Stolen

Catherine Willows looked over the crime scene for the forth time since they’d arrived. The alleyway was fairly nondescript. The ground was stained with the usual, nothing out of the ordinary. The light over the dumpster had burned out long ago and it looked like no one had ever bothered to replace it. But she looked past these things and focused on what she was trained to find, what was out of place.
The first thing she’d documented upon arriving had been the skid marks that peeled out of the narrow alleyway and into the street. The abduction had not happed too far from public eye and she couldn’t help but wonder why the kidnapper would have risked it. Either he’d been laying in wait for Greg or he hadn’t been expecting him and didn’t want to lose the opportunity. The first theory didn’t make much sense, however. If he’d been laying in wait, how could he have predicted that Greg would come into the alley?
She wanted to wait until they had collected more evidence to form a theory, but they had to come to a conclusion quickly so they could find Greg alive. They had almost lost Nick because they couldn’t find the answers and Catherine didn’t want to see them lose Greg. As her mind crossed over Nick, she glanced at him. The Texan really hadn’t taken Greg’s kidnapping well. It was hard to pin down why. The CSI could have been having flashbacks to his own abduction, or it could have been something else entirely.
Catherine suspected that he felt guilty as she watched him turn Greg’s cell phone over in his hands. Nick had documented its location and immediately picked it up, but he didn’t bag it as evidence, as he should have.
Sara broke Catherine’s scrutiny with an alarming statement, “I found blood. It’s not a lot, but it’s fresh.”
Both of the other investigators were at her side instantly.
“We’ll have to check and see if it’s Greg’s. If it isn’t, then we might have a lead.”
“Let’s just hope Greg got a chance to fight back…”
Catherine let her statement fade away as her phone went off. She checked the number and flipped the phone open, “What have you got?”
“We’ve found the suspect’s vehicle on the traffic cameras, but it doesn’t have a license plate. It’s a black van. How are things going at the scene?” Grissom’s disembodied voice asked her.
The dayshift supervisor sighed and visually scanned the taped-off area once more. “Not so well. There isn’t much evidence here and our supporting officer hasn’t had much luck in his questioning.”
“How’s Nick holding up?”
“He seems to be doing better, but I’m certain he feels he’s somehow responsible for this. Fortunately, he has been able to relate everything we’ve found to events he heard on the phone.”
“Good. Do what you can there and head back.”
“We shouldn’t be too much longer. We’ll see you soon.”
“Alright.”
Catherine snapped the phone shut. “We need to thoroughly search the area one more time and then Grissom wants us back.”
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Warrick Brown entered Catherine’s photographic evidence of the tire treads through the computer, several anxious faces hanging over his shoulder. It bothered him, but not enough to shoo his concerned coworkers out of the room. He wanted to know whether the treads matched the black van as much as anyone, but he also recognized why Grissom never liked a CSI working a case where they were emotionally involved. Not only did it cloud judgment as far as evidence was concerned, it also kept them from getting much done. The two hovering behind him could be doing a number of things, but they wanted to know if the tire treads belonged to a Ford van.
“So we match these treads to that van and then what have we got? A black van with no license plate and Greg stuffed in the back. That doesn’t give us much. There are hundreds, if not thousands of those things registered in the state of Nevada,” Warrick said quietly.
The computer didn’t give much of a chance for a response. It kicked out a match almost instantly, bringing up the archive picture on the opposing side of the screen from their evidence.
“Tread match to the standard tire of a Ford.”
An extremely uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Warrick was right, they had nothing. They had the image of a van, without tags, driving off with a member of their team inside. Warrick’s shadows, otherwise known as Sara and Nick, stepped away to give him back his space.
Nick felt the nausea returning. Two and a half hours had passed since Greg’s kidnapping and they were no closer to finding him. No ransom note had been sent to his immediate family or the lab, nor had any calls come in. They were going to lose him.
Sara watched as the bleary-eyed Texan collapsed onto the nearest surface, which happened to be a desk, and rubbed his face with both hands. She glanced over at Warrick and motioned at the distraught man with the unspoken question on her face. He shrugged helplessly. The dark-skinned investigator was close friends with Nick, but he didn’t know anymore about his current emotional state than anyone else did. He had his theories, just like the others, but no one would know who was right until someone asked.
Sara tentatively sat down next to Nick and tried to find the best way to phrase her inquiry. Before she could gather together the right words, Catherine rushed into the room.
“We found a plate.”
Three confused faces turned to her, but Warrick was the first to speak, “Wait, but I thought that there wasn’t a plate. What do you mean you found one?”
“It was painted black, that’s why we couldn’t see it at first. Grissom is trying to get the numbers off of it now.”
All three hurried after her.
On the other side of the lab, they found Grissom working in tandem with a night shift lab technician. As he found the various numbers and letters of the plate in the hectic footage, he shot them over his shoulder to David Hodges, who added it to the rapidly narrowing search. When the search had narrowed to one, the lab tech grinned.
“Got it! Van’s owner is a Mark Hollis over on Stevens Street, 4872.”
Grissom turned to his team and seemed to take a moment to process them. When he gave his orders, it was in a tone that warded against any argument, “Warrick, Catherine, you’re with me. We’re going to pay Mr. Hollis a visit.”
Nick opened his mouth, but Gil gave him a warning look.
“Sara, Nick, you’ll stay here.”
Distress twisted Nick’s features as he tried again. Grissom narrowed his eyes and cut him off a second time, “You’ll stay here, Nicky.”
The Texan bit off his words at his tongue and resisted the urge to punch the nearest wall. Considering the density of the lab walls, it would probably break all the bones in his hand anyway. The trio left, Warrick shooting Nick an apologetic look over his shoulder on the way out.
“Well, shall we get some coffee?” Sara asked as lightly as she could. When she got no answer, she sighed. “There isn’t anything we can do until they get back. The blood we found was Greg’s and we already know that the tire treads match the van. You really should take a break.” Nick still didn’t respond, so Sara pushed her mousy brown hair over her shoulder and grabbed the man’s elbow. “We’re getting coffee.”
Nick allowed himself to be led. He didn’t protest when Sara pushed him into a chair in an empty break room and shut the door. He wanted to be part of the case, to be there when they found Greg, but Grissom had shot that chance down. Frustration made him want to tear out his hair, or break down into a sobbing mess. He was frustrated with himself more than Grissom, however. Gil made intelligent decisions and if he thought Nick would compromise the questioning, then he was right to make him stay behind. He’d let his emotions get in the way and he wasn’t capable of approaching the case in the right state of mind.
Nick was so busy mucking around in his own head, that he didn’t even notice Sara’s thoughtful stare. She sank into the chair across from the brooding Texan and cleared her throat. When he broke off the intense scrutiny of his shoes, she gave him a small smile.
“You want to tell me what this is all about?”
The question caught Nick off-guard. “What?”
“We’re all upset about this Nick, just like we were when you went missing, but you just haven’t been yourself. You know this isn’t your fault, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” he confirmed weakly.
Seeing the opportunity, Sara pushed the matter, “So what is it then?”
Two sets of brown eyes met, one pair curious, the other fogged and sorrow-ridden. The second set fell.
“It’s the things I haven’t told him… the things I can’t tell him…”
“Go on.”
Nick’s throat had closed up, however, so Sara got up to pour them both a cup of the promised coffee. He accepted it gratefully and took a few swallows before attempting to continue.
“I care a lot about him.”
Sara furrowed her brow quizzically at that. “We all do, Nick…” her words faded off when a mental puzzle piece fell into place. There were still plenty of holes, but she could almost make out the bigger picture. “Wait, you mean that you… you love him, don’t you?”
He nodded.
Shocked, Sara fell back into her chair. She’d thought a lot of things, but none of them had even come close to the truth. She set down her cup of coffee on the table before it managed to slip from her slack hands. All of the people close to Nick were trained to spot the unobvious, but how did they all miss this little fact? The more Sarah ran it through her mind, the more she recognized all the things she hadn’t placed before. The way Nick stood so close to Greg when he watched him work or that extra grin he always gave him before he left the lab, the pile of evidence was enormous. A few things came to mind that contradicted the evidence and Sara couldn’t help but ask.
“But what about the girls? We all know you were with that stripper that got killed. I mean, your semen was in her bed.”
Nick sighed and said, “She was a whore, you don’t have to make light of her job, and yes, I did sleep with her. Greg is straight and I had to keep my mind off of him. She, as well as others, helped me do that. Don’t get me wrong, she was a wonderful woman that just needed a little guidance, but I didn’t love her. I guess you could call it stress relief. I’m not restricted to men.”
Sara refused to be convinced. “What about when the lab exploded? We all made trips to the hospital to see him and you never did.”
A terrible pain crossed Nick’s face and his response was strained, “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to plaster that damn smile on my face and keep working? I couldn’t go to him! I wouldn’t have been able to contain myself… Look, Sara, this whole damn thing is my dirty little secret! No one was ever meant to know, especially not Greg! He’d never look at me the same way if he found out… but now it may not even matter.”
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The house Grissom parked the Tahoe in front of wasn’t a picture of perfection, but it had been tended enough to keep it from falling apart. The neighborhood seemed to be the residence of some of the average, medium-income families of Las Vegas. The next-door neighbor is always the one that people don’t expect, but it can often be the darkest criminal of all.
Their backup pulled in behind them as the team got out of the SUV. Detective Brass joined them on the front lawn.
“I heard about what happened. You think this is our guy?”
“We have no idea. The escape vehicle is registered under his name, but we need to talk to him before we can conclude anything.”
“You think he’ll be mad that we’ve come to pay him a visit so late?”
Grissom raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s only ten o’clock. He’ll get over it,” he said flatly.
They started up the lawn and Gil gave Warrick a sidelong order, “I want you to go around and visually scope the house. I want to know if that van is here.”
He nodded and broke away from the group.
“You know, he’s not technically allowed to do that,” Brass mentioned casually.
Catherine shot the detective an icy look as they reached the doorstep, but he didn’t say anything else.
Gil rang the doorbell, and while they were waiting for the occupant to answer, Warrick came back around the other side of the house. He was a little out of breath, but not enough to keep him from giving his report, “It’s not there, at least not that I can see. The garage is open, but there’s only a Honda inside and there isn’t anywhere else back there that he could hide it.”
This knowledge made the head CSI grimace. This would make things difficult. After a minute or two, the suspect opened the door. The man was of average height, about five foot six, and a medium build. His chaotic hair was a dark brown and, if it was smooth down, would have hung to the bottom of his ear. He was in an undershirt and slacks, obviously relaxing after work. His thin, white lips turned down faintly as he considered them. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice suggesting that he was genuinely confused about their presence.
Gil took over, “I’m Gil Grissom and this is Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown, we’re from the crime lab. This is Detective Jim Brass, Las Vegas PD. We’re here to ask you about your van.”
He opened the door a little wider, “My van? I don’t understand. I don’t have a van.”
Grissom sifted through his file and pulled out a capture taken from the traffic cameras, “Then why does this one have plates registered in your name?”
Mark Hollis took the photograph with a bewildered expression, but the confusion cleared as suddenly as it had clouded his heavy features. “Yeah, this was my van. I sold it years ago. I haven’t seen it since,” he admitted and handed the page back.
Brass raised an eyebrow and asked, “Any details you’d like to give us? Do you have a receipt of this transaction? The name of the guy you sold it to?”
“No, I don’t think I do,” Mark said thoughtfully and opened the door further, “Would you like to come in while a take a look through my files? I think I got rid of the documentation a long time ago, but I’d be glad to take a peek.” He led them into his living room and told them to make themselves at home as he disappeared into a personal office.
He flicked on the light and got to work, pulling open the nearest filing cabinet. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“Your van was used in a kidnapping of a CSI; we’re trying to track it down.”
Mr. Hollis glanced up with some alarm, “Kidnapping? Shit, I must have something.” He started shuffling through the file folders more quickly. “I had this slip of paper I wrote everything down on. I had his name and the amount he paid me. Damn it, that was years ago, I never thought it would be important. I kind of remember the guy, if it helps.”
“Every little bit helps.”
“He was a tall guy, at least six foot three. He had real greasy, black hair and dark eyes. Gave me the creeps, but I didn’t really care who the van went to and he had the cash up front. It wasn’t like I was selling him a gun or anything.”
Catherine walked around the living room, examining the man’s life through his possessions. There were no photographs of his parents that she could tell. Of the pictures sitting on the mantelpiece, only one of them had an older man in it, but the photograph had very obviously been taken at an office party. An attractive woman appeared in most of the others, being particularly affectionate with Mr. Hollis.
“Mr. Hollis, you seem to work in an office, what did you need a van like that for?” Catherine directed her question towards the study.
The movement inside stilled momentarily and the man’s response was very bitter, “I lived out of it when I was going to college. I got tired of looking at it when I got a new car, so I sold it.”
So there were no pictures of his parents for a reason. If they let him live out of a van in college, then he probably didn’t want to think about them every day he sat in his living room. Catherine let it go.
“Here, I found it. I’m surprised I still have it.”
He handed the yellowed slip of paper to Brass and stepped away. The detective glanced at it and handed it over to Grissom. The older man took it.
“October 11th 1999, Garret Manning, $500. Thank you. It may not seem like much, but a name is more than we have right now.”
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Greg could feel the bruises rising under the man’s harsh hands. The wide grip on his throat wasn’t forceful enough to crush his windpipe, but it certainly did its job in restricting his movements. A knee crushed his legs against the cement and he was pinned so his arms were trapped between his back and the floor.
Greg would be more bothered by the painful position if he wasn’t acutely aware of the piece of metal that was traveling along his exposed stomach. Every few inches, it would bite into his skin and drag a gouge across his smooth abdomen. Every wound elicited a scream from the young CSI and caused him to buck against his tormentor’s hold. When he fought, the knife would withdraw and Greg could almost sense the man smile.
The man was an utter nutcase, but he certainly knew what he was doing. The soft touch of the blade would cause the skin to become hypersensitive, right before he cut into it. At first, Greg had thought his snatcher had wanted sex, especially when he’d ripped apart his shirt, but he now knew otherwise. The man was mad, a sadist. And, all the while, he’d been talking.
“This kind of thing takes a few days. You can’t just tear something up when it’s alive, it has to be systematic. Although, I have no idea why I start at the navel. You see, it doesn’t really matter what’s first, but I always work on the face last,” babbled that deep, unnerving voice that was slowly burning its way into Greg’s mind.
Warm liquid pooled on the younger man’s stomach and spilled across his flank. It took his detached brain a moment to realize that it was blood. It took it even longer to relate the fact that it was his blood. A sick groan slipped from between his lips at this realization. This was one of the few moments that he wished he was one of the CSI permitted to carry a weapon, but he wasn’t really sure if he wanted the gun to turn against his own temple or the man above him.
That voice interrupted his thoughts of self-destruction, “That’s right, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Don’t worry, though, I haven’t cut you deep enough to enter your stomach cavity. Your guts will stay right where they are. I’m not much of a gore person.”
Greg squeezed his eyes shut and wished desperately for some kind of savior. Any one of the team could barrel into the room with a gun blazing, and he’d be happy. Hell, he’d even settle for Eckley if it got him away from this psychotic bastard. He hoped and prayed and tried to ignore the knife digging into his flesh.