A/N: Just a little note regarding the subject matter. I understand that some things mentioned in this story may appear eerily similar to the new information regarding the attacks in Norway. I'd just like to say that this story has been planned for a while and the timing of its release is unfortunate. I'd also like to say that recent events have not in any way at all 'influenced' the direction of this story.


Nick and Doc Robbins looked at Greg, slightly bewildered. "Dead? Why would someone want you dead?"

"Look I don't know," Greg said, pulling out the letters he'd been sent. "I've been getting these for around a month now." He passed them over to Nick and Doc Robbins who had a look at them. "It's in Norwegian by the way; I guess you won't understand what they say."

"What do they say?" Doc Robbins asked curiously.

"They started off as letters claiming that I was born into a family of traitors and that I should beg forgiveness for my betrayal of my people. I know, I have no idea either," he added as Nick looked at him with absolute confusion. "I'm only half-Norwegian for a start and I've never even been to Norway but they all seem to end with 'you better watch your back, Hojem."

"Isn't Hojem your mother's maiden name?" Nick asked.

"It sure is, and all of them have been addressed to Gregory Hojem, not Sanders. Then a couple of weeks ago they started escalating, saying that I must die for the crimes I've committed, etcetera. At first they started sending them to the lab but now I'm getting them in my mail and now they're leaving voicemails on my phone."

"Why didn't you tell us about these, Greg?" Nick asked. "We could have looked into it."

"You know what it's like here, you'd have started investigating and then a murder pops up, then another, then another and all the unimportant stuff gets put at the bottom of the pile and goes cold. Besides, I want this case, and I know about the lab policy of having a personal involvement into something."

"Yeah, but how many times has that rule been bent?" Nick chortled.

"Hang on," Doc Robbins started talking. "How does these Blood Eagle execution style murders relate to these letters you've been getting."

Greg took out one of the letters and pointed to a symbol at the bottom of one of the letters he'd been sent. "This represents a blooded eagle. The Blood Eagle was supposedly a Norse method of execution, these letters are being sent to me in Norwegian this can't be a coincidence! I've lived in Las Vegas what, twelve years now? The only Norwegian people I've seen here are either tourists or family members coming to visit."

"Does anyone know you've been getting these threats?" Nick asked anxiously, Greg didn't immediately respond. "Greg? Does anyone else in the lab know?"

"Yeah, Selma does," Greg said reluctantly.

"Selma?" Nick wasn't expecting the DNA tech who had been working there less than a month and if Greg didn't know Nick any better, he'd have been upset with Greg for not discussing these letters with him.

"Yeah, look, last week, I received another letter. This one had no writing, just... blood." Doc Robbins and Nick's expressions began to become even more concerned as the story gained depth. "I urrm... ran it through CODIS, I didn't find a hit. I ran it again but trying to find DNA in common with anyone on the database... my profile showed up."

"So, what does that mean then?" Nick asked.

"Papa Olaf died around a month ago. At the time, we all suspected it was old age, I mean; he was ninety-two years we all assumed it was a natural. I'm starting to doubt that a little."

"What's this symbol here?" Doc Robbins pointed to another symbol next to the bloody eagle on the bottom of one of the letters showing a red circle embezzled with a golden cross in the centre.

"That, is the reason I've called someone in for assistance with the case. I've been told it's a symbol of a dark chapter in Norway's history which goes back seventy years."

"Seventy years ago was nineteen-forty-one," Doc Robbins began calculating. "The height of World War Two in Europe. Wasn't Norway occupied by Nazis during the war?"

Greg nodded sombrely, "it's the emblem, not of the Nazi party but the Norwegian equivalent of the far-right wing fascist movement, that's known as the National Gathering."


Sara and Vartann made their way towards the hospital room where Nicholas Ilsez was recovering from his injury. A police officer stood outside the door to his room and moved away when the two of them approached. Ilsez lay in the bed in the far corner, his left leg in a cast and elevated upwards. When the two of them approached he still appeared to be sleeping but Vartann was sure that he was only pretending.

"Hey Nicky," he called out to the sleeping man. There was no response. "Nicky, come on, wakey wakey," he shook the man's shoulders who awoke immediately a look of fear and surprise imprinted on his face. "I'm Detective Lou Vartann, this is Sara Sidle from CSI. We've got a few questions to ask you."

"No, no," Ilsez groaned, turning his head away from the two of them. "I'm too tired come back later."

"Don't worry, you'll live," Vartann muttered patting Ilsez's broken leg, causing him to wince sharply. He pulled up a seat next to the patient and sat down next to him. He whispered into his ear, "now tell me what you know about the death of Claire Wainwright."

"Who?" Ilsez responded with a look of confusion on his face.

"You know who," Sara began talking. "The woman who you and your friends raped and then shot."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ilsez protested again turning away from the two law enforcement officers. Vartann sneakily pulled back the hospital robe, revealing the tattoo on his chest which identified Ilsez as a member of Los Ángeles de la Muerte. "Hey! You know what that is, that's a violation of my privacy."

"Oh really," Vartann replied coily. "I don't recall doing anything like that; do you remember me doing something Sara?"

"I have no recollection of it," Sara shrugged.

"You better listen Mr Ilsez otherwise you'll be looking at some serious jail time." He pulled out a picture of Claire Wainwright's dead body, as they had found her at the scene. "See that graffiti," he pointed at the markings which Claire's body lay on, "you have that as a tattoo don't you."

"Yeah," Ilsez replied, "and... so what?"

"You were at the crime scene Mr Ilsez," Sara stated to him. "We know you raped Claire Wainwright, we found your semen on the girl's body."

"I swear I never touched that girl!"

"Are you having problems Mr Ilsez?" Vartann asked. "I understand you have a wife," Ilsez nodded slowly, "but you don't have any kids."

"We've been trying for a..."

"Yes, we know. We know you've also been taking tablets, trying to boost up the number of swimmers."

"The hospital kindly sent your blood reports to us," Sara explained to him. "You have a rather high amount of Vitamin C, zinc and trihydroxyflavene in your system. Semen enhancement pills." Ilsez began to shift uncomfortably in his bed. "As it so happens one of the semen donors is suffering from a low sperm count."

"That doesn't mean it's mine," Ilsez spoke up.

"I'm sure there aren't that many members in your gang which have it." She pulled out a slip of paper and presented it to Ilsez. "We have a warrant for your DNA and fingerprints." Ilsez looked at the paper in horror as Sara picked out a buccal swab. "Open up."

Ilsez paused for a moment and hesitantly opened his mouth allowing Sara to swab the inside of his cheek. Sara then took out some ink and a ten card, and began to print Ilsez's right hand.

"When we match your DNA to the sample of semen," Vartann began to speak. "And I mean when... you'll be arrested for the murder and rape of Claire Wainwright, in fact, you'll be serving twenty-five to life. Now you see, we're gonna give you an opportunity, because we know and you know, that your semen wasn't the only one found on the victim..."

"I'm not saying anything," Ilsez responded flatly, knowing what was coming next.

"Okay, well you're gonna be the one taking the fall... and your friends, ha, they won't care. Do you really think they'll care for you, do you really think they'll be visiting you every day. The thing is, you'll be locked up for the rest of your life and they'll all be roaming free doing as they please. Why should you take the fall for something you know you only played a small part in? Let me tell you this, Mr Ilsez, there is no honour among thieves."

"Okay, okay," Ilsez caved in. "I'll tell you. Yes, we were there, yes we tried to get her to have sex... but she needed a bit more encouragement..."

"Surely you know that no means no, Mr Ilsez," Sara spoke up angrily.

"Hey lady, it wasn't my idea. I swear I didn't put the bullet through her, that was Amando, but yeah, we were all there."

"Including Juan?" Sara asked.

"Yes, yes he was there too!"

"Okay Mr Ilsez, thanks for your help," Vartann finished jotting the notes down in his notepad. He tapped the man's broken leg again. "I hope you get better soon Mr Ildez... it'll mean you'll be in jail quicker."


"Listen Juan," Brass told the man of the update. "Your buddies are admitting to being involved in Claire Wainwright's death and they all say you were there."

"My client has specifically stated that he was not involved with the murder and rape of Claire Wainwright no matter what the other members say," his attorney Mothert declared.

"Listen Sandra. We've got confessions from members of Los Ángeles de la Muerte that they assaulted Claire Wainwright, they're all pointing at each other for the murder but that's five people who state that Juan was there..."

"Did you have to beat them to force their confessions out?"

"You seem a little desperate there, I'm sure you're beginning to enter a new low by accusing the LVP..."

"You will not be getting my client's DNA."

"Sandra," Juan spoke softly. "Look let's just get it over with."

"What are you doing Mr Menard?" Mothert hissed.

"Look, I'm fed up here, I want to go home," Juan explained. "You told me I'd be out within the hour and now it's been seven. Just get it over with, Jimbo."

Mothert groaned muttering, "don't blame me if you end up landing yourself in jail."

"You know what Sandra," Brass spoke up. "Take yourself outside have a rest. Me and Juan will sort the rest of it out."


"Hey Stokes," Vega had to run to catch up with Nick as he briskly walked down the corridor. "I hear Sanders went all vigilante on us."

"I wouldn't say vigilante," Nick said to him. "It was sort of his own investigation being somewhat linked to ours."

"I heard he hired an expert to assist us with the case. You're not going to try and let him take over now are you?"

"He's not trying to take over the case. And even if he is, this thing is way more complicated than we ever anticipated."

The two of them had arrived at the front desk for the crime lab where Judy was awaiting them. Stood next to her was a tall man around about sixty years old, yet he still had a rather youthful appearance about him. There were no wrinkles and his mop of hair was more of a brilliant silvery colour, rather than a shade of grey.

Judy smiled at the two of them and tried to introduce the visitor. "Urrm, Nick, this is Peter Gris... Grims... Gris..."

"Peter Grimsrund," the man named Peter politely corrected her.

"Sorry," Judy blushed. "Anyway, Peter's here to assist you on the Matthew Ellis and Joseph Huyt cases."

"Hello Mr Grimsrund, I'm Nick Stokes, CSI, it's a pleasure to meet you," Nick and Peter exchanged a friendly handshake.

"Hello Mr Stokes, Peter Grimsrund, I'm a historian and thanks for letting me lend you a hand."

"I think your expertise will prove to be useful for our investigation," Nick said to him. He noticed that Peter had a very strong accent which Nick assumed to be Norwegian given what they were potentially facing.

"Sam Vega, homicide detective it's a pleasure meeting you," Detective Vega also exchanged a handshake with the historian.

"If you'd like to follow us this way, we'll bring you up to speed with the case," Nick invited Peter to follow him to their office.

Nick noticed that Peter looked intensely intrigued with the crime lab, casually peering in as he watched Selma processing DNA from the Claire Wainwright case or Mandy looking at fingerprints from that same case. They passed the trace lab on the way to the office; Peter peered in, obtaining eye contact with Hodges who was processing a trace from a Swing shift case. Hodges gave him a suspicious look back before returning to his microscope.

"Peter!" A delighted cry called out as Greg noticed Peter entering the office. "I wasn't expecting you for another few hours."

"Lucky for you I happened to be in town, I got here as quickly as I could," Peter replied.

Nick and Detective Vega stood outside the office, watching the two of them engage in conversation. "They're awfully pally," Vega noted.

Nick nodded, "you seem suspicious."

"I'm not. I just notice they appear to know each other pretty well already."

"What's all this then?" Catherine came round the corner, noticing the huddle gathered in the doorway to the office shared by Nick, Sara and Greg. "Who's that guy with Greg?"

"Supposed expert on Norwegian history," Vega commented.

"Norwegian history?"

"Yeah, our case has entered a new dimension of weird," Nick admitted.

"I don't like him," another voice called out behind them. It was Hodges. "He looks funny, he sounds funny and he's buddies with Sanders. I don't trust him."

"Hodges, shouldn't you working on that case for Swing?" Catherine interjected. "CSI Brampton has been nagging me to tell you that she's still waiting for her trace evidence."

Hodges pulled a sour face and walked off, trace results in his hand.

"How's it going with the Claire Wainwright case?" Nick asked Catherine.

"We're getting there," Catherine said happily. "We've got one of our guys; we've got DNA samples from the rest of them. It's only a matter of time. Right, I'm off to get results. Good luck with your case."

"Thanks, I guess."


"Okay Selma, tell me what you got," Catherine beamed at the DNA tech as she walked into the lab.

"I've got good news, and I've got not-so-good news," Selma replied. "Which would you like first?"

"Good news please."

"Okay, the DNA from five of the seven members of Los Ángeles de la Muerte match the semen we found on Claire Wainwright's body. Mandy sent me the print results, the sixth suspect; the dead motorcyclist had his prints all over her clothes, the ones stained in her blood."

"Okay, so who's DNA or prints weren't found at the crime scene," Catherine asked tentatively, although she had a sickening feeling she knew who it would be.

"That's the bad news. Juan Menard, no match. None at all."

"Are you sure?" Catherine asked desperately.

"I triple-checked Catherine, that guy's prints were nowhere in that crime scene. I'm sorry."

"Okay, thanks Selma," she said disappointingly as she picked out her cell phone and called Brass.

"Brass," she heard him answer the phone on the other side.

"Jim, it's Catherine, DNA results came back. Six of the seven members were at that crime scene, we found no evidence of Juan Menard being there at all."

"What?" She heard Brass cry out frustratingly.

"I know, Selma triple checked, we don't have any evidence to put Juan Menard at the scene at all."

"We still haven't found the weapon yet have we? I'm sure if we find that then we'll get his DNA all over that."

"But we can't hold him for much longer can we? Besides, we can get the rest of them for murder. Seeing as nobody's admitting who shot Claire we can have them all charged with it, good old Felony-Murder rule."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I'll go and do the appropriate actions then," Brass' tone sounded disappointed and dejected. "It's just I thought we finally had this guy and now, he's back on the streets."

"I thought we weren't supposed to take sides, I mean the evidence is, the evidence, there's nothing we can do about it."


"Well well Jimbo, what did I tell you?" Juan chuckled as he was led away from LVPD by Brass. "Here I am, Free Willy, riding the waves into the sunset."

"You know Juan," Brass whispered to him. "One day, you're gonna slip up, one day you'll not be so lucky and trust me, when that day comes you won't be seeing the outside of a prison cell ever again. Forget about being Free Willy, I'm gonna turn you into Shamu."

"You know what Jim. You don't scare me, I've slipped through your fingers plenty of times and boy, I'm gonna keep on doing it. There's only one bigger thrill than avoiding jail and that is pissing you off to the max. Jimbo, this won't be the last you see of me."

Brass simply gave out a low growl instead of causing a scene, whisking the man into the main foyer of LVPD. As they headed towards the exit, Brass heard an ear piercing shriek sound from a woman sat in one of the chairs in the waiting area.

"You're letting him go?" Mrs Wainwright shrieked storming up to the pair of them. "You're letting my daughter's killer get away?"

"It's okay honey, I didn't touch you..."

"Keep quiet Juan," Brass hissed at him.

"I'm very sorry for your loss Mrs Wainwright," Juan said in his gravest voice.

"How dare you!" Norma Wainwright shrieked, "how dare you offer your sympathy to the girl you savagely took aw..."

"Officer Langley, please could you take Mrs Wainwright and her son away," Brass called out over the hysteria which ensued within the small foyer. Langley nodded and restrained the frantic Norma Wainwright, taking her over to one side.

Juan stood back, smiling to himself as he admired the way he could still stir up trouble before feeling the firm grip of Jim Brass on his shoulder, driving him away from the commotion.


"So let me get this straight," Nick spoke loudly as they talked through the case with Peter. "Some Norwegian Nazis have come over here, killed a ninety-two year old man, butchered two other people and started sending death threats to Greg. That seems like a really implausible MO."

"They're not Nazis Mr Stokes," Peter reminded him. "They're fascists and if anything they've been living here for many, many years. Following the end of the Second World War, the National Gathering was disbanded and many of the party members were exiled. I guess some moved to America and still maintained their beliefs there. Norway as a country never embraced the concept of fascism, unlike in Germany where it had been allowed to kindle; the National Gathering had been forced upon the people when Germany invaded in nineteen-forty."

"One of my letters mentioned the name Quisling," Greg spoke up. "Who, I understand founded the National Gathering."

"That is correct and he led Norway during the inter-war years as a puppet government for Nazi Germany. He ended up being executed once the war ended, so I guess some of your 'pen pals' have some sort of bitterness towards those who oppose them."

"About the Blood Eagle style executions, are they symbolic?" Doc Robbins, who had pursued an interest into the case context and had joined them, asked.

"It looks to be that way, considering nowadays it's far more convenient to just shoot somebody. One aim of the National Gathering was to retain symbolic Norse traditions, although I dispute the use of the Blood Eagle during the Viking age, I guess these few radicals have chosen to embrace it."

"So you reckon that the letters and the murders are linked?" Nick asked.

"Yes, I do."

"What about the two victims then, why would they go after those victims? I mean, one's Jewish, Caucasian, a jogger who lived in Victorville. The other, African American, a Baptist, a businessman who lived in Vegas. My first thought was that they were hate crimes but you mentioned earlier that they're not like the Nazis and that the eradication of Jews and ethnic minorities was never on their agenda."

"What you've got to remember Nick," Doc Robbins piped up. "Is that a long-lasting bitterness can develop over time, particularly if you now live in a different society it's highly likely that your views could change regarding the environment around you."

"But why now?" Vega asked. "This just seems weird to lie in wait for seventy years and then start becoming a serial killer."

The room was silent for a moment; nobody seemed to think of a logical reason to answer that question. An idea swept into Nick's head as he remembered something he heard Greg say earlier.

"Greg, you seem to think that Papa Olaf was murdered right?" He asked tentatively. Greg nodded. "What date did he die on?"

Greg thought about it for a moment, thinking back to the previous month where he had returned to LA for the funeral. "June the... twenty-third I think."

Vega looked at Nick, "that was the day before we found Joseph Huyt's body and isn't Victorville on the way between LA and Vegas?"

"Right," Nick deduced. "Greg, you said that they referred to you as Hojem in the letters right?"

"Yep, I've already said it; I think they're after me for some reason."

"Has it ever occurred to you that the other two victims might be... you know... practice?"

Greg thought about the two victims, the gruesome nature of their deaths and immediately felt to feel sick to his stomach. He saw pairs of eyes transfixed upon him as the words 'why me?' passed through his thoughts.

You better watch your back, Hojem.


It was unusually quiet in the foyer for LVPD. It had been so ever since the kerfuffle earlier. No reports for muggings, or attempted robberies, or assaults. It was almost pleasant in a way. The woman behind the reception desk immediately sat up as she saw a woman walk into the LVPD foyer, head dropped, the woman looked as if she was ashamed of something.

"Hello, how can I help you?" The receptionist asked merrily.

The eyes of Norma Wainwright looked up and met the receptionist, her mascara had run down and her cheeks were swollen from tears. Taking a deep breath, she said to the receptionist morbidly, "I'd like to hand myself into the police. I've just killed a man."


A/N: The fourth and final part of the story will be up tomorrow. I hope you've enjoyed it and keep the reviews coming in! The feedback so far has been fantastic and I'm very grateful for it! Thanks for reading! :)