'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,' Dominquez 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' 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.
