"Still snowing?" asked Burn as Mac checked his watch. It was a few minutes after ten. He pulled on a pair of white latex gloves.

"Three more inches expected," said Taylor, kneeling next to the body. There was just enough room for the two Crime Scene Unit investigators and the corpse inside the small elevator.

"Who is he?" Mac asked.

"Name's Charles Lutnikov," Burn said. "Apartment six, third floor."

Lutnikov was about fifty, had thinning dark hair, and a paunch.

"No pockets in the sweat suit," said Mac, gently rolling the body first right and then left. "Who IDed him?"

"Doorman," said Burn, glancing back at the uniformed patrolman who was clearly admiring her rear end.

"You married?" Burn asked the cop, camera in one latex gloved hand.

"Me?" the cop said with a smile, pointing to himself.

"You," she said.

"Yes."

"A man is dead here," she said. "Probable homicide. Look at him, think about him, and not my ass. Can you do that?"

"Yes," said the cop, no longer smiling.

"Good. The kit out there next to the door. Move it just where I can reach it."

"Bad night?" Mac asked.

"I've had better," said Aiden, continuing to snap away as the cop moved Aiden's equipment box.

Mac's eyes were focused on the dead man's chest. "Looks like two bullet holes. No powder burns."

Mac looked at the walls, the floor, the ceiling of the small wood-paneled elevator and then leaned over and carefully pulled the corpse forward.

"No sign of exit wounds," he said, letting the body slump back.

"Then the bullets are still in him," said Burn.

"No," Mac answered, removing from a leather packet in his pocket a thin steel probe that looked like a dental tool.

He carefully lifted the dead man's shirt to get a better look at the wounds.

"One shot," he said, touching each hole with the probe and talking as much to himself as to Aiden. "This one is an entry wound. Small caliber. It's almost closed. This one is an exit wound, broader, rougher, skin erupted outward."