Insane Slasher (akayalovesyaoi) wrote,
Insane Slasher
akayalovesyaoi

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CSI FANFIC: GREEN APPLES

Title: Green Apples
Fandom: CSI Las Vegas with small Inception crossover
Parts: 1/
Word count: 1504
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or Inception characters, I just use them to make stories happen. Also, no beta, feel free to point out mistakes. It's also going to be slashy, consider yourself warned.
Spoilers: Not much, obviously you need to know the characters.



PROLOGUE



“He looks as if he just wanted to rest his eyes,” says Sara, snapping another picture of a dead man, probably in his early thirties, laying on a bed. His folded jacket, hangs on the back of the chair near the bed, his hands resting along his body, sleeves down, but unbuttoned. “So peaceful.”

“Well, he is not sleeping and doesn't it make you wonder why a man dressed in the latest Zegna suit was found dead in a cheap motel like this one?” Warrick asks, nodding his hello to Grissom, who just stepped in the room. “It's hardly Hilton.”

“He was simply dressed to kill,” interjects Grissom, looking around. “No signs of struggle, no bullet holes,” he stops and steps to the closet, opening it. Empty. Weird, he thinks.

“According to the clerk, who signed him in,” sighs Brass, nodding at everyone in the room, face looking pained. “Our pal's name is Peter Schultz, from Kansas. Does he look like Peter Schultz to you?”

“No, he does not – Is there something wrong, Brass?” Asks Warrick, looking the detective over. “You don't look that great, man.”

“It's about the dead body at the Casino,” Brass huffs and pats his pockets, looking for a small notebook he usually carries on himself.

“Catherine and Nick went to check it out - ” says Grissom and scrunches his brows. “Did something happen?”

“Are there any needle punctures in his arms?” Brass asks instead of answering.

“He doesn't look like he's an user,” says Sara, scrunching her brows, but stands up and checks it anyway. She reaches for the victim's arm, when Grissom's palm on her arm stops her.

“Wait,” he says. “Were his sleeves like that when you got here?”

“Yeah, David checked his temperature, but he didn't touch the body otherwise.”

“Isn't it weird that a man, who puts so much care in clothing, including his jacket and tie,” he points out. ”Would just leave his sleeves like that?” He asks, with a small smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you suggesting someone redressed him?” Asks Warrick, eyeing the corpse.

“He's too impeccably dressed for a redressing job, but I have a hunch that someone did mess with his sleeves.

“That's nice and all and it's probably true, but can we, please, check for the needle holes?” Says Brass and Sara just rolls here eyes, making sure he doesn't see her doing that. She reaches for the corpse's arm and softly moves the thin material of the shirt up. The man's forearms are nice, she thinks. Slim, but strong, with a few veins and small scars here and there and - ah, there it is, in the crook of his elbow. A small, purplish bruise, Grissom sees it and makes a humming noise, when she probes at it gently.

“It looks like something was here, most probably a needle, but -” she says, before Grissom interrupts her.

“As a boy I had to get my blood drawn on a few occasions,” he says, licking his lips and staring at the body on the bed like a hawk. “There was this nurse, who was new at this and didn't know how to properly find a vein without bruising, just like this one.”

“Homicide then,” sighs Brass, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Great, make that double then.”

“Body at the casino?”

“A man, around thirty years old, alone, no personal belongings other than shoes and a jacket, with a needle mark in the exact same spot and here is the best part,” he snorts, actually snorts and shakes his head. “He signed in as Roger Moore.”

“Roger Moore as in Bond?” Warrick asks, eyebrows going up to his hairline.

“Yes, but he is no Bond, I tell you. However, not only we have no idea who those men were, but we might also have a murderer on our hands.”

“Day like every day,” mutters Sara and Warrick adds, “Do you think they knew each other?”

“I don't think so,” says Brass. “But it's your job to find out.”

“Thanks for your help, Brass,” Grissom says, but there is no venom behind his words. His mind already working in full-gear. They had a murder on their hands.

+

“So Doc, case of death?” Asks Grissom, some time later, interrupting the flow of lowly playing classical music. The morgue is cold, seems colder than usual actually, but that might be only him. He's tired, his perception might be off. It happens, he thinks. But he still can't shake off the feeling that something is just not right.

“Were those young people soldiers?” Asks Al, turning to look at him, before standing up and walking to the bodies.

“I don't know anything about it, actually,” Grissom smiles, all business. ”I was actually hoping you'd tell me something about them.”

“Well, there are certain details that I find interesting, if you may so.”

“Such as?” Grissom asks, and the door to morgue open, Catherine's head peeking in, nodding at them both.

“Did you process my body yet, doc?” She asks and Grissom gives her a raised eyebrow, she just grins and walks over to them, tying her long hair into a ponytail.

“You say those bodies were found in two different places?” Al asks.

“A cheap motel room and a Casino,” answers Grissom. “You were asking about them being soldiers?”

“Yes, I'm quite sure both of them were, indeed, in an army at some point in their past,” he says and walks over to the slimmer corpse, lifting its arm, showing it off. “The muscle build suggests an army training, this is not your usual packing at the nearest gym, as well as those bruises. Bullet wounds,” he says and shows off each past injury. “Knife wounds, here we have something nasty. It's old and healed, but I'm surprised that someone can actually survive an injury like that,” he points out a nasty and irregular scar from the man's abdomen up to his left pectoral. Probably an old saw, or some other unconventional weapon.

“Past domestic abuse, war... Or perhaps a gang member. He looks to be about thirty, at most,” says Catherine, leaning over to take a better look. “What kind of life did you lead?” She mutters and sees a small tattoo, on the dead man's hipbone. “Is that a poker chip?”

“It does look like one,” Grissom says, with a thoughtful hum and the doctor smirks.

“Here is where it gets interesting,” he chuckles and reaches for a small plastic container. “His stomach contents,” he explains pushing it towards them. “Have a look.”

“Looks normal, not a big eater, was he?” says Catherine, blinking and looking back and forth between Al and the container. “Are we supposed to see something interesting here?” She asks, showing the container to Grissom, who takes it observes the sloshing fluid with a mild interest.

“Nope, not really, but there was something there and I assure you that it couldn't be, under any circumstances, considered as food.”

“Have you been hanging with Hodges lately?” Asks Grissom, with a raised eyebrow. “Care to just show us what you've found.”

“It's a die,” Al says, reaching in his pocket for a plastic bag with a red die in it. “A loaded one, it always lands on four. I checked.”

“He ate a die?” Catherine exclaims. “Was this a case of death? Did he choke on it?”

“No, frankly speaking, I do not have a case of death yet. This young mas had been perfectly healthy, until he died.”

“So he simply dropped dead? What about the needle marks?”

“I'm waiting for the tox-screen to get back, but for now I don't know anything. Except. Did you take a good look at this die?” He asks, motioning with his head to the other body. “Take a look at this.”

“What are we looking at?” Catherine asks, at the same time of Grissom's sharp intake of breath.

“It's a red die tattoo,” he murmurs, reaching to touch it. The redness of it, a clear contrast to the pale, bluish tinge of the cold skin.

“Four dots up,” Al says. “They knew each other.”

“One tattoo is hardly a proof of that,” says Grissom, even if unconsciously feels that Al is saying the truth.

“Then how about a blue poker chip in his stomach?” Al asks, basking in their shocked gazes when they look up at him.

“You gotta be kidding me,” says Catherine and Grissom just hums. They have a riddle to solve.

END OF PROLOGUE



Link to Ao3 archive.
Link to Chapter 1 || My Masterlist, here on LJ
Tags: csi, fanfiction
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