In case there was any doubt, I am not Joss Whedon or Anthony E. Zuiker, and I am not a member of any production company related to CSI: LV or BtVS. I do not claim any of their characters. This is a work of fiction created for no financial gain. No characters were harmed in the creation of this fic (except, you know, the one who dies). No one has teh sex, there's no pairings, there are naughty words and descriptions of dead people (mobile and not mobile). No one believes that's Elton John's real hair. All your base are belong to us.
The man was pale. Unnaturally, never-seen-the-sun pale, and Grissom had to give him points for veracity. Even just driving to and from work in the morning and evenings had given him a driver's tan. When the pale man lifted his hands to light the cigarette, though, they were both the same pale, almost translucent white.
"This our latest vampire?" Brass said, right behind Grissom's shoulder, and then he snorted. "Never thought I'd see the day when I could say that with a straight face."
"Yes," Grissom replied. "The epithelials under the vic's nails are a match."
"Well," Brass said, straightening out his jacket. "Let's go do this."
The detective opened the door, and Grissom followed him in. "William Jones, you are under arrest for the murder of Svetlana Markham. You have the right to remain silent--"
Grissom watched William closely. Not just in case he decided to fight, but because Grissom was always interested in how people reacted to being arrested. William sighed once, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and closed his eyes throughout Brass' spiel. When Brass asked the question, "Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?", William opened his eyes. The industrial fluorescent lights made everyone look old, Grissom told himself.
"I thought I'd told you guys to call me Spike," William said, stubbing out his cigarette.