Stalker's POV

She hasn't answered my last email. Why? I sent it almost five hours ago. She usually answers her correspondence in the morning, and it's past noon.

I like to imagine her sitting at the computer in her nightclothes, answering email while she sips a first cup of coffee. I like to think about her smiling when she sees my name on the monitor. But maybe she's not a morning person. The early correspondence could mean something completely different, I suppose. It could mean she works nights, and she goes online just before she goes to bed. That idea is appealing, too.

I wonder what sort of job she'd have, working nights? Lots of places need workers 24/7. Maybe she's a nurse. Mmm, wearing white, while she has all those wonderful, dirty thoughts swirling inside, and the patients never know. Wait, they don't actually wear white much anymore, do they? Never mind. Maybe she works in one of those corner stores. They shouldn't let women work those places alone at night. It's dangerous. They're so alone, so... vulnerable. Then there are other jobs at night... Jobs that might suit that smutty streak she has to have. That's okay, though. Even if she's a topless dancer, or a... a whore... She has a beautiful, creative mind. She just needs someone to DIRECT her. I've enjoyed these first, gentle contacts, but I think it may be time to move on to the next stage--begin gathering facts.

I should have heard from her by now. Unless she's ignoring me. No, she wouldn't do that--not like the others. She's different--I can tell.

At Greg's Apartment

Greg Sanders had put on his boxers and an open shirt, feeling that anything that upset Mozell this much deserved attire of some sort. He was sitting at his computer, scanning the emails she'd pointed out, while she paced behind him. She was on her second glass of wine. He'd urged the first one on her, but he was thinking in the back of his mind that if she reached for a third, he was going to suggest she take an aspirin instead. He very much thought everyone needed to keep a clear head right about now.

"Babe," Greg muttered, "How about sitting down? When you wear a path in the carpet, you have to vacuum like a mad bitch to get the carpet fibers to stand up again."

"Serves you right for getting shag," she said shortly, but she perched on the edge of the bed, draining her glass. "Are you sure you don't have a lava lamp around here somewhere."

"At my parents' house. I left it to keep Mom company. It was a sacrifice, because the sucker cost me a ton on eBay."

A smile softened Mozell's tense expression. "I love you, G.S."

Greg paused, looking over his shoulder. He was smiling, but his eyes were serious. "Careful what you say. There used to be such a thing as breech of promise suits."

Mozell wasn't quite sure how to react to that, so she said, "You don't think I'm being an alarmist here?"

"Fuck no!" Greg pushed at the memo lying on the desk. "After reading this? I surprised I wasn't awakened by you screaming bloody murder." He winced. "Forget I said that--bad analogy."

"So what do we do now?" She was reaching for the wine bottle again.

Greg got up and went to her. He took the bottle and glass from her and set both on the nightstand, then sat behind her and pulled her into his arms. "We report this."

She nodded. "I'll do it first thing tonight. Can you get a few minutes off from the lab to...?"

"Screw that. We report it now."

"But I can talk to Grissom when I get to work, and..."

"We can wake Grissom the hell up. I have his address. You don't honestly think he'd want to wait to hear something like this, do you? He's kind of an odd bird..." Greg snorted. "Hello, pot--kettle here. But he cares about the people he works with--I know." He rubbed her shoulder. "Let's get dressed and go over."

A little while later, Grissom was startled awake by his doorbell. He got up and pulled a robe on, then made his way to the front door, sleepily wiping a hand through his rumpled hair in an effort to smooth it. He couldn't have said who he expected to find on his doorstep, but Greg Sanders and Mozell McClain would have been far down the list.

He studied them silently for a moment. It wasn't the first time he'd been awakened by co-workers, but lab techs? He didn't see how it could pertain to any current case, and why else whould they be here? Then his observational training kicked in, and he started picking out details.

Greg was one of the most laid-back people he'd ever known, but he was visibly tense now, and he was hovering very near Mozell. He was in her personal space, but his attitude wasn't invasive--there was a distinct aura of protectiveness about him. On her part, she didn't seem at all upset by his nearness, even leaning toward him slightly. Gil also noticed that the young woman was wearing the same long, dark skirt she had been wearing before. Her shirt... Grissom squinted at it. She was wearing a loose black T-shirt that had the logo for the movie Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the front. Gil blinked. He distinctly recalled seeing Greg in that shirt, or one very like it.

Mozell noticed that he had noticed. "I'm keeping it," she said. "Greg already said I could."

"She caught me in a weak moment," Greg responed.

"Come on in." Gil stepped back to let them pass, then shut the door. "Want some coffee?"

Greg glanced at Mozell, who shook her head slightly, then said, "No, thanks, but I'm pretty sure you could use some for this."

Gil regarded him as they went to the kitchen. "So, you don't feel I'll be going back to sleep after I hear whatever you have to tell me?"

"I sincerely doubt it."

Grissom had been reaching for one canister, now he switched to another. "Better make it espresso, then. Want to tell me what's going on?"

"I think we'd better wait till your attention isn't divided."

Gil looked at Greg sharply. The young man looked as serious as he'd ever seen him. Instead of commenting about powers of concentration, he simply proceeded to brew his espresso. While it brewed, he watched the couple--because they were a couple, as opposed to two people. Greg's hand rested on Mozell's back, occasionally rubbing a small circle. Mozell... Grissom found himself frowning again. The lab tech looked worried and subdued, and that just didn't seem natural for her.

He got his mug and sat at the table. "Okay. Tell me."

"Mozell is being stalked."

Grissom could feel his eyebrow climb. He looked at the woman, who nodded mutely. "I'm not doubting you, but why haven't I heard of this before? Stalking is a progressive thing, Mozell. The way you showed up at my door I can only assume you came to this conclusion abruptly."

"It's been going on since I arrived in Vegas. I just didn't realize it till..." she pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of her purse, "you gave me this. I read it at Greg's after... um... I had dinner... breakfast over there."

Gil recognized the memo he'd given her at work, and felt a sudden chill. He put down his cup and took the paper, scanning it again. "How many of these red flags fit you?"

"All of them." She started ticking off on her fingers. "I'm living in the right area, I'm female, duh, I have erotic writings published on the Internet..." Gil looked at her over the top of the paper. A hint of her usual amusement sparked in her eyes. "Lots of it--original, fanfiction, het, slash..."

Now Gil sat forward, startled. "Slash? There haven't been any indications that the previous victims wrote graphically violent..."

She grinned. "Not that kind of slash." The woman looked at Greg. "What do you know? He isn't all knowing. It's a genre of fanfiction. Simply put, the writer bends the conventional concepts of an original presentation, like a movie, television show, or book, and posits same sex romantic relationships between the characters." She smiled sweetly. "In my case--graphically."

"Gay literature," Greg elaborated.

"I got that, Greg," said Grissom. "That wasn't mentioned in the memo."

Mozell shrugged. "I also write very detailed straight fiction, fan and original. Anyway, I've been receiving emails from one of the listed aliases--ardentadmirer." She bit her lip. "That probably isn't a very unique nickname, but I've been getting a lot of emails from this person in a short amount of time, and they've been getting progressively..." she searched for a term, "more familiar." She shrugged. "I'm sort of used to that. When the readers like you, they really like you, and they like me. I have people I've never met and will never meet who consider me a dear friend, and vice versa. But this feels wrong." She fidgeted. "I'm glad now that I haven't bothered to change the information on any of my online profiles or accounts. If he checks them he'll get my old information." She snorted. "I wonder if I ought to call my old job and tell them to warn the current graveyard clerk?"

Greg was watching Grissom closely. "So, what's the next step? Make a report to Brass? Call the FBI?" Grissom kept thinking. "Sell her story to 60 Minutes? What?"

"It occurs to me," Gil said very slowly, "that we have a unique opportunity here."

Greg stood up so quickly that his chair scraped on the tile floor. "No!" He was shaking his head. "No, no, no, no way!"

Mozell put a hand on his arm. "Calm down, Greg. I'm going to need to co-operate as fully as I can. Hell, I took this sort of job to help catch bad guys."

"Yeah, by running programs and digging through the Internet. I'm pretty damn sure that the job description they gave you didn't include, 'You may be asked to stake yourself out like a goat on a tiger hunt'."

"No one's asking her to do that, Greg," said Gil mildly.

"Yet." The single word was acerbic.

Gil rubbed his eyes. "Look, there's no point in discussing it here. The first thing to do is make an official report. Let me get dressed, and I'll come in with you." He drained the cup and stood up.

As he prepared to leave the room, Mozell said suddenly, "Nice PJs."

Gil paused. "Thank you." He took a step.

"Do you just not sleep in the top, or did someone 'borrow' it?" 'Borrow' had a suggestive lilt. Grissom didn't respond, but the recently grown beard couldn't quite hide a slight flush.

As Grissom left the room, Greg said, "Okay, something just whizzed over my head. What was it?"

"He's only wearing pajama bottoms. His robe was a little loose, and I could see he was bare-chested. A fairly hubba-hubba sort of view, I might add."

Greg swatted her hand lightly, but he was smiling. "And?"

"And either he only wears the bottoms because he feels strangulated otherwise, and the top is sitting in a drawer somewhere, probably still with its store-creases, or..." She grinned. "Ever seen The Pajama Game?" He shook his head. "I need to draw up a list of movies and institute a video night with you." He grinned. "Anyway, back when a lot of people still wore pajamas, say the fifties or early sixties, it was a sort of romantic cliche. A couple shared a pair of pajamas--he got the bottoms and she got the top. Thus all essential bits were covered--still decent, but a bit risque." She glanced toward the kitchen door, and her tone was amused. "Somehow I think that Gil wouldn't be able to locate the top to that ensemble."

"Gil Grissom with a sex life," murmured Greg. He nodded. "I like the idea."

"I like the idea of most people having a sex life, except the really weird ones." She paused. "Or certain annoying people who shall remain nameless. I'd have no problem wishing involuntary celibacy on some people."

Grissom made good time on dressing, and they all drove to the station to file the report. While Mozell gave her initial statement to a detective, Gil went to his office and phoned the Mesquite police department and asked for Detective Mitchell Pfeiffer. After a moment a new connection was made, and a female voice said, "Homicide, Detective Pfeiffer. Who's calling?" For a split second Gil was at a loss for words. Pfeiffer must've gotten a lot of that, because she said, just a touch wearily, "Yes, I'm Mitchell Pfeiffer. Yes, it's an odd name. That's out of the way. Who's calling, and what can I help you with?"

"This is Gil Grissom, head of CSI in Vegas."

"Ah. I have a friend, Pat Collinwood, who speaks very highly of you."

Gil searched his memory. "Yes, I've taught a couple of workshops that he attended. How is Pat?"

"Fine and sassy. He's too good for us. I dread the day he gets an offer from a bigger precinct. What can I do for you?"

"It's not so much what you can do for me. I think we might be able to do something for you. You recently sent a memo detailing red flags about a serial killer that's operating in Nevada and the surrounding states?"

Her voice was grim. "Yeah. They should have sent that out months ago, but somehow no one strung things together. I wouldn't be surprised if, eventually, some of the survivors of the later victims look into a negligence suit." Her voice turned hopeful. "Tell me the psycho walked into your shop and confessed?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Rats. Well, it isn't my birthday, and I haven't been good enough to deserve a miracle, so what was I expecting?"

Gil found himself smiling. "I believe I do have good news for you. I've just been contacted by a woman. She fits the victim profile, and there has been contact by someone who seems to be following the killer's MO."

Pfeiffer's voice almost vibrated with sudden tension. "Jesus! How long has this been going on? Is she safe?"

"She couldn't get much safer. Her name is Mozell McClain, and she's giving an initial statement right now, and she has a very protective young man hovering over her. Your memo stated that the killer seems to stretch his contact out over several weeks, escalating. I believe this has only been going on for about a week, so it's in the early stages."

"Can she stay at the station for awhile? I can be down to talk to her in about a half hour."

"I don't think that will be a problem. Detective Pfeiffer, I'll admit that one of the first things that occurred to me when I heard this was that it seemed like a perfect opportunity to set a trap."

"Natural enough, right?"

"For a police officer, yes, I suppose so. But I'm not an officer. I work for the law enforcement system, but I'm a scientist. Detective, Mozell is a co-worker. She's my forensic electronics and computer tech. She hasn't been here long, but she's proved herself to be an asset to the force..." He paused. "and a nice young woman, despite her rather flamboyant character. I value her, Detective--and I like her."

"I see. Look, Mister Grissom--don't worry. I'll admit that I'm having a hard time not salivating at how perfect a trap could be laid, but never doubt that your friend's safety is the very first thing in my mind."

"Good. You know, I only see most of the people involved in my investigations after the fact. They're usually either evasive, defensive, grief stricken, angry... or dead. I've gotten acquainted with this young woman in a normal... well, as normal as you can get in CSI... situation. I'm having no difficulty seeing her as an individual, because she's very distinctive. I would hate to think of the world being deprived of that variety, because I'm quite sure there isn't another like her in existence."

"I understand. I'm going to do everything I can to be sure what ever involvement she has in this investigation is safe."

"Good. We'll expect you soon. Oh, and Detective? If you run into a young man with rather messy blonde hair here at the station, please don't tell him what I said about Mozell. You know, about her uniqueness, and all that."

She sounded amused. "He hasn't noticed that himself?"

"Yes, he has. That's why I'd rather he didn't notice that I'd noticed."