“ First, how much of a jerk do you have to be to regard respiring as an act of weakness? Second, was there any good reason to interrupt? No, there was not. ”
The sun is either rising or setting. Miami is bathed in its warm golden glow. Then we are taken to an outlying suburban neighborhood where nearly every back yard has its own in-ground swimming pool. As we get a ground-level view, it's easy to surmise that the residents are blowing all their cash on the pool-cleaning service and not, say, lawn care or even exterior paint. We then see a verbal blotched tabby -- that's the specific name for the swirly pattern of black stripes on his fur, according to my The New Encyclopedia of the Cat, which goes on to explain, "There are four basic types of tabby markings in felines: mackerel or striped; classic or blotched; ticked or Abyssinian; and spotted." The book then goes into great detail explaining the genetics determining coat pattern or lack thereof, but I've already paid more attention to this particular cat than the writers are going to, so we'll skip the lecture on the agouti gene and its varied expression, and let the cat lead us into the A-plot of the week.
Anyway, Max the cat evidently decided it would fun to run from its owners, a couple who are valiantly, if stupidly, chasing the cat onto what looks to be an abandoned property. The male half of the couple -- probably wondering why he's the one to chase after her damn cat, which has never given him the time of day -- wanders into the house where the cat retreated. From the lawn, the woman calls, "Rudy?" Let's get this straight: the cat meows, the man calls for the cat, the woman calls for the man. Who calls for her? Anyway, she's looking wary.
In the kitchen, the cat knocks a piece of glass into the sink. I suddenly feel like I'm recapping my home life. There is one significant difference: the Erlenmeyer flask in the sink evidently prompted a noxious chemical reaction which merrily smokes along while Rudy tries to grab for the cat. Max makes an irritated yowl and runs off-camera, never to be seen again. Would that Rudy were so lucky; within seconds, the poor man is overcome by the fumes.
Out in the non-noxious out-of-doors, the woman calls for Rudy, but gets no answer. That would be because he's currently busy dying a painful and horrible death.
Cut to a sheriff in front of the house, completely not encased in protective gear. Horatio zooms in and parks the Humvee dramatically. Environment be damned -- there are crimes to solve! He and Speedle get out and Speedle sniffs the air, noting, "[I] smell ammonia." Horatio tells him, "That's the least of our problems. Anybody in there died instantly. So let's you and I head toward the death chamber completely unprotected." Amid a backdrop of dramatic coughing, Horatio finds out that the woman was passed out on the porch trying to get to her husband, and a neighbor called the whole thing in. Why nobody else was overcome by the fumes is a mystery for the ages. Speedle confirms that the man is still in there, and the deputy who's giving us all this info says, "I attempted entry --" "But you were driven back by the fumes," says Horatio all judgmentally. First, how much of a jerk do you have to be to regard respiring as an act of weakness? Second, was there any good reason to interrupt? No, there was not. Horatio explains, "This is a clan lab house." All of a sudden, I'm flashing to scientists in white coats and pointy hoods. Speedle clarifies that "clan" in this case does not mean a group of racist idiots, but rather "clandestine," as in a clandestine drug lab; he adds, "There's no telling what's in there." Horatio says, "We'd better figure it out, and we'd better get it contained before more people die."
Bunk
“ Immediately after Horatio says, 'Be careful -- one spark and this place can go,' Speedle drops some glassware. He's going to need to change that biohazard suit he's wearing. ”
Roger Daltrey agrees. However, Roger does not question -- as I do -- why nobody's called in the hazmat team already.
After the credits, a biohazard-suit-wearing person walks into the house, and I think for a moment that we just might see something approximating reality. Then I see that it's Horatio in the biohazard suit, so unless he's also heading up the hazmat unit -- not entirely out of the realm of possibility, given this show -- we're apparently not going to be bringing them out to contain a cloud of poisonous gas. After surveying the living room, which is ankle-deep in debris, Horatio decrees that they'll find the source of the poison gas when they find the body. He and Speedle head toward the back of the house. There's a third person there with him, but the camera angle is such that I can't tell who he or she is. So let's just pretend they're not there for now.
Horatio and Speedle head toward the kitchen, which is a food-prep nightmare. It's too bad these occupants were too depressed to properly keep house. We then see poor dead Rudy on the floor. Speedle crouches down and notes, "Foam around the mouth; lack of pallor." So there's a lack of paleness? That seems odd for a dead person. Whatever. Horatio's beginning to put the pieces together, noting the obvious chemical residue in the sink. Speedle says he'll get the Drager, a magical device that crackles and pops as it's waved over the sink. Horatio tells us why: "Nitric acid -- 1800 parts per million." Speedle looks up fearfully and says only, "H?" My God, that's more emotion that he's showed in the last three episodes combined. Horatio explains Speedle's fear to the rest of us: "One hundred parts per million is fatal." Then he flashes back to the events of seven minutes ago: "Chemical residue plus sunlight created fumes in a closed environment, slowly accumulating deadly gas." Then he makes the decision to finally evacuate a one-block radius, what with the house being in danger of blowing up and releasing more deadly fumes. Immediately after Horatio says, "Be careful -- one spark and this place can go," Speedle drops some glassware. He's going to need to change that biohazard suit he's wearing. If I'm watching this scene correctly, then what's happening is this: having established that the house is effectively a giant gas bomb, Horatio and Speedle elect to hang out and collect glassware as evidence, since, you know, the hazmat team isn't around to clear the area for safe evidence-gathering later. Speaking of which: where is the hazmat team? This is Miami-Dade; it's not like they've never faced the problem of drug manufacturing before. Even desert outposts like Temecula, California, have hazmat teams -- how is it possible that Miami's meth-lab protocol begins with the sentence "Call Horatio Caine over in CSI"? ["I believe the sentence fragment 'Caruso's agent' might answer that question." -- Sars]
Bunk
Before that scene can get any more removed from reality, we're over to the B-plot. Calleigh's having a good hair day but another bad wardrobe day, as she's wearing a fitted top with a peplum -- yes, a peplum -- and ruffles, proving yet again that no woman in the twenty-first century can successfully work a look last used to inflame lust during the Garfield administration. Delko is oblivious. Calleigh comments, "So this is Brackenhurst retirement community." Delko says, "I'd never put my grandmother in a place like this." He may think differently if he becomes her full-time caretaker. He continues, "When she dies, she's going to be in our house, with our priest, surrounded by family." When did Grandma Delekorsky make the trip over? Calleigh comments, "Not my grandma. I want every day for her to be New Year's Eve -- the roads clogged with drunks, amateur partygoers overrunning every venue, the evening filled with regrets and capped off with kissing a complete stranger." Oh, she does not; she wants her nana to spent her golden years in randy drunken deliriousness. Calleigh moves closer and we see that the shirt's got the puffed and gathered sleeves again, and a pallid rose pattern, and well as a high collar that contrasts weirdly with the sexy plunge in front. You just know that in 1882, a woman going out in this was branded a hussy. Then again, she may not have been wearing flared chinos and CHIPs-style sunglasses as well. This entire outfit is like a time capsule of fashion don'ts. Who on this show hates Emily Procter so much and so consistently as to slap the clown makeup and bad clothing on her week in and week out? Anyway, Calleigh and Delko decide that their differing approaches to the last days of their tribal elders can be chalked up to ethnic background (Him: "Southern." Her: "Cuban"), then they lift the crime scene tape and head inside.
The first thing they run into a detective who, while surrounded by a crowd of elderly folks, says, "When I die, I want to go in my sleep." We find out that the deceased is Betty Rosen, age 81, who lived with her sister Pearl. Delko asks, "How bad is it?" and Detective Whoever says, "Massacre." I'm not sure this is the kind of conversation you want to have with spectators milling about. Calleigh and Delko head in; the otherwise tidy, pastel-decorated apartment is indeed liberally splashed with blood. The two then stop at the doorway of the bedroom, where Betty's frail body is lying on its side. We can see the blood pooled in her hand. As the camera shifts perspective so that we see Calleigh and Delko walking into the room, it lingers on Betty's bloodied head. Delko says, "I'll take the one-to-ones," and then we see a slow-motion pan up to Calleigh (makeup report: still caked on) looking around the apartment at each individual blood splotch and imagining Betty's cries at each point of impact. I've got to come up with a name for this kind of effect. Calleigh blinks again and begins putting on her gloves as Delko begins snapping photos of Betty. "She really took a beating," he comments. Thank God the producers decide to show us in a flashback. Calleigh begins rattling off likely reasons: "Home invasion. Sexual predator..." Delko's all, "Maybe we've got a serial." Calleigh scoffs at this. Just then Alexx appears in the door and decrees, "One cold-hearted bastard to prey on the elderly." Delko arches an eyebrow and goes to say something, and Alexx cuts him off with the hand, saying, "Don't give me that look 'cause it's written all over your faces too." Calleigh grins slightly at that.
“ Horatio's all, 'Tell that to his widow. No, wait. I will. I am the Grief Whisperer. It is my job, as protector of all Miami, to bear the burdens of her people.' Or maybe he stops after that first sanctimonious sentence. ”
Alexx then bends to Betty and turns her over. Betty did take a hell of a beating; in addition to the bloody face, both her eyes are blackened. I realize that the elderly bruise easily, but it's still appalling to see. Alexx lifts her to slide up the body bag and notes, "Skull is fractured -- probably blunt force trauma. I'll need to clean her up to see more. Not how you planned to end your golden years, is it, Betty? Ninety-three degrees. Puts her time of death at about 2 AM." Calleigh says, "Blood pools indicate time of attack was earlier." Alexx shows that she knows how to delegate with, "Your job, honey. Mine begins with death." Cue the science montage: the most noteworthy details are the broken glass in the lawn outside Betty's window, and the piece of paper submerged in a large pool of blood in the kitchen area. Delko lifts out the paper and carefully sets it on a cardboard sheet: "Must be important to somebody."
The whirring of a large fan brings us back to the A-plot. So let me get this straight: when the Miami hazmat unit finally shows up, their strategy is to blow the fumes out of the house and into the general atmosphere? No wonder they called Horatio first. We see Speedle collecting evidence; even when shrouded in a hazmat suit, he manages to convey disgruntled disarray. It's a gift. Horatio's right there with him, in one of the rare instances when that "let's do XYZ" actually involves the first-person plural. I imagine they'll hold a small ceremony to commemorate this occasion once the evidence is all bagged. Horatio, who's still waving around the crackling Drager, tells us all that the nitric acid's down to three parts per million, so it's now safe to bring in the ME's people.
Sure enough, the scene is that of an ME -- no head, no ID, no nothing -- strapping the body into a stretcher and wheeling it off. Speedle's got the hood off his hazmat suit now, and he comments, "Crisis averted." How? Because the Air Elves miraculously scrubbed the environment? Anyway, Horatio's all, "Tell that to his widow. No, wait. I will. I am the Grief Whisperer. It is my job, as protector of all Miami, to bear the burdens of her people." Or maybe he stops after that first sanctimonious sentence. Speedle just lets it roll off his back and says, "So we've gotta find something to lead us to this cook, right?" Horatio agrees that they do. He asks, "If I'm the cook, what do I need to do my job?" Speedle replies, "You need goggles, a mask --" "And latex gloves," Horatio says, finding one. They bag and tag it.
Outside, Sevilla tells Horatio -- who really should avoid the biohazard-suit-and-tee look and stick with the button-down shirts -- that she's got the landlord, James Wilmont, and they'll talk to him back at CSI headquarters. Within seconds, Horatio is much better dressed and hanging with Sevilla at CSI while Wilmont explains how he and a group of fellow doctors are Diamond Sun Properties, and they rent out houses: "We're dermatologists. There are three of us. My partner just removed a carcinoma from my back, as a matter of fact." Horatio asks if Wilmont uses gloves; Wilmont answers yes. Sevilla asks if she can look around his practice, and he grins, "You be my guest." Horatio interrupts to ask, "When was the last time the house on Mangrove was rented?" Wilmont looks reflective as he says, "I believe that house has been vacant for six months. Renters skipped out on us, it's right there in the records I brought for you." Horatio comments, "I've been taking a look at these and the rent seems very cheap for this part of town." Wilmont replies, "Well, I don't make money if the houses are unoccupied." Horatio then swings into interrogation mode: "This one was occupied, though, wasn't it? A man died in it?" Was he paying rent? Then he wasn't really occupying it. That's a terrible transition, Horatio.