Second Best
Second Best
My whole life, there's always been a Gil Grissom.
In sixth grade I entered the school science fair, managing to overcome a near-crippling fear of public speaking. I presented my research on plant growth under various conditions - bright light, low light, that sort of thing. I didn't mention that I'd sung to the low-light plant, rousing renditions of "Runaround Sue" and "Stand By Me." It'd be sort of embarrassing to admit to my teachers, and plus that plant had died. I'd spent weeks on the project, making posters and graphs, coloring them in carefully. Always staying within the lines. And then Joey Malmstrom came out of nowhere with a presentation about beetles, and he walked away with first prize, for tacking some dead bugs to a board.
My dad scoffed at my red ribbon. "Always second-best, kid."
I was in college the first time I fell in love. Betty Bupinski was her given name, but everyone called her Betty Boop. She was a beauty. Long legs and chocolate-colored eyes, a cute little nose that wrinkled when she smiled. I couldn't afford to wine and dine her, so we sat in a booth at the local Jack-in-the-Box and fed each other french fries while we studied chemistry. I imagined us growing old together. I'd teach our son how to throw a curveball, and I'd walk our daughter down the aisle, still with a full head of hair, of course. I'd bring her daisies every Thursday, roses on special occasions. We'd have a house in Florida by the beach, because Betty loved the taste of the wind.
She left me on the first day of Spring, staring at me blankly as I cried. She said she was in love with François Guille, an egghead French professor twenty years her senior. He recited Camus while kissing the back of her neck, she told me dreamily. I mumbled something about daisies on Thursdays, but she was already gone.
Given my track record, it's probably unsurprising that I ended up at the number two crime lab in the country. I threw myself into the job, rising quickly in the ranks until I was shift supervisor. It was a title that demanded respect, and the power appealed to me. My brains only got me so far, so I kissed whatever ass I could reach. I heard the whispers - Ecklie's too dense, too political, too unfeeling. Whisper all you like, folks, I'm now the assistant director of the entire lab.
And through it all, Grissom's been there watching. He makes his little insect timelines and quotes his dead philosophers and I want to pin him to the wall, to study him until I can figure out what the hell makes him so special. He hands in his carefully typed reports and I send them back, covered in yellow Post-Its pointing to non-existent errors. Petty, sure, but it feels so good.
It's five o'clock on a Friday when he calls to tell me he fell and broke his arm. "I need to have it set," he says, and I can hear how reluctant he is to miss work. "Sara Sidle can lead the team for tonight."
Yeah, like I'm going to promote that woman for even one night. She doesn't bother hiding her contempt when she looks at me, her big brown eyes narrowing in disdain. "I'll lead your team," I tell him.
He hesitates, and the idea grows on me. A chance to show the night shift that I'm not just some smarmy asshole with an inferiority complex. "Conrad, I really think - "
"Great, I'll enjoy working with them. Take care of your arm, Gil." I hang up before he can answer me. He was probably just going to quote Shakespeare anyway. I bet Betty Boop would have loved him.
We meet in the breakroom, me and the night shift. "I'll be your supervisor for tonight," I announce cheerily, and Sara swallows hard. There's just one case, a dead body found in an abandoned building. Sara and Greg are staring at the table as I brief them on the case, and even Sofia looks wary. "Cheer up, gang," I say, and although it was meant to be lighthearted it somehow comes out sounding like a threat.
We arrive at the scene, and I assign Sofia to the perimeter, still annoyed at her shifting loyalties.
There's a calico cat by the front door. It hisses at me and weaves through Sara's legs, making my irritation grow. "Greg and I will process the room that the body was found in," I say. "Sara, you take the rest of the house."
Greg works quietly, swabbing and dusting and bagging. I'm itching to correct him, to show my superior level of expertise, but damned if he isn't doing everything right. So I move around the room, noting the stool placed oddly in the middle of the floor.
"Tell me, Greg, why do you think someone would put a stool here?"
He shrugs. "Maybe they needed to stand on it to reach something?"
Not a bad guess, actually. There's a hole in the ceiling, right above where I'm standing. I dust the stool for prints, and finding none, I climb onto it.
"Wires," I call down to him.
"Wires as in phone cords, or wires as in an explosive device?" His voice wavers and I puff out my chest a little, feeling brave.
"Suspicious wires. Call Brass and ask him to send the bomb squad."
He pulls out his cell phone and dials, relaying the message to Brass shakily. Then he disappears into the next room, dialing again and whispering into the phone.
"Greg!" I yell, growing suspicious. "Who are you calling?"
"Um. Ms. Cleo?" he replies.
Who the hell is Ms. Cleo?
Sara wanders in. "I got a call from Brass, something about suspicious wires. He wants us out of the house."
"This is evidence," I tell her. "You and Greg can wait outside. I've got to process the room."
She eyes me dubiously. "You sure you don't want to wait for the bomb squad? Could be dangerous."
"Danger's my middle name," I tell her with a roguish grin. Danger could be my middle name, but it's John.
I pull myself up through the hole and into the crawlspace, studying the mess of colored wires. I bet Greg and Sara think more of me now. Disregarding my own safety for the good of the case. They're probably wishing I was their supervisor, instead of stodgy old Gil Grissom with the bum knees.
When Sara and Greg leave the house, it's suddenly very quiet. I can hear my shallow breaths, and then my ears pick up a faint sound. Very faint. Rhythmic. Almost like. ticking.
I'm off the stool and out the front door in seconds, and the blast throws me off my feet. There's a snap as I hit the ground, my arm broken. I never was a fan of irony.
I can barely make out Sofia, Sara, and Greg huddled nearby. I crawl over to make sure everyone's okay, then glance over at the burning building. My eyes are killing me, but I can't look away. Fire engines pull up, sirens blaring. We should probably get away from the house. Funny, though, I can't seem to move.
The heat is overwhelming, and my scorched retinas can just barely make out a figure walking toward us. Still, through the flames and smoke I see, I recognize that face. He's got Catherine, Nick and Warrick with him. They probably jumped out of bed and into their cars the moment Grissom called. He's shouting directions at them as they dart around gathering evidence with gloved hands. Even Catherine is following his orders without question.
Sara and Greg leave me and run over to Grissom at once, reporting for duty. Sofia follows without a backward glance. As Greg briefs Grissom, Sara touches the cast on his arm gently.
A burst of flame shoots from the roof, making me look back at the house. An abandoned building can hold a lot of bugs, and the roaches are swarming out, fleeing the searing licks of flame. The calico cat is back, chasing the roaches, pouncing on them one by one, and I wonder if Betty Boop ever felt so small.