Chapter 4: Chapter 4
HEARTLESS
Chapter 4 - Special Delivery
The next morning...
The sharp, pungent odor of disinfectant assailed Horatio's nostrils even before he entered Tom Loman's domain.
The medical examiner stood in a corner of the large, brightly lit room. He was scrubbing his soapy hands under the slender column of water which streamed from the faucet into a stainless steel sink. Latex gloves that he had earlier stripped off lay haphazardly at the bottom of the sink, still covered in blood and other interesting matter. Within the sink, whorls of reddish brown water coupled with bits of jellied pulp slowly circled the drain before beginning a final, syrupy descent down the wide-mouthed pipe.
"Tom, what do you have for me?" asked Horatio as the doctor briskly shook water from his hands and then reached for a paper towel to dry them.
Loman glanced in Horatio's direction and sighed. "This is a grisly one, Lieutenant. Beautiful girl... breaks my heart. Your killer left her face intact." He pointed vaguely in the direction of the cold steel table where the young woman lay, a large white cloth now draped over her chest and midsection.
Tossing the used towel into a trash receptacle, Loman's eyes looked directly at Horatio. "I just completed the autopsy... everything will be in my report and on your desk tomorrow morning."
"Give me the barebones version now, Tom."
"Barebones, huh? Okay, Lieutenant, here's the barebones: that girl was still alive when someone cut out her heart. At the time of extraction, the heart was still beating."
"What?" Horatio's brows rose in surprise. During his years as a law enforcement officer, Horatio had experienced his share of horrors, but this was a new and bizarre twist. "How can you tell?"
"There are certain physical indications - it's all in my report. But there isn't any doubt: Ms. Lopez was alive when the killer removed her heart."
It took Horatio a moment to digest Loman's words as well as the lurid picture conjured up by them. He walked toward the body and gazed into the girl's face. You didn't deserve this, he thought. Tom was right; she was beautiful. He hated thinking what her remaining moments on the planet must have been like.
After several seconds, he turned away and frowned. "There's something I don't understand... her chest was bloody, but not the surrounding area. Shouldn't there have been a lot more blood at the scene?"
"Well, of course, there should have... you don't cut a beating heart out of someone without a pool of the stuff. Unless..." Loman's words trailed off as he looked up at the ceiling while considering what he was going to say next.
"Unless?" prompted Horatio.
The doctor met Horatio's eyes. "Unless you know what you're doing. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing. There's a certain elegance to his technique."
"Elegance," repeated Horatio, staring again into the face of the dead girl. "That's an odd word for it, Doctor."
Loman shrugged. "Not really. The technique your killer utilized was spare and knowledgeable."
"You're telling me the perpetrator is a surgeon?"
"I'd say so... is or was."
Horatio thought about this. "Hm. Still, there should have been blood at the scene..."
"Yes... at the scene and on the killer."
"And yet," said Horatio, "everything was clean. There was no blood."
Loman said nothing, watching the lieutenant.
"Which means we have a second crime scene."
"That would be my guess," said Loman.
"Okay..." Lost in thought, Horatio absently rubbed the back of his neck. "Witnesses report last having seen the girl standing outside Saint Ignatius Church, talking with an unidentified man. She appeared shaken by their conversation, and quickly moved away. Let's assume he's our perp... So he follows her away from the church... perhaps down a dark street..."
"And perhaps he uses chloroform to subdue her," interrupted Loman. "Traces of it were found in her blood and stomach."
Horatio nodded. "Okay, so he follows her, waits for an opportunity to confront her... somewhere dark and isolated... he uses the chloroform to render her unconscious. What then? Takes her to another place to remove the heart? A place where he wouldn't be disturbed... where perhaps his instruments are.
"A second crime scene," he mused, "and one likely to be pretty bloody. It would be a place where he'd feel safe while he went about his business. It would have to be quiet... off the beaten-track. Maybe an abandoned building... where the girl's struggles wouldn't be overheard by others.
"Any indications whether she ever regained consciousness?" asked Horatio.
"I found residue of adhesive about her lips."
"So he used some sort of tape to muffle any sounds she made. That might indicate she was conscious or that he feared she would regain consciousness and cry out. Did you find any trace on the body?"
"She was pretty clean, Lieutenant. Clinically clean." Loman pointed toward the dead girl's hands and fingers. "Notice the slight inflammation on her palms and the blistering around the fingertips? The assailant was very careful - the extremities and trunk were wiped down with a solution of sodium hypochlorite, the application heaviest around the hands and fingers."
"Bleach? Damn... well, that will certainly screw any evidence of trace.
"But why was she abducted, murdered, and then brought back just a few streets from where she was taken? What's the connection? Why not simply dispose of the body elsewhere?"
Loman turned away. He realized Horatio was thinking aloud and no response was required of him.
"And the heart - where is it? What did he do with it?"
"Maybe he ate it," said the doctor matter-of-factly as he picked up the clipboard with his sheet of the day's scheduled autopsies. He checked off Lopez's name, and then looked up at Horatio. "You know, there are people who have a fetish for the taste of human flesh and organs. Maybe our Ms. Lopez had the unfortunate luck to have met up with one of them."
"Maybe," said Horatio doubtfully. "That still doesn't explain why he returned the girl's body to the location where he abducted her. If it was... if his intention was to..." Horatio frowned, unable to finish the thought for a moment. Feeling queasy, he swallowed hard, and then tried again.
"If the idea was to... to consume the heart, then why bring the body back to its original location? Why not keep it? What about her other organs - any missing?"
Loman shook his head. "No, the other organs are still intact."
"Why wouldn't he keep the body and..." Again Horatio broke off the sentence. He struggled with his thoughts, repelled by the direction in which they were going.
The doctor raised his brows. "Why wouldn't he keep the body and harvest the organs for future meals? Is that what you were going to ask?"
"Yes. Would he be so particular in his tastes that he'd only be interested in the heart? Toss everything else out? Even so, that's just it: he didn't just toss the body aside. He very carefully returned it to its original location... careful not to disturb the face so we'd be able to easily identify her. "
Horatio's eyes returned again to the body of Theresa Lopez. His brows drew together in a troubled 'V' over his forehead and he tilted his head slightly to study the girl's face.
"No," he continued after a moment, "I don't think he saw this girl as a meal, Tom. I think she is a 'calling card.' He's talking to us, Doctor. We need to figure out what it is he is saying."
Loman smiled, his face taking on an almost beatific expression. "No doubt you will, Lieutenant, no doubt you will.
"Look, Horatio, I have another 'guest' to tend to - a floater. Likely to be a lot nastier to autopsy than that lovely young thing over there... interested in watching?"
Horatio knew when he was not wanted. For the first time since entering the medical examiner's turf, he grinned. "I think not... I'll leave you to your work, Doctor. I've some of my own to attend to."
Nine thirty, a.m., Miami-Dade Correctional Facility...
Fat Jack Tolliver was not a happy man.
He was confused and disturbed. Moreover, he was frightened - an emotion foreign to him. He had the creeping sense that someone – something? – was observing him. Of course, no one was - it was just the aftereffects of his conversation the previous evening with the strange inmate who occupied the last cage down the line in the cellblock. He knew this logically.
Emotionally... well, that was another thing.
He suppressed the urge to look behind him. He couldn't escape the notion that the prisoner's eyes were on him, even here in the small room that served as an office for the facility's prison guards. Those queer, lifeless eyes... enough to give a man the shakes, he thought, remembering their basilisk stare. A chill crept up his spine. No wonder I've got the heebie-jeebies.
He leaned back in his chair while holding up an envelope close to his eyes. Squinting, he tried to figure out what might be inside. Giving up, he lowered the envelope and absent-mindedly fingered it. Briefly, his mind reviewed the curious conversation he had with the prisoner the night before.
"I've been waiting for you, Mr. Tolliver," said Josiah Barton.
"Waiting for me, is it, dearie? And what would you be waiting on me for?" asked Fat Jack.
"We have business to transact, sir."
"Do we now? What sort of business could there ever be between the likes of you and me?"
Barton's pale and icy eyes held Tolliver in thrall, refusing to let the man look away. In spite of himself, Tolliver shivered. There was something evil in the man.
An ancient evil. It brought to mind pre-civilization temples and strange artifacts cast centuries ago of forsaken deities - vile and malevolent gods who brought terror to the heart of primitive man.
A warning bell began to clang in Fat Jack's Irish Catholic brain. His Catholicism was a patchwork quilt of parochial school teachings and convenient compromise that gave him license to do as he pleased. And do as he pleased he did, and Church be damned! He feared neither man nor institution, and he always believed God was a member of his battalion in his handling of the animals in his prison; but this... this gave him pause. This was different.
Why it was so, he couldn't say. He felt an almost irresistible urge to make the sign of the cross in the hopes of divine protection. Instead, he stood very still, mesmerized by those compelling eyes.
"I want you to provide a service," commanded Barton.
The man's hand reached sinuously beneath the cushion of his cot, easing itself one way and then another, in its quest for what was hidden. Again the comparison to a cobra came to Tolliver's mind as he watched with fascination the hand as it undulated beneath the cushion in search of the object. Finally, Barton found what he was searching for and pulled it out, holding it in his hands.
Suddenly, in one quick, fluid moment, the prisoner rose from the cot. Like the deadly reptile preparing to strike, he approached the guard with an abrupt swiftness. Startled, Tolliver involuntarily took a step backward, feeling vulnerable in spite of the bars that separated the two men.
"I want you to take this, and deliver it to the address on the front of the envelope. The recipient is expecting it. I need you to take care of it in the morning. Not the afternoon and not a week from now. Tomorrow... in the morning. Am I clear?"
"And I'm not your servant boy - am I clear, dearie?" Tolliver's protest sounded weak, even to his own ears.
Barton said nothing. His terrible, unfathomable eyes pinned Fat Jack, and the guard found his strength and will slowly draining away.
"What makes you think I'd do anything for you?" he asked uneasily.
Barton smiled. "Because if you don't, you'll die."
Something in the smile and the tone in Barton's voice convinced Fat Jack that this was no idle threat. It was a simple statement. A fact.
And its chilling utterance was terrifying to a man long used to terrifying others.
The recollection of the conversation was upsetting to Tolliver. What was it about Josiah Barton that made him believe the man when he issued that threat in such a cold, silky manner?
Abruptly, he sat up in his chair and shoved the envelope inside his desk. Frowning, he began moving about the papers inside the drawer until his hand finally grasped what he was seeking. He pulled out a worn deck of cards. His 'worry' cards.
Whenever Fat Jack had a difficult problem to puzzle out, he would pull out the deck of cards, shuffle them a few times, and then begin the slow, methodical process of carefully balancing player cards against each other. Slowly, layer by layer, an uneasy structure would rise, held together only by precision and counter-balance. With each new level, his thoughts would grow more focused, more centered upon the task before him. Whatever worried him would recede into the background. The break in anxiety allowed him to regroup, and later face a worrisome situation more relaxed and from an entirely new angle.
His well-kept hands now parted the frayed cards with practiced efficiency and began to shuffle them with a skill worthy of a riverboat gambler. With surprising dexterity, plump fingers quickly and gracefully began to erect the first level of his house of cards.
Several minutes later, his young colleague, Billy Williams, timorously entered the office he shared with Fat Jack. He noted the drawn brows and look of concentration on the older guard's face and his spirits sank. He wasn't sure which was worse: an effusive Fat Jack or a somber one.
What he was sure of was that it was never a good sign when Fat Jack had the worry cards on the table. It meant he was in a bad mood and likely to be as mean as any one of those old 'gators sunning themselves alongside the highway that led to the prison. Resolving to be as quiet as possible and not attract the ire of the volatile man, Billy slipped quietly into the chair behind the desk facing Tolliver's.
Billy did not much care for his co-worker. In fact, Billy did not much care for his job at the Miami-Dade Correctional Facility. It was only his lackluster performance in high school and his uncle's beneficence that had forced him into this line of work. He had no marketable skills. His father's brother was the warden of the facility and had been prevailed upon by dear old dad to get his boy a position. Billy would have rather spent his time listening to music in his room, reading science fiction novels and sponging off his parents. He didn't like having to grow up and deal with a nine-to-five job. Particularly this job, one for which he was so ill suited.
He dreamed of rocket ships and far-off galaxies; instead he was stuck in this cesspool of human flotsam.
He often wished he were back in high school. He hated his life. Moreover, he hated Fat Jack Tolliver - although he was afraid to show it.
Without looking up from the rising structure he was building, Fat Jack's voice floated across the desk, mean and snarky. "Mornin', laddie. So... got any starch in your panties today, dearie?"
"Morning, Mr. Tolliver," replied the boy, a slight tremor in his voice.
"That was a pretty bad show you put on last night in front of the girls, dearie. Runnin' off like an addled pup, your tail tucked between your legs... d'ya not understand how it is? You never - never! - let 'em see you scared. Soon as you do, you're through. They sniff out your weakness and use it against you."
Fat Jack laughed without humor. "Didn't your fine uncle not share with you the rules of the game? Or perhaps t'is too many years he's spent in an upstairs office... livin' in an ivory palace instead of in the trenches like you and me."
Billy swallowed painfully, the large Adam's apple in his scrawny throat visibly bobbing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tolliver. The men in here... they freak me out. Doesn't it bother you, knowing they'd cut your throat in a heartbeat if given half a chance?"
Tolliver continued carefully stacking one card against another as he began building the third level of his house. "Bother me? Nah, doesn't bother me at all. T'would be a fortunate man who got the jump on Fat Jack Tolliver, and that's a fact. It's me who'd be doing the cutting first, laddie, and that's something you can bank on."
Billy did not reply. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Images of alligators in dangerous repose again crossed his mind as he watched his colleague deftly handle the cards. One wrong word and the prisoners would be Billy's least concern. He sometimes wondered if he should inform his uncle of the sort of man he had him working with, but pragmatism forced him to admit that his uncle probably wouldn't care.
Fat Jack Tolliver was good at keeping order, and that is what his uncle cared about.
"Got a task for you, dearie. I'm going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself after your disgraceful performance last night."
"What do you need, Mr. Tolliver?" Billy could feel his heart begin to beat just a little faster. Is he sending me in there alone? I can't do it! I can't go in there alone, he thought, thinking of the long corridor of menacing, violent men.
Finally Fat Jack raised his eyes from the delicately wrought structure and evaluated the young man before him. Irritation mingled with contempt as the guard watched beads of sweat begin to form on the boy's forehead. He's scared... all I'd have to say is BOO! and t'is certain I am that he'd be shitting his pants, thought Tolliver.
"I'm needing you to make a delivery for me." Tolliver opened his desk drawer and pulled the envelope out. "Here, take this."
Billy reached for the envelope and looked at the writing on the front. Paul Lockhart. "Who is Paul Lockhart?" he asked.
Fat Jack frowned. "You don't need to know that. You just need to deliver that envelope to Mr. Lockhart at the address listed. Now."
A petulant look crossed Billy's face. "But I just got here, Mr. Tolliver."
"Aye, and now you're just leaving."
"Look, Mr. Tolliver, couldn't someone else deliver the..." Billy started to object when Fat Jack formed a tight fist. With unexpected swiftness, the man smashed it into the house of cards, causing the structure to quickly collapse as the cards flew helter-skelter across the desk.
"Damn you, are you setting yourself at cross purposes from me, boy?" he roared, causing the shaken Billy to raise his palm upward as if warding off an imaginary blow.
"No sir, no sir!" Billy quickly assured him. "Of course I'll deliver the envelope. I'll go now... right now."
"Damn right, you will! I don't ask a thing twice, and t'would be wise for you to remember that, dearie! Now, here's the thing: you deliver the envelope and then you leave. You don't make chitchat. You don't ask questions. You don't hang about. You think you can do that, lad, or would it be too much for you?"
Fat Jack glared at the young man who was clasping and unclasping his hands. "I can handle it, Mr. Tolliver," he whispered.
"CAN'T HEAR YOU, DEARIE! SPEAK UP!" yelled Tolliver.
"I... I can take care of it, sir. I'll take care of it right away," Billy promised, his voice shaky but stronger.
"And what would you be sayin' to your uncle about all this?"
"Nothing! I would say nothing, sir!"
Tolliver folded his arms across his chest and looked Billy Williams straight in the eye. "Yes... that's more like it. I can see we've reached an understanding. Now, go on, get moving. I want this letter delivered before noon or t'will not be a pleasant atmosphere in this office, if you get my meaning, dearie."
Billy Williams did indeed get Fat Jack's meaning. He nodded quickly and hurried from the office, intent on delivering the envelope. And delivering it well before noon.
Forty-five minutes later, Billy parked his vehicle on a dusty street that had seen better days.
It was a depressing part of town, drab and dreary. Even the bright Miami sunshine did little to alleviate the gloom. A few ramshackle buildings shared space with a large number of vacant lots. Trash was strewn about the empty spaces, and empty, sometimes broken, liquor bottles rested haphazardly along street curbs. The area reminded Billy of an Old West ghost town. Uneasily, he sat in his car, listening to the far-off sound of an unhappy dog's incessant barking. It was the only sound audible in the strange stillness.
Billy found it difficult to believe that this was the address Tolliver had sent him to, and he looked again at the envelope and saw that it was so.
Sighing, he finally got out of the car. He was about to cross the street, but hesitated, taking a moment to observe the house sitting on the large lot across from where he was standing.
It was a sizable structure, and at one time the house must have been a beauty. Like the neighborhood, its best days were behind it and it was now run-down and seedy-looking. A broken and rusty chain-link fence surrounded the house, sealing it off from the abandoned lots on either side. The ugly fence must have been added as an afterthought when someone still cared about protecting the house against vagrants. It wasn't a fit with the house's former distinction. The fence's state of disrepair hinted that the owner had given up any pretense at security.
The thought occurred to Billy that perhaps security measures were no longer needed. The place gave off bad vibes, and the skin at the back of Billy's neck crawled. A bum would be pretty bad off not to prefer the openness of the street to the spookiness of that big old house.
Billy's eyes narrowed as he stared at the sagging front porch, evaluating whether its ancient, warped boards would hold his insignificant weight. In the same way the sun is unkind to an older woman, illuminating every line and crevice on her face, it refused to spare the old house any dignity. It harshly brought into focus the peeling paint, the rotting shutters, and the boards nailed over two of its once grand windows.
The walkway leading to the house's entrance had buckled with age, and weeds grew between the cracks in the concrete. Old, overgrown trees and bushes closely embraced the exterior as if trying to guard the residence from prying eyes.
Yes, it was a spooky old place and it gave Billy a creepy feeling - as if it had personality and a will of its own.
The old porch creaked when Billy stepped on to it, the harsh sound startling him. Taking a deep breath, he knocked firmly on the door. He was almost convinced no one would answer, finding it hard to believe that anyone could really be inside the old place.
Surprisingly, the door began to open almost immediately. "Yes?"
His voice tremulous in spite of his best efforts, Billy replied, "Mr. Paul Lockhart?"
"Who wishes to know?" inquired the breathy voice.
"Sir, I have something for you. I've been asked to deliver an envelope to you."
A beat of time went by, and then the door opened just wide enough for Billy to enter. "Come in, then."
Billy entered the house and found himself standing in a dark foyer. His eyes, used to the glare of Miami's morning sun, had trouble making anything out in the darkness, and he stood there confused and temporarily blinded. The temperature inside was several degrees cooler and Billy felt uncomfortably moist as his perspiration mingled with the dank atmosphere in the small room.
"Let me see the envelope, please."
The young man pulled the envelope out of his pants' pocket and handed it over. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness, he stared at the man before him.
Lockhart was of middle age, perhaps fifty, if Billy had to hazard a guess - it was hard to determine in the gloom of the vestibule. A scarf was wrapped tightly about his throat, cravat style. Billy wondered briefly if something under the scarf accounted for the oddness of the man's voice. His speech seemed laborious; short phrases were interspersed with peculiar burps of air. The hands that held the envelope were elegant with long, pale slender fingers. The thought occurred to Billy that the man's fingers were almost spider-like, and disquiet swept through him at the thought.
As if reading his mind, the man glanced up at Billy and smiled. It was an unusual smile, both sinister and engaging, and it made the boy suddenly very afraid.
"I've been waiting for this." A small air burp erupted from Lockhart, and then, "Thank you." One of his slender hands reached out to grasp Billy's shoulder in a gesture of thanks, and Billy shrank from the contact. Soft laughter vied with a gasp of air. "Something wrong?"
"No... I have to leave though. Get back to work..."
"Really? I was going to ask you to tea, young sir," said the man, his oxygenated tone amused. "Well, then, run along. You've done your good deed for the day."
Billy backed out of the doorway, only too happy to comply. He heard mild, breathy laughter as he closed the door behind him.
Relieved he was out on the street again, Billy inhaled deeply. He was grateful for the hot Miami sun that bathed his face, the sound of the mutt barking several streets away, and even for the trashed lots on either side of Lockhart's residence. It now seemed very welcoming.
Being in the strange presence of Paul Lockhart had been a very brief, nightmarish experience. The man was disturbing, no two ways about it.
Billy climbed into his car and began whistling a tune of some sort, happy to be driving away from the nasty old house.
He briefly considered his colleague and suddenly grinned. Spending the day with Fat Jack doesn't seem so terrible after this, he thought. Fat Jack was a mean bully, and he covered his menace with a lilting voice and a false, mercurial charm. But he wasn't crazy.
Billy wasn't sure that could be said of the man inside the creepy old house.
Paul Lockhart walked down the dim hallway to a small room. Like the rest of the house, it was shrouded in darkness. He clicked on the small table lamp that sat on the scarred, mahogany desk.
He closed his eyes briefly, a feeling of almost terrible joy taking hold of him. He had been waiting for this. A message from His Master.
Opening his eyes, he leaned forward and held the envelope beneath the weak yellow glow of the lamp. His spidery fingers quickly unsealed it. He pulled out the single page.
MY FRIEND - THE TIME IS NOW. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.
A thrill of anticipation coursed rapidly through Lockhart's body. The time is now.
He did indeed know what to do.
Twelve noon, the neighborhood surrounding Saint Ignatius Church...
"Alright, Eric, Calleigh, this is what I want you to do... Use the church as ground zero." Horatio adjusted the sunglasses he wore and looked up into the bright afternoon sunlight.
Not a cloud in the sky, he thought briefly, his eyes dazzled by the azure blueness above him. A beautiful day.
He and his people were standing down the street from Saint Ignatius, close to the dreary ally where Theresa Lopez' body had been found. The tall spires of the church were clearly visible; Saint Ignatius was still the visual center of the once-nice neighborhood.
He saw that Calleigh and Eric were looking at him expectantly, awaiting his instructions.
Something was off with Calleigh today; he could see it in her forced smile. Glancing at Eric, he noted a stiffness in his posture. Now what? he wondered irritably.
Officially, he wasn't supposed to know they were a couple, and he didn't address their private business with them. He only hoped it remained private. They were good CSIs - his best. Moreover, they were his friends, and he didn't want to delve into their personal affairs.
Horatio wasn't a fan of 'office romances'. They seldom boded well for the couple involved or the people around them. After a brief honeymoon period, the problems inherent in any relationship began to insert themselves into the office environment, and inevitably it would begin to affect work and morale.
Horatio didn't want anything to interrupt the smooth operation of his lab. A time or two, he'd thought of speaking to Eric about the relationship and cautioning him about keeping it out of the office, but he squelched the impulse almost immediately. His people were professionals; he trusted them to act accordingly.
A reticent man, especially concerning the affairs of others, he had thus far continued to remain silent. As long as the two kept the relationship out of the lab, he was content to ignore it. If that were to change, however...
If that changes, he thought grimly, I'll be forced to have a conversation with both that I really don't want to have.
"H?" asked Eric, noting his boss's delay in issuing instructions.
Horatio looked at him and continued. "Use the church as ground zero. Ms. Lopez was last seen standing outside the entrance. From there, she went down one of the side streets, followed by the suspect - we think. I want you two to split up. Knock on doors, talk to people in the streets, look around. Try to find out if anyone saw or heard anything the other night. We know the girl was abducted - taken to another location and killed. The body was then brought back here. There's a reason the killer returned the body here; I want to know what that reason is. Maybe someone saw him leaving with Lopez... or returning the body. Maybe they're afraid to talk. Make 'em talk, people."
Eric nodded. "We're on it."
"You've got it," said Calleigh. "It won't be easy, Horatio, will it?"
"No," he agreed. "You said yesterday that people get a case of amnesia when cops come around, asking questions. Use your charm, Calleigh - try to engage them. Okay?"
An awkward smile suddenly appeared on her face. She glanced at Eric, who looked away. Quickly turning her attention back to Horatio, she replied, "I'll do my best, Horatio."
"I know you will. Okay, get to it, please."
Calleigh and Eric walked away, and Horatio's glance settled once again on Saint Ignatius. He wondered if there was a connection between the church and the girl's murder.
He was soon to find out.
His phone began to buzz and he pulled it from his pocket. "Horatio Caine," he answered.
His eyes instantly grew alert as he listened to the frantic voice. Even as he spoke, he began walking toward the church, his pace quickening with each step.
"Okay... it's okay... calm down... just leave everything as it is. I'll be there in a minute - I'm on my way."
To be continued.