02x09 - In the White Room

[bunniefuu]

Mozart's "Requiem in D Minor"
playing...

You know, this whole time
with Grace,

I've mostly been working
from home.

But now that I'm gonna
stick around, I had an idea

about where I'm going
to hang my hat.

Okay, so if this your way

of trying to get
a piece of my office...

No.
I was thinking something...

a little cozier.

You want a locker near Penny's.

Just a place to stash my kit.

And...

maybe get in her ear
a little bit.

You two do get along, don't you?

She reminds me of someone.

I love that.

You know,
back when I was coaching,

I used to pair the freshmen
with the seniors and just...

watch 'em grow.

Senior?

Okay.

Careful.

You know, just yesterday
I taught Penny and Beau

how to make queso
with a blowtorch.

You ask me, they're already
getting quality mentors hip.

You do have a m*rder

that needs to be investigated,
don't you, Joshua?

I'm going.

Allie! I didn't
think I'd see you here.

You've got your level 3 exam
on Friday, don't you?

I thought you'd be, uh,
taking a few days off to cram.

Indeed, it would be wise
to do so, Mr. Folsom.

But the untimely demise

of Lady Fanny Prince
is not a matter

that will resolve itself.

I'm sorry, did we just step
through a portal to 1812?

That's Lady who now?

Don't worry about it.
Her real name is Shelby Winslow.

She's part of a little festival
up at the hotel there.

Regency Romantics Weekend.

There's a few dozen
other ladies and gentlemen

dudded up in the ballroom.
Looks like a hoot.

Well, not anymore.
May I?

Jack released the body.
Go for it.

What happened?

What, she get Alexander
Hamilton-ed in a duel?

No, footprints show her
running for her life,

all the way from inside.
She must have slipped

and the k*ller caught up.

I'm shocked
she made it this far.

It's really hard
to sprint in a corset.

Well.

Any witnesses?

Not exactly. The groundskeeper
heard the g*nsh*t.

Actually, he was the one
who called it in.

Any chance he's our Aaron Burr?

No, his hands
tested negative for GSR.

And he wears size 14s.

These prints are ten and a half.

I'll tell you what else
doesn't fit. How is her head

still in one piece?
I mean, that caliber...

Serious business.

Yeah, and look.

There's no exit wound, either.

Huh.

Well, how up to date
do you think

our ballistics lab is
on musket balls?

I know it sounds
weird, but, I mean,

w-what else explains
what we're looking at here?

I suppose.

Mm, smaller powder load,

less velocity, unrifled barrel?

Maybe a flintlock?

He would have
had to have been close.

I think he was
really close.

Short and coarse.

Pretty sure she yanked this out
of somebody's beard.

Nicely done, Lady Fanny.
She put up a fight.

So up close and personal.

I wonder if they
knew each other.

This is weird. Uh...

I think there's some sort
of chemical interference.

The mold isn't
setting properly.

Smells like chlorine bleach.

Huh. Well, who takes
the time to bleach

their crime scene but doesn't
rake over his footprints?

I don't think he brought it
down here to clean up.

He might have
tracked it with him.

I hear the other scene
is saturated with the stuff.

- There's another crime scene?
- Mm. And another victim.

Cops are keeping
the whole place locked down.

Chavez took Beau up there
to get started.

If you can help Penny,

I'm gonna go take a look myself.

All right, well,
keep an eye out

for any gentlemen who's
missing a chunk of beard.

Tell me, CSI Rajan,

what items need to be
impounded separately

from other items
as evidence?

Don't tell me
Folsom's roped you

into playing
University Challenge, too.

I'm going to assume that's,
like, a crappy British Jeopardy!

For what it's
worth, I told him

if anyone's got that
test handled, it's you.

Hm. Thank you.

It's nice of you to help.

It's all Josh.

You know him: He's invested.

Okay.

Meet Clarence Mosley.
37, Libra, organ donor.

In town from Santa Fe.

Huh. According
to his driver's license photo,

the hole in his head is new.

Dinner was being served
next door, this place was empty.

Nobody heard a thing,
apparently.

It's consistent with
the wound on our other victim.

So, the tread of these shoes

is identical to the footprints
we found in the sand trap.

Same trigger man?
Mm-hmm.

And I'm pretty sure
they struck here first.

What makes you think that?

Well, there's no trace
of dirt or sand.

They would have
tracked it with them.

Yeah, biggest regret
of my life was

buying my kids a sandbox.
You wouldn't believe

where you find that stuff.

Guys.

You're gonna want to see this.

m*rder in black and white.

But not the m*rder*r.

They say a picture's
worth a thousand words.

Mm, but this one
isn't saying enough.

♪ Who... are you? ♪

♪ Who, who, who, who? ♪

♪ Who... are you? ♪

♪ Who, who, who, who? ♪

♪ I really want to know ♪

♪ Who... are you? ♪

♪ Oh-oh-oh ♪
♪ Who... ♪

♪ Come on, tell me who are you,
you, you ♪

♪ Are you! ♪

Hey.

Hey, Max.

How you do...

Hang on a... hang on a sec.

You ever see little
powder marks like this?

Yeah, but only once.

Same marks are on the lady
I just pulled

out of the sand trap.
What kind of g*n leaves those?

Maybe one with
a damaged barrel.

Allie was hoping we'd
get some ideas, but all you can

really see is the murderous
bulge behind the curtain.

"A murderous bulge,"
that's probably something

we don't want
to say again, huh?

One other thing.

There's this crusty schmutz
around the b*llet hole.

Schmutz?

It's a technical term.

It looks organic.

Gonna be curious to see what
GCMS has to say about this.

Wait, you think
the m*rder w*apon left that?

Yeah, I got to
think so, right?

Maybe the muzzle of the g*n

left that trace there
before the trigger was pulled.

If the k*ller was
sh**ting blind,

I wonder if he even knew
that Shelby was in there.

You think Clarence
was the main target?

I don't know.

It might explain how she
had all that time to run

all the way down to
the 17th fairway.

Right?
Wonder what the motive was...

Somebody cut in line
for rum punch?

A croquet rivalry gone too far?

Okay, we got two dead bodies and
a conference full of suspects.

All right, time to start
swabbing for GSR.

How dare you, madam.

Implying I'm a suspect.

It's an affront to my good name.

Mrs. Perlmutter,
we're actually

trying to exclude
you as a suspect.

This is an absurd inconvenience.

I still have a conference
to organize, you know.

So Prudence Perlmutter
is your real name?

Of course.

Why would I adopt
a false identity?

Shelby Winslow,

she was going as
Lady Fanny Prince.

Shelby never had the proper
respect for the classics.

She preferred
those déclassé bodice-rippers

to Jane's exquisite prose.

Brontës were more my jam.

Everybody's got their thing,
right?

Regency Romantics Weekend
used to be

a refined appreciation
of a bygone era.

And what is it now?

It's been usurped
by young people

indulging in their
tawdry fantasies.

Like Shelby
and that debauched rake,

Clarence Mosley.

Too much flirting for you?

If only it were limited
to flirtation.

Shelby Winslow was married.

Clarence knew
and didn't give a damn.

You ought to talk
to Mr. Winslow.

The cuckolded husband.

Certainly seems like a
prime suspect to me, Inspector.

It's detective.

And we will. You're free
to go, Mrs. Perlmutter.

Indeed.

Hm.

Do you like her theory?

The cuckolded husband?

Why not?

I mean,
the rest of these dandies can

all alibi each other.

Hmm.

Love makes people
do crazy things.

Anti-psychotics.

Uh, the analysis of the beard
hair in Shelby Winslow's fist

shows the k*ller
was on haloperidol.

At least, sometimes.

He went off his meds?

LC-MS shows that
there was a ton of it

in the bottom two-thirds
of the hair,

but not in the 8.6 millimeters
near the root.

Sample is about an inch.

Beard hair grows less
than half a millimeter a day,

which means...

it's about three months
of growth?

So he stopped treatment

about four weeks ago.

We're looking for
an erratic bearded man.

Where are we ever gonna find
one of those in Vegas?

I might be able
to get us closer.

That, uh, crusty trace
we rubbed off the m*rder w*apon?

It's grackle scat.

Remind me of what a grackle is.

Oh, it's a blackbird.
They're all over Vegas.

Like pigeons,
only Halloweenier.

Do you know what they call
a group of grackles?

A plague.
m*rder of crows,

conspiracy of ravens,
a plague of grackles.

My favorite
is a parliament of owls.

I like preponderance
of evidence.

How does this help?

GC/MS found traces
of agave, yucca,

desert kangaroo rat,
and a whole lot of corn.

Sounds like
your keto diet.

Well, I'm hoping
this particular menu

can serve as a sort
of geographic fingerprint.

You think it's distinct enough
to narrow down a search area?

Well, the good thing
about grackles is

they're homebodies
this time of year.

They stay around wherever food
is plentiful. The m*rder w*apon

had to be around the birds
long enough to get crapped on.

I've never heard of using bird
poop to solve a crime before.

If we match a plague of grackles
to the mix of food

in our sample...
You might get a general idea

of where the m*rder w*apon's
been hanging out.

Uh, animal control can
help me catch some grackles

around the city.

Sure, collect scat samples

from different neighborhoods
and we might

be able to match
our crime scene sample.

Proof's in the poop.

We hope.
Yes, we do.

Yeah.

That's Shelby.

You don't seem
that torn up

about your wife's
death, Mr. Winslow.

She was cheating on me.

Did you know that?

I thought if I went to that...

dorky costume party
she might cool it, but no.

She and Clarence
were right out in the open.

I'm gonna need
to see your shoes.

Ten and a halfs.

Yeah, so?

Same size
as the k*ller.

There's no sand here, though.

And it's a different tread.

Did you shave
this morning?

I shave every morning.

Where were you last night
at 9:00, Mr. Winslow?

Nobody at the Regency event

remembers seeing you
after cocktail hour.

Shelby and Clarence

looked like
they were gonna knock

the tea and crumpets
off the table and go at it.

So I went to The Eclipse.

Lost a grand
on the Raiders game.

Anyone go with you?
No.

But... here.

Look, I know how it is.

Husband's always
the first suspect.

A lot of times,
husband's guilty.

Look.

I didn't like that
she was sneaking around

with a guy in a powdered wig.

But I didn't sh**t my wife.

Okay. I'm starting to think
this guy didn't sh**t his wife.

What makes you say that?

Well, for one, neither

of these victims have
a b*llet in their head.

As in, the k*ller fished it out?

As in, I'm not convinced there
ever was a b*llet to begin with.

All I found in the wound tracts
were bone chips.

And very small traces

of... Okay.

I think this is avian
fecal matter on the chips.

The guy who was indoors
had more of it, actually.

You don't look surprised.

The m*rder w*apon left traces

of bird poop on the curtain
where Mr. Mosley was sh*t.

It is strange, though.

I mean, excrement being
inside the wounds,

not just around them.

And then there are
these powder burns.

Shelby has the same marks.

What kind of a g*n does that?

What if it wasn't a g*n
at all? I mean, look

at the characteristics
of the wound canal. Something

both penetrated and was
removed from the wound.

Penetrating trauma

at a consistent depth
in both victims.

Something like this
could have done it.

A c*ptive bolt p*stol.

And there would be
no projectile.

Yeah, a w*apon like
that would eject a rod

at high speed into
the victim's brain.

And that would explain
the fecal trace

and that brain matter transfer.

Because the same bolt was
used in both victims' heads.

A bolt g*n.

Isn't that something
they use on livestock?

Our k*ller had a different kind

of slaughter in mind.

Hey, take him! Take him!

No! No!

Detective Castricone gave me
the heads-up on this one.

Said the M.O. looked like
our photo booth couple.

Yep. Looks like a bolt g*n
was used to blow the lock.

Yeah, it did
this, too.

Wait.

We know him.

Is that Lamont Moore?

Uh, I can't believe this.

I-I chased a k*ller out
of this guy's house.

Stop!

Alan Herskovitz.

Yeah, but that
makes no sense.

Herskovitz was crazy.

He heard voices.

Why would someone else
want Lamont dead?

Hard to see how this connects
to anything. I-I mean,

I can't picture
Lamont hanging out

with the Jane Austen
Time Travel Society.

I have a hard time believing

he's just the unluckiest dude
in Vegas.

So, must be something
we're missing.

Tonight, a third homicide
victim has been discovered downtown.

With no suspects yet identified,
some are asking,

is there a serial k*ller
active in Las Vegas?

A Las Vegas PD spokesperson

declined to comment
on the status...

Got to be the same k*ller.

How many
bolt g*n-carrying weirdos

could be running around Vegas?

Mm. This motel is a long way
from Pride and Prejudice.

What would bring
the k*ller here?

Lamont's landlord said
he hasn't been home in weeks.

Well, maybe he knew
he was being hunted.

He came here to hide?

This does have a vibe
of a place you go to lay low.

Well, not you. You'd find
a place with a minibar

and you'd pack a
lot more shoes.

He had a ton of cash

and was staying here
under an assumed name.

Lamont really was trying
to stay off the grid.

Mm.

Speaking of grids,
pop quiz:

Can you tell me how the
grid search method differs

from the strip and
spiral search methods?

Terrific segue.

Mm.
Very natural.

You really want to do this now?

That level 3 test
is no joke, Al.

Written exam, the oral boards,

the-the practical scene...

It will kick your ass
if you're not ready.

You don't want
to have to take it twice.

The grid search provides
double coverage of the area.

I know the handbook.
I'm ready.

Hey.

Look what was on the dash
of Lamont's truck out there.

Amaranth Hotel.

That's the same place they held
the Regency Romantics Weekend.

Looks like
we've got a connection.

I'm gonna go speak to the
manager if you two want to join.

Um, no.
You two can go up.

I'll stay here and practice
my grid searching.

You know, I always
thought Lamont was a little sketchy.

Is he, like, your prime suspect?

We are looking
at a potential link.

Actually, I...
He's been out of work for weeks

with "COVID." Just got back
to work four days ago.

But he's so unreliable,
I wish he'd just stayed away.

Well, you're in luck, Mr. Smith.
Hmm?

Lamont's another victim.

He's...

Wow.

You good?
Yeah.

I think I know
where our bleach came from.

Oh.

Fumes are intense here.

I think luminol
can show us the way.

It loves bleach as much as it
loves blood. Do you know why?

You are not quizzing me, dude.
Keep spritzing.

All right, hit
the lights for me.

Hey.

Where's this door go?

That's the Earl Grey
Banquet Hall down there.

That's where we
found Clarence.

So, the k*ller
engages Lamont here.

Lamont defends himself.

Both men are covered in bleach.

But Lamont gets away.

k*ller lags behind,

follows him.

Then somehow Clarence
is the one who gets k*lled. Why?

I don't
know, boss.

Maybe... wrong
place, wrong time?

Maybe wrong face, wrong time.

Clarence Mosley and Lamont Moore
could almost be cousins.

Do you think this is a case
of mistaken identity?

I mean, the k*ller did just
get splashed with bleach.

Maybe some got in his eyes.

If he lost sight
of Lamont and sees a guy

- that looks like him duck into a photo booth...
- He never gets

a clear look at the guy
that he's k*lling

through the curtain.
He might not have even known

that Shelby was in there, too.

And once Shelby
ducks out of the photo booth,

He realizes the mistake

and then he's chasing a witness
down the 17th fairway,

puts her down...

...but leaves a
piece of himself behind.

But he's still
oh for two, so he gets

Lamont's address
from a work ID,

tracks him down
at a hotel room,

finishes the job.

This k*ller's made
a real hash of this.

He still got his
man in the end.

I'll tell you one thing.
Hmm?

Clarence might not have
been the intended target,

- Mm-hmm.
- But our best lead's from his scene.

Which evidence is that?

The poop.

The poop.

Oh, you are a handsome fella,
aren't you? Yeah.

Even if you have been eating
rancid fried chicken.

Don't you want
to get to know our guests?

I'm good. I appreciate
wildlife from a distance.

Ooh. Hey.

Hmm.

Your friends tell us
anything useful?

Yes and no.
I mean,

everybody's stool
sample contained

elements of
the magic mix.

Agave. Little bit
of yucca mixed in.

That goes for most of
'em. But none of 'em

are even close to
the perfect match.

So we haven't
ID'ed our k*ller's

geographic fingerprint.

I couldn't even swear
the trace left by the g*n

was from a bird in Nevada.

Thinking of
going broader.

You know?
More grackles,

more samples.

Uh-huh.

Before you do, Penny,

what are you thinking
and not saying?

Oh. No, it's-it's nothing.
It's just...

It's-it's a hunch.
It's not based on

anything concrete.
Spit it out.

Corn.

Everything else
in the droppings from the scene

is from a desert ecosystem.

Agave, yucca,
kangaroo rat. Right.

But the scat at the scene
is almost half corn.

Where would
a grackle

have access to that quantity
of corn around here?

Our m*rder w*apon, the bolt g*n,

is usually used
as a cattle stunner. Could be...

livestock feed?

You know, in a
previous life,

I knew the GMO guys making
herbicide-resistant crops.

A lot of corn-based
feed in GMOs.

Corporations, they patent
the chemical makeup.

It's easy to identify.

Well, a micro array
from the MiSeq FGx

could give us
the exact variety of the corn.

We can match it
to the GMO product.

Good thinking,
Penny.

Oh! Gah! Scared the
crap out of 'em.

Just means more samples.

Way to go, boss.

Nicely done.

You hear about
our third victim?

Our old pal Lamont Moore?

Yeah. This is the second time
somebody came after this guy.

Lamont's not the
president of Honduras.

Why do people keep trying
to assassinate him?

You know, maybe we should talk
to the first guy

who came after him.

Alan Herskovitz.

It's all by design!

He'll be medicated now.

Might be willing to fill in
some more blanks for us.

Maybe you could call
your guys at the NDOC,

see if we can talk
to their newest patient?

Better than dealing
with that crap.

Ah. Looks like you're
about to close up shop.

How can I help?

I've already dusted for prints.

Housekeeping is much better
than you'd think.

I only found one set of prints.
Probably Lamont's.

Well, you've bagged everything
there is to bag.

What's left?

Saved the best till last.

Luminol.

Huh.
Just Lamont's shoe prints.

None of the k*ller's.

Hey, uh, Al.

Hmm?
Question.

What do the letters R.A.M.
stand for?

I'm not doing
trivia with you.

If you don't know,
you can just say.

Rhodamine 6G,
Ardrox and MBD.

Say the long version.
You say the long version.

I've passed
the test.

Rhodamine 6G,

Ardrox and seven
p-Methoxybenzylamine,

four nitrobenz, two
oxa, 1,3 diazole.

Happy?

Okay, now draw it.

Seriously?

Wait. He walked
into the tub?

Whoa.

Buddy.

Mm. I've heard of shower shoes,

but come on, man.
Hold on.

What's that?

Someone's unscrewed
this recently.

There's something tied to this.

Careful.

Max.

Thank you. Yes.

Lamont Moore
wasn't just a victim.

He was supposed
to be a k*ller, too.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

What are you guys talking about?

Lamont Moore
was being blackmailed.

We found this dossier hidden
in Lamont's motel room.

And somebody wanted him
to commit a m*rder.

Who was Lamont supposed to k*ll?

That's what's

really crazy.

Somebody else
we've met recently.

Albert Santoni,
aka Peter Nesicolacci.

The guy who k*lled that chef.

And it's not just Lamont.

At least three cases
we've worked on

in the last few weeks...

They're all connected.

These are our players.

At least the ones we know.

Now, all of these cases,

all of these people
are related.

Okay, slow down.

How do you think
they're all connected?

All of these people were treated
by the same psychiatrist, one

Dr. Leon Sarkisian.

He electroshocked

his patients
in front of mirrors.

Kids with mental disorders.

Alan Herskovitz.

He k*lled Lynn Zobrist.

And then he went after
Lamont Moore.

Lamont Moore...

We know someone
just took him out.

Now, he had a file
on Peter Nesicolacci,

aka Albert Santoni.

Albert was
the Italian-speaking dishwasher

who k*lled Chef
Dario Donnelly.

So, Lamont was
interested in the case? No.

He was interested in Albert
before there ever was a case.

Folsom and I found
an old dossier

stuffed in the overflow pipe

of Lamont's
motel bathtub.

Along with...

this note.

"Keep your secrets.

Cull the rotten fruit."

Someone was ordering

Lamont to k*ll Albert.

But he didn't.

Because Albert
jumped off a building

before we could arrest him.

Hold on.

No!

Lamont never acted on the
instructions he was given.

He just seemed like a troubled
soul when we met him,

but there was
a sweetness in there.

I think

Lamont paid the price
for resisting someone's command.

Okay, so what's the link to

Clarence and Shelby?
Were they

patients of this
quack Sarkisian? No.

And there's no connection
to anyone else on the board.

I-I mean, I think
there's reason to believe

that these two were innocent
bystanders who just got

caught up in this mess.

Okay. Well, the only person
left alive on this board

is Alan Herskovitz.

We were already planning
on paying him another visit.

Let's talk to him,
find out if the voice

that was telling him to m*rder
people was just in his head

or someone was whispering
in his ear.

Hello, Alan.

Have we met?

We have, haven't we?

We're the reason

you're here.

Mm.

There's so much that's...

fuzzy. I...

I have trouble remembering.

Yeah, well, we're here to talk
about what you do remember,

starting with him.
Lamont Moore.

You broke into
his house,

tried to k*ll him.

You remember that,
don't you?

Well, he's dead now.

Someone came and finished
what you started.

We just want to know
who wanted him dead.

You said someone put you up

to it.

Um, I don't want to talk to you.

You don't want
to come off as sane.

I get it.

You'd rather die in a psych ward
than on death row.

We're not here to
take that away.

Have you seen

one of these before?

Hmm?

Where did this
come from?

Where did you get that?

We were hoping
you would tell us.

You said that someone
was speaking to you.

A voice.

Is this what you
were talking about?

You're already too late.

Too late?

Too-too late for what, Alan?

Don't you get it?

This is all by design.

A thing begun
is already half done.

There will be more.

More what?
More blood.

More reckoning.

The wheel will spin

and there's nothing
that you or I or anyone

can do about it.

Alan, Alan, stop.

Alan, just-just stop.

Alan...
Nurse!

Oh, he's either crazy or
stone-cold committed to the act.

Oh, either way,

I-I'm not sure
there's much difference.

He's not gonna
give us anything more.

If we find out
who k*lled Lamont

and our two bystanders,

maybe we'll figure out the rest.

Ooh, every time I stray
from the physical evidence,

I think I'm gonna end up
in a place like this.

Let's get back to it, then.

'Cause if he's right
and there's more blood coming,

we better work fast.

All right, got the addresses.
Now all we have...

Can I ask you a question?

Uh, yeah, yeah. sh**t.

You've been here
for five months

and somehow you
have no fear.

I wouldn't say no fear.

Bears, snakes, large erratic
insects, skin cancer...

But I mean,
with hypotheses.

You just put it out there
with no hesitation.

How do you do that?

I think I've had the fear
of looking stupid

beaten out of me.

I've been married
a bunch of years,

I've got kids.

I know exactly how stupid I am.

Say instead of you,
you were me.

Well...

first, I would
give myself a break.

Yeah?

And then I would remember,

I mean, you have to make
stupid mistakes,

ask stupid questions.

I mean, the only way
to become less stupid

is to be stupid.

Ooh! Boss, hey, uh,
the poop is talking.

Hope it's saying good things.

FGx analysis gave
us a precise

chemical breakdown of the corn
in the grackle poop

on the m*rder w*apon.

Well, look at that.

And the corn in the grackle
scat has a proprietary

bacteria-derived protein
active against rootworm.

That protein is exclusive to

Fat Cow brand GMO
livestock feed.

And how common is it?

Only a half dozen feed buyers
in the greater Vegas area.

All right, let's split up
and check 'em all.

I want to find this guy fast.

Before he gets any further
down his hit list.

Yeah, okay.
I'll let you know.

Folsom and Beau struck out.

Hope we're not about
to do the same.

I already feel better about
this place than the last one.

I'd call that
a plague of grackles.

It's full of tools.

Maybe this is how the m*rder
w*apon got crapped on.

Farm belongs to a guy
named Richard Ambrose Sloan.

He's definitely got
the name of a serial k*ller.

I don't think I can
arrest someone

based on vibes, but

this dude would be
a great candidate.

Do you think anyone's home?

Richard Sloan? LVPD.

The door is open.

Mr. Sloan, we're coming in.

LVPD. Anyone home?

Mr. Sloan?

Hello?

Richard?

Hello?

I don't think
anyone's here.

- Hold still.
- Hey!

Stop!

Get off her.
Okay.

Richard.
Richard, listen to me.

You don't want to do this.
I have to.

I don't
want to sh**t you.

The plan is in motion.
We must not interfere.

Interfere with what?

The Basilisk.
The Basilisk commands me.

The path must be clear.
The Basilisk knows all.

I don't know about that,
but I know that

you didn't want to k*ll those
two people at the hotel.

It wasn't part of the plan.

The path must be clear.

Hey, I'm not part of
the plan, either, dude.

No choice. You help or suffer.

I had to find Lamont Moore.

The Basilisk is very clear:

Let no one

stand in its way.

But I was blinded.

Aah!

The wrong man.

I had to clean
up the mess.

I had to clear the path.

The Basilisk
commands it of me.

Richard, you're just
making a bigger mess.

Richard. Hey, Richard,
Richard, lis-listen to me.

Chavez!

BP's dropping.

Dispatch says they have
an OR waiting for him

at Desert Palm.
That's if he makes it that far.

This is my
punishment. My...

my failure.
I didn't protect the Basilisk.

W-What do you mean?
Who is the Basilisk?

It found me through time.

It sees everything.
It s...

it saw my failure.

This guy's crazy, too.

Richard...

No, no, no,
Ri-Richard,

wake up!

Richard Sloan's in surgery.

He was still breathing,
but unlikely he'll make it.

You did the best you could.

Did he tell you anything?
Mm. Even while

he was bleeding to death, Sloan
kept talking about the Basilisk.

The Basilisk?
I looked it up.

It's an Internet
thought experiment

about an omniscient
artificial intelligence.

Like Siri?

On meth.

Supposedly, in the future,
the Basilisk

will torment anyone who
doesn't do its bidding.

So, in Sloan's mind,
we're all doomed.

Sloan believed this AI was
talking to him from the future,

telling him
to k*ll Lamont Moore.

So, why does a sci-fi villain

want to k*ll a hotel janitor?

True believers
in the Basilisk think the AI

will k*ll anyone who tries
to stop its rise to power

or anyone who fails to help it.

So, if the Basilisk

told Sloan to k*ll Lamont,

then I'm sure it made a lot
more sense once he stopped

taking his Haloperidol.

So, meanwhile, back in reality,

Sloan's being
manipulated by somebody.

Just like Alan Herskovitz.
I don't think

it's a computer
or a disembodied voice

or the Easter Bunny
talking to either of them. No.

I mean, odds are
it's the same person

behind all of it.

Whoever it is,

I've got the feeling
they're not done.

You know,

following the corn
was the right instinct.

But you know what
would have happened

if I hadn't dragged
it out of you?

We'd still be staring
down a dead end.

I thought, you know...

Beau's a big-deal chemist
and you're a legend,

so, there's...
neither of you thought of it,

then there's no way
it could be right. Right?

Wrong. Obviously.

It's just...
the corn thing was...

it was worse than a guess.

It was a gut feeling, a hunch.

We don't play hunches, we
test hypotheses. Yeah, I know.

But I was thinking
that you noticed that

I was thinking something,
so maybe next time

you could just ask me.

You don't get paid to sit around
until someone asks your opinion.

Speak up.

Or hang it up.

Allie. Hey.
Are you doing okay?

Yeah. Still a little jittery
from the adrenaline,

but I'll be all right.

Okay.

So, I got to drive Serena home

after she talks to IAB
about the sh**ting.

Mm, don't worry.

I mean, I think it'll
go in her favor.

Sloan didn't really give
her much of a choice.

Knowing Serena,
as soon as I get her home

she's gonna tell me to get lost

so she can recoup with
reality TV and sh*ts of mezcal.

You want to run flash cards?

Josh, um...

things are complicated.

What do you mean?

I was just in a life-
or-death situation

with your girlfriend,

and all I should have
been thinking about

was getting us both out okay.
And you did.

I was thinking about you.

And what would you do

or say if things went wrong?

Allie, it's not...

You're the most important
person in my life here.

But you're with Chavez now.

We can't be friends.

Not like we have been.

Tell Serena I'll see you both
on our next shift. Yeah?

So, this is Sloan's laptop.

Yep, and there you have it.

Someone did send Sloan
a dossier

on Lamont.

And blackmail, too,
just like the papers

Allie pulled out of
Lamont's tub. Mm-hmm.

Uh-oh.

Wait a minute, what happened?
Where'd it go?

Got me.
I didn't touch it.

Well, try clicking
on the thing...

Oh!
Whoa-whoa! Penny,

what's going on? That
file didn't close by itself.

Someone's accessing
the computer.

Maybe through a RAT.

A rat?

Remote access Trojan.
It's a malware program

that lets a hacker take over.

Like, they could have
closed the file

while we're looking at it?
It's not just the files.

It can control
the whole machine.

Including the web cam.

If someone was
keeping tabs on Sloan...

They could have been
watching him through the camera.

Mozart's "Requiem in D Minor"
playing...