Part 5/?
Sara followed Grissom up the concrete path that led up to
the front door of the house. Both carried their field kits; Sara
also had a camera casually slung over her shoulder. She
noted the lights on in one of the upper rooms, a sliver of light
escaping between drawn curtains. Looking across the lawn,
the grass saturated under the day's continual rain, she slowly
panned her powerful Maglite over the surface, searching for
signs of footprints or other evidence of the killer. The wet
weather was doing its best to wash away any evidence
outside the house.
"Damn, we're losing evidence."
"Sara, focus." Grissom directed as he also ran his flashlight
over the surrounding lawn in the opposite direction to that of
Sara.
Sara pulled herself upright, bristling under his demand. Her
experienced eye caught signs of disturbance in the long grass.
A small shrub in the garden bed also seemed to have some
broken branches. "There's something over there."
Grissom came up beside Sara, shining his own torch alongside
the beam cast by hers, the two mixing to become one as they
focused on the possible trail of evidence.
"Brass, did the kid walk this way to get to the back of the
house? Any of your officers?" Grissom asked, running his
Maglite over the disturbed area. Both were likely sources of
the obvious tracks.
"Not that I'm aware but I'll find out."
"If any did, I want to speak with them. I'll need their prints."
"Footprints?"
"Naturally. The paramedics and police officers' fingerprints
will already be on the database. I'll need the kid's fingerprints
as well; for elimination or otherwise."
"Grissom, you don't seriously think the kid did this?"
"I don't think anything at this stage. The evidence will speak
for itself." Grissom put down his case and opened it. "Sara,
photograph the scene while I see if I can get a decent cast off
a print. I'll second your sentiment; the rain is going to hamper
our efforts."
Working diligently, Sara photographed each area of trampled
grass and dirt. Time was of essence at this point, but so was
accuracy. Without jeopardising the validity of the evidence,
Sara and Grissom had the scene canvassed and had the
evidence collected in the least amount of time.
As they packed the evidence collected from outside the house
into the back of the Tahoe, the rain finally stopped. They
both stripped off their wet gloves and paper booties, dropping
them into a garbage bag in the back of the vehicle for disposal
later.
"Talk about timing. Who have I ticked off today?" Sara
grumbled under her breath, brushing the beads of rain from
her forehead. Digging deep into her pocket, she pulled out a
black hair elastic band . She pulled the wet, heavy strands
away from her face and tied it back at the nape of her neck.
Grissom chose to ignore her rhetorical question, despite the
fact that he would certainly qualify to be on that particular list.
Remembering his resolve to not distract Sara from the scene
through a discussion, he avoided the opening she had
provided him with. Sara was obviously running on adrenalin
alone
"Now for inside," Grissom said, slipping on a new set of
paper booties and latex gloves. "I want to walk through first
before we begin processing the scene. Sara, photograph as
much as you can." Sara nodded in acknowledgement, slinging
the camera and its case once again over her shoulder. "I'll
take my own notes."
Grissom turned around, searching the perimeter of the crime
scene for Jim Brass. He signalled to Brass, indicating that he
wanted to talk to him. The homicide detective casually made
his way over to his CSO successor. "We're going to begin
inside. How many have been through?" Grissom asked,
gesturing towards the police officers.
"Paramedics and a couple of police officers."
"Did they touch anything?" Grissom asked. The three of
them once again walked up the path towards the house. This
time they would go inside and see what devastation had been
wreaked upon the family within.
"What do you think?" Brass responded, sarcasm attached to
each word. While he had worked as the head of the
graveyard shift for the CSI unit and had a special affiliation
with the night shift, he still was a cop and his allegiance to
them shone through.
"It's not what I think that matters. Find out."
"I've already asked," Brass replied. "Paramedics went
through and found all victims dead. Each had sustained
massive blood loss. They checked all the rooms because they
wanted to make sure there were no further victims."
"And the boy still insists he didn't enter the house?" Grissom
still found this hard to believe.
"Yeah. He's adamant that he rang 911 right after he found
the boy out back."
"What's your feeling?"
"He's hiding something."
"Arrange for one of your officers to take him back to the
Criminalistics Bureau. Mandy will take his fingerprints.
The double entrance doors were partially open, leading into
a hallway bathed in a gentle yellow light from two small wall
lamps. Despite this fact both Grissom and Sara had their
flashlights in their hands. The hallway showed no sign of any
disturbance. Beside a vase of flowers set on top of a
mahogany bureau were several unopened letters. Grissom
noted that an elastic band still held them in a bundle.
They both put down their field kits to the left of the open
doors, out of the path of their investigation. Cream single
loop twist pile carpet covered the hallway floor, extending into
each of the rooms and up the stairs. It was hard to miss the
incomplete, muddy footprints that stained the otherwise
pristine carpet. Grissom bent down and looked more closely
at the footprints.
"Sara, what do you make of these?" Grissom asked Sara as
she photographed the prints, his flashlight lit over one of the
footprints.
"Single track prints," Sara commented, crouching down
beside him to look more closely at the trail. "Coming from the
stairs to this room to the left." Sara ran her own flashlight
along the clearly marked trail.
"It's the study," Brass informed them.
Narrowing her eyes, she took a closer look at the print
Grissom had highlighted. "Mud and... is that blood?" She
cocked her head to the side and turned to look across at
Grissom, seeking his affirmation.
An almost imperceptible nod acknowledged her question and
confirmed the answer. Grissom placed the square rule beside
the print. "Size 8," he stated as Sara took another, closer
shot of the footprint.
"Small for a man, large for a woman," Sara pointed out.
"Exactly." Grissom gave a knowing smile.
"You know something I don't, Grissom?"
"I'll wait for the evidence to speak for itself."
Sara shook her head and rubbed at her right temple, her
fingers trying to massage away the telltale signs of a headache.
Grissom's cryptic words were not helping either. She should
be used to this by now, but he still managed to get her
frustrated by his lack of projecting.
"Follow the trail up the stairs or into the study?" Sara asked
tiredly, pushing herself upright.
"Study first."
The trail stopped at the doorway of the study. Sara continued
to photograph the scene and followed Grissom into the room.
She absorbed the atmosphere. The room was lit by a single
desktop lamp. A coppery smell still filled the air, mixing with
the distinctive odour of nicotine. An ashtray, filled with
several cigarette butts, sat to the right hand side of the
intricately carved rosewood desk. The highly polished
surface marred by the head lying face down on it, blood
seeping into the large, white blotting paper under it..
Grissom approached the body, noting the gunshot wound to
the head. "Male. Caucasian, approximately forty years. One
perforating gunshot wound to the right temple. Exit wound
behind the left ear. Bevelling and burn marks indicate close
proximity of the gun to the skull at point of impact."
"So the trail of footprints to the doorway were not those of
the person who fired the shot," Sara asserted as she finished
another roll of film.
"Unlikely," Grissom agreed. "Not unless the murderer took
his shoes off, which I would highly doubt occurred."
"Killer? You don't think this was a murder-suicide."
"Never judge a book by it's cover. Acquaint yourself with
the crime scene, Sara. Don't let other opinions cloud your
judgement."
As Sara changed the film, she looked around the room. A
mahogany leather seat occupied the wall behind her, below an
original painting. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall
to her left. Scanning the titles, she noted the diversity in their
content. It was then that the methodical placement of the
books struck her. Not by title or author or even size.
"Colour. The books are sorted by colour," she murmured
softly, running her flashlight over the bookshelf. "Except for
one section."
"And the importance of this fact?" Brass asked, a couple of
steps behind her.
"Probably nothing," Sara responded. "It might be indicative
of an obsessive tendency." The last section was unruly in
comparison to the rest of the bookshelf. The titles were all
related to psychology and psychiatry. A combination of
medical texts and expositions on specific psychological
conditions.
As she ran her flashlight over the spines, a glint of metal
flashed. Crouching down to take a closer look, Sara
narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she realised what it
was. "I've located the slug. It looks like a 9 millimetre."
"Photograph the evidence. We're on a walk through,"
Grissom reminded her.
"There's a 9mm Luger in his hand," Brass commented,
indicating to the handgun still grasped in the man's right hand
slumped by his side.
Grissom noted size of the entrance wound and exit. "Injury
is consistent with a handgun. Estimate would be in the range
of a 9mm, but I'll wait for confirmation from the autopsy."
Moving around the other side of the desk, Grissom got on his
hands and knees acquainting himself with the scene below the
victim.
"What're you looking for?" asked Sara.
Silence. Sara waited patiently rather than asking the question
twice. Previous experience had told her that if he didn't
respond initially, he would, given time.
Brass sidled up beside Sara, a questioning look on his face.
"What's he up to?"
"Not sure."
Minutes seemed to tick over slowly. Sara and Brass hunched
down on their haunches to see if they could work out what
Grissom was doing, but they only got a better view of his
broad back.
"Shoe size is an eleven," Grissom commented as he crawled
out of under the desk. "No blood spatter on the top of his
shoes. Underneath, there's traces of blood in the tread."
"There were no tread marks on the carpet in this room," Sara
commented, her brow furrowing in confusion as she swung
her flashlight over the carpeted floor. Following a path from
the doorway to the desk, there were no overt signs of
footprints, unlike what was in the hallway.
"The residual blood is within the tread."
"But for blood to get within the tread, there would have to
have been blood on the tread itself."
Grissom didn't answer. He raised his eyebrows slightly and
inclined his head towards the hallway. Sara pursed her lips,
acknowledged his silent instruction and followed him out of
the room.
"This is a mess," Sara commented as she changed the roll of
film in the camera again to begin photographing the trail of
footprints that marred the carpeted staircase. At least four to
five different sets had left their mark, overlapping and
intermingling, almost ruining the chance of getting clear prints.
"Just photograph the evidence. We'll worry about the
contamination later," Grissom said quietly, knowing that she
was referring to the additional prints having been left by either
police officers and paramedics.
They worked their way slowly up the stairs, avoiding touching
or interfering with any possible evidence. Photographs of the
family decorated the wall at various intervals. At the top of
the staircase, one of the photographs had been dislodged
from its position, tilted at an angle. Four bloodied fingerprints
were visible on the wall directly below the picture. Three
were smudged and unlikely to be of any value. The fourth
was clearly defined.
"Sara, make sure you get photos of those prints," Grissom
instructed. He bent down to take a closer look at the
footprints. Narrowing his eyes, he focussed on the peculiar
dance one set of the footprints seemed to have done and then
looked at the fingerprint, evaluating the possible significance
of the two. After quickly jotting down his observations in his
own shorthand, he turned around to towards Brass.
"The girls are in the bedroom to the right of the stairs," Brass
informed them.
The room was not overly large, the walls painted a delicate
shade of lemon. The lights were on in the room, illuminating
the atrocity within. To the left of the doorway, blood and
brain matter coated the top of a small chest of drawers,
located beside a single, white powder-coated wrought iron
bed. A child's teddy bear lamp on top of the chest had been
knocked over, blood also covering its surface and the wall
behind.
Grissom could just see the soles of a young child's shoes from
where he was standing in the doorway. One foot in front of
him, the carpet was soaked with blood, blood that had been
smeared as if something had been pulled through it. A few
feet further lay the body of an older girl, probably in her mid
teens with two bullet wounds.
He held his emotions in check, his face grim. Moving into the
room, he went to the younger girl first, hunkering down beside
her. Sara was only a pace behind him, the camera capturing
his observations in chromatic detail.
"One female caucasian, approximately eight years old. Pool
of blood surrounding the skull . Body located beside the first
bed three feet east of the doorway. Body does not appear to
have been moved. Shot once through the frontal lobe."
Other than Grissom's grisly analysis of the crime scene and
the sound of the camera shooting, there was silence in the
room. The act of violence perpetrated against these two girls
was horrific, particularly the older girl. Moving towards the
second girl, Grissom began his notations again.
"Second female. Caucasian, approximately sixteen years old.
Shot twice - once in the chest and one shot to the back of the
skull. Burn marks indicate close proximity of gun to the
victim's skull causing massive facial trauma. Drag marks
indicate that the second female was shot initially one foot
inside the doorway with the second shot in the middle of the
room approximately four feet south of the doorway."
"Why do they have to kill the kids?" Sara asked, her voice
breaking slightly as she asked the question.
"Suicides?" Grissom looked at Sara for confirmation of her
question. At her nod, he continued, "suicide is a selfish act.
The belief that it affects no one but themselves is a fallacy that
makes it easier on the person to commit the act."
As he carried on this conversation with Sara, he frowned as
he took a closer look at scene and the injuries sustained by
the two girls once more.
"I still don't understand why they kill their children. Why not
let them have a chance at life?"
"A person who is capable of taking their own life has the
capacity to convince themselves that death is a better option
for their children than life. Although, I'm not sure that's the
case here. We cannot rule out other causes, particularly in
light of this evidence," Grissom pointed out.
"Huh?" Sara asked, confused.
"Sara, take another look at this scene." Grissom stood up,
surveying the scene from Sara's perspective What do you
see?"
"Two victims. One shot at close range, one at some distance;
both causing massive internal damage. Blood and bony
tissue...these injuries weren't caused by that Luger." Sara
looked across at Grissom, her eyes widening in realisation that
she had automatically boxed the crime into the murder-suicide
category that Grissom warned them all not to do. Never
make assumptions, collect the evidence and let it speak to
you.
"Right. These are injuries caused by high velocity ammunition.
Handguns are low velocity."
"Less than one thousand feet per second. Average is five to
six hundred feet per second. High velocity exceeds two and
a half thousand feet per second. The amount of tissue
damage is determined by the kinetic energy lost by the bullet
in the body."
"And kinetic energy is determined by bullet weight, velocity
and gravitational acceleration."
"Rifles and shotguns that produce high velocity are used in
less than five percent of crimes perpetrated against the
public," Sara pointed out.
"It doesn't mean that one wasn't used."
"But there are also cartridges which mimic the high velocity
impact a rifle will produce. The .44 Magnum, .38 special
and some .357 Magnum loadings."
"Definitely not a 9mm Luger," Grissom conceded. "And the
multiple footprints leading in and out of this room make it hard
to declare a simple murder-suicide scenario. It could be, but
it also might not be. Keep your mind open to all possibilities,
Sara."
Grissom left the room, Brass and Sara following in his wake.
Moving out to the porch, they found the body of a young boy.
He had been shot several times in the chest, large bore holes
witness to the massive internal trauma inflicted.
"Second male. Caucasian, approximately ten years. Shot
three times in the upper torso. Lying in a pool of blood."
Grissom finished his notes, brushing the back of his hand
across his forehead when he had completed the last word.
"The position of the body looks like he was moving away
from the shooter," Sara said.
"Possibly."
"Probably." Sara gave him a challenging look.
"Sara..."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't interpret, acquaint myself," Sara
responded quoting Grissom's grounding comment that he
often said to pull her back into assessing the scene. She
continued photographing the body, finishing the film.
Grissom looked across at her, his mouth slightly agape. He
marvelled at how she remembered so much of what he said
to her. This worried him. His intended conversation with
Sara was going to be tough, especially knowing that she
remembered his words so well.
"That's it for the prelim. Let's get to work. Sara, will you
process out here?"
"Okay."
<><><><><>
A flash caught her eye. Sara looked up from her examination
of the boy's body. The porch lights burned brightly, bathing
part of the lawn area in white light. The flash came again, the
swaying movement of the long bladed grass in the gentle
breeze revealling its hidden prize. Grabbing the camera, Sara
approached the spot with caution, careful not to disturb the
evidence as she took photographs of the bullet casing.
Picking up the spent shell on the wet grass, Sara looked back
at the body. On the walk through with Grissom, logic had
dictated to her to assume the boy had been running away
from the killer. Shot three times in the back. She'd assumed
he'd been killed last, trying to get away from the killer.
Now, she wasn't sure. If he had been shot running away
from the house, his killer inside, the spent shell should have
been inside the house or just outside the door, not out in the
grass.
Dropping the shell into a paper evidence packet, Sara sealed
the top and pulled out her pen to label it. As she crouched
writing the label, she looked back towards the body. Her
mouth twisted into a frown, her eyes narrowing. Were they
wrong? She searched the lawn for extra shells, the length of
the grass hampering her efforts. Expanding the search area,
almost at once she found the other two shells three feet away.
Together with a shoeprint. It was smaller than what they had
found earlier.
With the evidence, photographed, collected and packaged,
Sara began surmising a scenario of her own. Sara took a
closer look at the gunshot wounds on the dead boy.
Estimating his height and the location of the spent shells, she
located the three slugs. Two were embedded in the timber
frame of the window beside the open door. The third had a
higher trajectory, indicating a change in the level of the gun;
most likely, the closest shot to the victim. She dug the slugs
out of their hiding place and put them with the other evidence
on top of her open field kit.
Kneeling beside the boy on one knee, Sara took a closer look
at the bullet wounds on his back. "Why did this happen to
you? To your family?" she whispered to the cold corpse, life
having left his body hours ago.
"Leave him alone."
Sara started at the sound of the shaky voice. She hadn't
heard the clip of approaching feet. She had been totally engrossed
in her job. Slowly turning her head towards the sound of the voice,
she found herself staring into the muzzle of a handgun. A
handgun which was shaking unsteadily in the thin, pallid hands
of an unsettled woman. Sara noted that the woman's eyes
were darting left and right, never focusing on one spot.
"Don't touch him. You have no right." The woman
screeched, the gun jumping up and down in Sara's direction.
"Ma'm, I'm with the Crime Scene Investigation Unit...." Sara
said softly, trying not to make any sudden moves or distress
the woman any further.
"This is my home. My son. You have no right to be here.
I've got to take care of my children." The woman's voice
softened as she spoke of her son; her children. Tenderness
filled her voice and the gun lowered.
Sara absorbed the change in her demeanour. This was a
perfect example of why she preferred dealing wtih dead
people. Their moods did not change with the wind. "Ma'm,
your son has been shot. I'm sorry, but his injuries were fatal
..."
"No. You're lying. He wasn't dead when I left him. You
killed him!" The unnerving screech punctuated the words.
The hand on the gun suddenly steadied, the muzzle focusing
solidly on Sara.
'Oh, shit!' Sara thought as she realised that this conversation
had taken a deadly turn and dove to the ground. She rolled
awkwardly, away from the boy's body, natural instinct
causing her to try to preserve the crime scene. Curling herself
up tightly, she covered her head with her hands, protecting
herself; trying to make herself as small a target as possible.
The report from the gun rang out clearly in the still evening air.
End Part 5/?