This fic is the product of a warped mind, and therefore should not be taken seriously, or taken at all for that manner because that's plagiarism, and seeing as how none of these characters belong to me, we'd ALL get in a buttload of trouble. And you know you'd get caught, 'Cos Grissom would SO be on your case. You can't fool him. He's too smart. So Nyah! Other than that, enjoy, be kind,and review!
Las Vegas, 10:30 p.m
Gil Grissom entered the house warily. This was the fourth ion a string of seemingly unrelated, signature murders, the same symbol as the others burned into the front door.
He set his kit and mag-light down briefly and surveyed his surroundings, his sharp, grey eyes narrowed as he considered the scene before him. It was eerie, dark and cluttered. There had obviously been a struggle. The coffee table was overturned and the T.V was laying on it's side, cracked, smoking, and silent. There were scorch marks on the thick, shag, carpet and long scratches on the walls. It was, in essence, just like the other crime scenes. For once, Gil Grissom the night shift supervisor of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, was confused. There was no actual pattern, no real motive, except maybe a simple love for killing, and worst of all no suspects in these murders. Eckly, the day shift supervisor, seemed to think they were gang or cult related, judging by the symbol carved into the doors of the victims home.
Behind him a flash flared to life briefly as Sara Sidle, one of his CSI, a young woman with shoulder length chestnut hair, took a picture of the symbol, a Skull with a snake protruding from it's mouth like a tongue. She was obviously as frustrated as he.
"This doesn't make any sense." She muttered, taking a few more photographs of the scene.
"Killers rarely do." Grissom replied calmly, though he agreed wholeheartedly with her.
"But they usually follow some kind of pattern. I've never seen anything this...random, disjointed. It's almost as if it was done on a whim…" She continued as she put the camera away and moved to her kit. It was about time to start dusting for prints, even though they both knew they wouldn't find anything. Cars rumbled by outside, punctuated by the boyish tenor voice of Nick Stokes, the strapping, dark haired man who worked under Grissom.
"We've found the bodies." He called, stepping into the living room from the hallway. "David says it's the same as the others. They look like they've been frightened to death too."
"They haven't been frightened to death." Grissom muttered. "That's not possible. There has to be some other explanation." He insisted, eyeing Nick sternly. Sara looked up at Nick and shrugged behind their boss's back. Until otherwise, that's how they would look at it, improbable or not.
Grissom stepped into the dining room where the coroner, David, a stocky young man with mousy hair and glasses.
"What's the cause of death?" He asked automatically, looking around at the family, still sitting around the table in their dinner things.
"There is none!" David said in exasperation. "Apart from the fact that they're all dead, they seem perfectly healthy, but they'll be taken to Doc Robbins anyway." He sighed.
"Can you give time of death?" Grissom asked dismally.
"Nope. It's just like the others, as if they'd been in a freezer." He breathed in frustration. Grissom scowled. This was bad. If they didn't find the killer soon…..
Grissom stood shoulder to shoulder with Doc Robbins, the plump, aged Coroner, as he examined the corpses. Each was almost exactly like the others, cold as ice, pale, rigid, their faces twisted and their mouths open in silent screams.
"I sent blood samples to trace, so we'll know soon enough if there's any sort of toxin in their systems..: He said, though they both knew that wouldn't happen. There would once again be no apparent cause of death, even though they all knew perfectly well that four healthy people did not just drop dead of natural causes. Grissom shook his head and closed his grey eyes. Never before had a case challenged him as mush as this, not even Paul Mulander. And, usually a challenge was a welcome thing, but this…this was senseless…cruel. Grissom wasn't really listening to Doc. Robbins either, the only sound that managed to punctuate his thoughts being the steady clunk of Robbins' wooden leg as he moved to the other side of the table, clear blue eyes fixed on the bodies as he worked. They were both interrupted, however as a tall, willowy red head entered the room, her expression caught somewhere between concern and anxiety.
"Brass wants to talk to you, Gil." Catherine Willows said, eyeing the bodies almost sadly. She had been working the cases as well, and knew, like all the others, that they were no nearer to catching the killer and a lot closer to having another death. Whoever was doing this was at least following one pattern common to serial killers. They were escalating, gradually killing more and more people with each scene they left.
"I'll be there in a minute." Grissom said, and upon closer inspection, Catherine could see dark circles under his eyes. She nodded and left the room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake. Grissom stood there a moment, looking down at the two children, and then, with a final glance at the white haired coroner, quit the room as well.
Homicide, The Office of Jim Brass
Brass was a thick man, built like a bull, with a broad, furrowed face and dark hair parted neatly atop his head. His thick hands were folded on his desk, and his expression indicated this was to keep them from fidgeting nervously. Under his hands was a manila envelope with the federal seal. It was thick, as if the file contained within spanned more than a decade. Grissom took a seat in the vacant chair across room Brass, expression mildly curious.
"Do you have a lead for me?" He asked, his tone almost hopeful. Brass gave a mirthless chuckle and handed Grissom the envelope.
"Boy do I." He said, shaking his head slowly from side to side, as if in shock or disbelief. "Got this from the Feds this morning. They seem to think that you can handle it, seeing as how these murders have occurred in your jurisdiction."
"Well that's generous of them." Grissom muttered dryly as he slid the files from the envelope and opened them. He had just glanced down at the first when he let out a sharp gasp and dropped the stack of papers. The pictured had moved!
"Government's known about them for some time, but we haven't been able to do anything about it. They say it was all being taken care of, but the guys the feds said would handle it, apparently couldn't. They're offering you the case." Brass said in a would be calm voice.
"known about who?" Grissom demanded weakly as he watched a photo of a once pretty woman glare haughtily up at him through heavily lidded eyes, crossing her arms and moving to lean against the frame.
"Wizards." Brass said, rubbing his forehead. Grissom looked up sharply.
"Wizards and Witches." Brass clarified. "They have their own society, right under our noses. The Feds have been helping keep them hidden for years, but these murders are starting to leak into the media. That symbol is called the "Dark Mark" and is unique to a group called Death Eaters. They're a bunch of wackos following this guy, Voldemort. The "Ministry of Magic has sent a message to the Feds, asking for help. They want you and your team to do the helping." He finished, taking a long swig from his coffee mug, as though that would help wake him from what was so obviously a bad dream.
Grissom gave a mirthless laugh, waiting for Brass to let him in on the joke. But he didn't.
"A representative will be meeting you in a half hour, until then, you'd better brief your team. You'll all be going over to England." Brass continued.
In a daze, Grissom nodded and quit the room, taking with him the strange moving photos and the files written on what appeared to be parchment.
About fifteen minutes later the entire team; Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, Sara Sidle, Catherine Willows and Greg Saunders from the chem. lab, were all gathered around reading the files and ogling the pictures. They all seemed as stunned and skeptical as he was, but how could you refute moving photos? Grissom wondered vaguely what other sorts of impossibilities they would encounter, resigned as he was to following this case through. The only person who seemed unperturbed was Greg.
"This is amazing!" He gushed, practically dancing on the spot. "Magic! Wizards! And we get to go see them!"
Catherine cast him a bewildered look, her head cocked to one side and her mouth slightly opening disbelief, though none of them could think of anything to say to this. Nick and Warrick exchanged glances, seeming caught somewhere between tears and laughter, and Sara just kept shaking her head and making little noises in the back of her throat, especially upon seeing what these "Death Eaters" Were capable of. Grissom was about to speak, to say something to bring some sense to the situation, and maybe stop Greg from dancing on his sneakered toes, when the sound like the crack of a whip made them all jump a foot in the air.
They whirled around, facing the source of the noise with guns drawn, but made no other move, each mouth hanging open in astonishment. Before them stood a very old man with long silver hair and beard. Half moon spectacles were perched on a long and crooked nose, and he was dressed in long purple robes embroidered with gold. He seemed not to be paying attention as he tried to unstuck two pieces of yellow candy. After a few moments of tense silence, the old man looked up, smiled kindly and held out one of the candies to Warrick.
"Lemon Drop?" He asked, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half moon spectacles.
Warrick accepted the candy and put his gun away, looking inquiringly at the others.
"Who…who are you?" Catherine asked, blinking in surprise. Slowly the others put their weapons away as well, watching as the old man gave a low bow his beard sweeping the floor.
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." He said, beaming all around at them. "The Ministry of Magic has requested I represent them in light of these horrible events. While you are working n concert with the Ministry, I do hope you will accept my invitation and stay at the School I run. We have plenty of room, I assure you."
They all looked to Grissom, Greg aquiver with excitement. Slowly, he nodded.
"Where is this school?" He asked.
"Oh, I can't give you the exact coordinates, that would go against our muggle relations-"
"Muggle?" Sara asked sharply, brow furrowed.
Dumbledore gave a soft chuckle. "It's what we Wizards call non-magic folk." He explained. The CSI all looked at each other, part apprehension, part amusement. "As I was saying, we'll be taking a portkey." Dumbledore continued, pulling a ratty old boot from within his robes and producing a long, slender wand.
"You're gonna do magic!" Greg asked, unable to contain himself. Nick and Warrick chuckled nervously, shaking their heads.
"I am indeed." Dumbledore said, grinning in a fatherly way at the Chem. technician. He muttered something under his breath and tapped the old boot with is wand. It glowed briefly blue and then lay quiet and unobtrusive on the table in the center of the cluttered room.
"Everyone gather 'round." Dumbledore said, putting his wand once ore in his robes and waving them all closer. "And touch the portkey, just a finger will do. One…Two…Three!"
And as they all touched the ratty old boot, they felt as if they were being pulled sharply backwards by a hook in their navel, a loud whooshing in their ears as strange, shadowed pictures whizzed past them.