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"Hey, Danny! Wait up!"
Danny Messer stopped with his hand on the door handle, for one second pondering what were his chances of pretending that he hadn't heard and ignore the call. Considering them too slim, he turned to face Don Flack.
"Hey Don," the answer came out of his mouth as automatic and flat as an ATM receipt.
The taller man in front of him met his eyes for a moment before the blue gaze settled on the thin red line of healing skin in the CSI's forehead.
"Heard you're back in business," he said, shuffling his feet like a nervous school boy.
Their last conversation had been less than friendly, ending with Danny storming out of the coffee place like a blazing hurricane and leaving him to face the stares of all the patrons seating around.
"I never left," Danny said, trying to lighten the situation in spite of how close he had come to lose his job over the all mess with the Minhas shooting. "I was just going for a bite. You wanna come?"
The change of topic was not lost on the policeman.
"Yeah... I… no, Mac just got a call. Someone spotted a floater in the Harlem River. He wants us to check it out."
Danny looked surprised. After their last talk, he figured Mac would not only take him out of the promotion grid, as most likely put him to work as second in some minor cases. He guessed that a human body blown out of proportions in a neighbourhood like that was probably as far as Mac's devious sense of revenge went.
"There goes lunch," he said, leading the way towards the department cars. At least Mac was assigning him work… even if it was in the Bronx.
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The body was male, or at least it didn't look female at first glance. Little of what made it look human was left, not after spending some time in the water, and whatever clothes had survived the pollution and fish bites, were of no help either.
Danny was squatting by the river side, carefully searching for any clues that might have washed away with the body. There was nothing to be found.
"He could've been dumped anywhere alongside the shore," he sighed, his knees popping as he raised.
Accepting the helping hand from his friend, the CSI climbed out the slippery slope that let to the water and neared the inflated body.
With glove protected fingers, he probed the victim's pants, searching for any ID. He found his wallet in the back pocket.
"Trevor Mils," he said, clearing the water from the plastic driver's card. "45 years old, NY native."
Flack's pencil scribbled rapid notes on his notepad, one eye on the writing, the other following the Danny's ministrations of the body.
"There's some bruising on the wrists," he said, pulling the wet sleeve up to see how far the dark purple marks went. Seeing that they stopped just short of the wrist bone he moved to the next logical place. "Same pattern bruising on the ankles."
"So, this guy was pretty tied up." Flack concluded.
Danny's gaze returned to the river.
"What ever it was, he had one hell of a rough time before even hitting the water."