Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CS

Chapter 8

Grissom met Brass at the police station and they drove together to the bank.

"You know, that whole business of Flemming having a Marine tattoo really bugged me, so I called a Marine buddy of mine who got some information about Flemming's time in Iraq. You know that guy stayed for two 16-week embedded tours in Iraq with the 2nd Marine Division, out of Camp Lejeune, N.C., in the Al Anbar Province in Western Iraq."

"That province is part of the Sunni Triangle. Cities of Falluja and Ramadi. Those are active places."

"Serious activity. The 2nd Marine Division is the backbone of the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force," Brass added, impressed. "Apparently Flemming was out with the tank battalion and was involved in an ambush. Rough stuff. Flemming ended up saving the lives of four Marines."

Now Grissom was impressed.

"He'd already been with the crew for weeks and months before that when he was previously embedded. He was well-liked. After he saved those Marines' lives, the group asked their CO if Flemming could become an honorary member and get the tattoo," Brass said.

"Brave guy," Grissom said. He could sense his friend's admiration for Flemming.

"You hear a lot of crap about media guys, and here's one who survived hell and saved four guys, and we find him dead in a box with nothing but a bunch of bugs," Brass said.

"Maybe whatever's in the safe deposit box will give us a better idea of what happened to Flemming," Grissom said.

"Yeah, let's hope so."

Grissom didn't know what to expect in SDB 4989, but when it opened, his intrigue about who Seamus Flemming was grew.

"A will, some personal papers, an I-Pod and a cell phone," Brass said. "Looks like he wanted to be cremated."

After putting on his gloves, Grissom examined the cellular's phone lists. "Flemming didn't make many calls from his home phone. Looks like this was his primary use for communication." Grissom then took a look at some of the personal papers. "This states Flemming has no living relatives and if anything happens to him, authorities should notify a Maggie Dominguez, 5712 Bonita Lane in Las Vegas."

--

Brass got a call about a case on the way out of the bank, so Grissom dropped him off at the station before he logged the cell phone and I-Pod into evidence at the lab. Then Grissom went to 5712 Bonita Lane.

When he knocked on the door of the residence of Maggie and Javier Dominguez, a very pregnant woman answered the door.

"Maggie Dominguez?"

"Yes," she said. "And you are?"

Grissom offered his identification and spoke in a calm voice. "My name is Gil Grissom with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Did you know Seamus Flemming?"

"Yes. But only his mother called him Seamus," Maggie said, looking as she was steadying herself for the worst. "Has something happened to Jimmy?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to say his body was found," Grissom said grimly.

Maggie lowered her head and fought for her composure. She was obviously more than nine months pregnant, and Grissom put a hand on her arm to assure she would not stumble or fall.

"I'm sorry. Thank you, I'm OK," she said as Grissom removed his hand.

"I was hoping to ask you some questions about Mr. Flemming to help with our investigation, if you that would be all right?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I've already forgotten your name."

Grissom again showed his identification. "Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Come in, Mr. Grissom," Maggie opened the door to her home, which revealed a toddler bounding at her feet. "Watch your step. It's a little difficult to pick things up off the floor."

Grissom gingerly walked through the home dodging Mega Blocks and Matchbox cars as if they were land mines. Maggie led Grissom to a well lived-in living room littered with a spattering of toys and several small piles of neatly folded clothes.

Maggie offered Grissom a seat at a chair. She sat down on her sofa with her son following suit. "I apologize for the clutter. Would you like anything to drink?"

Courtesies at moments like these always baffled Grissom. He believed it must be an impulse reaction during a time of grief.

"I'm fine, thank you," Grissom said.

"You had questions about Jimmy?"

"Yes, how did you know Mr. Flemming?"

"We're good friends," Maggie said but she quickly corrected herself. Jimmy was dead. "We were good friends. I've known him five years. We worked at 'The Daily Ledger' back home. We're journalists."

"You worked together?"

"Many times. We met overseas in El Salvador. I was covering the deaths of missionaries who served in rural, indigent areas, and he was freelancing on the criminal activities — kidnapping, robbery, murder — by former guerillas from the civil conflicts. I recruited him to the 'Daily Ledger.' He was an amazing journalist."

Maggie smiled at his memory.

"You said that was back home?"

"Yes. Raleigh, N.C. I came here about a year and a half ago with my husband."

"When was the last time you talked to Mr. Flemming?"

"Four days ago. He said he was going to be out of town for a few days, and not to worry. I've been calling him for the past two days on his cell. I keep getting voice mail," Maggie paused and wrung her hands. "I'm sorry Mr. Grissom, but please, could you tell me what happened to Jimmy?"

Grissom took a deep breath and then looked at the little boy sitting next to his mother. Maggie caught Grissom's gaze. She instinctively picked up her son and stood him on the floor. She kissed him on top on his head and said, in a very low and gentle tone, "Come on Oscar, let's get you in the play room with some trains." Maggie excused herself and took the toddler in the adjacent room. She got him satisfied and intrigued in a video and his trains, and returned to the living room and Grissom.

"Please, Mr. Grissom, I'd like to know exactly what happened to Jimmy. I'll answer whatever questions you have. I just… I just want to know."

Grissom respected Maggie's request and told her all he could, without jeopardizing the case. Maggie reacted with steel eyes and intellect, taking in every detail. When he finished, she stood and asked again if Grissom wanted a drink. When he said no, she got herself a glass of water.

"Jimmy didn't deserve to die like that. Nobody does, but … Jimmy didn't deserve that," Maggie said. "What can I tell you to help?"

"When did Mr. Flemming come to Vegas?" Grissom asked.

"About a month after he returned from his second tour in Iraq. He was embedded with a Marine squadron for about 16 weeks. We corresponded whenever possible, and he seemed upbeat. When he got back, he was ready to get back to work at the paper, but after about a month, he wanted to get away, take some time off."

"Is that when he came here?"

"Yes, that was about three months ago. He joked about needing to return to the desert," Maggie said, lightly laughing. "He stayed with us almost two weeks, and I thought he was going back east, but then Jimmy said he wanted to get a place of his own in Vegas."

"Did that surprise you?"

"I never thought he'd stay here long-term. Jimmy was a free spirit, well-traveled. Usually after a big assignment he traveled and sold stories to travel publications. It was his way to decompress. But I felt like something was holding him here."

"Do you think he met someone or do you think it was about a particular story?"

"I don't think it was a person. I'm sure Jimmy would have said something or I would have noticed something," Maggie said, trying to stand from the couch. "And usually Jimmy would tell me about a story, and he told me about his stories for travel journals and e-magazines. But I knew there was something else he was working on."

"We have looked through Mr. Flemming's duplex and I didn't find any interview notes, computer disks, clippings, research or a computer."

"Jimmy worked exclusively on his laptop, but he saved everything on external hard drives and he had back-ups of everything. He never trusted the laptop hard drives, and I can't tell you how many laptops were destroyed or lost in his care," Maggie said. "He did do some work here at the house. He told me his A/C was out, so I thought it would be more comfortable for him to work here. I'll take you to the extra room where he worked."

After a quick peek at Oscar, Maggie led Grissom to a back room where there was a comfortable work table, bookcase of children's books, a twin bed and two large filing cabinets. "The beige one holds my clips and research. Jimmy used the black one."

"Do you work locally as a journalist?" Grissom asked.

"No, I'm a grant writer for a social service agency. I freelance from time to time, but lately, I've been busy."

Grissom opened the black file cabinet that only had a few clippings in the bottom drawer, and some files, two CDs and a thumb drive in the top drawer.

"That is the stuff Jimmy sent me before he went back to Iraq," Maggie said, causing Grissom to give an inquisitive look. "Whenever Jimmy went on an extended trip, he would send me notes and research on stories he was leaving behind. Just in case."

"Do you know what this story was about?"

"I've looked it over. Jimmy talked about it a little while he was still in Raleigh. He was doing research on a scam targeting migrant farmworkers. From what I've looked at in his notes, he felt there was an Anglo at the top of the chain using underlings to scam workers of their daily and weekly pay. He was getting close and then he got the opportunity to be embedded again. It was a hard choice for him, but he felt he needed to go back with the Marines."

"Didn't he ask for the research back when he got back to Raleigh?" Grissom asked.

"By the time he came back, many of the workers were making their way up the stream." Again, Grissom gave Maggie an inquisitive look. "The workers move from state to state depending on what to pick — that's what they call moving up and down the stream. I'm guessing the targets of the scam left town or the scammers left."

Grissom took his attention away from the file cabinet.

"How often did Mr. Flemming work here?"

"Oh, every other day, except for last few days."

"Did he by chance ride a bike here?"

Maggie laughed. "Yes, a beat-up 10-speed, and he always carried that heavy, green backpack. He lives about five miles away. He'd park the bike behind the carport and then come in the house. He had a key to get in if no one was here."

Grissom was beginning to understand. Flemming didn't want people to know he was here. But if Flemming was at the Dominguez's residence that often, there should be more notes, more research. He searched baskets, the bookcase and drawers, but found nothing. Maybe Flemming was hiding the research from his friend.

"Mrs. Dominguez, did Mr. Flemming know you peeked at his notes from North Carolina?"

Maggie blushed a bit. "Journalistic curiosity. Jimmy would tease me about it. He said I could probably decipher his notes better than he could."

Grissom smiled then took a look at Mrs. Dominguez, who was standing next to the bed. "Excuse me," Grissom said, and he laid down on the floor and looked under the bed. He then glanced up at Mrs. Dominguez, and gave her a smile. Out from under the bed, Grissom extracted a plastic tote packed with notes, two external drives, thumb drives, a digital recorder, dozens of CDs, and a couple of camera memory cards.

"That sneaky son-of-a-bitch," Maggie said, fighting a tear and a chuckle. "He knew I haven't been able to bend down like that in two months."

"I think that was his point," Grissom offered. "Mrs. Dominguez, with your permission, I would like to take these notes back to the lab. It will likely be very helpful in our investigation."

"Of course," Maggie said. "But I would really like to get it back when the investigation is complete. Jimmy's life was his work. It was his passion, and if there is a story there that needs to be completed, I want to be able to do that for him."

"We will do that, Mrs. Dominguez," Grissom said.

TBC

A/N: The reviews have been very kind. Thank your for them.