Setting: Sunday, January 1, 2006: Afternoon: Miami:
The lab was busy for a Sunday, but almost everyone pulled double shifts to cover the massive amount of evidence from the seven vehicle pile-up. With the added personal offense of the deaths of Jeffrey Woods and Suzie Barnum-Keaton, and the injuries to Horatio's children, no one wanted to let this case rest until they'd fully worked each fingerprint, each fiber, each drop of blood. For once, every investigator and tech worked as hard and long as the normally overworked assistant supervisor, Tim Speedle.
Speed pushed back from the reports he'd been reviewing, once again wondering why the hell he'd agreed to the promotion a month before. He'd never wanted to be in charge, but the fact that he felt he still owed the FBI Agent, Ivana Gideon, for the personal money she'd spent to keep him alive after his shooting, had made Speed feel he'd had no choice but to take the pay raise offered by the increase of responsibility. And with the addition of his fiancée and the baby . . . But the added duties kept him from working the job he truly loved: trace evidence. It had been one of the negotiation points he'd demanded: as long as he wasn't covering for Horatio specifically, he could work his trace and do his added paperwork after regular lab hours.
Stretching, Speed stood and strode across Horatio's office to the bullet-proof plexi-shield wall overlooking the lab floor. He watched the controlled chaos of the labs below: the technicians processing their evidence, the staff weaving among the various labs to share information and advice, and the detectives gathering reports for their numerous active cases. As soon as Horatio returned to the lab Speed would gladly go back to his trace, but for now he was acting supervisor. Horatio had not only removed himself from the multiple-vehicle accident case but had taken personal leave to be with HR and Madison.
The sight of Calleigh walking slowly up the stairs towards the office drew Speed back to the demands of the present. He opened the door, meeting her with a tired nod but no smile. Speed rarely smiled on duty. "What do you have, Calleigh?" He led her into Horatio's office.
"We found the driver of the motorcycle. He didn't make it; the medical examiner says he bled out." She sighed as she handed over the report.
Turning to look Calleigh over, Speed nodded and gestured towards Horatio's desk chair. "Sit down," he gruffly ordered. Flipping open the file, Speed stood by the desk as Calleigh gracefully sank onto the edge of the chair. "The guy wore a helmet but the kid didn't." His frown deepened. "And he's Asian-American, but the kid's Caucasian." He looked up. "DNA?"
She smiled up at her friend. "Already being run . . . on both of them." Her smile slipped as she gestured towards the report in Speed's hands. "The driver was clean, but the kid," she trailed off as Speed flipped to the appropriate page.
"The kid had alcohol and diphenhydramine in his system." He looked up. "Could be cough medicine."
"I thought of that, Tim." Calleigh leaned forward to run a finger over the drug analysis information. "Too much alcohol to diphenhydramine content. That much alcohol . . ."
"Usually comes from drinking, not medicine," Speed finished, a sudden blaze of anger darkening his eyes to almost black. "The driver was clean but the kid was drugged. Sounds like a possible kidnapping."
Calleigh sighed and nodded, easing back to her feet. "That's what I thought. I have DNA running a wide search just in case."
Nodding, handing back the report, Speed thought over the situation. Finally, he said "check with child services and have a missing persons check done for the boy. He may have been reported." Speed looked at Calleigh who hesitated so he asked, "what?"
She smiled at him, her eyes tired. "Welcome home, Speedle."
Speed couldn't hold back the rough laugh. "You say that practically every time you see me, Calleigh." He offered a genuine smile to the pretty ballistics expert. "Thanks. I'm glad to be home."
As the petite blonde left the office, Speed sank into the office chair, pulling the rest of the case reports towards him. That night he planned to reach out to his godson, Riley Temple's kid, but for now he had work to do.
Setting: Sunday, January 1, 2006: Afternoon: Miami:
Calleigh reached the bottom of the steps and paused, taking a deep breath. She looked at the report in her hands then back up at Horatio's office where the dark-haired figure of Speed sat going over the various active lab cases. Slowly, the petite blonde walked to the elevator and pushed the button for ballistics.
She had no active ballistics cases but that lab was her domain. She felt more comfortable there than anywhere else in the entire building. Despite the suicide of John Hagen last May, Calleigh still felt as if the ballistics lab was her safe zone.
When the elevator door whooshed open, she strode quickly down the hall and into the sound-proofed ballistics range. No one was there; she had the place to herself. The thought soothed her. She sank onto a chair at the log-in desk and dropped the report onto the metal surface then covered her face with trembling hands.
It was always hardest when a kid was killed. To know that someone was still out there: a hit and run possibly toked up on alcohol, nauseating the intrepid woman. With the additional evidence of the unknown boy's drugged state, Calleigh found it especially hard to retain her normally positive attitude.
The native Louisianian felt an overwhelming need to connect with family, especially Renee, the daughter her brother raised for her. The girl had been a product of Calleigh's brief relationship with another officer named Jake Berkley. As Calleigh had been so busy with work and trying to deal with the loss of Jake, her brother Jebediah had fortunately agreed to take in the infant. By the time Calleigh had regained enough personal control to reclaim her daughter, Renee had become too attached to her uncle, so Calleigh had made the difficult choice of leaving the girl in Louisiana with Jeb. She maintained regular contact with Renee and visited when possible.
Now, however, Calleigh really needed to hear her daughter's voice . . . a child's death always made the ballistics expert feel that way. Perhaps she could tell Renee about the coming baby. She wondered how her teenage daughter would take the news.
Calleigh pulled out her cell phone and began to dial the familiar number.
Setting: Sunday, January 1, 2006: Afternoon: Miami:
Ryan hung up his phone and slid it into the pocket of his lab coat. He ran a hand over his face. It had been good to hear his niece, Jenny's, voice but now he had to get back to work analyzing the black paint trace Speed had collected.
Speed had been right: it didn't match the paint on the motorcycle. There was an eighth vehicle out there. With the deaths of seven victims already, if the boy from the motorcycle lived, the hit and run was looking at seven possible charges of vehicular manslaughter and six counts of aggravated assault with a motor vehicle: provided they could prove the mega-accident had been his fault, and provided they could catch the guy. This was Ryan's specialty after so many years in patrol. He was going to follow the evidence to the very end.
Glancing towards Horatio's office, Ryan frowned. It was odd seeing Tim Speedle up there. Hell, it's odd he's even alive! He certainly deserved his promotion. Any reopened cases Speed had originally worked on had not produced errors on the part of the trace expert; Ryan had verified the fact with his own analysis of the evidence and procedures. Ryan looked forward to working further with the lauded investigator . . . despite the man's snarky attitude and off-putting demeanor, Speed was considered one of the best in the field.
Another frown flitted over Ryan's face and he pulled on fresh gloves, bending once more over the microscope, triple-checking his own findings. There was no way he wanted Speed to find any reason to criticize any of his work. Now that Speed had returned, Ryan wanted no reason for Horatio to suddenly decide to send the replacement back to patrol.
At a beeping noise from the machines lined up on one side of the trace lab, Ryan straightened, pushing away from his microscope and his worrying thoughts. Glancing over the read-out of the paint analysis, the thin brunet smiled grimly. Turning, he began inputting information into the vehicle paint match program.
Soon they'd know what vehicle had run roughshod through their accident scene.
Setting: Sunday, January 1, 2006: Afternoon: Miami:
"How's Elizabieta?" Eric asked softly into his cell phone, aware that there were a dozen busy people trying to work nearby.
"She's fine, Eric."
Carmen's gentle response soothed the worried underwater retrieval expert. Her next words made him uncomfortable once more.
"What's happened, Eric? Tell me, bratishka."
He refused to go into the horrors of his job with any of his family, especially Carmen. Instead, he merely said, "bad day. See you at dinner, starshaya sestra." Before she could protest, he hung up, feeling as morose as he had before calling her. With a sigh, he turned to watch Tyler once more.
The audio-visual tech meticulously reconstructed the accident in the computer vehicle by vehicle, trying to match the measurements, death rate, and other information the team had gathered. The reconstruction would be needed for court. "So, the convertible was passing the compact when the big rig ran it over, right?" Tyler asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He was waiting for the video surveillance from the museum to see if the mystery black vehicle had been caught on camera passing the entrance.
Eric nodded, "Yeah. But once we got the trucker calmed down he remembered the convertible being pushed into him."
Tyler added the new references and they watched, once again, the horrific rendition of a three car accident. Eventually the program would encompass all eight vehicles, but it would take hours of programming and re-watching the impacts over and over again. Eric felt sick just thinking about the unappealing work ahead.
Like everyone else in the lab, he waited to hear if the little boy from the motorcycle would make it. The child had only visible bruising and cuts, but the internal exams with x-ray, MRI, and CAT scans were still pending. Horatio was supposed to call with any news as soon as they received it; he determined to keep the child in the same room with his family, since no one yet knew who the boy belonged to.
Setting: Sunday, January 1, 2006: Afternoon: Miami:
Horatio watched as the child services representative left the hospital room. He stopped smiling and turned to look over the children ensconced in three of the four beds. The news was mixed: child services would check into the boy's identification as soon as they could figure out who he was, which was very good news.
On the other hand, Horatio had to go through family court to get custody of his niece, Madison. With the added custody battle for HR, Horatio could easily lose the little girl to the system if he couldn't prove he was the best choice. He had to display for the court his dedication and ability as well as refute any new charges Peg might raise against him since the accident the night before.
With a soft sigh, Horatio turned to run his tired, worried blue gaze over his nine year old son. HR slept stiffly in the back brace. His other injuries, lacerations and contusions, were miraculously minor. The boy would recover completely by the end of the school year, but he'd need a tutor since he couldn't go to the public school in his condition.
Gently, Horatio brushed his son's hair from his face and offered the rousing child a soft smile. "Hey, HR. Welcome back."
"Dad?" HR sounded confused and tired, but the pain medication shielded the child from the worst of his back strain.
"Right here," Horatio confirmed and stroked the boy's hair again.
A sound from the door drew the attention of both father and son, and both looked expectantly at the new arrival.
A man about six feet four inches dressed in faded military fatigues stood there. His platinum blond hair had been cut military short and his vivid blue eyes took in the room's occupants with a combination of weariness and worry. Meeting Horatio's equally exhausted expression the man nodded and strode quickly into the room. "Horatio," he said, offering a strong, well-tanned hand to his friend.
"Sergei Gideon, thank you for coming," Horatio responded, shaking the ex-Marine's hand.
They had met last May when Horatio's nephew had been kidnapped and Ray, the boy's father, had been killed after coming out of deep cover. Sergei had helped rescue RJ, taking a bullet for the boy. Horatio had moved the US Marshal into his own home, where the tall blond had reciprocated by watching young HR and occasionally Madison. The lab staff respected and liked Sergei, the children adored him, and Eric Delko's sister, Marisol, dated him, long-distance.
When the initial excitement from the accident died down, Horatio insisted on calling his recent house guest; Sergei would never have forgiven him for keeping it from him.
"Sergei?" Madison's pained voice wafted over from her window-side bed. The seven year old girl lay watching the door, her arm in a bright pink cast, the bruising on her face expanding from forehead down the right side to her chin.
The tall US Marshal dropped Horatio's hand and strode quickly to the little girl's side, sinking onto his knees by her bed. He gently laid a large strong hand over her tiny one. "Hey, Sweetheart. How's my girl?"
She smiled painfully at him and began to talk quietly with the man as Horatio turned back to his son.
HR smiled up at his father. "I'm glad Sergei came."
"So am I," Horatio sank onto his hard chair.
The boy lowered his voice, causing Horatio to lean in to hear him. "Are you adopting Madison now, Dad?"
Horatio nodded. "Yes," his voice was equally quiet, "yes, I am."
"Mom's not gonna like that." HR got right to the point. For a child of fanciful tales and vivid imagination, he cut to the heart of any important matter. "She wants me back and thinks Madison's bad."
The redheaded investigator sighed and placed a gentle hand on his son's hand. "Your mother gave you to me and I don't plan to give you back unless you want me to." At HR's slight head shake, Horatio continued, "and Madison is not bad. She's a sweet little girl who needs to be with her family."
"Us," HR added. He carefully turned his neck to watch Madison and Sergei talking. "Will the courts let you have her?"
"That depends," Horatio said, drawing a frown from his son. "For one, I have to prove I'm related to her."
HR sighed, looking troubled. "Oh. Does the fact that I donated blood marrow to her help prove our relationship?"
'Clever boy,' Horatio thought, smiling. "Yes, that helps a great deal. So does a DNA match, which we have on record." The only trouble was, he would have to expose Madison's true relationship to him and that would hurt Ray's widow, Yelina.
The end point came down to whether Horatio wanted to spare Yelina Ray's infidelity or lose his best claim on his orphaned niece. Horatio sighed again, gently caressing his son's hand as the pair looked at the quietly chatting little girl. The time had come to stop protecting Ray.