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Warrick knew it was going to be a bad case when all CSIs were called to the scene at 157 Walnut Avenue. Judging from the way the entire block had been roped off and the surrounding streets were filled with news vans and curious onlookers, this was as big, if not bigger, than the Collins family murders the year before.

As he drew closer, however, he found another reason for the street to be blocked--there had been a fire. The fire engines were still blocked in, though it was apparent that the fire had been extinguished.

“Arson,” Warrick muttered, surmising the nature of the crime they were there to investigate. He parked his car as close as he could get to the scene and then walked the rest of the way. If it were only arson though, he figured, there wouldn’t be a reason for all CSI to be investigating. Of course, it was an apartment complex, so perhaps they were all needed due to the size of the scene. Warrick suspected differently, though. Call it instinct, but there was something more than just an apartment fire going on.

“Warrick,” Grissom greeted as he approached the others. “Glad you could join us.” He was the last on the scene.

“What’ve we got?” Warrick cut to the chase. “More than arson, right?”

Grissom nodded. “More than arson,” he agreed. A dead body, then.

“Which apartment?”

“All of them.” That announcement received more than one pair of raised eyebrows. “From the looks of it, there were no survivors.”

“No alarm?” Catherine asked, her mouth gaped slightly with the horror of what had been revealed.

“Ah, see, that’s where it gets strange,” Grissom continued his explanation of the crime scene. “Neighbors called in the fire at 2:17 am, reporting that they could hear the fire alarm going off in the 157 building.”

“But nobody inside made it out?” Nick asked for clarification. “If someone in a neighboring building could hear the alarm, they’d have to be able to hear it, too.” He pondered for a moment. “Someone set off the alarm after everyone inside was dead?” he suggested, his distaste at the thought apparent on his face.

Grissom looked at him pointedly. “It’s a possibility,” he acknowledged. “There are five apartments,” he continued his explanation of the scene. “On ground floor we have the apartments of Rebecca Warren and Janet and Gary Masters. The second floor apartments belong to Morris Pearson and the Black family: John, Marsha, Marshall, Lindy, and John Jr. And finally the penthouse apartment belongs to Vaugn Andrews.”

Sara’s eyes widened. “The author?”

Grissom nodded. “Afraid so.”

“Great,” she griped. “A celebrity case.”

Warrick frowned. Something else had caught his attention. “Morris Pearson…why does that name sound familiar?” He searched his brain for the reference.

“He was the psychic from the Jane Galloway case,” Grissom supplied, not missing a beat. The others spared a glance at Nick. He’d healed completely in the two months since being thrown out a window, but they were all reminded how close they’d come to losing him during that case. Catherine absently reached out and placed a shoulder on the younger man’s shoulder as Grissom began assigning them their tasks.

“Anything in particular we’re looking for?” Sara asked as they prepared to enter the crime scene.

Grissom looked at her as if she’d missed the most obvious thing in the world. “The truth,” he answered easily as he headed over to start appeasing the gathering crowd of local politicians.

“We’ll need these,” Catherine informed the others, handing out the gas masks with built-in night-vision goggles. “You’ll need to come out and replace the filters every 30 minutes, so set your alarms. Don’t go over the allotted time, we don’t want anyone suffering from smoke inhalation.”

Warrick strapped his mask in place as he approached the building, showing his badge to the cop watching the door. Not much of a psychic if he let himself die in an apartment fire, he thought inwardly as he climbed the stairs to Morris Pearson’s second floor apartment.

The fire department had broken in the door to the Black family’s apartment across the smoke-heavy hallway, but Morris Pearson’s door was unmarred. Pulling on his gloves, Warrick paused to examine the door. It was doubtful that there would be any usable prints on the doorknob, but if he had learned anything in his years as a crime scene investigator, it was that one needed to be thorough. Finding nothing usable, he proceeded, turning the knob and opening the unlocked door.

“Who leaves their apartment unlocked in this neighborhood?” Nick asked, as he approached from the stairway.

“Someone who knew he’d have visitors,” Warrick returned. “Psychic, after all.”

Nick smiled and peered into the apartment. It was extremely tidy, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary. At least not on the surface. He began snapping pictures, preserving everything as it was before moving in and altering the scene.

Several minutes later he began his trek down the hallway. He hesitated a moment as he noticed that the closet door was open and several towels had fallen from the shelves. He snapped a picture. Judging how neat everything else was in the apartment, it seemed unlikely that Mr. Pearson would leave towels on the floor, or hanging off the shelves. Unless he had grabbed one in a hurry.

Nick glanced at the wide open bathroom door, then proceeded into the bathroom. The bathtub faucet was dripping water. He made a few mental leaps. Take a towel grabbed in a hurry and add water turned off in a hurry. What should one do if they’re trapped in a fire and can’t get out? Put a wet towel under the door to keep out the smoke. Someone could still be alive.

“Mr. Pearson?” he called, turning toward the closed bedroom door.

Warrick looked up as he heard Nick call for the apartment’s resident. Curious, he headed to the hallway, where he found Nick stooped down by the bedroom door.

“Wet towel under the door,” Nick informed him, looking up with a frown. “From the outside of the room.” Which meant that someone had been outside the room trying to protect someone inside it? Warrick’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Pearson lived alone, right?”

“Grissom didn’t mention any other resident of the apartment.”

Nick snapped the preserving picture before extracting the towel and placing it carefully into a large evidence bag. He then quickly examined the doorknob. “Mr. Pearson?” he called again. “I’m coming in.” He announced before pushing the door open.

Thanks to the towel, the room was almost clear of smoke. It also appeared to be clear of everything else. There was nothing on top of the dresser--no knickknacks or photos, or even cufflinks or a watch. The nightstand was likewise cleared. Not even an alarm clock. One quick glance in the open closet showed no clothing or shoes.

The only thing showing that possibly someone lived in the room was a neatly made bed. The frilly white lace comforter, however, seemed quite the unlikely choice for a single man. As did the stuffed animal that sat atop the pillow. Nick snapped a picture before moving closer.

“A grown man with a stuffed unicorn?” Warrick wondered aloud. “Odd choice.”

“Pegasus,” Nick corrected.

“Hm?”

“Unicorns have horns. This is Pegasus, the winged horse.” Nick scanned the room one more time. “Okay, so if no one is in here, why would someone stick a wet towel under the door?”

As if to answer his question, the inhabitant of the room crawled out from under the bed and pounced happily on his foot. Startled, Nick looked down at the fluffy white kitten batting playfully at his shoelaces. “What have we here?” he asked with a chuckle, reaching down to pick up the kitten. Even through his gloves he could feel the kitten start to purr. “Looks like we have a survivor after all.”