01x11 - I Like to Watch

[bunniefuu]

Hi.

I'm just gonna get my belt.

[Door closes]

[Sighs]

Hey, sunshine, what are you making?

Not what you were making, noisily, with no consideration for others.

What is on your nose?

Magic nose bra.

[Sniffs] Stop snoring.

My friend is a light sleeper.

Considering what I heard last night, there was not a lot of sleeping going on.

I ought to arrest you.

Wait a minute.

Are you finally making the kite?

What are you talking about? This is my back scratcher.

My kite, the kite I gave you $200 to make for me.

Oh that was what the money was for.

Moto: Ready to go?

Sorry, duty calls. Moto's here.

Hey. Good morning, Valentine.

You haven't even started the kite?

Sorry, no time to talk. Homicide.

Body at the Here and Now festival.

It's the art festival downtown.

Performance art.

Yeah, a whole nother category of idiocy.

Watch this.

Ow!

Ho!

"I hate my mother. Ta-da!"

Anyone can do performance art.

[Groans] Did that leave a mark?

[Chuckling] I'll wait in the car.

Hey, if you're not gonna make my kite, I demand you to give the money back today.

Make me.

By the way, I don't use that on my back.

[Object thuds]

[Drums b*ating rhythmically]

Ah. The victim's name is Timothy Fitch, age 34.

Three g*nsh*t wounds to the chest.

Lividity suggests the time of death was sometime last night to 10 p.m. and 1 a.m.

Moto: What's with the exploding fruit?

Niedermayer: He was an artist, Moto.

Gravely: Timothy Fitch was scheduled to perform later today.

He had a permit for b*ll*ts and a g*n, a .357 ruger, as props, and they're missing.

Oh. [Chuckles]

Probably find the b*ll*ts lodged in his chest.

What kind of performer uses a real g*n?

Well, the festival brochure says that it had something to do with...

"Creating a charismatic space where limits are transformed."

Oh, my God. Stop it right now.

No one is allowed to talk about this crap as if it makes any sense.

Do you understand, Niedermayer?

Yes, sir.

All right. Where's Almond?

He's in the lobby, talking to the victim's fiancee.

She's the one who found the body.

[ expl*si*n]

Okay.

You know what?

I want a list of all the so-called "artists" performing in this "festival."

Those self-indulgent narcissists.

They think they can get away with finger painting in their own poo and calling it art?

Well, they're not gonna get away with m*rder.

So you're assuming the m*rder*r is another artist?

Artists are, by their nature, passionate.

And by passionate, I mean stupid.

Is that true?

Just a few more minutes...

Hey.

Lieutenant, this is, uh, Virginia Anderson, Timothy Fitch's fiancee.

She looks kind of normal to be an artist's girlfriend.

That's because she's an accountant.

Really? Meaning she pays the rent.

Go ahead, Mrs. Anderson.

You were saying?

Uh, I knew Fitch would be working late last night, preparing the gallery, so I went to bed, but when I woke up, he still wasn't home.

[Voice breaking] And, uh, when I called him, he didn't answer, so I came in to check on him, and I found him on the floor.

So you were at home last night by yourself?

That's your alibi?

Ms. Anderson had food delivered.

She downloaded a pay-per-view movie.

We'll verify.

[Sobs]

It's just I loved Fitch so much.

My life was just...

Ordinary before him.

I was ordinary.

He made me special. [Chuckles]

When's the last time you saw him alive?

Uh, I stopped by the gallery on my way home from work.

He and Moss were having some drinks, getting things ready.

Moss Brady, Fitch's assistant.

[Sobs lightly]

Gravely: Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Moto: Uh... Oh!

Did you just make a m*rder victim pee himself?

That was one very full bladder.

And yet there's no cups or bottles anywhere.

Somebody wanted to get rid of fingerprints.

Gravely, I want you to track down Fitch's assistant.

Name's Moss Brady.

Find those beverages or Urine trouble.

Look at this. I mean, isn't this beautiful?

Yeah, if you like giant clown lips vomiting confetti.

This is a piece Fitch did three years ago entitled "evidence of a life."

He took piles of paperwork... birth certificates, school transcripts, parking tickets, everything and anything... and then he cut them into these thin, wispy strips throughout the gallery.

Do we have any other background on the victim that's not cut into strips of paper?

Timothy Fitch, born and raised in Maine.

Parents deceased.

Two siblings, one brother and one sister,.

Both live in Portland.

Are they coming in?

No, the other Portland...

Maine.

14 empty bottles from the dumpster in the back of the gallery.

I took fingerprints. Found three sets.

One of them's Fitch's. Working on the others.

[Bottles clanking]

Six beers each, plus two raspberry blast-flavored malt beverages.

There was a woman with Fitch and Moss, unless Moss is raspberry-flavored malt gay.

Gravely's looking for the assistant.

She had the landlord open his loft.

Doesn't look like he went home last night.

Paquet, this evidence of life... is that his life he's shredding?

No, an ex-girlfriend, Lucy Harms.

Ah, Lucy Harms.

Lucy Harms is also a performance artist.

She and Fitch have an extremely intense relationship, and they filmed their breakup, and they turned it into a piece of video art.

Hiking from separate ends of the pacific crest trail, they met in the middle, and they filmed their final goodbyes.

Surprisingly moving.

I'll take your word for it.

You actually like this hooey, Niedermayer?

I appreciate the attempt to use live gesture to animate formal and conceptual ideas.

Moto, punch Niedermayer for me.

That's an order. Then mess up his hair.

Lucy Harms is actually also at the Here and Now festival.

Here is a sample of the piece she performed yesterday.

Moto: What's with the targets?

The woman's actually standing in front of a wall full of evidence proving she's a great sh*t.

What'd I tell you?

Artist equals passionate equals stupid.

Come on, Niedermayer. I'm gonna need a translator.

S01E011
I Like to Watch

Backstrom: Let me guess, you're living in a plastic box as a brilliant, pseudo-artistic statement that we all live in a plastic box.

I was thinking more about how natural acts become transgressive with the addition of an audience, but if all you're getting is hamster-in-a-cage analogy, that's fine.

Ms. Harms, I'll be running your fingerprints, and if it turns out that you were having drinks with Mr. Fitch last night...

I don't drink.

This is not the work of a sober person.

I haven't seen Tim Fitch since we broke up three years ago.

The sh**ting targets that have you both atwitter... those are from a f*ring range, Trigger Town on Lamphier Street.

I haven't touched a g*n in my life.

What was your relationship with Mr. Fitch like since the breakup?

We haven't spoken.

What's more, if you watched our video, you would know that when we said goodbye, we vowed to never speak of our relationship again, so I am artistically obligated to remain silent on the subject.

It's kind of hard to plead the fifth when your privates are soon to be publics.

This is my work.

Mock it if you want.

I wasn't with Fitch.

I was in my hotel last night.

So check the key-card memory, run my prints.

I didn't k*ll Tim Fitch.

[Clears throat]

Lieutenant, what are you doing?

Close your eyes, Niedermayer.

It only becomes transgressive when there's an audience.

I can't help but find her brave.

For what, having bowel movements without a door?

Challenging social norms.

She did this performance a few years ago...

I remember reading about it... where she'd ingest two tabs of ecstasy and then ask the audience to take care of her.

You just described Burning Man.

[Laughs]

She framed it as a commentary on social attitudes regarding female mental illness.

What, like that's a bad thing?

Yeah?

Any luck with Lucy Harms?

Yeah. She's totally guilty.

Or m*rder or simply annoying you?

Did you find the victim's assistant?

No. There are only five blocks between the arts center and his loft.

We pinged his phone. It's still in the area.

Figure he dumped it.

I've got alerts out at airports and bus stations... you know, the usual.

Is there a park nearby?

We're checking now, every bench, every bush.

No, wait. It was about to rain last night.

I'm Moss. I'm tanked. I'm trying to stumble home.

It must be really difficult for you to imagine that scenario.

Don't judge my depravity. Use it. Trust me.

The only thing worse than passing out is passing out knowing you're about to get rained on.

So, Moss found somewhere dry.

Try a playground if there is one.

[Engine turns over]

I've slept in tunnels and giant, concrete tubes, pirate ships, you name it. [Woman screams]

You know what?

Man: I got him!

You might be onto something.

Up you go.

[Groans]

If you drink alcohol like you drink coffee, no surprise we found you facedown, passed out in a tunnel.

I had an empty stomach, but I can usually hold my beer better.

No raspberry malt beverage?

Just beer.

Mr. Brady, you do understand that your boss was m*rder*d, right?

I am upset.

It is a terrible loss to the art world.

He was a visionary.

I'm sorry. Maybe it's still sinking in.

Where's the g*n?

g*n?

The g*n from Fitch's installation.

Oh, yeah.

He was commenting on boundaries, creating a demilitarized zone for radical behavior.

Mr. Brady, "demilitarized" means "without g*ns."

Fitch is a scholar of the human condition in all of its contradictions.

Fitch is a genius.

Was a genius.

That's what I mean.

Such a bummer.

We have reason to believe that there was a third person with you and the victim last night.

No. Just me and Fitch.

Is that a confession?

[Chuckles] No. Of course not.

Mr. Brady, did anything suspicious happen yesterday?

Mm, no, but weird.

You know, earlier, I did see this woman looking into the front window of the gallery.

When she saw me watching her, she took off.

Can you provide a description?

Yeah.

She looked just like Fitch.

Moss Brady has identified Arianna Fitch, Timothy Fitch's younger sister, as the mysterious woman who appeared in the window yesterday.

She an artist, too?

No. She is learning to care for large animals.

Like at a circus?

Veterinary school.

But she's been studying for eight years with no graduation.

So she's kind of stupid?

I have a different theory.

Arianna Fitch is the caretaker for her youngest brother, Oliver, who was paralyzed in this accident nine years ago.

Wait. The m*rder victim was driving the car?

Yes. He and his sister escaped with no injury.

Ah.

So she's stuck carrying for the brother the other brother paralyzed.

Mm-hmm.

And perhaps she blames Timothy for the burdens of her stalled ambitions.

Ah.

So, I swing by the gallery to demand that he take his share of the responsibility, and he says no.

So I cap him with his own g*n.

Have Gravely keep that assistant on ice, but find that sister.

I can't believe this finally happened.

Yeah.

So quickly, too.

We caught you after only two days.

I didn't k*ll my brother.

I loved him.

But you didn't like him very much.

That's the way it works in families.

You have to love them. You don't have to like them.

And what about your paralyzed brother?

You like him?

Yes.

I'm you.

My big brother turns my little brother into a living tree stump, then he goes off to follow his bliss, and I'm left to pick up the pieces.

100% correct.

Uh-huh. So I swing by the gallery.

I ask him for help.

He blathers on and on about art and destiny.

I get mad, and I sh**t him with his art g*n.

No. I went to his gallery, and I asked him for help.

He nodded and said he owed it to me.

So you admit you were at the gallery.

Of course.

I even stayed and had a few drinks.

And that explains the raspberry malt.

What's that?

A life-insurance policy for a million dollars on Tim.

Haven't you read any crime novels?

A big, fat insurance policy right before he dies.

Really?

I didn't just take it out on Tim.

I have insurance on myself, I mean, on my cousin Beth, on my Uncle Mark, on everyone who contributes in any way to helping out with Oliver.

I am terrified of us not being able to take care of him his whole life. [Sighs]

There was another little guy there, on the floor.

Like a... like a little elf?

He could vouch for me, except I think he might have been passed out.

So, what, you think this little guy woke up and k*lled Tim?

Not unless he was totally faking it.

But hey, that's the art world... a big con job.

If the victim's sister is telling the truth, then someone sh*t Fitch after she left the gallery.

Unless somebody confronted him before that.

Moto, you think the victim was k*lled before he had drinks with his sister?

Please don't transfer me out of special crimes.

Arianna Fitch said her brother made a lot of enemies.

Let's prioritize on that, okay?

Well, it's a long list.

Nothing was sacred to him... religious iconography, cross-racial sensitivities, accepted common decency.

He challenged everything.

[Door slams]

Two years ago, Fitch designed this performance piece called "destruction, creation."

Huh.

That's a nice painting.

If he can make real art like that, why waste his time on all the pretend crap?

Okay.

Okay. What...

Oh, that's disgusting.

[Stammers]

Who's that guy hitting him like a pinata?

Unidentified male.

Nobody ever laid any charges, so there was no record of the as*ault.

That's too bad. The guy deserves an award.

Look at that composition... smooth brushwork, his use of light and shadow.

Excuse me?

I, uh... I minored in studio art, watched a lot of documentaries.

You know that nun.

Fitch didn't have any formal training.

That guy is the real artist.

The victim was destroying his painting in public, so he att*cked him.

The victim was gonna revive the installation this week.

It's in the brochure.

We've been trying to locate witnesses of the att*ck, but I-I'm...

Forget trying to I.D. the assailant.

I.D. the painting.

"Lolo Pass."

The name of the painting that the victim destroyed in your video is "Lolo Pass."

And the artist?

Julian Gaynor.

Same general body type as the guy who att*cked Fitch.

Mm-hmm. He's a local artist and... take that... according to Fitch's phone records, they spoke just last week.

I'll go, but if Backstrom can bring along Niedermayer as a translator, so can I.

Bonjour.

Ca va?

Bien.

He's not here.

He's grabbing a sandwich.

Well, that can wait.

He owes me 200 bucks, and I'm not leaving without it.

Something wrong?

No. Um...

He's, uh... he's just a lot hotter than the usual weirdos that you have up there.

He's a witness or what?

A suspect.

Okay. I'm gonna wait.

Julian: Yeah, that's... that's me all right, and that was my painting, "Lolo Pass."

You must work extremely carefully.

There's not a drop of paint in here.

It's a brand-new space. I'm still moving in.

I'm sorry to hear what happened to Fitch.

Even though he trashed your painting?

He bought it.

It was his to do with what he liked.

Is destroying it any worse than hanging it over a matching sofa?

You att*cked him.

I was shocked.

I had no idea what he was gonna do with it, and then I thought he invited me down to the performance to mock me.

What do you think now?

That I was part of his performance.

He hoped I'd react that way.

Are you aware that Fitch publicly announced his intention to revive "destruction, creation" this week?

He announced it to me privately.

Whoa. He bought another painting from you?

That crazy performance two years ago... that got me a lot of attention.

And just last week, Fitch called me up.

He wanted to buy another canvas of mine.

And you refused?

No. I charged him $30,000 for a painting that was perhaps worth $3,000.

Because you knew he didn't have that kind of money?

No, he paid in cash.

How does a broke performance artist come up with $30,000 in cash?

Hey! You, my office, now.

It's my office!

All right, what's got your panties in a twist?

Is it the kite?

I'll give you your 200 bucks back.

I need a favor from you.

Another one?

I need you to release Mark Bradley.

Got it. Wait.

Who's Mark Bradley?

I don't know what name he's maybe using, but he's your m*rder*d artist's assistant.

You want me to release the prime suspect in a homicide investigation?

Yes. Please.

Who is he, an ex-boyfriend?

You know I can't release everyone you've ever rambled with in Mount Tabor Park.

We were in juvie together, and I owe him very big.

So, please?

No.

[Sighs]

The best I can do is... eliminate him as a suspect.

Yes, please.

But...

Ow. [Chuckles facetiously]

You let me keep the 200 bucks, and you shut up about your stupid kite.

Fine.

I accept your terms.

Get out.

It's my office.

[Bag crunches]

Did you step on my... you stepped on my sandwich on purpose!

[Siren wailing]

Niedermayer: Ms. Anderson, hi.

Hi.

Thank you so much for coming down.

We appreciate you meeting us here.

We just had a few more questions for you.

We just met with a local artist named Julian Gaynor, and he said that he sold Timothy a painting called "Clackamas Dawn."

I know.

He said he sold it for $30,000.

In cash.

I know.

Where did Tim Fitch get that kind of cash?

From me.

You gave Timothy Fitch $30,000 for a painting you knew he meant to destroy?

It wasn't a big deal.

My family has money.

Besides, supporting Fitch's vision in whatever way I could, it was an honor.

We've searched this entire space, and we can't find it.

Do you think it might be at your home?

If it's not here, it must be in, uh, Fitch's storage unit.

We don't have a record of a storage unit.

It's in my name.

[Cries]

Here are the [Sniffles] spare keys.

I imagine Moss has Fitch's...

[Breathing heavily]

Oh, God. Why didn't I stay here with him?

I know this won't bring Fitch back.

[Sighs]

But we will catch whoever k*lled him.

Yes, my real name is Mark Bradley.

Moss Brady is my art-world moniker.

Mm, see, now, I wish I'd gone a bit more French.

[Door closes]

You're a con artist. You've done time. You've got a record.

Yes, and now I've gone straight.

[Chuckles] Not sexually.

I mean, I no longer utilize my substantial talents for misdirection to break the law.

How do you know Gregory Valentine?

How do you know Gregory Valentine?

I know Gregory Valentine well enough that when he tells me that you probably k*lled Timothy Fitch, I listen.

Wait. Val said I k*lled Fitch?

Yes.

Well, you know what?

Some people say that Val's a sociopath, and maybe they're right.

Okay, I think we've gotten off the road and into the weeds.

What I want to know about is...

Juvie hall. Mm-hmm.

[Sighs] You know, honestly, I thought that what Val and I had was something special, not just jailhouse bonding, but the real thing.

I heard that Val was gonna get shanked, and at great personal peril, I warn him.

And you know what happened?

He got the guy first.

And he let me take the blame for it.

[Sighs] Well, that's very sad, but I'm still gonna charge you with m*rder.

Okay, this has gone on for way too long.

What?

Fitch is not dead.

He's totally dead.

No. Fitch hired me because I'm a con man and I have an expertise, and for a year now, we've been trying to pull off this long-form Andy Kaufman-type thing in which Fitch stages his own death.

I've got a little treat in store for you.

Moto!

It's not gonna be Fitch.

Well [Sighs] dead bodies don't look like real people on account of their spirit has left the building.

[Sighs]

You ready?

[Chuckles] Yeah.

Okay.

[Crashes]

I'm gonna go ahead and conclude that you now believe Fitch is dead.

[Door slams]

Backstrom: You see Fitch?

You saw he's dead.

Uh-huh.

You want to help us figure out how that happened?

I-I seriously don't remember drinking that much, so why was I unconscious 12 hours later?

Oh, come on. Do I look like a lightweight?

Yes.

Did Valentine really say I was a k*ller?

Hmm.

You know, you love someone, which means you trust him, but the bad part isn't that he doesn't love you back, but that he exploits that love.

Yeah.

Love is a treacherous item. [Sniffs]

Oh, if I find out that Val sold me out for less than $10,000, I'll k*ll him myself.

[Sighs] I didn't really mean that.

You can just set all that stuff over here.

Try not to stack it, if possible.

What's all this?

This is the contents of the m*rder victim's storage unit.

It's amazing how much junk it takes to make more junk.

Autopsy report for Timothy Fitch.

You get a postmortem on his blood alcohol level?

Yes. The coroner test gives us .21.

Wow. Fitch was wasted.

Mm.

A big guy like that, must have been 9 or 10 beers.

Moss was right about how much he drank.

12 hours later, he's still asleep in the playground?

Hmm. I know blackouts.

You either get them or you don't.

But when you do, it's not from two beers.

You believe he was drugged?

Someone wanted to keep him out of the way.

Meaning he didn't commit the m*rder.

Go get him to pee in a cup.

See if you can find anything besides fear and affectation.

Okay.

Hmm.

What is it?

36 cans of sweet potatoes.

Don't think I want to know.

These look like copies of papers from that shredding piece that he did.

The one with the ex-girlfriend?

Yeah. Parking tickets, grocery receipts.

What?

These are copies of medical records.

Lets see them.

E.R. visits... cuts, contusions, burns.

Here's one for a broken wrist.

These are all dated from the time that he and Lucy were together.

He was abusing her.

If we're right about our theory of Lucy Harms as a battered woman, and then here she is at the festival, confronted, once again, with her abuser...

Only this time, he was kind enough to allow her access to his own g*n.

It's the perfect opportunity for revenge.

Gravely, I know you're not a fan of jumping to sensible conclusions,

but it's a pretty safe bet that whoever drugged Moss Brady k*lled Timothy Fitch.

I can get with that.

That's a thing that people say.

No.

It is.

Lucy Harms once used ecstasy in one of her performances.

Ecstasy plus alcohol equals blackout.

Can I ask why you're so anxious to eliminate Moss Brady as a suspect?

It's a byproduct of my rigorous analysis of the clues and the facts, Gravely.

[Door slams]

Yeah, I totally get it.

It's like the fish t*nk in my dentist's office.

You just want to watch.

Wait right here.

No audience members allowed.

I'm not your audience. I'm your confessor.

Meaning you think I have something to confess.

All right, blondie, let's go.

Are you kidding?

I've started my performance.

Then I'll arrest you.

Well, if you arrest me, then I will hire an attorney, and he will advise me not to talk, and I will take that advice.

You actually have a much better chance of getting me to talk in here.

Fine. I can do performance art.

[Applause, chatter]

Fitch used to b*at you.

What?! No, he didn't.

We have your medical records.

From what, Fitch's shredding piece?

Most of those injuries were self-inflicted.

A few, yes, Fitch was involved, but only at my request.

Witnessing injury provokes a reaction.

All questions asked by the artist are answered by the audience.

Yeah, especially if they're throwing rotten tomatoes.

You tend to see ugliness in beauty.

No wonder you hate what I do.

I hate what you do because it's stupid and meaningless.

The meaning lies in the shared experience.

My body isn't only my body.

My body is also my medium.

Do you understand that?

Ecstasy is also your medium.

Speaking of which, you have any of those pills around in here, at your house, huh?

Ecstasy? No, I haven't done that piece in years.

I told you, my performances no longer involve interaction with the audience.

Yes, they can see me but I can't see them.

I don't even know how many of them are out there.

There's no one out there.

Liar.

You're a liar.

You drugged Fitch's assistant so that he couldn't watch you m*rder his boss.

He drank two beers, and he was totally unconscious.

Well, the idiot probably drank Fitch's by mistake.

He used to like to spike it with benzos.

He had worked up quite the tolerance.

You got an answer for everything.

If it's about Fitch, yes, I do, but I don't know who k*lled him.

I'm you.

I can still scarcely scrape together cab fare while trying to prove to the world that my ridiculous hobby actually means something.

Meanwhile, my narcissistic ex-boyfriend... oh, he's hit the jackpot.

A wealthy fiancee who indulges his every whim.

It's not right.

It's not fair.

No, I was happy for him.

I wanted him to be happy.

I would never hurt Fitch...

[sobbing] Never!

[Sobbing]

Why aren't you guys back yet? Did something go wrong?

Whoa. The lieutenant's still with the victim's ex-girlfriend.

What do you mean? Where are they?

They're in the box.

The what?

They're in the box. He's okay, but she's crying a lot.

Oh, my God. [Phone slams]

Nadia... Nadia, I need a live feed to the Here Now festival.

Which exhibit?

Uh, Lucy Harms' weird box nonsense.

Mm, sure. I already made the connection.

Okay, so...

[Sighs]

Look at Lieutenant Backstrom.

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

What's going on?

He's in the box!

What?

He's in the box.

[Scoffs]

[Gasps]

You know how sex isn't really about the urge to get inside or take something in, but it's more about the desire to exist right on the threshold of what's inside and what's outside?

Sorry, I heard the words "sex" and "inside," and the rest just sounded like,

"blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Me and Fitch, our entire relationship was like that.

There were no lines where he stopped and I started.

It was... it was blurry.

Probably because of the ecstasy.

It's not sustainable, though.

I know I'll never have that kind of passion in my life again, and it makes me sad.

[Shudders]

Do you have any idea what I'm saying?

It's like standing in the ruins of a palace and you can't leave.

Instead of oxygen...

You inhale dust.

Oh, my God.

What?

You know exactly what I'm talking about.

What kind of artist are you?

I'm not an artist. I'm a cop.

I'm you.

I walk around naked. I got a toilet without a door.

I'm totally un-self-conscious.

Why do I want my audience to stay out of sight?

I told you, my audience is forced into the role of voyeur.

Everything I do is to impress Timothy Fitch.

I can't handle the thought of him not seeing my work.

So I refuse to see my real audience... because I'm afraid he won't be there.

[Sighs]

Yeah. I have that affect on a lot of people.

Easy on the pants. You know what?

You didn't k*ll him, because without him, you'd lose your muse.

Hey...

You're totally innocent.

Okay.

What...

[Groans] This is feeling a little...

[cheers and applause]

All right.

Yeah!

Oh, no. [Gasps]

No, no, no, no, no, no.

[Cheers and applause]

We've gone through all his stuff.

Unless Fitch got himself k*lled over a box of colored feathers, we're... is this still happening?

Hey, I just got Moss Brady's tox results back.

He tested negative for the standard five.

I ordered... Is this live?

Gravely: Oh, why, why, why?

Oh, dear lord.

Oh.

[Cheers and applause]

Moto: Okay, lieutenant, I see... oh, yeah!

[Cellphone rings]

Officer Frank Moto, Portland Police bureau.

Get in there and stop him.

No, he told me to stay out here.

That's before he decided to put on a peepshow that's gonna get us all fired.

Now get in there!

All right, okay.

Sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry, excuse me, excuse me.

Lieutenant, lieutenant!

Not now, Moto.

[Cheers and applause]

Hey, hey, I don't think you understand that this is streaming live on the Internet.

I don't care!

See how that happens?

[Cheers and applause]

Gravely: Oh, my God. Oh, my God, oh, my God.

Paquet is watching. Detective Almond is watching.

Niedermayer is watching.

Oh!

Lieutenant!

Detective Gravely is watching.

[Spectators groaning]

Aw, man! Come on!

I'll be here for the next 36 hours.

[Cheers and applause]

Moto: Lieutenant, now!

[Spectators groaning, booing]

Hey, hey, okay, all right. That's enough art for one day.

You guys need to go home now and watch some p*rn or something else American.

Yeah, back up!

[Cheers and applause]

Are you crazy?!

Gravely, don't be a ginger imbecile.

It's the same principle as the interrogation room.

People know they're being recorded, but they soon forget.

You should still know better than to make out with a suspect in a homicide investigation!

She started it.

Oh, come on.

She came on to me because, I don't know, I saw deeper into her artistic soul than any other man ever had.

That does not possibly seem like it could be true.

[Sighs]

Oh, my God.

What?

There was a connection between you two.

You like her.

No. don't... relax, okay? This isn't junior high, okay?

I'm not gonna ask the girl in the plastic bubble to the dance.

[Knock on door]

Got the extended tox screens back.

Moss Brady tested positive for benzodiazepine.

Trace amounts also found in Timothy Fitch.

Ah. They were drugged.

Lucy was right. She's not a suspect.

Lieutenant, I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to think long and hard before you respond.

Did you tell Lucy Harms that she was not a suspect before you stuck your tongue down her throat?

I probably did.

[Sips]

Definitely... I definitely did that.

Well, in that case, technically, he did not make out with a suspect in a homicide case.

That's right.

No, he just made out with a woman in front of a huge crowd of people while they all watched.

Can you blame them?

Lucy Harms is utterly mesmerizing.

How can you not watch her?

Really?

How can you not watch her?

Ahh.

Paquet!

Ew. I'd appreciate it if we didn't repeat that.

Get me all documents relating to Lucy's performance the day Fitch d*ed.

I thought you said she wasn't a suspect.

She's not.

We need to look at the audience... uh, security cameras, photos, ticket receipts... anything that tells me who was there the day of that show.

You got it, hobbit.

All questions asked by the artist are answered by the audience.

Suddenly, you're an artist.

No. I'm a master.

Thanks for coming down again, Ms. Anderson.

This will take about a minute.

Can I have your coat? I'll just hang it outside.

Sure. Thank you.

Lieutenant?

We've got some new evidence I'd love to discuss with you.

Please, have a seat.

Mm.

It involves Fitch's ex-girlfriend.

Lucy Harms?

She was performing at a gallery the afternoon before the m*rder.

I try not to pay muention to her.

Fitch said it was past... it was past.

This is footage from the bank security camera across the street from the gallery.

That's you, in your car, during her performance, waiting, and that is Timothy Fitch coming out of the gallery afterwards.

He went to go see her perform.

I'm you.

My fiancee goes to see his ex-girlfriend, and I go to see him.

And I realize [Gasps]

He will always be in love with her.

She's everything that I'm not... passionate, sensual daring, complicated.

And I'm just a meal ticket.

He's been using me.

And the bad thing isn't that he doesn't love me back.

It's that he exploits that love.

I...rented a movie.

I ordered food.

I have an alibi.

You can easily order food and rent a movie and still have time to sh**t a guy three times.

I mean, how long does it take?

Bang, bang, bang! [Gasps]

Like a second.

[Door opens] [Gasps]

Coat sleeves tested positive for g*nsh*t residue.

Wow.

And Fitch always said you weren't passionate.

[Gasps]

Congratulations, Virginia.

You showed him.

[Ship whistle blowing]

[Door opens]

Hey.

Tell Moss I said the exact opposite of what you said I said.

It won't do any good.

Well, could you maybe at least try?

I'm a liar. You're a thief. He's a con man.

Not a chance any of us trust what anyone else says.

Um, what are you making?

It's a kite for me.

Despite how he looks, he's very artistic.

That said, tell him the truth.

He said you're not the k*ller and that I should let you go.

Backstrom lied to you in an effort to eliminate you as a suspect as quickly as possible.

Okay, still...

"Still" what?

How do I know you didn't pay him to say that just so you could get me in bed?

[Sighs] Told you.

Liar, thief, con man.

Doesn't matter what any of us say... only what we do.

Oh! It's a rocket!

Yeah, it's a rocket.

[Clears throat]

Well...

I love it.

I bet I could sell it for like 800 bucks, you know?

That is a work of art.

You did hear the part about getting me into bed, right?

Okay, all right.

And it's not art.

You don't hang it on a wall.

There's no relationship between the artist and the audience.

It's just a thing that flies.

[Clatter]

That's what it does.

The wind catches it, and...

[Door closes]

And it flies.

And that's what makes it beautiful... not talking about it.