November 19th...Day One

Christmas was coming soon.

His blue eyes scanned the last two weeks of November on his dashboard calendar, nearly appalling over the fact that this countdown was signifying much more than last minute present shopping...which he did always manage to add to his agenda. But more or less, this remaining month meant one, straight-out thing: murder.

When the idea of a Christmas tradition enters into your mind, you immediately jump to conclusions, and picture families caroling around the Christmas tree, a little girl happily placing the final touch—a star—on the very top, or maybe even that Christmas Eve football game, with the Minnesota Vikings and Green Bay Packers going at it again; arch rivalries.

Instead, in Gil Grissom's mind, Christmas meant other traditional scenarios. Holidays always seemed to jump-start people running from the law. Maybe the Christmas cheer got to some—going on a nice Christmas outing to kill was always an option. It just happened to be an option that, unfortunately, left the Las Vegas crime lab up in arms over who got what night off to spend with their families and friends over the Christmas weekend.

Family? Grissom didn't have family. He hardly had friends. Sure, there were his employees of the graveyard-shift, but other than that, there wasn't even a love interest involved. Well, maybe there was an interest involved, but she was out of the picture. Completely. And that wasn't just his childish, fainthearted thoughts taking a hold of him when he chose to admit this; it was reality.

She would always be out of the picture. Catherine Willows did not deserve a man like him.

He was getting ready to ignite the engine and bring it to a roaring life when his pager beeped that obnoxious rhythm that he'd heard since day one of being a supervisor. He was always the third one to get the call; first was Dispatch, second was some homicide-pep like Jim Brass—only, Jim was one of the nice ones—and thirdly was him.

Grissom glanced at the screen. 419 Ogden Ave, it read. Ogden Avenue? He had just been there processing a scene, and returned back to the lab to close up his ongoing case. What the hell did PD want of him? Was it something to do with his supervision on the case, or efficiency altogether? He had labeled the evidence logs correctly, and checked for "invisible" prints, right?

He clipped his pager back onto his belt, just as his cell phone rang. "Well, for God's sake," he mumbled, before answering in his usual routine: "Grissom." He did not bother to note the `caller number five, Jim Brass' on his caller I.D. status.

"Hi. It's me."

"Jim? What the hell? Last I heard, you were lecturing me on how much I needed sleep," he grumbled. "So I was about to..."

"Sorry, Gil, but this is important. 419 off on Ogden...I know you'll wanna work this one," the homicide cop commented.

Grissom smirked, "Sure. Humor me."

"Well," Brass began, "remember our jolly-old Stocking Strangler?" There was a pause before he continued, "Gil, he's back."

"Back? Jim, it's only late November. It can't possibly be him; serial's follow a pattern, and his is to strike on Christmas Eve, leave the girl on the doorstep for her family to find on Christmas morn...you get the drill," Grissom said, quite confused. He was sitting in his Tahoe, still focused on that calendar before him, counting mentally the exact amount of days until Christmas. 1...2...

"Sheriff Bradley has also been working this case since day one, Gil, and he knows the serial by now. He called it into Dispatch—said he found the whole shebang." There was another pause, as if Jim expected his converse to speak. "Even if we are looking at a copycat, just give it a shot. I'll call Cath and meet you at the scene."

Grissom sighed, starting up his car, and securing the phone between his shoulder and ear. "On my way."

The two clicked off. No goodbyes, no dismissals. Just routine.

He exited out of the crime lab parking lot; sleep depriving his face, and evidencing in the form of dark circles under his eyes. Normally, such a contrast might brighten the sky-blue eyes of his, but on a day like this, all they resembled was an overcast atmosphere.

When he arrived at Ogden Avenue, a few miles out of Paris and the Strip, and about a ten minute trip from the crime lab (although Vegas traffic was under the influence of blame for his fifteen minute ride), Grissom found the squad car of Sheriff Ryan Bradley—the bad- ass cop transferred from Chicago four and a half years ago. But just like the rest of them, he was more politics than anything revolving around law enforcement. Or science.

The scramblers were still flashing atop the squad, and Grissom assumed Bradley was in the process of clearing the scene—if he hadn't already done so. He also noted something that puzzled him: the sheriff's passenger door was open. Maybe just preoccupancy?

The CSI exited out of his Tahoe and rounded the back to extract his field kit from the vehicle. He took note of a flickering street light right above the yard before him and closed the door—rough part of town. Once he had done so, Grissom locked the SUV and approached the scene. From then on, it was déjà vu all over again.

A Vegas townhouse.

A body—dumped on the porch and wrapped, as a gift, in a red stocking.

A pool of blood.

Two cartridge cases—.38 Smith and Wesson.

And to top it all off, their Stocking Strangler had been completely generous this year and ejaculated. Or maybe not...

Grissom continued to approach the scene, kneeling down and studying the filled condom, which lay beside the victim. Generous or not, he had just, mentally, confirmed something: this was not the Stocking Strangler.

He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully peeled down a bit of the stocking that wrapped up their victim. The first thing he noticed was that the young girl was a brunette—their serial, in the past, had always targeted blonds. The next thing that struck Grissom with his keen observation skills was the absence of evidence. There wasn't a duplicate murder weapon to throw him off in his investigation. Usually this duplicate had also been used to violate the victim, so that no DNA evidence would be supplied. So why the hell had their Stocking Strangler ejaculated this year? The loss of arterial blood splatter atop the white border of the stocking was also catching his attention; and the feel of the stocking, itself, was not right. This was acrylic, maybe even polyester—for the past five years, Grissom had been processing fleece material.

A copycat.

He stood up; Grissom realized that further investigation of the body was beyond his limits. The coroner had obviously not arrived yet, and he was forbidden to do anything more involving the victim until death had been confirmed. Not that a slashed neck and decomposing body didn't speak for itself. But then again, cadavers couldn't speak, so that's what he was for.

Grissom glanced back at the squad car, and then to the house before him, where the girl had been dumped upon their porch. Where was Sheriff Bradley? The scramblers were still flashing, but the house showed no signs of forced entry—or life, altogether. The backyard consisted of nothing, considering the houses' close proximity in this neighborhood. The most that could be squeezed in was a fence. So where had the sheriff disappeared to? Had he sneaked off for a coffee break?

Cops, Grissom thought, shaking his head.

The CSI looked around once again, curiosity and a hint of concern overriding his excitement of the new case. He finally shrugged it off. Bradley couldn't have run off too far without his car and toys, Grissom mused, referring to the handcuffs, restraining tools, and other police requirements he had earlier noted in the seat of Bradley's car, through the open passenger door. The only thing missing had been the officer's gun—Bradley's main mean of self- defense.

Grissom again leaned down, noticing a slight abrasion on the victim's cheek. Although he was not at liberty to have further examination by touch or collection of evidence, getting a head start on photographing and recording seemed sensible.

He gripped the camera, which was hanging around his neck, and took a few shots of the visible parts of the victim's face. Then, moving clockwise, he photographed the two casings that lay on the ground. Next, he turned towards a single, black vehicle parked in the driveway. A 1990 Ford Taurus that looked as if it hadn't been driven in ten years.

Two shots of the vehicle were snapped total.

"Drop the camera and put your hands up."

His heart suddenly froze as a cold barrel was shoved into his back.

"Stand up, but don't turn around. You take one look at me and you'll never live to see tomorrow."

Grissom did as he was told, releasing the camera from his hands, and it fell, the band tightening around his neck at gravity's request. He stood up, moving his hands slowly upward and into the air.

"Now walk to the side of the house. DO IT!"

Grissom again obeyed, and followed his instructions (a cleaving pain from a gun barrel in his back was just a bonus) to the side of the house, where the six-foot tall fence blocked nearly all view from houses nearby. He noted a blood smear on the tip of the fence, where over the top would be located the alley. Was that where Bradley had made his escape? Had he known about the suspect's presence on the area?

His heartbeat was picking up pace, but he kept telling himself to remain calm. Everybody learns to remain calm in such a situation, but for some reason, it takes actually being in one to realize the total difficulties in instructions.

"Keep your hands up!" was the order, blaring into Grissom's ears.

The voice belonged to a male—gruff, deep, but shallow in pronunciation. Maybe loss of education or an innate slur in speech?

Then another thought approached him: was he listening to the Stocking Strangler, the serial he and his team had been tracking down for five years? Or was this merely the copycat...or just a random Grissom- hater, who wanted him dead?

"Why are you working this case?"—Was the next question Grissom received. The guy holding him at gunpoint wanted him to speak. If one word slipped his tongue, his brains could be blasted out of his skull.

Yeah. Right. He was going to speak, all right...

"Because it's my job," Gil managed. He was controlling the quiver of restiveness in his voice, desperately not wanting his opposition to know of his fear. And yes, Gil Grissom was experiencing fear. After all, human nature was his existence.

"Is that damn right, Mr. Grissom? There's nothing more personal, more involving for you in this case?" the suspect pressured. When Grissom made no response, the barrel was shoved into his spine even harder.

"I-I want to protect the women of this town," he continued, gulping down all regrets, "and even those who aren't targeted by the murderer. Their families, their friends...their husbands..."

"You know, Mr. Grissom, you were getting close. I must admit that you're a smart man, but outsmarting the Stocking Strangler—as you call him—is out of your line," continued his adversary.

"Who is the Stocking Strangler?" Gil asked, having a sudden afterthought of how bold his question had been. But, instead, he continued. "Do you know him? What are his motives?"

There was a laugh from behind him, and he almost felt like questioning the laugh—`ha-ha' or `it-doesn't-matter-because-you're- gonna-die'...?

"No one knows. Not even his victims," he continued. "They pick him; he doesn't pick them, but yet they may never even see his face before he grabs them, rapes them, and kills them!"

His explanation had been a crescendo, Grissom noted, as if his adrenaline was rushing, and the subject excited him. Only the one serial would find excitement in such a signature killing.

"So you're making me assume that the Stocking Strangler stalks his victims, before proceeding with his normal routine?"

"Y-e-s-s," hissed his opposition. "Now shut the hell up! I'm going to kill you tonight, Mr. Grissom. I hope you know that." Grissom felt the barrel quiver, assuming that the trigger was slowly being squeezed, and adrenaline was causing nerves to conduct.

"You know that death by gunshot is commonly looked upon as a `fool- proof' plan. Technically, whether you are the Stocking Strangler or not, you should know by your Forensic expertise that you're only leaving more evidence behind; a casing, a slug, a defined signature tapping on the cartridge that can only be identified as this gun, after a Ballistics test is performed..."

"I said to shut the hell up!" This time, when the gun quivered, Grissom knew that his adversary was more than planning to squeeze the trigger. He was squeezing the trigger, and Grissom was only under the hope that he wasn't trigger-happy.

Thank God for his surgery. Were those squad sirens in the background?

"Once you shoot me, the officers arriving in approximately ten seconds will hear the gunfire, and therefore will be on your tail immediately. The death of a fellow officer never lies good with the PD." Grissom almost smirked, even under the circumstances of gunpoint.

There was no response from behind, which made him wonder what his adversary was contemplating.

Just then, when the orgasm of the moment exploded in what Gil feigned would have been gunfire erupting, the barrel was raised from his back and milli-seconds later impinged atop his head. And then a gunshot did follow...one...two...three...four shots.

As darkness crept around the corners of his pupils, finally closing them within pitch black, there was one face he saw above him—in all her beauty, in all her concern. He struggled to keep his attention au courant, despondent to the chromatic reflection of nighttime rue in her eyes. She wanted him to stay with her. She was repeating his name, over and over again; it was almost as if she was facing the climatic stages of intimacy, and was finding her beckoning call within his name.

"Gil!" she repeated, soothing in his ear. "Stay with me. Please...stay with me!"

And as the iniquity finally acquired his consciousness, one woman remained padlocked in his mind.

Catherine Willows.

:: ::

She sat alone in the visitor's area, ready to scream, just so one person on the earth would know of her existence. Hospitals were wonderful places, but did they ever tell anyone what the hell was going on?

She'd arrived at Desert Palms nearly forty-five minutes ago. If the hour came and passed, Catherine Willows was bound to let her skills of being a CSI on the job for twenty years take ahold; she knew where and how to stand her ground, and she knew how to do it well. She also knew how to play people. And a bunch of senior citizens and ill children sitting around was not going to stop her.

"Catherine."

She looked up and found herself drowning in the eyes of Jim Brass.

"Jim, have you heard anything? Is he alright?"

Color suddenly drained from the captain's skin, and he turned a sheet- white, his mouth pursuing to open and let verbalism pour out. Instead, his lips did open and close, but he found it harder than ever to release his voice.

"Jim?" she repeated.

He sat down next to her, and their eyes, once again, met.

"Uh, Cath," he began, "we have a slight problemo."

Within Catherine's mind, she created an eternity of flashbacks and regretted possibilities before Brass could actually speak. It was if an abyss of another world shored over her brain, and washed out all means of reality with waves of revere.

[Flashback]

She was on her way home. Finally. It had been one of the longest shifts she'd faced in a long time, and now she would be entirely content with finding her warm bed at home. Not that the earlier scorching sun hadn't created a warm barrier with enough heat to claim the month August. Hello—it was November. But then again, it was also Vegas, and anything could happen in Vegas. Anything.

She had her window rolled down, the procession of cool air splashing at her skin. All she needed was five minutes—just five minutes. But damn it, the nighttime Strip traffic was doing anything but cooperating with her wanted schedule. This was at last a night that she'd be able to spend with her twelve-year-old daughter, even if it meant only knowing of the preteen's presence in the house; the evidence being the blaring music that came from her closed room. Or maybe Lindsey would have a friend over. Anything to throw some life into a double shift of dead bodies.

Realization attained her concentration on the now green light above on the highway. Maybe it had been the domino effect of beeping horns from behind her that had caught her attention. Well, whatever it was, Catherine stepped on the gas pedal and sped away from her daydreaming...or night dreaming.

All was good. The fresh air arousing her nostrils and prying open her sleep-deprived eyes felt wonderfully refreshing. Even the nearby bass cadence from some punk-kid's truck somehow made her feel right at home in the city. Home...she sighed and watched the remaining side of the Strip, leading to metropolis, as she whizzed by in the Denali. Casino and publicity lights polished her blue eyes into a lustrous, glossy tint that contrasted her features nicely.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

God damn it—she'd been off the hour for only twenty minutes and this was what she got in return? Another phone call?

She was pondering whether or not to just shut the cell phone off, but then she noticed her caller ID. Jim Brass, it read. The dead were able-bodied to wait, but it could be of importance. Not that she didn't treat every straight-out murder with importance. But this one might be that high-profiler she wanted, or a...

"Willows."

"It's Brass."

"I know."

"Right. Anyway, Gil needs you right now," he explained. "Off Ogden Avenue? I'm paging you with the directions as we speak."

For a moment, the phrase `Gil needs you' didn't quite register with her brain (why would it after a double shift into overtime?) and Catherine Willows nearly drove off the road.

"What?" she sputtered into the phone, blinking and shaking her head— anything to attempt a more judicious conclusion.

"Uh, we got a DB, Cath. I know you've been pulling a double and you're maxed out on overtime, but this is just plain weird," Jim continued to explain.

Thank God Gil wasn't in need of a woman to settle his absence of a sex life, and had gotten Jim Brass to call her up and notify her. Hell, she'd want him to tell her himself... Catherine couldn't help but chuckle to herself, before gesturing for Brass to continue, "Please do tell."

"The Stocking Strangler. Gil's on his way to the scene. Meet me there?"

"On my way," Catherine said with a roll of her eyes, just as her pager beeped.

The Stocking Strangler in November? What the hell...?

:: ::

It was almost in unison that Brass' Ford Taurus, scramblers blaring, pulled up to the taped perimeter, and Catherine's dark-blue Yukon met his there. As she jumped out, about to grab her crime kit from the backseat, her attention was brought to the house, along with Sheriff Bradley's open car door. She didn't even bother to notify Jim of her findings before rushing towards the crime scene and drawing her gun.

There wasn't time to give a warning. There just wasn't time. For God's sakes, Grissom was being held at gunpoint, and she could see with her own eyes the trigger slowly being pulled on him.

She winced as one shot was fired, and assumed Gil had been injured at the sight of his limp body falling to the ground.

Catherine fired her own shot, and the suspect fired back at her, never turning his face in her direct line of vision...damn it! All she needed was one clear view of him.

She fired one more shot at him, piercing his upper right shoulder. He began to run, abruptly struggling to climb the fence with his recent injury. She pondered whether or not to run after him, or even if she should fire once more to bring him down. Technically, that wouldn't look good—a gunshot in his back—and also, there was a wounded man on the ground. This wasn't just any man; this was Gil.

And where the hell was Jim?

None of that mattered, but she did know what did.

Catherine ran over to Gil's side, quickly taking a moment to make sure the safety on her gun was on, and bent down beside him. She turned him over to find a gushing wound on the top of his head. But where was the gunshot? His head wound was merely blunt-force trauma; she recognized this right away. There had to be an entry wound in some fatal spot...

"Gil!" she cried, hoping that unconsciousness had not claimed him yet. "Gil!" she repeated. "Stay with me. Please...stay with me!"

There was no use in calling his name. He was knocked cold.

Finally she felt Jim's presence at her side. He was talking into his radio, "This is Captain Jim Brass with Homicide. Suspect on location! I repeat: suspect on location! Assumed position is south on Ogden Avenue, heading into the back alleys and onto Fremont Street. CSI Grissom injured...send an ambulance. FAST!"

Catherine heard Dispatch reply, and returned her attention to Gil. She reached down and pressed two fingers onto his neck, feeling a slow pulse resonating. He was there—just barely there.

"Gil, hold in there," she said, searching his body for an entry wound so that she'd be able to apply pressure and hopefully detain the bleeding.

God damn it...where the hell was that gun wound?

From then on, everything was a complete blur to her, as she continued to stay by Grissom's side, running fingers through his peppering hair and whisper encouraging words into his ear. Jim had his gun drawn and was standing within the crime scene. He also radioed Dispatch about the missing Officer Bradley.

There were so many questions left unanswered. Catherine needed answers. Now.

[End of Flasback]

And that's when she snapped back into reality, looking up and finding Jim's lips move with words that were not providing gumption; they were foreign articulates that were being removed from his mouth. Now all she needed was a translator.

"Catherine?" he asked, taking into mind the confused look that had engulfed her face.

Finally a word she understood as her own name.

"Uh, yeah...Jim?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry, I, well...I was just thinking about what happened," she explained. Catherine pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear, strawberry treading at the roots of the slight, natural curl.

"Well, you should probably think about what's happening now," Jim began. He motioned his thumb over his shoulder towards the wing where Grissom was being held.

The next words that Brass spoke exited his lips in a notion that Catherine did, unfortunately, comprehend.

"Gil's in a coma."

TBC