Late Fees
She couldn't find him.
He wasn't helping the coroner load the body into the van. Wasn't in the DB's room, nor was he in the public bathroom down the hall.
She wondered briefly if he'd left without her, but the Denali they'd both arrived in was still parked in the dorm lot outside. Huffing out a breath born more from confusion than annoyance, she walked down to the car, sparing a quick glance at her watch. They weren't in a hurry, it was true. The teacher's death was clearly a suicide.
It was quarter to eight, and the resident students at Waterman Academy were starting to trickle out of the large dormitory, making their way to class. Word of the teacher's demise hadn't spread yet, and Sara noticed some curious looks directed her way. Pulling out her cell phone, she tried Grissom's number again.
To her surprise, she heard the familiar ring tone trilling nearby. Spinning around, she caught sight of him sitting on a bench by the academic building. He was watching the students as they passed, and ignoring the cell phone in his pocket.
Taking a deep breath, she made her way over to him. He'd been strange lately. Zoning out at crime scenes, staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking.
"Hey."
He looked up at her, startled. "Oh, hey. Done already?"
Sara cocked an eyebrow, looking pointedly at his coat pocket. The cell phone was still ringing. "Sorry about that," he said, shaking his head ruefully. "Kind of spaced out."
"I noticed." She sat down beside him on the bench, and their gazes were drawn back to the flurry of kids heading to school. "They haven't been told yet," she said, jutting her chin toward the kids. "About Walter Lee."
"No," he agreed. "The other dorm parent who found him was very discreet. Mercifully, none of the students were around to see the body being brought out."
They both watched as more and more kids headed toward the academic building. Some munched on last-minute bagels; others chatted excitedly with friends.
"They don't know what they're in for," Grissom murmured.
"What?"
"Most of these kids have never experienced any real loss in their lives. Still have two parents, a handful of siblings. They're going to have the rug pulled out from under them."
"I guess they have to learn sometime," she said, then murmured, "Everyone does."
"Some earlier than others," he nodded, looking pensive. "That's one thing you and I have in common. One thing of many."
She found herself sneaking glances at him, wondering where this was coming from. Finally she said, "You've been different lately."
He hummed in response, which she took as a tacit agreement.
"Any reason?"
The five-minute warning bell shrilled, and those students who were still milling around outside started to make their way inside the building.
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he asked, "Did you belong to a library as a child?"
"Uh... yeah," she replied, taken aback. "What does that-"
"Ever take out a library book," he interrupted, "and forget to return it in time?"
"Yeah, sure. Of course."
"What did you do?"
"I... " She shook her head with a shrug. "I, you know, coughed up the ten cents a day, and returned it."
He hummed again, but this time his face had taken on a melancholy expression. "That's where you and I aren't so similar."
"You don't return books from libraries? Ooh, is that why you have so many in your collection?"
Ignoring her, he went on. "When I was a kid, I belonged to the public library in my town. Used to go every week, taking out three books at a time. I wanted more, but three was the limit."
"Okay..."
"And then one day, I rode my bike all the way to the library only to realize I'd left one of my books at home. Le Morte d'Arthur. It was an old leather-bound edition, and the librarian had made a show of faith in me by lending it out to a twelve-year-old boy. So she told me, rather gently, that I couldn't take out any more books until I returned that one."
"So you returned it-"
"No," he corrected her softly. "I didn't. I was embarrassed that I'd disappointed the librarian. And afraid to ask my mother for money to pay the late fee. Money was pretty tight at our house, and I knew she'd rather spend her paycheck on food, and not the consequences of my carelessness. So... I didn't return the book."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
"So... you still have Le Morte d'Arthur."
"On a shelf in my bedroom."
She nodded seriously. "Can I borrow it?"
"Sara-"
"What?" she laughed, exasperated. "We're sitting on a bench outside a school, while you get all nostalgic about some book you didn't return-"
"It's not about the book," he burst out. "It's about me. This is what I do, this is my pattern. I make a mistake, and get paralyzed by it until it's all I can think about. The only thing I can't do is fix it."
Drawing a deep breath, she sat back, thinking it over. She had a theory, but was almost too afraid to voice it. Almost. "Grissom... are you saying the situation with the book is reminding you of something that's going on in your life right now?"
He sighed heavily, nodding.
"Am, uh... am I the book?"
"What? No," he scoffed, and she felt her heart constrict sharply.
"Oh."
"You're the library."
She blinked. "What?"
"I'd ride past that library every day on the bus ride to school, and think about all the books in there. Thousands of them. All that information, just waiting to be read, but I was too scared to go in."
The wood of the bench was rough under her fingertips, but she welcomed the friction as she grasped it. "Hey Grissom?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't have late fees."
"You do, though, Sara," he said, frustrated. "Every time I've ignored you, or said hurtful things... there's a fee for that. I would have to make it up to you before we could... And maybe if I had done it right away... but it's been so much time now, and the fees keep compounding..."
A car horn nearby startled them both, as they turned to see a police cruiser pull up beside them.
"Dispatch just radioed us," one of the officers called to them. "Break-in at a convenience store, about five miles from here. You two interested?"
Grissom stood up, and Sara knew the moment was over. "Better call in Days. Our shift's over, and we've still got to go back to the lab and process the suicide."
He headed for the parking lot, leaving Sara to trail after him. They were silent on the drive back, each caught up in their own thoughts. When they reached the lab, Grissom grabbed his kit and walked quickly into the building.
Sara watched him go, pursing her lips. Suddenly, she smiled, pulling out her cell phone. "Hey, Ronnie, it's Sara Sidle. Listen... you still got that laminator?"
~*~
It was past eleven when Grissom finally made it back to his office. He'd finished the paperwork for the teacher case on his own, working in one of the layout rooms so as to avoid Sara. Once he was sure she'd gone home, he walked slowly into his office, taking off his glasses and sighing deeply.
It had been dumb, bringing up the library fees. What had sounded so eloquent and meaningful in his head had ended up sounding stilted and stupid aloud. She surely hadn't understood, and truth be told, he wasn't sure he had either.
Only when he reached over to turn off his desk lamp did he notice the small envelope resting face-down on his chair. With furrowed brows, he picked it up, turning it over to read his name written in Sara's distinctive scrawl.
She was leaving. She was fed up with his mixed messages and was leaving to-
His eyes widened as he opened the envelope, catching sight of the small ID card. A smile spread across his face, and an idea spread just as quickly.