Title: Last Voice: A Concerto
By: Tabby X
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Let's see... I'm going to be perfectly serious and just say that I don't own CSI or its characters. This story is supposed to be my idea of what could happen in the fourth season. Maybe. I don't know. We'll see.
And... a concerto is a musical composition written for a solo instrument - the soloist plays the melody while the rest of the orchestra plays accompaniment. Adagio is a slow tempo - restful and at ease.
Summary: One Greg Sanders has a secret.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
1: Adagio

-*-*-*-*-*-

"Gregory Sanders, CSI One. Life is good sometimes, ya know, Miki?"

Miki did something that looked suspiciously like rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, I know I've been telling you about it every day for the last four months. Three and a half, really, but it rounds up."

She turned her attention to a dead spider that I had squished (I made a mental note to remember to clean up the guts later), showing me that I was infinitely less interesting than an arachnid smeared across the bathroom wall.

I squeezed a little more gel onto my hand and put the finishing touches on my hair.

Miki turned and sauntered out of the room.

"Fine then, don't answer, I don't care."

I adjusted my completely obnoxious Hawaiian shirt (blue with palm trees and flamingos). Too bad I had to cover my shirts up with the standard CSI jacket. Oh well. Nothing's perfect. I mean, it was no worse than my old lab coat.

I opened the door so I could continue to talk with Miki while I brushed my teeth.

"I hate the flavor of toothpaste," I complained through the foam. "You know what else I hate? I hate telling people about my 'mornings.' I have no mornings - I get off work in the morning. My 'mornings' are in the evening. No one ever seems to get that."

Miki ignored me. That's how she says a lot of things - like if she walks away, she's either mad, upset or depressed. If she glances at me first, she's playing hard to get. If she just ignores me, she's disinterested or disgusted.

This would fit in that last category.

"Okay, so, you don't care. Fine then. You know, Grissom said I had completed enough of the training to take a homicide case."

One of Miki's ears twitched. She likes to hear about my job, and always reacts when I tell her about the crimes. I think, if she were human, she'd have to be a criminalist, too.

"I might catch a murderer," I said in a singsong voice.

"Mrrrw," Miki replied, her whiskers bristling under the pair of bright blue eyes that turned toward me. The little half-Siamese cat always gets a weird thrill when I say things like that. I'm convinced she knows exactly what I mean.

I glanced at the clock. "Shift starts in twenty minutes, Mik. I gotta go."

Miki made an indignant meowing noise, glancing toward the small kitchen.

"Oh, right," I laughed, crossing the room to the counter and filling her dish with dry cat food, adding several drops of medication. Supplements to treat an infection she'd recently caught - a normal cat wouldn't have needed them. But Miki is FIV (feline immunodeficiency virus) positive. She's like me.

That's why I adopted her. No one wants you when there's something wrong with you.

Well, that's not completely true. Either everyone does, or everyone doesn't. But those that do will change their minds soon, anyway.

"I'll see you earlier," I told her, setting the bowl on the linoleum. It's something I always say - later doesn't really apply on a nightshift.

I grinned as I left and locked my apartment, dropping one key into my pocket and pulling out another. I don't use keyrings - I figure that if I loose one with them separate I only loose one, not all of them. Besides, "all" only encompasses two.

I picked up my newspaper, stuffing it under my arm since I was too lazy to open my door again.

"Hello, Greggo," called one of my neighbors.

"Hey, Maria."

"You didn't carry the garbage all the way to the curb again."

"Oops. Sorry. It just slips my mind sometimes-"

"Si, si, sure. Don't worry about it."

I smiled again and pushed open the big doors leading to the stairwell.

"Hello, Mr. Sanders," said a slick businessman, passing me in the opposite direction, not looking up from his Wall Street Journal.

"Yo, Mr. Jones."

I left the building at the bottom of the second flight of stairs. The night air was cool and there didn't seem to be too many people around.

I walked unperturbed to my car - it's not like I live in a bad part of the city or anything - getting my second key ready. I hoped the traffic wasn't too bad tonight.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
2: Prima Volta

-*-*-*-*-*-

Up until that night, the only time I had really been involved with blood, it had been in small amounts and in small vials. Well, maybe not always small amounts - small compared to this.

This was the last night I felt at all at ease walking to and from my car. It was the last night I was just a little lab tech at heart.

It was a bludgeoning case.

Grissom had warned me. "It'll be bad, Greg. Maybe you should wait until something less bloody comes along, like a nice little poisoning or maybe a head shot."

Okay, maybe that's not exactly what he said. But it was the basic drift. After all, Gris would never be that blunt.

I'd insisted. "I can take it. I stayed through that whole autopsy last week, and I helped Sara on a little spatter for practice."

Ha.

Amount makes a freaking big difference in how bad blood is.

Catherine and I ducked under the yellow police tape. Brass and another officer stood nearby, but neither had seen us yet.

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and ended up gagging on the sudden stench.

Blood. Waste. Decomposing corpse.

I choked and suppressed the bile that had begun migrating up my esophagus. Catherine turned back to me

"Are you sure you can handle this?"

I waved it off and swallowed. Yeah, I could handle it. Maybe.

As bad as that was, it was about to get a lot worse.

Catherine pulled a cloth out of her coat pocket and held it over her nose. I don't know if it because of the actual smell or to make me feel better, but either way I did the same.

We entered the alley.

There was the vic. It was a young woman, with dyed red hair. Or maybe it was just full of blood.

Blood.

It was everywhere. Everywhere.

Someone had beaten the life out of her, and that life was splashed across the cement - from countless scrapes and contusions - finally draining into a brown-red-black pool under her body.

It was like a painting. That's the only way I can describe it - like strokes and spatters of red paints. Like the killer was some sort of perverted artist.

I tried to swallow, but nothing got past the lump that had formed in my throat.

On a happy note, that met my stomach contents couldn't escape, either.

Or so I thought.

Catherine glanced at me. I was probably looking a little green - forget that, I probably looked like a lime.

"Greg, go, now," she ordered. I obeyed - and was exceedingly grateful there were no onlookers at this time of night. I prefer puking in peace.

I lost my entire dinner. Chinese isn't nearly as good the second time around, and the first had been too greasy as it was. Heaved dryly a couple more times for good measure. Unfortunately, memories can't be thrown up. And the image of that crime scene was laser imprinted on my brain.

I pushed myself up onto my knees. Catherine was there, one hand on my arm and the other gently moving in a circle between my shoulder blades, muttering words that were oddly soothing at the moment. No wonder she was a mother.

I wiped my mouth. "I'm sorry..."

"It's okay. That happens. Damn, Grissom never should have out you on this case-"

"No. No, no, he didn't want to, I did. I don't think he knew..." I looked up at Catherine pathetically. Swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bile taste in my mouth.

I tried several times to talk.

"It's part of the job," she said soothingly. "Every time you see a crime scene, every time you deal with it, it's like... it's..."

"Like part of you dies?" I filled in weakly.

"Yeah. And eventually, there's nothing left to die, and that's when investigators start running down. When you can't feel for the victim anymore. But somewhere in between you and that..." Catherine shook her head. "Well, that's where the rest of us fall. Those that take it. You'll get there. You get tough enough that you can take it."

My breathing started to slow.

"Why... Why do we do this?"

Catherine thought for a moment.

"Why do you?" I rephrased.

"Me? Well... I guess I was sick of people pushing me around. Telling me what I could and couldn't do." She smiled slightly. "I guess I wanted to prove them wrong. Show that I was good for more than getting high and taking my clothes off."

I felt a smile tug at my lips.

"And puzzles. I love puzzles. I once told - told Gribbs that solving a case was like being 'King Kong on cocaine.' And it is. It's my rush. My booze, speed, and sex."

"It's less destructive that any of that."

"In some ways. And I can face Lindsay knowing I've put away a killer."

And not with the rest, I finished mentally.

"You're right. Let's go. I can do it."

I picked up the cloth that I'd tossed aside.

Catherine nodded. "There's a bottle of water in the car you can wash your mouth out with. Just try with the photos for right now, okay?"

I nodded.

I could take it.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
3: Forzando

-*-*-*-*-*-

I entered my lab.

It was weird - even after four months (okay, three and a half), I still thought of it as my lab. I always felt like I was home when I walked through those doors.

Well, more or less. There wasn't anything left of the explosion - it had been rebuilt, with replacements for most of the destroyed equipment already in place. A couple were still on the way, but other than that it looked much the same as before. I could almost forget that I'd almost been killed there.

But then again, I thought I'd made my peace with death, too.

"Hey, Greg."

I glanced up from my file at the speaker - Abbie Talbot, a blonde-haired blue-eyed young lab tech. A flirty young lab tech.

A flirty-with-me young lab tech.

"Hi, Abbie. I need-"

"Gre-e-eg. Are you blind?" she said, sounding like a whining little girl. I could envision her stomping her foot in frustration.

I looked up again. The CSI job must have really been getting to me - it took about five and a half seconds for me to notice her shirt. It was purple. With pink trim. And saying it was "snug" was like saying the Grand Canyon was a pothole.

Let's just say it didn't leave much to the imagination.

"Oh, umm..." I could practically feel the testosterone seeping into my brain. "Nice, umm, shirt."

Her eyebrows went up. My gaze flickered involuntarily and I cleared my throat, took a breath and trained my eyes pointedly back on her face.

She got a slightly pouty look. "You're turning into Grissom, you know. He gets like that when Sara's around, but he hides it better. So. Okay, come on, what do you want me to process?"

I swallowed. Yup, testosterone. It was practically oozing out my ears.

"Just a few swabs from our crime scene," I said, handing over the evidence boxes.

"A few?" Abbie looked inside the first one. "A few hundred, maybe."

"The voice of experience: get started as soon as possible."

Then, still very carefully averting my gaze, I charged out of the lab.

Amazing how one can want to throw up equally at a crime scene and after being hit on by a hot little technician.

Too bad, I told myself. No pity party, now. It's your choice, you know.

That made me snort. What choice did I really have?

Once I was far enough away, I sighed and reopened the manila folder. All the paperwork was there except for the photos (still being developed, thank God) and the autopsy report, which was where I was headed.

Yippee.

-*-*-*-*-*-

"You don't have to do this."

"Yeah I do."

I stubbornly pulled on a glove. It snapped over my shaking hand.

My knees were weak and I wanted to vomit yet again.

Is it safe to say I was scared?

Oh yeah.

But I was not going to pull another stunt like I had earlier.

Dr. Al Robbins was already in the autopsy room. The vic was on the table. Some of the blood had been removed, so it wasn't nearly as horrible as before. The lack of the dark alley helped, too. Still slightly decomposed, and covered in bloodless cuts, bruises and scrapes. And her hair, was, indeed, dyed.

I kept my distance.

Catherine approached. "Hey, what's up?"

"Plaster ceiling and incandescent lights. Okay, your vic was definitely beaten. It appears all the wounds were made my the same weapon - something straight, but with a sharp end."

"Yeah, we found some potential murder weapons at the scene," I said, trying not to think about it - everything had blood on it. Nothing was ruled out.

"But that wasn't that killed her."

I blinked. "What?"

Just seeing the scene had almost killed me.

"Manual strangulation," Doc said, pointing out the hand-shaped bruises pressed over the vic's throat.

"Manual?" Catherine repeated. "That usually indicates a crime of passion."

I shuddered slightly.

"Sexual assault?"

"Not assault, maybe. In fact, she was pregnant."

I snapped up. "No way."

"Yes, way. Ten weeks or so. And if it wasn't for that, I'd be standing here telling you it looked like she hadn't had intercourse that recently. Judging by the lack of any scarring or tearing, I'd almost tell you she was a virgin. I'd almost go so far as to say she'd never had a pelvic exam."

"Except..." Catherine shook her head. "Hymen?"

"Ruptured, but that doesn't mean as much as most people think. It happens easily just with normal, everyday activity - sports, for instance."

I nodded. "I know, Doc, I took sex ed."

Catherine thought a moment. "Okay, we know she was killed about four days ago. We can also guess that it was at night, if no one heard this going on. The call was an anonymous tip, so we don't have anywhere to start with that."

The sound of a beeper assailed our ears.

"It's trace. They've probably got a result from AFIS," I said, looking at the number on the small LCD screen.

Catherine glanced from me to Doc, and I knew what she was thinking. It's time to cut.

Somehow, it annoyed me. They didn't think I could take it. "I'll go see what they've got."

"You'll miss the fun," Catherine put in quickly, apparently trying to make up for what she'd just done.

"That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

I left the room, and didn't look back.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
4: Lacrimoso

-*-*-*-*-*-

"Kasey Kinsey, age twenty-seven. What a name. No listed family. Worked as a waitress. Poor girl," Mandy said, handing over several printouts.

"In more ways than one." I flipped through the papers. "Wow... She was a saint. No arrests or anything. No record of even a parking ticket,"

"Her fingerprints were added to AFIS because of a safety thing at one of her previous jobs."

"I just don't see how she got by without a ticket, that's all."

After a pause, Mandy nodded slowly. "Makes me realize how dangerous it is..."

"What?"

"Everything," she sighed. "There is no safety zone."

"Yeah," I replied. "Life's not like games in P.E."

I thanked her and left.

And ran into Abbie.

"Hey, hi," she said. "I was looking for you."

I bet you were, I thought irritably, forcing myself to keep my gaze above her neck.

What I said was, "Results?"

"Some. We've got blood that's not the vic's - I'd guess she took a swing at him. Gave him a bloody nose, from the looks of things."

"We know for sure it's a him?"

She handed me a folder.

"Yup. Oh, and we know something else, too - he's HIV positive."

What?

Abbie kept talking for a second, but I didn't hear. For a moment, everything went fuzzy and my conscious mind was pushed aside by shock.

"-Greg? Greg? Earth to Greg?"

"What?"

"I was just asking if you wanted to come to this club I go to sometimes."

"Oh."

"With me."

"Oh."

"Saturday."

"Oh."

"And, well, after that..."

I blinked and shook myself.

I opened my mouth to say "yes".

"No, sorry, Abbie, I can't."

Her shoulders relaxed and her mouth twisted into an irritated pucker.

I turned and walked away. I saw her determined "I'll-get-you-yet" look in the reflection on the trace lab window.

I shook my head as I rounded a corner and entered the break room.

"I hate this," I grumbled.

"Hate what?" said Nick from his place, raiding the refrigerator.

For a second, I considered telling him.

A second.

"Nothing your primitive mind would understand," I blew him off.

"Ah. You don't wanna talk about it. Okay..." He wrinkled his nose at the contents of the appliance. "Bleach."

"I know. Some of the stuff in there is disgusting."

"No, I mean, bleach. This stuff smells like bleach. I'm not even going to think about what might have spilled all over my teriyaki shrimp leftovers."

Nick shut the door with a sick look on his face and flopped onto one of the lounge's couches.

"So. What sort of case did you get for a first homicide?"

I shook my head, getting a Styrofoam cup and filling it with some of the coffee-colored slop that had probably been brewing for a few hours. Or days. Maybe weeks, no one quite knew for sure.

If I hadn't been so dead tired all of a sudden, I'd have broken into my stash of the expensive stuff.

"I'd rather not talk about it," I said, sitting down across from Nick.

He nodded. "I get ya. My first wasn't pretty either. It looked like a suicide, and it wasn't nearly as bad as a beat... ing... um..."

I sighed. "I'm not going to ask how you found out."

Nick looked uncomfortable. "It, umm, well, it was a hanging. Turned out to be an accident - scarf caught on..." He trailed off. "Anyway, it was bad, but it wasn't that bad, and I reacted like that, too. Don't worry about."

"Right. I've heard things, too - accidents are worse than murders. You know, no one to blame."

He looked around, trying to seem innocent. "So..."

"Hey, Nicky? Why did you become a CSI?"

He looked a little surprised.

"Why do you want to know?"

I shrugged.

"I guess... It's mostly because of my parents. My mom was a cop, dad was a judge. He didn't want me to deal with what she had to deal with; she didn't want me to spend my life sitting on a bench."

"So it's a compromise."

"Yeah."

I thought for a moment. "That's not what I'd say. I'd say it's worse than either - you still have to deal with death, destruction, and grieving families. And you have paperwork."

Nick grinned half-heartedly. It wasn't that funny - police offers have paperwork, too.

I gave the "coffee" a dirty look.

"This tastes like mud." I placed the hateful cup on the table. "So, what about you? What's your case right now?"

"A guy who was found in his apartment. Beaten-" Here I huffed, wondering again how he'd found out about my case if Cath hadn't told him, which she wouldn't. "-with a flat instrument with a sharp end. Funny thing is, there's a girl in the same building who's been missing for three - well, no four days, actually. No one reported it or anything, but..."

That woke me up like a shot of caffeine.

"Missing?"

"Hmm?"

"Flat instrument, sharp end?"

Nick blinked.

"I think you'd better put a rush on your tests."

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
5: Quasi Recitavio

-*-*-*-*-*-

"She lived in the building next to where she was found?!"

Catherine gaped at the apartments in front of us.

"Yup," I said.

"And no one bothered to question the occupants or anything?"

"I think they all claimed not to have heard anything. No one asked them if they knew the vic."

"How stupid. I know that. I do." Catherine shook her head and pushed the front door open, revealing a smoky lounge-like corridor.

"It just gets me when it takes so long to get to such a stupid conclusion."

"You told Nick to call when the results came in, right?"

"Yeah. That poor lab tech in DNA is pulling double shifts for this."

I nodded, not only because I knew very well how it felt to pull a double, but also because I was thinking more and more about what it could mean if those results came back with a "yes, these cases have the same non-vic DNA at the scene."

"Hi, Cath. Greg." Sara entered the room.

"Hey, Sara. You wanna go out for a drink after we process the apartment?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think so."

Catherine rolled her eyes. I know, I know, the crush was old and basically over with. After three and a half years it had become more of a game than anything real for me to flirt and Sara to brush me off. I doubted she'd ever really noticed anyway.

That was fine by me. I didn't need any more girl problems.

But, boy, would she be a great problem to have, or what?

"You just show us where it is, Sara."

"Right. Your case, not mine. Yet, at least."

"Nick called you?" Catherine wasn't surprised.

"And Grissom, who was not happy that you didn't go to him first."

"We were getting there," I put in as Sara unlocked the door.

"Sure."

"You're handling that key without gloves."

"Don't worry, it's been fingerprinted already. Landlord gave it to me, and I didn't feel like waiting."

"Anything to keep you out of trouble," Catherine quipped. She pulled her flashlight from her belt. "Ready, Greggo?"

"Ready."

Sara handed me the key. "Good luck. If you find anything that has to do with one 'William Lucas', come get me."

"Who?"

"My vic. I'll be across the hall in apartment fifty-four, asking the guy who found him a few more questions."

"At this time of night?"

"We called ahead. The guy's working second shift, so he hasn't been home all that long."

I grinned, dropping the key into my pocket. "I'll knock three times and wait for you to let me in."

Sara rolled her eyes and started to leave.

"You're supposed to say 'not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin'."

"Greg, I have no hair on my chinny-chin-chin. So, get help Cath."

"Fine."

I turned and entered the apartment.

The moment I passed through the door I swear it got colder. I looked around suspiciously. Was I paranoid, or was something wrong?

Hmm...

Nothing out of place. In fact, it looked a little like my home. Carpeted living room/dinning room and tiny bedroom, even tinier kitchen and bathroom floored with linoleum.

Basically, my place minus one cat, one PS2, and several dozen piles of dirty clothes.

And yet it felt... wrong. Wrong to be there. Maybe it was just because I had an image of the tenant, dead, that suddenly flashed in my mind.

It felt so wrong to be in the personal space of a murder victim.

"Hey, Greg, are you coming?"

"Huh? Yeah, I'm coming."

"I'll get out ALS, you start on dusting."

I nodded, knowing that I was being bossed around, but too disturbed to care. Besides, she knew better than me.

The person who had slept, eaten, cried, wrote, thought, talked to herself, complained about work here had been murdered. Murdered by an HIV positive male.

That snapped me out of my stupor.

"Right," I said, more confidently than I felt, kneeling to pull the latex gloves and printing powder out of my evidence case.

"Red or green?"

"Sara would vote for green," Catherine said distractedly, swabbing something the alternate light source had made visible on the bed sheets. I could guess what, but I asked anyway.

"What've you got?"

"What do you think? I'm hoping there's some DNA left in the newer spots."

"How many are there?"

She counted. "Seven I see. Did someone else live here? Borrow it for a week? Kasey Kinsey was a saint."

I smiled grimly at her recycling of my words. "You're right. I don't know. And there are prints all over in here. I don't think Kasey got out much."

"Check the fridge."

"Excuse me?"

"Check for takeout and things like that. What sort of food a person keeps around can tell you a lot about them."

"Why didn't this place get checked out sooner?"

"Was she in the missing persons database?"

"Umm... no. Well, Nick told me that her disappearance wasn't reported."

"Not to the authorities. Guess she didn't have much in the way of friends."

"She had a laptop," I noticed.

"Go ahead."

It was a very nice, expensive machine. Pentium 3 processor, CD burner, DVD drive built in, web camera nearby.

I really wasn't feeling comfortable as I opened the computer and pressed its power button.

And when I get uncomfortable, I babble.

"Hey, Catherine, do you remember the case with the casino? The one where Detective Lockwood, umm..."

"The Rampart ordeal," she said tightly. "Yeah?"

"Oh, never mind."

"You want to know the rest of it?"

"I know that was off the record, and I wasn't going to say anything, but..."

She nodded, carefully tucking away another swab. "I know what you mean."

I waited as the Windows XP screen disappeared and the desktop loaded. It wasn't password protected. Good. I doubted I could have gotten up the indecency to break it.

"I shouldn't have said it. Just forget about it."

"Nope. You asked and now you're going to listen. How much did I tell you? It's been so long..."

"You told me that Sam Braun and you mom - well - yeah."

"And I went back to Montana from Seattle and my parents made it pretty clear I was on my own, so I went running to Sam in Las Vegas. That's where I met Eddie."

"Right. That's it. You don't have to-"

"Oh, shut up, Greg," Catherine said with a crooked half-grin and a trace of bitterness. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: I deal with things. I told you part of the story; you'd like to know the rest. That's normal. That's your investigative side. The short version: Braun is my biological father."

I stopped right in the middle of opening the "My Documents" folder.

I really didn't know what to say.

"I've told you something revealing. You're supposed to tell me something - about your parents."

I licked my lips and opened the file. She'd trusted me, and I wouldn't tell. I could trust her, she wouldn't tell, and she wouldn't feel sorry for me.

"Okay. My parents were killed when I was fifteen."

There. I'd said it.

It felt like I was reciting something I'd memorized, but I'd said it.

I opened a file.

Apparently, Catherine didn't know what to say either.

I read a few lines of the text document.

"Hey, this is fiction. It's a dark and stormy night, and we have a runaway."

Catherine approached, slightly tense. "Yeah. This girl was an author."

I squinted at the screen. "I had a sister who wrote sometimes. She liked to name her characters after real people. Promised she'd put me in a story someday."

"So?"

"This girl, the runaway... she's thinking about her boyfriend. Look at his name."

"Billy," Catherine read. "And Billy is short for William. Circumstantial. Could be coincidence, could mean she just liked his name."

"Could be."

Catherine's cell phone rang.

There were results.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
6: Segue

-*-*-*-*-*-

I knocked three times on the door.

It opened and Catherine took over.

"Catherine Willows, Greg Sanders, Las Vegas Crime Lab."

The man who answered the door looked like he worked out about ten times as much as Nick and was at least six feet tall. Taller. The long-sleeved shirt he wore was tight enough to show off the fact that he could probably pummel me into the ground and have enough energy left over to do several hours worth of victory dances over my crushed skeleton.

Gulp.

"Again? Your friend is already here."

Sara peaked around him. She'd been there the whole time, but the witness took up the entire doorway.

"Can we come in?" Catherine shouldered her way past. Obviously, the idea of entering that apartment didn't appeal to her, but the idea of Sara being there alone appealed to her even less.

I agreed. First witness, first suspect.

"This is Ted Samson, the man who found William Lucas's body," Sara told us.

"Do we need to go through the whole story again?" said the guy. By his tone, I guess the second crime scene looked a lot like mine.

"No. Just give me a second."

Sara, Catherine, and I stepped into the hallway, Samson giving us a suspicious look from the doorway.

"What?"

"We found a reference to a 'Billy' in one of Kasey's computer files."

Sara gave me an incredulous look. "And...?"

"And what?"

Catherine rolled her eyes and gave Sara a rundown of the important stuff. "We've got some swabs and fingerprints to compare with your vic's. Nick just called - there was blood at both scenes that didn't match either vic, the nosebleed, on a lamp, and on a table, and some dried flakes of blood that match up with Kasey's was found in a few of William's wounds. Same instrument, not cleaned in between uses. Larry in trace made a tool mark match."

Sara nodded, absorbing this information. "Right. I'll see if Mr. Samson here would like to volunteer a DNA sample - just to rule him out."

"Okay. Greg, take the swabs and prints back to the lab."

"What? Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. That guy makes me nervous."

"You too?" Sara grumbled.

"At least we agree. I don't like him - or I do, depending on how you look at it."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Greg," Catherine said. "We can handle ourselves. Yes, I'm sure. Besides, you're no help, I could kick your can."

"Gee, thanks."

-*-*-*-*-*-

I peeked around the corner into the DNA lab.

I'd rather face Vincent than Abbie any day.

"Hey, got a few swabs from the vic's apartment that need to be run."

Vincent looked up. He still had the same jealous jerkface expression as he had way back when I'd first been in the field, with the bus case. Another thing I prefer not to think about.

"We're still working on what you brought in before."

"Put a rush on these. Sara or Catherine might bring in one that needs to be compared with the unknown from the scenes."

Vincent huffed. "How many are 'these'?"

"Seven, okay?"

"Fine."

"Hey, I know how it feels. But everyone here really does appreciate what you do."

"Right."

"Right."

"They never show it."

"I'm trying."

He snorted and I gave up with a sigh.

As I was leaving the lab, I heard the second pair of doors down the hallway open and Vincent telling someone, "Hey, you just missed your boyfriend."

I could guess who that was.

Crossing to the trace lab, I called, "Mandy, you here?"

"I'm here. Can't move, I'm searching missing persons for Warrick's case."

She was leaning in close to the screen, watching intently as the faces went by. Watching for someone that looked like... well, whoever she was looking for.

"Sure. Okay, got a few fingerprints here from the vic's apartment."

"Yeah, yeah, leave 'em on the desk and I'll put an intern on it."

"Have fun."

"Right."

I left, running into the one person who I wanted to see less than Abbie.

"Sanders," scoffed Ecklie.

"What're you doing here?" The words just fell out of my mouth.

He sneered slightly. Slightly for Ecklie. "Your shift ends in fifteen minutes. Guess what? My shift starts then."

"Fifteen minutes? Time flies when you're solving murders."

He didn't laugh. I looked around nervously.

"I'm going to see Grissom," I said, slipping away with my best cheesy grin.

I felt Ecklie's glare burning into my back as I pushed open the door to Grissom's office.

The formaldehyde-preserved pigs and pinned bugs greeted me.

Whew.

I shut the door and exhaled noisily.

"That guy is worse than Grissom," I said to the tarantula on the shelf.

"Really? I didn't think anyone was worse than me."

Grissom was at his desk, signing something.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were in here. Just trying to get away from Ecklie. The guy hates me."

"You're not the only one."

I cracked the door and peeked out. The dread dayshift CSI was still there, talking to someone in DNA.

Ecklie, Abbie and Vincent. My three least favorite people.

"It's like an 'I Hate Greg Sanders' convention out there," I grumbled. "Okay, maybe not 'hate'. Maybe 'feel strongly about'. That covers everyone."

I turned and looked back at my supervisor, who seemed to be ignoring me.

"You know, Gris, when it's a joke, you're supposed to laugh."

No answer.

"Grissom?" I approached the desk. "Hey, Gris, can you hear me? Grissom?"

He snapped up. "What? Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Is paperwork that interesting?"

A look passed across Grissom's face. It faded just as quickly and he said, "Yeah. Something about carpet beetles."

"That report is about an attempted murder." I half-grinned. "I can read upside down. Seriously. You couldn't hear me, could you?"

Grissom crossed his arms, contemplating. Finally he said, "No."

I removed a stack of entomology books from a chair, turned it around and sat.

"Disease?"

"Otosclerosis. Genetic. My mother had it."

I blinked at him with a cocked head. Grissom is so weird. One moment, you don't exist, the next it's "If you need me, I'll be around." The man is a walking Rubik's cube.

"Is that why you took that time off a few months ago?"

"Yes. I had the surgery done."

"And it didn't help?"

"Some. It was too advanced to fix in one shot."

"Will it be permanent?"

"Maybe."

There was a long silence.

"I know how it feels."

"What?"

"For them not to be able to fix it."

I was on the receiving end of the Grissom Look as I stood and crossed to the door.

"Ecklie's gone, and shift's almost over. I'll see you tomorrow, or when my beeper goes off."

"Right. Say hi to your cat for me."

I smiled. "Sure."

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
7: Tempo Primo

-*-*-*-*-*-

I walked wearily and warily from my car to my building. The sun was coming up.

Bedtime for me.

I looked around, increasing my pace.

It was strange. Less than twelve hours ago, I had sauntered in the opposite direction, completely relaxed. After all, it wasn't like I lived in a bad part of the city.

All the parts were bad.

And now I had seen first hand what happened in the shifting shadows.

I opened the door and climbed the stairs, feeling my consciousness already going into coma.

Next thing I knew, I was at my door. I hadn't even gotten my key out, I was so tired.

Coffee was wearing off.

I unlocked my door, making a mental note to buy a deadbolt for it sometime tomorrow.

I remembered my earlier "mental note", about the spider guts on my wall.

Decided I didn't care.

I relocked the door once I was inside. Kicked off my shoes, stumbled across the carpet and collapsed face first onto my bed.

It had been a long day. Or night, however you wanted to say it.

I felt a small vibration in the bed springs.

A light tap on my cheek - the familiar sensation of a cat paw.

"Hi, Miki," I said, reaching up and scratching her ears without opening my eyes.

"Mee?"

"Yeah, it wasn't much fun at all. I got my first homicide."

"Rroow."

"Yeah. It wasn't pretty. I've been shoving it to the back of my mind all day."

Or night. Whatever.

Miki started to purr. I took her furry cat body into a hug and hid my face in her fur.

"It made me sick. Literally. The vic had been there for a couple days. Just lying in an alley. Remind me never to be murdered, okay?"

Miki just kept purring.

"She was twenty-seven. I'm only twenty-eight. She didn't even live as long as I have. And the case is linked with another murder - another beating - with some DNA from what we think might be the murderer."

Miki made a tiny squeak in her throat.

I groaned as I rolled over, pulling Miki with me. She took up residence on my chest, kneading the collar of my shirt.

"I've been talking to the others about certain things. I guess I never realized that they had issues, too."

Miki licked my chin. I looked at her, into her blue feline eyes. She looked back intellectually.

"I know. I've gotta go get clean."

"Mrr..."

"And feed you."

She used me as a springboard to hop off the bed and trot toward the kitchen.

The kitchen that looked almost identical to Kasey Kinsey's.

I shook it off.

I set out Miki's dish again. With the medication. I sighed and dumped three different pills into my hand.

"You know, Mik, sometimes I really with I could drink."

She stopped crunching her dinner (or breakfast) and looked up at me.

"Yeah, I know. You probably wish the same thing sometimes."

The cat rubbed her cheek against my ankle. Like I've said, I'm convinced she understands me.

I poured a glass of tap water and used it to take the pills.

"I've told you before: No pity parties."

Miki gave me her cat version of a smile and padded back to her bowl.

I sat on the stool by my counter.

"I can handle it though, Mik. Don't think I can't."

She didn't look up. Didn't even stop eating. But I understood, loud and clear.

I know.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
8: Impetuoso

-*-*-*-*-*-

I got to work the next day, putting on my best poker face. It hadn't affected me. It hadn't affected me.

Just keep repeating that.

My first stop was the DNA lab. Big mistake.

"Any results?" I asked as I came in.

Abbie (dressed much the same as the day before) turned and smiled. "Yeah. A couple people left some reports here for you - phone records and family contacts, I think."

"Or lack of," I said, looking at the numerous calls for takeout and the absence of any family.

"Some DNA matches came out this morning. The blood at both apartments, taken off the edge of a table and the base of a floor lamp? It's Samson's. What we thought came from a nosebleed you're your scene? Samson's."

"Well, that's interesting. We'll see what he has to say about the rest of this," I said carefully.

"The samples from the bed are being run right now. Ecklie pushed some of this stuff ahead of them." She handed me the report.

I rolled my eyes. "Of course. When they come, call me or Cath, okay? Thanks."

She looked a little surprised. "Yeah, any time."

I started to walk out of the lab, relieved that the girl had been civil this time.

"Greg, hold on."

Hoo, boy.

"What?"

Apparently, business was out of the way.

Abbie crossed her arms and looked at me out of the top of her eyes.

I really, really hate that look.

"Greg, do you have some sort of problem?"

"Problem? Me? No, I just have to go show these results to Cathe..."

She took a step closer to me.

A little too close.

"...rine..."

"C'mon, you wanna go somewhere after the shift gets over?"

"Umm... umm..."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a no."

"But when guys say no, they really mean yes..." she cooed, taking another step.

Now I know why they call it "bending your will".

"No, we don't."

"Is that a 'yes', too?"

"Nope."

"Yup."

Yessir, that will was almost doubled over now.

"Look, Abbie, I have my reasons-"

I was cut off by a sudden version of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

So much for civil.

The crazy thing was, just for a second, I was kissing her back.

What?!

What the hell are you doing, Greg?!

I pulled away.

"Greg? What is your deal?"

"Look, Abbie, you've got to back off."

"Why?"

I shook my head. "Just forget about it, okay?"

"Is that it, huh? You can flirt all you want, but if a woman makes a move, it's 'oh no, not too close now'." She glared at me. "You men are all the same."

"Yes, we are. And yes, that's it. That's all."

Abbie blinked fiercely. "Then I'm sorry I even tried."

"Me, too. Go talk to Archie or something, okay? He's the one that needs it."

Another blink, still angry. Then she nodded and backed off.

For an uncomfortable minute, neither of us said anything. She fumed, and I felt guilty.

I finally left, taking my report with me.

"Whoa, Greg, for a second there I thought there was something burning in here - and it wasn't one of Gris's experiments."

Coming down the hallway was Nick.

Just what I needed.

That was sarcasm.

"What's going on with you and the lab tech?"

"Nothing."

"That didn't look like nothing to me."

"You're right. It's less than nothing."

He squinted at me like I was a piece of evidence.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nope."

"Liar."

"Right."

"What's up?"

"I've gotta give this to Catherine."

"Greg?"

I stopped not far from the break room.

"What's up?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Fine, we'll exchange information. I'm willing to tell you something if you'll tell me what your deal is."

Deal. I hate that word.

I didn't say anything.

"I trust you. We all do. You're easy to trust."

I looked away.

"Why can't you trust us?"

"You don't trust me. You never did."

"Look. I trust people. It's automatic. At least it used to be. I have to be that way now because that's how I am. Really. I have to try to be me."

I stopped for a second.

I brushed my index finger across a tiny white circle on the back of my right hand, the one holding the manila folder. My gaze traveled to a brownish line across the opposite wrist.

That I didn't touch.

I looked back at Nick suspiciously. He wasn't just trying to con information out of me, like some suspect, was he?

Something told me he wasn't.

"Why?"

"I was raped when I was nine, okay?"

I felt kind of numb at that.

Seriously?

No way.

"Wow."

"Now tell me what's wrong. There were sparks flying everywhere in that lab, and you pulled the fire extinguisher on them. So?"

I chewed on my lip. "Fine. Once I was given a contaminated blood transfusion."

Nick paused. "Contaminated?"

"I'm infected with HIV."

A longer silence.

"Wow."

"I've been seropositive for thirteen years."

"Whoa." He thought for a second. "That's... That's pretty major. Why didn't you just tell us, though?"

"Because I knew how you'd all react. You'll either go, 'Oh, poor Greggo' or you'll be afraid of me. There's something wrong with me, and that's how a lot of people see it."

"How...?"

"I live with it. Isn't that what you do?"

Nick blinked.

"That's why I was so mad about the incident with the mildew."

Nick looked confused for a second. Then it dawned on him.

"When Grissom 'infected you'?"

"Yeah. It was so easy to catch it, and it took weeks to get rid of it. Had to schedule a bunch of doctor's appointments and everything. I wanted to say right then, 'Look, maybe your perp didn't get this, because...', but I couldn't."

He looked back at the DNA lab, and then at me.

"And that's why you wouldn't..."

"I'm not going to give it to anyone else. That's one responsibility I don't want."

"I'm sorry, man."

"Please don't tell anyone, okay? I don't want your pity and I don't want anyone else's."

"Right. I won't, you won't."

"Right."

"Yeah."

***

Next part of Last Voice: A Concerto.