By Marcus L. Rowland
Grissom never talks about his dream.
It's always the same dream, although the details differ. He's in the lab or the morgue or at a crime scene or at his desk, examining evidence or trying to put together the details in a way that makes sense. Something's eluding him, a vital clue or link that will make everything clear.
She comes to him then, the Goth girl with the pale skin and the odd symbol round her neck. She points something out to him, or puts the papers in a different order, or just watches while he works. He thinks that they talk, although he can never remember what they say.
When he wakes he writes down what he remembers; what he did differently, the order of the papers, anything that might help. He's solved at least a dozen murders that way, usually the brutal ones that are an insult to the victim. Twice he's found evidence to free someone who was wrongly convicted.
When he rationalises it he thinks of her as a manifestation of his subconscious. But in the back of his mind he thinks of her as his muse, and vaguely wonders why she always leaves with the sound of beating wings.