Chapter 4

Horatio Caine would not have described the feeling of ascending on a new crime scene as exhilarating so much as a bonus to his senses. He saw details more clearly; he made connections between dissonant bits of what could be detritus or could be evidence; his sense of smell was heightened as well touch (albeit through plastic gloves). About the only sense he didn't use was the one of taste. There had been a time, when as a blue in New York, tasting was a typical way to identify certain elements. Since then, however, tasting had been found to be foolishly unwise, even dangerous.

Getting out of the silver Hummer, he first got a feel for the area in general. The location of the scene was in the center of a nicely kept community garden near a shopping area off of SW 8th Avenue and SW 1st Avenue near the art district. The lot was long and narrow, shouldered on each side by two story brick buildings. One of the buildings sported a vivid mural of a sun centered in a tropical beach scene.

Before he walked down the center path, Horatio stood on the sidewalk, and took in the street in general feeling the Miami morning sun warm on his back. He was unconscious that his hands were at his hips, each placed evenly behind his gold badge at the front of his hip and his holster on his other side. He was unconcerned that he cut a fascinating figure, his red hair contrasting to the light grey slacks and jacket with a green shirt. The sidewalk from one building to the next had been taped off to keep the crowds back.

The garden itself was edged with a four foot chain link fence. In the center was a wrought iron arch of black with bright gold suns around it. Only after being sure he had observed all there was on the street did he swing his gaze slowly to the gardens. From what he could see, there were fourteen separate plots each divided by narrow paths radiating from the center. Some of the plots were barely five feet square and some were perhaps twelve. Some were thriving and some were more weed than anything edible.

Having taken in this much from the curb, Horatio then walked slowly down the wide main path. The center was a plot, raised perhaps a foot from the rest of the ground, and about seven feet in diameter. It contained a variety of summer flowers and colorful leaf plants. There were three garden benches around it, two of wrought iron and one of cement.

Laid out quite formally was the naked body he'd been called about. Horatio bet that the head was perfectly aligned to the north. The legs were together and the arms were folded across the chest as would be in any casket. Aside from the fact that the man was naked as the day he was born, his face was frozen into a look of ghastly agony. His dark brown eyes, now frosted over showing hours of death, were wide open as was his mouth.

Horatio looked at the flowers and plants, and the way the body was posed. The formality did not overcome the horror in the face. Whoever had brought him here felt regret for how he had died, had tried to make amends in some way. Why not bury him? Why not rent a boat and give the man a burial at sea?

He considered the location. The garden was one of those pieces of land where someone starts cleaning it up and another comes in to help and another and so on. After a while, people make donations to purchase the land, provide for tools and a variety of sundry items and the area became a community garden. What, he wondered, was the significance of laying the man here? It was a public statement, to say the least, in more ways than one. The puzzle was, which statements were being made? 'Here's my friend; I killed him, now you take care of him,' was one possibility. 'See what happens to people who cross me,' was another. Perhaps it was a comment on the garden itself.

None of the people who had found him or who had since passed through the area knew him. That too was odd. Usually, when a killer is making a statement about his victim, he wants the friends to know; thus, he puts the body someplace where friends and family will see what the murderer is capable of.

This is, assuming, the man was murdered. Maybe he wasn't. How dying with such a look could be accidental, Horatio didn't know. All he could do was start taking pictures and then taking a look at what the police officers had marked in the way of evidence. If he was lucky, there would be more than first met the eye.

Unfortunately, the walkways around the flowerbed and throughout the garden were covered in crushed oyster shells. This was the usual covering of choice since oysters were in such plentitude both sides of the Florida coast and into the Gulf of Mexico. Like gravel, crushed shells didn't hold footprints. Nor were there drag marks.

Snapping distant and close pictures as he went, he kept looking for that little bit that would point to something else that could lead ultimately to the killer.

"Hey, Horatio, sorry I couldn't get here any sooner. There's a bit of a backup in the morgue."

"No problem, Dr. Loman. This is one where the more time I have, the better. Look and tell me what you think."

Tom Loman, the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner, moved onto the plot and kneeled down beside the body. He paid no attention to the flowers he was crushing. Taking an instrument from his case, he plunged the pointed end into the right side of the abdomen just below the rib cage. "Liver temp says he's been dead about fourteen hours. He obviously died in terrible pain. I don't see anything on the front of his body."

Inching backwards and, slipping his hands under the shoulders and the hips, the doctor pulled the body so that it rolled onto its side towards him. "No secondary lividity so he died on his back. Nor do I see any marks or bruising that would indicate a cause of death. That's only cursory, of course. My first guess at this point is that he died of an internal cause. He's about thirty-five to forty and only mildly overweight so, unless his total diet was Twinkies and hot wings, he didn't die of a heart attack. One never knows though."

Tom stood and motioned to his aides to take the body. "To say the least, Horatio, working with the CSI team is always interesting."

Horatio watched the body being lifted into the black bag. He lifted his hands to his waist and listened to that gritty sound of the closing zipper. Raising his sunglass protected eyes to the morning sky, he answered, "I wish it wasn't so, Tom. I wish it wasn't so."

Horatio was almost finished with exploring the garden, looking for anything that would give him something to work with when Frank walked up. "Some of the people out there are worried about inch-worms and squash bugs and I don't know what all. If we tape off the center, can we let them in to tend their gardens?"

"Sure, Frank. Has anyone come up with anything?"

"Other than the fact that half the neighborhood is inhabited by guys that are a little light in their feet, arty types, new age health types that need weights in their shoes, and so on, no. Several have said the man couldn't have been from the neighborhood since everyone seems to know everyone."

"Yes, in an area where likeminded people congregate, such as this, it's like a small town; everyone knows everyone else at least by sight if not by name and bent."

"So, if he's not from here, what's next? Fingerprints?"

"That and something else. The pool of people here isn't large enough to cover the whole area. I'm going to send our forensic artist down to the morgue. Hopefully he can reconstruct the features as they would have been in life."

"Then take copies and do a little knock and talk."

"I'm guessing you eliminate the immediate two block radius and spread out from there for about four blocks."

"You're basing that on the local witnesses who don't know him?"

"If there is any connection between the body and the area, he lived outside of the immediate neighborhood. Fortunately, though this area is more of a melting pot the outer areas are more divided. The gay and lesbian population lives closer to Brickell, south of 8th Street, the art walk is by the Miami Riverwalk, and there are several studios for various kinds of body work from Reiki, to Swedish with a variety of Yoga, and satellite body disciplines in between the two areas."

Frank's face showed a cross between admiration and disbelief. "You know where all this stuff is?"

"We've had a case or two in the area. I also get a massage now and then."

"Just don't tell me you do Yoga."

Horatio's slight imperfection under his left eye twitched a minute blink. "I'll let you know when I have the artist's rendition." He was striding off before Frank could bid him farewell.

xxxx

"Right now H, we're coming up with nothing on who hit you or who the trailer folk are." Ryan was still feeling the hike through a large neighborhood from yesterday. "We don't even have a hit on the fingerprints on the business cards."

"It's no wonder. Whoever hit me was shorter but still had the upper body strength to strike hard enough to knock me out. That would indicate a young male, perhaps one too young to have a driver's license."

"Walter is working on something the doc sent up on that body."

"Already? Excuse me just one moment, Ryan."

Horatio pulled his phone out and made a call. "Dr. Loman? Are you starting an autopsy on the body from the garden? I thought you were going to wait for the artist to do a facial reconstruction."

He nodded. "Then what did you send us?"

He nodded again. "Good. I'm glad you did that. Thank you."

The detective turned back to Ryan. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Mr. Wolfe. Please continue."

"I was just saying that Walter was going to check on what results from the BOLO might have come in. In his stead, I was just about to do it."

The two men, redheaded and dark, stepped into the computer lab.

As soon as Ryan pulled up the BOLO results, a red lined screen appeared showing a license plate in bold. Under that was some information. "It looks like we got a hit on one of the plates. It's the tan RV with the brown stripe." Ryan's eyes ran across the information. "It's owned by Seth McCauber. It was found at a garage in Homestead."

"Let's see, that's about a forty-five minute trip."

Ryan's large brown eyes showed he knew what he had to do. "I'll give you a call after I'm through with Mr. McCauber."

"Good. Be sure he's thoroughly done before you leave there."

"I'll commandeer a patrol unit down there just in case." Ryan said these words over his shoulder as he headed for the elevator.

Horatio watched the handsome young man until the doors closed. Ryan had grown into one of the best detectives on the team. He'd come directly from patrol (after a stop to get a degree in chemistry) to the team. He'd made mistakes and learned from every one of them. He'd been through a variety of physical mishaps like the rest of the team and now was a field tough veteran. Though he sometimes joked about being the shortest man, everyone knew he had no doubts as to his value to them all.

"Horatio, I just heard you and Ryan got something on the BOLO for the RV's."

"Yes Walter. Ryan is going down to Homestead now to check it out. And did you find anything on the blood sample Tom gave you on our flower plot man?"

"No. the DNA isn't listed and there's nothing unusual about it. Now I'm waiting for samples from the stomach. I understand that will take a while."

"Just long enough for the artist to figure out how the man would have looked before death."

"Meanwhile, I thought I'd see what I could find out about the business those cards are advertising."

"Show me please."

Walter was more than pleased to show and tell. Even though he was a mature man with an IQ high enough to make any mother proud and a master's degree in biological chemistry, he had a joie de vivre that was almost childlike. His sweet babyish face would light up when he was talking about something that interested him. Sometimes, like now, when he walked, he'd swing his large body in a playful manner. Fortunately, few people ever challenged the football player sized black man on his mannerisms.

"Actually, these cards are high quality. The graphics are eye catching and the printing is professional. The company, though, as far as I can tell, is completely bogus. There's nothing anywhere in Miami-Dade or Broward."

"Did you try the phone number?"

"Yeah and got a hang-up. I tried later and got a busy signal. The last time I called, the number had been disconnected."

"Do you think the business is a scam?"

"Construction and remodeling? Oh yeah, big time."

"So do I."

"I once heard that people called gypsies are into doing this kind of thing. They come into an area and pull all kinds of scams. The adult women pretend they can read the futures in cards, kids go from door to door pretending to sell magazine subscriptions and the men either say they are in construction or roofers, all kinds of things."

"Walter, I have heard the same stories but let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I don't like painting any group with the same broad brush."

"Tell you what. Let me have this case. Just trying to find those two RV's around isn't going to find who hit you. If I'm right, if we find areas of scam complaints fast enough, before they can scoot out, we've got a better chance finding them."

"Walter, that's not our job. As much as I'd like to find whoever hit me and take him out into the swamps and have a serious talk with him, I wouldn't be doing my job. We take physical evidence from a crime scene and prove a connection to whoever committed the crime. Then we hand them over to the justice department for whatever might befall them."

Even though Walter could have cited more than a couple of instances when Horatio hadn't quite followed his own words, he held his peace. He knew he would have to have many more years of experience under his belt before he could discern the difference between what he wanted to do now and what Horatio did on occasion.

"Walter, what I'd like for you to do right now is get a warrant to search the vehicle we've found in Homestead. We're going to want fingerprints and a gun."

"I'm all over it." Walter swung away with the determination of a St. Bernard dog after a survivor.

Watching large black man lumber down the hall, Horatio pulled his phone out. "Mr. Wolfe, Walter will be sending a copy of a warrant to your phone. Besides a gun and fingerprints, I'd like some DNA but since we have no cause for that, perhaps you could look for an opportunity to pick some up."

Hearing the reply, he smiled and said, "No, I don't think you need to go as extreme as I did with Walter Dresden. Besides, he and I were alone and I was fighting for my life. You have backup and you'll be in a crowded RV repair shop. Look for some other way."

"Lieutenant Caine, I understand you're waiting for this?"

Returning the cell in his pocket he turned to see who had addressed him, a move he immediately wished he hadn't made. Ordinarily, his back was as strong as anyone else's but, like anyone's back, every once in a while, a turn, a bend, sent a tremor of pain through his muscles. He knew what was a slight ache could be ignored for now and also knew he'd pay for it later.

"The sketch. Yes, thank you, Officer…" he paused to look at the badge which seemed to be a strange jumble of letters.

The woman helped him out. "It's Pandelneskewski. Just call for Barbara when you need me again."

"Thank you. I'll do that. So, this is what he looked like?"

"No doubt. It's easy when all the pieces are still there. I could have taken a photo and run it through a program but computers lose the perspective sometimes. The ME said there was a rush on the work do I did this. I often work with pencil and paper anyway."

Horatio remembered another woman from several years ago who did the same. (See Horatio's Harem, Chapter 9, Sharon) He still had a couple of rather interesting sketches she had done of him then.

"Do you need anything else, Sir?" Barbara inquired, looking hopefully at the handsome thoughtful face.

Coming back to the present, he answered, "Not now, Barbara. I'll remember to call for you when we need these talents again."

"Yes, sir, I'll be ready. Thank you." The young woman turned smartly and walked down the hall.

Horatio hesitated only a moment before he took the sketch down the hall to where Calleigh sat. "Calleigh, would you run this sketch through the facial recognition database? Maybe we'll get a hit."

Calleigh turned and flipped her radiantly yellow hair over her shoulder. "And after that, I'll run a few copies for the knock and talk." She turned to run the sketch through the scanner. "Do we know what killed him yet?"

"I asked Tom to wait on autopsy until the sketch artist was done. He'll most likely be working on it now."

As soon as the sketch came up on the screen, a few key clicks showed the program mapping out key features on the face and measuring distances. It then started the long process of finding a face that would most closely match those features.

"Anyone getting anywhere on those RVs, Horatio?" Calleigh's elegant twang sang his name.

"Not yet. There's a possibility there's a connection between a construction scam and these people. For sure, whoever left a couple of hundred cards at doors at the neighborhood across from Earhart Park is connected to the breaking and enters."

"Well, it would be logical to connect the RVs to the cards, don't you think?"

"Walter is of the same mind. I'll have to see some proof."

The female second in command at the lab didn't have to turn around to know Horatio was gone. She sometimes wondered if he moved in at out like a ghost with effort or if it was because of those Italian soft soled shoes he preferred.

Out in the hallway, Horatio made note of his distance from anyone and dialed his phone. Turning casually, as if simply surveying what was going on in his lab, he spoke quietly. "Yes, I'd like to make an appointment for this evening."

He gave his name and after a pause said, "I understand. No, no preference."

"Yes, lower back."

"Seven o'clock? I'll be there."

Pocketing his phone, he began examining right forefinger, cradling it at arm's length in his left hand. He wasn't actually looking at the finger so much as reviewing what had been going on in the lab and his life in the last few days.

The twitter in his pocket took him out of his reverie.

TBC