Entry #2 in the "A Year in the Life" series. When an obnoxious organizer drops dead at a science fiction convention, the CSIs find themselves faced with an unusual array of suspects and a genetic mystery. On the home front, Lindsey is on a weekend field trip, and Brass and Catherine take advantage of their unexpected freedom. You know the drill -- CSI isn't my sandbox. If it were, Homicide captains would be forbidden from wearing ties. Ever. And at least one collar button would have to remain undone at all times. Mwahahahaha...

Blood Ties
by Alice Day

CHAPTER FIVE

Brass rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore his growing headache. "I know the vic died at a sci-fi convention, Ray," he said, "but don't you think you're going a little too far with this whole mutant thing?"

The tall man's lips quirked. "Trust me, Jim. I'm a doctor."

The captain rolled his eyes. "God, you are worse than Grissom," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a compliment." With that, Ray opened the door to the interview room. A police officer stood at the back, and Bev Helman sat at the table, wearing a pair of blue scrubs.

She looked up as the two men entered. "Oh. It's you two," she said, giving them a confused smile. "I was surprised when the policeman showed up at the hospital and asked me to come down here. Did you find out who killed Andy?"

"I believe so." Ray took a seat, giving her a long, steady look across the table. "Miss Helman, you work as a phlebotomist for Desert Palms Hospital when you're not running convention green rooms, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you helped to organize the blood drive at the con this weekend?"

She nodded. "I do it every year. It's a tradition at a lot of cons -- Robert Heinlein started it in the 60's."

"Big of him," Brass quipped.

Ray passed the woman a copy of the DNA lab report. "Miss Helman, did you know that Andy was a carrier of the Bombay phenotype?"

"The what?"

"A rare blood mutation. We believe he inherited it from his father," the CSI explained. "Essentially, a gene that controls expression of the A or B antibodies doesn't work properly in people with this kind of mutation. As a result, even though Andy was genetically a Type B, the malfunctioning gene meant that his body didn't produce B antibodies. So any standard blood test, which only tests for the presence of antibodies, would class him as Type O."

Bev frowned, scanning the report. "I've never heard of this, and I know about most blood disorders. What does this have to do with Andy?"

Ray steepled his hands. "According to his medical records, Andy suffered from anemia," he said, watching her expression. The confirmation came when a flicker of fear went through her eyes. "As I'm sure you know, anemia leaves you feeling tired and washed out, and Andy was the head of the concom -- a very busy and stressful position, especially over the weekend of the con. I'm guessing he needed some kind of pick-me-up. And while I know caffeine is the drug of preference for most SF fans, a person with anemia is much better off with a blood transfusion."

The phlebotomist swallowed, then pushed the paper back across the table. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We found an injection mark on Andy's arm," Ray said softly. "I'm guessing he asked you to give him that transfusion."

#

Andy and Bev sat in the Desert Palms Hospital's blood donation bus. Even with the overhead fluorescents turned off, the concom head looked tired and drained. "Come on, Bev. I just need a pint."

The phlebotomist shook her head. "They haven't been tested yet--"

"So give me your donation. We're the same blood type, and I know you don't have anything." Before she could say anything he plunged on, "I already have the hotel trying to charge me for extra suites, and our GOH is being a royal pain in the ass. I need to stay sharp. Help me out here."

She bit her lip, then nodded. Standing up, she reached into the mobile blood bank's refrigeration unit and pulled out a plastic bag filled with dark scarlet.

#

"You transfused him with a pint of your own blood," Ray concluded, "under the reasonable assumption that it matched his own type. What neither of you knew is that a Bombay phenotype carrier can only receive his or her own blood, or blood donated by another carrier. Any other blood type, even O, would cause a transfusion reaction and anaphylactic shock."

Bev shrank back in her chair. "Oh, no. Please no."

"We've already collected the sharps disposal box from the bus," Brass added, his voice gentle. "Normally, there should only be donation needles in it. We found one transfusion needle, and it had Andy's DNA on the outside and your blood on the inside. You gave him your blood donation -- that's what killed him."

She stared at the metal table. "H-he said he was tired," she whispered. "I was just trying to...oh, God. I'm so sorry!"

She burst into tears. Sighing, Brass glanced at the police officer and nodded. "Take her to Processing, please," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir." The officer came forward and gently helped the sobbing phlebotomist to her feet, escorting her out of the interrogation room. Brass and Ray followed, watching the pair make their way down the long, shadowed hallway of the police station.

"What's going to happen to her?" the CSI asked.

"She's got a clean record and it was an accident, so she'll probably be charged with manslaughter," Brass said. "Considering the circumstances, she'll get maybe five years, be out in three. Maybe even two if she gets a good lawyer, or the DA finds out what an asshole Watkins was."

"All for doing a favor," Ray said sadly. "It doesn't seem fair, somehow."

"Yeah, but this is why there are rules about donating blood," the Homicide captain said. "In a situation like this, the good of the many outweigh the good of the few, or the one."

His eyes went wide in horror, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, Jesus," he mumbled indistinctly. "Now you've got me doing it."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Hey, Mom, I'm home!" echoed through the Willows house.

Catherine took a deep breath, resting her hand on Brass's one last time for moral support.

He squeezed her fingers. "It's going to be fine," he whispered.

"Says you," she whispered back. Louder, she said, "We're in the kitchen, honey."

"Oh, god, Mom, you would not believe what Paulie Sanchez tried to do--" Lindsey Willows jogged into the dining area of the kitchen, stopping when she saw them at the kitchen table. "Oh. Hi, Jim."

Jim gave her a grin. "Hi, kiddo."

Catherine bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to smile. He'd tried so hard, really -- his usual suit and tie were back at his house, and in their place was an old cream short-sleeved polo shirt, his favorite brown cords, and a beat-up pair of loafers. The whole outfit screamed I'm harmless. Just your mom's old buddy, nothing to worry about here.

He swallowed, and she was surprised to hear a clicking noise. Dry throat? My God, he's more nervous than I am. "So, um, how was the field trip?" he continued.

Lindsey shrugged. "Basically boring until that moron Paulie tried to light a fart in his cabin and scorched his ass. Mr. Svenson had to take him to the hospital -- man, he was pissed." She detoured to the fridge and dug out a Diet Coke. "Anything interesting happen here?"

Catherine had a sudden and very unexpected flashback of Jim's mouth moving up her inner thigh, and choked a bit. Brass, undoubtedly remembering something similar, was staring at the ceiling. "Well, we solved a murder at a sci-fi convention," he said after clearing his throat.

"Oh. That's cool. But it's SF or speculative fiction, not sci-fi."

Catherine blinked in surprise. "I didn't think you liked that stuff."

"I don't, but my English teacher's a fan. Knowing him, he was probably at that convention." Lindsey plopped down in the chair across from them, then planted the soda can on the table and folded her arms across her chest. "So, what'd I do?" she challenged.

"Uh...nothing?" Catherine said, surprised.

"Then why are you two sitting here waiting for me?"

Showtime. "Well, there's something I--" pausing, she amended it to, "--we need to tell you. About us. Jim and me."

Lindsey scratched her chin. "Oh, that. You're hooking up. I know."

"You know?"

The teenager rolled her eyes. "Well, yeah. I mean, he's had dinner with us seven times in the last three weeks. And you keep looking at each other with this truly disgusting expression." This time, she crossed her eyes. "And he comes over here when I'm at school, right?"

Catherine felt her jaw drop. Next to her, Brass rubbed his mouth, his eyes crinkling in delight. "Now how'd you figure that out?" he asked. "Because I know I never left anything behind."

Lindsey gave him an exasperated look. "No, but you do always leave the toilet seat up."

Catherine turned to stare at Brass, who had an astonished look on his face, then cracked up. "Oh, God. I never even thought about that," she admitted.

"And I'm supposed to be the detective," he said, shaking his head. "She's definitely your kid, Willows."

"You two are so busted," Lindsey scoffed. "Look, Mom, it's cool, okay? I mean, you've known each other for years, right? And Jim's a good guy -- he's not going to jerk you around like some of the guys you dated." She shrugged. "I guess what I'm saying is, I'm sixteen -- I'm not going to be scarred for life if he sleeps over."

"Lindsey!"

"Mom!" She mimicked her mother's tone perfectly. "Just don't mess each other up, okay? If you have problems, talk to each other -- don't start screaming or throwing things. Or jumping into bed with other people. All right?"

Catherine knew she was thinking of the fights with Eddie, and shook her head. "We won't do that, I promise."

"Never," Brass vowed.

"Okay. Anyway, I've got to finish this stupid essay on the Anasazi by tomorrow, so I gotta hit it." She went to the doorway, then stopped and turned to Brass. "You're going to stay for dinner, right?"

"That was the plan," Brass said.

"Cool. And I don't have to call you Uncle Jim or anything lame, do I?"

He shook his head, chuckling. "Nah. Jim is fine."

"'Kay, Jim. Call me when dinner's ready, Mom." Grinning again, she left.

Weak with laughter and relief, Catherine leaned against Brass's shoulder. "I think we just got a teenager's blessing," she said.

"Thank God. Of course, that was the easy part," he said. "Now I gotta figure out how to tell Ellie."

She nudged him gently. "We'll figure it out. So, want to help me cook dinner?"

He caught her hand and kissed it. "Lady, I'm at your service."

A/N: Yes, there really is a Bombay phenotype -- go to Wikipedia and enter Hh_antigen_system for more information. I simplified the explanation for the purposes of this story, but the consequences of receiving a transfusion from a non-carrier are unfortunately accurate.