Chief Pedro Martinez was standing at the entrance of the Clark County Detention Center, as Grissom was pulled from the squad car and threaded through a gauntlet of newspaper reporters, their flashbulbs going off in his face. Once inside the building, the officer escorting Grissom shoved him head first into an eight foot square processing room. Tripping, and with no way to break his fall, Grissom slammed his head into the wall before landing on the floor.

"That's enough," Martinez said, following the men in. "You're relieved of duty," he told the officer. "I don't want you within a hundred feet of him, got that?"

The officer started to argue.

"I'm in charge around here, and I'm responsible for what happens to him! Now, get out!" Martinez ordered, slamming the door behind him.

Grissom turned to look up at the chief, letting a gasp slip through his lips as the pain in his chest grew.

Martinez reached down, unlocked one of the handcuffs, and carefully pulled Grissom up, helping him to a gray, utilitarian chair bolted to the floor. There, Grissom was cuffed to the chair's steel arm.

"Where does it hurt?" Martinez asked.

"My ribs. I think they're broken," Grissom said, still struggling to breath through the pain. He stared at Martinez, trying to focus. "Who's dead?" he asked. A dozen faces ran through his mind: Catherine, Sara, Jacqui, Terri, Heather, Sophia....

"I'm sorry," Martinez said, like he meant it. "I'm not authorized to discuss the case with you. Atwater will be here shortly. I'm sure he'll fill you in. In the meantime, you have to be processed."

Martinez gestured to the one-way mirror, then glanced down at his prisoner's clothing.

"You have bugs on your shorts," he noted.

"They were a gift," Grissom explained.

"From a girlfriend?" Martinez asked.

"You know better!" Grissom responded.

Martinez nodded.

"The next few hours will be the worst," he said. "You'll be processed, fingerprinted, stripped and subjected to a cavity search. Then we'll find you something to wear. I'll send one of my people in to patch you up."

Grissom nodded silently.

"I shouldn't have to ask this," Martinez said, softly enough not to be heard over the room's microphone. "But we've worked together a long time, Gil, and I just gotta know. Did you do it? Did you kill Carol?"

Grissom's eyes widened with shock.

"Carol? Carol is dead?"

"Just answer the question, Gil."

Visions of an attractive blonde in her form fitting uniform flooded Grissom's thoughts. He remembered her laughing eyes when she'd hugged him that night. It had been so long, since he'd last seen her. Nearly seven years, but she hadn't changed. She was still as beautiful and vital as ever, and the old longing had crept up on him, unexpectedly. He had changed, though. He had changed, a lot. And the first time she tried to kiss him, he had pushed her away. But the second time.... Pulling himself back to the present, Grissom looked long and hard at Martinez before answering.

"No," was all he said.

Martinez looked relieved.

"Whatever you do, don't fight. These guys want nothing more than to use you for soccer practice. Got it?"

Grissom nodded.

Someone knocked at the door, and three men entered, one with his gun drawn. CSI supervisor Conrad Eckley, a camera in one hand and a forensic kit in the other, was the third man.

"We're ready," Eckley said

Martinez pulled a tape recorder from his pocket, turned it on and set it down in front of Grissom.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

Grissom moaned. He knew his rights. He knew them by heart. How many times had he said them, himself?

"You need to speak loud enough for the tape recorder to pick up your voice," Martinez directed.

"I understand," Grissom said, sharply. "I know my rights."

The sensation of Carol's lips on his flashed through his mind. One small transgression. Just one, and look where it got him.

Martinez clicked off the recorder, pocketed it and left the room. Eckley ordered the handcuffs removed.

"Stand up and take off your clothes," he said, checking his camera.

Everything inside of Grissom wanted to fight back. Everything told him how terribly wrong this was, and how he would live to regret this night for the rest of his life. But, for now, he took his friend's advice and did as he was told.

Eckley photographed every part of Grissom's body, then took scrapings from under the prisoner's fingernails and combed through his pubic hair. Eckley never spoke to Grissom, but for a second their eyes locked, and Eckley read the unspoken warning between them. When the CSI had finished, leaving Grissom cold and naked in the air conditioned room, the second guard took finger and palm prints. Then, donning Laytex gloves, he examined Grissom's ears, nose and mouth.

"Bend over," he said, finally.

His arms clasping his damaged ribs, Grissom complied. When the guard had finished, Grissom was given an orange jumpsuit and instructed to dress.

Grissom looked directly at the one-way mirror, speaking to the man he knew had been watching him the entire time.

"I need to see a doctor. My ribs are broken."

"You'll see one soon enough," said the guard, as Grissom, now dressed, sunk into the chair and the handcuffs clicked shut.

Eckley left, but the guards remained behind, as Atwater and Martinez entered the room and sat across the table from Grissom.

"Where do I begin, Grissom?" the sheriff asked, turning on his own tape recorder. "All that repressed rage. All that repressed sexuality. Hell, you probably hadn't gotten laid in years, had you? At least, not until today. Living with spiders. No wife. No lovers. Except for that dominatrix. What's her name? Lady Heather? I bet she taught you a thing or two, didn't she? I bet you couldn't wait to try some of her tricks out on someone else, right? Well, it was bound to come out sooner or later, wasn't it, Gil? Your deep, dark secret. I always knew you were a pervert. Now, everybody knows. So, why don't we talk about it?"

"Atwater, you're an idiot," Grissom said, knowing he had nothing to lose. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

Atwater leaned forward, his eyes blazing with hatred.

"I know you raped and murdered Carol MacEnroe. I know you're never going to go back to your precious bugs, again. I know I'm going to enjoy putting you away for life."

(Her lips brushed his, but he'd pushed her away.)

Grissom, familiar with the game in all its variations, said the only thing that mattered then and there.

"I want a lawyer."

Atwater knew better than to argue with him. Turning off the tape recorder, he got up to leave.

"He's all yours," the sheriff told Martinez.

Martinez nodded, but didn't speak until he was alone with Grissom.

"I have over 2,000 detainees here, Gil," he said. "And about half of them would like to see you dead. I'm going to keep you in the infirmary for tonight, and pray to god you make bail, tomorrow."

"Thank you," Grissom whispered.