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The Incomprehensible Corruption of Innocence
folder
1 through F › CSI: Miami
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
7,433
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › CSI: Miami
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
7,433
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own CSI: Miami, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 7 -- The Lead
They drove to a plain, middle class neighborhood, and walked up to the door of a very unassuming, small house with a painted fence and a well-trimmed lawn.
H knocked on the door, and it was opened by an average looking, older woman. “Can I help you?” She asked, and H removed his sunglasses.
“We’re with the Miami-Dade crime lab,” he said. “And we’re looking for Andrew Flagman.”
“Oh great,” the woman sighed. “What’s he done this time?”
“Nothing, actually. We just want to talk to him about his cousin . . .”
“Let me guess,” she sighed. “Allen Peters. Those two are thick as thieves, literally, and will probably share the same jail cell one of these days. They’re both around back, in the treehouse . . .” Before she could finish, from around the back came the roar of a motorcycle engine, a squeal of tires, and before anyone could say anything, a motorcycle with one rider peeled around the side of the house, skidded on the grass and blew out the front gate.
“I’m on it, H!” Eric yelled, and ran for the Hummer. He jumped inside and called the pursuit in on the radio. It was actually a ridiculously short flight, with an even shorter capture.
It took only an hour for the man: a tall, swarthy character with long, dirty-appearing dark hair, and a very bad sunburn, to be booked and in an interrogation room.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he scowled, and H leaned over the table.
“You’re here because you ran,” he said.
“I haven’t done anything,” he said, and Eric shook his head.
“You ran,” he shrugged. “People who don’t have anything to hide and haven’t done anything, have no need to run.”
“You’re the police,” he said. “I’ve been hassled by your kind before, and didn’t feel like dealing with it again.”
“I see,” H said, and placed a photo of the car the two involved in the bank robbery as it sped from the scene, on the table in front of the man. “Do you recognize that car?”
“No,” the man said, a little too quickly, and Eric stepped forward and pointed at it.
“That car was involved in a bank robbery in which a CSI was kidnapped from the scene.”
“And this involves me, how?” He asked, and H placed another photo on the table. It was an obvious blow up of a close up from a traffic camera, placed over the intersection, and the grainy, but recognizable, outline of the man’s face showed.
“If that CSI is dead, you’re the only one we’ve got who can be placed at the scene, and you are going away for a very long time,” H said, almost pleasantly, and the man swallowed, as Eric leaned across the table and captured the man’s gaze.
“And believe me, if he’s dead, and you go down for it,” his dark eyes glittered dangerously, and he lowered his voice. “Which we will make sure you will, because we can do that, then somehow it’s going to get around the prison that bank robbery is merely a side job to your true crime, that of involving young boys in, shall we say, extracurricular activities, which would make sure that bending over and dropping the soap would be the least of your worries.”
“You can’t threaten me,” the man said, though it was clear he was extremely nervous, and getting more so by the minute.
“I didn’t hear a threat,” Eric blinked. “Did you, H?”
“No,” Horatio shook his head, and gazed at the criminal pleasantly. “Now, are we understood, or do we have to pin the entire bank robbery on you?”
“You don’t know what the Psycho is like,” the man almost simpered. “If he finds out that I ratted him out, he’ll kill me, and not in a nice quick, bullet to the head way, either.”
“And you don’t know what I’m like, Mr. Peters,” H said, and leaned in even closer to the man. "To quote a famous character, ‘please don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’ You’ve got five seconds to tell me what I want to know.”
“All right,” the guy finally gave in, and he was so miserable, he missed the look of triumph that H and Eric shared. “But look, I don’t know where they are now, but I know where they were. I even know where they ditched the car.”
“Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated, and duly noted,” H smiled pleasantly, and a few hours later, he, and practically the entire crime lab was on the way to the Everglades, where they quietly approached the small, crumbling shack with all caution.
H knocked on the door, and it was opened by an average looking, older woman. “Can I help you?” She asked, and H removed his sunglasses.
“We’re with the Miami-Dade crime lab,” he said. “And we’re looking for Andrew Flagman.”
“Oh great,” the woman sighed. “What’s he done this time?”
“Nothing, actually. We just want to talk to him about his cousin . . .”
“Let me guess,” she sighed. “Allen Peters. Those two are thick as thieves, literally, and will probably share the same jail cell one of these days. They’re both around back, in the treehouse . . .” Before she could finish, from around the back came the roar of a motorcycle engine, a squeal of tires, and before anyone could say anything, a motorcycle with one rider peeled around the side of the house, skidded on the grass and blew out the front gate.
“I’m on it, H!” Eric yelled, and ran for the Hummer. He jumped inside and called the pursuit in on the radio. It was actually a ridiculously short flight, with an even shorter capture.
It took only an hour for the man: a tall, swarthy character with long, dirty-appearing dark hair, and a very bad sunburn, to be booked and in an interrogation room.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he scowled, and H leaned over the table.
“You’re here because you ran,” he said.
“I haven’t done anything,” he said, and Eric shook his head.
“You ran,” he shrugged. “People who don’t have anything to hide and haven’t done anything, have no need to run.”
“You’re the police,” he said. “I’ve been hassled by your kind before, and didn’t feel like dealing with it again.”
“I see,” H said, and placed a photo of the car the two involved in the bank robbery as it sped from the scene, on the table in front of the man. “Do you recognize that car?”
“No,” the man said, a little too quickly, and Eric stepped forward and pointed at it.
“That car was involved in a bank robbery in which a CSI was kidnapped from the scene.”
“And this involves me, how?” He asked, and H placed another photo on the table. It was an obvious blow up of a close up from a traffic camera, placed over the intersection, and the grainy, but recognizable, outline of the man’s face showed.
“If that CSI is dead, you’re the only one we’ve got who can be placed at the scene, and you are going away for a very long time,” H said, almost pleasantly, and the man swallowed, as Eric leaned across the table and captured the man’s gaze.
“And believe me, if he’s dead, and you go down for it,” his dark eyes glittered dangerously, and he lowered his voice. “Which we will make sure you will, because we can do that, then somehow it’s going to get around the prison that bank robbery is merely a side job to your true crime, that of involving young boys in, shall we say, extracurricular activities, which would make sure that bending over and dropping the soap would be the least of your worries.”
“You can’t threaten me,” the man said, though it was clear he was extremely nervous, and getting more so by the minute.
“I didn’t hear a threat,” Eric blinked. “Did you, H?”
“No,” Horatio shook his head, and gazed at the criminal pleasantly. “Now, are we understood, or do we have to pin the entire bank robbery on you?”
“You don’t know what the Psycho is like,” the man almost simpered. “If he finds out that I ratted him out, he’ll kill me, and not in a nice quick, bullet to the head way, either.”
“And you don’t know what I’m like, Mr. Peters,” H said, and leaned in even closer to the man. "To quote a famous character, ‘please don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’ You’ve got five seconds to tell me what I want to know.”
“All right,” the guy finally gave in, and he was so miserable, he missed the look of triumph that H and Eric shared. “But look, I don’t know where they are now, but I know where they were. I even know where they ditched the car.”
“Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated, and duly noted,” H smiled pleasantly, and a few hours later, he, and practically the entire crime lab was on the way to the Everglades, where they quietly approached the small, crumbling shack with all caution.