[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]https://shootingthescript.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/machete-2.jpg?w=455&h=300[/img][hr][b][color=orangered]Location:[/color][/b] En route to, and at, The Morgue 
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	Threading in and out of traffic, Caesar handled his Harley Scorpion reverse trike like a seasoned pro. Years past, he thought that this kind of personal conveyance was a pretentious, unnecessary modification to what was already a perfect street machine. Then he moved to Seattle, pursuant to expanding his business. The hilly, changing terrain and oft wet streets made it a little more uncertain, riding a two-wheeler at high speeds and taking corners while chasing down the various types of people he suddenly felt the need to involve in a high-speed pursuit. It was his daughter, Alicia, that suggested a trike. 

	It took some convincing, but after a while he warmed up to the idea. All the speed of a standard motorcycle, slightly better cargo capacity, and three-point stability at all times. He settled on a reverse trike for two reasons: First, the cornering issues common to motorized trike kits could be overcome with two wheels in the front, thanks to individual tire braking and exploiting drift. Second, and probably more importantly - [i]It looked absolutely badass.[/i] Caesar was pleased with the choice. 

	But back to business. Traffic was with him, so the elder Mexican took the opportunity to make two quick stops, turning the otherwise ten minute jaunt closer to sixteen or seventeen. One of his stops had him carrying away two boxes of ready-made pizza, the other a six pack of something domestic and mildly alcoholic. Both fit handily into his trike's storage, which in truth was a set of saddlebags and some bungee mounting points. A touch of creativity kept his cargo stable. Mental note: No hairpin turns. To be truthful, he was more of an enchilada man himself, but recognized that the person he was going to visit would likely not be as big of a fan. 

	The closer Caesar got to the Morgue, the more his heart felt heavy. He was going there to discuss a case involving the death of his daughter, only a week before. What tears he could shed over it, he did. There were more in there, to be sure, but they could wait until he was done doing what was needed. All the same, what little feeling he was able to muster earlier that day was gone. He was likely to be in a room adjacent to the bodies of his girls. Maybe even in the room with them, if they allowed him that kind of access. Emotionally, the venerable man could handle it. It was merely a stack of meat, now. A thing which might hold answers, the kind that Cecily needed to advance the case. Still, he wasn't looking forward to it. 

	The trike pulled up to the main parking area of the Morgue. Careful not to tip his precious cargo too far, he fastened the pizza boxes together with the hook-end bungees that had secured the cheesy goodness to the back of his Harley. Now much more ergonomically portable, Caesar could comfortably haul both pizzas and his paper grocery sack of frosted barley pops into the main building. 

	In through the front, up to the main desk, and [I]just in time[/I] for the impromptu fizzy aspartame desk wash. This lady looked a little overworked. And jumpy. Jumpy could mean many things. It was probably best to act in a manner that was the least conspicuous, despite the fact that Caesar was, in fact, Caesar. Of course, he had been in this building before. Not too long ago, too, for the purpose of identifying Alicia and Lorna’s bodies. He didn’t remember this lady behind the desk the last time, though his mind was on other things. This day, he tried subtle. Ish. 

	Caesar calmly walked to the main desk and set the pizzas down. Quietly, he signed the Visitors Log with the name “Isador Cortez”, reason of “Entrega, Comida”. He smiled just a bit, and handed half of his extra paper napkins over to the receptionist. Still without word, Caesar picked up his boxes and walked down the florescent illuminated hallways and staircases, checking the occasional window, further and further back until locating the desired entryway. The walk back dragged up the shadow of last week’s emotions. 

	A psychological scar that would never fully heal was present in the man, though perhaps showing a little less than the average man who had lost children. His way was not to sob uncontrollably and shake his fist at a merciless God. Caesar spilled enough emotion already; more would be counterproductive. When all this was done, he could ride out someplace, find a quiet, windswept mountaintop to inhabit for a few days to be alone with his grief and booze. But for now, there were people deserving of his attention. Some more than others. 

	The Lab. More specifically, the office area attached to The Lab. A quick peek inside confirmed the presence of the young lady he had come here to meet. Unfortunately, it was difficult to open a door with both hands full. Quietly fumbling, Caesar managed to turn the door handle juuuust barely enough, but a lateral movement was not possible considering the awkward position he had put himself into, thanks to his unwillingness to merely set the Bag O’ Beer on the floor for three seconds. The obvious answer aside, Caesar had to use his head. 

	The door swung open with a reverberating BANG, as Caesar slammed the sturdier part of his forehead into the faux wood portal. Some off-center vibration affected the swing, lowering the drama factor involved somewhat, but luckily the air conditioning kicked on in the hallway at that moment, providing the slightest tossing of his hair and wave of his long, black coat. Truly a vision of tequila nights, sandpapery stubble, and raw, adrenaline laced testosterone was he; the Righter of Wrongs, Pitier of Fools, Sacrificer of Virgins (in a manner of speaking - also, probably weren’t virgins), and Grand Arbiter of the Y Chromosome. Were there a deity dedicated to Sheer Badassery and Retributive Violence, said deity would likely come to him for advice. Caesar: Screaming finality without uttering a syllable. 

	Plus, he brought pizza. 

	There was pain and rage, both quiet, both in check, peeking around the corners of expression. The professional man remained in control, and very likely would continue to do so. He was a man of great self-control, especially in matters of staggering importance. This solid nature was sorely tested when he took mental note of the goings on in the room. Not the least of which being a pretty, fragile-looking woman working over one of two very familiar looking cadavers. They ought to look familiar. A week ago, they shared meals and arguments and laughter. They were the only people in a long, long distance that he considered family. 

	The fact that they were partially disarticulated actually didn't bother him so much. He had seen all manner of gross and disturbing mutilation of corpses in his history, some of which he had done himself. The scene in front of him meant that something was being done about their deaths. Caesar was a little off center from the rest of humanity as it came to that. These weren't his daughters. It was merely what they left behind, and it they were being treated with the proper amount of respect allowed by circumstance. It wasn't unnerving, persay, but it did have an effect on him. Not that it showed. 	

	He looked to the young woman, obviously not having the best of days herself, and muttered a flat, [color=orangered]”Hola, Cecily. Busy day?”[/color] His eyes darted to the other woman in the room, then back to Cecily, face forming an unspoken question. Caesar set the pizza on the nearest workable flat surface and checked what was inside. He had only grabbed the first two that were available; just now he saw that he grabbed a large cheese and a large three meat. Eh, it would do. 

	He addressed both of the women present. [color=orangered]”Grab some. Beer too, if you want. Let’s talk.”[/color]