Title: Fear Is The Parent Of Cruelty

Author: Special Agent Meg

Rating: PG

Disclaimers: If I owned them, Ecklie would be six feet under instead of assistant director.

Classification: Suspense

Summary: It's December 13, 1999, Brass is still head of the unit. Catherine works an insignificant wildlife shooting, unaware Grissom's life is in danger.

This first chapter contains a lot of flashbacks, so I'm putting timestamps at the start of each scene.

10:30PM

"Catherine – you've got an attempted shooting of a porcupine 20 miles outside of Las Vegas." Brass handed her the assignment sheet.

"Already solved – I did it," Catherine replied instantly. "Payback for the little bugger that stuck me out at summer camp when I was ten." There was a murmur of chuckles around the graveyard shift. "Come on, Jim – shooting a porcupine? Who really cares?"

"Four eight-year-olds and their families. The bullet ricocheted and went past a treehouse."

"Oh, well, that's different."

"I thought so. Nick, Warrick, you guys have a real murder – human. Your hit-and-run victim from the other night didn't make it."

"Charming," Nick replied.

"Elise said she'd probably have a lead for us on the make of car by midnight," Warrick reported, referring to one of the beginning CSIs who worked in the lab. Brass nodded his approval.

"And Grissom – oh, he's at that entomology thing in Henderson tonight, right? Re-cert for Linear…Reconnaissance?"

"Regression," Catherine corrected. Brass snorted.

"You'll probably have to correct me again the next time he attends one. Oh, and I've been asked by the sheriff to strongly encourage all of you to attend the Critical Incident Stress seminars the department is holding next week." There was a collection of groans.

"You mean the one where we all sit in a circle and share our feelings?" Warrick asked sarcastically.

Brass restrained a grin. "It's to help you guys handle some of the more traumatic things we see as part of the job."

"What are they offering us to help us deal with the course?" Nick muttered. "That's one of the most traumatic parts of our job."

"Day shift should attend it – they've got Ecklie as the supervisor," Warrick quipped.

"Okay guys, that's enough." Brass intervened.

"Jim, those seminars are about showing us videos that are just as horrific as the things they're trying to help us process," Nick protested.

"Work through stress by getting more stress," Warrick added. "There's no logic in that."

Brass held up his hands in a defenseless gesture. "I know, I know. But on the record I have to encourage you guys to attend. Off the record – I've got plenty of forms in my office for any of you who have suddenly remembered you're due for a dental checkup or eye exam." He returned the grins he got with a rare one of his own.

9:40PM

Gil Grissom pulled open the door of It's A Classic – a novelty store specializing in classical music and rare books – and stepped inside. The entomology course participants had been dismissed for the night, and he'd decided to stop by the Midnight Madness that Henderson's downtown shopping district was holding.

The lighting inside the store was dim and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. The first thing he noticed in the store was the lack of people; aside from a man behind the counter there was nobody there. Grissom smiled and took a step forward.

"Excuse me," he said in a friendly voice. "Do you have an instrumental copy of Verdi's Requiem?"

For an answer, the man reached out and pointed a handgun at Grissom's head.

11:00PM

It didn't take long for Catherine to find the address Jim had given her. The place was near a house she'd brought Lindsey to for a birthday party earlier that year. The house was set at the end of a long driveway and surrounded by trees to make it less visible from the road. A marked police car was parked on one side of the double driveway. Catherine parked her Tahoe on the other side, grabbed her kit out and walked up to the door, then rang the doorbell.

The door opened and it was all Catherine could do to keep from laughing. The girl who opened the door stood just over four feet and was dressed in what had to be her mother's trench-coat. The tan-colored jacket scraped the top of her shoes and was complimented by a matching hat and a pair of dark-colored wrap-around sunglasses.

"Hi there," Catherine said with a smile. "My name is Catherine – I'm with the crime lab."

"Do you have ID?" the little girl asked.

"Kristin!" A dark-haired woman came up behind the girl, followed by Detective Amy Andersen from the Las Vegas Police Department.

"No, no, it's not a problem," Catherine said quickly. She pulled out her ID and showed it to the girl. "Do I need a password too?"

Kristin grinned, showing a pair of dimples. "No."

"Hi, Catherine," Amy said. "Thanks for coming down here."

"No problem."

Amy winked at Catherine before looking at Kristin. "Okay, Agent A96 – have you completed your mission?"

The girl stood at attention. "Yes, ma'am." She handed the officer two pieces of brightly colored paper. 'Your security access badges."

Amy nodded gravely. "Thank you. We'll return them to you as soon as we're finished." She handed one to Catherine and motioned for her to follow her outside.

After the door had shut behind them, Amy said, "You ever pretend you were a spy when you were her age?"

"Doesn't every kid?" Catherine shook her head. "Oh yeah. My mom still won't let me forget the mess I made when I fingerprinted all my stuffed animals with her inkpad."

Amy burst out laughing. "Yeah, well, this kid won't be forgetting this 'spy experience' either. Apparently she and three of her friends were having a sleepover up in her treehouse – an all night spy meeting. The agenda included code practice, working on disguises, and going over techniques for evading the enemy. Only things got a little too real. Around ten the kids and the parents all hear a shot go through some leaves near the treehouse. Kristin's father comes running out into the yard, spots a guy gunning his car towards Las Vegas. He followed him until the guy stopped outside St. Cecilia's High School and then called the police."

"He stopped at a high school?"

Amy nodded. "He's a teacher there – left some boxes of textbooks in his classroom. Name's Alexander MacLean. We spoke with him and he said he was driving back from Henderson, spotted a porcupine and decided to get a little target practice in."

"If people had brains they'd be dangerous," Catherine muttered.

"Apparently the guy is an aspiring Olympic shooter, was on his way back from target practice out of town."

"Why wouldn't he just use a shooting range in Las Vegas?" Catherine asked.

Amy shrugged. "Apparently the guy didn't want to run into one of his students' parents, give them the wrong idea. He's really apologetic, said what he did was stupid."

"I could have told him that. Where's the porcupine?"

"Our aspiring Olympian said he missed."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Have you found the bullet yet?"

"Figured you guys would want me to wait for you."

"Thanks." Catherine pulled on some latex gloves and flipped on her flashlight.

"You want the metal detector?"

"Not yet." Catherine studied the treehouse. "Did our little spies say what side they heard the shot on?"

"The one closest to the road." Catherine directed the beam of her light into the branches on that side of the treehouse and was rewarded by the sight of silver imbedded in a tree limb. She winced.

"No wonder those kids were so scared. The bullet's lodged maybe two feet away from the treehouse." Amy grimaced. "Do me a favor, see if the parents have a nice tall ladder."

A short while later, Catherine was standing several feet higher than she would have liked and using the scalpel from her field kit to pry the bullet out of the limb. It had rained lightly since the shooting, and the damp wood allowed Catherine to pry the bullet out in only a few minutes' time.

After she was back on the ground, Catherine studied the bullet, now safely encased in a plastic evidence bag. "Well, it looks like our idiot gunman at least nicked his target," she remarked.

"Don't tell me there's quills on it," Amy said in disbelief.

Catherine shook her head. "Nope. There's blood."

9:45PM

Immediately the criminalist put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Easy, no need to do anything crazy here," Grissom said quietly. Out of habit he rapidly scanned the store, taking in the shelves full of books, the CDs and audiocassettes, and the open, empty till in front of him.

"Don't move," the man growled.

"No problem," Grissom answered, careful to keep his voice quiet. The man moved around the counter and stepped forward. For the first time Grissom noticed a small backpack on the man's shoulder, which he guessed contained the money from the register. There was no sign of the actual proprietor of the store and Grissom guessed they were already dead. He swallowed hard.

"Turn around and put your hands above your head against the bookshelf," the thief ordered.

"All right." Grissom did as he was told, careful to move slowly so as not to spook the other man. Quickly he searched Grissom for any weapons, then stepped backwards.

"Turn around and put your hands at your sides. Then I want you to walk straight ahead of me and act normally. You try anything, I'll shoot you. Got that?"

"You don't need to take me with you. You've already got the money that you came for. Why don't you just leave me here, tied up? By the time anyone finds me you'll be long gone," Grissom offered.

"If I leave you here it will be with a bullet in your head," the man retorted. He raised the gun. "But if that's really what you prefer…"

"No...no. I'll come with you."

"That's better. Now turn around."

Grissom did so, slowly lowering his arms to his sides. Almost immediately he felt the barrel of the gun pressed against his back and he took a deep breath. He had a feeling now it wasn't a question of whether the man would kill him, just when.

They walked slowly towards the door and the man behind him carefully flipped the sign to 'Closed' before they exited. Grissom's eyes flashed around quickly, hoping to spot someone else from the entomology course, but he didn't spot anybody.

The man led him towards a navy blue car, an older model with a bench seat. Opening the driver's side door, he gestured for Grissom to climb over to the passenger seat. After Grissom was seated, his abductor grabbed a dark colored scarf from the back seat and handed it to him. "Tie this over your eyes."

"You don't need to do that—" Grissom stopped as the man pressed the gun against his temple. Quickly he removed his glasses, put them in his front pocket, and tied the makeshift cloth over his eyes. Beside him, he heard the other man climb into the driver's seat, shut the door, and turn the key in the ignition. Grissom took a deep breath and leaned his head against the headrest.

11:45PM

TAP-TAP-tap-tap-tap-click-TAP-TAP-tap-tap-tap-click-TAP-tap-TAP-click…

"What in sam hill?" Catherine stopped a few feet away from the DNA lab and glanced around, cautiously. It wasn't the first time someone's less than appropriate footwear attire had been heard on the hard linoleum floors of every room in the lab, but it was certainly the strangest rhythm, almost as though someone were trying tap-dancing. There was a moment of silence and then it came again.

TAP-TAP-tap-tap-tap-click-TAP-TAP-tap-tap-tap—"Darn it!"—TAP-click…

"Oh, for crying out loud." Catherine strode forward, knowing all to well now what was going on, and stuck her head in the door of the DNA lab.

Greg Sanders, the newly hired young lab tech, had his back to the door and appeared to be practicing tap dancing in a small corner of the room. Catherine put her hand up to her mouth to hide her grin and debated whether or not to go look for a camera before her professionalism took hold again – almost.

"Hey, Dick Van Dyke!" she called, raising her voice to be heard over the rhythm. Greg jumped and promptly kicked himself in the ankle.

"Ouch!" He staggered to the side, off balance. Quickly Catherine rushed forward and caught his arm.

"You all right?" she asked when she was sure he was steady. When he nodded, she said, "I'm afraid to ask, but what on earth are you doing tap dancing in the lab?"

"Irish dancing," he corrected, with a small grin. "Like Michael Flatley."

"Uh, I hate to break it to you, but that was not like Michael Flatley," she replied, fighting back a grin. "For one thing, Michael Flatley doesn't usually practice in a crime lab. For another, I don't remember hearing him yell, 'Darn it!' in the middle of The Lord of the Dance."

"Okay, so I've still got some work to do," Greg admitted.

"Yeah." She handed him the little bag with the bullet. "Guy claims he shot a porcupine with this, but we don't have the porcupine. I need you to run the blood on it to make sure it's animal."

"Got it." Catherine's face softened into a smile.

"And I'll tell you what. I took an Irish dance class a few years ago. If here early tomorrow, I'll try and show you some of what I remember."

"Thanks, Cath."

"You're welcome."

9:50PM

"So, what's your name?" Grissom asked.

The man behind the wheel gave a short laugh. "Do you really expect me to tell you that?"

Grissom tried to smile. "Do you just expect me to say 'hey, you' every time I talk to you?" If he could have seen his abductor, he would have been willing to bet the man was rolling his eyes.

'I don't expect you to talk to me at all."

Grissom decided not to push it. Without being able to see the man's eyes, or at the very least his body language, there was no way to tell if he'd pushed the man's tension too far. The abductor could choose to pull the trigger at any time and he would have no warning whatsoever.

They rode in silence for a few more minutes before Grissom said quietly, "Do you want to tell me what you're planning to do with me?"

He felt the barrel pushed against his ribs. "What I want is for you to sit there and shut up."

12:30AM

Greg sighed and mentally debated whether or not to attempt the Irish steps again. On the one hand, he didn't want to ruin his chance of Catherine showing him what she knew about Irish dance steps. On the other, he was bored stiff. The only test he was running was Catherine's blood DNA profile, and he'd already done everything he could. The rest was up to the machine.

Greg shot a furtive glance at the glass window. If he took off his shoes and tried the steps in his sock feet, nobody would hear him. And he was careful to keep his lab floor clean, unlike some of the others in the complex.

The decision made, Greg quickly tugged off his shoes and got into position next to the counter, his eyes clearly trained on the dance charts he'd brought to work with him. He'd gotten the printouts from the internet, after over four hours of searching. And after six hours the day before at the public library looking for anything even remotely related to Irish dance.

The computer beeped abruptly and Greg gave a start. The result was quicker than he'd expected. Curiously, he walked over to the computer and picked up the printout that had automatically been generated. His dark eyes scanned the page, widened as he realized what he was reading. Nausea welled up and he was sure he was going to be sick.

"No. Oh please, no."

10:00PM

Grissom wasn't sure how long they'd been driving when the car pulled to a stop and he heard the driver's side door open. A second later his door opened and the man's firm hand clamped down on his arm. "Get out."

"What are you doing?"

"I said get out!"

The man yanked at his arm and Grissom did his best to comply, his hands groping for a hold to steady himself. The man shoved him forward and he automatically put his hands out to protect himself, landing all fours on what felt like grass. Something fell from his pocket and he heard the abductor move to pick it up.

"Gil Grissom." The man sounded as though he was reading aloud and Grissom realized his ID must have fallen from his pocket. "Las Vegas Crime Lab?"

The man shoved Grissom over so that was in a semi-sitting position and Grissom felt the barrel pushed against his chest. 'You're a friggin' cop!"

"No…wait…"

12:35AM

"So our killer ended up being the victim's fifteen-year-old daughter," Nick reported.

Catherine turned from where she was bending over the break room fridge. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Apparently the vic – who according to friends of the family could be a real dick at the best of times – had been pressuring his daughter about getting her driver's license, even though the girl was terrified of driving."

"The night he died the victim totally made his daughter feel like crap about her fear, then stormed out of the house. She was so intimidated that she grabbed the SUV from the garage and tried taking it around the block, by herself," Warrick added. "She saw her father walking down the street and was so worked up she decided she'd get him off her back – permanently."

Catherine sighed. "Bastards like that don't deserve children."

A sudden thud made all three CSIs look up at the door. Greg, in sock feet, was holding onto the door frame, trying to get his balance.

"Where's the fire, bud?" Catherine asked with a smile. "And what's with the lack of footwear?"

Greg didn't answer, just stood there, his mouth shaking like he was about to cry. Catherine took a step towards him, her smile gone. "What is it, Greg?" she said gently.

"The blood…on the bullet…it's human. I-I-I got a match."

"In CODIS?" Catherine asked. Greg shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes.

"F-From o-our database." He swallowed, then a second time like he was having trouble getting the words out. "I-I-It's Grissom's."