Work Text:
Santa, Baby
by Joanne Soper-Cook
"What have we got?" Grissom ducked his head against the driving rain and squinted at Jim Brass.
"Elderly male, illegal entry. Looks like he smothered in there." Brass flashed his light in Grissom's face, briefly.
"Like he smothered in where?" It was a horrible night, and far too close to Christmas, Grissom thought. He wasn't overly fond of Christmas and liked it only if other people left him alone and let him read and drink brandy, hidden in his house and comforted by his enormous piles of books and The Discovery Channel.
Brass wasn't smirking - not quite. "Take a look." He held the yellow tape as Grissom ducked under, then led the way into the modest, ranch-style house. The interior had been decorated for the holidays, with an excess of tinsel and the kind of extravagant lighting usually associated with a big box Walmart. The stockings were hung (as far as Grissom could tell) by the chimney with care. Someone had left a CD playing on the stereo: "There's Something Stuck Up in The Chimney (And I Don't Know What It Is.) "In there." Brass gestured at the fireplace. "You know, people who write novelty Christmas songs should be killed, just as a matter of principle."
"He's in the fireplace?" Grissom glanced around, wondering if either Stokes or Sanders was hiding in one of the corners with a video camera, waiting to capture their supervisor's gobsmacked _expression. "The D.B. is in the fireplace?"
"Not really." The corner's of the detective's mouth were quirked in what was definitely humour. "I'm serious, man. Take a look." Brass dropped to his knees and shone the flashlight up the chimney.
It was then that Grissom saw it. "Oh my God." He sank back onto his heels. "Jim, we can't let anyone in here. Do you know what this means?"
"Yeah," Brass said heavily, "Santa's dead."
"Worse!" Grissom glared at him. "Santa's guilty of breaking and entering. There's probably a trail of evidence leading all the way back to the North Pole."
"I never liked those elves," Brass mused. "Something about them. They got...tiny hands, you know? Smell like cabbage."
"There's more." Grissom's full mouth had compressed into a hard line; he directed his flashlight at the carpet. "Do you see it?"
"I see it," Brass replied heavily. "The DA's gonna love this."
There, on the carpet before them, leading away from the chimney, was a clear line of bloody hoofprints.
"It makes perfect sense," Grissom said. "Proboscus illuminatus."
Brass nodded. "You thinking reindeer games?"
"Yeah. The very shiny nose would be a definite giveaway."
"I hear ya. Reindeer with a grudge, gets kinda sick of being the fall guy, not being allowed to join in any of those 'reindeer games'..." Brass made Dr. Evil-style finger quotes in midair. "He's gotta take it out on somebody. We've had some rainy winters lately...past few years, you got, what? More than your share of foggy Christmas Eves, Santa comes to say, 'Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?'"
"Except instead of 'sleigh' it's slay," Grissom said. "Sick bastard."
"Well, some guys got a nose for it."
"You could even say it glows."
"But you wouldn't."
"You wouldn't."
"So."
"Yeah." Grissom tucked his flashlight away. "I'll get some demolition guys in here to extricate the body, have Nick bag him and tag him. Albert's gonna love this one." He glanced at Brass. "Wanna get an egg nog?"
"Sure. I could use an egg nog."
They climbed in Gil's Tahoe and drove out of sight: a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!