CSI Mortal Wounds

by Max Allan Collins

  Sara asked, “Is there any way to cross-match the blood on the knife?”

  Grissom shook his head as well. “Doubtful the hotel has the tools for that.”

  Cormier emerged and trailing him—surprisingly enough—was Tony Dominguez, the tall, slender Hispanic waiter. Instead of his white-shirt-and-black-slacks uniform, the young man wore a loose-fitting white sweatshirt with an orange Syracuse logo on the front, and new black jeans. In white tennis shoes, Dominguez did not venture into the snow, rather stayed on the shoveled sidewalk near the rear door.

  The investigators were trading what-the-hell expressions when Cormier strode over and said, “You said you all were in a hurry—I thought you might need some help carrying the…uh…package inside.”

  “Thanks,” Grissom said tightly, “but we can probably manage.”

  Cormier gestured toward the building. “You sure? We’ll be going in through the delivery entrance down there. It’s a long haul.”

  Maher said to Grissom, “I know it’s not exactly what we had in mind, but why don’t you and Herm and…what’s your name, son?”

  “Tony,” the young man said, hands dug in his pants pockets.

  “You should have a jacket, son.”

  “Mr. Cormier said this wouldn’t take long.”

  “It doesn’t have to. If you three will escort the…package inside, Ms. Sidle and I will get started out here. Snow’s coming and the sooner we’re at it, the better our chances of finding something useful.”

  Grissom, clearly not liking this a bit, nonetheless said, “All right.”

  Then Maher, Sara, and Grissom stripped the lawn tools and CSI equipment off the toboggan, and Sara and Maher—weighed down by their load—went off across the parking lot to where the tomato stakes barely peeked out of the snow.

  While Sara worked with the constable, Gil Grissom took command of the corpse-hauling detail.

  He said to Dominguez and Cormier, “You’ll have to lead the way, gentlemen.”

  Cormier, who’d already shown himself to be squeamish around the remains, didn’t make a move. And the young man just stood there staring at the sled.

  “Is that the…body?” he asked.

  Grissom shot an irritated look at Cormier, who shrugged and shook his head, his expression saying, I didn’t tell him!

  “So much for discretion,” Grissom said to the hotel man. Then, with a tight smile, he said to the waiter, “This is a body, yes. It needs refrigeration. We’re preserving evidence.”

  “Ohmigod…” The young man swallowed. “I thought it was just a rumor.”

  Grissom, whose patience had run out already, said, “Are you up to helping with this? I can get Ms. Sidle back here, if you two aren’t capable.”

  Dominguez, his eyes still riveted to the space blanket lashed to the toboggan, said, “I…I’m up to it. Do we…undo this, unwrap it, or…are we moving the toboggan, too?”

  “Toboggan and all,” Grissom said. “There’s other perishable evidence here, and it’s all going into the cooler until the police arrive.”

  Grissom hated having another of the suspects this close to the remains, but at this point there was nothing to be done. It was almost as if Cormier were trying to complicate matters.

  He glanced over at the work going on in the parking lot, Maher with the leaf blower, again dispersing snow, clearing the footprints near the blue Grand Prix, Sara assisting. Already snowflakes were drifting to earth all around, the wind picking up too, and Grissom knew that the only way they had any chance of getting the prints from the parking lot was to get the body inside with the help of the waiter—suspect or not.

  “Can we do this, please?” Grissom asked.

  Intimidated, the waiter took the front end and Grissom the rear, facing each other as they lifted it between them.

  “I’ll get the doors and clear a path,” Cormier said, moving out ahead; but Dominguez was already backing toward the little receiving dock at the far end of the parking lot.

  They were off the shoveled area now, shuffling through high snow, taking care to keep their balance. The sled and its charred cargo seemed surprisingly heavy to Grissom. The victim hadn’t been a particularly large man, but with the added weight of the toboggan, Grissom might have been helping haul anvils. Having the corpse buried in snow overnight, with the beginnings of the freezing process kicking in, had cut the foul odor of the roasted flesh, at least.

  “Who is this?” Dominguez asked suddenly, eyes on the space-blanket-wrapped “package.”

  “No ID,” Grissom said. “Don’t look at it yet.”

  The two of them made eye contact then, the waiter backing toward the loading dock, Grissom with the corpse before him, the pair working together, Cormier slogging through the snow to get ahead of them.

  “Stairs,” Grissom said, for the waiter’s benefit, and they halted for just a moment so Cormier could kick the snow off the four concrete steps that led up to the dock. When the man had finished, the waiter took a moment to get his bearings, then nodded at Grissom and backed up the first step.

  Starting up the steps put even more of the weight on Grissom, and he let the young man set the pace—if Grissom pushed, they might lose their grip and wind up dumping their cargo. But Dominguez—slightly built though he was—was doing fine, taking the second and third steps with no trouble. Cormier was unlocking and opening a door on the loading dock when Dominguez reached the landing…and slipped.

  The weight came forward, as if Grissom was on the down end of a seesaw, and Cormier—to his credit—quickly grabbed on to the waiter’s abandoned end of the toboggan, bracing it.

  In the meantime, Dominguez had sat down, rudely, on the loading dock, the baggy lefthand sleeve of his sweatshirt hiking up to reveal a white-gauze-bandaged arm. Quickly, obviously embarrassed, the young man got to his feet, tugging the sleeve down over his bandaged arm, and took his end of the sled back from the older man.

  “You all right, Tony?” Grissom asked.

  “Caught some ice—sorry.”

  Grissom, gritting his teeth and supporting most of the weight himself, asked, “Ready?”

  “Sure.”

  Cormier had returned to his post, holding open the door, as they once again started moving.

  “Just a littler further,” Cormier said.

  The complex arrangement of rope and bungee cords that bound the body to the toboggan had held tight all the way down the hill, but now—as Grissom and the waiter turned the sled on an angle, to fit it through the narrow door—a rigor-stiffened hand slipped free.

  No one but Grissom had noticed this—yet—and the CSI wasn’t about to call attention to it, not and risk winding up holding the heavy end of the load alone, again. Once they were through the door, the CSI and the waiter tipped the toboggan back upright, the hand sliding partway back under the space blanket.

  The hall was concrete—floor, walls, ceiling. Lightbulbs encased above in wire cages, every fifteen feet or so, half-heartedly lit their passage down this damp, cold hallway, which had all the charm and ambience of a Tower of London dungeon. Slipping by on Grissom’s right, on the side away from the exposed hand, Cormier moved on ahead of them, boots clomping like horse hooves.

  Grissom heard the click as Cormier tripped the padlock, then the cooler door yawned open, the rubber seal at its base scraping along a floor already scoured to a high sheen.

  “You almost expect the Crypt Keeper to step out,” Dominguez said with a nervous laugh.

  Grissom, having no idea what the kid was talking about, nodded noncommittally.

  “All the way to the far wall, now,” Cormier said from behind the open door. “I keep the meat on the left, and I don’t want this thing near it…. Tony, you know where to stow it.”

  “You got it, Mr. C,” Tony called.

  The refrigerated room was about the size of a holding cell. Shelves on the left wall were stacked with boxes marked with the names of individual cuts and types of meat, fish, poultry, and pork. The wall
at right was lined with wire baskets, small bins brimming with bags of lettuce, stalks of celery, bunches of radishes, bags of carrots, sacks of onions, and also some fruit—grapefruit, oranges, melons. Behind Grissom, on the wall the door opened from, were stacked cartons of ketchup and mustard bottles, jars of pickles and relish, gallon tubs of salad dressing and the like. The far wall was a blank metal slate, nothing even piled there, and that was where Cormier directed them to deposit this delivery.

  Cormier was throwing together a basket of food—meat, vegetables, fruit, as if he’d been shopping. “I need to get tonight’s food out of here—rest of this stuff is probably gonna be condemned.”

  “Fine,” Grissom said.

  The hotel manager was scurrying out as Grissom and the waiter set the sled down with great care on the concrete floor, parallel to the steel wall. They both stood and then Dominguez glanced down and saw the hand. Kneeling, he raised the edge of the blanket to tuck the hand back under.

  “I’ll get that,” Grissom said.

  But Dominguez had already seen more than any of them had bargained for; his expression was horror-struck.

  Grissom said, “You know this man?”

  Gasping, the waiter was backing away, then turned and ran, almost knocking Grissom down and bumping into Cormier, who was on his way back in.

  The young man collapsed against the corridor wall, in a sprawled sitting position, heaving sobs, hugging himself.

  Grissom exited the cooler. To Cormier he said, “Keep an eye on him.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “He recognized the victim.”

  While Cormier stayed with the waiter, Grissom went back inside and carefully repackaged the body under the blanket. When Grissom emerged, Dominguez was still sitting, leaning against the wall, his head in his hands, Cormier crouching next to him, a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “You have the keys?” Grissom asked Cormier.

  The hotel man nodded.

  Grissom snapped the padlock shut. At least the body was secure, now.

  Still crouching by his employee, Cormier handed up a ring with three identical keys to Grissom. “This is all of them.”

  With a dismissive nod, pocketing the keys, Grissom turned his attention to the waiter. The CSI pulled off his stocking cap, stuffed it in a jacket pocket, removed the muffler, did the same with it; gloves came off, too. All the while he was watching Dominguez as he might an insect specimen, observing as the waiter seemed to implode there against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, face buried in his hands, sobs racking his body.

  “If you can get ahold of yourself,” Grissom said to the waiter, as gently as he could, “we should talk. All right?”

  Dominguez didn’t acknowledge Grissom’s presence, much less his question.

  Cormier remained at Dominguez’s side, that supportive hand still on the boy’s shoulder. Taking the other side, Grissom sat beside the boy, too.

  “How did you recognize the victim?” Grissom asked. “Without seeing his face?”

  Dominguez looked up at Grissom, finally; tears pearled the handsome boy’s long eyelashes. The waiter’s voice was a pitiful rasp. “I knew…know…the coat. I gave it to him. To James.”

  “James? Jim Moss?” Cormier interrupted.

  Dominguez nodded.

  “He’s a waiter here,” Cormier explained.

  Grissom nodded, his attention on the boy.

  “You gave that coat to James. You must have been good friends.”

  Dominguez shrugged. “We were lovers.”

  Cormier’s eyes widened and he blew out breath, like Old Man Winter; but whatever Old Man Cormier might have thought about such a relationship, his hand never left Dominguez’ shoulder.

  “He really loved that coat,” Dominguez was saying.

  A coat, Grissom knew, wasn’t near good enough for an ID. “Does James have any distinguishing marks?”

  “Well…a tattoo.”

  “Where? Could you describe it?”

  “On his back.” Dominguez touched a spot just over his own shoulder. “A rose. A tiny rose…for his mom. Her name was Rose. She died when he was in high school.”

  Suddenly Dominguez grabbed the front of Grissom’s varsity jacket, startling the CSI. “That’s the kind of person James was! Remember that! You tell people that! Be sure to!”

  “I will,” Grissom assured the boy, who released the CSI’s jacket and sat back again, deflated after the outburst.

  Cormier, whose hand had been jerked away when Dominguez sat forward, was sitting quietly, just watching his employee.

  “Tony,” Grissom said, each word emerging with care, “I’m going to need you to identify that tattoo.”

  The waiter’s eyes went wide again and he shook his head rapidly. “Oh no, oh no! I can’t go back in there!”

  “You can,” Grissom said. “You have to.”

  “I do not have to!”

  “If you want to help James—”

  “He can’t be helped now!”

  “We have to determine what happened to him. That’s the only help we can give him, now…. All right?”

  The boy thought about that.

  Then he swallowed and nodded.

  “Herm,” Grissom said, “please sit here with Tony.”

  “No problem,” Cormier said, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder again.

  Grissom rose. “Now, Tony—just wait here. Stay calm. I have to go in and get things ready. Then all you have to do is identify the tattoo…if there is one.”

  Another swallow, another nod.

  Grissom arched an eyebrow. “Remember, this could be someone wearing a coat like James’s, or even wearing James’s own coat. We have to be sure.”

  The boy’s eyes brightened. “You mean, it might not be him!”

  “That is possible.”

  “It could be someone else wearing his coat! Somebody he loaned it to, ’cause of the cold. He was always helping people…”

  The CSI supervisor noticed that Dominguez had used the past tense. Did that mean anything, or was the boy’s mind already accepting the inevitability that the corpse in the cooler was James?

  Grissom unlocked the door. Inside the cooler, he uncovered the body, rolled it over to get at the victim’s back, which hadn’t been burned at all, and slowly peeled away layers until he got to the dead man’s shoulder…

  …where could be seen a small red-and-blue rose, a rather delicate tattoo.

  After covering as much of the body as he could, leaving only the area with the tattoo exposed, Grissom called, “Mr. Cormier! Would you bring Tony in here, please.”

  Cormier’s arm was around the boy, who entered on wobbly legs.

  “Is this James?” Grissom asked. He was kneeling next to the body, gesturing to the red-and-blue rose. “Do you recognize the tattoo?”

  Dominguez stepped away from Cormier’s protective arm, staggered over and glanced down. Again he swallowed, nodded, and tears immediately began to flow again, sobs shaking his chest. Grissom covered the victim up, nodded to Cormier to lead Dominguez back to the corridor, which he did, and then Grissom exited and relocked the cooler door.

  Cormier was standing beside the boy, who again sat slumped against the wall, staring hollowly, breathing hard, but the tears and sobs had ceased, for now anyway.

  “Give us a few moments, Mr. Cormier,” Grissom said.

  The hotel man nodded, said, “You’ll be fine, Tony—Dr. Grissom here is a good man…. I left my basket of food out on the dock. I’ll cart it up to the kitchen.”

  “Do that,” Grissom said.

  And then Cormier left them alone, the inquisitive CSI and the heartbroken waiter.

  “What was your friend’s full name?” Grissom asked.

  The reply was sharp, angry; that was bound to come. “He wasn’t my friend. He was my lover…okay?”

  “What was your lover’s full name?”

  “James R. Moss. The ‘r’ stood for Rosemon
t. It was a family name. Maybe that’s why his mother was named Rose…. You’re a doctor?”

  “Not a medical doctor, Tony. Tell me about James.”

  Dominguez answered with his own question. “How did he get burned like that?”

  Grissom wondered if the question was serious or calculated to keep him from suspecting Dominguez. He had no reason to doubt that this boy had loved James Moss; but love, like hate, was among the most common murder motives.

  Grissom gave it to him straight: “He was shot and killed.”

  “Oh my God…”

  “And whoever did that, for some reason, set fire to the body afterward.”

  “What? Why?”

  “That’s part of what I’m trying to determine. That’s the kind of a doctor I am, Tony. Forensics.”

  “…for the conference this weekend.”

  “Right. Tell me about him.”

  Dominguez wiped his eyes with the back of a sweatshirt sleeve, the one belonging to the arm without the bandage. “James was sweet and funny and kind. Honest, too, very honest. Nobody would ever want to hurt him.”

  “Did the two of you have any problems?”

  “Oh, no! We were happy. Very compatible.”

  Grissom gestured toward the boy’s sleeve. “When we almost dropped the sled out there, I noticed you have a kind of nasty cut, there.”

  Unconsciously, the waiter touched his wounded arm. “How could you see that?”

  “Well, I mean…I saw the bandage.”

  Dominguez pushed up the loose sleeve and exposed gauze running from his elbow nearly to his wrist. “Looks bad, huh? Hurts worse.”

  “How did that happen, Tony?”

  The boy took a moment, then said, casually, “Working on my car.”

  “I need you to be more specific.”

  He shrugged. “Cut myself putting on a new exhaust system.”

  “Really?” Grissom said, with an insincere smile. “People still do that themselves?”

  Dominguez found a small grin somewhere, relieved by the apparent subject change. “Well, I do. I’ve got an old car. I do it to save money, but I’m into it, maybe ’cause it’s so…so…” He laughed a little. “…butch.”