Those Left Behind
Disclaimer: I just
borrow their wonderful creations. I don't own them. The ideas however are all
mine.
I'd long suspected Tim had secrets he never
let on to any of us. Hurts so deep they wouldn't heal. But he worked well.
Maybe too well, total concentration. But since I often did the same, as did
many of our team, I couldn't really complain. I had wondered if he was seeking
death. But CSI was hardly the place to find it quickly. If that was really the
case he would've picked the Bomb squad, or SWAT. So I kept my suspicions quite
and my eyes open.
I watched him die a little more each day.
Watched him smile less, move a little more mechanically. And finally I watched
him draw his last breath choking on his own blood. He had drawn his weapon. I
drew mine. Then the bullets started flying. Out of the corner of my eye I
thought I saw him check his gun. Then my attention was focused completely on
the shooter. Then just like that it was over. I turned and saw him down. I
don't remember how I got to his side. I only dimly recall Calling for an
ambulance. I knew he couldn't survive. I could see the damage. But still I
urged him to hang on, still comforted him. When he went I thought my own heart
would stop from the pain. I didn't move from his side when the first officers
arrived. Didn't move for the paramedics. Didn't move when my team began to
arrive. Finally Alex came. I let her take him from me. She would look after
him. I trusted only her.
Any other case we could have handed off.
Taken the time to grieve. But this was a kidnapping. There was still a little
boy out there who needed us to save him. So we each buried our grief the best
we could. Some managed better then others. And we carried on. We found little
Joey. Reunited him with his mother.
I went home that night and put my fist
through my hall wall. I wondered if I would cry, but no tears came. So anger
and violence was the next best thing. I went to the firing range the next day
and emptied several clips in to the targets. Others there looked at me
knowingly. Everyone knew by now. As I left I passed Eric on this way in. I had
no doubt Calleigh would show up at some point too.
The funeral came. I've never liked official
funerals. While they honor the fallen hero, and allow the department and police
community at large to mourn a fallen comrade, they don't allow those closest to
him to grieve. Too many people, too many eyes watching. I added two more holes
to my wall that night.
When we returned to work the following week
nobody asked about my scraped and bruised knuckles. And I didn't question why
Eric's locker now sported an ever-increasing number of dents and why his
knuckles were colored too. Why Calleigh was suddenly logging so many hours at
the firing range. Or Alex's sudden need to bring cookies and mother us all.
But crime continued and we started to develop
a new routine around our missing man. I wasn't looking for a new CSI yet. We
weren't ready, that's all there was to it. Any new person who came in would be
resented for taking Tim's spot. Wouldn't have been fair to any of us.
It was a little over a week after the funeral
that Mrs. Speedle came to see me. We said all the right things. Without ever
saying the important things. She had brought a box of things they'd found sorting
through Tim's belongings. Things that they thought were better suited to
co-workers then to family or charity.
I took the box returned to my office and shut
the door. I looked at the box for a long moment then removed the lid and set it
aside. On top were several pictures in frames. They were of us. Them team at
various department events. Christmas parties, picnics that kind of thing. Our
faces smiling, laughing. Even Speed though his eyes didn't quite match the
expression on his face. I would share these with the team when we were ready.
Next in the box were some books. Procedure manuals and science texts. I set the
books aside too. Then I looked into the bottom of the box, there were a few
remaining things.
That was when I saw it. I stared at it for a
long moment not knowing if I wanted to pick it up. But I did I reached down and
picked up the small case that had grabbed my attention. My knees gave way and I
sank in to my chair. I set the small case on my desk in front of me. I
recognized it. It was a gun cleaning kit. The one I'd given him after the dispo
day incident. I reached out again and cautiously opened the case. Hoping,
almost praying I wouldn't see what I suspected I would find. Yet there it was.
Everything. Every swab, every drop of oil. He'd never used it.
And in that instant I knew. It wasn't
carelessness, or an accident. Speed chose this path. He wanted to die. For
whatever reason he couldn't or wouldn't end his own life. His death needed
legitimacy. Maybe he wanted it for us. His friends and family. To save us the
grief of knowing. Knowing that we weren't enough for him. Enough to make him
want to live.
I slowly close the kit, and suddenly there's
a drop of water on the lid. It takes me a moment but then I feel the moisture
on my face. I'm crying. I don't even make an effort to stop. I put my head in
my hands and I cry. I cry for Speed, for myself, for everyone who lost him.
Everyone he left behind.