Greetings all!

Welcome to my baby! Once upon a time I was updating daily… now, sadly, that’s not the case. Life got hectic and my time for writing disappeared. I’m still writing - just not updating as often as I would like!

Anyhoos, first things first! If you recognize anything then it doesn’t belong to me! Actually, that depends on if this is the first time you’ve read this fic or not! I’ll try again. Taylor Turner, Maddy Almeda, Chris Turner, Cordelia Turner, Al Briscoe (and a few other recurring characters) they belong to me! The CSI team - they don’t!

Well, the other thing is this. Anything goes! Seriously, I have cross-overs with CSI: Miami, CSI and Supernatural! (I don’t think there will be any others, but never say never!) I have both Lindsay and Aiden - I bet you’re curious as to how that works! There are ghosts, demons and mermaids (oh my!). Spoilers from season 2 and 3, and eventually 4 (and what the heck - anything from season 1 goes too!)

Pairings, we have a FOC, some DL, some PM, HOC, SOC - some from early, others haven’t even been written yet!

I don’t have a beta until somewhere in the region of the late eighties, so mistakes up until then are all mine. One day, I will go back and edit them. But until then, I simply don’t have time and for that I apologize! I also have a habit of slipping from English (UK) to English (US) - long story! Um, my languages suck - I can read it better than write it, and I’m better at the Latin based ones, but I still suck. If it needs correcting, let me know!

What The Eyes Can’t See

© Axellia

Chapter 1: I see dead people!

Taylor Nicole Turner stared at her reflection in the mirror as she absent-mindedly straightened the jet black hair which hung down almost to her waist. She had been straightening the same piece over and over again – not because it was a troublesome piece, but rather, because she found the motion therapeutic.

Taylor was a columnist for the New York Daily, and was currently trying to find the inspiration to finish her column. It was her job to write about the state of the crime in New York City, but to do so in a way which was both informative, and entertaining. Not exactly the easiest of tasks – how exactly can you make a serial rapist, or murder entertaining – which was precisely why she was trying to find a muse of some sorts.

She was actually relatively good at the job, hence why she had it, and didn’t doubt that she would get the article done – probably about five minutes before it needed to go to print. She had miraculously landed an internship at the paper five years ago, after leaving college – an NYU graduate – and had said goodbye to her parents in California, and moved permanently to the city in a two room apartment (bedroom, kitchen, living room and dining room in one room, a bathroom the size of a sardine can for the other). Two years later, and the position had become permanent, and she had moved to an apartment where the kitchen became a separate entity. Another two and a half years, and she had the column, and an apartment which had a spare bedroom, which she used as a study.

Taylor sat back, setting the straighteners down, and stared intently at her reflection. The lack of California sun had slowly faded her tan away to replace it with the pale complexion she had now, although, when summer appeared in a few months times, she knew she would get it back, like she had done every year since she had moved to the city. The internship had done her figure the world of good too. Only managing just enough to cover the rent, food wasn’t exactly the first thing on her list of priorities, that and all the running about she had done for the editor-in-chief had also helped, and as a result, the plump figure she had once had, had disappeared into a nice slim one. The only thing that hadn’t changed was her eyes – they were still these two black orbs.

The straightening had done its job, and she could feel the inspiration running to her fingers. She got up, turned the straighteners off, and turned around. And then she screamed.

Stood in front of her was a girl, not much younger than herself, wearing a grey NYU sweater and sweatpants. Her hair was resting on her shoulders in blonde ringlets, and her green eyes were staring straight at her. But it wasn’t the fact that there was a strange girl standing in the middle of her apartment that had freaked Taylor out. It was the fact that the girl was semi-transparent, and sticking out of her, about where her heart was, was a long, thin knife with three pearls on the hilt.

“Help me.”

Taylor stumbled back into her dresser, and put her hand out to steady herself, only to find them coming into contact with she still hot straighteners. She was still too busy staring in disbelief at the… ghost… standing in front of her, that she didn’t even notice, until finally the pain became too much. She snatched her hand up and held it against her breast, somewhat unable to comprehend that if she could feel her flesh burning, then she wasn’t asleep, and therefore the thing in front of her was real. She glanced down at the red welt on her hand, and when she looked back up, the girl had gone.

She was definitely feeling the pain now, so she hurried into her bathroom and began running her hand under the tap. She glanced up at her now clammy face in the mirror, only to have something catch her eye in the reflection behind her. She spun back around to find the girl again. “What the hell are you?” she shouted at it.

The girl cocked her head and help up something for Taylor to see. It was an ID for Carol Anne Lewis Prep School, a girl’s only high school on the other side of Manhattan. Taylor only just caught the name on the card – Rebecca something, before the girl spoke again. “Help me,” she repeated. Just as suddenly as she appeared, she disappeared, and the room became warmer. Taylor hadn’t even noticed that the room had gone icy cold until then.

Leaving the tap still running, Taylor dashed into her hall, grabbed her keys, cell phone, and cash, and stuffed them into the pockets of her combats as she dashed out of the door, barely checking she had locked it behind her.

She ran the sixteen block distance to police precinct, ignoring the rain which was pounding down heavily upon the city, and tore up the steps, into the building, nearly knocking a petite brunette, who was sharing her umbrella with a sandy-haired man wearing glasses, down the stairs. Ignoring the indignant shouts, she hurried into the building, finally stopping momentarily in the doorway of one of the rooms.

She looked around and headed to the only desk which had a detective behind it, doing something that looked very much like filling in a report. Taylor hurried over and sat down heavily at the spare chair in front of his desk. The dark haired detective looked up in surprise at the soaking wet woman sat in front of him.

“You’re probably going to think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I am crazy,” she told him, staring straight into his bright blue eyes.

“Um, can I help you, miss?”

“I think someone has been murdered.”

The detective sat upright, dropping his pen on the desk. “You think someone has been murdered?” he repeated.

“A girl. Rebecca something.” she told him, verging on hysterics.

The detective brought his fist up to his mouth, stared at the woman for a few moments, then stood up. “Why don’t we go somewhere a little more private,” he said kindly, leading her gently down the hall and into an interview room. He sat her down on one of the chairs, before taking his jacket off and draping it over her. “I’m going to go and get a coffee. You want one?” Taylor shook her head. “Alright, I’ll be right back. Just stay there.”

He left the room, leaving Taylor all alone. She got up and began pacing back and forth across the room. Finally, her returned, pad and pen in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, and with another man behind him.

“Miss, this is Detective Taylor,” he told her, nodding at the other detective, who gave her a curt nod of the head. “I’m Detective Flack.”

“Taylor. Taylor Turner.”

“Taylor Turner? Don’t you write that Crime Files column?” asked Detective Taylor.

Taylor nodded, “yeah, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Miss, why don’t you take a seat?” Flack asked her pointing to the chair he had previously sat her in.

Taylor bit her lip and sat down.

“Alright,” said Mac, “why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“I think a girl was murdered. A Rebecca something,” she told him, repeating what she had previously told the other detective.

“Murdered? Where?”

“I don’t know,” she told them, her voice catching.

“You don’t know?” said Mac, frowning, “alright, then can you tell me any shops or buildings you remember?”

“No, I didn’t see the murder, and I didn’t see the body.”

Mac and Flack exchanged glances, “so what makes you think this Rebecca was murdered?” Flack asked her.

Taylor shut her eyes, “I know this is going to seem strange. I’m not sure I get it myself, but I saw her. Her ghost, I mean.”

“You saw a ghost?” snorted Flack.

Taylor glared at him, “Look, I don’t know what I saw, but she asked me for my help, and that’s what I’m trying to do. But if you’re not going to help me to help her, then I’ll do it myself.” she told him, shrugging off the jacket and getting to her feet.

“Miss Turner,” said Mac, “you have to understand, we work on physical evidence, not the hallucinations of-”

“Don’t even say it,” Taylor cut him off. “I am not crazy. I saw a girl, in my apartment, twice. She was wearing a NYU sweater and sweatpants, and she had blonde hair, and green eyes, and looked like she wasn’t much younger than me. But she showed me an ID to a prep school, so she’s only eighteen at the most.”

“Miss Turner, you could be describing half a dozen girls like that in the city,” said Flack, still not believing her.

“I am telling you what I saw. She had a knife stuck in her heart.”

“A knife?” suddenly, Mac looked interested.

“Yeah, a nice looking one, with three pearls on it.”

Mac frowned then glanced at Flack, “can I speak to you, a moment.” Flack nodded and the two went outside.

Taylor sat down and stared at the table. She was sure that they thought she was crazy. Maybe she had been working a little too hard and could do with a long earned vacation – lord knows her mother almost daily left messages on her voicemail begging her to come home and visit. She glanced down at the burn on her hand. No, she wasn’t crazy.

Several minutes passed and the two detectives returned. Wordlessly, Mac placed six photos of faces of women on the table. “Do you see the woman here?”

Taylor didn’t hear him ask the question. The second photo on the table was the girl she had seen in her room. She sat staring at it. She was staring so intently, she jumped violently when Mac laid a hand on her shoulder. “That’s her,” she told him.

Mac gathered the other photos up and slipped them into a folder. He sat down opposite. “We were called out to a scene two days ago,” he told her, “this is the Jane Doe,” he frowned, “a Jane Doe is the term-”

“Detective Taylor, with all due respect, I write a crime column. I am familiar with the term Jane Doe as well as the police codes you use.”

Mac nodded, “of course. I apologize. This Jane Doe – the cause of death was a single stab wound to the heart. The knife was recovered at the scene – it had three pearls in it.”