calling cards, the typical dinging and ringing casino cacophony-and Brass led them to the right, toward a gleaming bank of elevators.
'Where's the vic?' Warrick asked.
'Fourth floor,' Brass said. 'Right there in the hall, outside his hotel room door, shot twice in the head, small caliber, a .22 or a .25 maybe. Looks like a mob hit, might be a robbery got outa hand.'
'We'll see,' Grissom said, never interested in theories so early. 'Is there videotape?'
Most of the resort hotels on the Strip had video cameras in every hall, but not all the ones off the Strip, like the Beachcomber, had caught up.
Brass nodded. 'It's set up in the main security room-waiting for you, whenever you're ready.'
When they were safely alone in the elevator, away from guests and staff, Grissom turned to Brass. 'You tell the manager we'll be done when we're done. I don't care if he has to use a cherry picker to get these people out of their rooms, they're not going to disturb my crime scene. The hotel gets it back when my people have finished with it.'
Brass held up his hands in surrender. 'Okay, okay, I'll tell him. I just wanted to save the guy for you to alienate.'
Taking a deep breath, Grissom let his head drop a little as he exhaled. 'Tell him we'll work as fast as we can, but this is not fast work.'
The elevator dinged, the door slid open, and it began. Stepping out, Grissom looked to his left where Detective Erin Conroy, stood interviewing a twenty-something young man who wore a white shirt, black bow tie and black slacks-a waiter.
The CSI group paused to snap on their latex gloves.
'Guy's a spitting image for David Copperfield,' Warrick said softly, behind Grissom.
'The waiter,' Sara said, amused. 'Yeah-spot on.'
Grissom turned to them. 'Who?'
Sara's eyebrows climbed. 'Grissom-you live in Vegas and you don't know who David Copperfield is?'
'A Dickens character,' Grissom said. 'Is this pertinent?'
Sara and Warrick, silenced, exchanged glances.
Moving forward, Brass on his left, Warrick and Sara behind him, Grissom stopped in front of a uniformed officer on watch at the near end of the crime scene. Beyond the officer, Grissom saw the body slumped in a doorway alcove; a large, circular, silver tray lay on the carpet across the hall; and spaghetti, meat sauce, and the components of a tossed green salad lay scattered everywhere. A white carnation, spilled out of its vase, lay at the corpse's feet like an impromptu funeral offering.
'Anyone been through here since you arrived?' Grissom asked.
Garcia shook his head. He pointed to a rangy officer at the other end of the hall. 'My partner, Patterson, had the manager let him up the fire stairs down there.'
'Good work.'
'Thank you, sir.' Turning to Brass, Grissom asked, 'Any idea who our victim is?'
'Sure-'John Smith.' '
Grissom raised an eyebrow.
Brass shrugged elaborately. 'That's how he registered. Paid for everything in cash too.'
'Right. You check for a wallet?'
Brass shook his head. 'Waiting for you to clear the scene. I used to have your job, remember?'
Brass had indeed been the CSI supervisor until not so long ago; he'd been something of a prick, in fact, but had mellowed since returning to Homicide.
Grissom asked, 'Your people canvassing the guests?'
'They're on it now-they started at either end, so they don't disturb the scene.'
'Good call. And?'
'Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.'
Stepping in carefully, Grissom bent over the body.
Lying on his stomach, head just slightly to one side, his brown eyes open, glazed, staring at nothing, John Smith looked surprised more than anything else. Cautiously, Grissom changed position to better see the wound. Clean, double tap, small caliber; Brass was probably right-a .25. The odd thing was the placement. Two small holes formed a colon in the center back of John Smith's skull, and-if Grissom didn't miss his bet-almost exactly one inch between them.
Grissom felt gingerly for a wallet, found nothing, gave up and rose; then he turned to his CSIs. 'Footprints first, you know the drill. If this guy wasn't Peter Pan, he left his mark.'
Warrick nodded, alertness in the seemingly sleepy eyes. 'All comes down to shoe prints.'
'Yep,' Sara said.
Grissom stepped aside so Warrick and Sara and their field kits could pass. 'Sara, you do the fingerprints. Warrick the photos.'
'Good thing I skipped breakfast,' Sara said.
'Least there's no bugs yet,' Warrick said to her. Bugs and larva were about the only thing that threw the strong-spined Sidle.
'I wouldn't bet on that,' Grissom said. 'This hotel might not like it, but our little friends are here.'
Sara and Warrick began by scouring the entire crime scene for footprints. This would take a while, so Grissom followed Brass over to where policewoman Conroy stood with the waiter.
Flicking the badge on his breast pocket, Brass said to the waiter, 'I'm Captain Brass and this is CSI Supervisor Grissom.'
The skinny dark-haired waiter nodded to them.
Conroy, her voice flat, said, 'This is Robert La-Fay. . . .'
'Bobby,' the man interjected.
She went on as if he hadn't spoken. '. . . a room-service waiter. He was taking an order to room . . .' She checked her notes. '. . . four-twenty, but he never made it. Ran into the killer.'
Turning sharply to the waiter, Grissom asked, 'Mr. LaFay . . . Bobby-you
LaFay shrugged his narrow shoulders. 'Sort of . . . not really. He was standing over the body, his back to me. Jesus, the guy was already down and he shot him again, right in the back of the head! Then he heard me and turned around, and blocked his face with his arm-you know, like Dracula with his cape?'
'Bobby, did you get any kind of look at his face?'
'No. Not really.'
'Was he a big man, small man, average?'
'Mostly what I saw was the gun. It seemed so big and it was the second gun I'd seen tonight.'
Grissom and Brass exchanged glances, and the former said, 'Second gun?'
The waiter nodded. 'Up in eight-thirteen. Big guy, had a cannon on his nightstand. He said he was FBI, but . . .'
'FBI?' Brass said, incredulously.
'You didn't believe him?' Grissom asked.
'Nope.'
Grissom gave Brass another quick look, then returned his attention to LaFay. 'So, you saw the killer here-and then?'
His eyes widened. 'Then I took the hell off toward the elevator and I guess he went the other way.'
'Down the hall?'
'Yeah. Anyway, he didn't shoot at me that I know of.'
Brass said, 'Bobby, wouldn't you know if you were shot at?'
'I'm not sure. That gun wasn't very loud.'
Eyebrows up, Brass asked, 'No?'
'No. Loud enough to scare the crap outa me, though.'
Brass grunted a laugh, but Grissom was thinking he'd have to tell Warrick to dust that stairwell. 'Can you tell us
