Previous part of Last Voice: A Concerto.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
9: Trionfale

-*-*-*-*-*-

"Hey, Sara, we need to go back and talk to Samson."

"Why?"

I handed over the reports. "Haven't seen Catherine yet, but the blood on Kasey's lamp? Samson's. The blood on the edge of the table in Will's apartment? Samson's."

She skimmed the papers.

"All her calls are for takeout; she has no family whatsoever listed... Ah, here, DNA."

Something jumped out at her.

"HIV?" she asked.

"What?" I yelped, snapping to attention.

"Samson. He's got HIV."

"Oh. Right."

I breathed. Duh, Greg, of course. The murderer was a positive, remember?

"I'm liking him for this."

"Me too. That's why we're taking Warrick."

"Huh? Why?"

"Greg, Samson is over six and a half feet tall."

"Am I not man enough for ya?"

"Greg, you're not man enough for a termite," Sara laughed. "Besides, Nick's busy in trace, checking the suspected weapons. Grissom's pushing the paper. And Warrick ended up with that case with the little rich runaway. Give me a good murder over a spoiled kid any day."

I wasn't sure I agreed. I wasn't sure she agreed, either.

"Okay. You go show this to Cath, see what she says. I'll find War."

Sara nodded.

She started to walk past me. I stopped her and said, "Hey, Sara, I've been working on my profiling - am I right if I say you're an only child?"

"You're right," she said distractedly, scanning the report some more.

"And there was a problem with your relationship with at least one of your parents."

"Look, Greg, I don't wanna talk about that."

"That's a yes. Okay, were you an outsider in school?"

She exhaled sharply. "I got all of my parents' maturity. It freaked the other kids out. There. Are we done? Because the sooner we get this guy, the better."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. See you in, what, fifteen minutes?"

"I'll drive."

We took off in opposite directions.

"Oh, hold on!" I turned to walk backwards.

"What?" she barked, glaring over her shoulder.

"I've been meaning to tell you: I've decided that chess and sex are not sports!"

Sara looked puzzled for a second, then grinned. She looked back were she was going barely in time to evade Bobby on his way out of one of the labs.

-*-*-*-*-*-

I happened to look into the layout room as I walked past.

"Hey, Cath."

"Oh, umm, hi, Greg."

I looked at the photos on the board.

I wished I hadn't.

"Are those of the, umm, scene?"

"All of them... Ours is on the left, the girl's apartment in the middle, the other scene on the right."

I nodded and stepped up, steeling myself.

"Is that the blood on the lamp and the table?"

"Yeah."

"They matched it to Samson - Sara's wandering around with the report, looking for you. They got a match on some of the blood in the alley, too."

"Yeah?"

There was silence. I decided I couldn't look at the pictures any longer.

"So... do you have any advice for someone who got burned?"

Catherine looked at me curiously. "All right, who did you come onto now?"

"No, it's not me - it's someone else. A lab tech. I think she needs someone to talk to."

She gave me a different look.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. That's the thing." I stopped and glanced around nervously, searching for something to focus on. "She needs some advice."

"Don't look back. That's what I say, about pretty much everything."

I sighed and started to go. "Oh, another thing. I was talking to Grissom yesterday. I was wondering why he chose this job, but, well, I didn't want to ask."

"Can't say I blame you. He takes some getting used to. Years of getting used to."

"Well, can you tell me?"

Catherine thought for a minute.

"I think he does this because he couldn't do anything else. Gil by any other job description wouldn't fit. Putting him in another career would be like putting a snake on a bicycle. He eats, sleeps, and breathes criminology."

"I'm surprised he doesn't choke."

"Everyone chokes sometimes."

"Anyway, I've gotta go find Warrick. You seen him?"

"He walked that way a little while ago."

***

Last Voice: A Concert
10: Deciso

-*-*-*-*-*-

I found Warrick filling out a report in the break room.

"Hey, Warrick, can I have some advice?"

"From me?"

He looked skeptical.

Make that suspicious.

"Yeah," I said innocently. "Would I ask you if I wanted, oh, say, Grissom's answer?"

"Shoot," he said.

"Well, there's this lab tech, this female lab tech-"

"Sorry, no love advice. You want that, try Nicky."

"No, I mean, I need help keeping this girl away without hurting her feelings."

Warrick stopped, gave me a look, and made a motion like he was cleaning his ear.

"Sorry, I think I have waxy build up again - did you just say you want to keep her away?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you were the class flirt."

"This ain't flirting, man." He gave me another disbelieving look. "I'd prefer if you didn't ask why. Just tell me how you manage to get the message across. If you don't, I'll have to go to Gris for help and you now what bad people skills he has."

Warrick considered this for a moment.

"The only advice I can give you've apparently figured out - to stay away. There's enough stuff in life with this job and all without love gumming up the gears."

"Tell me about it."

He gave me a curious look, but I didn't elaborate.

"So?"

"So stay away from it at all costs."

"You sound bitter."

"No kidding."

By this time I wished I hadn't asked.

"Okay, I really came to tell you that Sara wants you to come with us to reinterview the suspect."

"What, you need a big strong man to stand up to him?"

"No, we need someone who isn't afraid to have their arm broken by a guy twice their height."

Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Try Nick."

"Sara said he was busy in trace."

"Gris?"

"Sara said he was doing paperwork."

"Aren't you going?"

"Yeah, but Sara said I was a termite."

"Did Sara also say to jump on one leg?"

I grinned. "No, there was no 'Sara says' with that, so Bobby was out of the game when Sara ran into him."

"What?"

"She stepped on his foot."

Warrick laid the paperwork on the table. "Okay, I'll go, just because 'Sara says' and I don't wanna be out."

-*-*-*-*-*-

"Mr. Samson?"

Knock, knock.

"Hey, it's Sara Sidle from the crime lab again. Mr. Samson?"

"Maybe he's not home from work yet," I suggested.

"I called his boss. She said he called in sick today."

"What does this guy do?" Warrick asked.

"Construction," I said.

"Construction?" Warrick repeated musingly.

"Construction," Catherine confirmed.

"Is there an echo in here?" I grinned. We were gonna get this guy. As soon as he opened that door...

"Are you looking for Ted?"

We turned. Behind us was the landlord - a short portly man - the one who had given Sara the key to Kasey's apartment.

"Yeah."

"He left several hours ago. Packed all his stuff into a bunch of bags and piled 'em into his truck and took off."

"Took off?"

"Hoo boy."

"I'm calling Grissom," Warrick said, taking out his phone and moving out of ear shot.

Sara turned to me. "I'll call in about a warrant for the apartment."

"He vacated earlier, like I said," the landlord put in. "Turned in his keys and everything. It's mine again, and I'll give you permission."

I raised an eyebrow. "Forensics Files?"

"Law and Order. I'll get the key."

He hurried off as Warrick returned.

"Grissom's calling Brass about searching for Samson and putting a rush on all of the rest of the tests for this case - paternity, the semen stains - and Catherine and Nick are going to reconstruct the crimes."

"When will they be here?"

"As soon as they can be."

I looked at Sara. The landlord came panting up the stairs, something dull silver in his hand.

"I've (puff) got it..."

"Good. Thanks. Hold on a second." She pulled on a latex glove on and took the key. "Better safe than sorry."

"Right," Warrick said. "Greg, you need the reconstruction experience - ask Grissom to come help us, and you can go with Cath, okay?"

Oh, joy, I thought. Now I can't even process an apartment.

That didn't matter. That's what I told myself. Team. There's no "I" in team.

Right. Time to go back to the alley.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
11: Anima Soul

-*-*-*-*-*-

"How did she get into the alley?" I whispered. It felt wrong to speak any louder.

Catherine thought for a moment, one hand across her stomach and the other holding her chin.

"Greg, stand on the steps like you're going into the building."

"Like this?"

"Up one more. Okay."

"She got home after Samson. Maybe he was waiting for her," Nick said from the top of the stairs.

I took a step up. "So... What sort of relationship did they have?"

"None as far as the other tenants know."

"Stalking?" Nick suggested with a shudder.

"If someone were stalking me, I knew it and they were standing on my doorstep... I'd freak."

Catherine nodded. "I'd ask, 'What do you want?'"

"He probably confessed his love or something," Nick grimaced.

"So he comes closer and Kasey gets even more scared," I said, motioning to Nick to come down the stairs.

"She runs away..."

Catherine looked toward the alley.

"How does she end up there?"

"Well..."

I took a breath and made a dash down the stairs.

And promptly fell on my face.

"Ouch!"

"Greggy!"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm..." I looked up. I was facing the alley.

I pushed myself up on my knees.

"She tripped on that -" I pointed at a large crack in the sidewalk. "- and got up, kept running."

"Into the alley," Nick observed.

"He scared her bad," I murmured.

"Why would Samson confront her if he knew she would run away?"

"He's a big guy," Catherine said, helping me up. "Kasey was probably a good foot shorter."

"He knew he could catch her," Nick spat.

"He could have caught her with a fifty-pound bag of cat food slung over his shoulder. But what did he use to kill her?" Catherine asked.

I stepped into the alley again.

"None of the stuff we found matched the tool marks."

"Of course - he used it on William evening before last."

I heard their conversation and shined my flashlight across the cement.

It hadn't rained the night before.

The blood was still there, in its paint-like pools.

Nick gave me a funny took. "Greg?"

"I think he brought it with him."

"Why do you think that?"

"I think he was planning this whole damn thing."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Greggo."

The ringing of a cell phone shook me out of my speculations.

"Willows," Catherine said. "Results? Yeah? It matched the male vic? Right. Both of 'em. Sure. Thanks, Abbie."

"What?" Nick asked.

"A couple of the semen stains hadn't been cleaned out - they matched William. The paternity test? William was the father."

"He may have been unemployed, but he had something to occupy his time," I grumbled.

"Unemployed?" Nick repeated. "I forgot about that - Samson 'loved' Kasey. Kasey was pregnant. Sammy knew Billy wouldn't be able to support a kid."

"Can you say 'motive'?" I agreed.

"But how did he find out William was the father?" Catherine asked.

"That's easy," said a voice. We looked up to see Grissom on the top of the stairs. He held up an evidence bag. "This is a key - to Kasey's apartment. He gets in, finds out. Maybe finds a journal we haven't yet."

"The thick plottens."

A beeper went off. Everyone else instinctively checked theirs - I remembered and looked at my own.

"It's Brass," Grissom said. "They've probably got a lead on the guy."

He looked up - past me. Squinted, first there, and then at me. A look of understanding came across his face (subtly, of course).

I glanced casually over my shoulder. Catherine quickly looked away, trying to seem innocent.

Right.

It was that geek mind reading thing again. Usually it was Gris and Sara that did the 'Vulcan mind meld', but it looked like Cath had tried.

"So, Greg, why don't you come?"

See what I mean?

Grissom began dialing what I assumed was Brass's number and started toward his Tahoe.

"Why didn't he just call you? Like, on your phone?"

"Maybe he's in a hurry."

Rubik's cube, I thought with no humor whatsoever.

"Can I drive?" I asked lightheartedly.

"No."

Sulkily I slid into the passenger's seat.

"You know, it's dangerous to drive while talking on a cell phone."

Grissom ignored me, started the engine and said into the phone, "Yeah, Jim, it's Grissom."

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
12: Rinforando

-*-*-*-*-*-

The Tahoe stopped outside of a twenty-four-hour convenience store. One of those where they've got everything - toothbrushes, snacks, rubber rats.

Police car...

Grissom put the vehicle in park and took the key out of the ignition. I opened my door.

"Brass said Samson showed up here about -" He checked the car's clock. "-a half hour ago."

"Buying what - gum to patch the roof of his car?"

"Coffee." Grissom opened the door and walked in, almost shutting it in my face. He pointed at a TV monitor mounted on the wall. "That was tuned to the news, and Samson's picture flashed up just in time for the clerk to see it - but Samson had already left."

"And you said there were no coincidences."

"If it had been a coincidence, it would have come up two minutes sooner."

"So, why are we here?"

Grissom shook his head.

"Gil," said Brass as we approached. With him were an officer and someone who appeared to be said clerk.

"What are we supposed to do - dust for prints to prove it was him? Wait, maybe the surveillance tape-"

"Greg. Please." Grissom looked back at the detective.

Brass held up a piece of paper with a generic rubber glove wrapped around it. "No need. He's left you guys a note."

Grissom took the note carefully, using the glove, of course, and unfolded it fingerprint-free.

After a second, it became clear that he didn't intend on sharing. I leaned in to read over his shoulder. It was torn from a notepad - probably just one that had been handy to Samson, judging from the chicken scratch quality of the writing.

To the Las Vegas crime lab-

Seems you've gotten to the media already. Fine by me.

Knew you'd figure it out sooner or later. Too late, though, out of here.

You can prove it too, I hope. Will be severely disappointed if you missed my blood on the table and lamp. Planned to blow it off as having stubbed toe - then I'd have left. Probably the nosebleed that gave it away.

I've brought my medication with me. Not like I'll live very long anyway.

She made some bad decisions.

Oh well. Who hasn't?

Come and get me.

Ted.

"This guy is nuts," I said.

"Yes, he is."

"He wants us to catch him."

"Yes, he does. And it sounds like we were right in the motive department."

"Yup. Looks like he planted the blood, too."

"Not in the alley. That's the nosebleed."

Grissom looked the message over again.

"Medication?"

I swallowed uneasily. "The guy is HIV positive, remember? If his t-cell count is low or he started treatment earlier, he'll have dozens of pills and stuff to take like every hour."

"How do you know so much?"

I didn't answer. I probably should have made up something about doing a report on it in college or something, but I didn't. I didn't say anything.

I hate it when I don't say anything.

I hate not knowing what to say.

"And I turned around, and, like, this guy was like gone!"

The clerk had turned up the volume. By the looks of the unnamed police officer listening to him, it wasn't the first time he had told the story, nor the first time he'd got louder.

I looked at Grissom.

"We should bag this, right?"

"Just in case. Maybe it'll give us some sort of clue as to where he's been or where he's going."

I nodded and set my case on the counter, opening the top and removing an evidence bag.

"We'll get him, won't we?" I asked.

"Of course we will," he said unconvincingly.

"Right."

I held the bag open and Gris dropped the letter into it, still unfolded for reading without cutting the bag.

We talked a little with the clerk - he made me want to ring his neck, he said "like" so many times - before heading back to the Tahoe.

"Can I drive this time?"

Grissom gave me his "I'm amused. Really" look.

"Do you have a lead foot?"

"No."

"Can you steer?"

"Enough."

"Parallel park?"

"I avoid that. C'mon, I've had a license for ten years. Please?"

"Fine. Just quit whining."

I grinned and opened the driver's door and Grissom went around to the passenger's.

"I thought you were twenty-eight."

"I am."

"Then that would be twelve years. Sixteen to twenty-eight."

I buckled the seat belt. "I didn't get it until I was eighteen."

He didn't ask why and I was relieved. More or less. It just would be nice if someone would ask. I would spill it, I know. It would feel better.

Maybe

"Okay. Let's see what we can do with this note."

I sighed and turned the starter.

Even though I was relieved, it would be nice if someone just asked.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
13: Piangevole

-*-*-*-*-*-

It got very, very quiet.

"We can get this guy. He wants us to get him," Nick said.

"He wants us to know it was him," corrected Grissom.

"Nobody wants to get got," Sara scoffed. "This guy is insane. In a sane sort of way."

"That makes sense, in a senseless way," Nick put in. He looked at the note (bagged) in the middle of the layout room table. The photos were still up behind us.

"'Not like I'll live very long anyway'? There's a good attitude," Warrick scowled.

I glared at him.

No, don't do that.

He doesn't understand. None of them do.

The guy had run away.

I can understand that.

No excuse for murder, though.

"'Come and get me...'" Catherine read. "Is he serious?"

"He's teasing us," Grissom said.

"We don't have a murder weapon," Nick pointed out.

"Maybe he's got it with him...?" suggested Sara. "Like a prize?"

"Or he's gonna use it again."

"Gruesome Grissom," Catherine said disgustedly. "This guy is sick."

"Okay, so, one more time," Nick said. "What happened?"

"Five days ago Samson murdered Kasey," Grissom started. "Chased her into the alley."

"And two days after that, he murdered William in his apartment," Catherine continued. "We think he got in with the 'pet needs in' excuse - William's cat had the run of the place. Went in and out whenever there was someone to open the door."

I thought about Miki. Even if my building had allowed her to run around the hallways, I couldn't have let her. FIV is contagious. More contagious than HIV.

Still, it was another reason I was like her.

"So he used the same weapon. Both bodies were discovered yesterday, but no connection was made until Greg and I were talking in the break room," Nick added.

"And Samson's blood was obviously left by him in both apartments," Warrick analyzed. "And interpreting from this letter, he had some B.S. story all made up about stubbing his toe."

"Part of his 'catch me if you can' bit," Catherine said. "We were supposed to try to prove him wrong."

"Except Kasey gave him a bloody nose in the alley." Sara paused. "Why did he go ahead and leave the blood in the apartments if he did that? Why go to the extra trouble? And pain?"

"The blood was already in Kasey's apartment and had been for a while. Or that's what viscosity told us," Grissom replied. "He probably sneaked it in there while 'visiting' with that key we found."

"But why...?"

"And what he did to one, he did to the other," Grissom finished. "They had to be even."

"So, where did you get that?"

"Speculation, Nick. It's just that he did several things the same - the same weapon, for one."

"That's why he kept it," said Warrick, catching on. "He's compulsive."

"The same thing over and over. You're probably right, Grissom. He might intend to use it again."

"Gruesome Grissom meets Sick Sara," Nick said humorlessly.

"So, motive. Jealousy," Catherine said. "Samson, being compulsive, was obsessed with Kasey. But Kasey was involved with William. She was pregnant."

"Oh, and about the quote-unquote 'virginity' thing?" Nick contributed. "Well, it doesn't happen too often, but since we didn't find any sort of protection in either vic's apartment, we can figure their either had unprotected sex, or were just, umm, 'messing around' and didn't really..."

"We get the picture," Sara interrupted.

"Well, anyway, sperm can swim," Nick said, turning slightly red. Obviously this was not a topic he was enjoying. "It, umm, does happen. Get anywhere in the vicinity..."

"So that would be motive," Warrick said, a little too loudly. "Boy gets girl, murderer wants girl, murderer kills boy and girl."

I shook my head, speaking for the first time. "That's not all. Remember-" I took a deep breath. "-Samson is HIV positive. He knew he could never have that kind of relationship with Kasey."

Nick gave me a look. I pretended the wrinkled note was extremely interesting.

"Good observation," Catherine said, slightly suspicious. Or maybe it was my imagination.

"I'm going to the little CSI's room," I said quickly, leaving abruptly without looking at them.

For a few seconds, I was zoned out. Didn't pay any attention to where I was going.

I wish I could just tell them.

I wish they would just confront me and a say, "Yo, Greggo, what the heck is wrong with you?"

They didn't.

I realized I was back at my lab.

It was empty.

Thank God. I didn't think I could have taken Vincent's attitude or Abbie's come-ons,

I leaned an arm and my forehead against the glass, swearing under my breath.

"Hey, Greggo?"

I didn't look up.

"Go away, Nick."

"No."

"Dammit, Nick, go away."

"No."

There was a pause.

"Don't breathe so hard - you'll hyperventilate."

"Why don't you just-"

"Greg, you are such an idiot."

I glanced at my friend out of the corner of my eye.

"Why?"

"You think we'll hate you if you tell us. You don't trust us. Well, you know what? We trust you. You don't have to suffer by yourself. I don't. Cath doesn't. Even Warrick doesn't to an extent."

There he went with the trust thing again.

I glared at my reflection in the window.

"Someone... someone the other day told me I was like Grissom."

"You are."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"We won't get him."

"We will."

"We won't. All he has to do is get out - it's not like he can't do it." I stood up straight. It was painful. "Just wish I knew why people do this."

"What? Murder?"

"No. Well, I mean, that too, but..." I looked down. I was shaking. I continued, even though my voice sounded pathetic and plaintive again. "I mean this. This job. Why do we do it if... if it hurts so bad?"

Nick thought for a minute.

"Well, not to let Grissom think for me or anything, but he says that we're the 'victim's last voice'."

"'Last voice'," I repeated.

"Yeah. If we can't look at the evidence, if we can't help it speak... We are the last chance for justice. The last voice."

I blinked.

Last... voice?

"Holy-"

"What?"

"Last voice! Of course!"

I slapped my forehead.

"Nick, I think I know where we can find proof for our theory. From Kasey herself."

"What? Where are you going?"

"Back to the apartment!"

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
14: Calando

-*-*-*-*-*-

"Just wait here. I'll beep you if I need you."

Nick shifted the Tahoe into park. "Yeah. Go ahead. What gave you your idea, though?"

"Samson needed something to tell him Kasey was pregnant - something that he could just find in her home. Like a journal, Grissom said. Besides, I kept one when I was in therapy."

"Therapy?"

I started to get out and stopped.

"Hey... I have a quarterly check-up next Friday, but my car's going in to be serviced at the same time. Do you think I could get a ride from you?"

He blinked and nodded.

I shut the passenger side door, setting my sights on the apartment building in front of me.

Ignoring the alley.

Pointedly.

I didn't want to get into that again.

I opened the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

It was strange. All ready I felt uneasy.

Maybe it was just because it was late and shadowy.

Yeah, that was it.

I arrived at Kasey's apartment, taking the key out of an opened evidence bag.

I crossed the room determinedly. Don't be nervous. That's just stupid.

Pay attention to your gut! my subconscious warned.

Pay attention to your own gut, I replied silently.

"Okay... laptop, laptop, where art thou, laptop?"

It was set up on the desk. I pushed the power button and waited as the Windows XP screen loaded and disappeared.

Web camera. CD burner.

Video diary.

The desktop appeared. I clicked on the start menu, opening the CD files.

Bingo.

Fifty-seven files. The first - August 23 - I clicked on.

Kasey Kinsey's face appeared. She looked the same, only without the fractured bones, bruises, or blood.

This was her last voice.

"Okay... I feel kinda stupid doing this, talking to my computer, but... well, I heard it helped you deal with things to keep a journal. I can't write worth anything, so I'm starting this thing. Umm... Nothing much happened today. I'm moving into the city tomorrow. I just don't think I can stand being here any longer - ever since Mom died. It's not hard to say, just hard to think about. Well, I just hope I don't turn out to be a compulsive gambler or something."

I bit my lip and clicked on the next one.

"Hey, it's me again... I'm adjusting to life here. Made a friend down the hallway - some guy named Ted. Six and a half feet tall, yeah. You get the idea."

I shook my head and choose another file randomly. It was about six months ago.

"Yeah, William and I have been dating for a while. It's great, but still makes me nervous. You now, I..." She blushed. "Yeah. You know. I wonder if anyone will ever see this. I hope not, I'd die of embarrassment."

"That's not what you died of," I told her, choosing one from just a week before.

"I really don't know what to do. I didn't think this could happen - I'm not even sure it did or anything. Should I go to the doctor? Maybe an anonymous clinic? I don't know... Should I ask William what he thinks?"

She shook her head and shut off the camera.

No more - I had to get back to the lab, anyway.

I closed the folder and popped the CD out.

Hopefully, there would be something on it about Samson's stalking. Maybe more about her relationships.

I had stuffed an evidence bag into my coat pocket. I slipped the disk inside and sealed it.

Archie would probably handle it. I'd help, of course.

With a sigh, I turned and left the apartment, locking the door behind me and stepping over the newspaper on the welcome mat.

When I reached the first stairs, a voice stopped me.

"Mr. Swartz, Las Vegas crime lab, right?"

I turned. "What?"

It was a big, muscled guy, in jeans and a black t-shirt. Six and a half feet tall.

Bandage on one arm, revealed by a t-shirt.

Ted Samson.

I let a couple choice words slip.

"Now, no need for that."

My gaze traveled to what he was holding in his right hand.

It was flat, curved, with a sharp end.

The murder weapon.

"A crowbar?" I said, with far less fear that was creeping into my stomach. "You used a crowbar to kill people?"

"They weren't people. They were under me."

"Well, there's your problem. They didn't agree."

"I don't suppose you do?"

"That I'm 'under you'? Less than you? Hell no."

"What did I say about your language?" Samson took a couple steps.

I involuntarily moved back.

"I'm a dying man, Mr. Swartz."

"Sanders."

"My last t-cell count was a hundred and thirty. Do you now what that means?"

"It means you have AIDS."

"Very good."

He took a couple more steps and I prepared to run.

"It's a death sentence."

"No it's not."

"Really? And you're an expert?"

"No."

Samson grinned. It was not a sane grin. "You're a positive, too."

"Yes."

"Six years."

"Thirteen."

"Thirteen?" he repeated. "Impressive."

"Lucky."

"Luck would be not getting it in the first place."

I felt my heart pounding in my throat.

I was trapped in a stairwell with a serial killer.

I was at the bottom of the steps, on a landing. Only two flights to go before the door.

Could I make it?

I doubted it. Samson was almost a foot taller than me. He could have still outrun me if he'd had a fifty-pound bag of cat food stung over his shoulder.

Did that sound familiar or what?

I pulled my cell phone out.

Samson lunged.

Before I knew what had happened, I was ducking a blow from a blood-stained crowbar.

I yelped as it connected with my left arm. A sickening crack filled my ears and fire spread from the fracture.

Adrenaline took over and I jumped back. I tripped.

I was going to be murdered.

I had a sudden flash of my friends processing the scene. It looked suspiciously like the alley, with a different background.

Next thing I knew, I was down.

Get up, get up, get up, you idiot!

I had to get up.

I was not going to just lay there and die!

I looked up, in time to catch another blow against the side of the head.

Stars flashed in front of my eyes and I hit the second landing. Hard. The wind was knocked out of me.

There was a sudden pressure on my throat.

It took my confused brain a moment to put it together.

Kasey had been strangled. Manually.

I gasped, but nothing reached my lungs. I forced my blurry eyes open.

Samson, with one knee on my chest, the other on my broken arm (odd - it didn't seem to hurt right then), glared at me, a crazy glint in his eye.

"Well, looks like you won't be getting me for this. Too bad. Checkmate."

I wanted to swing at him. I wanted to break his face.

How could I die like that - without putting a mark on him?!

Wait.

Where was the crowbar?

Yes! There!

It was in my right hand. How I got hold of it I don't know.

It connected with Samson's skull. How I got the energy to swing it I don't know.

My throat opened and a yelp assailed my ears.

For a couple minutes I just breathed.

Keep breathing.

Don't black out.

Samson was down, still breathing.

Just unconscious. Too bad.

Not checkmate.

My cell phone had fallen nearby. I grabbed it and punched in Nicky's beeper number.

That was it.

And I don't remember any more.

***

Last Voice: A Concerto
15: Coda

-*-*-*-*-*-

I slammed the door, using my right hand. My left was in a sling.

It had been almost two weeks since we'd put Ted Samson - complete with a head injury - away. Two counts of murder and one attempted murder.

Nick had gotten the page, entered the building and called 911. He beat himself up about it until I told him I was going to beat him up if he didn't stop.

I guess he reevaluated his "you don't trust us" bit after he found out I'd listed him and Grissom as next-of-kin.

The hospital had released me in just a couple days. Very good, considering I was almost a vic.

I sighed and let my head fall back.

The car started and it was silent for a minute.

"Greg?"

"Yeah."

I opened my eyes and avoided looking at Nick.

"What's happening?"

I swallowed.

I didn't want to say.

I didn't want to tell.

No, please, don't tell him.

"Do you now how they officially say if someone has AIDS?"

"No."

"Well, you've got your tests, and one of them is called a t-cell count. T-cells are what the virus destroys, and keeping track of how many are left is used to tell when to start treatments and things like that."

I stopped. That was the easy part - I'd said it before. I'd probably say it again.

"If your t-cell count gets below two hundred, they call it AIDS."

Nick didn't say anything. With my peripheral vision, I saw him glance at me a couple times. Probably looking at the sling on my arm, bandage on my head and hand-shaped bruise on my neck.

Fine by me. I'd almost been killed. Good of someone to notice.

Truth was, I'd been dying for a long time. No one had noticed.

It hadn't been obvious.

Now I wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"And?" he asked cautiously.

"And mine's two ten."

The Tahoe pulled out of the hospital parking lot. I turned my attention outside the window, at the autumn afternoon that was bright in stark contrast to my dead emotions.

"It's the other infections that kill you. The ones that come in because your body can't defend itself anymore. They're called opportunistic infections. And Dr. Bailey's going to start some aggressive treatments for me, you know, lots of pills and stuff."

"Like you said?"

"Yeah. Well, at least it lasted thirteen years."

There was another pause.

"I guess I was successful."

"Excuse me?"

I shook my head. "You don't want to know."

"You obviously want me to know."

I felt two things:

One: Leave me alone, dammit.

Two: Thank God, someone noticed.

"Fine. My parents and one of my sisters were killed when I was fifteen. I was in foster care for two months. I..."

I looked again at the transfusion scar on my hand. And at the mark across the opposite wrist.

My voice dropped to a whisper. Like I was saying something dirty.

"I tried to kill myself. I wasn't even sixteen yet. And that's when I got the transfusion. So I sorta consider it successful in a sick kind of way."

Nick didn't say anything for a moment.

"I disagree," he finally replied. "Until then, yeah, it is."

"Until then?"

"Yup."

Just then, our beepers went off. I checked.

"It's Gris," I said.

"It's a love-hate relationship."

"What? Grissom?"

"Our job."

"I love it."

"Me too."

Maybe after this next crime scene, I could go home and sleep. Spend some time with my cat.

-*-*-*-*-*-

~ fin ~

***