It would be at least ten minutes, Grissom knew, before they could open the can. The process would have to be repeated with the gun, the casings, and the bullet. While he was waiting, he went in to check on Sara's progress.
Cormier was now leaning against the armoire, watching Sara work.
Sara smiled tightly at Grissom, holding up the gloves, and said, 'Killer definitely wore these.'
'The cut on the cloth mirrors the cut on Amy Barlow's hand.'
Enthusiasm danced in the young woman's eyes, though her words were understated: 'I would say so.'
Grissom prized her love for the job.
The hotel manager stood away from the armoire; confronted with damning evidence regarding his waitress, he looked stricken. 'I can't believe it-Amy? She's such a nice girl…such great people skills.'
Sara arched an eyebrow. 'You may wish to revise that opinion.'
Grissom moved to the table by the window on the lake, and sat down with the flour and the basting brush. Carefully, he applied a little flour to the coffee mug that Amy had served him downstairs-that it was a dark green cup was a nice little break. Brushing away the excess flour, he saw a surprisingly well-defined partial.
Flour was maybe five percent as good as commercial fingerprint powder, but in a spot like this, five percent was a good number. When he finished, Grissom had three partials and a pretty good thumbprint. He dusted the glass from Tony's room and discovered a workable set of prints there as well. Of course, Sara had asked the waiter to pick up the glass specifically to provide his fingerprints-no trickery, as with the waitress-so Grissom wasn't terribly impressed.
Maher strolled back in and they opened the garbage can to reveal several smudged fingerprints, a couple of good ones and what appeared to be a partial off the glove. And they got three more prints from the ziplock.
Grissom called out for Cormier.
A few moments later, the hotel manager peeked into the bathroom; he still had a shell-shocked look, no doubt due to learning his waitress, a good and valued employee, was likely a murderer.
Without looking at the man, Grissom asked, 'Could you heat the pan up again?'
'Yes, sir,' Cormier said, and Maher handed him the pan and the potholder.
The hotel manager, his expression hollow, sleepwalked away, and Grissom followed him, stopping him at the hotel room door. 'You do know you can't say anything to anyone about this.'
'Yes, Dr. Grissom.'
From across the room, Sara called, 'That includes Pearl, Mr. Cormier!'
'Pearl,' the hotel manager said numbly, ''specially.'
Grissom said, 'Mr. Cormier?'
Seeming to snap out of it a little, Cormier looked at Grissom.
'If you give Amy a heads-up,' Grissom said, smiling his pleasant smile that was not at all pleasant, 'I'd have to construe that as aiding and abetting.'
Cormier came fully awake. 'Wouldn't do that, sir. Amy's just an employee…. I only…it's just…'
'People are a disappointment?'
Cormier swallowed. 'Yes, sir.'
Grissom made a clicking sound in his cheek. 'I find insects are much more consistent…. Go.'
'All right,' said Cormier, then he walked out the door, a little of the zombie creeping back in.
While they waited for the hotel manager to come back, Grissom and Maher sat at the table by the window and, using the magnifying glass, compared the prints from the coffee cup and the ziplock bag.
'I think that's a match,' Maher said, frowning.
'Tough to tell in conditions like this,' Grissom said. 'But it does look close-statistically, prints from such a small sample of people, appearing this similar, would just about have to be a match.'
When Cormier returned with the heated pan in hand, he said, 'I need to get back downstairs.'
Still at the table, Grissom, not exactly suspicious-not exactly not suspicious-glanced over at Cormier, poised at the doorway, and asked, 'Why is that, sir?'
'Pearl got through to the sheriff once,' the hotel man said, 'but got cut off. I'm gonna take another crack with my ham radio.'
As the hotel manager was leaving, Sara got her cell phone out of her purse and punched in Catherine's number. This time she heard nothing, not even the robotic voice. She put the cell phone away and went back to work.
Grissom and Maher returned to their bathroom crime lab. Grissom attached the pistol to the hanger, placed the bullets into a glass wrapped in one of the hangers, dripped more Super Glue on the reheated pan, then placed the lid on top. Again they waited and again they were rewarded: good prints revealed themselves, from several of the casings and the bullet. The gun had been mostly wiped clean, but a glove print appeared on the barrel, and Grissom felt sure it would match the wear patterns on the gloves Sara was processing.
Grissom sighed in satisfaction, and gave Maher a businesslike smile.
'What say we go find Amy Barlow?' Grissom said.
'And her boots,' Maher said.
The trio of criminalists went to the waitress's room, and Grissom knocked on the door, but got no response.
'We could pick the lock,' Maher said.
'Not and have what we find hold up in court,' Grissom said. 'Not in this country.'
Maher frowned. 'What about getting Cormier to give us permission? I mean, he's the manager.'
Sara said, 'Supreme Court ruled in 1948 that, under the Fourth Amendment, a hotel room counts as a person's home.'
Grissom added for the constable's benefit, 'Even if our buddy Herm gave us his permission, whatever we found would still get thrown out.'
The three tried the dining room, on the second floor, but the waitress was not there. They split up and looked around the main floor, but couldn't find her. They met at the front desk, to track down Cormier and see if he had any notion where Amy Barlow had gone.
Through an open doorway behind the desk, they could see the hotel man in a small office, seated at a desk, bending over a microphone, fiddling with knobs on his ham radio set.
'Tom,' Cormier was saying into the mike, 'can you hear me?'
Static was the only response.
Grissom slipped behind the desk, the others following him. He stood in the doorway and said, 'Excuse me… Herm?'
The hotel manager jumped and swung around. 'Judas H. Priest! You have to scare me like that, with a murderer on the loose?'
Grissom smiled. 'Just the kind of discretion I was counting on, Herm.'
'…I'm sorry. Really, Dr. Grissom, I haven't told a soul….'
'Have you seen Amy?'
He nodded. 'Just a few minutes ago.'
Grissom's eyes tightened. 'Where?'
Cormier gestured vaguely. 'Out in the lobby. Said she was wondering what was wrong with Tony. Said she hadn't seen him since he came draggin' in, looking all depressed, and since it was almost time for the dinner rush…'
Grissom turned to give Sara and Maher a concerned look, even as he said to Cormier, 'And you didn't think maybe you should've called that to my attention?'
Sara was shaking her head, eyes wide with dread. 'Oh, she wouldn't…would she? With us around?'
'With her people skills,' Grissom said, already on the move, 'she just might.'
The trio sprinted across the lobby, eyes of the scattered guests popping up from books and magazines, responding to the unusual commotion in this quiet place. Grissom punched the UP button and they waited as the ancient car made its slow descent.
When the bell dinged and the doors groaned open, Grissom was about to rush in, when he found himself nose to nose with…
…Amy Barlow.
