After some desultory shots of the Miami waterline and the surrounding Everglades, we get to the point and quick: there's a dashboard's-eye-view of the Humvee, and the unsmiling visage of Detective Tripp at the other end of it, and we're at a rundown shack in the middle of nowhere. Tripp is looking disgusted; you just know he's thinking, "Oh, sure, first on the scene if there's a fire or a grieving widow, but when it's his turn to be the primary, he stops at 7-Eleven for a Slurpee first. I bet the jerk didn't even pick up one for me." We see Horatio get out of the Humvee and verify that no, he did not pick up Slurpees for anyone. There's some small talk about an unnamed guy living in a barn, and then Horatio asks the two uniforms, "What do we got, gentlemen?" We've got one cop who looks like he really needs a haircut; his partner can't even look at the guy. There's apparently a dead body in the barn -- a white male, maybe 25 years old, bound with duct tape. Speedle asks if anyone's been in yet, and Tripp tells him, "Waiting on you guys." So how did they secure the scene if they stood around picking their noses and waiting for Horatio to finish his 7-Eleven run? Horatio commands the troops inside.
Once they've entered the squalid shelter, Horatio notes, "You've got yellow powder on the table. Bathtub methamphetamine." And these guys are dancing around the premises without the precaution of hazmat suits because they've developed an immunity to the laws of physics? The prospect of being blown sky-high by a failed chemistry experiment holds no relevance? There is no unit in all of Miami-Dade law enforcement which handles toxic sites like this one? This whole set-up is just asinine; I've ranted about it already, so there's no point in getting worked up again when something new will undoubtedly come along. Speedle deadpans, "Speed." Horatio recites, "Cocaine high, no off button. I've seen people stay up for fifteen days on it." Usually at family dinners, which can get awkward. Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Tripp is appalled at all the fine electronic consumer goods which have been disassembled. He asks, "Tweakers just tweak stuff until they drop, don't they?" Hence the eponym, Detective. Speedle observes the grungy, bound, and bloodied man and comments, "He doesn't look like he dropped. He looks like somebody beat the crap out of him." Horatio figures it's the result of an argument. Tripp opines, "Problem is, once a meth-head starts something, there's no off button." Horatio ascends to the loft and summons Delko to stand at his right hand. After Delko kicks a glass bottle across the floor, Horatio tells him, "Take it easy. Something is not right here." Delko is delighted by the discovery of a shoebox full of Polaroids. "Tweakers love their porn," he exults, photographing the prurient photos. That's kind of meta, that is.