Most of the time, Gil enjoyed his work. That wasn't, perhaps, the best way to put it. Most of the time, Gil enjoyed his life; he didn't really think of his work as somehow being separate from any other aspects of his day-to-day existence. He didn't tend to compartmentalize. But every now and then, they got a case that forced him to draw a line, a line he visualized as a taut barrier made of crime scene tape. On one side of the yellow and black tape, his life: science, home, friends, insects. On the other side, the case. And even the case he would break up, as though he were sorting through a bag of garbage. (Trash on this table, paper on this table, food scraps on that table, and so on.)
The broken and mangled bodies of children. That was one thing that would be carefully taped around, so that he wouldn't continue to see their wounds as he lay in bed as the sun came up, trying to fall asleep.
The desperate sobbing of a grieving survivor. He would partition off that sound, and he absolutely wouldn't allow himself to consider what those closest to him (and certainly not Sara, he would not think of that) might sound like if they should find themselves crying - weeping - like that.
Any time a Deaf person found themselves the victim of a crime, and especially if the crime occurred because they were Deaf.
They had a case like that now. A woman had been found half-dead, clearly having been held captive. Brutalized, tortured. Gil had been called to process the scene after the woman had led law enforcement back to her prison. A shed, so innocuous, so banal. She had still been there, giving a statement, and he had made eye contact with her as he arrived. A few seconds, no more, but it had been enough to make his fingers shake minutes later when he began pulling out his tools. She had survived, yes, she had saved her body, but Gil didn't think she'd managed to save much else.
The day was halfway over before he finally made it home. Sara met him at the door, and someone must have called her, told her something.
"Bad day?" she asked, keeping her distance.
"Taped off." She nodded once, her lips thinning for a moment, but she didn't question him further, didn't say one more word. That was the only way Gil could keep going, sometimes.
The broken and mangled bodies of children. That was one thing that would be carefully taped around, so that he wouldn't continue to see their wounds as he lay in bed as the sun came up, trying to fall asleep.
The desperate sobbing of a grieving survivor. He would partition off that sound, and he absolutely wouldn't allow himself to consider what those closest to him (and certainly not Sara, he would not think of that) might sound like if they should find themselves crying - weeping - like that.
Any time a Deaf person found themselves the victim of a crime, and especially if the crime occurred because they were Deaf.
They had a case like that now. A woman had been found half-dead, clearly having been held captive. Brutalized, tortured. Gil had been called to process the scene after the woman had led law enforcement back to her prison. A shed, so innocuous, so banal. She had still been there, giving a statement, and he had made eye contact with her as he arrived. A few seconds, no more, but it had been enough to make his fingers shake minutes later when he began pulling out his tools. She had survived, yes, she had saved her body, but Gil didn't think she'd managed to save much else.
The day was halfway over before he finally made it home. Sara met him at the door, and someone must have called her, told her something.
"Bad day?" she asked, keeping her distance.
"Taped off." She nodded once, her lips thinning for a moment, but she didn't question him further, didn't say one more word. That was the only way Gil could keep going, sometimes.
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