CSI: Miami – Exploding Mind

4

The iPhone vibrated on the mahogany bedside table. Horatio turned in his half-sleep and looked at the screen. The MDPD crest filled the display and Frank Tripp's name appeared on the screen. Tripp was a MDPD Robbery/Homicide Sergeant and usually worked together with Horatio's CSIs. He was working the bombings from the street angle.

'Yes, Frank?'

'No, not Frank,' a voice said on the other end of the line. 'Frank is a bit busy right now.'

'Who are you?' Horatio asked.

'None of your concern. However, what is of your concern is the fate of your partner. You see, his survival depends on whether or not you give us what we want. Now, the only one allowed to do that are the members of your team. And with that I don't mean the federales that you brought in.'

Horatio had, in the meantime, taken his personal cell phone and sent a text message to Garcia.

'Understood. What do you want me to do?'

'I want you to drop investigating the bombings. You see, our jeffe is not that pleased that MDPD is defending his competition. And he is willing to go to extremes to prove that he is serious.'

Horatio's other cell phone vibed and he read the message quickly. According to Garcia, the caller was across the street. He got up, glad he was wearing his jogging pants and a T-shirt, strode over to his chest of drawers and pulled open the top drawer. He punched in the code of his safe. He pulled his badge from the safe, hung it around his neck on its beaded chain and grabbed his gun. He left the apartment.

'All right,' he said. 'Tell me what I need to do exactly.'

'Make the evidence you found in the BMW disappear. We do not want it to be known that we used TNT to bomb the rest stops.'

'And how do you think I am able to pull that off. FBI was brought in on the case, the evidence is under lock and key and the brass is all over this case.'

'Well, you are the CSI Lieutenant. Be creative.'

Horatio had reached the side door of the apartment building and sighed. He muted his iPhone and slipped it into his pocket. He then placed a hand on the door handle. He pushed the handle down and stepped outside, holding his SIG Sauer P229 aloft. There were several cars parked along the street, but one stood out; a black '98 Dodge Sprinter with tinted windows. Horatio stayed low and swerved between cars before stalking across the street. He pressed himself up against the van's flank and slid towards the driver's side door. When he was there he placed a hand on the door handle, cocked the hammer of his SIG and tried to open the door. It was locked. The engine sprang to life and whoever was manning the vehicle put the pedal to the metal. Horatio was dragged along as he was still clutching the door handle. When the van hit the corner, Horatio was swung away from it. He was flung through the air and landed on the asphalt, hard. He rolled over a few times and heard the dull clank of his gun dropping on the floor a few feet further. And then all went black.

The flashes of the patrol cars hurt Horatio's eyes. He squinted as an EMT applied some Betadine to the cut on his brow. The EMT apologised as he placed a bandage on the cut. He then tapped Horatio on the shoulder to signal he was done.

Calleigh thanked the EMT and smiled at Horatio.

'How's the old noggin'?' she asked.

'Going to be fine.'

'I called Delko. He's on his way. Traffic is murder. One cop gets wounded and the whole of Miami flips upside down.'

Horatio smiled. Even though the conversation had the air of indifference on Calleigh's part, it was actually a cop's way of saying "I got your back.".

Horatio hopped off the gurney and stretched his neck. His T-shirt was torn at the left and backside and his jogging pants were scuffed with tarmac. He got up and walked up to the front doors of his apartment building. Five minutes later he reappeared sporting a pair of dark jeans and a burgundy pullover. He had his kit in his hands.

Another set of yelling sirens which suddenly died out made Horatio look at the yellow tape. A black GMC Yukon stopped, the red-and-blue visor flashers still on, and Agents Morgan and Hotchner – both in casual clothes: jeans, T-shirt and the mandatory FBI-jacket. They flashed their credentials at the uniform guarding the tape and ducked underneath it. They ambled up to Horatio.

'Lieutenant,' Hotchner said. 'are you feeling all right?'

'I will be when we find Frank, agent.'

'Please, call me Hotch. I called Ms. Garcia at the FBI, she said you contacted her to find out where the abductor was calling from.'

'Yes, she pinpointed the location to across the street.'

'Where you found what?' Morgan asked.

'A grey, '98 Dodge Sprinter. Took off in the direction of Biscayne Bay.'

'We put out an ABP on the car. We also allocated a lot of Miami-Dade PD resources to the search for Sergeant Tripp. Dr. Reid and Ryan are at his house, processing the scene. Prentiss and Rossi are at PD, interviewing Robbery/Homicide personnel and liaising with Tripp's Captain.'

'All right,' Horatio, placing a hand on the shoulder of each agent. 'Thank you.'

Ryan Wolfe jerked the Hummer to a halt and he and Special Agent Reid got out of the suv. They flashed their IDs and duked the yellow crime scene tape, pulling on blue nitrile gloves as they went; Ryan tugging along his field kit. When they reached the front door, both men froze.

'This…is not good,' Reid said.

'No, it's not,' said Wolfe, pulling out his camera.

Tripp lived in Coconut Grove, in a one-story white stucco bungalow. The window and door panes where made of ebony and there was a gravel path leading from the driveway to the front door, halfway intersected by an identical path leading to the sidewalk. The front door was open, unhinged. There was an indent in the wood and the feint outline of a shoeprint. Ryan snapped pictures of the door and then opened his kit. He applied some fingerprint dust to the outline of the shoe and lifted it by using an A4-size slab of adhesive tape. He initialed it and put it away.

Ryan turned to the uniformed officer, who stood with his thumbs hooked in the belt loops on his uniform pants. 'You secure the house?'

The African-American officer, lemar according to his nameplate, shook his head. 'Yes, sir. I cleared the scene, radioed in. I was told to await arrival of CSI.'

Ryan nodded curtly and looked at Reid. The two men stepped inside the house. Ryan pulled out his MagLite and stopped Reid from switching on the lights. They moved through the house cautiously. Ryan instructed Reid to go upstairs. Ryan placed his kit on the floor and did a quick sweep of the lower floor. The living room was furnished with modern furnishing, in cream and grey. There was a large flatscreen-TV, affixed to the wall, with a DVR-set on the metal-and-glass table underneath. There were several magazines on the matching coffee table; mostly general interest, a spots magazine, a Newsweek and a Men's Health. All were subscriptions, Ryan noticed, as all of them had an address-sticker on them.

The kitchen was spacious, with the same colourscheme: grey and cream. Ryan checked for a door, but there was none. The backdoor was again ebony, but inset with glass panes. Ryan saw the small backyard, where there was some cheap garden furniture; standard green plastic table and four chairs and two lounge chairs. There was a green wooden shed with a corrugated iron roof. The shed was padlocked. Against the wall of the shed rested a gas barbecue, which was clearly Frank's pride. Now that he found himself in Frank's home he realised how little he knew about the Sergeant that wasn't work-related. Ryan sighed and turned back to the hallway. He grabbed his kit and started walking up the stairs. Halfway up he heard rummaging upstairs. Then suddenly there was a loud bang. Ryan unsnapped his holster and drew his Beretta. He aimed it at the top of the stairs. He grabbed his MagLite and crossed his right arm underneath his gun hand, the beam of the flashlight parallel to the gun's barrel. Lemar ambled in, gun in hand. Ryan instructed him to guard the stairs. Slowly he climbed the last steps of the stairs. He stepped into the master bedroom, where he found Reid on his feet.

'Reid?'

'Detective Wolfe,' Reid said, flustered when he noticed the gun in Ryan's hand. 'I'm sorry, I fell over the dumbbell over there.'

Ryan followed the agent's pointing finger to a ten-pound dumbbell, which had fallen from a stack of other dumbbells. He sighed and holstered his weapon. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at the room. The bed was made of a light type of wood, the coverings simple Wal-Mart linen. The bed was slept, but the sheets had been rummaged and tossed about. There were drag marks in the burgundy long pile carpeting. Ryan pulled his notebook and pen from the back pocket of his jeans and jotted something down. He then went back to the stairs. He relieved Lemar and took his kit upstairs. He started photographing the room.

'Seems like there was a fight in here,' Reid said.

'It seems so. Have you seen Sergeant Tripp?'

'No, I haven't. Why?'

'Frank is a big guy. He played football in high school and never lost the physique. He'd never go with them willingly. However, the part I am worried about is whether or not they took his on-duty weapon.'

'I imagine you are. No, if I were a PD Sergeant, I'd probably keep my weapon somewhere near my bed.'

Ryan lifted an eyebrow as Reid stalked over to the night stand. He pulled open the drawer and found a gun case. It wasn't password protected, but simply padlocked. Reid took out his lock picking set. He picked the lock and peered inside.

'Uh, Detective Wolfe? You're gonna want to see this…'

Ryan walked over to the agent. He peered into the gun case, as well. Frank's gun was missing, his empty holster and badge the only things inside. Ryan snapped off a couple of pictures and sighed.

Back at MDPD headquarters, the CSIs and the FBI agents met up in the CSI conference room. Hotchner and Morgan still in their windbreakers, Reid the only FBI agent dressed in slacks, a grey shirt with blue tie and brown cardigan. Everybody plumped into the chairs around the table. Ryan, Hotchner, Horatio and Morgan pulled out their notepads and tossed them on the table with a sigh.

'So, Mr. Wolfe,' Horatio said, turning to his CSI. 'What did you and Dr. Reid find at Tripp's house?'

'Not much. There were signs of a struggle in the master bedroom. His duty weapon is missing as well. I already called it in to dispatch, who updated the BOLO.'

BOLO was an acronym for Be On The Look-Out. It basically meant that everyone working with Dade County, the local governments of the cities within the county's limits and all law enforcement personnel within Dade County borders kept an eye out for Tripp, his gun and his car.

'Yes, we fed them the description of Sergeant Tripp's Taurus. I believe his duty vehicle was also his personal vehicle?'

Horatio shook his head, 'No, he uses a champagne Taurus as a duty vehicle and a blue as a personal vehicle. He really liked the make and model. Though he has a gumball for his personal vehicle.

'I think that's all we can do, for now. Until we have some solid leads, let's get some rest. See you all in the morning.'

And after those parting words, the CSIs and FBI agents all rose and left the conference room. Only Horatio remained behind, staring at what the team had dubbed the murder board. Frank Tripp's ID headshot was put under the heading VICTIM. Horatio sighed, turned on his heels and went to his office. Seemed like once again he was going to use the foldable bed he had bought the previous month. It beat the couch he had used before.

Frank Tripp stirred on the chair. He was blindfolded and blood trickled down the side of his face. His nose itched from the dried blood that had sprouted from it when he had been hit across the face. Tripp sighed, and tried to move his arms, but he immediately felt the sharp sting of the zip ties used to bind his wrists. He winced and stopped wriggling. He shook his head violently in an attempt to shake of the blindfold. Slowly, but gradually the cloth slid down his face and over his nose. Suddenly it dropped around his neck.

He was being held captive in a dark room, most likely underground. The latter was odd, as most houses and buildings in Miami didn't have any basements anymore. Miami lay under sea-level entirely, so in case of floods all basements would fill up with water. However, some houses built in the early years of the last century still had basements, though these houses were more frequently found in the smaller conglomerated cities as Coral Gables and Coconut Grove.

Tripp heard scuffling at the floor above. He heard muffled voices of at least three persons, judging by the rhythm and timbre all male. Tripp listened. It seemed as though one of them was pacing up and down the room above, as his voice moved from one end of the room to the other, in accordance with the footsteps. Suddenly, the voice that had been moving about sounded very adamant. There was no reply from the others.

Slowly, footsteps came down stairs of some sort. There was a heavy metal door, which was slightly rusted due to the salty air, behind which were, Frank suspected, the stairs. There was the clanking of keys and a few seconds later the click of the lock springing open. The door opened with a loud creak and a man stepped inside. He wore his weapon – a stainless steel Smith & Wesson semi-auto – Mexican-style and he was wearing army green cargo pants and a black T-shirt. He wore his brown hair in a buzz cut and he was clean-shaven. He was well-muscled and his entire demeanour screamed Marine to Frank.

'So, Mr. Copper.' His accent was not American, with a profound 'r'. Frank wasn't all that up to date with the English accents, but it seemed Irish to him. 'I see you've been busy trying to get out. Good job on shaking off that blindfold.'

'Yeah, well. Using a rag is kinda old-school when abducting a cop, isn't it?'

'Guess so. Anyway, next time it won't be so easy to shake of the darn thing.'

From one of the leg pockets of his cargo's he pulled a roll of duct tape. He rolled off a piece and tore it off. He taped it over Frank's mouth.

'So, copper. You be good now. We are going to give that Lieutenant-pall of yours a ring and set him an ultimatum. And if they don't comply…' He dramatically pulled his Smith & Wesson and cocked the hammer. He pointed it at Frank's head and let it buck, without pulling the trigger. He then released the hammer with a snarl.

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