Or useless banter from the B-team. Delko's taking pictures of the hearse while Calleigh hunkers down by the wheel and comments, "It's creepy. The engine's still running." At least nothing she's wearing is creepy -- yet. The episode is still young, and I have faith that we'll see at least one puffy-sleeved atrocity before the end of this. Delko tells her from creepy: "You ought to be there in the middle of the night when we pull one of these things from the water with the radio still on. Talk about creepy." Calleigh's looking around the wheel well when Delko points out, "The car's stolen." She replies, "Based on...?" "Based on the screwdriver still in the ignition," he shoots back. Yeah, that would be a tip-off. Delko explains that we can use our Craftsman flathead screwdrivers the next time we misplace the car keys because "the screwdriver completes the circuit." Calleigh's none too impressed; she's dug a slug the size of a champagne-bottle cork out of the tire and decreed, "Well, stealing cars is a side job. This is a death talon." We find out that those bullets have been off the market since 1997 or so, and the shooters must have been saving these for a rainy day.
Since it's been a whole minute without Horatio, we return to find out what he's doing. The answer: beginning to lay the trail that will lead back to the people what brung our dispo day low. He and Alexx are examining the fake cop, and Horatio decrees that the guy has the kind of frighteningly bulky physique commonly found in your penitentiary weight rooms. I've always wondered whether weight-lifting prisoners were particularly frustrated by the limitations the prison diet must impose on the quest to get cut; it's not like the warden's going to be sympathetic to the need to get down to 5% body fat in time for the Mister Cell Block C competition. Anyway, Alexx takes that insight and runs with it: "I'll get his prints to Delko for AFIS, see if I can get you a release date." Horatio says okay, but he's not paying any attention to her. Instead, he's checking out the reporter who's barreling toward him.
The man and his hair state for the camera, "Enrique Rayas, in the field. Horatio Caine -- a drug-related shootout in the streets of Miami -- a sense of dejà-vu once removed?" I'm stunned by the profusion of dependent clauses with nary an independent clause to justify their existence. Horatio warns Rayas, "You're about to make a mistake you don't want to make." To make? This guy's been committing assault and battery on the English language for a minute and he's only now making the mistakes? Rayas smarms, "Just drawing a parallel here. Your brother gave his life in the line of duty two years ago, albeit under much cloudier circumstances --" "Circumstances weren't cloudy -- the reporting was," Horatio shoots back. Speaking of reporting, why is this blow-dried pinhead the only one on the scene? Most self-respecting newsrooms have police scanners (never mind how they get them), so you can be sure more than one reporter would be there, and on a good day, you might even see a competent one. Oh, wait. This is a television television reporter, and all they're good for is clumsy exposition or agitating the protagonist. As Rayas is frog-marched back behind the crime scene-tape line, Detective Baldy comes up to tell Horatio that they've found the truck near a pier. A pier in Miami? Well, that narrows it down.