DISCLAIMER: CSI and its characters are the property of CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer.
CHALLENGE: Submitted as part of the Sara/Sofia 'Let's Get Sassy' ficathon.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Slice
By L.
closer comes the screaming knife
this beautiful creature must die
this beautiful creature must die
a death for no reason
and death for no reason is murder
one
When the call came, Sara didn’t care as much as she probably should have.
When she slowed down to park, she could barely make out the officers waiting in the flashing of the blue and reds. Brass was on the phone, furiously scribbling something in his note pad, but he gave her a short wave and mouthed c-u-r-t-i-s with a nod to his left. Sara waved back but kept walking and didn’t slow down until she saw Sofia turn around to greet her.
"Sorry to drag you down here on your night off. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important."
It wasn’t a question, but Sara shook her head and said, "It doesn’t matter. I needed some fresh air."
To her surprise, Sofia gave her a sad smile and pointed, "Only a CSI would call this fresh air."
Sara could see a body sprawled out, naked, on the ground. With a sigh and a firmer grip on her bag, she took a few more strides to get closer. Startled, she was stopped by Sofia’s hand on her arm.
"Watch your step."
She glanced down with a frown.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Uh-hu," Sofia said with a slightly nauseated nod. "Luckily, our perp doesn’t know his way around DNA forensics..."
With a roll of her eyes, Sara took a careful step over the little pile of very tangible evidence left on the scene and grabbed her camera.
"Well, if you get bored waiting, detective," she said with a smile probably much wider than what was considered appropriate for a crime scene. "I could use some help with that..."
two
Sofia Curtis closed her eyes briefly before clearing her voice for a summary of what they had so far.
"We have three vics, all women with no striking similarities. The first, Michelle Clark, was stabbed; Karen Jackson was strangled; and Sharon Robertson had her throat cut. Obviously, the perp's MO changes for some reason..."
The room was full of experienced and professional investigators, all of whom knew each other well after having worked together for years. But still, this case was different, they could all feel it.
"Michelle Clark, 26, worked as a blackjack dealer at the Golden Nugget, her shift was done by midnight when she said bye-bye to her colleagues. No one has reported seeing her since. No family, no known boyfriends, not many friends at all apparently. Although she was reportedly well-liked at her work place."
Sofia took a sip of water before she continued, pointing to the wall where the gruesome before and after pictures of the three women were pinned.
"Karen Jackson, 38, stay at home mom. Was last seen at her yoga class on the 14th. Her husband reported her missing 10 minutes after he expected her home again. In his words, 'she is never late.'"
Warrick leaned towards Catherine and stage whispered, "I'll bet you a hundred it's the hubby. It's always the hubby."
Catherine hushed him with a tired smile and nodded for Sofia to continue.
"And now, Sharon Robertson, 33, was found yesterday at an abandoned warehouse at 3857 North Las Vegas Boulevard. She’s a well known girl round here, I'm sorry to say."
"Damn," Greg said, "I thought she was closer to 50."
"Working the streets'll do that to you, kiddo," Catherine said.
They all kept silent for a moment, most of them having bumped into Ms Robertson at one time or another.
Grissom raised his eyes to Sofia and asked quietly, "'Flat iron', what can you tell us about that?"
Sofia looked over at Doc Robbins who was standing by the door, next to Sara. He took a tentative step into the room.
"It's the one thing these ladies have in common."
"But it's not some kind of weapon?"
"No, not at all. It’s the latest rage in butchering techniques marketed to trend sensitive flavor- and time-conscious kitchen fashionistas. I’ve been told it's a well-marbled piece of meat. It's been compared to a choice top sirloin..."
Ignoring the disgusted snorts from the others, he focused on Grissom who remained impassive and interested.
"It's from the chuck," a sideways glance to Sara, "that’s the meat between the neck and the shoulder blade. Presumably, it’s a very tender steak that does well when cooked quickly, often used in fajitas and stir-fries."
He switched grip on his crutch, and continued, "There might be some comfort in knowing that all surgery took place postmortem."
Nick slammed his hand down on the table and rose with an angry glare, "What? Next you'll tell me he ate them? There is no god damn way we could possibly know that!"
He stared at the now silent doctor, who in turn looked at Sofia. But before she was able to say anything, Sara's voice drifted out to the room in a slow drawl.
"Well," she managed to stand even impossibly taller, "he did leave a little something behind last night."
three
Sofia stayed behind as the others piled out, sorting through her papers.
After the expected discussions following Sara’s comment, they started working. Throwing ideas and suggestions around, trying and abandoning hypothesizes, constructing and dismantling probable and impossible theories. After a few hours of this, they were slowly, maybe but not quite yet, discerning a pattern. There was something there, holding these seemingly incompatible women together. Some string, some barely visible thread of commonality.
But when the smoke cleared, the only loose end they had to go on was a receipt from a bicycle shop. And it was decided Sofia and Sara would go there together. Sofia sighed and pushed the last papers into a folder, snapping it shut with a rubber band. She walked out of the room, already reaching for her cell phone when she spotted Sara waiting on a bench in the hallway.
"Sara?"
Sara sat perfectly still, staring ahead. Not slumped or tense or anything, really. Just sitting.
Sofia sat down next to her and leaned back. Neither one said a word, and for several moments that was all there was. After a few minutes, Sofia started to notice the leg close to hers, the hand resting on the vinyl seat mere millimeters from hers. She also noticed their breathing, in tandem, together, relaxed and slow. And she smiled, really smiled for the first time since forever when she felt Sara's fingers hooking hers. With a light squeeze she turned to her and motioned towards the doors to the parking lot, "Shall we?"
Sara squeezed back and let go with a smile, "Let's."
The silence stretched out as they got into the car and took off. When Sofia pulled in at their destination, though, Sara let out a short laugh.
"You’re joking, right?" She got out of the car and looked at the bright yellow lettering in the bike shop window.
"The Lance Armstrong Bike Shop?"
Sofia smiled and said, "Yeah, what are the odds, huh? Only in Vegas..."
"Actually," Sara stated, "Lance is the 245th most common name in the US, making it..." She stared off, "...0.063% of the population."
Sofia blinked.
"And," Sara continued, "Armstrong is even rarer. Only 0.053% of the –"
"Sara."
"Yeah?"
"Never mind."
Sara simply shrugged, and together they walked into the store where Sofia introduced them and asked for the owner. A chubby guy in his early 60s smiled and pointed to his chest: "You're looking at him."
"Mr Lance Armstrong?"
"The one and only. Almost." His smile grew wider as he pointed to a framed photo on the wall. "We can't all win le Tour, madmezelle."
It was an autographed picture of him and that other Lance, both laughing as they were holding a yellow jersey in front of them, doing the thumbs up. Sofia could tell they were on the curb outside the shop.
"He's a great guy. He always stops by when he's in town."
"Is that right," she pulled out her note pad and noticed Sara wandering into the back of the store. She instantly recognized her determined stance and knew that she'd picked up a trail of something. With a polite smile, she turned to Mr Armstrong to get some answers as to why a woman walking the streets for a living would need bike repairs.
four
The next day, they were all supposed to assemble again to organize a strategy for the day. No one was surprised to hear that the bike shop was a dead end. Sad detail, yes, but unrelated to Sharon Robertson's murder. Sofia hadn't been wrong about Sara's behavior, though. She grinned as she replayed their conversation in the car heading back.
"So, spill, I know you found something," Sofia cast a glance in the rear window as she pulled out.
Sara looked at her with an almost embarrassed smile, "An Avid Code hydraulic disc brake for close to nothing, that's what."
"Come again?"
"Four pistons, three cartridge bearing lever pivot, two-piece lever with cam breakaway, up-front access reach adjustment, anchored brake pads, AND," toothy grin all in place. "No plastic anywhere for only, and get this: only $185 per wheel!"
"Wow...?"
"Yeah..." her smile faded and she looked out the window, "Maybe I should buy two sets at once."
Hard to think that same woman was now standing with a magnifier, comparing photos of incision marks from a surgical knife before picking at cut out sutures using tweezers with an almost uncannily calm expression.
The CSIs had been there for hours already. Sofia Curtis knew from firsthand experience the diligence of graveyard. Although it scared her at times, she couldn't help but admire their professionalism and dedication. She was hesitating in the doorway, not really willing to enter the room and break the concentrated, but still friendly and sometimes even playful, atmosphere.
Luckily, she didn't have to, Jim Brass stumbled in with a triumphant grin. "What are y’all waiting for," he bellowed. "We've got him. Unis are bringing him in as we speak."
The room dissolved in chatter, questions, laughs, relieved smiles, and hollers. It was so simple, after all, it always was. The dreary and boring efficiency of routine police work.
Turned out all the victims had had their own reasons for taking a cab that night: Michelle Clark had her car in the shop, something to do with the camshaft plus it was raining like crazy that particular evening; Karen Jackson's husband couldn't come get her on the 14th because of their sitter's boyfriend coming home early; and Sharon Robertson had had a real good day at the office. She figured she could spoil herself some.
Ecklie would send out a report later, summarizing the man-hours spent, the overall effort in resources needed to spot and compare three cab fare receipts. Greg said Grissom walked out of the room when Ecklie asked if there was a Taxi Investigation 101 course at Harvard these days.
Sofia was tired, so very, very tired. She watched Sara lean into Grissom and whisper something in his ear while looking straight at her. She didn't quite manage to smile, and it literally hurt to try.
When Sara sauntered over, she was ready. She slipped her sunglasses on and popped in a tooth pick, waiting.
Sara stopped and lowered her gaze at the floor with a last glance towards Grissom, and Sofia realized that this was as good as it would ever get. This was as close as she would ever get. Why don't you need me?, she thought and cursed the lump in her throat and twitch in her eye and everything that placed her right there, right now. Sara finally raised her eyes and saw it too. She looked over at Grissom again, but then she focused on Sofia and she said, in a surprisingly steady voice, "You only needed to ask."
She turned and waved for Grissom, and the two of them walked out of there.
The End