CSI Armory. What? The walls are lined with guns, people. What do you expect me to call it? An anonymous and flirtatious lab tech informs Calleigh that the professor's wrists were bound in a "handcuff knot." We get a helpful diagram illustrating how one goes about fashioning handcuff knots, and to stave off the mind-shattering boredom brought on by this episode, I pause my tape to experiment with my laptop's power cord. It's quite simple, really, and this is from a guy who both sucked and blew at the various knot-tying exercises mandated by the Boy Scouts. "Military," Calleigh pronounces. Not anymore, doll. Though I don't see how anyone could claim military exclusivity in the first place for a knot that's basically two interlocking loops. Whatever.
Elsewhere, Horatio corners Speedle and demands a report on the bloodstained scraps of fabric. I demand to know who threw up down the front of Speedle's t-shirt. Horatio's the only one of us to receive an answer. The blood doesn't match the professor, so it might be the perp's. The two gentlemen pedenatter through the hallway about how the thirteen different types of wounds mean that the professor was tortured with thirteen different weapons. Are you also wondering how they arrived at this "thirteen different types of wounds" thing? Don't bother. The only ones noted are the retinal burns, the glued eyelids, the abrasions from the rope, the scrapes on the palms, the blunt-force bruising, the ice-pick punctures, the razor blade swipes, the track marks on the feet, the (spoiler!) staple remover, and what's coming up next. And I really don't think the eyelid thing should count. Bore-atio passes a folder of autopsy photos to Speedle-dee-dee and asks for his opinion on the top shot. Blah streaming nuclei, blee microblisters normally associated with electrical burns, blah taser or cattle prod? Speedle-deedle-doo politely inquires as to which area of the professor's body received such caring attention. "Scrotal sack," Horati-oh-go-blow-yourself snorts. I realize that as a person of the male persuasion, I'm to cross my legs in sympathetic discomfort immediately upon receiving this bit of information. Unfortunately for those responsible, I merely find myself wondering if the "scrotal sack" thing is the writers' way of cracking on Caruso's complexion. If I might be so blunt, David Caruso's got a face like a bulldog's ass. Speedle-dee speedle-dumbs something red-herringlike about the thirteen different weapons equaling thirteen separate torturers, which Boratio notes would be an ideal number for a cult. And once again, Sack Face gets the scene's final line.