It had taken every persuasive technique that Brass had in his arsenal and a few threats to get Grissom to give up the keys to his motorcycle and grab a ride with Warrick and Greg. But that had only been the beginning of Grissom’s belligerence. He had grudgingly allowed the two men to take him into see Dr. Robbins only after threatening to shoot them both if he even saw a hospital.
            Sitting on a stool near the polished metal surface of Doc Robbins examining table, Grissom ignored the men around him as the coroner pulled a stitch through his scalp. Al had tried to offer Grissom a local anesthetic but the man had waved it off and didn’t even flinch when the curved needle pierced the thin flesh of his scalp a couple of inches above the tip of his ear.
            “Looks like you’ll need about six stitches,” Al said near his ear as he gazed through his glasses at his work. If Grissom had been one of his normal patients he could have done it in half the work but seeing as how Grissom still had a pulse, he chose to do a more detail oriented job.
            Grissom didn’t reply. He didn’t move. He barely seemed to take a breath as he sat staring at the giant silver drawers that held Doc Robbins other patients. Grissom could sense Warrick and Greg watching him. If he turned to look at them he knew he would see twin masks of worry. Somewhere in the swirling darkness of his mind a voice told him he should probably comfort the two men, tell them everything was going to be fine, that he was fine but Grissom knew that wasn’t true and somewhere between the Euthenia and the morgue he had become disconnected again.
            Outwardly he appeared bored but that would require far more emotional savings than he had. Grissom wasn’t bored. He wasn’t angry, upset or hurt. He had become…nothing! He was an amorphous void lacking both form and function. I am silence. I am darkness. I am… dead?
            Grissom cocked his head to one side as he stood from the stool and walked over to the heavy metal drawers. There polished surfaces catching the muted reflection of the room’s lights. Slowly he reached out to touch the industrial surface with the palm of his hand.
            Am I dead? Did I die while Markus kept me imprisoned? Did I just forget to stop and lie down? I feel…Grissom pulled his palm from the drawer and placed it on his chest above his heart.
            Three sets of worried faces watched as Grissom turned slightly stunned eyes upon them. He almost seemed amazed to find heartbeat within his chest.
            “Gris?” Warrick muttered worriedly.
            With the sound of Warrick’s voice the blank mask fell across Grissom’s face. Dropping his hand from his chest, Grissom exited the morgue the three men trailing at a safe distance.
            “GIL?” Al called out as he hobbled out into the hallway, the double doors thumping together behind all of them as they shut.
            At first it looked like Grissom was going to ignore him, all of them as he marched away. Stopping and half turning back towards them Grissom said, “Thanks Al” but somehow it seemed more cryptic to the coroner than a simple gratitude.
            Al turned worried eyes on Warrick and Greg. He was privy to the inner sanctum of the graveyard CSIs; he knew the terrors inflicted on Gil and was quickly becoming terrified at the growing possibility that maybe their friend had never really returned to them. He had seen it before in friends that had been sent off to fight in Vietnam and only prayed that Grissom was strong enough to fight his demons.
            “We’ll keep an eye on him,’ Warrick said with a reassuring pat on Al’s shoulder.
            Greg nodded to the older man and mimicked Warrick’s gesture before following the other man after Grissom.

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            Brass sat in Interrogation Room A with Sofia and Catherine and Scott Abrams. The doctor’s at Desert Palm had wanted to hold him overnight for observation, just as a precautionary measure.
            “Is the dirtbag going to die?” Brass had asked hopefully, even though he knew he wouldn’t be that lucky.
            “No,” the emergency room doctor had answered “but-“
            “Is his life in danger? Is there a chance he might bleed to death?” Brass had interrupted, sarcasm dripping from each word he spoke. “Catch something really nasty and just…drop dead in total pain and agony?” The firm set of Brass’ lips had suggested that this was the police captain’s greatest desire.
            “No, of course not,” the doctor had tried to reason.
            “Too bad,” Brass had said signaling for the two uniformed officers to bring Abrams from the examining room “then he’s coming with us.”
            “Scott Franklin Abrams,” Brass enunciated each name slowly “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
            Abrams sat glaring across the gray, metal table at the police detective, his good arm folded underneath the light blue sling holding his injured arm. He was defiant, for now, Jim thought. They always wanted to make it hard until they were staring a needle in the arm.
            “Of course,” Brass rolled his eyes and flexed his fingers outward as if he was going to catch a pop fly “all I had to do was follow your trail of dead bodies.”
            Abrams shifted in his chair slightly but remained silent, his eyes shifting to the two women. That’s one, Brass thought.
             Catching the naked loathing in Catherine’s eyes, Abrams was actually happy the cops were in the room with him. He was certain the woman would have no qualms inflicting bodily harm to get her answers out of him.
            “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Abrams said, a slight smirk crossing his lips.
            Brass cocked his head to the side as Sofia pulled out the pictures of Jeannie Etts and Roderick Karns. “Really, because I can place you with each of the victims and with your record, Scotty…D.A.’ll have you convicted and on death row before breakfast is done.”
            Abrams twisted sideways in his chair. That’s two, Jim thought as he watched the barriers slowly chip away. Scott Abrams wasn’t your garden store variety bully but he wasn’t top of the line either.
            “So, been to any silver mines lately?” Brass rose from his seat, his fingers tapping the table top twice as he did. “How about Markus Bathory, seen him lately?” Brass tried to keep his voice calm but had actually gritted his teeth as he spoke the name of Grissom’s tormenter.
            Abrams nervously rubbed his mouth with his good hand. Hearing Bathory’s name obviously affected the man. “I- don’t – know- anything,” the man said, raising his dark stubbled chin in defiance.
            “Funny that’s not what Mickey Etts says,” Sofia dropped in, sounding almost bored.
            The small dark eyes snapped up from the table looking at the blonde detective in surprise. Abrams had not known that Mickey was in custody, he’d figured the little suck up had run once he figured his sister was dead.
            Seeing the glimmer of surprise Sofia went on. “Oh yea, we couldn’t get him to shut up once he realized you,” Sofia paused letting the weight of their knowledge rest heavily on his mind “murdered his sister.”
            “That little punk ass…I shoulda…” Abrams rolled his head as he tried to figure out his next move. He wasn’t being loyal to Markus by keeping his mouth shut, he was being smart. “I think it’s time for you to bring me my lawyer,” Abrams finally said his words coming out more confident than his worried gaze lead the detectives to believe.
            I’d be sweating bullets to you sick bastard, Brass thought slightly amused you’re stuck between a psychopath and a needle.

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            Sara stood in front of a rectangular shaped, evidence board. Her arms folded across her chest, deep in thought, she did not notice Nick enter the room. She had taken the time to put colored pins under each of their suspect’s photographs. A corresponding colored string mapped their progress and known associates until a rainbow colored web emerged.
            “Pretty,” Nick teased breaking into her train of thought.
            Sara swiveled at her hips a smirk on her lips as she squinted in warning at him. This case was a maze of known and possible suspects. Some were dead ends, literally, while other still held promise. Mickey Etts had no clue as to what hole Bathory had scurried down since abandoning the mine but he did reveal to them the fact that Bathory had multiple properties scattered around the state. Nothing came up on their recent searches of Markus, his brother or their parents but that did not mean much. Markus had proven quite adept at hiding in plain sight.
            “Just trying to make sense of our cast of creatures,” Sara quipped looking back at the board.
            Nick shook his head as he came to stand next to her. He still couldn’t get over the number of kids the sickos had pulled under their spell. “They must put on quite a helluva show,” Nick said as his eyes scanned the various photographs.
            “The Bathorys?”
            “Yea, I mean look at all these kids,” Nick waved his hand at the board. “All the dead ones at the mine and who knows where else.”
            Sara glanced between the board and Nick. “Yea, well, wait until you meet Richie,” Sara said with a smile that never reached her eyes.
            Nick’s brows raised, “That bad?” he asked.
            “Hmm, he’d have made a great evil hypnotist in the movies or something…you know what he’s trying to do and have to work to not let him have it.”
            A knock at the door had the two CSIS turning in unison.
            “Hey Alex,” Sara greeted Detective Vartaan hanging on the door frame.
            “I thought I’d let you know I got a call from a Detective Henry Egan out in Aurora, Colorado,” Vartann ventured “He might have something on my BOLO I put out on that Cray kid. He thinks he can have him in custody in a couple of hours. Might be useful, Just thought I’d give you a heads up.”
            “Thanks man,” Nick called after the departing detective. Looking to Sara he said, “Maybe this kid can point us in the direction of Bathory.”
            Sara nodded. Hopefully he was more helpful than Mickey Etts and more forthcoming than Scott Abrams. “That be a nice break in our favor,” she said thoughtfully.

*****************************************************************************************

            Grissom sliced through the evidence seal in a quick twist of his wrist. Pulling the individual plastic bags from the box first, he laid them neatly overlapping to one side of the table before diving back into the cardboard container. Grabbing a large yellow envelope, Grissom flipped it back to front to read the label stuck to the front. Flipping it back over he deftly broke the seal before spilling the contents out onto the table in front of him.
            Fingering through the personal property of Roderick Karns, Grissom found a cheap sports style watch, a gold wedding band and gold chain necklace and simple leather wallet. Grabbing the wallet with his latex covered hands, Grissom search the inside folds- driver’s license, a picture of his wife, copy of his social security card and a gas card.
            “What are you looking for?” Greg asked coming to stand next to the table.
            Grissom looked up from the wallet, not surprised to see Greg there. There was always someone around, watching. It was like some unofficial Grissom-sitting club that he could rarely escape.
            “Karns’ wife came in and dropped this off,” Grissom held up a white, heavy fabric work shirt “She said he always had his work ID with him but when she looked through his stuff during the identification she didn’t see it.”
            “O-kay?” Greg was listening but not quite following.
            Grissom put down the wallet and grabbed the shirt with both hands. “See this,” he said fingering the breast pocket. There looked like there was something rigid sewn into the upper hem of the pocket.
            Greg nodded.
            “It’s a magnet,” Grissom informed him “for an ID badge. It saves the shirt from pins and clips.”
            Greg smiled. “Cool,” he said looking between the shirt and the personal items Grissom had spread out on the table. “I don’t see any identification.”
            Grissom quirked an eyebrow. “Exactly,” he said “and the wife didn’t find it at home which makes me wonder where it is.”
            “You think the killer, Abrams may have stolen it?” Greg looked at the wallet. No money but there was a gas card and then there was the wedding ring. “Why would he steal a work badge but not the credit card or the wedding ring?”
            Grissom cocked his head. “I don’t know,” Grissom sighed. “Maybe it’s lost in the laundry, maybe he left it at work…If Abrams did steal it, we can be sure he had something planned with it.”
            Standing up abruptly, Grissom said, “Log this stuff back in for me…please.”
            “Sure,” Greg said a little startled by the man’s abruptness as he snapped the latex gloves off and left the room.

******************************************************************************************

            Brass was standing next to the water cooler discussing the Abrams interrogation with Sofia when Grissom streaked by.
            “He’s in a hurry,” Sofia stated watching the CSI zip around the corner.
            Brass shook his head tiredly before crumpling up his cone shaped paper cup and tossing it in the trash. If he didn’t know better he’d have Grissom doing a drug test for speed.
            “I better go check this out,” he told Sofia following in the direction Grissom had gone.
            Brass caught up to the Grissom at the property desk. He was drumming his fingers impatiently as the clerk searched the metal shelves behind barred of room. The property desk and its adjacent room resembled a bank. There were twin teller-style widows surrounded by black bars rising up out of the desk to insert into the ceiling above. The metal door leading to the area behind the desk required a key card and the security cameras were in plain sight.
            “What’s up, Gil?’ Brass asked coming to stand next to the other man.
            Grissom turned around and for the first time Jim noticed the dark rings around his eyes. It could have happened during his fight with Abrams at the Euthenia but this looked more like doubles and triples going back to back. When was the last time he slept?
“I’m checking Abrams’ property,” Grissom informed distractedly opening the large envelope holding Scott Abrams personal effects.
            Grissom spread the items out over the counter to the annoyance of the property clerk. Grabbing the black wallet with accompanying chain, Grissom ripped the folds open and began rifling through the contents. Pulling out a blue and silver credit card, Grissom laid it on the counter with subtle snap.
            “It’s not here,” he mumbled his hands doing a double check, pushing the items around again.
            “What’s not there?” Brass frowned. He always hated being behind Grissom when he was like this. The man was generally two steps ahead on any given day but when his motor was seriously revved up…there was no telling how far behind Brass might end up.
            “The card…the employee ID card. This,” Grissom picked up the gas credit card “is Roderick Karns. It was stolen from his wallet.”
            Brass nodded, happy to be following thus far.
            “Mrs. Karns said her husband’s employee ID badge was missing from his effects and she can’t find it at home.” Grissom began shoving the items back in their envelope.
            “O-Kaaay,” Brass could feel he was losing ground.
            Grissom handed the envelope back to the clerk behind the counter and turned to Brass. “If Abrams took the cash and credit card there is a good chance he took the ID as well but…why?”
            Brass shrugged his shoulders, truly stumped. “And where is it?”
            Grissom arched a brow and inclined his head as if saying “exactly”.
            “Let’s ask him,” Grissom stated gravely turning quickly in the direction that would take him to the holding cells and interrogation rooms.
            Brass hustled after Grissom, momentarily thrown of balance by the other man’s abrupt change in course. “Umm, maybe I should ask him,” Brass offered.
            Grissom gave the man rushing along side of him a sideways glance. “Don’t trust me?” Grissom asked slyly.
            Brass frowned uncertain as to whether Grissom was playing with him or not. If he had asked that question a month ago, Brass would not have hesitated. As he had told Grissom when he had given him his power of attorney, There’s no one I trust more with my life or my death, more than you. Now he couldn’t trust the man from one moment to the next. His erratic behavior, moods swings and patchy memory made the foundation for trust very sketchy.
            “I’m just thinking of it from a lawyer’s point of view,” Brass covered.
            Grissom seemed to consider this for a moment and then nodded. “Alright, you ask, I observe.”
            Brass sighed inwardly.

****************************************************************************************

            Clark County courthouse could sometimes look like a cross between Wall Street and the Vegas Strip. Men and women in thousand dollar suits, leather briefcases, cell phones and PDAs hustled non stop down hallways and staircases and rushed for open elevators. They appeared to be individually wrapped but massed produced.
            The hectic pace of the suits was in contrast to the colorful denizens and visitors that sat on benches or casually paced outside of court room doors. Several Elvi, an Ethel Merman an Abe Lincoln and even a man claiming to be part coyote roamed the hallways waiting for their moment in court. It was a scene one could only partake of in Las Vegas.
            Weaving between the throng of people, Jake Toller pushed his two-wheel cart loaded with cases of beverages Aside from the breakrooms the courthouse housed multiple vending machines on every floor, their shiny metal and glass surfaces begging for dollars and coins from the trapped masses within. It was a lucrative contract for the company that could supply the building in sugar and caffeine. It was also an easy way to bypass security. 
            Karns altered ID and white work uniform had gained him easy access to the back loading dock of the courthouse and the metal pop cans made the metal detectors useless as security waved him through. No one questioned the contents of the cans. A cursory examination would reveal exactly what it appeared, pop cans for the vending machines. It would take a more thorough inspection of the cases to find the camouflaged Flash-Bang grenades and smoke canisters.
            Rolling his cart up to the set of vending machines directly across the wide hallway from courtroom 3C, Jake began stocking the machine. Jake tried to keep his head down, hiding his face under the brim of his work hat. But as Markus had predicted no one paid any attention to him as he went about his business.
            Placing the smoke grenades within the door of the pop machine, Jake looked around quickly before pushing the small primer button on the remote in his pocket. The glowing LED brought a smile to his face as he neatly closed the machine’s door and locked it. Turning his attention to second machine, Jake pulled the machine out away from the wall unplugging it as he did so. For the second phase of his pyrotechnic display he’d need the snack machine to be out of order. Disconnecting the power would work but to avoid any clever handy man that might notice the plug, Jake disabled the digital keypad.
            Neatly tucking the Flash-Bang grenades behind Miss May’s cookies and a Spud’s Select Potato Chips, Jake made quick time of his work. Regardless of what Markus said and how things appeared, he still felt very exposed. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he locked the machine up and posted the pre-made out of order sign on the glass window of the machine. If everything went as Markus had planned, tomorrow afternoon would be imprinted on everyone’s memory for months to come.