Title: More Deadly
Rating: R (disturbing case)
Disclaimer: They still aren't mine, obviously. If they were, certain of them would not exist, and Horatio and Calleigh would have been together long since. This series, however, is mine.
Pairing: H/C, naturally
Series: This is the 17th in the Fearful Symmetry series. Fearful Symmetry, Can't Fight This Feeling, Gold Medals, Surprises, Honeymoon, Blackout, the Hopes and Fears, Anniversary, Framed, Sight for Sore Eyes, Trials and Tribbulations, Premonition, Do No Harm, the CSI Who Loved Me, Complications, Yet to Be, and More Deadly.
A/N: Once again (see Framed chapter 4), I am indebted to Pam, the graphologist with whom I shared a Greyhound bus seat from Minneapolis to Kansas City, for giving me a crash course in graphology during the trip. Any errors are mine, not hers. Also, the opening scene of More Deadly is for koaladeb, who asked so nicely last spring in her review of Yet to Be. In general, I have no control over my muse, but once in a rare while, she will take a suggestion. Hope you enjoy it, kdeb.
The characters (H/C) are simply used as a scene divider. This stupid site has decided that it doesn't like my scene divisions and refuses to recognize them.
(H/C)
"The female of the species is more deadly than the male."
Rudyard Kipling, "The Female of the Species"
(H/C)
"Your turn," Horatio said, making no effort to get up.
Calleigh rolled to face him in exasperation, ignoring temporarily the urgent summons from the other room. "Now, Horatio, it is not my turn. It was my turn last time."
His eyes twinkled in amused dispute. "I took a turn later while you were in the shower."
The appeal from the next room persisted, and Calleigh sighed, scrambling to her feet. "Okay, okay. But remember this." She reluctantly left Horatio and Rosalind sprawled in the living room floor and trudged dutifully to the kitchen to answer the phone. It was the main phone, not one of their cells. "Who would call us this early?" She hoped it wasn't work. Work calls would more likely come on the cell phones after dawn, though, aiming for a possibly already moving target.
"Easy enough to find out." Horatio's velvet voice slid smoothly into the next room along with her, and she was smiling to herself as she picked up the receiver.
"Hello."
"Calleigh, hi. Hope I didn't wake you." The voice was familiar, but it took a second to sink in.
"Peter! I haven't heard from you in . . . " She hesitated, trying to come up with a time span. She and her brother talked more easily now than they had for many strained years, but their communication still was not often. Old habits, good or bad, linger past their usefulness.
He laughed, but she thought she detected a slight note of uncertainty behind it. "I know, I know. The prodigal brother. Did I wake you up?"
"Hardly. Rosalind believes in early mornings."
"How is she?"
"Wonderful." The tone said more than the word, and she heard Peter's answering smile, echoing her own across the miles, then heard the echo fade away.
"Calleigh, I was, um, wondering. . . " His voice trailed off.
"What is it, Peter?"
He switched tracks. "How is everything? I know I've hardly called you in months, but I didn't want to be in the way. You had enough to deal with. Are things better now?"
Calleigh turned around where she could see through the open arch into the living room. Horatio was on his back on the floor, Rosalind on his stomach. He was walking her up and down his body. Her legs weren't strong enough to support her yet, but his unfailing hands were there. He was holding her upright and smiling at her, and she was smiling back, keeping up a low stream of incoherent but pleasing sounds, like birdsong. "Everything is fine. Back to normal, only normal's improved these days."
"Good." The silence lengthened for a moment.
"Peter, what is it?"
He took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to dive in. "I've never seen my niece. I'd like to. Would you mind if I visited for a week or two?" Actually, none of Calleigh's remnant of family had seen Rosalind yet, her mother probably sharing Peter's motive of not wanting to bother her in those dark days when Horatio had needed almost as much care as Rosalind. Pitiful that her family automatically classified themselves as a burden, not a help to her. If Calleigh had had energy to spare at the time, she would have regretted it; as it was, she had been grateful for their insight. Now, though, it was the beginning of September, and those long days following Stewart Otis' escape and Horatio's injury were a slowly retreating memory, a shadow stretching away harmlessly behind them. The sun of Rosalind had risen in their lives.
"We'd love it, Peter. You need to get to know her." Calleigh was sure Horatio wouldn't mind her brother visiting. Family was the ultimate bond to him.
"Do you have room? I could stay in a hotel."
"No way. Didn't you learn anything about hospitality while we were growing up?" Calleigh's slight southern drawl deepened on the memories. "We've got plenty of room, Peter. We've reshuffled a bit, but we still have a guest room. When were you thinking of coming?"
"Next Friday?" Ten days away.
"That'd be great, Peter."
His tone relaxed a bit but not all the way. It wasn't just wanting her permission that had him edgy. "Thanks, Cal. I'll let you know when I have an ETA."
"See you then. Keep me posted." She heard her own echo of Horatio and smiled again.
"I will. Looking forward to seeing you. Bye." He hung up, and Calleigh studied the phone in her hand, wondering what he really wanted. Whatever it was, he wanted to talk about it face to face, with no added barrier of distance. The phone told her nothing more, and she hung it up finally and went back into the living room.
"Peter's coming?" Horatio asked. He had tracked her conversation, even while playing with Rosalind.
Calleigh folded herself down onto the floor beside him. "Right, next Friday. He wants to meet Rosalind."
"Good. Your family needs to know her." Rosalind with his considerable assistance tottered on unsteady legs back up his chest, and he scooped her tightly into his arms and sat up. "Do you want to meet your uncle?" She gave him a happy babble in response.
"Do you suppose that's yes or no?" Calleigh reached across and put one hand lovingly on both of them. "I can't wait until you start talking, Angel. Shouldn't be much longer."
"She has your voice," Horatio said, his own voice a low hum of approval. He and Calleigh were currently engaged in a friendly dispute over which one of them Rosalind took after more.
"Now how can you tell that, Horatio? She hasn't actually said anything yet, except to you." Rosalind did have her own special sound for Horatio, a sort of two-note hum that sounded exactly like notes on the piano, always the same two notes. She reserved it for him alone, and he never failed to respond to it.
"The tones. It's definitely your voice." He jiggled Rosalind, and she chattered back at him. "Hear that? Your voice."
"I don't think you've ever heard me say that, Horatio."
He grinned at her. "Try it then. Let's compare."
The morning was still early enough for nonsense to seem reasonable, and Calleigh obligingly gave it her best shot, not coming close in her opinion. Rosalind apparently thought so, too. She looked at her mother like she'd gone crazy, tilting her head slightly in a pose that looked years beyond infancy. "Definitely your head tilt," Calleigh said. "She never got that from me."
"I'll admit to the head tilt, but she's got your chin." He glanced at his watch and reluctantly got up. "Sorry, Rosalind, but I've got to finish getting ready for work." He started for the baby swing in the corner and just before he got there spun in a full circle, swinging his daughter around at arm's length. Her golden laughter lit the room, and Horatio looked back at Calleigh triumphantly. "Your laugh. Can't deny that one."
"My laugh?" Calleigh scrambled to her feet. "No way, Horatio Caine. You just haven't heard your own laugh enough over the years to recognize it." He had his back turned now, getting Rosalind situated in the swing, and she came up behind him and suddenly captured him, tickling him along the ribs.
"Calleigh!" He ducked away while turning to face her, but she was as quick as he was, and her fingers shifted but kept their purpose. He backed away, trying to escape, and she followed him, still firmly attached, rewarded by his reluctantly emerging laughter.
"Hear that? Your laugh. Same as hers, Horatio."
"Calleigh, stop it," he wheezed. He was almost helpless now, his body writhing beneath her touch but still trying to escape.
"Not until you admit it. She has your laugh." Her teasing fingers worked up his sides, conquering new territory in their tickling, and he backed away, desperately seeking escape, and tripped over the corner of the coffee table, falling flat.
Calleigh stopped instantly at the quick flicker of pain across his face. "Are you okay, Horatio?" He didn't answer but extended a hand to her, and she took it without even pausing for suspicion, trying to help him up. Instead, he pulled her down onto the floor with him, rolling over, pinning her as he got in some tickling of his own.
"We need you laughing, too, so we can compare."
"Horatio!" She, too, tried to escape, but he was relentless, and she was a helpless captive to his determination. Then she stopped trying to escape. Just when things were starting to get more interesting, they simultaneously remembered Rosalind, who would be watching as always. Horatio and Calleigh broke off in unison, flushed and a bit breathless, and looked up from the floor at their daughter, whose large blue eyes, identical to Horatio's, had tracked their every move. She looked like she thought they were both crazy now.
Horatio scrambled to his feet. "One of these days, Rosalind, you'll understand it. A long, long, long time from now." He walked over and plucked her out of the swing just as the phone rang.
"Your turn," Calleigh said instantly.
"That's my cell phone, anyway. Must be work." He fished it out of his jacket pocket with his free hand and instantly put on professionalism like a change of clothes. "Horatio." His head tilted slightly, and his eyes went distant. "Where are you?" His expression was dead serious now, and Rosalind, sensing the change in mood, reached out and wound her tiny fingers in that tantalizing red hair, giving it a gentle, questioning tug. Horatio smiled at her, but his eyes were still distant. Calleigh shook her head, amazed again at how perceptive Rosalind was at only 6 months old. She had no question which of them her daughter was more like.
"On my way," Horatio finished. He snapped the phone shut and came across to his wife. She took Rosalind from him. "There's a murder."
"Already? I guess everyone's getting an early start to this day."
"Actually, night shift has been working the scene for three hours already. Chris wants me to look at this one." Chris was the head CSI on night shift, working under Horatio's authority but quite capable in his own right. If he had called in Horatio, this case must be a special one, Calleigh thought.
"Did he say why he doesn't want to take it himself?"
"I didn't ask him. I'm sure he has a good reason. I'll know it soon enough." That was Horatio, giving his people the same absolute trust that they all had in him. He straightened his rumpled shirt meticulously and put on his jacket, looking nothing like a man who had been engaged in a tickling match in the floor five minutes ago. The seamless efficiency with which he could change gears always impressed her. Calleigh shook her head fondly, and Horatio caught her at it, though he had been half turned away. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said sincerely. "Absolutely nothing."
He came across and kissed her, lingering for another second. "I wish I could keep it that way," he said fervently, and she knew he was thinking of the city, not them. "After you take Rosalind to daycare, come join me." He gave her the address, then kissed his daughter, for that one second slipping out of professionalism again. "Have a good day, Angel." She gave her two-toned name sound for him, and he took her from Calleigh for a minute, hugging her tightly, then handed her back and purposefully headed out into the city, where many things on this morning were wrong. Not all of them could be fixed, but he would try.
(H/C)
Horatio approached the crime scene tape, having parked the Hummer well back. The uniform on guard there eyed him but did not question. Even if he hadn't known Horatio by sight, the badge was redundant. The set of the shoulders, the brisk stride, the angle of the head, and the alert sweep of the eyes, scanning everything yet intently focused, too, all announced his identity. The man simply oozed authority, and the officer stepped to one side without comment, allowing him to pass.
Chris was waiting, looking both pale from the scene and relieved at reinforcements. It must be quite a case, Horatio thought. Chris was usually unflappable. Actually, like many of the CSIs, he deliberately imitated Horatio, although Horatio, so perceptive normally, didn't recognize it. Horatio stopped and faced him, focused totally on receiving the report, putting off his own observations of the area for a moment. He trusted the work that Chris had done so far. "What have we got, Chris?"
"Body dump. Definitely killed elsewhere; there's dual lividity. We've been trying to process every inch, looking for any kind of trace from the car or the killer, but this alley is so dark, even with our equipment, I'd rather have it gone over again in daylight. Also, this one just feels serious." He caught himself, expecting Horatio to remind him that all murders were serious, but Horatio said nothing, accepting the statement at face value. Chris relaxed a bit. "I'd just like you to look at it. We've marked out a path two feet wide right over by the building, at the edge of the alley, going around the body and coming up from behind. Everybody's walked in that, as much as possible. I figure the killer took the direct way in, so we're trying not to contaminate that route."
Horatio nodded approvingly. "Nice work." He turned away from his coworker now, studying the alley and surrounding buildings. "Pretty deserted. This is all back door access to businesses. At night, not many people would be around. Who found the body?"
"We don't know," Chris replied. "Call to 911 from a pay phone, the phone right up on the corner there. A man just said there was a body here and hung up. We've processed the phone. Got lots of fingerprints, but he probably wore gloves if he was the killer."
"Probably some other criminal who happened across it. Killers have reported their own victims before, though. What about the body?"
"Still there. We're just about to move it. I was going really slowly on this one. It's so obviously an execution and body dump, I didn't want to miss anything. We've photographed every inch around him." They started down the alley together, walking in the designated path. "It's pretty bad, H."
Pretty bad was an understatement, Horatio thought a minute later. The man lay on his back, totally naked. His clothes, folded into a neat pile, were placed at his feet, shoes on top. The cause of death was obvious, a ragged, star-shaped wound to dead center of the forehead, but it was the other wounds that were more disturbing. The man still had the hair on his head – shiny, raven black hair – but the body hair had obviously been singed off, leaving none on the chest, arms, or pubic area. Slight scorch marks were visible. In addition, a much deeper burn, one straight line, ran down his sternum, and an X had been burned into each of his testicles. Horatio knelt at the body and simply studied it for several seconds, trying to absorb every detail. He studied the star-shaped wound of the forehead.
"Direct contact," Chris said, and Horatio nodded. In a direct contact gunshot wound, the gases from the gun barrel, unable to escape into the air, expand between the skin and bone, blowing out the skin in a star-shaped pattern. "The mob kills like that, but . . ." He trailed off, looking at the other wounds.
"This isn't a mob killing," Horatio agreed. "The mob kills, then leaves. That's all they want. This is obviously sexual."
Chris nodded. "This is a sick one, H."
"They all are," Horatio stated, "but some are sicker than others." The thought of Stewart Otis flickered through his mind quickly, then vanished. Otis was past harming anyone else. This killer was not. "Were the clothes folded just like that?"
"Right. We did check for a wallet. It's there."
"Money? Credit cards?" Horatio eyed the clothes.
"Everything. Still there. We're already running the ID. I'm surprised someone else didn't lift it. Obviously, this killing is sexually motivated, not robbery, but there are plenty of petty criminals around."
Horatio looked at the body again, at the mutilations. "I'm not surprised. If I were a petty thief and came across this, I'd run. Maybe it was a thief who called 911." The body haulers had come up the cleared path, and Horatio and Chris both stood and stepped back. "I agree, Chris, this scene needs to be covered in daylight. This one does feel serious. You've made an excellent start to it, though." Chris relaxed slightly, absorbing the sincere praise, then tensed up again in response as Horatio suddenly became intent. "Hold it. Stop right there." The quiet authority in Horatio's voice froze everyone at the scene. The body haulers were halfway in the act of rolling the body up to slide a body bag beneath it and zip it in. Horatio knelt again, peering into the space under the victim. "Camera, Chris." Chris collected a camera from another member of the night shift who was processing the alley and brought it back. Horatio focused and snapped. "Okay, pick him up and move him. Do not slide the body bag across here. Just move him over onto it." The body haulers complied, and Horatio and Chris absorbed the full impact of the handwritten note on the ground. Horatio took another picture. The body haulers finished their task and stared down at the note, riveted.
The script was careful, neat, and easily legible. "This is the first one to die."
Chris looked back at Horatio, doubly glad that he had called for his boss. "We've got a serial killer."
(H/C)
"This is Travis Fox, bringing you Miami at street level. Remember, for the best coverage of the crime scene in the city, follow KMIA for cutting-edge reporting, every day. I'm here at the scene of a murder investigation. Police have been reluctant to release many details, but it's rumored that Miami may have a serial killer on the loose. A body was discovered in an alley early this morning, with alleged information that there will be more. Is Miami in for a series of murders? Stay tuned for all the information as we receive it. This is Travis Fox, reporting for KMIA, one short step behind the police, one long step ahead of the other media. If you want the news first, you're on the right station. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we're in luck. Calleigh Caine, renowned ballistics expert from CSI, has just arrived at the scene. Calleigh, can I have a word with you?"
Calleigh shot him a look of annoyed southern fire. Everyone on the force was familiar with Travis Fox, and most of them hated him. "I can't stop you."
"What makes you think that this killing is the work of a serial killer? Can you confirm that a threat for more deaths has been found at the body? What have you heard about the case so far?" He hesitated hopefully after each question, but the cameras trailing him only had an excellent shot of Calleigh's back as she strode purposefully toward the crime scene tape. "Calleigh? Can you tell us anything?"
She spun so quickly that he almost ran into her. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were the one who wanted to talk."
Fox smiled his practiced media smile, turning to give the camera a better side-by-side shot of the two of them. "The First Amendment provides rights to the media, Calleigh. I have business here, too, just like you do. The public would like to hear anything you can tell us about this case."
Calleigh straightened to her full height, such as it was. "I would be delighted to tell the public that, for the purposes of this breaking investigation, your First Amendment right to be here ends at this crime scene tape. Mine doesn't." She ducked neatly under it and walked up the alley without a backward glance. She heard that annoyingly suave voice continue behind her, smooth and unruffled as ever.
"And that's Calleigh Caine with CSI, folks. I'm sure you can see for yourself from her manner just how serious this case is. Yes, it looks like a serial killer may be at work in Miami."
Calleigh followed the marked path past a dumpster about 200 yards down the alley. This was where the body had been left, and Horatio was kneeling there, studying the ground, though the body was gone. He straightened up when he saw her. "Hey. What's wrong, Cal?"
Two words conveyed everything. "Travis Fox."
Horatio sighed. "He's here already?"
"Prompt as always. He said it looks like a serial killer, Horatio. Was that true or just media?"
His eyes flared briefly. "True, I'm afraid. We didn't need to advertise it yet, though. But how did he. . . " He stopped suddenly, then answered his own question. "The body haulers. They saw the note. They aren't detectives; $10 would probably buy a report on what they saw."
"What note?" He filled her in on everything so far. Typically, she went for the bullet first. "Was it a through-and-through head wound, Horatio?"
"No. Bullet's still in."
"On direct contact? Must have been a small caliber."
He nodded. "The entrance wound is blown out, of course, but we'll know from the bullet. My guess would be a .22. The mob often uses .22 handguns for executions. This wasn't a mob killing, but we know that can be lethal with a central head shot, and that bullet wouldn't exit, just richocet around."
"Smaller gun, too," Calleigh agreed. "Easier to conceal, gives the element of surprise."
Horatio gave her an approving smile. "That's a good point. Our vic was only average size. Could be a small perp, not wanting to risk a struggle. Not that I'm downplaying the physical abilities of small people, of course." His eyes measured her, diverting for a microsecond from the issue at hand.
"You wouldn't dare. I agree, though, it is a good possibility."
He retreated instantly back to the case. "Speed and Eric are on their way. They're going to process this alley in the daylight. Chris did a good job with it, but we can't afford to miss anything here. We need to head back to CSI. You can get the bullet from Alexx."
"What about you, Handsome?"
"I'll work on the note."
Side by side, they went back down the alley, effortlessly tucking together to stay in the narrow cleared path. The scene at the other side of the tape was almost comical. Travis Fox had hooked Speed as the trace expert arrived, and he was now interviewing him live, a very one-sided interview since Speed's entire contribution was a sullen glare of exaggerated patience. Fox never seemed discouraged, but he gladly switched to a more quotable source.
"Horatio, could I have a word with you? This is Lieutenant Horatio Caine, head of CSI." Calleigh rolled her eyes. She would be willing to bet that Horatio needed no introduction to most of Fox's viewership. Speed, taking advantage of the diversion, ducked under the tape. "Horatio, what can you tell us about this crime?"
Horatio waited politely until Fox had finished and the silence had lengthened a second. "Three things," he stated and then stopped, waiting to be prompted.
Fox never sounded annoyed, but Horatio could get to him sometimes. Horatio saw the repressed irritation in his eyes, but the reporter delivered his line obligingly. "What three things are those, Horatio?"
Horatio turned his shoulder slightly to Fox, focusing fully on the camera, addressing the audience. "A murder was committed this morning, we have a mountain of evidence from this scene, and that evidence will lead us to the killer." He turned away so quickly that Fox was stunned briefly into that unpardonable offense for the media, dead time. He quickly recovered, his voice sliding into action again even as his eyes followed Horatio and Calleigh toward the vehicles.
"And that's Horatio Caine from CSI. You heard it here, folks. There is a mountain of evidence, some of which reportedly indicates that this is the work of a serial killer."
(H/C)
The handwriting analyst studied the copy of the note. The original was in Trace, getting the ink and paper analyzed. She read it over several times, held a ruler to it, and then looked through it with blank eyes into the research books filed in her mind. Horatio waited patiently. She finally looked back up to him.
"Several things here, but the most striking is that this was written by a woman."
Horatio arched an eyebrow. "A woman? Only 8% of serial killers are women."
"Sorry, Horatio. I analyze writing, not statistics. It was written by a woman. I also think it was probably written by the killer, not by a woman on the killer's behalf."
Horatio agreed with that. "Hardly an innocent message for someone's girlfriend to write down."
"It's not just the content. Whoever wrote this was seriously disturbed. The writing is hypercontrolled, absolutely demanding control of the environment, and frustrated, too, of course. Nobody who demands this level of control in their life is normal or fulfilled. Totally upright letters on a level baseline. Most people's writing is looking forward, fewer people's looking back, but this person demands on controlling everything in the present. Absolutely refusing to settle for less. That total upright writing is very rare in the general public, more common in killers. There is intense sexual repression, too. Look at how tight and closed the loops are. Almost nothing below the baseline. I'd say this is a female, in good physical health, in the prime of life, probably single, and psychopathic."
Horatio absorbed it. Unlike psychotic people, who were truly insane, psychopathic people were fully sane but with no conscience, genuinely convinced that their own agenda rightfully took precedence over society's interests. Again, he thought of Stewart Otis briefly. "Bad combination."
"Definitely. There's one other thing, too. Very subtle but there." She tapped the note in front of the word first. "This is the first one to die," she quoted. "Notice anything about the spacing between the and first?"
He bent over her shoulder a little closer, studying it. "It's a bit wider. All the other word gaps are fairly consistent; that one is slightly stretched."
She was impressed once again at his perception. It was slight enough that most people would not have seen it, even prompted. "That's a lie."
"The whole note, or the word first?"
"The word first, specifically. When you are writing and you come to something you know is untrue, your mind checks slightly, acknowledging the lie. It happens even to chronic liars. Totally subconscious, almost impossible to avoid. The hand, however, keeps moving while the mind has hesitated, and when you start writing again, the gap is longer by the length of that millisecond of hesitation. Somebody who isn't used to lying can have a massive gap right in front of a written lie. This person is much more controlled and much more used to deception, but the mind still knows it's untrue. She hesitated right there, so that's the key word. First."
"You mean this isn't the first one?"
"Right."
He frowned. "I don't think we've had another one with the same M.O. or signature, though. Not recently, at least. I'll run it through all the databases." M.O. and signature were both crucial in tracking down serial killers. M.O. was the practical details directly involved in the crime, such as the weapon and the dumping of the body to avoid detection. Signature was the things not necessary to commit the crime or avoid detection, the extra things that the killer was still compelled to do to gain satisfaction from it, such as burning off the body hair and mutilating the genitals. The killer had control of M.O. but was controlled by the elements of signature.
"It might not be that she's killed before, although I'd say she's been dangerous for a while. Nobody gets this obsessively psychopathic overnight. But to her mind, it doesn't start with this death. Maybe someone else killed, and that somehow started her off."
Horatio nodded, mentally filing it. "We'll check it out. Maybe we can tie it to something in her past once we have a suspect." He tilted his head and looked back at the note. "Are you sure that couldn't be faked?"
"The spacing? No way. It's deeply subconscious. If you did know about it and decided to put a ruler to the words and write totally evenly, that would show up as a break in rhythm. You can tell when something was written one word at a time, as opposed to a sentence. This is definitely a sentence. I'm a bit surprised she was stupid enough to leave a sample of her own handwriting. From what I've heard, the body was cleaned pretty carefully."
"That's the ego. None of them ever think they'll be caught." Horatio gave her an icy smile. "They're wrong, like this one will be. Thank you, Charlene." He was out the door before she could respond.
(H/C)
Calleigh ran into him in the hall of CSI, and they walked along together. "Got the bullet, Handsome. It is a .22 but pretty banged up. What about the note?"
"Still working on the trace, but we have several things from the handwriting. Most interesting, our killer is a woman."
Calleigh stopped, turning to face him. "A woman? Most serial killers are men. Is Charlene sure?"
"Positive." His eyes met hers directly. "They're rare, Calleigh, but they're much harder to catch, and they can be even more deadly. The average body count for female serial killers is 8 to 14; average for males is 8 to 11."
"And we just have the first one."
"Maybe." He explained about the spacing before first. "So we're not sure on the body count at this point. One thing I am sure of, though." His eyes looked beyond CSI, out to wherever the killer lurked. "The evidence will still lead us to the killer, male or female." He turned and resumed walking, heading for Trace. Calleigh walked along with him in purposeful silence, two minds fixed on the same goal. As they passed the break room, a familiar, annoyingly smooth voice floated out like false evidence contaminating their case, and Horatio flinched.
"This is Travis Fox with KMIA, reporting live from the scene where a serial killer struck this morning."
Horatio spun smoothly and stopped in the doorway. "Turn that off." The four CSIs in the break room fell over each other reaching for the remote. Fox's voice died in mid word. Horatio gave them a general nod. "Thank you." He turned and resumed his journey. He did not specifically tell them to get back to work, but Calleigh looked back to see four CSIs meekly leaving the break room, heading back to their duty stations, duly reprimanded without Horatio's even having raised his voice. Horatio and Calleigh separated at the end of the hall, him heading for Trace, her for Ballistics, to follow the evidence. Somewhere out in Miami, a killer was loose, and the frightening thing was just how much truth for once there might be in Travis Fox's reports.