be one of those times. If there was any exculpatory evidence to be found, Nick would find it. The time it would take to do so was the issue. The longer the media and everyone else wasted time centering their attention on him the more uncomfortable he became. At least in his office he could spend time thinking about something else. He could do what he did best of all. He could solve a puzzle.

The current puzzle involved developing an entomological timeline for the crime scene in the storage unit case. Multiple bottles all labeled 'Evidence' awaited him in his office. Half of the collected insects had been immersed in an alcohol solution for preservation, the other half of the insects were alive. Sara had been true to her word and had placed the maggots in petrie dishes with food and moisture. This gave him the best chance of determining the post-mortem interval. He would do an entomological regression as soon as the maggots developed. Until then, he would focus on identifying the species he was dealing with and then determining the represented stages of development.

Ruminating about his current status at the lab wasn't helpful, so Gil decided to spend no more unproductive time on it. He started preparing for the analysis immediately. He hadn't gotten far when there was a knock on his office door. He looked up at the door and frowned.

Martha Danbridge welcomed her son and daughter-in-law into her home and her embrace. She apologized for the umpteenth time only to have her son tell her, "It's not your fault, Mom."

Detective Paulson stayed only a moment before taking his leave. He had been able to assure Shelly's parents that the department put the highest priority on this case. When they asked if they could see Shelly, Paulson had made arrangements for the family to view the body at the morgue later that evening. Dr. Robbins, the chief medical examiner, would be there personally to answer their questions.

Right now, the Danbridge family needed time to comfort one another. Martha Danbridge had been fending off the press all day. Questions about her granddaughter and her neighbor assaulted her from all sides. She didn't want to believe that Dr. Grissom was responsible. It just didn't seem possible. She told her son as much as soon as the detective left. If her neighbor was the one who had killed Shelly, Martha didn't think she would ever be able to forgive herself. How could she live right next door to a killer and not know? How could the man who had been so kind after her husband's death and Shelly's disappearance be the same man who took her granddaughter's life?

Martha had promised she wouldn't cry again. It was a promise she couldn't keep. She had worried that her family would blame her as much as she blamed herself. Martha wasn't sure she could bear their disdain. As if to prove her fears were unfounded Cheryl Danbridge, her son's wife, Shelly's mother, put her arms around Martha. They all cried together.

***

Usually, Gil kept his office door open. He liked being accessible to the people at the lab. If they had a question or concern, he wanted them to feel free to speak to him. Though never really considered a 'people person', Gil felt it was his job as a senior investigator to help others work through the issues arising from the many cases the lab worked on daily. His experience was a valuable asset, not just to him but to his team. But right now, he wasn't in the sharing mood.

When he didn't answer right away the door swung open. Gil wasn't too surprised to find it was Catherine entering his office uninvited. She rarely kept the distance from him that the other members of his team did. Their friendship was long and she didn't find him nearly as intimidating as the younger employees of the lab did. Grissom had discovered that Catherine rarely found anyone intimidating. He was surprised to realize that he felt a bit relieved and even a little glad that she was standing in his office.

"Hey," he said as he turned to face her.

"Hey, yourself," Catherine replied. "I saw you were here and thought I'd check to see how you're holding up."

Gil shrugged. "I'm fine."

Catherine ignored the stock answer she knew she'd get from her friend and looked back at the office door, now standing ajar. "Feeling antisocial today?"

That got more than the expected reply. He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not here as the supervisor," he gave a slight shrug as he explained. "I figured the supervisor's door could remain closed."

"And you could keep all those pesky co-workers who are concerned about you at arm's length as well," Catherine replied.

Gil just looked at her.

"I thought as much," she said, meeting his gaze. Catherine knew not to expect much more from Grissom. This lack of demonstrativeness was normal. That didn't mean that she was any more pleased now with this aspect of his personality than she had ever been. Sometimes she just wanted to shake him.

Another knock at the door announced the arrival of Warrick and Sara at Grissom's office. Gil had to lean forward slightly in his chair in order to see around Catherine and identify the new arrivals.

"Can we come in?" Sara asked.

With a look that signaled resignation more than anything else, Grissom gestured that they enter. They were worried, he supposed. Why should they be? He was a robot, right? Hadn't they all said so, in one way or another?

Gil immediately and silently chastised himself. He wasn't being fair. Fear and anger had forced the unkind words he had received. There were enough unfounded accusations floating around without Gil giving in to the bitterness. It was only a matter of time before he would be proven innocent. Patience had always been a virtue he tried to practice. Right now they all needed to do that. By all reports, several members of the PD and the crime lab were a lot more impatient with the evidentiary process than he was.

"You doing okay?" Warrick asked after entering the office behind Sara.

Gil gave the younger CSIs a stern look. "I'm fine," he assured them just as he had Catherine. All the concern was discomforting.

Both Sara and Warrick gave Grissom an appraising look, trying to determine just how fine he might be. If Grissom was upset or angry about his current status at the lab or as a suspect, he wasn't about to say so. They really hadn't expected anything else from their boss. It was more important to let him know that they were there for him.

"We're not making much progress on the storage unit case," Sara offered in an attempt to say anything that wouldn't seem like emotional prying. She gave Grissom a brief review of the findings she and Warrick had made after examining the recliner and the victim's clothing. They were still trying to run down the laundry mark.

"The post is scheduled for midnight tonight," Catherine informed them. "We may know more after that."

Grissom nodded. "And if I'm ever allowed a chance to start this analysis, our insect friends might have a thing or two to offer as well."

Catherine grinned. "That must be your not-too-subtle way of telling us to leave you and your bugs alone," she half-joked.

Gil looked over the top of his glasses at her. "Yes," he said. His matter-of-fact tone told all of them that he was not wasting any subtlety on them at all.

"Well," Catherine said, not losing her grin, "I guess we can take a hint." Turning she said to Warrick and Sara, "Let's let the professor do his job, shall we?"

They all headed toward the door when Warrick stopped. "Hey, Gris? Did you hear about the deposits Ecklie found on his desk tonight?"

They turned back to Grissom and Sara could swear she saw the fleeting hint of a smile on his face. When he spoke to them, though, he was all business.

"I did," he told them. Leaning forward and pointing at them with the pen he held in his hand he said, "I better not hear that any of you had anything to do with that." Grissom eyed the three members of this team for a moment. If they were guilty of participating in antagonizing Ecklie, they were hiding it well. "You're senior investigators. I expect more from you."

"Sure," Sara said, nodding her agreement.

"No worries," Warrick added, fighting a smile.

With that, they all left. Catherine hadn't said another word. Gil was certain he could see the telltale grin on Catherine's face that was a sign she knew more than she was willing to say. Sometimes there were things it was better not to know. He had to admit that he wished he could have seen the look on Ecklie's face when he found the 'deposits'.

Nick had managed to isolate more animal hairs from Shelly Danbridge's socks. The hairs he found were similar in color and length to the hairs he had found on her dress and the top of one shoe she was wearing when found. There wasn't any underwear. The SART kit that had been sent to Greg for analysis also had included animal hairs. Doc Robbins had found similar hairs on the body and sent these to Nick as well.

Using the comparison microscope, Nick had been able to determine that the hairs were canine. The crime lab didn't have a very extensive database for dog hair, but the FBI did. Nick took several high definition photographs using the microscope imager and placed these in the file with his initial report. He would have to access the FBI database in order to determine breed or breeds of dog represented by the hairs that had been collected. This was an analysis he would let Hodges perform. Hodges would jump at the chance to prove Grissom was innocent. That kiss-ass would never pass up a chance to win brownie points with the boss.

Nick had also found two different kind of colored fibers. Both looked like some kind of carpet fiber. These would be his next priority, but they would have to wait.

At least the number of dog hairs suggested extensive exposure to an animal. Mrs. Danbridge didn't own a dog. Neither did Grissom. This was the first bit of good news Nick had obtained from the case. Now there was solid evidence that pointed away from Grissom. Where, exactly, the evidence pointed to was still a mystery.

***

The image of Shelly Danbridge's face was visible on the viewing room display. The bruises on her small face seemed even more pronounced on the monitor. Cheryl Danbridge was unable to look away from the image of her little girl. They had been allowed to see the body for a brief moment, but the coroner wouldn't allow them to touch their daughter.

The victim's grandmother hadn't come. Martha Danbridge simply couldn't bring herself to look at Shelly's body. She didn't want to remember her granddaughter that way. She wanted to remember the little girl who skipped and played and loved the wildflowers.

Shelly's father had stepped into the viewing room with his arm around his wife. When she moved toward the monitor that showed Shelly's face, he turned away. Ron Danbridge didn't have any questions for the coroner. His eyes had told him all he wanted to know. Shelly was dead and her death had been brutal. He balled his fists and shut his eyes tight against the knowledge, as if somehow by sheer will he could make the reality he saw go away. An overwhelming need to kill the man who did it filled him. Five minutes. That's all he would need. Five minutes alone with that bastard and he'd show the pervert exactly what it must have felt like to Shelly.

To little Shelly.

His rage turned to uncontrolled sobbing and he found himself sitting in the corner of the room with his wife in his arms. Oh God in heaven, why her. Why their precious little Shelly….

Nick was headed for the DNA lab after receiving Greg's page. He noticed the lights were on in Grissom's office. Stopping in the hallway outside, Nick looked in while Grissom worked with the depth of concentration that was the envy of just about everyone in the lab. The scene in Grissom's office was familiar. Nick continued to spy for several more minutes before moving on. Grissom was hard at it on a case that had nothing to do with his current troubles. Typical.

There was a white foam board with dozens of individual insect specimens pinned to it. Grissom had arranged them in some order that signified species and then by size. Evidence jars were stacked on his desk and books were opened one on top of the other. Currently, Grissom was looking through the field microscope at a specimen and then consulting one of the books on his desk. Most likely some chart.

Crossing his arms, Nick wondered what his boss might be thinking - probably about nothing but bugs right now. Grissom had to know that there were people hard at work trying to exonerate him. He was powerless to help in his own defense. Nick understood what he was going through. It was tough to have a possible murder charge hanging over your head. Nick hadn't been able to do anything but wait and pray that Catherine found the evidence to prove he hadn't killed Kristy Hopkins. Nick's situation had been different. His own actions had put him in contact with Kristy at her home just before she was killed. Grissom hadn't done anything but just be Grissom, and he was suspected of a much more heinous crime. In the eyes of the law, the murder of an adult was very different from the sexual assault and murder of a child. All death was tragic. It just seemed that the loss of so innocent a life was more so. Grissom must be going through hell. No one would know it by observing him bent over his desk. But then, there was a lot about Grissom none of them knew. Turning away, Nick headed for the DNA lab.

Arriving in DNA, Nick found Greg hard at work as well. "I got your page, Greggo."

Greg Saunders looked up from the microscope he was peering through.

"What have you got?" Nick asked.

"Well," Greg replied, rolling his stool sideways so he could pick up a completed report and hand it to the CSI. "I did a comparison like you asked. The two bags aren't consistent."

Taking the report from Greg, Nick gave it a quick read. "Hey, that's great man. This is really going to help."

"Uh," Greg continued holding up a gloved finger. "I didn't stop there though."

Nick looked back at the lab tech. "Oh?"

Greg grinned. "I figured we needed a slam dunk, so I ran all the bags from the box found in Grissom's Tahoe. They are all consistent with each other but not with the trash bag the victim was found in. The bag used to dump her body did not come from Grissom's box." Greg handed Nick the second report.

That brought a smile to Nick's face. "Oh man, that's perfect. Thanks buddy."

With reports in hand, Nick headed for Ecklie's office. With the information he had from the trash bag manufacturer's quality assurance expert and Greg's reports as well as the abundance of dog hairs, he had a pretty good case that Grissom was not the man who killed Shelly. He knew one supervisor who would hate the news, another who would love it, and a certain rookie detective who needed the reports stapled right between the eyes.

Warrick hung up the phone from a fruitless conversation with the manager of yet another all-night cleaners. Sara was finishing with another call to a dry cleaners on her own half of the list.

Hanging up, Sara turned to her partner. "I'm beginning to think that laundry mark didn't come from anywhere here in town."

"Or maybe we were wrong about that number being a laundry mark," Warrick offered.

Sara thought about that a moment before answering. "Maybe … it's a tailoring mark."

"Tailoring?" Warrick asked. "I thought we had decided that suit was from off the rack."

"Yeah, but don't guys buy off the rack and then have a suit fitted later?" Sara wondered.

Warrick nodded. "Yeah, they do," he said slowly, thinking about the possibility.

"So maybe we should be calling tailors," she said.

"Maybe," Warrick said.

Midnight was rapidly approaching. He stood in a darkened room and stared out at the night. Las Vegas lights beckoned but he did not heed. His mind was preoccupied with his new find.

Perhaps he was pushing things. The police had a suspect for the death. That left him room to pursue what he needed. The last encounter had not satisfied him. Maybe this one would.

With his dog lying asleep in front of an easy chair, he wondered if Robin would be at play tomorrow. The ache in his groin told him he was a little more that hopeful that she would be.

***

"Let me see if I understand this," Sheriff Mobley intoned, a little more than upset. He had been called in the middle of the night at Stokes' insistence. Currently sitting in the conference room at the Crime Lab, the Sheriff was joined by Carl Paulson, Conrad Ecklie, and Nick Stokes. It was the young CSI who was making his case for Grissom's innocence. "The trash bag manufacturer supplied you with the composition?"

Nick shook his head. "Not quite," he explained. "The quality assurance inspector for the manufacturing company explained the manufacturing process. You see, each bag made will have several defining characteristics that help to identify it from other bags made by the same manufacturer. Since the bags are mass-produced, each bag won't be entirely unique. But certain chemical and physical attributes can distinguish one bag from another."

Mobley still wasn't sure he was getting it. "Defining characteristics."

"Yeah," Nick continued, obviously excited by the information he believed was exculpatory. "The garbage bags are made from a liquid plastic mix that is blown into tubes, cooled, folded, and then cut. Each batch of the plastic mixture used to make the bags will be unique since no two mixtures will contain the same trace element levels. See, the liquid plastic batches are a mixture of recycled and new plastic elements. The recycled bits of plastic are from imperfect prior batch garbage bags that fail quality inspection. They are shredded and added to the new mixture. These bags are either white or dark and may or may not have those yellow ties you use to close the bag."

Brian Mobley nodded. This he was able to follow.

Nick could see that he was making sense. "The white plastic is rich in titanium dioxide and those yellow plastic ties are very high in iron. Depending on the amount of recycled material used in each batch of plastic mixture, the levels will vary. Each batch will have unique levels of titanium dioxide and iron. Using high intensity X-ray florescent spectrometry, we can measure these levels in a given sample."

"Like the trash bags found in Grissom's possession and the one the victim was found in," the Sheriff said.

"Exactly," Nick replied.

Mobley read the reports he had been given again. "Then these reports tell us that the garbage bag used to dump the body of that little girl did not come from the box of bags taken from Grissom."

"That's right," Nick said.

"But it doesn't mean that Grissom didn't kill her." This last came from Carl Paulson. They all looked at him. "Grissom is a criminal investigator. He knows how to get rid of evidence. What's to say that he didn't just toss the box that the victim's bag came from?"

Choosing to ignore the detective for the moment, Nick turned back to the Sheriff. "We also found an abundance of animal hairs on the victim and on her clothing. Dog hairs to be more precise. The victim's grandmother doesn't own a dog. Neither does Grissom. Somehow, between the time she left her grandmother's home and when she was killed, she came into very close contact with a dog or with an environment filled with dog hair. None of the evidence taken from Grissom's Tahoe or his home contained animal hair."

"He took her to someplace that a dog had been," Paulson insisted.

Nick was losing his temper now. "The last time I checked, a person was innocent until proven guilty," he said hotly. "You don't force the evidence to fit a theory. You build a theory from the evidence you have."

"And what does the evidence suggest to you, Mr. Stokes?" Sheriff Mobley asked the CSI, trying to diffuse the rapidly rising tempers.

Giving the detective a stabbing glare, Nick paused before answering the Sheriff's question. "That the perpetrator probably owns a dog. He may have even used the dog as a lure to get the victim to go with him without raising an alarm."

At this, Mobley looked expectantly at the CSI supervisor. Conrad Ecklie had remained silent throughout this meeting - probably because he knew that Stokes was correct about Grissom's innocence.

"Ecklie?" Mobley asked. "Do you agree?"

Conrad had to admit that Nick's hunch about the killer of Shelly Danbridge made sense. He wasn't pleased about it, though. Still, the Sheriff was going to be more interested in catching the perpetrator than in proving Grissom's guilt or innocence. It would serve Conrad better if he steered the investigation toward finding the actual killer. Grissom hadn't done it and that meant that someone else did. That someone else was still out there. With obvious reservations, he nodded and said, "It makes sense. Everything we know about sexual predators suggests that this is a likely scenario."

Carl Paulson stared at the CSI supervisor. "But what about the time frame? Grissom can't account for the two hours before the victim disappeared."

Nick opened his mouth to reply but was beaten to the punch by the Sheriff.

"If someone were to ask me to account for time I spent home alone," Mobley told the detective, "I wouldn't be able to provide an alibi any more than Mr. Grissom could. He was most likely right where he said he was. And, until you can show me any other corroborating evidence to the contrary, I'm willing to accept his account as gospel."

Catherine, Sara, and Warrick were gathered on one side of the autopsy table listening to Doc Robbins. The John Doe from the storage unit lay on the table in front of them.

"He suffered a single gunshot to the head," the coroner informed them. "The bullet entered through the right orbit. The shot was made at almost point-blank range. There's no exit wound."

"No exit wound?" Sara asked.

"So we can retrieve the bullet," Catherine suggested.

Turning, Doc Robbins moved toward the radiograph viewing panel on the wall near the foot of the autopsy table. They followed. Several x-ray images of the victim's skull were illuminated. He pointed to a small area of hyperdensity that was obviously a piece of metal. "There's a large bullet fragment lodged in the occipital region. I'll send it to Bobby in Ballistics as soon as I recover it."

"Any other injuries?" Warrick wanted to know.

"None that are obvious," Robbins said. "I'll send tissue samples out for toxicology. Right now it's looking like a straightforward death-by-gunshot."

"Do you have any idea about time of death?" Catherine asked.

Robbins moved back to the autopsy table and looked at the body again. "The amount of desiccation makes it hard to establish. Right now I'd say anywhere between ten days to three weeks. Grissom should be able to give you a more accurate estimate."

Of course, that would depend on Grissom still having a job, Robbins thought. He felt another twinge of anger at what was happening to his friend and colleague. By the looks he received from the three CSIs at the mention of their boss's name, Robbins knew he wasn't alone.

***

By 3am, Gil had been at the analysis for eight hours. He had been able to identify two species of diptera, two demestids, one histeridae, and a single pholcidae species. The enclosed environment of the storage unit had prevented a more diverse phiophiledae or coleoptera representation. He still had to determine developmental stages present for all identified species. To do so, he would factor in variables like temperature, humidity, and light levels in the storage unit. This would involve calculating the amount of daily direct sun exposure on the door of the unit, the amount of light and heat transferred to the inside of the closed door, temperature gradients within an empty storage unit of the same dimensions compared with the outside ambient air at varying times throughout a 24 hour period, weather patterns in Las Vegas for the past 90 days, relative daily humidity for the same time period, and the known temperatures of the larval masses on the body he had recorded at the time of collection. The whole process was simplified by the body's placement away from soil and foliage and out of direct exposure to the elements. All in all, a very nice entomological analysis. The diversion provided Gil with a mental respite from the rue he felt when he thought about Shelly Danbridge.

Grissom was not responsible. He hadn't assaulted or killed her. That knowledge didn't help very much.

Shelly's killer, whoever he was, had violated her in unspeakable ways. But not just her - the entire Vegas community. The killer had crossed the line of decency and broken the public trust. A state of collective community grief was fueled by fear and dread. Most of that fear, coupled with a healthy dose of loathing, was aimed at the only known suspect. It was aimed at Grissom.

But here, in his office, with the insects and his books, Gil felt oddly safe from the accusations, large and small, past and present. This place of scientific endeavor was a bastion of sanity for the scientist. This world made sense to him. In it, he felt he had a great deal to offer. He could do some good, make a real difference. Corny as that might sound, it was the life Gil had consciously chosen. The fact that he might lose it all frightened him more than anything else in his life had.

What otosclerosis had not yet been able to do, this one act of horror - the murder of Shelly Danbridge - just might accomplish. This life that Gil had made for himself could fall apart.

Taking his glasses off, Gil dropped them on the topmost book of a large pile on his desk. It was a parasitology text. Sitting back in his chair, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was half-heartedly listening to a Vivaldi violin concerto when the sound of the music faded to a dull hum. Gil turned to look at the boom box that sat on the corner of his desk. The power light was still on and he could see the disk spinning through the small clear plastic window in the player door. He had an urge to increase the volume but knew that doing so would not help. He was still staring at the near-silent boom box when he was startled by the sudden opening of his office door. He was even more surprised by the person who stepped through it.

David Hodges knew that Stokes had been right that the animal hairs found on the victim and her clothing were canine. The spade-shaped roots of the dog hairs were folded and triangular. The dog was a short-haired variety. Color of the hairs was dark brown to black. Hodges wondered if the dog wasn't a Labrador or a lab mix. He ran with his hunch and found a nice match with the FBI canine database.

He double-checked his results before preparing his report. Hodges wanted Grissom's approval but he also wanted his gratitude. The more the boss depended on Hodges and his analysis skills, the faster the lab technician would advance. He always knew that the analysis of the evidence, not the gathering of it, was the most important aspect of forensic investigation. The CSIs in the office were far too self-important for his liking. Proving Grissom's innocence would be a nice feather in Hodges' cap for sure.

Jim Brass waited in his office for the young detective. After talking with the Sheriff, they had both agreed that the best medicine for inexperience was to stay the course. As much as Brass would love to drop-kick Paulson's ass right out of his division, he knew that this whole ugly mistake would teach the detective a very valuable lesson. If Paulson could make it through and close this case, the department just might find that he could be an asset, not a liability.

Hell, Brass had made his share of mistakes. Thankfully, he had never fried a colleague doing so. The largest obstacle Carl Paulson would have to jump was riding out the backlash from members of the department, both cops and the forensic guys.

Not that long ago, Brass would have done everything in his power to get rid of someone like Paulson. He had learned a valuable lesson of his own. His leadership, though not gentle, would bend its energies toward making this detective a smarter investigator. But that would be after Brass pinned his proverbial butt to the wall.

A knock told him his appointee was not late. "Come," he said loudly.

Carl Paulson stepped through the door to his captain's office and moved to stand in front of Brass's desk. He was not able to read the expression on the older man's face.

"Have a seat," Brass said, nodding to one of the two chairs that faced the visitor's side of his desk. Paulson complied.

Brass sat quietly and observed the detective for several minutes. Paulson became more and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. He began to fidget in his chair, straightening his tie several times and tugging on his coat jacket sleeves. When it became obvious that his captain wasn't going to say anything, Paulson cleared his throat in preparation of beginning his defense.

"You should have learned something important from all of this," Brass said, preempting the detective's statement and surprising Paulson.

"Yes … yes, sir," Carl said, unsure of what to think. He was completely unable to read the captain's tone or expression.

Brass nodded and sat forward, folding his hands atop his desk blotter. "Why don't you tell me what you've learned," he said almost too softly.

Paulson's palms were sweaty. He hadn't felt this nervous since he took the verbal psychological examination upon entering the academy. Despite his promise to himself to the contrary, Carl was becoming sorry that he had ever put in his transfer request to the homicide detail. He was much less sure of himself than he had been just two days before. How could he have let things go so wrong so fast with this case? When he had stood in Grissom's living room and found those flowers, everything had seemed to drop into place. Everything seemed to fit, neat and tidy. Everything, that is, except Grissom's character. Paulson had come to realize that nothing about Grissom was really all that normal. He loved bugs and crime scenes. He had no family to speak of but he was well respected by just about everyone. His investigative skills were practically unparalleled and had even proven the Sheriff wrong a time or two. But Grissom didn't toot his own horn. He quietly went about doing his job, day in and day out. And he was very, very good at what he did.

Brass could practically see the wheels turning inside Paulson's head. He didn't want to give the detective too much time to think. With a fast movement, Jim slammed his hand down on his desk. When Paulson nearly jumped straight up from his chair, Brass smiled.

"I'm not sitting here for my health, detective," Brass said almost cordially. "Tell me what you've learned."

"Yes, sir," Paulson said nervously. The fine sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead. "I know that I should have investigated Mr. Grissom's charac…."

"DOCTOR Grissom," Brass corrected sternly.

Paulson nodded and continued correcting, "I should have investigated Dr. Grissom's character more thoroughly before making any allegations that he could be our suspect."

"Your suspect, detective. But that's a good start," Brass said. "What else?"

Carl absorbed the off-handed rebuff with a nervous swallow before continuing. "I should have consulted with you immediately."

"That's right," Jim replied. "You should have brought any suspicions you may have had to your commanding officer, not gone over my head." With each word, the volume in Brass's voice rose. He gave his anger a little bit more lead to run. "So why the hell didn't you do that, Detective Paulson? Huh? I'll tell you why. You were so intent on making a name for yourself in the department that you forgot the most important aspect of police work. Protect and serve.

"But you're not going to forget that ever again, are you, detective? You're not going to because I'm going to make damn certain that you don't!"

As Brass continued, the officers and other employees of the LVMPD that passed by his closed office door could hear the anger in the captain's voice and subconsciously picked up their pace as they walked. No one wanted to be the person who sat across the desk from an angry Jim Brass. No one in their right mind, anyway.

***

"I'm sorry, Sheriff," Grissom said, rising. "I didn't hear a knock." As he spoke, the music he was listening to faded back in. Gil turned the boom box off, giving the impression that it was the music that prevented him from hearing the Sheriff at his office door.

Brian Mobley looked at the pile of books on the CSI supervisor's desk then over at the foam board that had dozens of insects and larvae pinned to it. "I guess you're in your element with the bugs."

That produced a wry smile from the forensic investigator. "It's the only element left to me."

Mobley looked at Grissom. Gil had every right to be bitter. Still, Brian hadn't expected it from him. "I'm here to talk about that very thing."

Nick had specialized in hair and fiber analysis during his training. He chose to take on the challenge of the two different colored fibers himself. He worked for several hours in the solitude of the Layout Room. He was able to isolate automobile carpet fibers easily enough. One set of the fibers found on the victim and her clothing were consistent with tan automotive carpeting commonly found in Ford vehicles. The samples were tri-lobal and synthetic - nylon. The color was specific to more recent model years. Nick requested a complete list from the manufacturer of all makes and models of Fords in all model years that came standard with the tan carpeting.

The second type of fiber was harder to pin down. Also synthetic, the fiber appeared to be from some type of carpeting as well. Once Nick had ruled out nylon, the most common synthetic carpet fiber, he decided to use GC mass spectrometry to determine what type of polymer he was dealing with. What he found was polypropylene, or olefin. The polymer was a continuous filament fiber that was pre-dyed a beige color during manufacture. His guess about the fiber's use in carpeting was correct.

Shelly Danbridge had come into contact with two different carpets before being killed. Nick would have to rule out any fibers she may have picked up in her grandmother's home or vehicle. If the fibers weren't consistent with carpeting in those two places, then he had the first pieces of real evidence that would solve the mystery of where she may have met her premature death.

After leaving the morgue with the preliminary post results on their John Doe, Warrick, Sara, and Catherine were met with the buzz that a high level meeting about Grissom had occurred. Catherine wanted to know what was happening, and as the acting supervisor for the night shift she decided someone was going to tell her.

Leaving Sara and Warrick to continue following up on the mark they had found on the victim's suit coat, Catherine went to get some information. If all else failed, Catherine would head to Ecklie's office. If the day shift supervisor was still in, she was going to wring the truth out of him - with her bare hands, if necessary.

Now armed with an approximate age thanks to Doc Robbins, along with the victim's height and estimated weight, Sara started a search of the missing person database. It was a long shot, but searches like this had paid off for her before. Grissom had once tried to discourage her from spending large amounts of time on a single case. He had been right, of course. She had been too emotionally involved with the case.

What if her emotional involvement with this case had nothing to do with the victim and everything to do with her boss? What the hell was happening?

What Sara wanted was to work with Grissom. To talk to him. To make sure he was doing okay. What she would have to settle for was waiting for his analysis, keeping her distance so he could concentrate, and praying that Nicky was making progress in proving Grissom's innocence. A missing persons search was just the kind of distraction she needed from the emotions she didn't really want to have to think about right now.

Warrick stayed on the laundry or tailoring mark. He was nearly at the end of his dry cleaner list and as the early morning wore on, more businesses would be opening up, giving him a chance to contact the remaining laundries on his list. After that, he would start on the list of tailors in town the computer business reference database spit out for him.

This type of work was tedious - drudgery. Warrick hated the drudge work. Grissom would point out that the job wasn't always about the big clues, the big cases. Grissom wouldn't give a damn about the tedium. Do the job, that's what Grissom would tell Warrick. Do it without bias and with precision. Don't cut corners. Follow every possible angle.

Taking a deep breath, Warrick reached for the phone to dial yet another number from his list. "Okay, Gris," he said to himself, "this one's for you."

Conrad Ecklie was closing up his office and heading home. Nick Stokes had the Danbridge case cooking on all burners, Carl Paulson was in line for a Jim Brass special, and the Sheriff had gone off to tell Grissom the good news himself. Being a day shift person, Conrad was sure that pulling many more of these night hours would kill him. God, he was tired. Just when he thought he was going to be home free, he heard a voice that made him wince.

"Ecklie!"

Turning, Conrad found that he was face to face with Catherine Willows. The look on her face told Conrad all he needed to know about her mood. If there had been a hole in the hallway, anywhere, Ecklie would have made a running jump down into it.

"Hello, Catherine," Conrad said with a cordialness that he didn't necessarily feel.

"What the hell is going on with the case against Grissom?" Catherine asked without preamble. Knowing that there had been a high level meeting, she'd gone first to Grissom's office. He wasn't there. Krista, the receptionist on nights, had told Catherine that Grissom had checked out of the lab and gone home. Catherine feared the worst.

Conrad took a deep breath and blew it out audibly. He really didn't want to do this right now. He was tired and he could hear his pillow calling his name. "You know I can't divulge the results of an investigation," he told her. "If you really want to know, ask Grissom."

Catherine's temper deflated a little. She was asking Ecklie to break protocol. But, dammit, sometimes protocol was meant to be broken. "He's not in his office. I've already checked. He's signed out and gone home."

Ecklie shrugged. "Then I guess you'll have to call him at home or wait until he returns to work."

That last statement gave Catherine pause. "What a minute," she began, mentally working through the information. "You said when he returns to work."

Conrad was losing patience. "Yes. Or page him … whatever."

Now Catherine was beginning to smile. "But if he's able to return to work then he hasn't been fired," relief filled her voice. "The meeting you had with the Sheriff earlier."

Now Conrad was frowning. "How do you know about the meeting?"

"So Nicky must have found something to exonerate Grissom," Catherine surmised. "And the Sheriff knows it."

"I didn't say that," Ecklie objected. When he met Catherine's gaze, he knew she understood that Grissom was cleared. "The official report of the department's investigation won't be made public until later this morning."

The bigger Conrad's frown became, the larger Catherine's smile grew. "Thanks for the information, Conrad," Catherine said. She patted him on the shoulder then turned on her heels and headed to tell the rest of her team the good news. She also wanted to find Nicky and give him a big hug. She would have to wait until she talked with Grissom to find out why he had gone home, but one thing was certain now. Gil Grissom was still a very big part of the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

***

The Sheriff had requested that Grissom be at the news conference that was scheduled for 9 o'clock that morning. Grissom was tired and he had looked it. Mobley had practically ordered Gil to go home and get some rest. It wouldn't do for the innocent CSI to look too beleaguered when the press was informed that there wasn't a solid shred of evidence against him.

The relief that Gil felt when he knew that he was cleared, that he would be allowed to continue doing the job he had spent his entire life preparing for and perfecting, surprised him. It wasn't until he was sure of what the Sheriff was telling him that he realized how much energy he had been expending to keep his emotions under control. After Mobley had left his office, Gil sat down to think. So much had happened in the past 36 hours. He was having a hard time processing it all. One thing struck him, though. Sheriff Mobley's apology seemed sincere enough, but still felt hollow. Now Gil understood.

His apology must have sounded exactly the same way to her.

The drive home flew by. His mind was filled with thoughts of apologies, careers, and cases when he was ushered up the back stairs of his condominium building by Officer Doug Barron, who had pulled the night shift again. After the news conference, there wouldn't be a need for an official LVMPD shadow. That was something Gil definitely wouldn't miss.

Pushing through the fire doors at the landing on the third floor, Gil dug into his pocket and retrieved his front door keys. He was sorting through the keys on his keychain as he moved up the hall. He never saw the blow coming.

"YOU BASTARD!" Ron Danbridge shouted as he lunged at Grissom. His first blow caught Gil on the left side of his face and sent him back into the corridor wall. "YOU KILLED MY LITTLE GIRL!"

Officer Barron was only steps behind Grissom, but it took him several seconds to get a good grip on Danbridge and pull him off the CSI. By the time the officer had gotten a restraining hold on the enraged father, Gil had been struck by several more blows and was lying on the floor with his hands held out protectively. The last thing Grissom wanted was to get into a fist fight with the grieving parent of a murder victim.

Ron Danbridge continued to struggle against Officer Barron's restraining hold for only a few more seconds before he finally relaxed. The tears followed quickly on the heels of his rage.

"He killed her," Ron cried. "That bastard killed my Shelly."

"No, he didn't," the uniform told Ron Danbridge. "Dr. Grissom didn't kill anyone."

"I saw it on the news," Danbridge continued, losing certainty in his voice as he spoke. "They said he was a suspect."

Jim Brass had called Barron to tell him that Grissom had been cleared and that the officer was to treat him with the utmost respect. Grissom had been through the public opinion mill as it was. Barron slowly released his restraining hold on the father but maintained a steady grip on the man's arm. "Being a suspect doesn't mean you're guilty of anything. Dr. Grissom has been cleared, and the Sheriff will be holding a press conference this morning to report that publicly."

Gil slowly rose from the floor. Wiping the side of his mouth with the back of one hand, he realized he was bleeding. He didn't have a broken nose, but it wasn't for a lack of trying on Mr. Danbridge's part.

"Then who killed Shelly?" Ron Danbridge asked, confusion and grief now taking him over in the absence of his prior anger.

Doug Barron looked at Grissom. "Are you all right, sir?"

Grissom nodded to the officer and leaned against the wall for some support. He felt a little weak in the knees. It had been a long time since anyone had clocked him that hard. After catching his breath, he answered Shelly's father's question. "We don't know who killed Shelly, Mr. Danbridge. Not yet. But we can promise you that the department has placed the highest priority on her case."

Ron Danbridge stood quietly in the middle of the corridor and stared Gil Grissom in the eyes. He knew his mother's neighbor was telling him the truth. The man in front of him had not killed his daughter. Now who was he going to be angry at? Who had killed his daughter? Why couldn't anyone help him find the man responsible?

Gil watched as the emotions played across Mr. Danbridge's face. His heart went out to the man. There was no way Gil would ever understand the depths of his loss. Swallowing against the rise of his own emotion, Grissom took a step toward the grieving father.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Gil said softly as he stepped close. The words seemed too little, too patented to be of much comfort.

Ron Danbridge nodded as the tears flowed freely down his face. Officer Barron let go of his arm and the father, now spent of his rage, moved toward his mother's front door. Gil watched the man go until Ron stepped through the door and it closed quietly behind him.

Forty-five minutes after being attacked in the hallway outside his home, Grissom heard a loud knock on his front door. He rose stiffly from his couch and headed to answer the door. He had a pretty good idea who was there.

When he opened the door he realized that he was right, but not completely. He had expected Catherine, but that was not all he found. What seemed like a throng was huddled outside his doorway. The entire night shift CSI team stood looking at him.

As soon as Catherine saw Gil's face, the grin she wore disappeared. "What happened to you?" she asked, practically pushing past him and into his house. The rest of the team followed quickly behind her.

Gil was forced back up against the wall as they funneled past. "Why don't you come in," he said to their backs after they had entered.

Ignoring him, Catherine waited for him to close the door and look at them again. "Who the hell did this to you?" she demanded.

A chorus of "Wow, Gris." "Oh my God." "Damn, Gris." greeted him as he moved back into his living room.

Reaching his couch, Grissom sat down. He would never admit it, but he still felt a little light-headed. "It's nothing," he insisted. "I'm fine."

The team moved into his living room as well. Catherine walked over and sat down next to him. Before Gil could object, she was turning his face toward her so she could get a better look at his injuries.

"Nick," she said without looking up, "Get some ice, would ya?"

"I'm on it," Nick said as he headed for Grissom's kitchen.

Gil pulled his head away from Catherine and gave her an irritated look. "I said I'm fine."

"You look just peachy," Sara said, arms crossed and wearing a scolding expression on her face.

"I hope you got the license number of the truck," Warrick muttered.

Catherine scanned her friend's face. She didn't like the deep purple that was developing under his left eye. The whole left side of his face was swollen and the right side of his lower lip was still oozing a little blood. The handkerchief that lay on the end table was stained with blood as well. At least the ice would help with the swelling and finish staunching the blood.

"Are you going to tell us what happened to you?" Catherine pushed.

Grissom gave her a determined look. "No," he said.

That didn't sit well with Catherine. "Okay," she said, slapping her hands down on her knees and standing. "I'll bet the officer outside knows something and even if he doesn't, since you've obviously been assaulted I guess we should have him call it in."

"Don't do that," Gil said quickly. When Barron had asked if Grissom wanted to swear out a complaint for the assault, Gil had declined. He had also refused the officer's offer to call a rescue squad. All Gil had wanted after the attack was some piece and quiet. His team obviously had other plans. They were concerned about him. Gil knew that. But, dammit, he had his reasons for not wanting to tell them what happened. He was losing his temper.

"I said I'm fine," Gil insisted, not able to keep the ire out of his voice.

"Here's the ice," Nick said as he arrived with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel and handed it to Catherine.

Taking the ice pack from Nick, Catherine sat back down next to Grissom and attempted to apply it to the side of his face. He flinched away from the cold.

"Would you hold still?" Catherine said with exasperation. "You're worse than Lindsey."

That admonishment brought a slight grin to the faces of the onlookers. Seeing their amusement, Gil finally stopped struggling against Catherine's ministrations. He took the ice pack away from her and gingerly held it to his sore face.

After a few seconds, he had to admit that his face did feel better. A quiet had settled on the room as the members of his team watched him. He felt decidedly like a goldfish in a bowl.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked them all.

They looked at each other and smiled. Warrick was the one who finally spoke up.

"Well, we heard that they kicked your ass out of the department so we figured we'd come over here and rub it in a little."

"Looks like someone else beat us to the punch," Sara observed.

***

The news droned in the background as he made preparations for the day. He never saw the images of an impromptu memorial that had sprung up overnight at the site he had dumped the body. He was filled with anticipation. This time nothing would go wrong. He would make certain of that.

As he worked, the words of the newscaster caught his attention.

"Sheriff Brian Mobley is expected to address the city at a news conference scheduled in just a few moments. The family of Shelly Danbridge, the murdered eight-year-old girl, has reportedly already spoken with authorities about the status of the ongoing LVMPD investigation into her death. Here now is Sheriff Mobley…."

Stopping everything else, he listened as the Sheriff spoke. The news conference lasted for nearly twenty minutes. He didn't need to listen to all of it to know that his preparation for the day would have to include some things he had not previously planned on.

By midday the news conference was well over. Gil hadn't watched it. He had slept right through it. After he had sent his team to their respective homes, Gil had called the Sheriff to explain what had happened with Mr. Danbridge and describe the current condition of his face. They both agreed that Gil's absence from the news conference was preferable - the Sheriff because he didn't want to have to explain why his night shift supervisor looked like a barroom brawler and Gil because he hated news conferences out of principle.

The sun was streaming fully though his bedroom window when he awoke to a monstrous headache and the sound of his phone ringing. He winced when he rolled over to reach the receiver.

"Grissom," he said into the phone.

"Dr. Grissom. This is Joel Edwards from Channel 14 news…."

"No comment," Gil cut him short and hung up the phone in disgust. The belief that the news media would leave him alone once he had been cleared of suspicion had obviously been misplaced. He had not completely sat up on the edge of the bed before the phone rang again. Gil scowled at it. He had forwarded all calls to his home number to his voice mail box. Obviously, the box was full. He reached over and turned the ringer off. Dealing with his headache would have to take precedence over trying to deal with his call volume overload.

Serenaded by the continuing ring of the phone in his living room, Gil rose and headed to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. If he was awake, he might as well try to do something constructive with what remained of the daylight.

Carl Paulson spent the early hours of the evening canvassing the neighborhood around Gil Grissom's condo, asking everyone he came across if they remembered seeing anyone with a Labrador or lab mix dog in the area. He had already done a door-to-door in the condo complex. He bypassed Grissom's door. No one who lived there owned that type of dog.

Blaine McCallister, a woman who lived on the ground floor of the complex, did say she remembered a man who walked a large, dark-haired dog regularly in the neighborhood. The general description she was able to give of the man - thirties, medium build, medium height, dark hair - didn't exactly narrow Paulson's search. Hopefully the man had been seen by other residents of the area. With any luck, Paulson would find the man walking his dog and get an opportunity to question him.

One thing Ms. McCallister said gave Paulson pause. "There's just something about him that's kind of … well, odd," she had said. Odd meant something to take note of. Paulson did so.

He walked around the playground for well over an hour. Little Robin did not come out to play. As the sun began to set, he realized that any opportunity to feed his hunger tonight was rapidly disappearing.

That didn't change his plans. He would have to be patient. The longing he felt would be satisfied. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

Pleased that there had been fair weather in the past 24 hours in a year that had seen record rainfall for Las Vegas, Gil retrieved the recording equipment he had used to gather temperature, humidity, and light levels in a storage unit only three doors down in the same building as their crime scene. This unit was not only empty but was the same size as the one that housed the body of John Doe. Connecting the RHTemp to his laptop, Gil logged the data the device had recorded since he had placed it there the evening before. After making sure the temperature and humidity readings had been recorded at five minute intervals, he repeated the process with EXTech Light Level Meter. The data logged showed serial measurements of the levels of light in the closed storage unit in foot candles over the past 24 hours. Gil repeated the whole process with an identical set of recording instruments placed just outside the storage unit door. With the information he had gathered, Gil would be able to complete the rest of his PMI estimate.

Being returned to full duty as the night shift supervisor at the Crime Lab didn't deter Gil from his desire to finish the entomological analysis. There was always something very satisfying about completing such analyses.

As Gil was loading his gear into the back of his now reclaimed Tahoe, Warrick and Sara pulled up in an identical vehicle. Warrick rolled down the driver's side window.

"Hey, Gris," he greeted his boss. "Dispatch told us we could find you here."

"Just collecting the data I recorded from the storage unit," Gil explained.

"More bug analysis?" Sara asked from the front passenger seat.

Gil grinned. "Yes," he told her.

Warrick and Sara exchanged amused looks. Grissom was never happier than when he was involved with his bugs.

Turning back to Grissom, Warrick told him why they had stopped. "We found out where the mark on our vic's coat came from."

Gil stepped up next to the open window, his curiosity piqued. "Where?"

"The Tailor's Shoppe inside the Monaco," Warrick informed him. "We're headed there now. Brass got us a warrant."

"Good work," Gil said.

Sara leaned forward to ask, "Want to come along?"

Grissom thought about that for a second. The offer was tempting, but he had some catching up to do at the lab. "No, you go," he told the junior CSIs. Stepping back from their vehicle and pointing a finger at them he said, "Let me know what you find."

Warrick nodded. "Sure thing."

With that, Sara and Warrick pulled away. Gil watched them go before getting into his own SUV. Damn, it was good to be back in full swing. That mental note made him smile at himself. He gingerly rubbed the bruise on his face. Perhaps swing wasn't the best analogy he could have used.

***

Nick hated the fact that he had to interrupt a grieving family in order to collect evidence. After getting permission from Martha Danbridge, Nick had checked the interior of her car. Mrs. Danbridge drove a Dodge Neon with wine colored interior. The automotive fibers found on Shelly and her clothes had not come from her vehicle. That left the other carpet fibers to deal with.

The Danbridge home was understandably somber. Just like Grissom's home, the floors of the Danbridge condo were patterned concrete with a commercial polyurethane floor coating that added a durable clear shine. Martha Danbridge had large area rugs in the living room and in both bedrooms. These carpets were patterned and dyed hand-woven imported items. "My husband loved them," she explained. Nick was certain the fibers were natural and not synthetic. He took samples for comparison anyway.

As he collected the last samples from the living room rug, Martha Danbridge wanted to know something. "You must be the Nick that Dr. Grissom said he was going to consult the night…." She couldn't finish. The grandmother dabbed a tissue to the corner of her eyes.

Placing the last fiber he collected in a bindle, Nick rose from his knees and looked at the grief-stricken grandmother. "Yes, ma'am" he said simply.

"Dr. Grissom said you were the best," Martha said softly.

Nick couldn't keep the amazement out of his face. Astonishment quickly became embarrassment when he realized that Grissom was probably just trying to bolster the woman's hopes before they knew that the body he was investigating was her granddaughter.

Ron Danbridge, who had been watching the CSI while sitting with his wife at the dining area table and silently sipping on a cup of coffee, looked surprised as well. "You know Dr. Grissom?"

Nick turned to look at him. "He's my boss," he informed the father.

That brought Ron Danbridge out of his chair and over to the CSI. Cheryl Danbridge rose and followed her husband. The younger Mrs. Danbridge placed her arm supportively on her husband's shoulder.

"You're going to find the man who did this, aren't you?" Ron asked.

Nick nodded. "We are doing our best to find him, Mr. Danbridge. I promise you that we want nothing more than to see justice done." He hoped that the determination in his voice was evidence enough of the department's commitment to catch the killer.

The father nodded. He reached up and took hold of his wife's hand. It seemed to Nick that Mr. Danbridge still had something else to ask, so he waited patiently for the man to have his say.

After a brief look at his wife's face and a nod of encouragement from Cheryl, Ron cleared his throat and addressed the CSI again. "Would you tell Dr. Grissom that I'm sorry?"

Now Nick was confused. "Excuse me?"

"For attacking him the way I did," Mr. Danbridge explained, a look of shame written on his face. "I was just so angry and … well, he was the only one the news people said could have done it … and …."

Nick interrupted the apology. "No need to explain, Mr. Danbridge," he told the man. "If it would make you feel better, I'd be happy to relay the message."

Cheryl Danbridge looked visibly relieved. "Thank you," she told Nick. "We're really very sorry for the misunderstanding."

Nick thanked the family again for letting him collect the needed evidence. Leaving the Danbridge's, Nick had a newfound respect for his boss. The mystery of Grissom's face was now solved.

The AV Lab door was closed. Archie Johnson wanted to keep the hubbub of the busy lab from interfering with his analysis of the project he was working on. The anonymous call made to 911 Dispatch the night Shelly Danbridge was killed had been made from a payphone in a high traffic area. The phone speaker was older equipment and poorly maintained. That made the quality of the recording poor to begin with. The voice was obviously male; not much else could be discerned through the pops and hum of the static.

Fortunately Archie, the lab's resident audiophile, knew a few tricks. After digitizing the recording, Archie ran the sample through multiple cleaning algorithms developed by NASA to clear the static of transmissions received from space. The technology was first used with the Apollo missions and had been further developed to provide better communication with space shuttle crews.

Completing another pass through the cleaning algorithms, Archie listened to the message again. The voice was much clearer. There was also a very distinct background noise that sounded like a large automatic door swinging open. That made sense since the payphone was at the front of a large supermarket.

The oddest thing about the tape was the tone of the voice he heard. The man sounded almost sympathetic. If this was the killer's voice, he didn't sound like a raving maniac. Not that the tone of a voice can indicate the motive of a suspect, but Archie had somehow expected a hardness in the voice. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number of Nick Stokes' beeper.

The Tailor's Shoppe at the Monaco Hotel and Casino was housed in the posh gallery of exclusive shops that sat between the hotel tower and the main casino floor. The manager on duty when Warrick and Sara arrived with the warrant for information was Mr. Levet.

"We always use numbers to help us identify the items we work on," Mr. Levet explained as he typed the number from the suit coat into the shop's customer database. "It's the only way to keep track of our customers."

The computer beeped to tell the searcher the requested information was found. Mr. Levet punched another key on the keyboard and was rewarded with the complete customer profile of the owner of the suit in question. "That suit was fitted for a Mr. Joseph Durant," the manager informed the investigators.

"When was the work done?" Warrick asked.

The manager consulted the computer screen again. "That suit was picked up January 17th, this year."

"Almost four months ago," Warrick said, half under his breath.

"Mr. Durant was a good customer," Mr. Levet attested. "We've done several suits for him."

This was good news. Warrick asked the question both CSIs wanted an answer to. "When was the last time he was in here?"

Mr. Levet gave the computer screen another quick glance. "March 26th. He dropped off a suit with us, but he hasn't returned to claim it or pay for the work."

"Do you have an address for Mr. Durant?" Sara wanted to know.

The shop's records had a complete address and phone number for the customer. The manager gave the complete information to the CSIs. After leaving the shop, they headed back to their vehicle and discussed what to do next.

"We might be able to find dental records for Joseph Durant," Sara offered. "His address is in Henderson. If he's lived in the area for a while, he might even be in the local dental database."

"Yeah," Warrick agreed. "We should give Doc Robbins a heads up."

Sara looked at her partner questioningly as they walked. There was something else going on in Warrick's head, she was sure of it. Grabbing hold of his arm, she pulled them both up short.

"What's going on?" Sara asked, searching Warrick's face. "You know something else about this guy, don't you?"

Taking a moment to answer, Warrick worked his memory. "I think I remember that name from somewhere," he told her.

"Our vic?" Sara said. "Joseph Durant?"

Warrick nodded. "I just can't seem to place him yet." He started to move again and Sara followed him. "I'll remember, though," Warrick reassured her. "I always do."

"What, so you're part elephant now?" Sara joked.

Warrick's only response was a half-laugh.

***

Without much effort, David Hodges had managed to identify the tire treads from the casts Stokes had taken behind the Albertson's as Firestone P235/75R15 Wilderness AT Truck tires. These were the same tires that were the subject of a massive recall in August 2000. Someone hadn't been paying very close attention when the warnings about this tire went out. The fact that the tire was still on the road irked Hodges. His findings meant that some yahoo was out there driving around on unsafe treads and they could cause a severe accident because of their negligence in not getting the tires replaced. The way things worked in this world, the owner of the tires probably wouldn't die but some innocent in another car involved in the accident caused by their apathy would. With Hodges' luck, he figured that innocent would in all likelihood be him.

Still mulling over the possibility of his eventual death-by-consumer-negligence, Hodges made an exhaustive list of all the makes and models of vehicles that came with the Wilderness AT standard. After adding this information to his final report, he headed out to find the only person he really wanted to give the results to - one Gil Grissom.

The sun was only now beginning to set. Robin was at play this evening, but she wasn't alone. The young girl was playing in the same sandbox where he had first discovered her only now there were two other children with her. One of the other kids was a boy and older, perhaps twelve. Obviously ignoring the play of the two younger girls, the boy busied himself with making a fortress out of sand and staging a massive armed battle.

Winding the dog's leash tighter around his hand, he cut up a footpath well before the sandbox and headed up a knoll where he could sit and observe the children. Perhaps, like two days ago, Robin would be last to go home tonight.

Nick Stokes entered the Crime Lab with a bag of evidence gathered from the Danbridge house and a beeper message from Archie. He was headed up the hallway toward the evidence room where he could get his carpet fiber samples logged in when he spotted Hodges heading his way.

"Hey, Hodges!" Nick called.

David Hodges heard his name and saw Stokes at almost the same moment. His displeasure at seeing the junior investigator was apparent. Checking his movement up the corridor, Hodges waited for Stokes to come to him.

Seeing the lab technician stop, Nick walked quickly to close the gap between them. "How's it going, Hodges?" Nick asked good-naturedly.

"How does it look like I'm doing?" Hodges replied snidely.

Nick stared at the lab tech for a moment, trying to understand why the man was so perpetually ill-tempered. Finally, he shook his head. No use wasting time trying to figure out the inexplicable, he decided. "Whatever, man," Nick said. "I called to you to see if you've finished the tire tread analysis I sent you."

Hodges briefly glanced at the file folder he was carrying and then back at the junior investigator. Nick noted the reaction and knew right away the lab tech was carrying the results.

"I was just headed to Grissom's office with something important," Hodges dodged. "Can I get back to you on that?"

The fact that Hodges didn't answer his question directly also struck Nick. Man, this guy was a piece of work. There was very little about David Hodges that Nick liked, but Hodges was a good tech. As a lab technician, Hodges did provide accurate analyses and was pretty speedy about it. Since that was the man's job, Nick felt he had to respect the ability. However, it hadn't taken long for the CSIs on the night shift to realize that there was almost nothing about them that Hodges respected. That just plain pissed Nick off. Thinking quickly, Nick did that last thing Hodges would expect him to do.

Stepping up next to the lab tech and placing his arm around the man's shoulders, Nick gave Hodges one of his most jovial looks. "How long have you been here, Hodges?" the CSI asked pleasantly.

With a more-than-usually-suspicious sidelong look, Hodges responded, "Five months, next Thursday."

"Has it really been that long?" Nick responded thoughtfully.

"Why?" the lab tech wanted to know.

The CSI gave Hodges a friendly and sympathetic look that belied the strength used to tighten his grip around the lab technician's upper back. "I think it stinks that you've been at this lab for that long and no one's explained how we do things around here." Nick gave Hodge's shoulder a not too friendly squeeze for emphasis and began to propel him down the hall. "You see this assignment board down here?" Nick said as they came to the end of the corridor and entered the foyer of the back entrance to the building. He nodded to the board, never easing up on his viselike hold. "This board lists all the current open cases and the primary investigator assigned to each case." Nick looked at the lab tech with nothing but the most cordial of expressions. "And you see that case right there?" He pointed with his free hand to the Danbridge case file number listed on the board. "That file number is the same number as the one on the folder you're holding. And see the name of the primary investigator assigned to that case?"

Hodges was beginning to squirm.

"Why, that would be my name," Nick continued. He gave the lab tech's shoulder another firm squeeze before finishing. "You see Hodges, the way things work in this lab is that ALL lab reports on each case go to the primary investigator for that case. So, I think that you must have been mistaken about wanting to give that report to Grissom. You probably meant you wanted to give it to the primary - me. Isn't that right?"

With a burst of effort, Hodges broke away from Nick's grip and moved a pace away before stopping. "I … ah …."

Quick as a cat, Nick stepped up and snatched the folder deftly out of Hodges' hand. "Thanks for the report, man" Nick said as he walked past the dazed technician and moved back up the hall. With the tire tread analysis report in hand and a self-satisfied grin on his face, Nick wished he could read minds right about now.

Catherine Willows met Doc Robbins in the autopsy bay, the autopsy table currently devoid of any of the normal unmoving clientele common to the place. Al Robbins was finishing up autopsy notes on some previous cases when the blonde CSI entered.

"What's up, Doc?" Catherine said as she pushed through the door. Robbins gave her an 'aren't you clever' look that made Catherine's grin spread even wider. "Not too original, huh?" she offered.

"Absolutely," Robbins replied. "Never heard that before in my life. But, from you it's music to my bilateral cochleae."

Catherine stepped up next to the doctor. "I bet you say that to all of the girls," she teased.

"Just the live ones," he retorted without missing a beat. The small smile on his face told her the doctor was enjoying their banter as much as she was. It was one of the things he enjoyed about his job. Medical examiners didn't often get to choose the people with whom they worked. Robbins was lucky to be associated with this crime lab and this night shift team. After a moment, Robbins asked the obvious question. "So what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Warrick and Sara have a possible name for our storage unit shooting victim," Catherine told the coroner. "I was hoping we could find some dental records and do an odontological comparison. Maybe get a positive ID."

Robbins nodded. "Give me his name and I'll see what I can turn up."

Catherine smiled again, "Wow, wit, charm, AND service."

"We're a one-stop shop," the doctor said.

"Yeah," Catherine agreed, "the last stop."

***

Next part of Remuneration.