Sara had let Catherine know she would catch a ride back to the lab with Officer Mitchell, since the weather was going to cooperate she wanted a more thorough search of the area, maybe even talk with some of the locals. The bloody shoeprints disappeared at the top of the culvert where open ground surrounded the manmade waterway. Rummaging through the various piles of discarded junk and strewn debris, Sara had found nothing that had pointed to their victim.

            Deciding the next logical step was to check out the sewer tunnels, she headed back in the direction that she and her police escort had come from. She didn’t envy the possibility of trudging through the dark and dank underground tunnels but she counted herself lucky that Brass had assigned Mitch to her. Metcalf would bitch the whole way, Sara thought snidely. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Officer Metcalf, it was just he wasn’t always the easiest guy to get along with. He tended to judge people to harshly, easily lumping almost anybody in with a criminal set. Mitch was less condescending but equally good at his job.

            “Ready to get your shoes wet?” Sara asked as they made their way back down into the culvert.

            The middle aged black man with the laid back look just shrugged his shoulders. He was a man that knew who he was and what needed to be done. He was a police officer, a servant to the community. He took pride in his profession and did his job well, regardless of where he was asked to go. Sara smiled at the man, enjoying his lack of airs.

            “HEY, SARA!”

            Sara looked up to the concrete bridge that crossed the culvert, placing her right hand over her eyes to shade them from the increasing sunlight.

            “Hey, Nick,” she called back with a wave, watching as Nick skipped down the cement ramp. “What are you doing here?”

            Nick nodded a greeting to Mitch. “Catherine said you were going spelunking. I got done with my case hours ago and got caught up on all my reports so…I thought I’d come and save you.” He grinned his good ole boy grin laced with a hint of mischief.
 
            Sara looked to Mitch, who only shrugged. He was smart enough to stay out of it. “Save me?” Sara asked incredulously. “I think it was me saving your butt a couple of weeks ago.”

            Nick shook his head at Mitch, as if denying Sara’s words to the patrolmen. Sara glanced between the two men before punching Nick in the shoulder.

            “Hey!” Nick exclaimed, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Did you see that Mitch?”

            Mitch gave the barest of smiles behind his dark sunglasses before answering, “Sorry…sun was in my eyes.”

            Nick chuckled at the man before heading to the shadowed entrance of the drainage tunnel. “So, you think your vic may have come from the sewers?”

            Sara slipped on her black gloves. “I haven’t got a clue where that kid came from,” she informed Nick, slipping her flashlight from her back jeans pocket. “But he had to come from somewhere so…”

            Nick nodded in understanding before following Sara into the tunnel, Officer Mitchell bringing up the rear.

 

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

            The smacking of the double, swinging doors alerted Dr. Albert Robbins that he was no longer alone in the morgue. Looking up from his computer screen he was met with a harried Catherine Willows quickly slapping on her latex gloves.

            “Catherine,” he greeted as he awkwardly rose from the stool he had been sitting on.  His day had technically ended a half hour earlier but knowing that David had a body en route and Catherine was soon to follow he had put off quitting time for the moment.

            “Albert,” she greeted tiredly. “What can you tell me?” She asked coming to stand beside the stainless steel table that held the body of Jesse Burdette.

            Hobbling to the other side of the table, Doc Robbins slipped on a pair of gloves as he began to layout the facts as he knew them. The boy’s pale coloring was slowly turning gray and rigor mortis had begun to set in. The half closed eyes revealed the clouding that occurred after death but no apparent petechial hemorrhaging, ruled out asphyxiation.

             “The tox panel is still out but I can give you C.O.D.,” Doc Robbins said, pointing with his index finger, he indicated the puncture wound to the boy’s right side.

            “Knife?” Catherine asked, examining the wound more thoroughly. They had surmised it had been the cause of death at the scene. The amount of blood loss made the wound the prime suspect.

            Al pointed to the wound once more. “You’ll want to cast it but my guess double edged dagger,” he explained, looking over the rim of his glasses at Catherine. “Extremely sharp too. Punctured liver causing massive blood loss. Poor kid wouldn’t have lasted long without help and even then…”

            “What about this cut here, Al?”

            Doc Robbins nodded to the painful looking cut that slanted down across the left hand side of the boy’s torso. It was a thin cut, about twenty-five centimeters long but not very deep, a superficial wound that Al would have written of as a non-lethal wound that occurred during the attack. But the cut was to perfect, to precise, no jagged edges and for some reason it set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. It was like a spooky case of déjà vu but he couldn’t place it.

            “It’s a nasty cut but not life-threatening,” Robbins explained trying to shake the chill nipping at his spine. “I got to tell you, Catherine, there is something about this case…”

            Catherine looked over the boy. According to Sister Liz the boy had been dealt a crappy hand at birth and it just got worse from there. Born to a piss-poor excuse of a mother, Jesse was left on his own on a regular basis from an early age. Family services was called in on such a regular basis that Jesse’s file actually took on the dimensions of some ancient tome.

            The last few reports stated he had been permanently taken from his mother at the age of nine. She had apparently left him home alone for a weekend while she and her new boyfriend drove to Los Angeles. After that it was the foster care shuffle and then Jesse fell through the cracks, disappearing from society’s radar until he showed up in a drainage ditch nearly naked and dead.

            “He seems so…” Catherine was at a loss for words, staring almost mesmerized by the young man.

            Robbins glanced across at Catherine, her heads shoved into her lab coat pockets as she studied the boy. “Angelic?” he asked, not quite sure if that was the descriptor he was looking for or not. There was something about the teenager, his looks, even in death, which caught the eye. It was a compulsion. You have to look!

            “Yes,” Catherine whispered in amazement. “He’s pretty,” Catherine explained, putting aside the outward signs of the young man’s death.

            Doc Robbins nodded. He had been a little disconcerted by his need to study the boys face. “He reminds me of picture I saw as a child of David, from David and Goliath.”

            Catherine mentally shook herself, trying to get back to the job at hand. “Anything else you can tell me about him?”

            The dour, sad look that descended on Al Robbins face told Catherine she wasn’t about to like the rest of his report. “Our boy here led a rough life,” Robbins told her. “He’s had both upper arms broke, spiral fractures of the humerus, indicative of physical abuse as a younger child.” He pointed to the x-rays showing the long healed fractures. “There were two healed skull fractures and…”

            Robbins pause had Catherine staring at the man, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Slipping his glasses from his face and letting them dangle about his neck, Robbins cast his poignant blue gaze at Catherine. “Yes,” Catherine nearly begged.

            “There’s indication that he may have suffered sexual abuse.”

            Catherine glanced back down at the teenager, the burning ember of anger in her belly at his murder growing brighter at his suffering. Nodding somberly Catherine prepared to leave. “I’ll check back on the tox screen,” she informed the coroner.

            Al nodded as she turned and left. Picking up the tools of his trade, Al Robbins sutured up the “Y” incision in Jesse Burdette’s torso. He’d had dead kids on his table before, it wasn’t something new and it never got easy. Something that Al Robbins was thankful for and cursed at the same time.

            Sighing, Al looked down at his work. “God, I feel old,” he whispered before covering up the body.

            * * * * * * * * * * * *

            The Clark County Department of Family Services was like many state offices, hamstringed by bureaucracy and lack of manpower. It was a beehive of activity as mothers, fathers, children and social workers went through the various processes required by the machinations of the establishment. An occasional outburst of anger or sorrow would punctuate the general buzz of conversation, drawing Sofia Curtis’ attention as she waited for the supervisor that had been summoned.

            Sitting in an uncomfortable brown tweed chair, her legs crossed, Sofia began re-reading the various posters that adorned the off-white walls. Most of the signs had to do with domestic abuse, a few sported statistics with daunting numbers to depressing to dwell on. Ironically, directly in front of her, behind the gray metal desk, was a poster about runaways. The silhouette of a teenager against the backdrop of a dingy urban setting portrayed the hopelessness that most runaways dealt with, a toll free number for assistance in large bold type across the bottom. But what drew Sofia’s attention the most was the disheartening statistics listed on the poster.

            “Detective Curtis.”

            Sofia stood up. “Ms. Embry?” Sofia asked watching as the woman rounded her desk.

             Dressed in dark pinstriped slacks and a white blouse that only added to the woman’s regal bearing, she motioned for Sofia to retake her seat. Ms. Ophelia Embry was tall and thin with a Scarlett O’Hara quality about her. Her accent was old south and well educated. She had a kind of confident serenity about her that gave Sofia the impression that nothing fazed the woman except bad manners.

            “Yes,” she answered taking her seat behind the desk. “How might I assist you, detective?” Leaning back in her chair, intertwining her fingers, she looked across at Sofia waiting for an answer to her query.

            Sofia shook off the feeling of being in the principal’s office and reached into the casefile she had on Jesse Burdette. Pulling the photograph supplied by Dr. Robbins out, Sofia leaned forward and handed the photo to Ms. Embry, slipping on her dark rimmed glasses, she took the picture. 

            “Oh my,” she softly exclaimed, a slight widening of her eyes the only outwards sign of surprise. Ms. Embry flipped the photograph front to back and back again. “What is this poor boy’s name?” she asked, handing the photograph back to the detective.

            Sofia slipped the picture back into the file she held in her lap. “His name is Jesse Burdette. According to our sources he was living on the streets but was supposed to be in the foster care program.”

            Leaning forward, Ms. Embry long, well manicured fingers began tapping away on her keyboard. Her eyes scanning the monitor’s information in between single entry strokes, she repeated, “Jesse Burdette, Jesse...Bur…dette.” Scooting her chair closer, “Here we are. Jesse Burdette, age 16 was placed with Mr. and Mrs. Phil Moline in Henderson.”

            Sofia jotted down the name. “Do you have an address on the Moline’s?”

            “Certainly.” Tabbing through the data screen, Ms. Embry printed the information off that Sofia had requested. Pulling the paper from the printer sitting on a filing bureau directly behind her desk, Ms. Embry handed the last known address of Jesse Burdette.

            Sofia stood and reached for the paper, preparing to leave. “Ms. Embry can you tell me how it is that Jesse Burdette, a child in the care of this department, ended up living on the street?” Sofia’s tone of voice dripped with unconcealed criticism.

            A wistful hint of a smile crossed the woman’s face as she gazed up at Detective Curtis, her fingers intertwining with her index fingers gently tapping at her chin. “Detective Curtis, do you comprehend the magnitude of the battle we fight in this office everyday? Most agencies put the problem of homeless children in this country at the one million mark.” Ms. Embry paused, waiting for Sofia to respond but she didn’t. “Clark County alone has over 2,000 children in temporary are permanent foster status. We can account for a large share of these children but there are few who end up running from their assigned home. We do what we are required and what we can to find these children but sometimes it just isn’t enough.”

            Sofia felt a little of her righteous anger wane but still said nothing. It was one of those cases where she felt the need to allocate blame but maybe the only blame to be assigned was to the degenerate who had stolen the boy’s life. With the barest of nods, she left the office, the control chaos a depressing buzz in her ears.

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

            In 1927 the good citizens of Las Vegas built the Theodore Roosevelt School. A three story, red brick building with expansive windows that looked like it came straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Twenty years later, with the continued population growth, an addition and gymnasium were added on and in fifty years the school had outlived its citizen’s wants. Vegas wasn’t about history and heritage. Vegas is about bright lights, grandiose dreams and shiny baubles.

            The school sat vacant for ten years, falling into disrepair before the parishioners at Sacred Heart Catholic Church bought the building and converted into a shelter for the homeless, the beaten and the down-on-their-luck. It was a haven from the cruelties of life on the streets, a sanctuary for the broken to rebuild and heal their lives.

            The cafeteria and gymnasium had remained, essentially, the same but the rest of the building was slowly transformed. Classrooms had been turned into dormitories and showers were added to the restrooms. The front office had remained the hub of information for the building but in addition to general administration, it also acted as a post office, legal aid office, medical aid post and general way station for lives in-flux.

            Entering the building through the dark green, metal doors that made up the main entrance, Grissom and Brass were immediately hit by the pandemonium inside. Grissom’s first thought had been riot but quickly realized within the chaos there was a hint of organization. Watching as two women in black and white wimples herded a group of toddlers from the main entrance. Grissom grinned as an adventurous boy attempted to break from the group and was immediately thwarted by the expert corralling skills of one of the Sisters.

            “Can I help you?”

            Grissom and Brass turned their attention to a young woman standing behind the open counter that separated the administration offices with buildings foyer. The woman looked to be in her mid to late twenties but had a kind of agelessness to her, like she would age beautifully and always look younger than her true years. Her dark skin was flawless and her black, almond shaped eyes made her appear almost exotic.

            “Yes,” Brass said, leading the way to the half-walled counter with the many wire-baskets full of forms and other bureaucratic trappings. “I’m Captain Jim Brass, this is Gil Grissom from the Crime Lab,” he thumbed in Grissom direction. “We’re here to talk with Sister Liz.” 

            A look of understanding mixed with sadness passed across the woman’s face. Rounding the end of the counter, where a door led to main thoroughfare of the building, the woman gestured for Grissom and Brass to follow her.

            “My name is Sister Evangeline,” she said by way of introduction. “I, I know why you are here and if there is anything you need, please let me know.” Sister Evangeline spoke with a slight accent, making Grissom think the woman may have originally been from Haiti.

            “Thank you Sister,” Grissom said, following the woman down an arterial hallway with no windows.

            The concrete block walls were painted a base coat of light gray but decorated with the brightest of murals. The wall to their left was labeled in big block letters “MY DREAM”, and showed bright yellow suns, purple daisies, and dozens of colorful houses with children playing in front of them. The wall on the right was decorated with hundreds of little yellow handprints. In the center of the hands were names like Tyler, Josh, Ashley and Hannah. Grissom was struck by the sheer numbers of handprints.

            “Do all these handprints belong to residents?” he asked, reading the many names as they traveled the length of the hall.

            Sister Evangeline smiled, part pride, part wistful. “At one time or another,” she answered, leading them through a pale blue set of doors and into the gymnasium.

            The gymnasium was fairly large for the one-time school’s size. On the side of the gym opposite to where Grissom and Brass stood were rows of fold-out bleachers situated under a balcony of permanent bleachers. Teens occupied most of the seats, their exuberant conversations competing with the raucous basketball game being played at one end of the court and some younger kids playing videogames in comfortable looking recreation area.

            Brass’ head panned as he took the whole of the gymnasium. “Plenty to keep a kid out of trouble,” Brass said as they crossed the hardwood floor of the gym, his dress shoes clacking with each step.

            Grissom huffed, a crooked smile on his lips as they reached the exit. “If a kid wants trouble, a kid gets trouble.”

            “Gil, James,” Sister Liz addressed them, almost urgently as she approached. “Come with me, please.”

            Sister Liz actually grabbed the elbow of Brass’ coat and tugged him along for a few paces before letting go. Brass turned mildly startled eyes to Grissom. The man’s lips were twisted in an attempt to control the smile that was trying desperately to escape. With squinted eyes, Brass silently warned Grissom.

            They were quickly led out one of the exterior exits and onto an asphalt playground of kickball and hopscotch. The building threw half the blacktop into heavy shadows before giving way to the bright morning sun on the outer edge. Sitting just off the blacktop were a couple heavy aluminum bleachers, with a half a dozen teenagers sitting solemnly, watching their approach while a priest attempted to engage them in conversation.

            The priest, noticing Grissom’s and Brass’ presence, dropped his foot from the lower bleacher and turned to greet the men. He was about the same height as Brass but had a wiry, lean physique. His hair was more salt than pepper and cropped short to minimize the receding hairline. The most noticeable thing about the man was his facial features.

            Skin, well tanned from years in the hot Nevada sun, was well marked with laugh lines around his eyes and thoughtful creases along his forehead. He had the look of a longshoreman or a pugilist, his nose obviously having been broken a number of times was flattened along the bridge and crooked.

            “Father Kevin Handley this is Gil Grissom from the Crime Lab,” Sister Liz began with introduction, her dark eyes keeping watch over the kids on the bench. “And this is Captain James Brass of the Police Department.”

            Handshakes and greetings were quickly taken care of as all attention turned to the five teenagers that were obviously being detained against their will. Their sullen and somber faces said they had no wish to speak to either man.

            “I’ll make this quick and easy.” Sister Liz stepped closer to the kids. “We have Rory Hennessey, Joel Osterbachen, everyone calls him JellO,  Martina Kirkpatrick, Missy Kassela and Dashawn Howards,” Sister Liz introduced each one with a point of her finger. “Martina was Jesse’s girlfriend,” the Sister informed them her strong voice giving way, softening.

            “Look,” Brass began, his hands held up in front of him, palms out, “we’re not here to jam any of you up. We’re just trying to find out who killed your friend and any information you have could help.”

            The cautious and dubious looks the teens sported told Grissom that Brass was going to have to work harder for the sell. These kids trust had been chewed up long ago and they held on to it like a life preserver out in troubled waters. Their loyalty was to one another and maybe that was what would open them up to the two strangers.

            “Listen,” Grissom slipped his dark glasses from his face, sliding them up to sit atop his head. Looking the kids eye to eye, no barriers he appealed to their sense of constancy and the fact that one of their own had been taken. “My job is to find evidence, to interpret that evidence and to help catch the guilty,” Grissom explained. “But I got to tell you, I don’t have much to go on here. Jesse was killed in that drainage ditch…almost naked…do any of you know why he would be there? Or who would want to hurt him?”

            Cautious eyes searched the faces of friends, as uncertainty hung heavily in the air. Grissom noticed that Martina, Jesse’s pregnant girlfriend, sat with her head hung low. Her long blonde hair covered her face like a protective shroud to the cruelty that had befallen her and her baby’s father.

            Grissom noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. Taking a quick glance over his shoulder he saw Sara and Nick come to stand behind Brass and himself. Their faces were blank, hidden behind dark sunglasses, which told Grissom that Sara’s search had come up empty. Turning a serious but pleading eye on Sister Liz, he silently asked for her assistance. The woman was their staunchest defender, their surrogate mother. If anyone could get them to talk it would be her.

            “Rory.” Her gaze fell on the slight, redheaded boy. He sat on the second row of the small bleachers, his left foot settled next to him so that his multiple wristband adorned arm could rest upon his bent knee. “Show him,” Sister Liz implored with a serious nod of her head.

            Rory looked at the Sister, hesitating, weighing whether he would give in to her bidding or remain silent on the sidelines. With a resigned roll of his head and slumping of his shoulders, the teenager relented. Reaching into the thigh pocket of his camouflaged fatigue pants, he pulled out a yellow piece of folded paper and handed it to Grissom without looking at the man.

            Quickly grabbing a single latex glove from his vest pocket, Grissom took the paper not bothering to slip the glove on but rather pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. Even though he knew the note had already been compromised, he took great care to open it without further contaminating the piece of paper. Sara, always working in sync with him, immediately produced a plastic evidence bag to place the paper in.
            The note was written on torn piece of yellow paper, the kind found on legal pads. The handwriting looked like that of a child and was riddled with misspellings. It read:

            JESE HURT AT WATR TUNL

            Grissom’s glanced at Sara and Brass before turning his attention back to the redheaded boy.  Rory picked at the many wristbands adorning his left wrist, keeping his eyes focused completely on the braided cords and strips of cloth, willing Grissom and the others to go away and leave him alone.

            “Where did you get this?” Grissom held the plastic enclosed note in front of him. His voice was firm but not overtly hostile or demanding. He needed these kids to talk to him, not shut him out.

            “Rory?” Father Kevin urged.

            Rory’s dark brown eyes examined the priest, uncertainty dancing across his young face as he struggled with his decision. Frustrated he shot to his feet and paced to the end of the bleacher, patting Martina’s slumped shoulder as he passed her.

            “You don’t need to know where he got it.”

            Grissom turned his attention to the tall, sullen boy sitting next to Martina. He had dark wavy brown hair that hung down past his shoulders and into his eyes. He wore a white t-shirt with a smiley face drawn on the front and the words “Tace atque abi”. Grissom ducked his head momentarily at the young man’s dry sense of humor. I just bet he’d love for us to shut up and go away, Grissom thought, translating the phrase printed in black marker under the face.

            “Look son,” Brass began to argue, cracks in his patience beginning to show. He had a dead kid sitting in the morgue and every minute that ticked away made it that more difficult to catch the killer. Cold cases rarely involved a lack of evidence. More often than not it involved the lack of clues and the abundance of time, time that had slipped away, making it more difficult to place victim and criminal in the same proximity.

            “I’m not your son,” the teenager growled, surprising Grissom with his unconcealed animosity but Brass had had years of dealing with a sullen teenager and only shook his head at the young man’s outburst.

            “JellO!” Father Kevin cautioned. “He’s here to help.”

            JellO gave a short humorless laugh as he shook his head. “Help? Help who?” He asked, squinting at Brass and the others. “Help Burd? He’s dead. No one is helping him now.” The boy angrily got to his feet, his anger apparent in every gesture and move he made. He was hurting, Brass could see that and the kid was lashing out, relieving the pain the only way he knew how. “You didn’t give a shit about him yesterday but now that he’s a corpse he’s the man of the hour!” JellO swatted his hand at Brass like he was shooing away a pest, dismissing the police captain and his questions.

            “You’re right,” Grissom conceded to the boy. “We didn’t know your friend when he was alive but we know him now.” Grissom’s shaded gaze swept all the kids.

            “Don’t you want his killer caught?” Nick asked incredulously, a hint of anger showing in his face.

            JellO turned his anger on Nick, his brown eyes going black as rage burned out of control behind them. He stepped into Nick, challenging the older and larger man. Nick didn’t step back but didn’t take the challenge either. “Hey, I don’t-“

            JellO didn’t let Nick finish. With more fury than sense the teenager threw a wild punch at Nick’s head. Quick reflexes saved Nick from a serious shiner, JellO’s clenched fist sailing through open air and past Nick’s right shoulder. The force behind the punch threw the boy off balance, falling forward, Nick snatched the teen up saving him from an ignoble tumble to the ground.

            “Hey, whoa!” Nick’s right hand reached up and over JellO’s right shoulder, crossing his collarbone and sternum to grasp the kid’s shirt, while his left hand grabbed JellO’s free arm and pulled the kid backwards. “Take it easy!” Nick ordered as the kid fought unsuccessfully against the stronger man.

            The minute the kid had thrown the punch, Brass had rolled his head in frustration. He didn’t want to fight the kid. “Look kid,” Brass said forcefully, getting up in the bucking kid’s face. “I sure as hell would hate to drag your ass to jail.”

            A moment passed before Brass realized the company he was keeping. “Oh,” he looked between Father Kevin and Sister Liz. “Sorry Father, Sister.”

            “Jell, stop.”

            All eyes turned to the girl with the red-rimmed, melancholy eyes. Martina raising her head, scooped her long blonde hair up and away from her face with one fluid motion of her hand.  Her blue eyes sought her friend’s silently begging him to cease his struggles.

            “It doesn’t matter where the note came from,” she softly said, looking at Grissom and the others.

            “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that,” Brass said, his voice softening for the devastated girl with the hauntingly sad eyes.

            Martina looked to Sister Liz, a silent question being asked of the older woman. Sister Liz had fought for these kids, sacrificed for them and because of that, they trusted her. With a nod of her head, Sister Liz let Martina know it was alright to divulge the source of the misspelled message.

            “Spider,” Martina whispered, her eyes never straying from the Sister’s. “Spider brought it to Rory last night. That’s why we came looking for you when we couldn’t get a hold of Jesse.”

            Brass had already pulled out his notebook once again. “Does Spider have another name we can go on?”

            Brass was actually surprised by the lost, almost dumbfounded looks that crossed over the kids faces. It appeared they had never pondered the idea that Spider may have had a more socially acceptable name.

            “Yea,” laughed the kid that had been introduced as Dashawn. His dark eyes twinkled under the brim of his Warriors baseball cap, as he fingered the tuft hair growing at his chin. “Spider Monkey.”

            Brass rolled his eyes, his mood souring by the minute. “How about I haul you all down to the station for obstruction,” he threatened. In truth he didn’t want to lock the kids up, they had enough problems without him sticking it to them but he wasn’t about to let a potential witness or murderer slip through his fingers because these kids wanted to play dumbass games with him.

            “They don’t know his name,” Sister Liz defended. She had come to stand between the police captain and the teenagers, her arms folding across her chest in a challenging gesture.

            Brass groaned inwardly, he had rankled the Sister once again and now she was set on protective mode. Throwing his hands in the air he looked to Grissom for help. One of their own had been killed but they didn’t seem too eager to give up another that might help in his investigation. This is worse than any blue line I’ve ever seen, Brass thought, thinking of his old days in Jersey.

            “Sister?” Grissom asked, tilting his head to one side with his query.

            Sister Liz shook her head but her expression had quickly changed from one of fierce protection to one of helplessness. “Honestly Gil, they can’t give you Spider’s real name. No one can,” she explained, a hint of sadness entering her voice as her eyes circled “her kids”.

            “Do you know where we might find this spider?” Maybe we can find Spider by finding his web, Grissom thought, truly hoping the mysterious Spider could shed some light on his case.

            Shaking heads and shrugs were the best that he got out of the kids and by the looks on the teenagers faces, Grissom felt certain they truly didn’t know where they could find Spider. Looking to Sister Liz he was met with a dejected shake of her head. “He shows up every so often for a meal but he...” Sister Liz ducked her head with a sigh. Turning to the kids she gave them a sweeping motion with her hand letting them know they could go.

            JellO shrugged angrily out of Nick’s grasp at the Sister’s dismissal. “You guys are wasting time with Spider,” he accused, stepping away from the group of strangers. “Spider wouldn’t kill Burd and even if Spider did see the killer,” JellO paused, slipping a pair of aviator style glasses on his face, “he still couldn’t help you.”

            With a subtle spin, JellO made to follow his already departed friends. Grissom watched as he jogged up to his friends, talking quickly to the redheaded Rory before bolting around the corner of the building and disappearing through the chain link fence that circled the playground. JellO might not know where Spider was but Grissom was fairly certain he was going to go looking for him.

            Grissom caught Brass’ knowing look. “I think I’ll keep an eye on our angry young friend,” he told Grissom and the others. “Mitch,” he called, summoning the officer to follow as they tailed JellO through the chainlink fence.

            “ So,” Grissom began, looking to the priest and Sister Liz, who had taken up seats on the bleachers. “Who is Spider?” Grissom threw his hands up and out, silently opening the discussion up to either of his Holy audience members.

            The two looked at each other before Father Kevin gave Sister Liz a subtle nod to go ahead. Fiddling with the tattered cuffs of her denim jacket, before removing the garment altogether and placing it on her lap, Sister Liz appeared to be collecting her thoughts and organizing them. Her hesitation told Grissom that Spider was more than just one of her shelter kids.

            “About two years ago I noticed this boy, teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old start coming into the shelter,” Sister Liz said, her dark eyes sad as she tentatively began her story. “He had another boy with him, younger, around six maybe. By the looks of them, they were brothers.”

            “Did they come in with and adult?” Nick asked, his furrowed brows easily seen above the rim of his dark sunglasses.

            Sister Liz shook her head. “No and when I tried to fish for information he shutdown pretty quick,” she explained. “They were afraid of something, someone and maybe they had a reason to.”

            “Why’s that?” Grissom asked, deciding to take a seat on the bleacher next to the Sister.

            The sun was up in full force, the heat of the day quickly ramping up and chasing the shadows away. Wiping at the perspiration forming on his brow, Grissom suddenly wished he had brought his ball cap with him. He wasn’t worried about getting sunburned but looking over at Sara he could see a slight pink tinge to her cheeks.

            “I haven’t seen the older boy in more then a year,” Sister Liz explained her gaze poignant as she let the weight of her words sink in.

            “There’s an eight year old boy running around the streets alone?” Sara exclaimed, her eyes darting from Sister Liz to Grissom, her mouth slightly agape as she tried to grasp the enormity of what Sister Liz had just dropped on them.

            “And you don’t know where to find this boy?” Grissom asked pointedly. Regardless of what the good Sister thought she was protecting the child from, she surely couldn’t think an eight year old boy would be better off on the streets.

            “No, no,” Sister Liz shook her head forcefully. She had tried time and time again to win the boy’s trust and to some extent she had. He would not flee from her when she approached but he was still wary of her. It had only been recently that she had been able to get him to come into the center and eat. Prior to that, Sister Liz or one of Jesse Burdette’s crew would bring food out to him.

            “We tried to get Child Welfare Services involved,’ Father Kevin put in. “They caught him once that I know of for a fact. One of our battered moms said she saw him with CWS on another occasion but I don’t know if that was another incident or not.”

            “You speak like he is a rogue pet to be caught by Animal Control,” Sara almost accused, not entirely comfortable with the way the two people before her were speaking of the boy. Aside from the fact that the child had been living on the street, there was the possibility that something sinister may have befallen his brother. The whole story made Sara antsy to go out and find the boy, but logically she knew she had no starting point for her search.

            Sister Liz looked at Sara and Grissom was afraid Sara might have brought down the spirited Sister’s ire. He had know doubt that Sara could hold her own, but he needed Sister Liz’s help in the investigation, he was certain of that, and the last think he needed was flaming bridges going up around him.

            “You’re right Miss…Sidle,” Sister Liz said after noting the white embroidered name on Sara’s black vest. “But what you don’t understand is…that Spider has been left on his own for along time.”

            Sara’s blank expression behind her glasses had Father Kevin adding, “He is almost, well, like an animal.” The priest seemed apologetic but stood firm in his description.

            Sara could feel her anger building. She had known homeless kids, had been raised alongside a few that had come into the foster system, she had even befriended a couple. To hear these people refer to some poor discarded child as an animal was not what Sara had expected.

            Sister Liz could see the righteous anger boiling behind the blank mask the younger woman was fighting to maintain. “Miss Sidle, Father Kevin is not being harsh or cruel,” she defended firmly. “Spider survives on his own wits. He is the Mowgli to our urban jungle.” Sister Liz put her arms out, indicating the city around them.

            Grissom’s astonished look dashed between his CSIs and the Sister. “You’re saying he’s gone wild? A feral child?”

            Father Kevin nodded, while Sister Liz was less willing to label the child completely wild. “Spider isn’t a threat to anyone but himself and he does have some limited interactions with people but he is wary, more so than most street kids and…he’s mute.”

            That was what JellO meant when he had told them that Spider couldn’t tell them anything concerning the murder. Well, Spider may not be able to speak, Grissom thought, but there are other ways to talk without speaking.

            “Sister, I need to find this boy,” Grissom implored, rising to his feet.

            Sister Liz followed Grissom from the bench, draping her jacket across her left arm. “I will try and see what I can find out,” she told him as they prepared to part company. “I’ll let you know.”

            Grissom nodded, following Nick and Sara around the exterior of the building. The heat from the sun radiated of the dark, red bricks in fuzzy waves. Grissom knew there had been a handful of modern cases concerning feral children but the ones he could recollect involved abuse and neglect by the child’s parents. Spider’s case appeared to be more like abandonment. If that was the case then where were the parents? And more important what had happened to the older brother?