Disclaimer: Not mine. CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and its characters are property of CBS Productions, Alliance Atlantis ® and Jerry Bruckheimer Television. Just borrowing. Author’s Notes: This fic idea came about after watching Groundhog Day nearly a year ago. So, yes, if you were wondering, it’s based loosely on that movie. I also ship Greg with a lot of people. This fic gave me the freedom to explore them all in various fashions, both realistically and idealistically. *laughs* Anyway, I do eventually settle on one ship. Enjoy. Category: Humor, Romance, Angst and a bit of Action Summary: Greg Sanders finds himself repeating the same 24 hour period over and over again. Rewound by e-dog Chapter One 1:00 p.m. The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.. A song filters into your consciousness softly, yet boldly. “And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace.” The lyrics continue to play as you open your eyes to a brand new day. You find yourself subconsciously bobbing your head to the slow beat coming out of the radio. You reluctantly crawl out of your bed and lurch toward the bathroom. Leaving the door open to hear the rest of the song, you crank on the water and splash the cold liquid on your face. You blink your eyes several times listening to your favorite show hit the airwaves next. “Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!” “Morning, Dan,” you grin into the mirror, inspecting the emergence of new zits on that precious forehead of yours. Drat! Foiled by acne! Your next quest is for pimple cream because unsightly zits will not help when trying to hit on chicks. You, Warrick and Nick plan on bar crawling early after shift and well, it wouldn’t hurt to try your luck. Someone out there finds you attractive, you hope. You wish. You pray. Anyway, those zits have to go. “That was Coldplay with “Fix You”. Up next, more hits, but first we’re gonna check in on Bobby with our traffic report. Bobby?” “Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty’s Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!” “Will do, Bobby,” you say, continuing to converse with your radio as you throw open your closet door, searching for a fresh set of clothes. It’s times like this you’re grateful for your independent bachelor life. A girlfriend might find it a bit odd that your closest friend happens to be Dan the Man from KMRK radio. A person you have neither met nor talked to in person, but happily speak to on a daily basis over FM radio waves. Foregoing the shower, you throw on a ratty t-shirt and some jeans. A quick assessment of your loft’s kitchenette quickly concludes that you are out of milk, bread and coffee. All necessary to start each day. Unfortunately, a trip to the grocery store is in order and food is something you’re having trouble affording right now. You literally slide down the banister in the stairwell of your apartment complex and out the front door. You have the misfortune of running into your landlady. “Mr. Sanders! Need I remind you that you’re late paying the rent?” she prods, her beady eyes squinting ever so annoyingly at you. God, how you want to strangle her sometimes. It’s true. You’ve had sweet, merciless dreams about committing the murder and using your in-depth CSI skills to cover up all the evidence. It would surely solve the rent problem. “You’ve reminded me three times a day since last Thursday, Mrs. Templeton,” you smile, your voice as smooth as silk. It’s a voice that usually gets you out of anything. Usually. “I get a paycheck today, so no worries. I’ll have the money at your door first thing tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Martha Templeton. A seemingly endearing, 60-year-old something white lady with fine grey hair and nothing to do all day but hassle her tenants for money. She has a rich lawyer son, whom she rarely speaks of. Her husband is supposed to be the fix-it man but he’s “never around when you need him”. Honestly, if she spent more time investing money to repair shoddy plumbing and light fixtures, you might have found her to be remotely tolerable. As it was, she was like any other landlord you’ve had to put up with in the past. Pushy, arrogant and cheap. She reaches up, pinches your cheek solidly and comments, “You’re a nice kid, Greggy. You just gotta learn to manage your finances better.” Greggy? What the hell kind of nickname is Greggy?!? God, this woman. . . “I know, Mrs. Templeton,” you mumble through a stretched mouth. If you weren’t trying to get on her good side, you would immediately pry her clammy claws from your face. . .and forbid her from ever calling you Greggy again. “This is the fourth time you’ve been late in the last six months,” she continues to push unnecessarily. She doesn’t need to paint you a picture! The message was sent and received and your cheek is rather sore as a result. She finally releases your swollen face and asks boldly, “Don’t you crime scene people make a decent living?” “Okay, Mrs. Templeton. I have to go now,” you continue to grin, teeth clenched tightly at this point as you practically run to your car. The trip to the store and back is highly uneventful. You even make it back to your loft without running into the Landlady From Hell. If she had seen the groceries in your hands, she would’ve pointed out (not so subtly) that the money used to pay for the food could’ve been used to pay your rent instead. She’d rather see you starve than be late on a payment! That Mrs. Templeton. Always looking out for you. You check your watch. The time is little after 3 in the afternoon. You do have the option of going into work early, catching the start of swing shift and getting a head start on closing up a case or two. Then a realization hits you. With all the overtime you’ve been putting in, you are slowing turning into a Sara Sidle. A manic workaholic. While she is a “natural, science breathing, hard worker” kind of workaholic, you are the exact opposite. You are the “kiss-ass, learn a thing or two here and there, flirt with all the ladies during your overtime” kind of workaholic. Something your boss, Gil Grissom, is never happy about. You muse aloud, “A little veg time wouldn’t hurt me.” You strip to your boxers, open a window and cut on a fan. The heat has been unrelenting the last few days. You pop open a root beer and plop down onto your beanbag chair. The plastic-like covering of the chair sticks to your sweaty body and for a moment, you contemplate moving to a more suitable piece of furniture. Then laziness kicks in and you stay right where you are. You thumb through your mental address book, trying to find someone to call and cure your loneliness. Someone to hang out with before work. Maybe a lady friend who could really make this day worthwhile. You can’t think of anyone besides the people you already work with. Yeah. You have quite the social life. Ladies just lining up at the door. You snort to yourself and your social misfortune before dozing into a fitful nap, dreams consisting of a frightful one night stand with the pretentious Mrs. Templeton. ------------------------------------------- Your flashlight leaves a trail of evidence to follow. From the overturned trash by the dumpster to the cold stiff lying in a puddle of muck, you tread over the asphalt surface carefully. Another light soon joins yours. Then another and another. The four of you stop at the body. For a moment, you all contemplate the age old question: Why? Why would a human being kill another? The moment is over quickly and the lead CSI begins barking out orders. “Greg, take pictures of the dumpster and process. Sara, you cover the body until David gets here. Nick and I will start asking questions inside.” “As you wish, my lady,” you smile winningly, even though you are slightly hurt Catherine would choose Nick over you. Over the last couple of years, Catherine has been good to you. Taking you along for rides to interrogate potential suspects. Helping process evidence. Teaching you what you need to know. It burns you whenever she goes for the manly Nick Stokes instead of you. As a bit of consolation, she does treat you to one of her gorgeous smiles in return before disappearing through the back entrance of the restaurant with Nick. You have often dreamed of sweeping Catherine off her feet. Showing Warrick and/or Nick that you can be a desirable man like either of them. She does have the baggage of a kid, but in all honesty, you love Lindsey. You are confident enough your current level of maturity, growth and - dare you say - je ne sais quoi could give Catherine the world and more. She needs someone in her life. A bright flash snaps you out of your daydreaming. Sara’s camera. You glance over to her, seeing her hunched over the body and inspecting it closely. Your dreams of Catherine wash away almost instantly as you log away the memory of Sara’s backside for future reference. Just another second. . . Okay, brain processing over. You head over to the dumpster to start your work. “I saw that,” she teases, her slow drawl containing an ever so playful twang. She continues to process without even looking at you, but that knowing smile is slowly crossing her face. Your obvious crush on her is getting harder and harder to hide these days. Not to mention, your working relationship is beginning to blossom into something you can’t quite describe. Your attentions are sure to be noticed by her ever observant eyes. You feign ignorance, which is standard operating procedure whenever you get caught checking her out. “What are you talking about?” “You. My ass. Stop checking it out,” she explains pointedly, yet jokingly. You force out an embarrassed chuckle, but respond cheekily, “It’s a nice ass.” “Focus, Greg,” she warns, this time taking the time to look at you with a stern gaze. Play time is suddenly over and you begin to wonder why Sara is so hot and cold tonight. She was a little snippy with Grissom earlier this shift as well. You take a few snapshots of the dumpster, then zoom in on more details. You are so caught up in your work, you hadn’t noticed David arrive, already giving his assessment on the cause of death. You bag a bloody tissue before tuning your ears in on the conversation between Sara and the medical examiner. “Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation,” David states. An observation either of you could’ve made without his help. “Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less.” “Thanks, David,” Sara smiles, finally rising from her crouched position on the ground. She checks her camera for battery life and a quick review of the photos she has captured. You take this as your opportunity to report your findings and approach her. She gives you a quick grin before asking, “Any luck with the dumpster?” The fleeting cold spell has vanished, that smile of hers returning her to the status of “hot”. Maybe she recognized how harsh she was earlier and is making up for her odd behavior. “Lots of trash and rotten food, but I did find a discarded bloody tissue. Could be nothing,” you say, shrugging. “The haphazard mess could suggest struggle. The victim or perp accidently busting a bag open while fighting for the upper hand.” “Well, our vic was definitely strangled. If we’re lucky, we might find the murder weapon around here,” Sara sighs, glancing around the dark alleyway, now decorated with police lights and yellow tape. “If I were you, I would get in the dumpster. Search for anything that could leave half inch marks around someone’s neck.” “In the dumpster, huh?” you frown. You can already hear the flies buzzing around inside. “I thought the CSI hazing ritual was over.” Sara winks at you, “All the great CSIs get their starts rummaging through trash, Greggo.” ------------------------------------------- Maybe digging through the trash wasn’t so bad. It finally forced you to take a shower. On the other hand, it produced nothing fruitful. No murder weapon. Nothing remotely incriminating or helpful. You are stuck with no leads. Just half eaten dinners foolishly thrown away by upper class patrons. Enough food to feed one of the local homeless shelters down the street. You make a mental note to get together your bi-monthly donation. By that, you mean, actually responding to those urging, bi-monthly postcards you get in the mail asking for contributions. You step out of the showers wrapped in a towel and make your way to your locker. You yank out all of the essentials. A quick check to make sure you are alone and the boxers go on first. The pants are a quick second and lastly an undershirt to complete the ensemble. Feeling better fully clothed and clean, you throw on a button down shirt and slip into your shoes before rushing back out into the labs. Surely someone had missed you while you were gone. “Hey, just the guy I wanted to see,” you hear as you whiz by DNA. You come to an abrupt halt and turn around. Wendy is smiling and waving at you to come back. You quickly observe how nice her hair is tonight, casually flipped up in a clip. You also take note of her pearly whites flashing like beacons in your direction. She’s in a very good mood. “I must have done something absolutely amazing if you want to see me again so badly,” you smile devilishly. She smirks at you this time, ignoring your attempts at flirting and holding up a report, “You’re in luck. That bloody tissue of yours kicked out a name in the database.” “Awesome,” you grin widely, walking back into a space that you used to call your domain. Wendy Simms was now ultimate ruler and you were definitely willing to submit to any of her demands. That is, if she ever issued any demands for you to actually submit to. “Yep. Your girl’s name is Tracy Marshall. She has priors, her DNA taken for a murder case that dayshift handled two years ago. She was exonerated,” Wendy reports, before handing over the computer printouts to you. You study them for a bit, before thanking her. You even offer her to dinner, but she politely declines. You walk away, not allowing the disappointment in being turned down again get to you. Maybe you could work on Sara again. Join her on lunch break. She doesn’t usually mind your presence during that time. Catherine rounds the corner, spots you and waves at you to meet up with her, “Hey, Greg.” Of course, you could try and work your magic on Catherine first. “Hey, Cath,” you smile when you reach each other. “How’s your stuff coming?” she asks. “DNA kicked out a name on the bloody tissue. A girl named Tracey Marshall,” you announce proudly. You hand her the paperwork to let her see. As she reads, you compliment, “I like what you’ve done with your hair, by the way. You look great.” Hair seems to be your thing today. This causes her to look up at you, her face a mixture of puzzlement and intrigue. You also notice she is a touch flattered by your compliment, which you log away as points for you. She laughs lightly, before glancing at you sidelong, “Weren’t you just hitting on Wendy?” Those points you had gained are suddenly lost. Damn those CSIs and their observant eyes! You pretend to be flabbergasted, clutching your chest for dramatic effect, “Hitting on. . .? Wendy? Cath, I was just trying to give you a compliment!” “Uh-huh,” she smirks, obviously not buying your story. She hands the DNA results back to you, a gentle hand squeezing your arm. “You’re a sweet kid, Greg. You just gotta learn to manage that heart of yours better. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about someone and then get hurt.” Her warning sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Templeton’s before her and you begin to wonder how many more people will address you as a “sweet kid” before the night is over. For the record, it would be two more people. Sara and Nick. ------------------------------------------- Vegas: Home to 24 hour alcohol establishments. The bar crawling stops at the first bar and it’s only 7 in the morning. Not exactly the morning bar crawl you had envisioned, but Nick has managed to run into an old flame. She is now your current waitress and is doing all she can to get back into Nick’s good graces. . .or his bed. Nick is merely taking advantage of her, of course, most of your drinks being free as a result. As much as you like free beer, you still have developed this bitter taste in your mouth. It seems all of these little trips leave you just a tiny bit jealous of the two men sitting before you. Both Nick and Warrick seem to have a plethora of old flames littering the streets of Vegas. You, on the other hand, have trouble coming up with at least one woman who enjoyed your company enough to ask for a second date. Anyway, her name is Cindy and Warrick is quick to tease whenever she leaves your sight. “Cindy? Sounds like a porn name.” “Cindy is a perfectly normal name, Warrick,” Nick defends sternly. You can tell he’s not at all amused with Warrick’s joke. In your time at the labs, you’ve found Nick and Warrick’s friendship to be an odd one. They don’t really have the same kind of humor, the same work ethics or the same people skills, yet they are still great friends. It still amazes you that they have allowed you to join their little club of drunken debauchery. You feel like the kid brother, which is perfect considering you never had brothers of your own. “Besides, she’s been eyeing you too,” Nick smiles back, to which Warrick scoffs and finishes off his current drink. Nick insists, “I’m serious. I think when I give her my number, I’ll put down yours instead of mine.” Warrick’s eyes widen, “You wouldn’t. . .” “Tina would have a baby if she heard Miss Cindy’s voice on your answering machine!” Nick laughs hard, while you smile at their banter. Nick turns to you, “What do you think, Greggo?” You shake your head and hold up your hands in defense, “No comment! I’m not going to say anything about a girl you’ve had relations with nor will I agree or disagree with the claim that Cindy has been eyeing Warrick. I’d like to live to see the next day, thanks.” Warrick grins wickedly, “C’mon, Greg. I wouldn’t hurt you. . .too bad.” Nick nods as well, “Yeah, Greg. I mean, if you said Cindy was hot, I would only. . .give you one black eye.” You feel they might be drunk, but another part of you feels their jokes are gravely serious. So you maintain your ground and say nothing even remotely sexual about the beautiful Cindy. Instead, you just raise your glass and order another. You have a feeling surviving a bar crawl with these two will require a bit of inebriation. Your theory has proven correct, it would seem. Watching Nick leave with Cindy doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it would had you been sober. Knowing Warrick has a woman waiting at home for him also stings much less with your brain clouded with alcohol. You leave your car in the lot and call a cab. Stumbling into your place, you strip your outer layers on the way to your bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind. You flop down onto the bed and eye your alarm clock. The time is now 9 a.m. You shut your eyes hoping the hangover won’t be too bad when you wake up. ------------------------------------------- The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.. A song starts out softly, the lyrics oddly familiar. “And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace.” You open your eyes. Your hand absentmindedly scratches your rear and your feet reluctantly kick off the sheets. You stare at the clock, your foggy mind finally remembering that you woke up to this very same song the day before at exactly the same time. You laugh at the coincidence and sluggishly slip out of bed. Oh, this is not a good day to have a hangover. Drinks with the guys was fun, but it doesn’t come without its consequences. It’s weird, though. The more you walk, the more you realize that you don’t have a headache at all! Your stomach slowly stops swimming and your steps more confident. You scratch your head wondering how you managed to avoid such a massive hangover. Maybe you drank a lot of water the night before or something. As you step into the bathroom, you hear the radio squawk, “Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!” “Morning, Dan,” You yawn, as you shut the bathroom door behind you. “That was Coldplay with “Fix You”. Up next, more hits, but first we’re gonna check in on Bobby with our traffic report. Bobby?” “Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty’s Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!” You throw the door open, sticking your face out and listening to the radio very closely now. The monologue continues as you say aloud, “Scotty’s Junction is backed up again?” As Dan the Man and Bobby go into their bantering routine, you begin to realize it’s the same monologue you had heard yesterday! Gosh, isn’t that a bit weird? There must’ve been a mix-up at the station you reason. You slink back into your bathroom and shut the door. “Okay, everyone. Have a wonderful November 14th! I’m Dan the Man signing off. Stayed tuned for the next hour of great music!” You open the door again, this time half naked and clutching your towel. Your gaping lips sputter, “November 14th? That was yesterday!” This is crazy, you think. The radio station just needed to fill up airspace because Dan the Man called out sick or something. Yeah, that’s it! Dan the Man is just sick! There is no way that yesterday is today, again. Er. Whatever. You forego the shower for a second day in a row, throw on some clothes and bolt out of your room. There is only one way to get to the bottom of this. Check the groceries. You bought food yesterday and once you find it, you’ll have proved your radio theory. Simple as that. You go into the little kitchen, throw open the fridge and groan. Your new gallon of milk is gone. The coffee beans are gone. The fresh loaf of bread: also gone. You go through your small pantry to find all of the snack items have mysteriously vanished as well. Everything you had bought yesterday has disappeared!! You quickly shut the pantry doors, hanging onto the handles for dear life. “Okay, hold on Greg,” you talk to yourself. “You did get a little drunk after shift with the guys, so maybe you just ate everything in a drunken haze! That’s it!” You run over to your garbage can. The first look isn’t too promising. So you dump the contents on the floor, just to double check. You kick it around, turn things over and then fall to your knees in exasperation. There is no evidence that you ate any of those food items within the last day. You pull at your semi-long locks and decide that there is one more thing you have to check. The newspaper. The date on today’s newspaper will finally prove whether you are going crazy or not. You pull on shoes and run out of your building. You have the misfortune of running into your landlady, Mrs. Templeton. Again. “Mr. Sanders. Need I remind you that you’re late paying the rent?” she prods, her beady eyes squinting ever so annoyingly at you. Again. This time, the witty remark doesn’t come as fast or as suave. You gulp then reply, “Yes. Three times every day since last Thursday. But I paid you this morning?” “Don’t you try and pull that trick on me again, mister!” She reaches up, pinches your cheek solidly and comments, “You’re a nice kid, Greggy. You just gotta learn to manage your finances better.” “Okay,” you mumble, your lips taut from her pulling at your cheek. You almost forget to be mad about her nettling nickname. “This is the fourth time you’ve been late in the last six months,” she continues to push unnecessarily. Just like the day before. She is going through this conversation like it has never happened! She finally releases your face from her killer grip, but before she can ask about your paycheck, you step in. “Crime scene investigators make a nice paycheck, Mrs. Templeton,” you say shakily to which she stares at you wide eyed. She sputters, not sure how to respond. How could you possibly know what she was going to say before she had said it? You know because you have lived this all before. To be continued. . .
ooooh! Very interesting. you must continue! what does our tragic greggo have to do to get himself out of this loop? Keep going!
Author’s Notes: Thanks for all the comments and sorry for the wait. Here's part two. Chapter Two High Roller Today is November 14th . The newspaper told you so. The hundreds and hundreds of newspapers you scoured through at the supermarket until the managers threw you out, told you so. Today is November 14th. Again. You stand by the dumpster with the overturned trash and spot the bloody tissue almost immediately. A bloody tissue with Tracy Marshall’s DNA all over it. It’s in plain sight, just like it was before. Of course the first time you did thisyou weren’t outright looking for it. Now you know. You know everything about today. You know that three more flashlights are going to appear next to yours in five, four, three. . .two. . .one. Here they are. They all shine light on the cold stiff lying in the same puddle of muck. You glance at the rest of your team: Sara, Nick and Catherine. Their expressions are solemn, introspective. That’s how you looked yesterday when this was all new. Now you’re just bewildered. Don’t they feel it too? They must know this all happened before! Jokingly, you try to jog their memories. “Feels like déjá vu, right?” Nick smirks. “Yeah, I guess after a while, each crime scene looks like the one before it.” You frown. “That’s not what I meant.” Nick turns his head to stare at you curiously. “Then what did you mean?” He’s serious. Nick has no idea what you’re referring to. You could try and explain how this day is repeating itself, but somehow that doesn’t feel like a good course of action. Instead you mumble, “Never mind.” Catherine finally breaks her silence, “Greg, take pictures of the dumpster and process. Sara, you cover the body until David gets here. Nick and I will start asking questions inside.” You flash back to today when you had enthusiastically replied with, “As you wish, my lady!” This time around, you can only manage a meek nod of your head, as you watch both Catherine and Nick walk into the restaurant through the back entrance. Catherine doesn’t smile at you this time, leaving you confused and hurt. She’s usually more cordial toward you. In fact, she was much more cordial the first time you did this, so what was different now? Thinking hard, you pinpoint the reason why. She blissfully ignored your presence because you didn’t bother to flirt or joke or anything. Why would Catherine even give you a second glance if you give her nothing to respond to? She’s a woman who likes attention. She likes to be flattered. The flash of a camera jostles you out of your musing. Sara’s camera. She’s hunched over the body of the poor man who was strangled. You spy her ass, linger for a moment, then turn away quickly. Did you already forget what happened yesterday? Er, today? “I saw that,” she teases. You almost roll your eyes. Caught again. You try to play it off, hopefully better this time, “You saw what?” “You. My ass. Stop checking it out,” she says again. Her tone is still joking. You almost say “It’s a nice ass” all over again. Somehow, you stop yourself. Again, you forgot how she didn’t respond so well to that comment before. Instead, you put your tail between your legs and go back to the dumpster. You make sure to snap detailed photos again. Just because you already know nothing is here, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do your job. You bag the bloody tissue. Turning around, you see that David isn’t here yet, which means you’ve finished your processing much more quickly than the last time. You congratulate yourself on the speedy processing, then walk over to Sara, who is still crouched low to the ground and examining the vic. “Ligature marks,” you observe aloud. “Yeah,” Sara agrees. “Rope, maybe?” “Could be,” you nod your head. She’s not looking at you as she talks. You know that Sara likes to be focused on her work, but even you can see that this body is not providing a lot of immediate information. Besides, Sara is usually very good about making eye contact with you when you both talk. In a way, she’s been your primary mentor. So, you bend down next to her and ask worriedly, “Are you okay?” She pauses, still not looking at you. You ask again, “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she says quickly, chancing a glance at you briefly, but that’s all you need. Before she reverts her eyes back to the victim, you see a flicker of distress. A cry for help. She wants help, but is too proud to ask. Well, this explains her hot and cold attitude toward you. Something is wrong. “Are you sure?” you push gently. “I can be a good listener, most of the time. I know I get distracted by shiny objects, but. . .” “I’m fine, Greg,” she says blandly. “Sara, c’mon,” you say a bit harder this time. “I’m fine, Greg!” she snaps at you, before shutting her eyes in regret. “I. . .I didn’t mean to yell at you.” “No, no, don’t worry,” you tell her. “Everybody has rough nights. I always have them.” “No you don’t, Greg.” Her response is immediate. She is really looking at you and you see concern in her eyes. Here you were, trying to make sure she was alright and suddenly the tables have turned. “You’re a good CSI.” Sara has always been quick to remind you that you are competent. You want to say something meaningful in return. Unfortunately, duty calls and breaks up the moment you’re having with her. “Hi guys,” David says, walking up with his kit. “Sorry I’m late.” “Hey,” you both say and watch him kneel down next to you. He’s out of breath and you start to wonder, why is it that David is always late arriving to a crime scene? You can’t remember the last time he actually said hello without apologizing for his lateness! “Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation,” David states after a few moments. An observation you both have already made without him. You think you catch annoyance flash across Sara’s features too, something you missed the first time around while you were still snapping photos of the dumpster. Something is really bothering her! You want to know what it is that’s got her so emotionally unstable tonight, but it’ll have to wait until later. David sticks a thermometer below the abdomen of the body and tells you, “Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less.” “Thanks, David,” Sara smiles (which you can now see is forced) and she finally rises from her crouched position on the ground. She checks her camera for battery life and a quick review of the photos she has captured. She turns around to face you and goes to give you her next order. You cut her off because you already know what she wants to know. “The dumpster is kind of a bust. A bloody tissue was all I found,” you say curtly. You don’t mean for your tone to be so brusk, but you can’t help it. You’ve done this before. She steps back and half smiles, “How did you know I was going to ask you that?” “Clairvoyant?” you joke. It’s funny that you even think joking about this is a good idea. Sure, you had always imagined you had inherited some sort of clairvoyance from your grandmother, but this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind! You’re still a bit freaked out that this is happening at all. “Right, clairvoyant,” she laughs a little, before gesturing toward the dumpster. “If I were you, I would get in the dumpster. Look for. . .” “Anything that might make ligature marks about half an inch wide?” you finish. You have to say, seeing her shocked expression at completing her thoughts for a second time is just as rewarding as the first time! You walk past her and pat her shoulder, “I’ll get right on that, Sara.” As you prepare to climb back into the past day’s worth of uneaten food, she calls after you, “Maybe you are clairvoyant!” ------------------------------------------- The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.. A song starts out softly, the lyrics still the same. “And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace.” You groan into your pillow. Not again. Please, not again. The song finishes and right on cue, your favorite host greets the world, “Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!” “Morning, Dan,” you mumble. You get up out of bed, look around the room and just sigh. As you head into the bathroom, you hear for the fourth time in four days that Scotty’s Junction is a mess that you would be smart to avoid. ------------------------------------------- “I’ll take the dumpster,” you smile at her. Catherine’s mouth hangs open for a moment, before she half-smiles, “Okaaay, go for it. Nick why don’t you. . .” “Go inside with Cat and question the owner of the restaurant,” you finish for her, stalking over to the dumpster like you own it. Well, it’s true. You do own it. “Right,” Catherine says warily in your direction, before returning her focus to Sara. “Sara, can you take care of the body?” “Sure thing,” Sara says, also giving you a funny look. You just smile goofily at her. You nonchalantly push the shutter on the camera to snap photos, but you don’t know what exactly your snapping photos of. You find that you really don’t care anymore. Your constant flashing prompts Sara to look up and point out, “Um, Greg? You’re not looking.” “I know,” you say, winking at her. You snap the shutter again. You might have taken a photo of your shoes this time. She smiles, but not because she’s amused. It’s a nervous smile. She’s worried about you. She rises to her feet, something she hasn’t done the first three times she’s inspected the body. Usually, she’s in that crouched position until all the processing is done. Interesting. Acting irrationally will also cause others to act irrationally. Changing your behavior will jumble up the events a little bit thereby making this mundane existence a little less mundane. Sara ignores her job and focuses on you, “Greg, I don’t think Grissom would appreciate you slacking at the scene.” “Hey, trust me, it doesn’t matter what I take pictures of,” you say, shrugging. “We’ll just go back to the lab, put my camera aside and won’t waste a minute on them. Why won’t we look at them, you ask?” Without looking, you bend over and pick up a bloody tissue. “Because this is all we need.” Sara’s mouth hangs open, then shuts. You’ve left her speechless. Fascinating. You point at the dumpster and continue, “In fact, I should just go dumpster diving right now. Try and find the murder weapon that I know won’t be there.” You point at the victim, “He was strangled, right? With something about half an inch wide?” Sara turns her head back to the victim, then back to you with a look of amazement, “How did you know? You haven’t even looked at the body!” You put the bloody tissue in an evidence bag, “What can I say, Sara? I have a gift.” You hand her the evidence and chuckle. Sara’s look of bafflement is priceless. ------------------------------------------- “You wanted to see me?” you ask, leaning in the threshold. Wendy looks up at you, confused. “Uh, no?” she says, then a machine beeps behind her. You see your results are printing, then look at her again as if to say ‘told you so!’. She shakes her head, reaches for the printout and says surprised, “Uh, I guess I do need to see you.” “Tracy Marshall?” you ask, since you already know the answer. “Uh, yeah, how did you know?” Wendy looks at you, amazement taking over her features now. You have to admit, ‘wowing’ people with your clairvoyance is starting to wear off. Their looks of amazement just aren’t that amazing anymore. To you, knowing what will happen when it will happen just isn’t that exciting, but to everyone else, it’s like losing their virginity all over again! It’s pure and new. It’s fascinating that you could know so much about their future thoughts or actions without breaking a sweat. To you, knowing the future has lost its appeal. Why didn’t the fates allow you to repeat an entire week? What about an entire year?!? Imagine what you could do knowing events an entire year in advance! You could save the entire world from atomic destruction, if necessary! As it is, however, you only know today. How utterly tragic. Wendy stands up, furrowing her brow at you, “Greg? How did you know it was Tracy Marshall?” You’ve gotten lost in your musings, worrying Wendy. Despite how boring this has become, you still want to look like a clairvoyant genius, not a crazy nutcase. So you snap to and answer, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “Lucky guess.” She walks around the desk toward you and places a hand on your forearm. You look up and see . . . compassion in her eyes. How can this be? How could she feel sorry for you? Maybe. . .just maybe she knows! She’s been experiencing the time loop too! Before you can jump on this notion, she says, “Greg, you don’t seem like yourself today. Are you okay?” Your face falls. No, she’s just concerned because you’ve lost your “Greg-ness”. Still, the concern is most welcome and her touch is driving you positively crazy. Oddly enough, you don’t find this moment ideal for some opportunistic flirting, so you just force a smile, “I’m okay, Wendy.” She smiles back, her voice melting your heart, “Promise?” “I promise. I’m fine,” you say, not because it’s the truth but because you know it’ll keep that smile on her face. You gently pull back, check the time and tell her, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to run into Catherine.” You leave Wendy quickly to keep her from asking more questions, but you’re quite sad you have to go. As many times as you have been on this merry-go-round, this is the first time you’ve elicited some sort of sympathy out of someone. Maybe when you do this all again, you’ll find some way to get her to join you for a drink. Catherine rounds the corner and waves at you to meet up with her. Obediently, you do. She greets you, “Hey, Greg.” “Hello, Catherine.” She pauses at your use of her full name. You can usually get away with calling her ‘Cat’ or ‘Cath’, but today, why not switch things up a bit? You do notice, however, that saying ‘Catherine’ over ‘Cat’ has brought about a much different reaction than you had expected. She seems. . .touched by your maturity, perhaps. Her momentary reverie finally dissipates and she gets right down to business, “How’s your stuff coming?” “DNA kicked out a name. Tracy Marshall,” you tell her, fighting back a yawn. Then you add half-heartedly, “Oh, by the way. The hair. Looks good on you.” “Uh, thanks,” she says, then turns to leave. Her expression is still somewhat befuddled as she orders, “Keep me up to date, will ya?” “You betcha!” you smile widely, giving her two thumbs up. Through your clenched teeth, you mumble, “Of course, by the end of shift, nothing new will come in and we will play this game all over again tomorrow!” You turn on your heels, walk in the opposite direction and can’t help but say bitterly, “But yes, Catherine! I will keep you up-to-date!” ------------------------------------------- Nick and Warrick are drunk. Again. This time, you opt not to drink as much. Alcohol is fun, oh, the first three times. Now, you can’t really stand to look at this stuff. Besides, you now know that getting drunk and passing out will not erase whatever the hell is happening to you. It’s now 8 in the morning. You will probably leave this joint in about thirty or forty minutes. Nick will flirt with your waitress, Cindy, and Warrick will encourage it. You will call a cab, go home and lay down to sleep at about 9 a.m.. You will wake up at 1 p.m. on the dot and hear that same, damn rock song all over again. Dan the Man will say hello. You will say hello back. You will take a shower, get dressed, go outside and avoid Mrs. Templeton and her demands for your rent payment. You will go to work. You will work the dumpster. You will find the tissue and know the owner of the DNA. You will spin your wheels on the evidence you have because by the time you leave, nothing new will come in. You will end up back at this bar, watch Nick and Warrick get drunk and start the cycle all over again. To be frank, you are a god. Being god sucks. “What is up with you, man?” Nick chokes on his drink, slapping you on the back. “You’re not drinking!” “Not in the mood,” you shrug. “C’mon, what’s the trouble?” Warrick asks, now also concerned with your lack of desire to get wasted. “You want me to be honest?” you ask. “Yeah,” they both say. “This is the seventh time I’ve done this,” you say simply. They laugh, which is the reaction you expected. For some inane reason, you try to get them to believe you. You desperately need someone to believe you! “No, guys. I’m serious. This is the seventh time I have lived this day. The seventh time I’ve heard Nick tell me that joke about the rabbi and the priest. The seventh time I’ve ordered this martini. The seventh damn time that I’ve come to this bar with the two of you and tried to forget that it all ever happened!” You lean forward and they lean toward you, “I’ve been repeating the last 24 hours like a loop on a record player. I can’t seem to get it to stop.” The two drunken men try to remain serious, but bust a gut laughing anyway. You slam a napkin down on the table and stand up to leave, “I’m going home.” “No, no, wh-wh-wait a minute!” Nick says in between his giggle fits. “Sit down, Greggo. Sit down.” “Yeah, yeah, sit, we didn’t mean to laugh at you,” Warrick adds, also still trying to keep his chuckles under control. He then whispers to Nick,”We didn’t mean to laugh that hard!” Nick snickers some more. You reluctantly fall back into your chair and wait on them to finish. Once they seem to be under control, Nick drains the last of his drink and scoots closer to you. In fact, you think he’s scooted almost too close to you. Weird. You shift uncomfortably, as he speaks to you, “Look, man. If. . .If I were able to do this day all over again...and again...and again. . .and again. . .” “Now look who’s on a loop!” Warrick jokes, pointing at Nick. “Shut-up, Rick!” Nick yells, then turns back to you. “If I could repeat today all over again, I’d bet on a game.” “No you wouldn’t,” Warrick chides. “Yes, I would,” Nick defends himself, his arm bumping yours as he animatedly defends himself. “You know why? Because I will know who’s gonna win!” You stare at Nick, not because he looks like a complete drunk, but because he makes a very valid point. Knowing what will happen at the lab is only half the reward! You can learn about everything else that has happened in the last 24 hours and use that to your advantage as well! You can bet on games. Spend all your money and never go broke. Sure, you can “predict the future” and wow everyone with your skills, but now you could charge fees to “read their palms”! Why make this whole existence miserable when you can have some fun? You smile mischievously at him and say, “Nick, I love you man!” Nick just smiles at you and says back, “No, man. I love you! I love you!” Warrick rolls his eyes, “There he goes again. . .” Again? Nick’s arm has found a resting place on your shoulders, hugging you close to him while he laughs. You awkwardly settle into his embrace and can’t help but wonder what exactly Nick means by ‘I love you’. You can’t help but wonder why your body feels warm at the thought. ------------------------------------------- The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.. A song starts out softly, the lyrics still the same. Good. You want them to be the same. Today, you’re going to get this day right. “And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace.” You smile into your pillow. Today is a brand new day, so to speak. Today, you will be the new and improved Greg Sanders. That new Greg Sanders will require a suit. A nice Armani suit. ------------------------------------------- Fitting for the suit took longer than expected, but a call to Grissom to clear things up wasn’t as painful as you had imagined. Besides, the next time you do this, you won’t have any trouble since you now know your exact measurements. Fitting won’t take as long tomorrow. Anyway, Grissom was upset you were late, but he had too much on his mind to yell at you. He simply ordered you to the crime scene at once to help out Nick, Catherine and Sara. Judging by your watch, you are only a minute or two late. You know that Catherine hasn’t handed out her orders yet. You pull up to the crime scene, deciding that next time you’ll rent a limo and pull up to work in style. Not to say that this new suit isn’t stylish enough. It was tough at first, handing over your credit card to the cashier, but you kept reminding yourself that tomorrow, all that money would be back in your account. It would be like you never bought the suit in the first place! You grab your kit and begin your trek up to your team. Your new shoes are gleaming in the police lights and the gold cufflinks sparkle. You had decided to slick back your hair too. Now you truly are an old school, Las Vegas mobster! If only Lois O’Neill could see you now! You duck under the tape just as Catherine is about to open her mouth and give out instructions. “Shall I take the dumpster?” you ask, your smile as bright and as suave as you can make it. “Nice of you to join us, Greg,” Catherine begins to scold, but once she has completely turned around to face you, she loses all coherent thought. In fact, all of them are gaping at you with astonishment. You grin wider. This is better than you had imagined! Nick finds his voice first, the two woman positively taken aback. “Greg? Is that you?” “Of course it’s me!” you say, shaking your head at Nick. You even tease him, “Is your eyesight going in your old age, Nick? Or maybe you’re just marveling at how devilishly handsome I am?” Nick glares at you, while Sara snaps out of her gaping and stifles a laugh at your joke. Catherine finally chuckles as well, a small smile on her lips, “Greg? Why in the world are you in a suit?” You correct her playfully, “An Armani suit.” She laughs, “Okay. Why in the world are you in an Armani suit?” Sara adds thoughtfully, “And why show up to work in it?” Honestly, you wanted the suit to avoid dumpster duty, but you won’t tell them that. Instead you lie, “I had a hot date and didn’t have time to change.” Nick laughs, clearly skeptical, “Yeah, right.” “I’m serious,” you retort, then flash a pleading look toward Catherine. “I know I said I would take up the dumpster, but I really don’t wanna mess up my suit.” For the first time in seven tries, Catherine changes her orders around to your liking. “Okay, Sara will take the body and Nick will take the dumpster. Greg, you’re with me.” Nick’s eyes go wide. “Cath, wait a minute.” Catherine looks at Nick, wondering what in the world he’s going to say. Is he going to complain about being stuck with dumpster diving? He wouldn’t look very professional if he did and he realizes this. Instead, he gives up and says, “I’m on it, Cath.” “Good,” she says. You shrug and smile at Nick, only to make him scowl at you. Nick never really thought you were ready for the field, so it doesn’t surprise you that he’s a tad ticked off. This wouldn’t be the first time Catherine choose you over Nick or Sara either. Nick and Catherine are close and you might be lying if you said putting a little distance between them didn't make you all giddy inside. You really want to impress Catherine today. “Ready Greg?” Catherine asks. You glide past a brooding Nick Stokes on feather light feet until you’re by Catherine’s side. Sara just shakes her head, amused by your latest stunt, but quick to tend to her duties by the body. Nick stares at you for a second more, conflicting emotions written all over his face. Finally he takes his camera over to the dumpster to begin his work. You want to remind him of the bloody tissue, but you know Nick was a CSI long before you were. He’ll find it. Before you enter the restaurant, your eyes find Catherine’s. You hold her thoughtful gaze for a few seconds before she half-smiles at you, “Something is different about you.” “Must be the suit,” you say. “No, I don’t think so,” she says, her eyes softening just a bit before she instructs, “Let’s go.” You hold the door open for her and say wistfully, “As you wish, my lady.” To be continued. . .
Author's Notes: Thank you, thank you for the comments! I'm updating as fast as I can! Chapter Three If At First You Don’t Succeed. . . You follow Catherine down the semi-dark corridor until you reach the doors to the kitchen. You push through those doors flooded with bright white light and suddenly, you’re all investigator again. Sure, you got what you wanted this time around, presenting yourself as the high roller with the slick hair and suit. You beat out Nick Stokes and got to be with Catherine, but questioning the restaurant manager is all brand new. You feel obligated to pay close attention. Plus, you’ve got the previous knowledge of evidence that has yet to be collected stored in your memory banks. Maybe you’ll learn something or inquire about something Catherine and Nick wouldn’t have known to ask about. “May I help you?” a moderately deep voice calls out to you. “I’m Catherine Willows and this is Greg Sanders, CSI,” Catherine introduces you. “Are you the manager?” “Yes, I’m Victor Gilman, the manager of this fine establishment,” he confirms, then his voice grows sad and dissolute. “It’s a shame, to have to reduce myself and my fine staff to such a level of mediocrity! You have to understand, murders usually take place behind strip clubs and ratty bars. Not in the alleyway of a five star restaurant!” Catherine frowns and comments, “I’ll have you know, not all strip clubs are breeding grounds for murderers, Mr. Gilman.” She’s clearly offended. You feel the need to cool Catherine’s jets and decide to take control, “Did you know the victim at all, Mr. Gilman? He had no I.D. on him.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t know him, I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, tapping a finger against his cheek. He’s wearing gold on nearly all of his fingers. You notice his facial hair is trimmed very neatly and his eyes are a dark shade of brown. His lips are taut with frustration, but even that doesn’t seem to demean his perfect complexion. “Is there any way to get you out of here any faster? My customers are getting antsy.” “Well, right now, your backyard is a crime scene,” Catherine says, not a bit of remorse in her voice. “Until this case is closed, you’re going to have to deal.” You think of Tracy Marshall’s DNA and the bloody tissue it was found on. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. You look around nonchalantly and say, “You have a lot of women working under you, Mr. Gilman?” Catherine gives you an odd look, not sure why that’s relevant right now. You give her a reassuring nod, telling her it’s okay. You’ve got this. Mr. Gilman straightens up, assuming he’s being accused of discriminating against female employees. “Of course I do! Some of my best chefs are women!” “You think we could get a list of your employees?” you ask next. You don’t know, but you hope that Tracy’s name is on this list and that’ll be your link between the events outside and this restaurant. Before Mr. Gilman can object, you warn, “We could just get a court order. Bring more nasty cops and yellow tape around and scare away your fine customers.” “I’ll get you the list,” Gilman says quickly. He disappears through another set of kitchen doors. Once he’s gone, Catherine looks at you, “I’m impressed with how you handled that, but why ask for the employee’s list? Brass told us the vic has no I.D. He doesn’t work here and the only connection between our d.b. and the restaurant is location. He could’ve been dumped here for all we know.” “I know that,” you say, then blurt out, “But last time, you and Nick didn’t even bother to ask for the list, so I thought that maybe this time. . .” Catherine raises an eyebrow at you and you realize you’re mistake. Only you are repeating this day. Catherine is not. You gasp for air like a fish out of water, trying to think of something to say to cover your slip-up. Gilman comes back and saves you. “Here you go,” he says snootily. “Is that all?” “For now, Mr. Gilman,” Catherine says, momentarily forgetting your last conversation. “We’ll be in touch and we’ll try to be as expeditious as possible.” You know she only says this as a courtesy, not because she means it. “Thank you,” Gilman sighs deeply, waving you away like you’re yesterday’s bad meatloaf. As you walk out, you can feel her stare on your back. You hold open the door for her, then gently grasp her forearm to stop her. She looks at you and you say, “Trust me on the women employee thing. I have a hunch.” Her look is skeptical, but trusting. You let her go and you reenter the alley. Sara is checking her camera for battery life and Nick is in the dumpster. You try to fight your gleeful grin. Nick Stokes doing your original job is a sight for sore eyes! You notice the mess he has made, trash everywhere. You also notice he hasn’t bagged any evidence. Where’s the bloody tissue?? To say you’ve started to panic is an understatement. You need that bloody tissue! “You get anything?” Catherine asks him. “No,” he scoffs frustrated. “There had been evidence of a struggle, which I documented. Sara told me the vic was probably strangled, so I decided to hop in here and look for a murder weapon. It’s all just leftover food, Cath.” “Wait!” you say, but then clamp your mouth shut. Sara, Catherine and Nick look at you expectantly. You run your fingers over you lips nervously then suggest, “Why don’t I give you a second pair of eyes? It is dark out here.” “I think I’ve been doing this long enough to know what is evidence and what’s not, Greg,” Nick says defensively. You sigh deeply, then spy the object of your desire. The bloody tissue. As much as you like being able one up Nick, you’d hate to do it now. You actually feel bad, but you can’t let this evidence slip by. You walk over to it, pull out a glove from your pocket and slip it on. You pick up the crucial evidence and say, “Well, what about this?” Catherine walks up to you and says, “Well, I’d say that’s blood. It could be just someone’s nose bleed, but right now, that’s our most concrete lead.” You smile at her, then turn to Nick. He’s standing in the trash, a blank expression on his face. You can tell he’s trying to decide between being mad at you or feeling inferior. Maybe after shift, you’ll skip out on having drinks with Warrick and Nick. It’s one thing to hang out with a jubilant, drunk Nick. A drunk, bitter Nick you’d like to avoid. ------------------------------------------- If there’s one thing you’re happy about, it’s the fact that you don’t have to shower after rummaging through trash and already been chewed food. Nick gets to do that. You get to stride around the halls of the lab in your new Armani suit and go over the evidence looking super fly and super desirable. You swear you saw Mandy give you a second look as you strode past her in the fingerprint lab. Even Hodges paused, which you can admit made you highly uncomfortable, but the simple fact remains: you’re turning heads. Even Sara has given you a compliment. So far, the hardest cookie to crack has been Catherine. “Greg?” It’s Grissom. You turn around and greet him boldly, “Hey, Grizzle.” He squints at you through his glasses and repeats curiously, “Grizzle?” “Fo shizzle,” you wink, but as usual, he’s not amused by your humor. You take it down a notch and get down to business, “You need me for something, Gris?” “I just wanted to. . .um, the DNA results might match someone on the employee list,” he stammers, clearly preoccupied. He’s staring at your suit. “I know, that’s why I asked for the list,” you answer, then shut your eyes in annoyance. You did it again. Get your facts and time lines straight, Greg! you scold yourself. “You asked for an employee list to compare with DNA you didn’t have yet?” Grissom questions, then finally gestures toward your suit. “Why are you in a suit?” Good. A diversion. You completely ignore his first question and focus on the suit. “Hot date. No time to change.” “You have time now. Go change,” he says, turning to walk away. He adds before he turns the corner, “And don’t forget to compare the results.” “Okay,” you answer, then smooth your hair nervously. You have got to be more careful. This is the second time today you’ve dropped information that you weren’t ready to drop yet. You’re getting too confident, too cocky. If you’re going to solve this case, you can’t get ahead of yourself, even if you know half of the case already. You tug on your sleeves to straighten them out and opt to ignore the order to change. You spent too much money on this suit to just throw it in your locker. ------------------------------------------- You went looking for Sara, but remembered she was with Doc Robbins, going over the cause of death. You already know that conversation will yield nothing new. Strangulation is how the guy died, plain and simple. What Doc Robbins won’t be able to tell you is who did the strangling. Maybe these employee records will tell you. You’re alone in the breakroom, scanning the names. This restaurant has many employees from chefs to busboys to entertainment. There’s day shift and middle shift and night shift. Some names pop up twice because the records aren’t updated frequently enough or these individuals have signed up for double shifts on purpose. Still no sign of Tracy Marshall. You sincerely hope this lead won’t be a bust. Catherine joins you in the breakroom, heading straight for coffee. She adjusts her reading glasses before addressing you, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this now. We don’t even know the DNA on that tissue yet. There’s nothing to match these names up to.” “Remember that hunch? The one about women employees?” you say, your eyes still scanning. “Yeah, so?” she says, stirring sugar into her drink. “Just trust me,” you look up and flash her a bright smile. She smiles back and the fluorescent lights seem to catch the shine of her hair just right. You compliment with genuine intentions, “By the way, I like what you’ve done with your hair. You look great.” Her smile widens, before she scolds lightly, “Don’t try and distract me with cute smiles and well deserved compliments, Mr. Sanders.” “Well, you’re right about one thing. They are well deserved,” you say, your voice growing soft and deepening in tone. Your heart is beating rather fast too. This is about as far as your flirting with Catherine has ever gone. You think she realizes this too because a slight blush warms her cheeks and she pulls back by saying nothing at all. She sits at the table, sipping her coffee and avoiding your gaze. You’re somewhat disappointed the flirting is over, but one more glance at the list makes you stand up and blurt out, “Tracy Marshall!” “Yeah, how did you know?” Wendy says in the doorway. Catherine looks up at you first, then turns around to Wendy. The DNA tech steps in and whistles, “Wow, Greg. Sometimes you scare me. The DNA just came back. The blood belongs to a Tracy Marshall. Do you know her?” Catherine is speechless, turning her head to look at you again. She wants to know the answer to that question as well. Well, do you know Tracy Marshall? Not really. You know her DNA strand patterns, but that’s about it. So, you shake your head and say, “Uh, no. I just. . .uh, I had a vision! You know, psychic stuff.” “Uh huh,” Catherine says, now her expression one of bemusement. “So this refers to that hunch?” “It was an accurate hunch,” you argue, grinning widely. You hold up the list, “And Tracy works at the restaurant. I know it doesn’t definitively place her with the victim, but it’s enough to question her, right? It distinctly places her at the scene of a crime!” You’re excited. Maybe too excited. Sure, the tissue places Tracy there. Maybe. That blood could’ve come about in a kitchen accident. Tracy subsequently wiped it up and threw the tissue out. However, you have to question that little scenario. You found the tissue on top of the trash, not inside of it. Like she tossed it in the dumpster after all the bagged trash was dumped. She tossed it after she strangled your victim and had to clean up her own battle wounds. “It’ll be a stretch, but I think Brass can get her in for questioning,” Catherine says, eyeing you warily. Wendy is also giving you an odd smile as she inquires curiously, “So, seriously. How did you know to look for Tracy?” “Lucky guess,” you smile, then add. “I did tell Grissom about my grandma. Did I ever tell you about her psychic abilities?” “Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Catherine laughs, prompting Wendy to also chuckle and make her exit. You plop back down into your chair, clearly proud of yourself. You lean back in the chair, a smug grin crossing your face. If you can swing it the right way, you could solve this case all by yourself! You could be the lab hero! The headlines are rolling through your head already: CSI Level 1 Greg Sanders found all the evidence in a murder investigation and caught the killer without the aid of his fellow teammates. Read more and find out how completely and utterly single Greg is! “Okay, hotshot,” Catherine laughs. “That suit has made you lucky, that’s all.” You grin, “Luck has nothing to do with it, trust me.” “Well, luck, clairvoyance, whatever,” she shakes her head in amusement. “Just don’t get too ahead of the evidence. You’ve been around long enough to know that not everything is what it seems.” “Point taken,” you concede, knowing she’s right. You sit up straight in your chair again, letting the cocky attitude wash away for now. Your eyes catch her hands delicately grasping her mug. She has a report on the table next to her and she’s intently reading it. Seeing she is distracted, you unabashedly take this opportunity to gawk at those beautiful hands. This suit wasn’t as lucky as you had hoped it would be. Sure, she’s noticed you, but not in the way you had hoped. She’s just chalked up your outlandish need to buy an expensive suit as just “being Greg”. You want to tell her you bought the suit to impress her. You want to tell her that she’s. . . “. . .beautiful.” “What?” “Hmm?” you snap your head up and look Catherine in the face. Her lips are curving into a quirky smile, her eyes squinting at you. That’s when you realize you’ve said your thoughts aloud. Damn it, that’s not how you imagined sweeping her off her feet. “You just said, you’re beautiful,” she informs you without a bit of hesitation in her voice. She’s either stunned by your omission or knows no other way to rationally react to such a confession. So you visibly wince and try to play it cute, “I said that out loud, huh?” You swear you see her cheeks turn a bit pink, but only briefly. She nods shyly, “Yeah, you did.” “Look. Catherine . . .,” you say, but she shakes her head at you to stop. “You’re a sweet kid, Greg,” she begins, her hand softly caressing your forearm. She had always been a tactile person, talking with light touches against your shoulder or arm. Maybe she is just trying to soften the blow by making contact with you. “I’m flattered, really, Greg. I am flattered, but I just couldn’t.” “Why?” you ask, desperate to know. You can always try this again tomorrow. “Why couldn’t you? What’s stopping you?” “Well, I’m your supervisor, one,” she says, as if that is the most obvious answer. It’s also an answer that doesn’t negate the possibility of an office romance with her. She’s just hiding behind her rank in the workplace hierarchy. She gives her second reason, “Two, I don’t think I’m ready for any kind of relationship right now, despite us working together. I don’t want to hurt you unintentionally.” You look down and mumble, “I’m hurting now.” She lifts your chin up to look at her again and smiles sadly. She wants to say something, but what that is, you’ll never know. Instead, she holds your face in her soft hand for a very long second, before pulling back and getting up from the table. She grabs her report and coffee and heads for the door. Before she steps out, she looks at you and asks, “You okay?” You force a smile, “Yeah, I’m fine.” ------------------------------------------- The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.. The same song starts out softly, the lyrics resonating in your skull. “And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace.” You say good morning to Dan the Man, get dressed and race out the door in record time. You buy your suit, the trip much faster because you know your exact size. You arrive at the scene, trick Catherine into letting you join her. Nick ends up in the trash. Sara is still stuck with the body. You get the employee list and find the tissue. Nick is pissed at you again. Back at the lab, you match Tracy’s DNA and her name on the list. You’re the hotshot again. However, talking with Catherine afterwards, you change tactics. You begin asking Catherine innocuous questions. You learn she’s never been to New York. She’s a sucker for those mystery chocolates in those Valentine boxes. Lindsey is still acting out, but she’s now chalked that up to typical teenager behavior. You’ve learned more about her in those ten minutes of talking than you have in the last seven years. At the end of it all, she chuckles, “Why so curious, Greg?” You shrug, “We just never get to talk, Cath. We should talk more often.” “Yeah,” she nods. “We should talk more often.” ------------------------------------------- The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.. The same song starts out softly, the lyrics resonating in your skull. “And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace.” You go through the same motions. You buy the suit again. You also take your credit card to other stores, buying other things you feel will help you today. You go through the same motions. You get the employee list and the bloody tissue. You match Tracy’s name. By the time you get through all this again, the shift is nearly over and you have to cancel your bar crawling plans with Warrick and Nick yet again. You’ve got other ideas on how to spend your time. You knock on the doorframe of Catherine’s open office door. She says enter and you do. You skip in, your hands behind your back and you say happily, “Close your eyes, Cath. I’ve got a surprise for you.” “Uh oh,” she says, an eyebrow quirked in suspicion. “It’s nothing bad, I promise,” you say, still grinning like an idiot. You hope this works. She’s still just staring at you and you insist, “Close your eyes! Play along, please?” Finally, she does and you set your gifts on the desk in front of her. After you have it all set as perfectly as possible, you stand back and inspect your handiwork. Then you instruct, “Okay. Open them.” She does and gasps. Before her you have set a box of chocolates and a snow globe of New York City. You slowly take a seat and watch her reaction. First, she’s puzzled, then her expression softens and she picks up the snow globe, careful to keep her fingers from smudging the glass too much. She looks at you and smiles broadly, before turning it over to let the snow fall. Then she flips it back and watches the snow globe come to life. The replica of New York City is enduring a tame snow storm, the buildings catching hold of the flakes on their rooftops. You both watch with great intrigue. She says quietly, “Greg, I don’t know what to say.” “Just say you like it,” you reply simply. “I love it,” she smiles, before watching the snow flutter about again. Her hand also lingers on the box of chocolates, tempted to crack that open and try her luck on the mystery candy. “How did you know I liked these?” You chuckle, “Lucky suit, remember? Lucky guess.” She laughs, “Okay, chocolates are easy. Any woman would love this, but the snow globe. That’s a thoughtful gift. Who have you been talking to?” “Nobody,” you insist. Except you . . . She flips the globe once more, the snow storm starting all over again. “There’s only one person in this lab who knows I haven’t been to New York and that’s Grissom.” You fold your hands and reply, “I saw it and thought of you. That’s all, Catherine. I thought of you.” There’s a comfortable silence between you two, before she says softly, “Thank you, Greg.” “You’re welcome,” you say, then ask nonchalantly, “What are you doing after shift?” She leans back and sighs, “Oh, going home. Getting Lindsey ready for school.” On that note, she stands and announces, “I should probably get going so I won’t be late again.” “Let me help,” you say, also standing and going to grab her gifts. You had both leaned forward at the same time to grab the same items and knock heads. You groan slightly and mumble, “I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry,” she laughs, looking at you with an embarrassed smile. You can feel her breath on your cheek and that’s when you realize you two haven’t pulled back as far as you thought. In fact, you’ve barely moved away from one another. You search out her eyes and start to smile nervously. It’s been quite a long time since you’ve been out with someone, but you wouldn’t mistake the signals her eyes are giving you. This is the “in” you’ve been waiting for and you take it. You brush your lips against hers quickly, briefly. If the first kiss is quick, then you can chalk that up to a mistake. You can apologize for misreading, but you find that’s not necessary. She searches out your lips again and you make contact. It’s a soft kiss, slow and about as innocent a kiss you’ve ever taken part in. There’s no tongue involved, but you find you don’t mind. Why should you? You’re kissing Catherine Willows! There’s no problem here! Then there’s this whoosh of cold air and she’s gone. You open your eyes and her face is panicked. No, no, no! Not good! Not good at all! You blurt out, “Catherine, hey, wait. Wait a sec. . .” “That was a mistake, Greg,” she says evenly. Her tone isn’t necessarily cold, but it’s serious. She gathers up the globe and her belongings and says, “Greg, I appreciate what you’ve done, but I can’t accept this.” She shoves the globe back into your hands (but not the chocolates, you notice) and firmly says, “I have to go.” “Catherine,” you call out to her as she brushes past you. You sound desperate, you realize. You’re pleading, but quite frankly, you don’t care! You were so close! She pauses in her doorway and waits on you to say something. You stand straight and say, “Catherine, I’m sorry if I crossed the line. I just wanted to be that guy for you. The one you could count on.” Her expression turns into one of sympathy and she walks back over to you. She caresses your cheek with her soft palm and smiles, “You didn’t have to prove that to me. I’ve always counted on you. I’ve always trusted your intentions to be good. I just can’t go there with you. You mean too much to me.” You nod and watch her leave. You decide that maybe Catherine Willows needs you more as friend. You also decide that you don’t like that very much at all. You hold up the globe and stare into the replica of New York. With a forlorn expression, you sit the globe back on her desk. Tomorrow, it’ll be like you never gave it to her. To be continued. . .