06x11 - The b*llet in the Brain

[bunniefuu]

GUARD: Prisoner on the move!

GUARD: Ready to transport!

NEWS ANCHOR: An angry crowd is gathering downtown where prosecutor-turned-k*ller Heather Taffet is expected to arrive at the courthouse for a final appeal.

OFFICER: Pull out!

NEWS ANCHOR: Also known as the "Gravedigger,"

Taffet was sentenced to death for a single kidnap-m*rder, after escaping conviction for a string of similar crimes.

Are you nervous, Dr. Sweets?

You seem uncomfortable.

I'm fine. I'm merely here to comply with your request for psychological counseling during transport. Are you comfortable?

Right.

I do appreciate the company.

On death row, one spends so much time alone, it... tests the sanity.

Oh, I assure you, you are sane, technically speaking.

And you're not going to convince me of otherwise, if that's your plan to win your appeal.

So young.

You remind me of a little boy dressed up in his father's suit.

Are you saying I remind you of one of your victims?

You remind me of all of them, Lance.

(crowd clamoring, whistle blowing)

Listen, take care of those people right over there, in that area.

She's crazy! You said we could stay!

There she is.

(siren wailing)

TAFFET: These people are so unreasonable.

Most of them are here in protest.

There's a remote possibility your conviction could be overturned.

Oh, they're deflecting, Dr. Sweets.

You should know that.

They know I'm not the only one responsible for my crimes.

Okay, 84. Change of plans.

They're bringing her around the front.

Into all of this?

We got no choice. That parking garage-- the gate's closed; it's not opening.

What? Let's go. Move it in.

What's wrong?

Change of plans.

(siren whoops, horn honks)

BOOTH: Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go.

Hey, hey, hey, hey! Back it off!

Back it off, back it off, back it off!

(siren whoops)

I'm the lucky one, Lance.

If my appeal falls through, I die.

But you're forced to live every day as a repressed, immature imbecile spouting canned theories to people who don't really care.

Everyone knows who's the weakest link in the chain.

You testify at my appeal and I'm gonna walk.

OFFICER: Step out of the van.

You okay? Yeah.

All right. What'd she say?

Nothing worth repeating.

Not worth repeating, all right.

(gasps)

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Down, down, down, down!

(crowd screaming)

(siren wailing, helicopter hovering)

WOMAN: Let me see. Let me see!

Hold on.

All right, just push everybody back.

Everybody back, behind the line.

Back 'em up! Booth! Booth.

I'm so glad you're okay.

Are there any other victims?

Just Heather Taffet.

Did you see the sh**t?

No. I was looking out in the crowd.

The next thing I know, her head was gone.

Where's Sweets? He's right over there.

He was standing right next to her.

We're bringing in the trauma guy.

Don't just stand there!

We got a shrink who needs shrunk and a headless child-k*ller in a puddle of brains.

Well, who's gonna take the witness statements?

Does it matter?

That sh*t came out of nowhere.

Straight from God.

Oh, excuse me. Don't touch those.

Cam talked to the medical examiner.

He agreed that the skull fragments can go to the Jeffersonian. Okay, fine.

All right. You get the body. She gets the head.

Where are you going?

Over here.

Right there.

There it is.

Damn! That is a powerful r*fle.

So if it, uh...

If the b*llet impacted here and penetrated her head there... Where do you think it came from?

Somewhere up there.

♪ Bones 6x11 ♪
The b*llet in the Brain
Original Air Date on January 27, 2011

♪ Main Title Theme ♪ The Crystal Method Are you sure that damage was caused by a single b*llet?

When a faster-than-average b*llet hits the brain, the shockwaves can cause an expl*si*n.

It's called hydrostatic shock.

So, cause of death: exploded head.

Behold-- the granddaddy of all b*ll*ts was retrieved from the scene.

That is not a b*llet, that's a blob.

Yeah. That's an understatement.

Look at that. Looks like a giant piece of... gum.

Well, it's awfully big.

Beyond that, I can't estimate caliber.

Looks like pure copper, though.

Uh, yeah. Doesn't mean that it is.

I mean, I'll check it out.

Wait, the Gravedigger was wearing a suit?

Dr. Sweets got some spatter.

Is he okay?

He's a little shaken up, but he's fine.

Wasn't Booth there, too?

And Caroline Julian.

That's a fair number of trained eyeballs at the scene.

Booth should have this under control in no time.

CAROLINE: You'd think when a highly trained, world-class sn*per witnesses an assassination, we'd have it all sewn up.

I could say the same thing about the United States Attorney.

I'm too short to see a damn thing.

What bothers me is, I didn't hear the sh*t.

It was a loud crowd. It wasn't that loud.

A sil*ncer?

Nah, must've been long-range.

What about the roof next door?

Well, I checked with SWAT.

There were two sharpshooters on the roof, with standard-issue M24s.

You think it was one of the good guys?

We'll check the r*fles, but we couldn't find any casings.

What about those microphones police put up all over town to pick up the sound of g*nf*re?

Oh, right-- you mean the sh*t Spotter system?

Yeah, I put a request in to Metro; they're gonna send the recordings to the Jeffersonian.

I also called in a witness.

Who? James Kent.

The father of those poor boys the Gravedigger buried alive?

He was there watching.

There is a long list of people who wanted this woman dead.

You know who leaps to my mind? Dr. Brennan's father.

Max?

He took a sh*t at the woman before.

Maybe he got nervous when he heard "appeal."

Thought he had to come keep you people safe.

Like a lifeguard.

I'll tell you what. Supposedly, he's in Mexico, but I'll put him on the list.

And while you're at it, put yourself on there, too.

Me? I was standing right next to you.

Don't worry, cherie.

I told you, I couldn't see a thing.

You got to be kidding me. Come on! Huh?

TAFFET (on recording):
...repressed, immature imbecile spouting canned theories to people who don't really care.

Everyone knows who's the weakest link in the chain.

(recorder beeps)

You testify at my appeal, and I'm gonna walk.

(recorder beeps)

...testify at my appeal, and I'm gonna walk.

(knocking at door, recorder beeps off)

Yeah?

Hey. Hey.

You okay?

I'm fine.

Um, I should be asking you if you're okay.

Yeah, I'm fine.

You're the one who had to take the shower.

You know, I can acknowledge that I witnessed a traumatic event, but for some reason, be it textbook disassociation or the onset of PTSD, I feel relief.

Well, you survived.

Yeah, it's more than that, though.

I'm just... I'm happy that Heather Taffet can't hurt anyone anymore.

I get that. Um... a thought occurred to me.

You... you don't think that sh*t was meant for me, do you?

I mean, she asked for me to be there.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.

Sweets... whoever did this was aiming at one thing: Taffet's head.

He got off a clean sh*t. You got me?

Mm-hmm. All right. So, hey.

Take the day off, all right? Go get some rest.

You don't need my help with the investigation?

If I do, you'll be the first one I call.

All right. Thanks, Agent Booth.

Mm-hmm. Cool.

Oh, could you close the door?

Yeah. Thanks.

(recorder beeps)

TAFFET: Everyone knows who's the weakest link in the chain.

You testify at my appeal and I'm gonna walk.

So, the b*llet weighed 12 grams and was made of pure copper.

Hodgins found only trace amounts of lead.

This is the base of the b*llet?

Yeah. What's left of it.

What are these grooves?

Cam says they aren't related to internal ballistics, but that's all we know.

Well, is there anything you can do to determine the original form of the b*llet before it was fired?

I think you mean, can I unsquash it?

Yes. It needs unsquashing.

Okay, well, I can render an educated guess based on metallic properties and total weight.

Will that help?

Yes.

Okay.

Do you think my father k*lled the Gravedigger?

Whoa.

Where did that come from?

Booth put him on the suspect list.

It's not so far out of the realm of possibility.

Heather Taffet was headed to an appeal.

My father would never allow her to go free out of concern for my safety.

Honey, Max didn't do this.

Besides, isn't he in Thailand?

Don't worry about this.

I'm sure there's plenty of people who want to k*ll the Gravedigger right here at home.

27 convicted K*llers she put away as a prosecutor, now on parole.

Then there's 22 family members of her victims, 86 attorneys she's faced in court.

One of them works right next to the courthouse.

Agent Booth, a James Kent is here to see you.

I hope I didn't keep you waiting.

Oh! (wry laugh)

No. That's okay.

Have a seat.

Oh, I saw you today, at the crime scene.

Yeah, lot of the victims' families were there.

We all stood together.

Some of us were going to testify.

I guess that won't be necessary.

Nope. Nope.
(chuckles)

How do you feel about that?

How do I feel about that?

This woman buried my children alive.

I couldn't even identify their bodies.

That's how I feel about that.

I sympathize with your loss, Mr. Kent, but most witnesses that were there today-- they ran when they saw Taffet sh*t.

Yeah. So?

So you just stood there.

I just stood there because I didn't know what the hell was going on.

Or because you knew it was over.

Are you nuts? How--

You had a video camera in your hand.

Yeah.

I thought that's why you brought me in here.

Like you said, I was standing right there, I got it all on tape.

Here's my paper on how to reconstruct g*nsh*t injuries to the skull.

I prefer to create an accurate representation of hydrostatic shock.

So the reconstruction can show us how the head exploded.

Yes.

For ease of examination, the base should rotate. We're going to put The Gravedigger's head on a lazy Susan?

(phone rings)
Yes.

(phone beeps)
Brennan.

Hello, Tempie, it's me.

Dad, wh-where are you?

I'm in Maui.

On vacation, taking a, a little rest for that weary soul of mine.

But I heard all about that nasty old hag.

Are you referring to the Gravedigger?

She's all over the news.

(quietly): So you're not the k*ller?

What?! No.

Well, you're on the suspect list.

Well, you don't think I did it, do you?

Well, unless you can provide quantifiable evidence, I can't rule it out.

I can provide evidence.

That you were in Maui at the time of the m*rder?

Uh, no, I was, uh... I'm in New Hampshire.

Well, I-I met this woman in Cape Cod, but she had a husband.

I'm sure you can guess the rest.

How can I believe you?

You lied to me just now.

Hey, uh, when you get a second, I have to show you something.

Dad, I'm sorry, I have to go.

Angela has something to show me.

Okay, okay.

Listen, I love you, all right?

And tell everybody I didn't do it.

Bye.

I definitely found the moment of impact right there.

Mm!

Yeah, the sh*t is definitely coming from the south, southwest.

I don't hear anything.

Yeah, and the sh**t was definitely far away.

Hi. Hey.

What are you doing here?

I thought you were putting a head together.

I have something important to show you.

That's the b*llet?

.338 Lapua Magnum.

Yes, Angela did a rendering based on the classic Sears-Haack aerodynamic profile.

It shouldn't be pure copper, and it shouldn't look like that.

Well, what if it does look like that?

This is a custom job.

This was machine-made by hand.

A handmade b*llet?

That doesn't sound like an angry father to me.

This was a professional hit.

MONTENEGRO:
I just keep thinking how awful it would be to watch a baby become a child and then lose that child to somebody like Heather Taffet.

When we find out who sh*t her, I'm sending a gift basket.

Hodgins...

What?

That's taking it a little far, don't you think?

The gift basket?

No, honey, your attitude.

You're suggesting that you'd reward a k*ller for k*lling.

In this case, I would.

I'd drive him to Mexico.

Angie, Heather Taffet buried me alive.

What do you want me to say?

I get your point.

Thank you.

Your lack of sensitivity concerns me a bit, though.

Maybe you should talk to Sweets.

Ooh, I need to.

I got to check in on him, make sure he's doing okay.

No, that's not what I mean.

The father of my child cannot condone a full-out assassination.

Can he?

The baby's on my side.

Oh, God.

The entry wound is fairly clean and is located here at the left parietal, two centimeters above the suture.

The exit wound, however, that's another matter.

It appears to be here, at the right parietal, but it's hard to tell.

Mm, well, it should still help us determine the trajectory, so let's take a look at the images.

Here we go.

So how tall is Heather Taffet?

Uh, five-foot-four. Okay.

Wouldn't wind be a factor?

No, not this time.

It hit the wall at over a thousand feet per second.

Yeah, but, I mean, it would have to be, to clear the crowd and the van.

Yeah, well, that is not much of an angle.

(sighs)

That is one long sh*t.

I don't think Max could do this.

I think Booth should take him off that list.

Sing it, sister.

(chuckles)

Uh, Max!

How are you, Angel?

Oh, i-it's Angela.

Angela, of course, but you're still an angel.

Uh, I think I know why you're here.

Well, it's not to clear my good name.

That, that ship sailed a long time ago.

I really don't care what anybody thinks, unless it's my daughter.

Dr. Brennan went to go see Agent Booth.

But she should be back any minute.

Well, you know what? I'll catch up with her in the parking lot.

But just so I know...

Booth and Tempie-- ar-are they...?

Actually, no.

Mm.

I don't believe this.

So... Booth has fallen in love with another woman?

Her name is Hannah Burley.

Well, that's a familiar name.

She's a news correspondent.

Oh, yeah-- oh, right, right, that girl.

Well, you're a lot prettier than that.

And smarter, too.

I know.

I'm sorry, honey.

Why are you apologizing? Well, I just always thought that you and Booth would get over the nonsense and, and settle down.

I don't want to talk about it.

Oh, wait, before I forget...

Your plane ticket?

Well, there's other receipts, too, there's for a motel and, and, uh, restaurant receipts and a ski pass.

You didn't k*ll the Gravedigger.

No, I didn't, and I'm not going to sleep at night until you believe me.

I do believe you, but you need to talk to Booth.

Oh, I don't, I-I don't want to get all mixed up with the FBI.

I mean, y-you believe me, so it's not my word.

It's yours.

Okay, just tell Max that "drunk in New Hampshire" is not an official alibi.

But he has receipts.

Cash receipts.

We all know that Max has creative alibis.

My father is an average marksman.

Do you think he's physically capable of doing this?

All people have a different threshold for the ability to k*ll.

No, I'm talking about the skill.

I don't know.

We never know the full truth about Max.

So he remains on the suspect list?

Hey, look, I know that this is hard for you, but I have to consider every option.

Okay, Bones?

So, the Gravedigger was standing right about... here, okay?

I'm her, you're Sweets.

Wh-Why am I Sweets?

Because, Bones, just be Sweets.

Okay, well, so, maybe like this? Back up.

Around there?

Wow, are you sure this is right?

It's very close.

According to the diagram, 1.2 meters.

Judging by the cone of trajectory, the sh*t came from somewhere up there.

BOOTH: That makes sense. Statler & Harmon.

What's that? The law offices on the top two floors of that building.

(groans)

One of our suspects works there-- this guy--
Harvey Morster.

Served with the Seabees in Gulf One.

Tested as an expert marksman.

Is he a lawyer? He was.

Now he's a paralegal.

Taffet had him disbarred.

(clears throat)

So what do you think?

Is he our sn*per?

Harvey Morster didn't do it.

He has an alibi?

I didn't ask.

Then how do you know?

You just know.

SAROYAN: This is amazing.

Each one of these dots represents a microphone?

Yeah, fine-tuned to ignore any ambient noise yet pick up any g*nf*re.

(g*nsh*t over speaker)

That's the sh*t?

The acoustic sensor has a mile radius.

So all we know is that a g*n was fired somewhere within that range.

Right.

Now, choose a second microphone.

Really?

That's so far from the crime scene.

Booth said it was a long sh*t.

Okay.

(g*nsh*t over speaker)

Wow, you're right.

Okay, now all we have to do is draw another circle and triangulate.

And where the two intersect is the source of the sh*t?

Yeah.

Nearly 1,500 yards from the site.

Is that even possible?

I don't know.

Must be why the cops called these results inconclusive.

Okay, well, I'll compare it to the trajectory and see what we get.

It might take me a while, but I think I can get an address.

Look, he is all wrong.

We're looking for a trained sn*per.

Will you tell her?

He tested as an expert marksman.

Okay, maybe he made a good sh*t once in a while, all right, but he was all sweaty and nervous.

You can't exonerate a man for excessive perspiration.

(claps hands)
Sweets... help me out here.

Uh, I-- wha-what do I know?

What do you know?

You know the profile.

Tell her.

Okay, Agent Booth is right.

Most professionally trained sn*pers are methodical, controlled, clean, patient, um, willing to k*ll under morally acceptable circumstances.

No, no, no, a sn*per does not make the morality call, all right?

He's just the hand that pulls the trigger.

With the faith that the target is a thr*at to innocent life. Right.

Is this a revenge k*lling? SWEETS: It's more than that.

A rookie sn*per would go through a transformative process as he struggled to develop his professional identity.

I believe that you're looking for a person whose process was destroyed.

Good work, Sweets.

Good but slow.

Oh, come on, you can't blame a guy who's not on his A-game.

You need some time to get your head together?

Really, I'm fine.

Okay? Even under the best circumstances, (cell phone rings) my A-game deserves a C.

Come on, that's not true.

I'm good, really.

The lab compared the sh*t Spotter recording to the trajectory.

We got an address.

(knocking on door)

BOOTH:
Ms. Leveque, FBI.

Ms. Leveque? Open up. FBI.

Oh, there's a doorbell.

Okay. Do you know the woman that lives here is an escort?

You mean a prost*tute?

(doorbell buzzing)
Doorbell.

I don't think she's here.

(lock clicks)
That's okay.

What, now you're picking locks?

Got a warrant.

Anybody home?

I don't...

I don't see the courthouse.

Yeah... that's because you don't have one of these.

Well... if there's a clear sh*t to be had, only the best sn*per in the world would be able to pull it off.

Are you referring to yourself?

Because you do hold the official record for the longest sh*t-- almost a kilometer.

I'm not referring to myself, and it was... it was over a kilometer.

Yeah.

It's a clear sh*t.

Max couldn't have pulled this off.

Looks like this table was dragged over here.

Do you smell something?

Like what?

Like cleaning solution.

No. Yeah.

The marks.

Tell you what, the sh**t... dragged this table over here... to get it in position.

Yeah.

You know, this sh**t didn't pick this... this apartment just for the view.

He definitely did it... for the challenge.

He had something to prove.

BRENNAN: He was a sn*per, and so are you.

Elite members of a closed community always intersect.

You must know the man who did this.

(trigger clicks)

I do.

Booth...

I think you need to see this.

Whoa... (heavy sigh)

(Brennan and Booth groan)

(both coughing)

TAFFET (on recording): ...my appeal falls through, I die.

But you're forced to live every day as a repressed, immature imbecile, spouting canned theories to people who don't really care.

Everyone knows who's the weakest link in the chain.

You testify at my appeal, and I'm gonna walk.

(sighs)

(quietly): All right.

No...

Hi. Hey.

What are you... What are you doing out of the lab?

I need to talk to you. By the way, good to see Okay. you're okay, you know? We were worried about you.

No reason to be worried.

Cool. I just need your, uh, professional opinion on something.

All right.
(sighs)

(quiet mechanical whirring)

(clears throat)

(sighs)

I've been having some pretty strong feelings about what happened yesterday.

I mean, am I wrong to be happy?

Happy that the Gravedigger's dead?

Yes.

I mean, I'm completely okay with it.

In fact, it's the best thing that's happened to me all week.

But Angela, I don't know, she thinks I've, like, gone off the deep end.

Right.

Um, no, no.

What you're experiencing is not uncommon.

The victim of a crime often feels ambivalent in the aftermath.

They have feelings of guilt or relief or... even a sense of... let's not call it pleasure...

Let's call it pleasure.

...pleasure when the perpetrator meets justice.

Do you believe that Heather Taffet got what she deserved?

Do you?

I do.

Me, too.

(relieved sigh)
I feel much better, Sweets.

But you felt good in the first place.

I felt good the Gravedigger was dead. Oh.

I feel double good my wife was wrong.

Thanks, buddy. You're a big help.

If you think so. I'll see you later.

All right.

(car door closes)

I have not seen any evidence that proves that the same person who sh*t the Gravedigger also k*lled this victim.

Are you suggesting that the sn*per was looking for a place to sh**t and just so happened upon a dead girl in a bathtub full of lye?

Your Socratic question constitutes a powerful argument.

Confirmed-- Tracy Leveque, escort, age 29.

Nobody knew she was gone.

And this is not lye.

What is it?

Do we know what k*lled Ms. Leveque?

Uh, the atlas is fractured.

Maybe... she broke her neck when he threw her in the tub.

No-- a thin object, like a Kn*fe, was inserted between the cranium and the atlas, severing her head from her spine.

Sounds pretty gruesome.

Actually, it would be quite effortless.

s*ab, twist.

Should I create a mold to match the w*apon?

Yes, please.

Has Hodgins determined time of death?

Hodgins... whoo!

What is going on?

Goggles, goggles.

Crystal Cloggo Super Strength Drain Clog Remover is caustic stuff.

Wow. Good old-fashioned Cloggo, huh? Yep.

It's a combination of sodium hypochlorite, sodium hydroxide, potassium hydroxide, otherwise known as caustic potash.

(coughs) It's a good thing the experiment is over, because otherwise, I'd need some more ventilation in here.

Why are we doing a dangerous d irrelevant experiment?

Dr. Brennan asked me to help ascertain time of death by determining how fast the Cloggo dissolved Ms. Leveque.

Now, used according to directions, right, this stuff dissolves a two-ounce hot dog every nine minutes.

There's a hot dog in there? Yeah, was.

Hey, how much did the victim weigh?

Uh... 1,900-ounce escort minus the bones divided by a two-ounce hot dog every nine minutes equals... 144...

Six days.

(suppressed cough)

Six days? The hearing wasn't in the paper until the day before.

Then how did he know about it?

I keep coming back to an inside job. I haven't ruled that out.

Forget the suspect list. Let's call in every person east of the Mississippi who could pull off the sh*t.

Regardless of alibi, I already did.

How many men are we talking?

Six. Know any of them personally?

Every single one of them.

Sorry, cherie.

I hate to startle you when you're traumatized.

No. Agent Booth asked me to look into the psychological background of our six suspects.

But here you are with a look on your face like a hamster is running around in your head.

I knew it.

I told that judge that bitch was going to mess with your mind.

TAFFET: ...my appeal falls through, I die.

But you're forced to live every day as a repressed, immature imbecile, spouting canned theories to people who don't really care.

Everyone knows who's the weakest link in the chain.

You testify at my appeal and I'm going to walk.

(recorder beeps)

You know what she was doing, don't you?

Her strategy was to shake me.

To the bone, cherie.

By the time she got done with you, you couldn't get up on that stand if you tried.

You're right. I couldn't.

Makes sense.

(sighs)

I've never been so scared...

...as when her head... flew to pieces.

Don't tell anybody...

I messed myself.

You did?

(sniffs)

We're all just people, cherie.

You're an expert with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Now, who's Heather Taffet?

Dead serial k*ller.

You're damn straight.

Dr. Brennan has her head all rigged up, spinning like a Christmas tree.

It's over.

She can't get to any of us anymore.

We know Tracy Leveque was stabbed at the top of the spine, severing the spinal column.

The k*ller used his left hand, twisting counterclockwise.

Left hand? You said he took the sh*t with his right.

I did, but it's very rare for a sh**t to s*ab someone.

This would not be an intimate k*lling.

The maneuver was fast and clinical.

Very little blood. Oh, like Israeli close-quarter combat.

We believe the w*apon may be a heavy-bladed hunting Kn*fe.

We're looking for an ambidextrous, Israeli-trained, big game hunter, is that what you're saying? Precisely.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. That narrows it down.

Okay-- William Preston--
Dallas, HRT.

Knew him in Afghanistan.

Bill.

Seeley.

Black, right?

Sure.

Yeah.

You know, Bill, I really hate to bring you in under these circumstances.

No, you don't. You want me here.

If you didn't, I'd be at a bank robbery in Austin right now.

Come on, Bill, this isn't personal.

Your training is well-established.

You know the machinery; you hunt.

Yeah, you know what's well-established is, you don't like me. No, nobody likes you, Bill.

Yeah, well, I have an alibi, Seeley.

I was on assignment.

Come on, you and I both know who did this.

All right, I don't blame you.

He was a friend.

He was my mentor for ten years.

I'm not going to be the one to point the finger.

Jake Broadsky is not a suspect.

Come on.

Who else could have made that sh*t?

It's him, or it's you.

He was your instructor-- close-quarter combat. Yeah.

And then we went together to Dallas HRT.

He was like a brother to me up until the day he disappeared.

You still communicate with him?

No. Do you?

No. As far as I know, no one does.

Yeah. Well, we'd all like to think that he's retired somewhere, happy.

But guys I know-- other sn*pers-- sometimes they'll get a bill in the mail.

Stuff we know he likes.

Copper.

Yeah. Like that.

Stealing an identity-- that would be nothing to him.

He'd get a kick out of it.

You know he can hunt.

You know he loves the k*ll.

You know I'm right.

(mugs clink)

Jacob Ripkin Broadsky-- he trained counter- sn*pers in the Gulf, then he moved to a hostage rescue unit in Texas.

A year later, his superior accused him of jumping the trigger in a hostage situation.

He k*lled someone? BOOTH: No.

It was a masked gunman, but he didn't have the green light.

We call that m*rder.

Broadsky maintained he was acting within his job description.

He said he did what he did to, quote:

"save the life of the hostage."

A lot of guys agreed with him.

What about the officials?

He disappeared before any charges could come down.

His unit began calling him "the Hand of God."

Implying sole judgment and the ability to act outside of human control.

That wasn't his job; he should have waited for a green light.

Well, he thought he was doing the right thing.

You're glad he did it, aren't you?

No, I don't condone it.

But you admire it.

You hold two beliefs at once.

It's called cognitive dissonance.

No, I understand him.

(phone ringing)

(sighs)

I'm busy. Talk fast.

What happened to you?

Caroline hollered at me.

(phone beeps off)

We got a hit on a possible alias-- Gary Gray.

He's a famous British sn*per.

Who d*ed a hundred years ago, but somehow created a bank account yesterday to cash a check for two million dollars, hours after the m*rder.

Who wrote him the check? Don't know.

But James Kent withdrew the same amount yesterday.

James Kent-- he's the father of two of the victims.

Two million dollars is the ransom she wanted for his boys.

I didn't k*ll anyone, Agent Booth.

Right, but you paid the man who did. Do you see that?

That's your signature on the front of the cashier's check.

Am I right? Two million dollars you paid him? Your hit man k*lled an innocent woman.

The Gravedigger wasn't the only victim.

Tracy Leveque-- she never hurt anyone.

I didn't know anything about that.

She was k*lled for access to her apartment.

Then he did that on his own.

Who's he? I don't know.

You're under arrest for the conspiracy to commit m*rder.

If I were you, I would cooperate.

I don't know his name.

What does he look like?

I didn't see him!

I dropped a check off in a restroom in a public park.

You never met him?

Not face-to-face.

How did you find him?

I didn't. He found me.

I... I got a phone call.

A man asks me if I'll pay him two million dollars to k*ll the Gravedigger.

He chose the victim? Yeah.

And he set the price.

And I thought, hell, yeah.

I mean, he's-he's doing a service to society.

The Gravedigger k*lled my two sons.

I paid him.

I was happy to.

A witness saw Broadsky on the news.

He swears it's the same guy he saw in a g*n shop off I-64.

It looks like the middle of nowhere.

This guy likes the middle of nowhere.

He likes to hide, he likes to hunt.

History suggests that the notorious assassin seeks foreign asylum.

No, those guys are on the run.

This guy-- he's on the offense.

Is it possible to search the area?

Tree canopy blocks the view from the air.

Property ownership.

Right. Thanks.

So, I ran a check on the 60 private plots of land in that area.

What if we recruit volunteers for a ground search?

Like a grid search for evidence?

Search for missing children, yeah, but the search for a man who k*lled...

Public Enemy Number One, I doubt it.

What is it?

Broadsky purchased land-- ten acres off the highway.

Under the name of another sn*per?

"Seeley Booth."

This is between me and him.

MAN: Seeley Booth!

Let me see the hands, Jake.

Where's your g*n?

That's not why I'm here.

I just want to talk.

It's good to see you.

It's over, Jake. We both know it's over.

So, what do I have to do to bring you in?

You can't do anything.

Not without a warrant.

I'm watching you, too, Seeley.

Why did you k*ll the Gravedigger?

I didn't.

But whoever did, I applaud him.

What about Tracy Leveque?

She didn't do anything to anyone.

Collateral damage.

Maybe she was warned to stay away, and maybe she didn't listen.

I should go.

I just wanted to say hello.

Wait, Jake... we can work something out here.

We're the same, Seeley.

We both want to do the right thing.

Stop... Jake. I'm warning you.

Go ahead.

Jump the fence.

Don't wait for the warrant.

(grunts)

I don't need a warrant.

This land belongs to Seeley Booth.

(panting)

(grunts, panting)

(two beeps, explosions booming)

(groans)

(expl*sive rumbling)

(quiet groan)

(groans)

(grunts)

(panting)

(sharp groan)

(panting)

Go ahead.

Take the sh*t.

I've known you for a long time, Seeley.

You never could go for the k*ll, not if there was any doubt.

(grunts)

(panting)

He just took off. I wasn't ready for the terrain. I...

Chasing after him, I fell and hurt my leg and dislocated my shoulder from the expl*si*n.

You should have waited for me.

Well, I thought I could talk to him.

The Jake I know-- he would definitely have done the right thing.

Stop b*ating yourself up.

What? He destroyed all the evidence when he booby-trapped his trailer.

We still have a case.

If we'd have sent in the cavalry, g*ns blazing, there'd be a disaster on our hands.

I just didn't want to let anyone down.

CAROLINE: We may not have him tonight, but we will-- I promise, cherie.

Sounds exciting as hell. I wish I'd been there.

(chuckles)
Probably best you weren't, Max.

I did think this could have been you.

Well, it's nice to know I'm still suspected.

I appreciate that; thank you. Thank you very much.

(car honks twice outside)

Look, there's my cab.

I'm on my way to the airport.

I'll walk you out.

Always a pleasure, Max.

The pleasure was all mine.

CAROLINE: I've got paperwork.

See you. Right.

Uh, Tempie, I want to thank you.

For what?

Well, I came here because I wanted you to believe me and, and you did.

You were exonerated by the facts.

But even if you weren't, I...

I did believe you.

You did?

Well, that's all I wanted to hear.

Oh, wait, I have something for you.

I almost forgot.

(Brennan gasps)

A conch shell from Maui?

I thought you were in New Hampshire.

Well, actually, it's, uh, ceramic.

I got it this afternoon on the mall in front of the Natural History.

They, uh, painted your name.

What are these holes?

For toothbrushes.

(laughs)

Listen.

It works.

I know what you're gonna say.

That it is not the ocean.

It is the blood rushing through your head.

You always told me that it was the ocean.

Good-bye, honey.

Bye.

Here we go!

MAX: To the airport.