"Just a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. A missing piece."

Orson Welles, Citizen Kane (screenplay)

****

The Miami police headquarters hummed like a giant organism, never still. Horatio stood in the open door of the interrogation room and watched, fascinated. The restless energy of the place appealed to him. He saw Al coming back down the hall with a picture file box in his hands. Another officer, one who had also been at the scene, waylaid him. Their conversation was too far away for Horatio to hear, but the disagreement was there. And judging from the looks in his direction, he was the subject of it. Finally, Al came on alone.

"Trouble?"

Al closed the door securely. "Superintendent Wilson has his own ideas for pursuing this case. He's on robbery gone wrong."

"But that's not how it happened." Horatio couldn't understand how anyone could look at the evidence and not see the personal motive.

"I know, but he's my boss, so I have to listen to him." Al set the box of pictures on the table. "Now, look through these and try to pick out the members of the drug gang."

Horatio took out a handful of pictures and started going through them. Al watched him, once again intrigued by his young friend. There was no hesitation, no second glance or consideration, yet no hurry. Each picture was thoroughly looked at once, only once, then turned over and set aside neatly in a stack. Occasionally, he set one on the other side of him. The efficiency of it, the rapidity of his conclusions, was so much the antithesis of the usual witness looking at pictures. It took him less than ten minutes to look through 200 pictures of known gang members. Not once did he break the rhythm of his task. "These eight are in the gang, and this one here is the leader." He looked up to find Al's eyes on him, not the pictures. "What is it?"

"Never mind." The kid really didn't know, could see nothing odd about his way of looking at the world. What a gift, a mind like that! "Are you sure about the identification?" It was a standard question asked to all witnesses, but Horatio was almost offended. He didn't look back down at the pictures, either. Not even a glance to verify his first opinion.

"Of course I'm sure. I've seen them all several times." But he had seen them before the crime, hadn't known it would be significant. Even witnesses seeing criminals during a crime usually gave it some deliberation before pronouncing their identity.

"Okay." Al pulled the chosen eight pictures over. "This one is the leader?"

"Yes." No doubt at all in Horatio's eyes or voice.

"Toro Jackson."

"Toro? Bull?"

"Just a nickname, but it fits him. We've suspected him of everything under the sun, but no hard proof yet." Al was starting to get excited, like a hunting dog who spies the quarry up a tree at the end of the chase. "But we may have him this time, if he is involved. Your mother fought like a tiger. He'll have wounds, and we can match the blood type from the remnants found under her fingernails."

"And that's conclusive? To a jury, I mean?"

"Not 100%. Some day we'll have lots better ways to deal with matching a suspect to a crime, I'm sure. Science goes further every year. But the blood type, if it matches, coupled with the wounds - that would be a pretty good case. Now if we only had a final nail for his coffin, something no lawyer in the world could weasel him out of." He suddenly looked up. "Horatio, was anything missing from that house?"

"It wasn't robbery," Horatio insisted.

"I know it wasn't. But if he spotted something he wanted, right there for the taking, he would grab it on his way out. Guns? Anything a gang member might like?"

"We have a few guns, but we didn't keep them in the kitchen. And I don't think he went out of there. There was too much blood; it would have been tracked into the other rooms." He shuddered slightly, seeing it again.

"You didn't notice anything missing from the kitchen?"

"I'm sorry, Al. I really wasn't looking for it. The first time, I only saw her." He paused for a moment, and Al saw his hands, suddenly restless, lock into each other. "The second time, I was looking for how the fight progressed, how it all happened. I wasn't taking inventory." He sounded apologetic, and Al leaned across the table and covered Horatio's hands with his own.

"Nobody could expect you to see any more than you did." Horatio looked up at the touch. "But are you willing to take one more look around? Just to make sure?"

"Okay." He stood up, and Al boxed the remaining pictures, all except the chosen eight, which he stuck in his pocket.

"Is it always like this?" Horatio asked as they walked out.

"Is what always like this?"

"Headquarters." He waved a hand at the activity all around them.

"Pretty much. Miami's a big city and getting bigger all the time. I know it looks a bit chaotic to an outsider, though."

"It doesn't look chaotic," said Horatio. "Lots of patterns are there, but I don't know which patterns they are. There are patterns, though. All working together. It's just frustrating not to know the details of them, like seeing an anthill only from the top."

Al was silent while they got into his police cruiser, then looked across at his passenger as they stopped at the first red light. "Horatio, have you ever thought of being a police officer?"

Horatio considered it, his head cocked slightly to one side. "It hadn't occurred to me."

"You're 17. What are you thinking of doing with your life? You must have thought about it."

Horatio smiled. "I hadn't quite decided. The thing I'm best at is designing things, sorting stuff out. Ray thinks I ought to be an engineer. But somehow that isn't it. I'm good at it, but it's too impersonal." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Mom always said I needed a mission and hadn't found it yet."

Al studied him. He would make a brilliant engineer, yet the first thought Al had was, what a waste. "You're good at this investigative work, Horatio. Really good. And that would be helping people, not just working with variables on paper." Horatio's head was still tilted slightly, his eyes looking into nothing, studying how that idea might fit into his life. They passed the rest of the trip in silence.

The little white house already looked forlorn and empty, not just the crime scene tape around it, but the whole air of the place. The grass was still neatly mowed, the flowers still crisp, but one might easily think that no one had ever lived there. Al and Horatio ducked under the crime scene tape, and Horatio unlocked the door. He walked straight to the kitchen door, then stopped, staring at the place where his mother's body had been for a moment. Finally, he tilted his head slightly and hit the room with one sweeping glance, wall to wall. When he turned back to Al, his eyes were shining like blue stars. "My grandfather's knife is gone."

"What knife?"

"It's a relic, from World War II. A German knife. He brought it home, and he gave it to my dad. My mom used it as a letter opener. It sat in the mail stand there on the counter, across the hooks at the bottom." The two of them locked eyes, sharing the triumph. "We've got him!"

"We've got him," Al agreed. "If he has the knife, and if he has the wounds and the right blood type, any jury in Florida would convict on that evidence."

"So let's go get him." Horatio was outside and halfway to the police car when Al caught him, spinning him around.

"What do you mean, let's? Here's where you get off this train, Horatio."

"I want to be there, to see it finished." His eyes pleaded, but Al was unyielding.

"Facing this gang down herself was your mother's mistake. You are not going to repeat it. This could be dangerous, and from this point on is where training counts for more than observation." He opened the door of the police car. "Come on, I'll drop you off and then go get a warrant."

"I'm seeing this through."

"Absolutely not," said Al. "You won't win this fight, because you aren't going to be in it. Now get in the car, Horatio."

The boy shook his head, backing up a step. His jaw was dead set and stubborn. "No."

"Get in, Horatio. I'm taking you home."

Horatio's eyes, themselves as cold as World War II daggers, locked with Al's. "This is my home," he said. He turned and vanished into the house. Al took one step after him, and the radio in his police car crackled into life. "Damn," he swore softly. He turned and went to the car.

****

Calleigh got to CSI about 5:00 AM, having slept as if drugged herself. She wanted to check on Horatio before the rest of the team arrived. The Hummer was still in the CSI garage, she saw with relief. He probably shouldn't be driving yet. She took the back stairs by his office, but the office was empty.

She found him in the break room, sitting at the table with shoulders half slumped, working on his third cup of coffee. He looked up at her as she came in, his pupils still so dilated that his blue eyes looked black. "What did you give me last night?"

"Seconal," she said. "I have a supply of it, left over from the aftermath of a relationship gone wrong. I kept it on hand for emergencies."

"I am not an emergency." He took another gulp of coffee, then shook his head, trying to clear it.

Calleigh didn't even touch that one. "I was just trying to fulfill your wishes." He looked up at her with the ghost of his usual head tilt. "You wanted me to get a good, sound night's sleep. I did, knowing that you were, too."

He sighed. "Remind me in a few hours, when I have the energy, to discuss that logic with you."

"Come on," said Calleigh. "It's only 5:00 AM, but I came in to take you home so you could shower and change. You probably shouldn't drive for a few more hours." She tugged slightly at his arm. "Come on, let's get out of here before the rest of the world comes in."

He stood up slowly, still not entirely steady on his feet, which gave her an excuse to grip his arm while they walked down to the garage. "And while you're taking a shower, I'll get breakfast cooked." She glanced at him sideways as they pulled out into traffic. "Did you ever eat anything at all yesterday?"

"I don't remember," he said. He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. The drug was still putting up a fight with his consciousness.

"Where do you live?" She had always wondered, but she had never asked him, knowing that she could not have asked the question casually. He gave her the address without opening his eyes, and she maneuvered the car through the early morning traffic, perversely enjoying the opportunity to be in the driver's seat with him the passenger for once.

****

CSI was buzzing like a mosquito swarm when they returned at about 8:00. "H," called Speed, spotting them as they entered the lab. "I just finished the DNA samples. It matches! Davis' DNA is a definite match for the blood on the victim's body."

"Good job," said Horatio. "All right, we'll pull in Davis again and see what his precious alibi says to that." His mind was functioning again, sorting out the evidence, building the puzzle. "He has large hands, too."

"And a cut on the left index finger?" said Speed.

"I'll check that, but I never had a chance to see yesterday. He never turned his hands over. With a DNA match, we can push him now." He swung around, looking almost like his old self. "Calleigh, what about the gun?"

The gun. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry, Horatio. I got involved in other things yesterday and forgot all about it."

"What?" Speed couldn't believe it. "What distracts you from a gun?"

"None of your business," she said pertly. "I'll get right on it, Horatio."

"Keep me posted. I'll call for a warrant on Davis." He turned away from them and headed for his office, walking like a tiger, cat-footed but purposefully, moving with his usual grace.

"Well, he's back," said Speed. "What's been wrong with him the last couple of days?"

"Something on his mind, I guess," said Calleigh. "I've got to get to work on that gun." She left Speed looking from his retreating boss to his retreating coworker. H wrapped up in something other than work and Calleigh forgetting about a gun. What was wrong with everybody this week?

****

It took most of the morning for Calleigh to reconstruct the gun number, and when she did, it was a dead end. No connection to the victim, her husband, or anyone else traceable for the last ten years. Remember, she told herself, quoting Horatio, we're not wasting time on dead ends, we're narrowing down the case to what matters. She left a message for Horatio, but she still hadn't seen him by lunchtime. She and Alexx went out to eat together at a little restaurant around the corner, and when she got back, there still wasn't any sign of him. He's just tied up questioning Davis, she told herself. She knew that he was feeling better today, thanks to Seconal, but the nagging voice in the back of her head was still chewing over her discoveries of yesterday. He always took a week off, a full week, and today only made three days. And what on earth was she going to do with him tonight? Hit him over the head? It would be next to impossible to drug him again, she knew.

By 3:00 PM, with still no sign of him, she threw caution to the winds and hooked the first person she saw in the lab, who happened to be Delko. "Eric, do you know where Horatio is? I haven't seen him since this morning? Have they been talking to Davis all this time?" She couldn't believe that. DNA evidence was the absolute, unequivocal witness. Why would questioning a suspect with a direct DNA tie to the evidence be difficult?

"He went to Daytona Beach."

"What?" It was a four and a half hour drive, nine round trip. He shouldn't be doing that this week, she felt like shouting.

"Davis' alibi. Turns out he's got a beauty of one. He says he spent the night with a woman in a hotel there."

"That's a beauty of an alibi?"

"Thing is, he produced all sorts of people, hotel staff and such, who he says will remember him. It wasn't just the woman. He says lots of people saw him there."

"Wouldn't he conduct an affair discretely?"

Eric rolled his eyes. "Calleigh, it's 2003. His wife probably was just waiting for him to leave so she could get going with her boyfriend."

"Despite your opinions, Eric, marriage does work sometimes."

"You think it did here?"

Well, no, she thought. Probably Eric was right. Horatio had said last night that the husband's grief rang hollow. "So Horatio went up to check out the alibi. Did anybody go with him?"

"No." Delko looked at her oddly. "You know how he gets, like a dog with a bone. He wanted to pick it apart himself. He's sure Davis is lying."

"When did he leave?"

"While you were at lunch. 12:30, maybe?"

"Thanks, Eric." 12:30. Plus a nine hour drive round trip. Plus at least a couple of hours of questioning people. But it was the drive back that froze Calleigh's heart. What would happen when his memories became stronger than one good night's sleep in three days? She had seen how they consumed his attention. Horatio, she told him fiercely, if you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you.

****

"I'm afraid others will get hurt."

Calleigh paced around Horatio's house, waiting for him, worrying about him, chewing over the events of this week. That was his reason for shutting himself off, he had said. He was afraid other people would get hurt. She had filed the remark mentally but hadn't had time to mull over it yet.

How on earth could letting people get close to him hurt them? Horatio was the kindest, most generous, most honest person she had ever met. Surely he could only benefit people's lives. Yet he said it was for their sake that he withdrew. It just didn't make sense.

She came to a halt in the middle of his living room and looked around. She had never seen it until that morning, but the whole room, this whole house was flavored with his esteem of other people. There were several pictures on the wall, including at least one of his mother in every room. It would have been touching if it hadn't been pathetic, if she hadn't seen in his eyes for a moment yesterday that he honestly could not remember what she looked like. Calleigh crossed to the piano that stood against one wall of the living room. There was another thing she hadn't expected. Rosalind's piano, she was sure; there was a picture of her playing that same piano displayed on top of it. But could Horatio play it? Was it just a memento, or was it a connection, something he and his mother had shared? She hadn't asked him questions that morning, too concentrated on getting him to eat for what she was sure was the first time in days. She tried to imagine Horatio playing the piano and could do it without much trouble.

There were also pictures of Horatio's father. Seeing him, Calleigh was able to sort out the influences on his son. Horatio's father had the same red hair and blue eyes, but it was Rosalind who had stamped her son's face. Horatio really looked nothing like her superficially, but the expression, the set of the jaw, the directness, was all hers. She studied the pictures of his father again. Howard Caine, died July 8th, she remembered. Calleigh made a mental note to herself to double check the records and see if Horatio took July 8th off every year. Trapped in the car with him for hours, Alexx had said. What a thing for a kid only 7.

There were also the pictures of Ray. Calleigh had not known Ray, only known of him, and she was curious about these. Ray somehow never looked happy. In the family shots, he was the restless one. What would it be like to have Horatio as an older brother, she wondered? A perfect older brother, because Horatio was perfect, naturally. She felt a wisp of sympathy for Ray before worry for Horatio overtook her again. She studied Horatio in the family shots. Prior to his father's death, he had looked relaxed and happy. Never again, though. With his mother, he came closest, but the burden of responsibility had fallen hard on him. She knew how much he felt driven to take care of people, how much he wanted to protect every family of every victim they encountered. It seemed unfair that someone who cared so much about people had suffered so much loss.

Calleigh couldn't analyze things like Horatio, but at that instant, she felt the mental puzzle click suddenly into place, got a brief glimpse of what he lived daily. Of course, she thought. Everyone he has loved is dead. He thinks he's some sort of cosmic jinx on humanity.

That explained things. Boy, did that explain things. Like how caring and expressive he was with families of victims, with people he could absolutely identify with yet would never see again, while he could not open up to people he interacted with daily. He was afraid to let people too close, not just because he was afraid of being hurt, but because he was afraid they would die for loving him. Oh, Horatio, she thought. Step back and analyze that for a minute. Coincidences happen; we see them all the time. It isn't your fault they're dead. How could you possibly be to blame for it?

The small clock on the wall stuck midnight. Calleigh returned to her mental math. If he left at 12:30, and the drive was 9 hours round trip, he had only had two and a half to question people. Too short, she knew. It was too early to expect him home, but she knew that she had to wait here for him. She needed to see him as soon as possible, to reassure herself that he was alright. The thought of that drive home terrified her. Once again, she began her pacing circuit of the living room.

****

The lights of the Hummer splashed against the wall as it turned into the driveway, waking Calleigh up out of a restless sleep. She bounded up from the couch and looked out the window, wanting to see him as soon as possible. And that was stupid; the car obviously hadn't driven itself home, so what difference would 10 seconds make? A lot, she told herself, still pressed to the window. She glanced at her watch, glowing in the darkened room. It was 3:00 AM.

Horatio got out of the vehicle but just stood there leaning against it for a second, as if he didn't have the strength to walk inside. She could not see him clearly, but even the silhouette spoke volumes. The set of his shoulders, the droop of his head, his weary, flat-footed gait when he finally did move. Every line of his body spoke of failure, professionally, personally, in every way possible. Calleigh slumped against the window herself, biting her lip to keep from crying at the sight of him.

The door opened, and he switched on the light, then stood there looking at her. She stood up squarely and faced him.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was hoarse, as if he had been talking for hours, which he probably had, she thought, remembering the case. His face looked like skin stretched over a skeleton, and his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, were dull, with no spark of life at all.

"I wanted to be sure you made it home alright," she said.

He took a few steps into the living room to clear the door, then leaned back against it until he heard it click firmly. "Calleigh, go home."

"No," she said firmly.

"Please." It was a plea. "Go home."

"No," she said, her whole heart crying at the sight of him. "Horatio, look at me." His eyes met hers, but there was still no life in them. "I'm not going home. I'm not walking away and leaving you here. There is no way you're going to get rid of me, do you hear? I'm stuck in your life, and there's nothing that will shake me loose. I'm not leaving you, I'm not turning away, and I'm not going to die."

She saw a slight spark in his eyes at her last statement. They stood there looking at each other for a long moment. Every inch of her body wanted to go to him, but he had to be the one to close the gap. She was never sure how long they stood like that, a second or half an eternity. Then slowly he came to her, wrapping both arms around her, burying his face in the top of her hair. She hugged him as tightly as she could, wanting him to feel the strength of her grip, half holding him on his feet. Neither of them said anything; neither needed to.