The worst thing.

If I take that worst thing, the worst thing that can be there waiting, if I keep that worst thing in my head and allow myself to hold it there... then it won't be there, can't  be there~~

Right? 

"I don't know," Sawyer says distractedly, "that's never really worked for me," and I look up bewildered, then brace my feet on the floor of the bus as we take a corner on two wheels, sirens screaming.  She's standing on the other side of the cot restlessly gathering and checking the contents of her jump bag and grunts as the motion bumps her hip into the corner of a shelf there.  She leans across me and slaps a hand on the head-rest of the driver's seat. 

"Jo!  Let's not be having any collisions on the way to the scene.  You know how cranky that makes me." She glances down and grunts at me then jerks her chin at the shoulder harness dangling from the ambulance's wall.  "Buckle in, ok?  Last thing we need is some unauthorized personnel on board getting injured when Jo crashes another bus."

"Another bus?" I repeat silently, mouthing the words as I reach for the strap.

"We shouldn't have any unauthorized  personnel on here in the first place," Jo snaps over one shoulder, glaring at both of us.  "And if we have one we ought to stick her at the back and hope she falls out if I crash the bus."

"I vote we leave crashing the bus out entirely," Sawyer chirps in an insanely cheerful voice then leans forward slightly to loudly intone in my ear, "Jo hates suicides.  Hates them.  She always drives real shitty on the way to a suicide call."

"And Tee gets gleefully obnoxious," Jo snarls, to which Sawyer cocks her head to one side, grinning. 

"I'm always  gleefully obnoxious, Jo.  You know that." 

"Asshole!" Jo shrieks, both hands pounding the steering wheel furiously.  I blink up at Sawyer wide-eyed. 

"She's not screeching at either of us, don't worry," Sawyer reassures me, bracing herself against the wall behind me.

"I'm screaming at these dumb ass blind and deaf mothers~~  oh shit!"

Having the brakes louder than the sirens is not good; not in cop cars, not in ambulances.  I don't need Sawyer's suddenly chalky face or the sickening sideways skating motion of the rear end of the bus to tell me that. 

When we've come out of the 180 degree turn without any subsequent noisy crash I manage to get my eyes open and see that Sawyer has not. 

"We okay Jo?"

Her voice is eerily calm.  The knuckles gripping the center ceiling rail are white.  I turn and glance into the cab and see Jo's dark head lain forward over the wheel.  She lifts it and without looking back at us answers Sawyer.

"Yeah.  We're good, Tee."

"Then crank it up again and let's get there already.  And Jo?"

"Yeah, Tee?"

"You are one bad ass rig driver, woman."

"You always say that when we don't  crash."

"Yeah?  Well we can't repeat what I say when we do crash in front of an unauthorized personnel, who~~" Sawyer grins down at me and winks, intoning the rest of it with her in stereo, "~~shouldn't be on board in the first place!"

"Asshole!" Jo yells, this time definitely to Sawyer who grins, cheeks pinking, gazing affectionately at the back of Jo's dark head.

"I love you too, honey." 

The worst thing. 

She's been cut down; I've been at too many suicides to not recognize the scenery. 

I'm stopped at the door by a uniform because however I may have arrived I am not in a City of San Francisco EMT outfit.  He's patting me down briskly and only seems mildly disconcerted when he locates the weaponry and it takes me a bit but it dawns on me he's searching me for cameras, thinks I'm with the press. 

They are still downstairs being held at  bay by a row of bored gum popping uniforms.  It's a little disconcerting to realize the media arrived before the rescue personnel, but then again, it doesn't matter. Not this time. 

I hang back because I don't want to see it in detail.  She's pitiful.  So frail and small, one hand curled up above her head as if flung there in abandon and given the revealing outfit she's wearing, one could almost assume it was curled upwards in a moment of sexual passion.  Except for the leather about the neck.

It's been loosened but the marks are vivid and raw, the skin above and beneath it ridged and pulpy, bruised and spongy looking.  She'd hung herself off the outer edge of the loft's spiral case.  I see Sawyer's blonde head tip up as she takes in the dangling strap of leather as she kneels beside the body and I know without hearing what she just asked.

"Yeah." Jinny's voice is breathy and hoarse.  "Bad.  But she's got a pulse."

I'm too late. 

I see the look Jo gives Sawyer from her position on Sylvie's other side.  The dark pony tail slides forward over one shoulder as she lifts both brows, fingers seeking out the carotid before she blinks, slightly disconcerted.

"Pulse," she affirms, voice only slightly stunned and the two of them swing into action, Sawyer briskly shoving Jinny out of the way before she glances up at me. 

I know the look.  Doesn't matter it comes from Texas EMS or California paramedics; help is help. 

"Jinny," I say and she doesn't even glance in my direction.  I lift my voice and switch into cop mode.  "Inspector Exstead!"

There.  She blinks at me, face blank, eyes wide. 

She doesn't recognize me.

I let it hit me and I take it and when she's turning back to the paramedics and the body there I recover and move forward, kneeling to grip her elbow, tugging her upwards.

"Let them work on her," I tell her and I'm pleased at how calm and low my voice is.  "Give them room to do their job."

"She's not dead," she tells me emphatically, and I nod and slide my hand down her arm to her wrist and gently pull her a few feet away.  "There's a pulse," she babbles, looking back and I put myself between her and them and put both hands on her shoulders and grip them.

"I know.  They know.  Let them do their job, Jinny."

"She wasn't breathing~~  I cut her down and she wasn't breathing but I was careful, I held her neck position, I was careful.  But she wasn't breathing."

Her eyes search my face and for three seconds there is nothing personal there, it's one cop speaking to another, it's her recognizing the tone and voice and expression of one of her own.

And then, for the first time, I see her grasp it's me, watch her push past the shock and horror and reach out for me as me. 

"Oh God," she gets out, and I let her tug me close, let my arms go up to hold her as she shoves herself into me.  "Oh God, Cooper.  She wasn't breathing.  She wasn't breathing but her heart's still beating, she has a pulse."

In some alternate universe I spin, pull my weapon and fire a smooth decimating round into the curve of flesh beneath leather, solving that little mistake of Mother Nature.

In reality I lift my hands and find her shoulders, hands hesitating for a second before I finally tug her close and wrap my arms around her, let her put her face into my neck, hold her up through the sobs that follows as she sags into me, heavily.  I take advantage of her hesitation and use it to pull her away because what is going on there behind her is not pretty.  However hateful and petty and horrible I might be,  I can't let Jinny see the things being done to wrench Sylvie's pitiful ass back from the abyss. The words accompanying the actions are snapped low and disjointed, curt and laced with frustration. 

"Jesus~~ I can't get an airway; we've got to get a collar on her~~"

"Establish airway first.  What good's it do her to have her neck stabilized if she's not breathing?"

"Like I don't know tha~~  Can you see what's in there? "

"Vomit." The reply is terse and succinct, and the motor on the machine purrs briefly, followed by the stomach churning sounds of suction. 

"Got it." The declaration is only vaguely triumphant; over Jinny's shoulder I see them glance at one another faces grim as Jo maintains her position at the head, kneeling with her hands on either side of Sylvie's swollen, discolored cheeks while Sawyer deftly maneuvers the collar beneath and then fastens it.  She's swiftly bagged and rescue breathing begun by Jo while Sawyer strips the Velcro spider straps apart on the backboard before glancing up at me, taking in the vise-like grip I'm being held in. 

And no doubt the look on my face.

"Unauthorized personnel have to help load the victim.  It's a rule.  At least until the second paramedic team arrives."

"Probably can't get through the paparazzi."  It's one of the uniforms, standing helpfully ogling Sylvie's exposed flesh, hands nonchalantly on his hips, head cocked to the side and his lip lifted in titillated disgust as he watches. 

I'm prying Jinny's fingers off my arm when she pulls her face away, white and wet and blinks at me; the pupils are dilated in shock and the skin around her lips is chalky.   I realize when she speaks she's been carrying on some internal dialogue with herself.

"~~terrible of me, huh?  I was so awful to her, so mean...  I never listened, I didn't pay attention, I didn't want to hear what she was saying, I just wanted her to stop it..."

She drifts off, chewing her lower lip, staring at me dazed and shocked and in the seconds it takes me to realize she is not referring to Sylvie I watch the same shock of recognition slide into focus behind her eyes. 

"Shit," she whispers and she's turning, distracted with the revelation that all of what she has done and said and put up with and enabled is due to something that happened twenty years ago with the woman who gave birth to her.

A hand flashes out and grips the elbow I've just released and it's with something akin to genuine adoration I watch McCafferty step in, glancing at me briefly before she pulls Jinny firmly away from the little group huddled on the thick carpet. She jerks her chin at me as she resolutely removes her officer from the scene a safe nine feet and I nod jerkily, then find myself on the floor, kneeling next to Sawyer.

"You know how to do this?"

"First Responder.  Yeah.  Got it.  Head, call it."

"On three," Jo says and in unison we roll Sylvie forward, then nudge the positioned board beneath her with our knees before we lower her on the slick bright orange surface. 

"On three," she repeats and there's no need to count it out loud; it's done in seconds and blinks and breaths.  We slide her smoothly up and then rapidly strap her down with the multi colored strips of fuzzy, used Velcro. 

"Pulse?"

Jo, as the head is taking it, white fingers lain smooth on one side of the carotid while her other hand squeezes the bag forcing the air into Sylvie's lungs.

"Weak.  Real thready.  But there.  She's not breathing on her own."

"You!" Sawyer yells it at the uniform who lifts one lazy brow.  "Roll that cot closer.  You got the oxygen secure?"

"Got it," Jo replies, cradling the green cylinder beneath one arm and when Sawyer glances at me I nod and we lift Sylvie smoothly and transfer her onto the cot.  They're rolling with her the second my fingers leave the backboard.

"You need me?"

I glance at Jinny when I ask it; McCafferty is physically holding her back, shaking her head.  "~~need you to stay here and give a statement Jinny, you know how big this is going to be.  You can't do anything now and I'll take you to the hospital myself, but I want you to tell me how you ended up here, what you saw, all of it.  Where the hell is CSI?  If they need you though, Coop..."

"Don't even think about it," Jo hisses and Sawyer half turns to grin at me as they disappear out the penthouse door into the hall. 

"Guess not," the uniform smirks, then waggles a finger at me disapprovingly, which tells me he knows exactly who I am.  "You're in the blood.  CSI is not going to like that."

Blood? 

I look at my feet and then behind me and take four cautious steps to the side, scanning the ground floor carpet and the stair case pieces and the walls surrounding the area.  He's right. What looks like flecks of blood on the upper carpet fibers; tear dropped shapes of it on the wall behind the staircase itself.

"You first on the scene?  I mean, after Inspector Exstead?"

"That would be me," he agrees, crossing both arms and swaying slightly.

"And she was cut down by then, right? Miss Chandler?"

"She was.  Right there where you saw her when you came in."

The drops on the wall have a downward slide pattern; they've come from upstairs.  If not from the loft, itself, then something which took place on the staircase.

"You been up there at all?"

He snorts and crosses his arms over his thick chest, swaying from side to side. 

"I look like I'm crazy enough to fuck with a scene before CSI gets here?"

That's debatable.  But I am.  This one anyway.

He yells at me when I start upwards but I ignore him, going slow and keeping an eye on the carpeted steps beneath me, sticking close to the edge but careful to not touch the wrought iron hand railing. 

"Cooper?"

It's McCafferty, glaring up at me, hands on her hips, one brow cocked upwards in question.

"I'm watching, I'm going slow."

"I see that," she snaps.  "But why?"

I pause and lean slightly to point at the spots on the wall and watch her eyes narrow as she takes a few steps forward before grunting and retrieving the bifocals dangling down her neck and fitting them on her nose. "Oh shit.  Where the hell is CSI?" McCafferty demands again, voice furious, turning towards the doorway. 

"You would not believe the scene down there," one of the uniforms offers.  "Television crew vans, tabloids, photographers~~  And these closed gate communities aren't designed for this kind of bottleneck traffic."

"Great.  You radio down and see how close CSI is, alright?  And you tell the guys down there I want them to get control of the mess, get barricades up, call in some more uniforms for crowd control.  Jesus Christ~~  is that helicopter shooting footage through the window?"

Her voice is incredulous and I pause and crouch slightly and catch the unmistakable glint of sunlight over a camera lens as a Fox News chopper hovers over the bay outside the window, the camera man half out the open door as he films the scene inside the penthouse.

"No," McCafferty barks as Jinny stumbles towards the huge expanse of glass and sky.  "Let's try to keep you off camera if possible, okay?  Let them watch me ruin their shot."

"It's all remote," I call down to her when Jinny simply stops abruptly and stands still, shoulders drooping, arms at her side, fists opening and closing spastically.  "It's probably on the glass table or maybe by the entertainment center."

It'd be comical if the news crew wasn't hanging in the air outside filming it, McCafferty trying to operate Sylvie's ritzy custom designed remote control.  Various doors and cabinets whiz open and close as the lights about us flash and dim and strobe and the stereo rocks into life blasting a few measures of something techno and metal before it's abruptly cut off and replaced by the television. 

"Here." Jinny says, taking it and with one thumb activates the drapes which slide smoothly closed.  I can almost hear the reporter's howls of anguish and disappointment as they disappear behind thick peach fabric.  There's a click as the two ends meet and Jinny pauses to adjust the lighting both upstairs and down before she tosses the remote back onto the leather sofa and then sinks to the floor in front of it, knees up and her head bent into them.

McCafferty seems frozen, poised with her hand still up as if holding the remote, face vacant and shocked as she stares at the television screen before glancing up at me, head to one side, face rather ashen.

"Well, I guess we know now how the press got here so fast.  And why.  It's hit."

"~~authenticity of these tapes discussing the arranged murder of Mrs. Chandler has yet to be established but voice analysis expert Joel Schulenberg verifies preliminary results indicate patterns comparable to Senator Chandler's.  And in a seemingly related story, unverified personal finance and accounting documents released just an hour ago to the Associated Press and all major news affiliates seemingly detailing numerous illegal activities~~ "

Oh shit. 

I don't have a watch on to glance at to know if it's the designated time and it isn't as if S'Phear could pre-determine exactly what order or how swiftly the release would be decimated...  And not like we could have known Sylvie would pull this stunt today, here. 

Right?

"We should have known," Jinny says, lifting her head slightly.  "I should have known anyway.  She was afraid of him.  Afraid of Chandler, afraid of Massey...  I should have known."

I'm far enough up to see the loft's floor now and I lift both hands to balance as I take the last few stair steps up, turned sideways, then straddle the low wall and inch my way over it to safety. 

"Cooper?" McCafferty yells up and I have no doubt I'm grimacing when I turn to look at her.

"A gun.  Handgun.  I can't tell the caliber or make from here, looks like they were going to muffle the shot with a pillow and it's half covered.  And blood. Lots of it."

The uniform is gazing up at me, shaking his head, smirking. 

"You'll be lucky if some of it's not yours after Ramsey arrives on scene."

Ramsey is small, dark and very intense.

"Unless you levitated up there, you are on my shit list."

It's boomed up at me at a decibel only slightly below that of a Lear jet on take off.  McCafferty rolls her eyes at the neat dark cap of hair and clears her throat.

"Sgt. Finn was very careful, I assure~~"

"She one of yours?"

"Well, no~~"

"Then what the hell is she doing in my crime scene?  No, wait~~" a tiny white hand is lifted before McCafferty can even utter a syllable.  "I don't care what she's doing in my crime scene.  Get her out of it.  No, wait~~" the dark head is tipped back in my direction again and two very dark eyes glare up at me from behind a pair of black square rimmed glasses jammed suddenly on the tiny white nose before they drop and begin scanning the carpet beneath her feet, then the stair case and the wall behind it.  I can practically hear ticking sounds as she clicks off the splatter. 

"I'll come up.  Roy, you got this?"

He'd make three of her but meekly nods as he drops to one knee gazing raptly at the carpet looking like a little boy at Christmas.  Sylve's place is a crime scene investigator's wet dream; spotless wall, air conditioned and carpet so thick he can probably estimate her weight by the bend of the fibers. 

"You touch anything?"

I blink, startled that she's made the stairs so swiftly and shake my head, looking pointedly down at my feet which still dangle an inch from the floor. 

"Haven't even set foot in it."

"Excellent, excellent..." she's beaming at me now, poised there three steps down still, non- existent ass backed up to the wrought iron as she eyes the distance between the railing and the low wall speculatively before waving the leather case at me.  "Catch.  And scoot down without touching the floor and make room for me."

She decides to navigate the last bit via the rail itself and takes my obligatory hand without even looking at it or me.  She's so tiny she can stand upright on the wall and there's still inches to spare between her head and the ceiling.

"What have we here?" she asks, voice delighted and I beam benignly upwards, then look down at McCafferty and roll my eyes.  She nods, lifting her hands in agreement, but what are you going to do?  Crime scene people are freaks.  She's got her cell phone to her ear and although I know, I have to ask. 

"You're sending uniforms around to check clinics and ERs, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," she affirms, then spins, putting a finger in her ear, head cocked.  Behind her Jinny has curled even further over, face buried, arms wrapped tightly around herself. 

"Sgt. Finn, was it?"

It's rather like being on the wrong side of a telescope; huge dark eyes peer down at me eerily magnified and I nod. 

"It was."

I think I'm being rather clever and sarcastic with my choice of words given that my law enforcement career is probably a thing of the past at this point, and rather surprised when she catches my tone and frowns down at me as if she personally considers this a tragedy.

Maybe she's that thrilled I haven't fucked up her crime scene.

"You see the body?"

"I saw it.  Only it's still a victim, not a body."

"We were told this was a hanging. a suicide.  And there's clearly a bit of leather that's been cut but still attached to that staircase.  So was there a second body up here?"

"Not when I levitated up, no ma'am."

She's off the wall, finally, stepping lightly at least five feet from the splotch on the carpet.  She never takes her eyes off it as she kneels, laying the case carefully down and popping the latches at the front with precision.

"You first on the scene?"

"No, that would be Inspector Exstead.  She is one of McCaf~~"

"Oh, I know Inspector Exstead, Sergeant."

It's with a vague sense of annoyance and disbelief I realize I have just taken affront at the implied tone of intimacy in the brief sentence.  Someday, when there's time, I really should sit down with a person of Knuckles ilk and attempt to ascertain how it's possible for me to be jealous while seated three feet from a shit load of reeking, smelly blood.  And jealous of a woman who is gazing at it enthralled, no less. 

"And, going by what you asked McCafferty, I assume the victim was not bleeding, merely strangulated?"

I am very, very glad that Jinny cannot possibly hear this conversation. 

Merely strangulated.

"Right."

"And I take it the lead detective hasn't made it through that cluster fuck yet?"

"She has now."

I nearly go off the wall backwards; C.D.'s arms are fortunately as long as her legs and she stops me, grinning. 

"De Lorenzo," Ramsey says, without looking up; she's staring in fascination at something grasped in her tweezers which she's just extracted from the outer edge of the blood stain.  She inserts it into the plastic bag carefully, then waves an airy hand in a shooing gesture.

"How long?"

"You've got statements to take from at least two witnesses; start there and let me do what I do."

"That a gun?" C.D. jerks her chin in the direction of the pillow and the hand grip just barely visible beneath it. 

"I think so.  I'm not there yet.  I'm taking this one slow, Inspector.  This is one crime scene neither one of us can afford to fuck up."

"God, I hate it when you're right."

"Hmm.  Well, then you must just seethe with rage quite often, Inspector."

The snort's out before I can stop it.  I get a hard thump on the head before C.D. clears her throat and swings her little spiral open, pen poised above the paper.

"Since I'm already up here, and since Exstead is not exactly lucidly verbal at the moment..." she half turns to look downstairs, then looks back at me, grinning slightly, "And Nate's better at that type of interview...  I guess that means you're all mine."

"You don't think maybe...  you know, conflict of interest?"

One can practically see Ramsey's ear perk into points and I don't miss the amused look she turns and fixes C.D. with. 

Neither does C.D..

"Head out of the gutter, Ramsey.  She's talking about a prior investigation."

"I always figured you for the type to 'investigate' sooner or later, De Lorenzo."

C.D. lowers the icy blue eyes to half mast and I watch the pulse in her throat visibly count out a beat of ten before she smiles at me and flutters her lashes in an exorbitant display of patience.  "Alrighty then...  the Captain said you were here when she arrived but she didn't think you'd come with Jinny for some reason. "

"No.  I don't know exactly how long Jinny was here or her time.  But you can get my time from the paramedics on the run."  She's gazing at me expectantly, blue eyes waiting and I wonder if I'm about to get Sawyer in trouble with some supervisor.  Not exactly the greatest victim to have brought unauthorized personnel in on. 

"Paramedics?" she prods and I sigh and fill her in on the events of my afternoon.  She listens intently, pausing now and then to scribble something before looking back up at me.  She's simultaneously observing Ramsey moving about the floor on her heels. We're joined fairly soon by a police photographer who, under C.D.'s direction, begins snapping shots of the various angles involved. 

"Take hundreds, Jimmie.  I'm sure someone's filled you in on whose penthouse this is."

"Oh yeah," he agrees.  "We're covering our asses on this one."

"You got the gun from every angle possible, correct?"

It's Ramsey, on her heels next to the pillow and the weapon, poised tweezers ready. "Because I'm thinking it's time to lift this and see what we got under here."

The strobe going off is enough to induce disco flashbacks as the photographer captures the moment from every viable perspective as Ramsey carefully removes the pillow laying it aside with the opposite surface facing the ceiling, eyeing it briefly before moving to the prize piece of the puzzle. 

"And what have we here?" She lifts it with the obligatory pencil through the trigger guard, face as soft and bemused as a girl's in love.  "Looks like a Glock 17, 9 mm, fully automatic with 'safe action'.  Let's see... oooooh; somebody loved this gun.  It was kept very clean, in excellent condition but definitely used~~"

C.D.'s by now squatting beside her, the compulsory pencil held steadily horizontal as the pistol is slid and exchanges one perusal for another.   "Scrapes on the hand grip in the standard pattern indicating holster wear...  most likely a police issued service weapon at some point... that's weird."

The blonde head is to one side as she holds the pistol up, turning it and frowning as she gazes at the stock.

"There's almost identical wear and tear on either side of the grip."

"Indicating... what, De Lorenzo?"

C.D. blinks, the frown deepening, then shrugs.

"Indicating a couple of possibilities, actually.  Two owners, both who carried in a holster, one a right hander, the other a lefty.  Or~~"

"Ambidextrous."

My voice is flat.  I lean forward on my perch and then let my back slide down the low wall until my ass hits the carpet, trying to breathe deep and remain calm. 

I filed a missing weapons report when I was released.  No way in hell will that be on record anywhere but Weaver knows.  Jinny and McCafferty and C.D. herself know.

My Glock was missing when I was released after assaulting Massey on live television.  Massey; Sylvie's uncle. 

And now here my service weapon is, at a crime scene in Sylvie's penthouse surrounded by rather a lot of blood and just a few steps away from a girl found hung whose ex-lover I've been indulging with in a lesbian affair.  And the press is swarming downstairs, inside and in the air space.

"Yeah," C.D. agrees, still scowling.  "Or someone ambidextrous."

I can feel the laughter bubbling up to something near hysteria as I lift my head and shove both hands through my hair, hard.

"No.  Not 'or'.  Try 'is'."

"What?" It's impossible to tell if it came from Ramsey or C.D. or the photographer, or for that matter, the second CSI Roy and Nate, who have just joined us at the top of the stairs. 

"There a serial number visible?"

"Yeah... looks like a custom job~~"

"TXDPS8472US."

I've said it; not C.D. and she transfers her gaze from the weapon to my face, blinking. 

"Yeah.  That's it.  'TXDPS~~', oh shit."

That about covers it. 

END OF CHAPTER 77