He left the exam room, bag in hand, and found Dr. Espinoza talking at the nurse's desk to an orderly.
"Hey, Doc. Thanks for baggin up the clothes and stuff. He fell asleep but he, uh, asked for another blanket. What's that all about? I mean there is no A/C in this joint and it's sweltering in here."
"Its probably the infection. I'll bet his fever spiked." She sighed a bit and nodded at the orderly to go ahead and get Nick prepped for transport. "And John? Grab him another blanket, would you? Thanks."
She sighed again and turned her attention back to the waiting CSI.
"Warrick, I have to be honest. It's a concern, because the main plan of treatment for him would be high doses of steroids. Steroids suppress the immune system, and it will be a bit of a balancing act keeping the infection in check. We'll have him in Imaging for a while, then he'll be in the OR for his arm. There's no reason for you and Ms. Willows to stay here any longer. He'll probably be assigned a neurologist after the MRI. But, I'll keep tabs on his progress from down here for the night. I'll call if anything changes, okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks Doc." He dug out a business card with his cell number on it and handed it over to her with a grateful smile.
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Sara sat perched on a rolling stool in front of a table, the pile of Nick's clothing having been removed from the bag and set out for processing. She had just finished taking swabs from the second sneaker when Grissom walked in.
"Hey, Gris. Where've you been?"
"Brass and I went out to check out the payphone Nick's call came in on. It's a public phone on a street corner. Archie seemed pretty confident there was no one there when Nick called, but right now I'm not prepared to ignore anything. I had the coins pulled as well. Jacqui has them-she promised to assign an assistant to print them all."
"Where's the street corner?"
"About five miles from where they found the Jane Doe. Still on the East Side. There's a market nearby with the name Orozco on it," he said with a raised eyebrow.
"That's the name of the guy who owns the warehouse, right?"
"Yes, but Vega seemed to think the man owns quite a bit of real estate all over the East Side so I don't know that it's probative. Interesting, yes, but probative?" He left the question hanging in the air.
"Speaking of probative…I just finished processing Nick's clothes. Not much here. In fact it's what's not here that's interesting. His jeans," she said, picking up the first of the pieces of clothing, "left leg soaked with blood. Initial testing shows only one blood type- Nick's. The sneakers, same thing. His socks are missing. His boxers are clean and the shirt has only fresh blood on it. It's still wet."
"How was the shirt free of blood until recently?"
"My question exactly." She picked up the tattered cowboy shirt and handed it to Grissom.
"Not exactly Nick's taste is it?" he asked with another pointed look.
"Definitely not. Much too, umm, pastel. And too small for him, too, I would guess. But most interestingly, is that the sleeve was intact before they cut it off at the ER."
Grissom ran his fingers along the ragged edge of the cut-off sleeve and at a look Sara pulled the amputated sleeve from the pile for Grissom to match up.
"The cut is clean. From the ER scissors. So he wasn't wearing this shirt when whatever happened, happened?"
"But where did he get the shirt, Grissom? I mean, a girl gets murdered; he gets the crap beat out of him. He finds the time to change shirts?"
"He has been out there for three days, Sara. We'll have to wait for Nick to fill in some blanks, I guess."
She looked away, knowing full well that Nick was in no position to be filling in blanks for anyone.
"There is one more thing, Grissom. I found these in his jeans pockets."
She pulled out a ring, a matchbook, and some change comprised of a quarter, a nickel, and three pennies.
Grissom's eyes widened at the sight of the ring sitting in her latex-covered palm. A silver man's ring with a chunk of turquoise stone jutting from the top.
"Warrick had said he thought a ring like this could have caused the bruises we saw. Did you get any DNA off of it?"
"I got a definite blood trace from around the stone. No epithelials from the ring, the metal is too smooth where it fits around the finger. Grissom, why does Nick have this ring? I mean, if our Jane's bruises are from this ring…"
"Maybe he somehow managed to get it away from their attacker. Warrick said some of the bruises he saw on Nick appeared similar to those on Jane. Which reminds me, she's no longer a Jane. She's a 'Mari'."
He noted Sara's eyes widen at his pronouncement.
"I talked to Warrick before he took off. He got a chance to talk to Nick for a bit. It seems Nick asked about a 'friend' that was with him that night. The description he gave was vague, but close enough to assume it's the same girl."
"Well, what else did he say, Grissom? Did he remember anything? Did he say what happened? And where is Warrick?"
The questions came tumbling out one on top of the other and Grissom held up a hand to stop her so he could catch up with answers.
"I sent him home. He's been on almost forty-eight hours now; I thought he might fall asleep on his feet. And Nick only said he thinks he was with a girl fitting our vic's description three nights ago. But he did say she has family in the area, and works at a restaurant."
"If she has family why hasn't anyone come forward? Vega's been keeping an alert out with Missing Persons…"
"Nick alluded to the fact that she was in the country illegally. The family is probably too afraid to come forward."
"Grissom, this puts us no closer to IDing the girl, and no closer to finding out what happened."
"No, Sara. It doesn't." Grissom sighed and pulled his glasses off in his time-honored tradition. "It's difficult enough to complete a puzzle with this many pieces. It's harder still without the picture on the box."
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Catherine left the photo lab and returned back to the closet that was laughingly referred to as her office. She tossed the parcel of pictures on her desk and sat heavily in her chair with a huff. She knew the hardest part was in Warrick's taking of the photos, yet it would be no easier for her to study the pictures he took.
She took a deep breath and started running through the photos, time stamped in the order they were taken. Most of the first pictures were generic shots of blood-spattered sneakers and his jeans. She got to the series of pictures of Nick's arm wound and placed the rest back on the desk. She dug through her top drawer, then returned to the desktop and pushed around piles of blue and manila folders until she lifted the most recent journal she'd been trying to read and found her magnifying glass.
The wound was almost perfectly circular with ragged edges, and about the size of a half dollar. She winced when she saw the violent red lines running from the wound, an obvious sign of infection. As she and Warrick had discussed, there was no way this was made by a bullet. In fact, it dawned on her that the wound wasn't made by a single thrust by any weapon or tool or instrument. The realization of what caused the wound in Nick's arm drained the color from her already porcelain face and she collapsed back in her chair. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to wipe the picture from her mind, but she'd seen wounds like it before, and the ragged edges left little doubt.
She picked up the phone on her desk and dialed an extension. Waited through three rings when Grissom picked up the extension in the trace lab.
"Grissom, it's Catherine. I've got the pictures Warrick took at the hospital here. I've got a preliminary idea of what caused Nick's wound."
"Rick told me he didn't think it was a bullet wound. What do you have, Cath?"
"Oh, Gil. It looks like a knife wound. And the knife was twisted 360 degrees round. At least once. They must have tortured him, Gil."
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Jim Brass was not a man you wanted to piss off. Mike Callahan was gonna learn that the hard way.
After he'd gotten wind of what had happened to Nick in the park he'd lit up the phones of every gold shield who'd ever owed him and got the complete skinny on the abusive cop. He'd moved into town from Boston about six years ago and promptly signed on as a beat cop in Vegas. And a dozen phone calls later he'd talked to Callahan's old CO and gotten the full story on his history back in Beantown. Turns out he'd moved West under a cloud of suspicion from the IAB back East and the paper pushers in Vegas had either missed or not given a crap about the red flags that flew up every time the guy's name was mentioned.
He placed a quick call to Sam Vega since he knew his detective friend was unfortunate enough to share a precinct with the guy.
"Yeah, Sam? It's Jim Brass. Listen, what's the deal with this asshole Callahan? What? Doesn't he know what a BOLO is?" His voice dripped with his typical dry sarcasm, but was tinged with real anger.
"Yeah, I know Jim. His poor partner Stu actually went into IAB earlier today to let them know his partner had been beating on some poor homeless guy. When I talked to Nick, he told me what happened but it wasn't until I started pulling paper on the arrest that I got the call from upstairs."
"So help me, they let him back on the streets, I'll hunt him down and personally teach him how we handle rotten cops in Vegas."
"Not to worry, Jim. Stu's been spilling his guts out. They've got plenty on him to pull his badge. They'll probably even bring him up on charges, especially considering the latest victim of his special treatment."
Brass sighed, slightly deflated that the focus of his anger was already being dealt with.
"How's Nick doing anyway, Jim? He looked like crap when I found him in the cell. And I talked to him for twenty minutes before I realized he had no idea who the hell I was. Weirdest goddamn feeling, let me tell you."
"Yeah. I can't even… I don't really know how he's doing, Sam. But we all thank God you found him when you did. If he'd been pushed any further through the system…"
"Yeah, well he wasn't. Lemme know what's going on, yeah? And I'm still getting back Lexis hits on Orozco but I'm no closer to finding his son. I'll stay on it and Brown said something about having the girl's first name and a possible job at a restaurant."
"Yeah, good luck with that, Sam. A Mexican girl named Maria working in a restaurant. Should be easy."
"We do what we can with what we've got, Jim. Talk to you later."
"Yeah, thanks, Sam."
Brass hung up his phone and wished to hell he could have a drink.
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Warrick entered the bedroom of his flat and sat down on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face with both hands and then dropping them abruptly, let out a yell of frustration at the four walls of his bedroom, realizing too late that his neighbors were probably home at this point in the evening.
He kicked off his shoes and flung himself onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes.
He kept replaying his visit to the hospital. The pictures. The fear. The inability to catch even a glimpse of recognition in the eyes of a man with whom he'd laughed, worked, fought, partied, and commiserated for the last ten years.
He blanked his mind and tried to imagine what it would be like to have no knowledge of friends and family, or even of self. No life experiences on which to base your decisions. Only instinct and reflex. And Nick had managed to survive, albeit barely, for three days. Sick, hurt, wandering the city streets. If that wasn't a testament to his strength right there…
He replayed their conversation over and over. There was something there…on the fringes. And he was just too tired to see it.
He felt his limbs finally relaxing and he eased into sleep.
He awoke several hours later, by the glowing digits on his bedside clock. The room was now fully dark to match the sky outside his windows.
He grasped at the last image he'd seen in his dreams and his heart began to pound as he realized what he'd been missing. The bags of food in Nick's fridge. From a Mexican restaurant. He realized he had just found a major piece of the puzzle and jammed his sneakers back on, grabbed his keys, and slammed out his front door.